by Monica Burns
“Are you all right, my lady?”
“What?” Lady Lyndham looked startled as she glanced over her shoulder at Constance. “I must have been daydreaming again. A codicil to growing old. Come, I want to leave this dreary place.”
Puzzled, Constance offered her arm as the woman waved a hand toward her. Together they walked slowly toward the library door, the dowager relying on the sturdy cane that seemed almost a part of her. As they stepped into the hall, Lady Lyndham came to a halt, her shoulders hunched over as she rested both hands on her cane.
“Tell me, how is it going with my grandson’s artifacts?” There was a distinct twinkle in those fierce blue eyes, and Constance laughed.
“They are exquisite and overwhelming. I had no idea of the magnitude of the task itself. I know I’ve accomplished a great deal, but it looks quite insignificant when compared to what is still left to do.”
Nodding, Lady Lyndham pinned her with a cool look of assessment. “Does that mean you’re going to give up?”
“I am a Rockwood, my lady. We do not give up.”
“I had hoped that was the case.” The woman chortled with a raspy laugh. “It will do my grandson good to meet an intelligent woman who’s strong enough to stand up to him.”
“But surely he has you to do that, my lady.” Constance smiled as the woman stared at her in amazement before bending over her cane and coughing out her laughter. As the dowager’s laughing fit subsided, she lifted her head and sent Constance a chiding look.
“Don’t make this old woman laugh like that again. It does the body ill.”
“I am sorry, my lady.” The notion of having caused the woman discomfort made her grimace with concern.
“Oh stop looking like that. I might be old, but I’m not in my grave yet. Run along now. If you’ll recall, I do not tolerate late arrivals for supper.”
With a nod, Constance turned away and hurried toward the stairs. As she reached the midpoint of the staircase, she looked back at the dowager countess. The woman was still watching her, and there was a look of satisfaction on her face. Confused by the woman’s odd behavior, Constance continued up the staircase to her room. The entire house was a conundrum haunted with troubled spirits and dark mysteries.
Chapter Three
With a powerful gait, Anubis trotted up the long drive to Lyndham Keep. Keeping his touch light on the reins, Lucien smiled at the way the large horse shook his head. His gloved hand patted the animal’s thick, muscled neck.
“You smell those oats, don’t you, boy?”
Almost as if he understood the question, the animal tossed his head again. Laughing, Lucien nudged the horse into a slow gallop as he rode toward his ancestral home. In the late afternoon light, the ancient fortress looked far from welcoming. He eyed the massive structure with resignation. Lyndham Keep had never really been home. Too much death resided behind the gray walls.
There were times when he simply wanted to raze it to the ground. But doing so would never wash the blood away. It would always be with him. Scowling at his thoughts, he urged Anubis to go faster. He’d come back to the keep simply to ensure that Stewart was archiving the collection correctly. If the man’s work was satisfactory, it would enable him to begin planning another expedition back to Egypt. The sooner the better. He rarely slept well when he was home.
As Anubis pranced to a halt in front of the keep, the massive doors swung open. Jacobs stood outside the wide doorway, while a footman ran out to take the horse’s bridle. With one last pat to the animal’s neck, Lucien dismounted.
“See to it that he has a good quantity of oats after you cool him down, Tony.” Pulling off his gloves, he strode through the open doorway and handed his riding crop and accessories to the man following him into the keep. “Where’s my grandmother, Jacobs?”
“I believe she’s in the main salon, my lord. She had tea a short time ago,” the servant said with quiet regard.
There was no need to look at the butler’s face to know that his grandmother was taking a short nap in her favorite chair. Jacobs had been with the family almost since the time his grandmother had come to Lyndham Keep as a young bride. The man knew exactly when and how to appease the dowager countess. Smiling, he nodded his understanding.
“I’ll look in on her a little later. For the moment, I want a bath and some fresh clothes.”
“Very good, my lord.”
Eager to refresh himself after a long train ride and the subsequent ride from the Nottingham station, Lucien crossed the stone floor toward the staircase and glanced into the library. From the main hall he could see through the library into the small reading room he’d converted into a storage area for his antiquities. The sight that greeted him made him come to an abrupt halt. In the room just off the library, a woman stood at one of his crates, examining the markings of a piece of pottery.
Stewart hadn’t mentioned anything about a wife, and even if the man had, he had no business letting unskilled hands handle delicate artifacts. Wheeling sharply toward the door, he strode through the library and into the storage area.
“Who the devil are you?” Instantly he regretted his sharp tone as the woman cried out in surprise and almost dropped the jar she was holding. Recovering from her fright, she sent him a brief glance of annoyance before gingerly setting the pottery back into the straw-filled crate. He noted the tender care she took in nestling the item back in the packing material.
“I told you before, I don’t frighten easily, and I’d appreciate it if—” With a sharp jerk she turned to look at him as if suddenly realizing he wasn’t the person she was expecting.
To his surprise, she paled considerably as she met his gaze. Fear glimmered in her eyes before it vanished, making him think he’d been mistaken. Narrowing his gaze at her, he watched her expression become wary as her eyes met his. No, he’d not made a mistake. She’d simply buried her fear beneath a serene expression. The woman was most definitely afraid. But why?
