The Wicked Marquess (29 page)

She stroked the cat. “If it was the punch that made you ill, why was no one else took sick?”

That was an excellent question. Footpads in London – a horse that took fright for no good reason and damned near dumped him on his head – and now he just happened to drink something most unfriendly to his system. “If poison, what was it?” Benedict asked.

Odette had been searching the answer to that question. She had not found it yet. Hemlock, however, was the chief poison preferred by the ancient Greeks. Secondary choices had been poppy and henbane, hellebore and mandragora and elaterium. Arsenic and aconite and opium were favored in India, where they also used powdered glass. The Chinese committed suicide by consuming gold leaf.

“‘Tisn’t what the substance was that matters,” she said. “Use your brains, boy: I’m assured you have some! Who would have a reason to dispatch you to Beelzebub’s Paradise?”

 “The same person who was responsible for my brother’s accident, I assume.” Benedict reluctantly admitted.

“Precisely! And in that case, why would anyone wish both of you dead? It ain’t a vendetta against the family, because no one’s tried to send
me
to sea in a sieve. By the way, Phineas was struck all a-mort at sight of your peculiar.”

Lord Chalmondly was rich as Croesus. Lord Wexton would have an apoplexy if his daughter took up with such a legendary
roué
. “Was he, indeed?”

Odette regarded her nephew. “I didn’t think you’d mind.”

“I don’t. Do you?”

“Me? You think I had Colum dose Phineas for his amatory ailments so I could take advantage of the results myself? I’m beyond such stuff, and grateful for it. Never have I seen such foolishness as is enacted in the name of the game of hearts. But I’ll see the jade repaid if she mistreats him, unless it’s by his own choice.”

“So long as Phineas treats Ceci fairly, she won’t play him false.”

Here was a fine tribute to an ex-mistress. Odette doubted anyone had ever spoken so well of her. Lady Cecilia had gone ghost-pale when Benedict was stricken. Odette thanked God the villain had cobbled the affair.

Villain or villainess. She did not underestimate the capabilities of her own sex.

Odette pushed Chimlin off her lap and got up from the bed. “You will take care, boy. ‘Twould be impertinent was you to stick your spoon in the wall before I do.”

Benedict had no intention of sticking his spoon anywhere. For one thing, the business of Miss Russell was yet to be resolved. Odette was about to leave her cat behind. He pointed this out.

“I ain’t forgot him!” Odette retorted. “The rest of me might be failing at an appalling rate, but my memory is as spry as ever it was. Word has got around that you’ve survived your poisoning. Odds are that we may expect another attempt on your life.”

And Chimlin was to be his champion? Without enthusiasm, Benedict contemplated the cat. With even less appreciation, the cat returned his regard. “I wish we were well out of this business,” Odette added, “but we are not. Precautions must be took. Chimlin will sound the alarm if our villain tries again.”

Chimlin would sound the alarm, Benedict suspected, only if the villain sought to murder him in his bed and thereby disturbed the cat’s repose. “You won’t argue with me on this, lest you cause me palpitations,” added Odette, before he could comment. “Furthermore, that limb of Satan you call Jem will be sleeping in the hall. Don’t scowl at me, ‘twas his idea. The rapscallion is devoted to you, demned if I know why.” On that fond note, she closed the door.

Benedict sank back on his pillows. Though he would not admit it to his grandaunt, her conversation had exhausted him. As for Chimlin, he would not dare try and evict the cat. And as for Jem—

Perhaps Benedict had been wrong in believing there was no real harm in the boy. His first encounter with danger, or at least the first encounter of which he was aware, had been with youthful footpads.

His first encounter with danger since taking up the responsibilities of a marquess, that was. Unless he included the perils of the marriage mart.

Benedict must talk with Jem. But first he would rest. His aunt’s cat was present to protect him, after all.

The creature’s eyes were already closed. Benedict closed his. Indifferent to all around them, Lord Baird and Chimlin slept.

Chapter Thirty-seven

Miranda, too, was sleeping. She dreamed she stood again on the winding staircase at the end of the great hall. The heavy roof timbers, the enormous fireplace, the armor and ancient tapestries  – all remained the same, though everything seemed brighter, as if it were new.

No crimson-cushioned oak chairs lined the great hall now. There was no milling crowd. The musicians in the gallery wore clothing of another era, played viola de gambe and gittern and lute.

