by Monica Burns
It was always easy to reflect on what one should or shouldn’t have done. Looking back wouldn’t help her now. From her bedroom window, she watched two of the gardeners engaged in an animated discussion about the brilliant flowerbed in front of them. For all the bright spring colors surrounding the keep, inside it was cold and dark.
God, she’d been a fool to think she could ever help Lucien or any of the other spirits here in the keep. She buried her face in her hands as a fresh set of tears welled up in her eyes. Tears she didn’t think she still possessed. What was she going to do? She loved him so much, and the thought of leaving Lyndham Keep cut through her with the precision of a sharp blade.
She turned away from the window and crossed the floor to the bed. The mattress creaked softly as she curled up into a ball amidst the sheets. Perhaps she could reason with him, make him understand she really was able to see Nigel. A derisive laugh parted her lips and caused the white pillowcase beneath her head to flutter.
Lucien’s reaction had made it clear he thought her nothing more than a liar. When he’d first stormed into the salon demanding to know who she’d been talking to, she’d been so startled it had been impossible to come up with a satisfactory explanation.
He’d used her surprise to his advantage. He had his grandmother’s skill for pinning an opponent into a corner from which there was no escape. Worse yet had been the way he’d manipulated her into admitting her secret. His kiss had distracted her so much she’d blithely confessed everything without the briefest of hesitations.
But it had been the depth of his anger that chilled her. Frightened her. Not for her safety, but for his. Even furious with her, he’d not made any attempt to harm her. The only danger Lucien posed to anyone was himself. In believing in the Blakemore curse, he was creating his own torment, his own pain. There was no curse. If there were, he would never have been able to restrain himself from hurting her last night. But it didn’t matter what she believed.
Lucien believed it.
And she didn’t know how to help free him from the demons he’d locked deep inside him. Demons that tugged at him with a strength she could only imagine. The line from an Edgar Allan Poe poem swept through her head. From the thunder and the storm / and the cloud that took the form / when the rest of Heaven was blue / of a demon in my view.
The words could have easily been written by Lucien. The dark, brooding aura of the verse reflected so much of his torment. She brushed another tear off her cheek, her heart aching.
How could she convince him she wasn’t lying? Was it even possible? The circumstances all weighed against her, and he had no reason to trust her. Making matters worse, she’d asked him to believe she could talk to his dead brother. She should never have even hoped he would find it possible to trust she was telling the truth.
Her gift had never brought her anything but heartache and, more often than not, rejection when she’d failed to keep her ability a secret. Even Graham, for all the affection he’d felt for her, had been uncomfortable with her gift. How could she expect Lucien to feel differently? And yet, a small part of her had hoped he would. Hoped he would come to identify the torment he bore with her own suffering.
But how could he? He’d have to believe in her ability before he could understand her personal hell. Worse still, he’d lived with his torment for so long, it might be impossible for him to believe anything she or anyone else told him about the Blakemore curse.
Lucien was a man of facts. If she was going to convince him that his family had been murdered not because of insanity, but for other reasons, she had to give him proof. But what? She only had bits and pieces of clues that made no sense at all. This was a puzzle even she couldn’t put together.
Pushing herself upright, she brushed a teardrop off her lashes. What could she do to reach him? There had to be a way, but deep inside her, she knew there wasn’t. There was nothing more she could do. If she’d had more time, perhaps, but Lucien wasn’t going to want her here. It was only a matter of hours, minutes even, before he sent word for her to leave. Scooting off the bed, she moved toward her wardrobe.
“So that’s it. You’re giving up. You’re reneging on your promise to help him.”
Listlessly, she turned to see Nigel watching her with a frown she’d often seen on Lucien’s face. Although the two brothers didn’t look all that much alike, their mannerisms were remarkably similar.
“Go away, Nigel. There’s nothing I can do anymore. He won’t listen to me. He’s convinced himself that I’m lying. I can’t fight that.”
“Damn it woman, the boy needs you. I’m positive of it.”
“Just like you were so positive you could convince him that I can see you?” she snapped. “If you’ll recall, his reaction was one of bitterness and contempt.”
Bending her head at the memory, she bit back a fresh onslaught of tears threatening to wet her cheeks. Nigel coughed slightly.
“Yes, well…I admit to overestimating Lucien’s willingness to believe you. However, he does need you, Constance. He’s just not willing to admit it yet. This damnable curse business has him convinced that if he allows himself to care for you, he’ll endanger you.”
“Go away, Nigel. I’m past caring at this point.”
When only silence met her statement, she lifted her head to see him staring at her with a strange expression on his face. “You love him very much don’t you?”
Immediately, she turned away and moved to stare out the window. “Yes, but it changes nothing.”
“But it does. Don’t you see? Your love can save him, Constance.”
“How?” she cried out with anguish as she whirled to face the ghost. “I can’t save him if he doesn’t want to be saved.”
And she was certain Lucien didn’t want her to save him from anything. Stubborn and defiant, he wrestled with his torment in solitude, refusing to let her or anyone else help him find safe harbor from his pain. And God knew how desperately she wanted to ease his suffering. She was willing to do anything for him. Follow him anywhere, even to hell itself, if only to be with him.