“It wasn’t my intent to startle you, but the only person who should be handling these artifacts is Mr. Stewart.”
A small silence drifted between them as he saw her swallow nervously and avert her gaze. “You’re Lord Lyndham?”
“I am.” He nodded abruptly. “And you are?”
“C. Stewart.”
The soft words took several seconds to register with him as he stared at her. But the C. Stewart he’d corresponded with was a man. Did the woman think to convince him otherwise? He’d conversed and questioned Mr. Stewart vigorously in three different letter exchanges. How could this woman be C. Stewart?
“C. Stewart is a man,” he muttered fiercely.
“No, my lord. You simply found it convenient to think that I was a man.”
He glared at her as he struggled with the fact the woman had hoodwinked him. And she was most definitely a woman. She had a pretty face, full breasts and a lush figure that echoed the promise of a Titian nude. Even the husky sound of her voice had a soothing effect on his irritation. It brought back memories of Isis and their fateful meeting at the Black Widows Ball. This woman’s voice possessed the same sultry sound as his Egyptian goddess.
Damn it, when was he going to get Isis out of his head? For more than two months he’d been employing every method possible in his search for the woman, only to come up empty-handed. Was he so desperate to find his mysterious lover that he was beginning to imagine another woman sounded just like her? He found this irrational need to find Isis exasperating. Worse, the Stewart woman’s deception only heightened his irritation.
Clasping his hands behind his back to conceal his clenched fists, he strode back into the library in an effort to think clearly. In the close confines of the storage area, her soft honey-sweet scent had filled his nostrils and made it difficult to focus. He turned his attention away from her tantalizing smell to address the matter at hand.
With her
qualifications, her sex wouldn’t have prevented him from hiring her. But he couldn’t abide being lied to, and he hated being made to look like a fool. She’d done just that by not disclosing everything about herself. Furious with her deception, he paced a small area of the carpet like a caged lion. Aware that she’d followed him into the library, he came to a halt and turned sharply to face her.
“You lied to me,” he snapped.
“I did not lie. I can hardly be blamed for your assumption that I was a man. I truthfully outlined my qualifications for you, and you commissioned me to do a job.” Her head assumed a regal tilt as she glared at him.
The movement shifted the room’s light on her head, revealing golden highlights in the mass of chestnut hair gathered on top of her head in the popular American fashion. On her it should be loose and tumbling down her shoulders. The fact he’d even thought such a thing increased his ire as she faced him defiantly.
“You should have made it known you were a woman.”
“Why? There was no request to do so in the advertisement.”
The logic in her argument angered him all the more as he took a step toward her. He noted she didn’t back away from him. It gave him a grudging respect for her fortitude in the face of his anger. It wasn’t often someone could withstand his intimidating manner. In fact, the only woman ever to do so before was his grandmother.
“Damn it, woman, I thought you were a man.”
“Well as you can see, I am not.” Exasperation laced her sensual voice and his body instinctively responded to the sound.
God, what the hell was wrong with him? Just the mere sound of another woman’s sultry voice was stirring his lust into a frenzy for the phantom lover who’d escaped him. The only thought he seemed capable of anymore was Isis’s seductive body beneath his, her long silky legs wrapped around him as he plunged into her creamy hot core.
The image tightened every muscle in his body. Angered by his hunger for a woman he couldn’t find, he whirled away from the Stewart woman. He expressed his fury by slamming his fist into a stack of books on top of a nearby table. The explosive sound reverberated through the room with the force of a tree cracked in two by a lightning bolt. Silence hung between them as he froze.
“I shall pack my things and leave in the morning.” The quiet sound of her voice was like the gentle rain that washed away the fury of a wild storm.
With a sharp nod, he didn’t look at her as she left the room. The moment she was gone, he pressed his palms into the edge of the table and stood hunched over the book-laden surface.
Had it started?
Was this what Nigel and his father had battled when the curse first afflicted them? When was the last time he’d lost his temper like that? Two days ago. When Nate Bilkens had told him the trail was cold and finding Isis was next to impossible. Losing control wasn’t something he did often, and to lose his temper twice in less than a week was almost unheard of for him. But it wasn’t unheard of for a Blakemore to become crazed over a woman.
Frustrated, he straightened and crossed the large room to one of the arched windows that rose from the floor to the ceiling. Staring out through the glass, he studied the gardens that had been his mother’s pet project. The gardeners who had worked with her on the design and plantings still worked on the estate, and they were faithful to her vision. Nothing had changed in the garden since he was a boy.
With a grunt of disgust, he closed his eyes. He’d probably frightened the Stewart woman out of her mind with his anger. Well, she shouldn’t have applied for or accepted the position under false pretenses. He stared out the window once more. Perhaps that was a bit harsh, but the woman had known damn well her sex could be an issue, otherwise why had she hid it?
As he turned away from the window his gaze fell on a table filled with a neat display of artifacts. Reviewed and cataloged, they were carefully laid out on a layer of fabric. Curious, he walked over to the table and examined the note cards accompanying each individual piece. The information and detail on the cards was worthy of a senior staff member in the museum’s Department of Egyptian and Assyrian Antiquities. Even Director Budge would be impressed with this woman’s work. Where had she gained such detailed knowledge?