In addition to the musicians, only two people occupied the hall. The gentleman wore a satin doublet faced with pearl embroidery, its sleeves slashed to reveal fine linen beneath. His breeches were velvet. Cuffed, spurred boots fit closely to his calf. A Toledo walking sword hung in a silver scabbard at his thigh.

Gems sparkled on his fingers. A great signet ring adorned his thumb. His long hair was tied back with ribbons. His beard was pointed, his moustache dashing, and his smile irresistible.

The lady’s red-gold hair was drawn up into a top-knot. Riotous curls had escaped to cluster around her face. Her brows were plucked, her eyes a brilliant green. On her lower cheek, near her lips, she wore a beauty spot shaped like a crescent moon.

Pearls gleamed at her throat, her ears, her wrists. She carried a silk fan. Her long-waisted gown of flowered tabby was worn over an underbodice, its long v-shaped stomacher open in front to display a petticoat decorated with metal braid. The sleeves were tied with ribbons into a series of puffs, the low wide neckline edged by a wide lace collar. Her waist was so small it might have been spanned by a man’s two hands.

This lady would have had no need for false ringlets or curling tongs, applications of sugar and water or glue. She would have employed orange flower water and apricot cream and May dew to keep her skin so soft, maybe puppydog water too, which was made from wine and roast puppy meat, a fairly harrowing concoction, but the lady had lived in a fairly harrowing age. A depilatory of cat dung mixed with vinegar would have rid her of unwanted hair.

On the silent music played. Miranda watched rapt from her position on the winding stair. The man appeared to be teaching the lady to dance. Short gliding steps to a count of eight, with a change of balance and a pause, toe turned out and the knees bent slightly outward every third or seventh beat. From time to time the woman ran around the man, and both gave a little jump. Or so the gentleman demonstrated, but his partner – could this be Lady Dulcibella? – lacked a certain aptitude. Her instructor – the unfaithful Robin? – was both patient and amused.

The lady attempted a complex maneuver and tripped over her elegant red-heeled sippers. The gentleman laughed and caught her up in his arms. Miranda envied the dancers their happiness in that moment, and was saddened because she knew how the moment must end.

A sudden noise shattered the dream. Miranda sat up in her bed.

Her room was quiet and chill, the fire long since burned down in the hearth. She pushed aside the coverlet, lit the candle that waited on the bedstead table. The flickering light revealed nothing out of place.

The noise came again, a creak, a groan. It seemed to issue from the depths of the wardrobe. Miranda picked up the candle and walked barefoot across the floor. The wardrobe was a massive piece, with two deep drawers set below the doors. Did it conceal another entry to the passages that honeycombed the house?

Cautiously shielding her candle, Miranda climbed inside. The wardrobe was not empty. She didn’t want to set her clothes on fire.

There were few places a latch might be concealed. Miranda’s fingers found an indentation. She pressed, and tugged.

The back of the wardrobe swung inward. Candle held before her, Miranda peered into the darkness beyond. Benedict hadn’t told her of this entrance. Perhaps he hadn’t known. Or perhaps he had meant to surprise her with a nocturnal visit at some later time.

What an intriguing notion. But it was unlikely to be Benedict who crept through the passages at this hour. Miranda slipped on a pair of shoes, flung a shawl around her shoulders, and stepped through the opening. Was that a ghostly figure in the distance, so far away that she could not clearly see? Did a ghostly voice call out her name?

A prudent person would close and bar the wardrobe with herself outside. Miranda had never been a prudent person. It was furthermore unlikely that she would have another opportunity to interact with a ghost. She took firm grip on shawl and candle, and set out in pursuit of the figure flitting ahead. The specter lured her along a maze of passages that led not to the cellars, as she had feared they might, but through the attics and onto the battlements.

Chimeras and gargoyles and great stone towers loomed above her in the moon’s dim light. Miranda drew her shawl closer around her shoulders against the night’s brisk chill. The battlements were so breezy that her candles immediately blew out

A figure stood at the parapet, gazing out into the distance, as if searching the horizon. Lady Dulcibella was much more solid than one might have expected of a shade.

Maybe shades acquired more substance when they manifested themselves in the material world. Miranda ventured closer. “Lady Dulcibella?” she asked. 

