by Amanda Quick
Utteridge grimaced. “Perhaps I owe you something after all this time. Elizabeth was a very strange woman, was she not?”
“I am not here to discuss Elizabeth.”
Utteridge nodded. “As you have approached me, I believe you already know a great deal about the rings.”
“I know that you and Varley and Ormiston wore them.”
“There were others.”
“Now dead,” Ravenwood noted. “I have already traced two of them.”
Utteridge slid him a thoughtful, sidelong glance. “But there is one other whom you have not named and who is not dead.”
“You will give me his name.”
“Why not? I owe him nothing and if I do not tell you, I am certain you will get the name from Ormiston or Varley. I will tell you what you want to know, Ravenwood, if you will assure me that will be the end of it. I have no wish to arise at dawn for any reason whatsoever. Getting up early does not suit my constitution.”
“The name, Utteridge.”
Half an hour later Julian leaped down from his carriage and strode up the steps of his home. His mind was full of the information he had forced out of Utteridge. When Guppy opened the door, Julian stepped into the main hall with a short nod of greeting.
“I will be spending an hour or so in the library, Guppy. Send the staff to bed.”
Guppy cleared his throat. “My lord, you have a visitor. Lord Daregate arrived only a few moments ago and is waiting for you in the library.”
Julian nodded and walked on into the library. Daregate was seated in a chair, reading a book he had taken from a nearby shelf. He had also helped himself to a glass of port, Julian noticed.
“It’s not even midnight, Daregate. What the devil has pried you out of your favorite gaming hell at this hour?” Julian crossed the room and poured himself a glass of the port.
Daregate put down the book. “I knew you planned to make further inquiries about the ring and I thought I would drop by and see what you have learned. You tracked down Utteridge tonight, did you not?”
“Could not your questions have waited until a decent hour?”
“I do not keep decent hours, Ravenwood. You know that.”
“True enough.” Julian took a chair and a healthy swallow of port. “Very well, I will endeavor to enlighten you. There are four members of that devilish fraternity of seducers still alive, not the two we learned about or the three Sophy discovered.”
“I see.” Daregate studied the wine in his glass. “That would make it Utteridge, Ormiston, Varley and …?”
“Waycott.”
Daregate’s reaction was startling. His normal appearance of languid disinterest vanished and in its place was a new, hard expression. “Good God, man, are you certain of that?”
“As certain as I can be.” Julian set down his glass with a controlled movement that belied his inner rage. “Utteridge gave me the information.”
“Utteridge is hardly a reliable source.”
“I told him I would meet him at dawn if he were lying.”
Daregate’s mouth curved faintly. “Then he no doubt was convinced to tell you the truth. Utteridge would not have any liking for such a challenge. But, if it is true, Ravenwood, then there is a serious problem.”
“Perhaps not. It’s true Waycott has been hovering around Sophy for weeks and he did manage to convince her to feel some sympathy for him, but I have lectured her about his falseness.”
“Sophy does not strike me as the type to be overly impressed with one of your lectures, Ravenwood.”
Julian smiled faintly, in spite of his mood. “True enough. Women in general have a nasty habit of believing that they and they alone can see the true nature of the downtrodden and the misunderstood. They are not inclined to give a man credit for any intuitive abilities. But when I tell Sophy that Waycott was the man who seduced her friend she will turn against him completely.”
“That is not what I meant by a problem,” Daregate said bluntly.
Julian scowled at his friend, aware of the seriousness in Daregate’s voice. “What are you talking about, then?”
“This evening I heard that Waycott left town a day ago. No one seems to know where he was headed but I think that, under the circumstances, you must consider the possibility that he went into Hampshire.”
EIGHTEEN
“You went to the old witch, just as Elizabeth did, didn’t you? There is only one reason a woman would seek her out.” Waycott’s tone was eerily conversational as he set Sophy on her feet and pulled the cloak away from her face. He watched her with an unnatural brightness in his eyes as he slowly removed his mask. “I am quite pleased, my dear. I will be able to give Ravenwood the coup de grâce when I tell him his new Countess was determined to rid herself of his heir, just as his first Countess did.”