“Simply love him, Constance. It will be enough,” Nigel said with a small smile as he shimmered then dissolved into a mist.
The sudden knock on the door made her heart skip a beat until she realized the sound didn’t bear Lucien’s authoritative mark. A moment later, the upstairs maid entered the room. The girl bobbed a curtsey.
“Good morning, my lady. Her ladyship wondered if you would be joining her for breakfast.”
With a shake of her head, Constance turned away as she noted the curiosity burning in the maid’s face. “Not this morning, Anna. Please give her ladyship my apologies. I’m not feeling well.”
“Yes, my lady.” The girl turned to leave then paused. “Is there anything I can bring you, my lady? You look like a hot cup of tea might set you right.”
“No, Anna.” She shook her head. “That will be all, thank you.”
The soft snap of the door closing behind the maid tugged a sigh from Constance’s lips. Lady Lyndham’s curiosity was going to be provoked, especially if Anna was to describe her appearance to the dowager countess. Pressing her palm to her forehead, she closed her eyes. She was so tired. If she slept for a short time, perhaps she could come up with a way to make Lucien understand she wasn’t a liar or a charlatan.
The sound of crisp paper being folded and slid into an envelope barely penetrated Lucien’s preoccupation as his grandmother set aside a letter.
“Edward told me Oliver is visiting him, and Mrs. Armstrong is staying nearby with a relative. I invited them for supper this evening.”
When he didn’t answer her, she frowned, but continued eating her meal. Pushing his plate of half-eaten food away from him, he leaned back in his chair. Across the table, Aurora arched her eyebrows as she bit into a piece of the roast chicken Cook had prepared for their luncheon.
&n
bsp; “Appetite off, my boy? You’re not coming down with something, are you?”
“No,” he growled.
“I do hope Lady Westbury is all right.” With a pointed look at Constance’s empty chair, she took another bite of food.
“I’m sure she’s fine, Grandmother.” He ignored the autocratic look the dowager countess sent him.
“Perhaps, but it’s so unlike her to be ill.” Aurora looked down at her plate. “I don’t suppose you had anything to do with her sudden indisposition?”
“No.” He reached for his wineglass and took a healthy swig of the red liquid. Damn his grandmother for her intuitive nature. He had no doubt he was the reason for Constance’s illness. But he doubted she was ill. More likely she was hiding in shame for having been exposed as the liar she was. Although it was damned difficult to prove it when he still didn’t have any evidence.
“Do you mind telling me exactly what you were thinking when you instructed Jacobs to have the servants tear the salon apart?”
“I wanted to inspect the walls.”
“The walls?” Lady Lyndham looked at him as if he were mad. “What in heaven’s name are you looking for?”
Scowling at her, he shrugged. Damn, he should have known better than to agree to lunch with her. “A door to the labyrinth.”
“A what?” Lowering her fork to her plate, she glared at him. “Whatever makes you think there’s a hidden door in the salon?”
“I have my reasons,” he snapped as he returned her glare.
“And do your reasons have anything to do with Lady Westbury?” She eyed him with her most imperial of looks. As a boy, he’d always known he was in trouble when she’d looked at him that way. But he was no longer a boy.
“Damn it, Grandmother, I have no doubt your spies have told you everything, why must you hound me for an explanation?” Throwing down his napkin, he pushed himself away from the table in an abrupt move.
“Because my spies, as you put it, are completely baffled as to what’s going on in this house. Obviously something has happened since supper last night that has both you and Lady Westbury at odds with one another. I don’t care what you do to the keep, but I won’t have you upsetting Constance.”
“I beg your pardon.” Palms flat on the table, he leaned toward his grandmother. “How I choose to conduct business with my employees is my affair, not yours, Grandmother.”
“I knew it, you’ve offended her somehow.” Aurora reached for her cane and pushed herself to her feet. “What the devil did you say to her? I won’t stand for you treating her badly, Lucien. I won’t have it.”
“You won’t—” He straightened and swallowed the anger rising inside him as he watched his grandmother slowly walk toward him. “Your championship of Lady Westbury is misplaced, Grandmother. The woman is a liar and most likely involved with a scoundrel.”
“I don’t believe it. Where’s your proof, boy? Prove to me that Constance is what you say she is.”
“I haven’t found it yet,” he growled. “But it’s in the salon.”
“And exactly how do you know it’s in the salon?”
“Because last night, I saw her—” Clasping his hands behind his back, he avoided his grandmother’s astute gaze and tightened his mouth.
“I take it you saw her with another man?”
Not looking at her, he grimaced. “Not exactly. I could only hear him whispering to her.”
Arching her eyebrows, Aurora braced both hands on her cane as her gaze slid over him with assessment. “And did she tell you who she was talking to?”
“Nigel.”
Her silence didn’t surprise him, but it was the smile of happiness on her face that did. In fact, her reaction astounded him. It was as if she wasn’t surprised at all. What the devil was going on? Studying his grandmother’s face more closely, he uttered a noise of disgust. Constance had already hoodwinked his grandmother into believing she could talk to the dead.
