by Vincy, Mia
But not yet.
Besides, he’d not received confirmation that the trustees had released his funds. Or that Thea had her dowry. And where would she go without money?
So no, not yet. He wasn’t ready yet.
He charged out of the house as if he could somehow stop the messenger from delivering the news, just as Thea came running up the lawn, pink-cheeked and panting.
“Give it to me!” she cried breathlessly, as the messenger reached into his leather saddlebag.
“No, give it to me!” Rafe countered.
What with them both yelling and running, even the messenger’s well-trained horse became skittish, and in calming it, the messenger dropped two letters on the gravel at Rafe’s feet. Thea launched herself at them, in a dive that would earn cheers in a cricket match, and Rafe was so caught up trying to grab the letters with one hand and stop Thea from falling with the other that they both tumbled to the ground, still scrambling for the letters, and ended up sitting side by side, with their rumps on the cold, sharp gravel, their legs tangled, and each with one letter in hand.
At which point Rafe noticed the seal on his letter. He freed his legs from Thea’s skirts, trying to ignore all the places he bumped against her warm softness, and looked up at the messenger, who had his horse under control and a bemused expression on his face.
“This is from the Royal Household,” Rafe said.
“Yes, my lord.” The messenger was edging his horse away. “They’ve sent scores of messengers out across Britain.”
“This one is addressed to the Countess of Luxborough.” Thea sounded as dazed as Rafe felt. “Why would the Royal Household write to me?”
But the messenger’s job was to deliver news, not explain it, and he looked relieved when a servant dashed out to guide him around the back for refreshments and his tip.
Rafe studied the letter in his hand. Letters sent across the country? Maybe the king had died or something. Nothing important, anyway. This wasn’t over yet.
Beside him, Thea’s elbow bumped against his arm as she yanked off one glove and slid a finger under the wax. The gravel was cold and sharp under his buttocks, and getting colder and sharper, but Rafe stayed seated, as he tore open his letter and scanned it. Definitely nothing important—merely a stern reminder that a peer was expected to present his new bride at Court and something something blah blah blah. Rafe scrunched the page into a ball, bounded to his feet, and dusted himself off. He extended a hand to Thea, who was staring at a thick, cream-colored card.
“Countess?”
She looked up, her expression aglow with excitement or delight, some feeling that had nothing to do with sitting beside him on cold, sharp gravel.
“’Tis our invitation,” she said. “To the party.”
“What party?”
“You remember. The Prince Regent is hosting a party to celebrate the return of the Marquess of Hardbury.”
“He is?”
“We discussed it in London.”
“We did?”
“You obtained invitations for my parents. How can you not recall?”
Finally, she noticed his outstretched hand and took it. Her fingers were chilled; he wrapped his hand further around them.
“A party with the Prince Regent and your parents?” he said, as he pulled her upright. “That sounds like exactly the sort of thing I would be at pains to forget.”
“It was right after we…” She bit her lip and glanced down at their joined hands. He released her and they both stepped back. “In London. You remember?”
“No.”
“After we…kissed.”
“Ah. Yes. We kissed. I do remember that.”
Slowly, the rest of that evening came back to him. The kiss was worth remembering; the party was not, given that neither of them would attend. Thea would not be allowed through the gates, and Rafe would prefer to be wrapped in chains and thrown into the lake in winter.
“Someone decided it should be a costume party,” she raced on, her voice too high, as she shook out her skirts. “That sounds diverting, doesn’t it?”
“No.”
“You don’t want to go?”
“No. Do you?”
“Indeed I do.” A faraway look entered her eyes, though her jaw had a fiercely determined set. “Everyone will be there, all of society. All those people…”
There it was. Thea longed to be in society, surrounded by people. Rafe could count on his fingers the number of people whose company he truly enjoyed, and still have his thumbs free to twiddle.
He pivoted and strode into the house, tossing the screwed-up letter from one hand to the other. He could end this now. No need to wait for confirmation of the money or the marriage; news would arrive soon. Send Thea away to… Well, it was hardly his concern where she ended up, was it?
He swung around. She was trailing behind him, drumming her fingers on the invitation, her expression thoughtful.
She really wanted to attend that party.
But a ruined, friendless, scandal-ridden, middle-class outcast could not attend the Prince Regent’s costume party. Not without help from someone who was very well connected. Or from someone who was an earl.
It didn’t matter to Rafe one way or another if she went to that ball. But it mattered to her.
And suddenly, that was enough.
“There are two rooms of costumes upstairs,” he said. “Take what you want.”
“Costumes?”
“My parents loved amateur theatrics. Every year, they hosted huge house parties, during which the guests rehearsed and performed in plays, with elaborate costumes made specially. The village women did very well out of it.”
“And you too? You will attend?”
“I’m not going to any blasted costume party,” he said, and wheeled about and started down the hall.
* * *
Lord Luxborough bellowed for Sally to fetch the keys, and the three of them trooped up to the third floor. Thea watched the other two carefully, but nothing in their manner toward each other aroused any suspicions; although Sally did not pay the earl due deference, Thea detected no hint of intimacy or shared secrets. Still, she could not fathom why neither had mentioned their shared past, living together in the Dower House with Luxborough’s wife, but neither could she think of a reason to ask.