“Good evening, my lord.” Sophy inclined her head graciously, just as if she were meeting him in a London drawing room. She was still bound in the cloak but she pretended to ignore that fact. She had not spent the past weeks learning to conduct herself as befit a Countess for nothing. “Imagine meeting you here. Rather an unusual location, is it not? I have always found this place very picturesque.”
Sophy gazed around the small stone chamber and tried to conceal a shudder of fear. She hated this place. He had brought her to the old Norman ruin she had loved to sketch until the day she had decided it was the scene of her sister’s seduction.
The ramshackle old castle, which had always looked so charmingly scenic, now appeared like something out of a nightmare to her. Late afternoon shadows were falling outside and the narrow slits of windows allowed very little light inside. The bare stones of the ceiling and walls were darkened with traces of old smoke from the massive hearth. The place was disturbingly dank and gloomy.
A fire had been laid on the hearth and there was a kettle and some provisions in a basket. The most disturbing thing of all about the room, however, was the sleeping pallet that had been arranged against one wall.
“You are familiar with my little trysting place? Excellent. You may find it very useful in the future when you begin betraying your husband on a regular basis. I am delighted I shall be the one to introduce you to the pleasures of the sport.” Waycott walked over to a corner of the room and dropped the mask onto the floor. He turned to smile at Sophy from the shadows. “Elizabeth liked to come here on occasion. It made a pleasant change, she said.”
A dark premonition swept over Sophy. “And was she the only one you brought here, Lord Waycott?”
Waycott glanced down at the mask on the floor and his face hardened. “Oh, no, I used it occasionally to entertain myself with a pretty little piece from the village when Elizabeth was occupied with her own strange fancies.”
Rage surged through Sophy. It had a strengthening effect, she discovered. “Who was this pretty little piece you brought here, my lord? What was her name?”
“I told you, she was just a village whore. No one important. As I said, I only used her when Elizabeth was in one of her moods.” Waycott looked up from his contemplation of the mask, clearly anxious for Sophy to understand. “Elizabeth’s moods never lasted long, you know. But while they were upon her, she was not herself. There were … other men at times. I could not tolerate watching her flirt with them and then invite them to her bedchamber. Sometimes she wanted me to join them there. I could not abide that.”
“So you came here. With an innocent young woman from the village.” Sophy was light-headed with her anger but she struggled desperately to conceal it. Her fate, she sensed, hinged on keeping a tight rein on her emotions.
Waycott chuckled reminiscently. “She did not remain innocent for long, I assure you. I am accounted a most excellent lover, Sophy, as you will soon discover.” His eyes narrowed suddenly. “But that reminds me, my dear, I must ask you how you came by the ring.”
“Yes. The ring. Where and when did you lose it, my lord?”
“I am not certain.” Waycott frowned. “But it is pos
sible the village girl stole it. She always claimed she was a member of the gentry but I knew better. She was the offspring of some village merchant. Yes, I have often wondered if she stole the ring from me while I slept. She was always after me, demanding some symbol of my love. Stupid chit. But how did the ring get into your hands?”
“I told you the night of the masquerade ball. May I inquire how you knew I was wearing the gypsy costume?”
“What? Oh, that. It was simple enough to have one of my footmen ask one of your maids what Lady Ravenwood planned to wear that evening. It was easy to find you in the crowd. But the ring was a surprise. Now I recall you said that you had acquired it from a friend of yours.” Waycott pursed his lips. “But how does it happen that a lady of your class becomes friends with a tradesman’s daughter? Did she work for your family?”
“As it happens,” Sophy forced herself to breathe deeply and slowly, “we knew each other rather well.”
“But she did not tell you about me, did she? You showed no signs of knowing me when we met in London.”
“No, she never confided the name of her lover.” Sophy looked directly at him. “She is dead now, my lord. Along with your babe. She took an overdose of laudanum.”