“You knew!” he exclaimed.
“What? That Constance has a wondrous gift?” With a wave of her hand, Aurora walked away from him toward the dining room door. “Yes, I knew.”
“You knew, and you didn’t tell me?” Following her, he gritted his teeth as he realized how well Constance had ingratiated herself with his grandmother. It was going to be difficult to send her away if Aurora had anything to say about it, and he was certain she’d have plenty to fill his ears. As she entered the main hall, his grandmother sent him a scornful look over her shoulder.
“Bah! Do you think I would throw her to you like a lamb to a wolf?”
“I’d hardly call the woman a lamb, Grandmother. She’s a liar, and if the timing were right, I’m convinced she’d be a thief as well.”
The moment the word thief left his mouth he knew it wasn’t true. Constance might be a liar, but he’d stake his reputation she wasn’t a thief. If she were, his collection would contain far fewer valuables now. Just yesterday, he’d reviewed her work to date, and everything was accounted for. He did her an injustice by calling her a thief. Something his grandmother quickly chose to reiterate.
“A thief? Quick, have Jacobs count the silver spoons.” Her sarcasm echoed in the great hall, rising up to the beams high above. “It seems to me you’re trying to rationalize something that’s impossible to rationalize.”
“No. I know what she is, Grandmother. She deceived me when she applied for the position of cataloger. She lied about not knowing Standish—”
“She’s admitted she knows the man?”
“Damn it, no.” He shoved a hand through his hair in frustration at his grandmother’s obstinate refusal to see his point of view. “Of course she’s not admitted it, but he was with her the day she took the children on a picnic, and last night—”
“Last night? Something tells me the conversation you interrupted last night was a private one.” Her sharp gaze pinned him with a look of disapproval. Stiffening at the condemnation in her voice, he clenched his jaw in an effort to keep from exploding with the anger bubbling just beneath the surface.
“She wasn’t talking to Nigel,” he bit out.
“Then who was she talking to?” Aurora’s piercing gaze met his as she waited for his response.
“I don’t know, but as soon—”
“Well if you don’t know who she was talking to, how do you know she wasn’t talking to Nigel?”
“Because my brother’s dead,” he snarled.
The words bounced off the stone walls like a stray bullet. They reverberated in the air for several seconds before silence enveloped the anger and grief behind the sound. The sadness in his grandmother’s eyes made him look away from her as she studied him with an expression of understanding on her weathered face. Gently, she patted his arm.
“Constance has a wonderful ability, Lucien—a gift. It allows her to ease the pain of others.”
“Lies, even if well-intentioned, are still lies.”
“You know me well enough, boy. I’m not easily fooled. When she told me William was in the room with me, I didn’t believe her either.” She swallowed hard, and he saw her blink back tears. “But then she said one word. One word convinced me William was in the room.”
With a derisive shake of his head, Lucien met a blue-eyed gaze almost identical to his. The confidence and peace reflected in her eyes amazed him. She smiled.
“Believe what you like, boy, but Constance gave my heart back to me when she uttered one word. A word only my William could have told her himself.”
Aware his grandmother was convinced beyond any doubt of Constance’s ability, he expelled a deep breath of frustration. In the face of such certainty, there was nothing he could do but allow her to believe what she wanted. Leaning forward, he kissed her cheek.
“I’ll have Jacobs return the salon to its original state,” he muttered as he turned to leave her.
“And Constance. What will you do about her, Lucien?”
Tension shot through him, holding him rigid and stiff as he heard the second meaning beneath her question. He didn’t know what to think, and he damn well wasn’t going to admit that to his grandmother. She’d waste no time wearing him down, convincing him Constance was talking to Nigel last night. The disturbing thing was, he wanted to be convinced. Without looking at his grandmother, he shook his head.
“The situation with Lady Westbury is my affair. I’ll deal with it in my own way.”
Without waiting for her to renew her probing, he stalked away from her. Deal with it his way. Exactly how was he supposed to do that? If he’d found some sign of a hidden door in the salon or some other means of exit, it would be a simple matter of confronting Constance.
But he’d found nothing. Not one indication there was a secret means of entering and exiting the room. Not one. Worse yet was the memory of his visit to Nanny in the nursery just before lunch. When he’d asked his old nurse about Professor Hodge, the woman had barely remembered the man. That alone told him that someone other than Nanny had given Constance the man’s nickname.
There was only one other person who could have known what he and Nigel called their old professor. And that person was dead. He winced and uttered a grunt of disgust. Either Constance had been talking to herself or she really had been—
Inconceivable. It simply wasn’t possible. Even considering the possibility told him just how willing he was to let the woman ensnare him in her seductive web. He wanted to find some reason, any reason, to believe her. To know she wasn’t lying to him. To know she’d not been with another man.
That was the key. It wasn’t that she might have lied. Forgiving her a lie or a dozen lies would be easy compared to the possibility she’d been with someone other than him. So perhaps the best thing to believe was that she’d been talking to herself. But that didn’t account for the man’s voice he’d heard.