The figure turned toward her. Impossible to see its features in the shadows cast by the hooded cloak. “You are a very foolhardy young woman,” the specter said, in very human tones.

* * * *

Lord Baird dreamed that he was dreaming. A feminine voice was hissing in his ear. Unlike most of the feminine voices that had roused him from slumber during the course of his adventures, this one spoke in no dulcet tones. “Lollpoop! Nick Ninny! Plague take it, simkin, roust thee out of bed before ‘tis grown too late!” A faint scent of patchouli tickled his nose.

Benedict sat up. The lady stepped back. She wore an old-fashioned long-waisted gown with a wide low collar and puffed sleeves. Her red-gold curls were in disarray, her lovely features cross. The green eyes that scowled at him were uncannily like his own.

Benedict had played in the family portrait gallery as a boy. “Lady Dulcibella?” he cautiously inquired.

His visitor dropped an irritated curtsey. “Art thy brains all in thy bollocks, dolt? If thou dost not wish to see history repeat itself, I suggest thee hie thyself to the parapet.”

The parapet? Why the parapet?

Benedict dared ask.

She reached out and pinched his ear. “Let me perish if I lie to thee! Wilt thou pray make haste?”

This was a most vivid dream. Brought on by his medication, Benedict supposed.

Impatiently, Lady Dulcibella tapped her foot. Benedict snatched up his breeches. Chimlin, who had been snoozing atop them, sat up and yawned. 

So much for Odette’s contention that the cat would raise the household. Benedict pulled on his boots.

Wraithlike, Lady Dulcibella walked through a wall. Benedict attempted to follow, and only bumped his nose. Pondering the perplexities of the dream state, he pressed the lever that opened the door hidden in the paneling, snatched up an oil-lamp, and entered the passageway.

Lady Dulcibella’s voice drifted back to him, urging him to greater haste. The kindest of the things she called him was a great galumph. Chimlin padded alongside him, tail erect.

The cat seemed to be enjoying the adventure. Benedict was not. By the time they arrived on the battlements, he was feeling very queasy. He bent over, trying to catch his breath.

“Jesu Maria, is all this age bewrazed?” cried Lady Dulcibella. “Kick the varlet in his gingumbobs! Give his pillicock a pinch, thou silly twit!”

Over the sound of his own labored breathing, Benedict heard grunts and scuffs. He raised his head to see Miranda struggling with a cloaked figure whose hands were fastened round her throat. The figure bent her backward, over the edge of the parapet. Another few moments, another few inches, and she would surely fall.

“No!” cried Benedict, and launched himself toward the struggling figures. His feet moved as slowly as if they were mired in mud.

* * * *

Miranda heard voices, as from a great distance. Although ‘gimgumbobs’ and ‘pillicock’ were not words she knew, she grasped the gist of the advice. She jerked up her knee, sharply, and felt it connect with soft flesh.

Her assailant grunted. His grip on her throat eased. She flung herself forward and smashed her head into his nose. He yelped, and cursed. Before she could escape, he caught her arm and twisted it painfully behind her back.

* * * *

Not a dream, a nightmare. Chimlin was, in the annoying way of felines, winding round his feet. Benedict snatched up the creature to get it out of his way. He drew back his arm, and flung—

The devil. He’d meant to fling the lamp, but instead had hurled the cat. Chimlin yowled as he sailed through the air.

The cloaked figure yowled in turn as Chimlin landed atop him; hopped and twisted as he tried to unseat the demon whose fangs and talons dug so deep into his flesh that he nearly forgot the damage done his nether parts. Amidst all these contortions, he released Miranda. She fell to her knees.

 Benedict staggered forward. He derived considerable satisfaction from smashing his lamp over the bastard’s head, and regretted there was not enough fuel left in the lamp to set him afire.

The villain collapsed like a discarded puppet. Chimlin leapt onto a gargoyle and set about giving himself a good wash. Benedict slid down the wall until he was sitting on the cold stone floor.

Miranda crawled to kneel beside him. “Are you all right?”

Benedict glanced over his shoulder. Would Lady Dulcibella think he was malingering and come pinch him again?

Lady Dulcibella was no longer present. Benedict wondered if she had ever been.

“I’m fine,” he said, with a nice disregard for truth. “Did that devil damage you, brat?”