by Monica Burns
Anna, the upstairs maid, appeared in the doorway with a tray of tea that she set down on the fireside table. Taking her arm, Lucien pulled her aside.
“Have Jacobs come up here immediately. I’m going to let the boy stay with her for a few minutes then Jacobs is to escort Jamie directly into Nanny’s care, while you help her ladyship prepare for bed.”
Not waiting for her response, he turned back toward Constance to see her sitting up on the bed, hugging her son. There was still a look of shock on her face, but color was beginning to return to her cheeks. For several long moments, she simply sat still and hugged her son close. Watching her, he knew whatever had frightened her so terribly involved her son.
A quiet knock on the door announced Anna and Jacobs’s entrance. As the two servants moved into the room, his gaze met Constance’s as she looked at him over the top of her son’s head. She looked exhausted, and the sooner she rested, the better.
“Jamie, we need to let your mother rest. Come along now.”
The boy shook his head in protest and wrapped his arms around Constance with renewed vigor. Responding to her son’s reluctance, she whispered something to him. He protested for only a moment more before finally giving in to her wishes. Jamie gave his mother one last hug then moved toward the door. When the boy reached his side, Lucien rested his hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“She’ll be fine, Jamie. I won’t leave her alone.”
The boy eyed him in silence as if searching for an answer to an unspoken question. Lucien returned his somber look steadily. With a worried frown, Jamie shook his head.
“I shouldn’t leave her. She might have another…another episode.” The maturity in the boy’s voice reminded him of himself in the days following the deaths of his parents.
“It’s all right, lad. I’ll stay with her until morning. I promise you.”
Jamie hesitated before nodding his head in agreement. With one last look over his shoulder at his mother, the boy left the room with Jacobs. Lucien turned to Anna and ordered her to call him back into the room when Constance was ready for bed.
In the hallway, he paced the floor. He didn’t know what the hell had happened downstairs, but it amazed him how many people seemed so certain of her abilities. Edward appeared to be as convinced as his grandmother was by her skill. Even Oliver and Mrs. Armstrong hadn’t been overly surprised by her hysteria.
From the interaction between the couple, it was clear Oliver’s lady friend had confided her knowledge of Constance’s secret on the condition he not share the information. As usual, the man’s ability to be discreet was anything but. He grimaced. Oliver never had been one to behave honorably. Maybe he should just let the Set tear him to pieces. No, that he couldn’t do. Regardless of his past behaviors or background, Oliver had Blakemore blood in him, and a Blakemore never deserted their own. Not even when they were blackguards like his cousin. At that moment, Anna stepped out into the hall.
“She’s much better now, my lord. Shall I stay with her tonight?”
“We both will,” he said. “I told the boy I wouldn’t leave her, but I’ve no wish to compromise her reputation.”
“Of course, my lord. Let me fetch my mending.”
With an abrupt nod, he watched the maid hurry down the hall. Leaving the door open, he entered Constance’s room. As he approached her bed, he took in the air of hopelessness about her. It made her look pale and fragile. He wanted to take on her demons for her, but he felt powerless to do so. It was the same emotion he’d felt when Constance had been screaming with such terror. He despised himself for slapping her, but she’d been unresponsive to any other attempts to calm her.
Sitting on the bed beside her, he gently touched the red splotch on her cheek. She brushed his hand away, and her fingers were ice cold against his skin.
“I can only imagine what everyone must be thinking about my…my exhibition.” A sigh parted her lips as she looked away from him.
“They’re as concerned for you as I am.” The dismissive shake of her head made him frown.
“There’s no need. I’m fine.”
“That point is debatable, but I think you need to sleep right now.”
“I don’t want to sleep.”
“Why not?”
“It’s…I…please, must you hound me like this. There’s no need for anyone to worry about me, I’ll be fine.”
“Look at me, Constance.” His sharp command forced her to meet his gaze. “I want you to tell me what happened.”
Panic flickered in her gaze as she turned her head away from him. “No.”
“I refuse to accept that answer,” he said with frustration. “I want to know what happened to you in the salon.”
“You don’t have the right to ask that,” she said in a brittle voice as she tugged her hand out of his firm grip.
“Bloody hell,” he snapped. “You must trust me, Constance.”
“I have no wish to be labeled a liar and a charlatan again.” Bitterness tightened her mouth as her sharp words lashed out at him, making him wince.
Silence hung dense and heavy in the room as he struggled to say the words that would heal the breach between them. Could he honestly say he believed her? His grandmother believed her. Jamie had been emphatic about his ability to see Nigel, and there was the issue of the nickname he and Nigel had for Professor Hodge. It was an extraordinary piece of evidence, especially given Nanny’s difficulty in even remembering the professor, let alone knowing their childhood nickname for the man.