“Stupid wench.” He shrugged the issue aside with an elegant movement of his shoulders. “I am afraid I shall have to ask you to return the ring to me. It cannot be terribly important to you.”
“But it is to you?”
“I am rather fond of it.” Waycott’s smile was taunting. “It symbolizes certain victories, past and present.”
“I no longer have the ring,” Sophy said calmly. “I gave it to Ravenwood a few days ago.”
Waycott’s eyes burned for an instant. “Why the devil did you give it to him?”
“He was curious about it.” She wondered if that would alarm Waycott.
“He can discover nothing about it. All who wear the ring are bound to silence. Nevertheless, I intend to have it returned to me. Soon, my dear, you will get it back from Ravenwood.”
“It is not easy to take anything away from my husband that he does not choose to relinquish.”
“You are wrong,” Waycott said triumphantly. “I have helped myself to Ravenwood’s possessions before and I will do so again.”
“You are referring to Elizabeth, I suppose?”
“Elizabeth was never his. I am referring to these.” He crossed the chamber and bent over the basket on the hearth. When he straightened he was holding a handful of green fire. “I brought them along because I thought you might find them interesting. Ravenwood cannot give them to you, my dear. But I can.”
“The emeralds,” Sophy breathed, genuinely astounded. She stared at the cascade of green stones and then jerked her eyes back to Waycott’s fever bright gaze. “You’ve had them all along?”
“Since the night my beautiful Elizabeth died. Ravenwood never guessed, of course. He searched the house for them and sent word to all the jewelers in London that if anyone came into possession of the gems, he would willingly double the asking price. Word has it that one or two unscrupulous merchants tried to produce copies of the originals in order to claim the doubled price but Ravenwood was unfortunately not deceived. A pity. That would have been the final irony, would it not? Think of Ravenwood saddled with false stones as well as two false wives.”
Sophy straightened her shoulders, unable to resist the taunt, even though she knew it would be better if she kept silent. “I am Ravenwood’s true wife and I will not play him false.”
“Yes, my dear, you will. And what’s more, you will do so wearing these emeralds.” He let the necklace stream from palm to palm. He seemed hypnotized by the shimmering green waterfall. “Elizabeth always enjoyed it that way. It gave her a special pleasure to put on the emeralds before she got into bed with me. She would make such sweet love to me while wearing these stones.” Waycott looked up suddenly. “You will like doing it that way, too.”
“Will I?” Sophy’s palms were damp. She must not say anything more that would goad him further she told herself. She must let him think she was his helpless victim, a meek rabbit who would not give him any resistance.
“Later, Sophy,” Waycott promised. “Later, I will show you how beautiful the Ravenwood emeralds look on a false Ravenwood bride. You will see how the firelight makes them glow against your skin. Elizabeth was molten gold when she wore these.”
Sophy looked away from his strange eyes, concentrating on the basket of provisions. “I assume we have a long night ahead of us, my lord. Would you mind if I had something to eat and a cup of tea? I am feeling quite weak.”
“But, of course, my dear.” He swept a hand toward the hearth. “As you can see, I have taken pains to ensure your every comfort. I had a meal prepared for us at a nearby inn. Elizabeth and I often picnicked here before we made love. I want everything to be just as it was with her. Everything.”
“I see.”
Was he as mad as Elizabeth had been, she wondered. Or simply crazed with jealousy and the effects of lost love? Either way, Sophy told herself that her only hope lay in keeping Waycott calm and unalarmed.
“You are not as beautiful as she was,” Waycott observed, studying her.
“No, I realize that. She was very lovely.”
“But the emeralds will help you look more like her when the time comes.” He dropped the jewels into the basket.
“About the food, my lord,” Sophy said tentatively. “Would you mind if I prepared us a small picnic now?”
Waycott looked out through the open door. “It’s getting dark, isn’t it?”
“Quite dark.”
“I will build us a fire.” He smiled, looking pleased with himself for having come up with the idea.