Indeed, she could hardly think at all when she entered the room, so amazed was she by the sheer volume of clothes presses and trunks crammed into the space. With her usual brisk vigor, Sally threw open doors and lids, revealing enough costumes to transform one into anything: a Roman emperor or French queen, a fairy or an animal, a criminal or a saint.
“I never imagined there would be so many.” Thea eased open the heavy lid of a giant trunk to discover a treasure trove of masks within. A Janus mask, a jester’s hat, a gorgeous bird’s head with iridescent green and blue feathers. She looked up at Luxborough, who was peering at a toga. “You spoke of amateur theatre productions but this is astonishing.”
He tossed aside the toga. “This house overflowed with guests when my parents lived here, and theatrics were de rigueur. My family was never happy unless making a show of themselves.”
“Professional actors and actresses were invited too, to provide instruction,” Sally chimed in. “And, shall we say, to liven up the evenings.”
“Did you perform as a boy?” Thea asked Luxborough.
He groaned and Sally laughed. “Not he! Master Rafe would be out of the house and hidden in the woods at the first whisper of a play.”
“But Sally performed, and she was as good as any of the professionals.”
“How marvelous!” Thea looked to Sally to learn more, but Sally was busy rummaging through a trunk.
“She displayed a rare talent for acting,” Luxborough went on. “Everyone said so, and I believe more than once she was asked to go to London.”
“Were you not tempted?” Thea asked eagerly. “How exciting!”
Finally, Sally straightened. “
Exciting, yes. Respectable, no. My father was very strict and disliked me even joining the productions here, though such amateur domestic entertainments are common and perfectly acceptable. And Lord and Lady Luxborough—Master Rafe’s parents—always encouraged me.”
Absently, Thea opened a red wooden box, and gasped at the beautiful cat’s mask that lay within. It was large enough to cover her face, leaving only her mouth and chin exposed. A large black diamond shape surrounded one eye slit and a red diamond surrounded the other, with red and black diamonds on opposite ears. The remainder was white and covered in intricate swirls in gold. Reverently, Thea lifted it out.
“One of the Venetian masks,” she heard Sally say. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Thea breathed.
This, she decided. She would love to be a cat, she had told Arabella that first evening: playful yet fierce, not caring what anyone thought. A mask would be easier to carry than a full costume, and she could wear it with a regular evening gown. Although the party was not a masquerade, she would have to cover her face, assuming Arabella managed to smuggle her in. She could drift through the crowd, eavesdropping on conversations. If all went to plan, other guests would have read her pamphlet; perhaps some would be discussing her and how Percy had done her wrong.
And perhaps there would be a gentleman, lounging against a wall, watching her. When their eyes met, his mouth would curl into an intriguing half smile. Naturally, she would favor him with a haughty look and turn her back, but a moment later, he would be in front of her, holding out his hand, inviting her to dance. His golden-brown eyes would seem ancient and weary, but for their glint of humor, their flare of heat, and—
Thea snapped the lid shut. Foolish dreams. Luxborough would never even attend such a party, let alone invite Thea to dance.
She glanced up and caught him studying her, his expression unreadable, and something in his gaze made her look away. Her eye fell on a magnificent lion’s head, designed to sit atop a man’s head.
Without thinking, she held it up. “And you should wear this! You could…” She trailed off at his thunderous expression. “I beg your pardon. I thought it would be amusing, but it’s not.”
He hardly spared a glance for the lion’s head. “I told you, I’m not going to any blasted costume party. You must understand, I am not made for society.”
“I do understand,” she said. “It doesn’t matter.”
But all he did was shake his head and leave the room, his boots echoing on the wooden hallway until they faded into nothing.
Once more, Sally was witness to a husband’s peculiar treatment. Thea’s cheeks heated, but the housekeeper’s smile was kind.
“Was there anything in particular you were looking for, my lady?”
“This cat mask will serve. Please don’t trouble yourself for anything else. Although I suppose…” Thea looked wistfully at the lavish costumes. “It would be liberating to don a full costume and become somebody else entirely.”
“Such is the magic of theatre,” Sally agreed, tidying away the costumes. “To experience all the other people we could be.”
“But lonely too. To wear a disguise.”
“True.” Sally paused, her hands molding some ornate fabric. Her features softened into a dreamy look. “It’s a sublime miracle to go without a mask, and to be loved anyway. To have someone with whom one can be utterly oneself and accepted unconditionally.”
Something tugged at Thea’s heart. “Are you in love, then? Who is he?”
But somehow, she had once more chosen the wrong words. Sally’s face hardened and she shoved the costume into a clothes press, slammed it shut, and spun to face Thea.
“Do you mean to stop me or send me away?” Sally demanded.
“If you’re in love, that’s a happy occasion, not a crime.”
“I have committed no crimes.”
Thea bit back her questions. It didn’t matter to her. Sally was not her friend. Luxborough was not her husband. Thea did not belong here. She would leave soon and they would all hate her anyway.