“Last night…perhaps I—damnation,” he exclaimed as he jumped to his feet and paced the floor.
He was mad. What other reason explained his need to discount Constance’s possible deceit, his desire to ignore every illogical thought in his head and believe her fantastic tale? There was only one way to determine whether he was in his right mind or simply mad. He wanted one more piece of evidence. One more miscellaneous piece of information that only he and Nigel knew.
If she gave him that, he’d believe. His pacing took him back to her side, and he sank down next to her. Confusion furrowed her brow as he studied her for a long moment.
“You told me you saw and talked to my brother.” He paused as she nodded, her expression wary. Drawing in a deep breath, he exhaled. “I’m not certain you understand the implications of what you’re asking me to believe.”
She stared at him for a long moment, a small flame of hope brightening her hazel eyes. “I do know what I’m asking, Lucien. I’m asking you to believe something based on my word alone. I’m asking that you believe without any evidence you can see or hear.”
“Then you’ll understand why I require at least one more piece of evidence that you really can talk to…talk to Nigel.”
Her eyes clouded with disappointment as she turned her head away from him. “You asked me to trust you, and yet you find it impossible to trust me. Impossible to trust that I’m not lying to you.”
“Damn it, Constance.” He shoved his hand through his hair, frustrated at his inability to make her understand what she asked of him. “This isn’t about trusting you. It’s about trusting myself. Believing this isn’t the prelude to the madness I’ve come to accept as my fate.”
“And what if you’re wrong?” The gentle question whispered past her lips as she returned her gaze to his face. He shook his head in anger.
“Now you ask more of me than I can give,” he said tightly. A sudden blast of cold air blew across his body, and he frowned. “It’s cold in here. Let me find you another blanket.”
She clutched his arm in a surprisingly strong grip as he started to rise from the bed. “The cold is a natural occurrence in these instances.”
“Instances?” Uncertainty seized him as the cold air warmed slightly, almost as if something had moved away from him.
“Nigel.”
“He’s here?” he as
ked with a terse skepticism. “Now?”
“I’m afraid he’s not very happy with you at the moment.” A smile touched her lips as she stared at the empty space off to his side.
Doubt renewed itself as he glared at her. “I see.”
“Actually, Nigel says you’re quite unclear about a great many things. Including the curse. He says it doesn’t exist…no, I won’t…” she shook her head vehemently. A flush of color darkened her face. Her eyes met Lucien’s for a moment before she looked away. “He said the only curse hanging over your head is your stubbornness.”
The color in her face deepened as she listened to a voice he couldn’t hear. She shook her head again, her mouth forming a silent gasp, then tightening into a firm line. It was a brilliant performance. One could almost believe she was actually talking to his dead brother.
The doubt stirring in him pricked at his conscience. He’d promised to believe her with one final piece of evidence, and yet here he was questioning her honesty again. Could he do so otherwise? God knew he wanted to believe her. Still, he wanted more proof than Professor Hodge’s nickname. He wanted something he knew no one else would know that Nigel had told him.
“Ask him to repeat what he told me the morning of the day he died.”
“No, don’t,” she said with a frown as she looked toward the empty space beside him. You’ll waste your energy.”
Turning her head back to him, she winced. “He’s furious. He said you know…you know damn well what he told you.”
“I want to hear it from your lips.” He leaned toward her and grasped her chin tightly as a wave of fury surged through him. It was an anger that tried to smother the tenuous belief taking root inside him. “Tell me.”
With a vicious jerk of her head, she broke free of his grasp. “The two of you are the most irascible, pig-headed, arrogant bastards I’ve ever met.”
Her response enraged him. She was lying. She didn’t have an answer, and she was attempting to divert him from the fact. With a harsh glare, he leaned into her.
“And you, my dear, are avoiding my question. Tell me what my brother said to me the day he died.”
One hand pressed against her throat, she flinched as if someone had hit her. Determined to end this game of deception, he grabbed her arms and gave her a hard shake. “Tell me.”
“He told you…he told you about Katherine.”
Frozen in place, Lucien stared at her. She knew. But how could she, unless— His fingers bit deeper into her shoulders as he struggled to believe the impossible. “What did he tell me about Katherine?”
Her eyes focused on a point over his shoulder. “They fought about it. He hit her…” She gasped, her face growing pale as her gaze jerked back to Lucien’s. “He told you about her affair with Oliver.”