“An excellent thought. It will soon be quite chilly in here. If you would remove this cloak and the ropes that bind me I would be able to prepare the meal.”
“Untie you? I don’t think that is such a good idea, my dear. Not yet. I believe you are still far too likely to dash out into the woods at the first opportunity and I simply cannot allow that.”
“Please, my lord.” Sophy lowered her eyes, doing her best to appear weary and lacking in spirit. “I want nothing more than to prepare us a cup of tea and a bit of bread and cheese.”
“I think we can manage something.”
Sophy tensed as Waycott came toward her. But she stood still as he untied the ropes that secured the cloak. When the last of them came free, she inhaled a deep sigh of relief but she made no sudden move.
“Thank you, my lord,” she said meekly. She took a step toward the hearth, eyeing the open doorway.
“Not so fast, my dear.” Waycott went down on one knee, reached beneath the hem of her heavy riding skirt and grasped her ankle. Quickly he tied one end of the rope above her half boot. Then he got to his feet, the other end of the rope dangling from his hand. “There, now I have you secured like a bitch on a lead. Go about your business, Sophy. I will enjoy having Ravenwood’s woman serve me tea.”
Sophy took a few tentative steps toward the hearth, wondering if Waycott would think it a pleasant game to yank her tied foot out from under her. But he merely went over to the hearth and lit the fire. After he had a blaze going he sat down on the pallet, the end of the rope in his hand and leaned his chin on his fist.
She could feel his eyes on her as she began investigating the provisions in the basket. She held her breath as she lifted the kettle and then exhaled in relief as she discovered it was full of water.
The shadows outside the door were very heavy now. Chilled evening air flowed into the room. Sophy brushed her hands against the folds of her skirts and tried to think which pocket contained the herbs she needed. She jumped when she felt the rope twitch around her ankle.
“I believe it is time to shut the door,” Waycott said as he got up from the pallet and moved across the room. “We would not want you to get cold.”
“No.” As the door to freedom swung shut, Sophy fought back
a wave of terror. She closed her eyes and turned her face to the flames to hide her expression. This was the man who was responsible for her sister’s death. She would not allow fear to incapacitate her. Her first goal was escape. Then she would find a way to exact revenge.
“Feeling faint, my dear?” Waycott sounded amused.
Sophy opened her eyes again and stared down into the flames. “A little, my lord.”
“Elizabeth would not have been quivering like a rabbit. She would have found it all a wonderful game. Elizabeth loved her little games.”
Sophy ignored that as she turned her back on her captor and busied herself with the small packet of tea that had been packed in the basket. She thanked heaven for the voluminous folds of her riding habit. They acted as a screen for her hands when she retrieved a small pouch of herbs from a pocket.
Panic shot through her when she glanced down and saw that she had retrieved violet leaves instead of the herbs she needed. Hurriedly she stuffed the leaves back into a pocket.
“Why did you not sell the emeralds?” she asked, trying to distract Waycott’s attention. She sat down on a stool in front of the hearth and made a production out of adjusting her skirts. Her fingers closed around another small packet.
“That would have been difficult to do. I told you, every good jeweler in London was watching for the emeralds to appear on the market. Even if I had sold them stone, by stone, I would have been at risk. They are very uniquely cut gems and would have been easily recognized. But in all truth, Sophy, I had no desire to sell them.”
“I understand. You liked knowing that you had stolen them from the Earl of Ravenwood.” She fumbled with the second packet of herbs, opening it cautiously and combining the contents with the tea leaves. Then she fussed with the kettle and teapot.
“You are very perceptive, Sophy. It is odd, but I have often felt that you and you alone, truly understood me. You are wasted on Ravenwood, just as Elizabeth was.”
Sophy poured the boiling water into the pot and prayed she had used a sufficient quantity of the sleeping herbs. Then she sat tensely on the stool, waiting for the brew to steep. The final product would be bitter, she realized. She would have to find some way to conceal the taste.