He picked up one card after another, reviewing the depth of information provided for each artifact. It was impressive work. Generally, women didn’t have access to the same education that men did, but the Stewart woman clearly had enjoyed the benefit of expert teachers willing to impart their extensive knowledge to her.
Although times were changing, educational opportunities for women had always been limited. Women stepping outside the boundaries of normal society wasn’t something he objected to, but for a woman to extricate herself from the confines of current trends was unusual. Still, meeting a well-educated woman was a pleasant experience.
One of the things his studies about ancient Egypt had taught him was that women had played an integral part in the now-extinct civilization. Their role in society had not been one of second-class citizens, rather they’d had rights comparable to men. It was an idea he supported, but rarely encountered in England, although the number of women demanding the opportunities long reserved for the male population was growing.
Returning the last card back to the table, he stared down at the display with thoughtful consideration. In his anger, he’d insulted the Stewart woman. It was obvious she had not been lying about her credentials. An enigma, the woman puzzled him. Even more puzzling was her reaction to his arrival.
When he’d first stormed into the library’s side chamber, her initial reaction had been more of annoyance. It was as if she’d already made his acquaintance, and his interruption had irritated her. Then the moment she’d turned to look at him fully, fear swept through her. She’d hid it immediately and well, but he’d recognized it just the same. Why was she afraid?
With a growl of irritation, he shook his head. It didn’t matter. Nor did it matter whether she had acquired her education in the usual manner or if she was self taught. The woman’s knowledge was exactly what he needed for cataloging his artifacts. The only problem now was whether he could convince her to stay and finish what she’d started.
Constance clung to the bedpost as if gale-force winds were buffeting her body. Fear wrapped a layer of ice over her skin as she struggled to control her roiling stomach by breathing in long, deep breaths. How in heaven’s name had she managed to come to the one place she would never have visited if she’d known what she did now?
Lucien—the highwayman—the earl. They were the same man.
The Earl of Lyndham was her lover from the Black Widows Ball. There was nothing she’d ever been more certain of in her entire life. She could only be grateful he’d not recognized her. And he hadn’t. She was certain of it.
But she had known who he was the moment she faced him. It wasn’t just his brilliant blue eyes, the scar on his cheek or the sound of his voice. It was everything about him. The male scent of him, his movements and the way every nerve ending in her body responded to his presence. Even though they’d spent only an hour or so together that night at the Clarendon, her body had recognized him almost as quickly as her eyes had.
One cheek pressed to the wooden spindle of the bed, she closed her eyes. She’d thought she was safe here, so far away from London. Over the past three weeks, she’d managed to put every thought of Lucien out of her head. Her days had been pleasurable ones, cataloging the earl’s artifacts and exploring the estate with Imogene as her and Jamie’s guide. More importantly, her nights had been devoid of dreams—dreams about him.
Think. She needed to think rationally and calmly. If she allowed her fear to control her, he might suspect something. He didn’t know who she was. She had to remember that. There was nothing to be afraid of as long as she kept her head. Still, the sooner she and Jamie were gone from this forbidding place, the better. A shiver skimmed down her back as
she moved away from the bed and dragged her trunk out from beside the large wardrobe that held her clothes.
“He is not a murderer.”
Barely suppressing her scream, Constance spun around too quickly, and lost her footing to fall backward over the trunk. The misty image of the ghost shimmered in the dim light of her room. It was the first time she’d seen him since that day in the library more than a week ago. Scrambling to her feet, she turned back to her trunk, deliberately ignoring her ethereal visitor. She didn’t care what the ghost said. The earl had blood on his hands. Her vision had shown her that much. Pulling a dress out of the wardrobe, she didn’t even have the opportunity to fold it when an invisible force ripped it from her hands.
“Lucien is not the one with blood on his hands.” There was a fierce anger in the ghost’s voice as the dress went flying back into her wardrobe and the door slammed shut. “He is not a murderer.”
Whirling around to face the spirit, she sent him an angry look. “I don’t care what he is. I’m not staying.”
“Help him.” The anguish in the ghost’s voice weakened her resolve, but she shook her head.
“You don’t understand—” The sudden speed with which the ghost moved toward her tugged a small cry from her throat.
In that instant, she knew he intended to show her his past. She had no time to prepare herself as Nigel melded his thoughts with hers and everything went dark. The darkness frightened her. It was filled with despair and deep sorrow. Someone sobbed softly, and the sound rippled through the dense pain that pressed against her flesh. Her heart ached at the wounded cry, and she tried to reach out in the darkness, but it abruptly evaporated. She immediately longed for the darkness again. Anything to escape the library and its terrible images.
Her stomach lurched at the carnage in front of her, and she swallowed hard, trying not to retch. Just like the last time, there was blood everywhere. Inhaling a deep breath, she suppressed her fear at the images in front of her. It was only a vision. She couldn’t be harmed here. There was a reason Nigel’s spirit wanted her to witness this horrible sight.