“Forgive me, my lady. I shall leave you to your choice,” Sally said with stiff politeness and then she marched off too. Yet again, Thea was alone.
* * *
That afternoon, the rain poured down and Thea returned to the library shelves to seek another book to occupy her mind. None of the books in her room could hold her interest for a page, and while she suspected the problem lay with her, it was much more agreeable to blame the books.
But she hardly even saw the books at her fingertips, as her mind skipped from one question to the next like an overexcited dancer at a ball. There was so much about Lord Luxborough and Brinkley End that she did not understand. About what really happened to Katharine, and why no one would speak of it, and what lay in the Forbidden Woods, and how Martha Flores fit in, and what secrets Sally hid, and what Luxborough had been doing in the garden the night before, and why he blew so hot and cold.
While trying to subdue these futile thoughts, she came across a collection of familiar Gothic novels. Nostalgia had her opening The Mysteries of Udolpho, thinking fondly of when she and Helen had read the adventures of Emily St. Aubert.
But Katharine had read this too, Thea saw, as she flipped through the pages: Scores of sentences and fragments were underlined. Opening a page at random, she read an underlined sentence: “It was impossible for her to leave.”
What particular meaning could that have?
Turning to another random page, she read another underlined fragment: “I shall be murdered!”
And then another—“gloomy prison”—and another—“horrors of a prison”—and another—“remained a prisoner.”
Thea thought again of the awful defacement of the family Bible, of Katharine’s name behind bars, and how it reflected these terrifying fragments that Katharine had underlined.
Flipping faster and faster, Thea scanned the pages, finding dozens of such fragments, underscored with ragged black lines: “menaces of her husband… terror had disordered her thoughts… he had a heart too void of feeling… Fly, then, fly from this!”
“Countess.”
Thea yelped and her hands jerked so hard the book flew up into the air. It landed on the red carpet, open to a page marred by accusing lines. Lord Luxborough stood motionless inside the library door. His gaze was fixed on the book on the floor, his expression as bleak as old stone. Thea gripped her skirts and held her breath, as he raised those weary, shadowed eyes to meet hers. Her heart pounded so hard, she was sure he could hear it, the thumps competing with the ticking of the clock.
He knew. He knew what lines Katharine had highlighted, and the messages that lay within.
But all he said was, “Pray, excuse me.”
Then he bowed and left, closing the door behind him.
Thea did not move, her eyes on the ticking clock. When five minutes had passed, she scooped up the book and ran back to her room. Barely stopping to catch her breath, she threw herself onto a settee to study the underlined phrases.
Unsurprisingly, Luxborough did not join her for dinner, and Thea ate hurriedly and returned to the book. The fragments Katharine had chosen in this particular novel clustered around a single theme: terrors and prisons, locked doors and a cruel husband.
And if Katharine did mean something by this, then the vengeful, menacing husband, who had “a heart too void of feeling,” was the earl.
Even later, as Thea lay in bed, the rain drumming against the windows, the phrases played over in her mind like a sonata. Perhaps something sinister was afoot at Brinkley End after all. The house and estate were lovely, but a lovely facade could hide horrors, just as an ugly facade could hide kindness.
Thea stared into the darkness and huddled deeper under the covers.
No. He would not harm her, or anyone. Lord Luxborough was big and surly, but he had been so gentle with his plants, so gentle with her. He had promised she’d be safe and given her no reason to fear he lied.
&nb
sp; The fragments underlined in Katharine’s books were not messages about Luxborough, she told herself. She closed her eyes and turned over, determined to sleep.
But what if they were? What if more of them would tell a full story?
There would be no more messages in Katharine’s books, she told herself.
But what if there were?
Then she would look tomorrow.
But what if Luxborough removed the books tonight?
He would not.
But what if he did?
Oh, a plague on it. Thea knew herself too well. She would not get a wink of sleep if she did not check those books now. She climbed back out of bed, found a wrap and slippers, and lit a candle. Then, feeling as silly as a heroine in a Gothic novel, she slipped out into the hall.
Chapter 13
The silent hallway felt eerie in the aftermath of the rain, and Thea jumped at a distant rumble of thunder and her own flickering shadow cast by the candle. She scolded herself for being fanciful, but when she crept through the portrait gallery toward the staircase, her feet slowed and stilled on the cold wooden floor, and she could not help a prickle of fear.
All around her were white faces, many in white wigs, floating in the darkness like so many ghosts.
And then—a sound.
She froze, breath held, candle raised, ears pricked. Nothing emerged from the darkness, but she swore something moved. She whirled around, and again. Nothing. No sounds but the thumping of her heart. No movement but the shaking of her hand.
For the first time, Brinkley End assumed a sinister air, with these ghostly faces and the darkly gaping doorways. The books could wait, she decided. It was a far-fetched notion, that Luxborough might remove them, and if he did remove them, that was proof he was dangerous. She should definitely return to her room.
Another sound.
It was only the house. That was all. Houses made noises, and she gained nothing by agitating her already fevered imagination. Being silly was fun sometimes, but not, perhaps, when one stood alone in the dark in a room lined with portraits of dead people.