Chapter Fourteen
Stunned, he simply stared at her. The unbelievable had happened. She’d given him the one answer he knew she couldn’t have heard from anyone else. Shortly after Nigel had told him about Katherine’s affair, his brother had killed his wife then jumped to his death. There wasn’t anyone who had been privy to their conversation.
In proving her innocence, Constance had simply confirmed the certainty of his own fate. In his fury over his wife’s betrayal, his brother had succumbed to the curse, and it would happen to him as well if he ever allowed Constance into his heart. Harsh laughter filled his head. If?
Deliberately, he locked his thoughts into an isolated compartment of his mind. Stumbling to his feet, he walked away from her bed. Nigel was here. In this room. He looked around. For what he didn’t know. Some sign that he wasn’t truly going mad. A firm, cold pressure pressed into his shoulder, and he froze.
“Lucien?” The quiet compassion in Constance’s voice echoed softly behind him.
“He’s really here?”
“Yes, he’s touching your shoulder.” Her words shot a bolt of lightning through him, and the weight on his shoulder tightened then eased completely. “He says to tell you there is no curse.”
“Then how in the hell does he explain why he killed Katherine?” Shaking his head, he grimaced. Nigel was confused. There were no other explanations for Katherine’s death or his brother’s.
“Because he didn’t kill her.” The calm, serene response made him spin around to look at her.
“What the hell does that mean? I know what I saw and heard. He killed her and then threw himself from the tower.” The memory of Nigel’s cry as he’d jumped off the North Tower still had the power to send a chill coursing through his blood.
“The killer escaped through the labyrinth,” she said quietly. “Nigel chased him up to the tower, but in the struggle, your brother was shoved off the rampart.”
“Who?” Raw fury coiled in his stomach as he fought to cope with the rage that threatened to blind him. “Who did this to him?”
Empathy darkened her hazel eyes until they were almost green. With a slight shake of her head, she sighed. “He doesn’t remember.”
“God damn it. That’s not an answer. He has to know who killed him. How could he not remember?”
“It’s not unusual for spirits not to remember things from their earth-bound state, especially traumatic events such as what Nigel experienced.”
“He doesn’t remember because he doesn’t want to know the truth,” he snapped. An instant later, a cold weight pressed heavily against his shoulders. Obviously his brother disagreed.
“Nigel wants you to know he loved Katherine. Adored her. He was furious…devastated by her betrayal. But he was determined to win her heart again. When he went back to their room a short time after their fight, he found her dead and the door to the labyrinth open.”
“Bloody hell,” he exclaimed. Turning away from her, he strode to the wall, his hands and eyes searching for a possible opening. This had been the room Nigel and Katherine had shared, which meant the door had to be in here. Providing of course he’d not hallucinated everything that had happened in the past few moments.
“Lucien—”
“Where the devil is it? Tell him to show you where the door is.”
“I can’t,” she said with a sigh of regret. “He’s gone.”
“What do you mean he’s gone?” he growled, frustrated by the fact he couldn’t see or hear his brother—talk to him. Now she was telling him Nigel was gone. Gone where? How could a spirit just disappear?
“It takes a great deal of energy for him to communicate. Some spirits find it hard even to show themselves, let alone speak and interact with the world we live in. He was too weak to continue.”
“Damnation, why didn’t he tell you where it was?” he snapped.
“I told you before, spirits don’t always remember things. What happened to him was very traumatic.”
The flat base of his fist slammed into the gray stone. “Then how the hell am I supposed to find his killer? There has to be evidence of some kind behind these walls. Something that will tell me what the hell is going on.”
“Jamie knows where an entrance is.” Her quiet words made him wheel around to face her.
“The boy knows?” Scowling at her troubled expression, he waited impatiently for her reply.
“He and Imogene have apparently been playing in the labyrinth for a few weeks now. I just learned of it late this afternoon.”
“And you didn’t see fit to tell me until now?” he snapped.
“I learned of it just before supper, and I didn’t think you’d want me to announce the fact with so many people here this evening.”
She sent a pointed look toward the open bedroom door as Anna entered with a basket filled with items for mending. As he turned toward the doorway, he acknowledged the maid’s quick curtsey with an abrupt nod. The servant’s return afforded them less privacy with which to continue their conversation, but a quick glance back at Constance told him she needed to sleep
. As the maid seated herself near the fire and pulled out a pair of socks to darn, Lucien returned to Constance’s side.
“I think we’ve both had enough excitement and revelations for the evening. We’ll talk about the labyrinth in the morning.” She nodded her agreement, but he sensed her fear returning. Immediately, he squeezed her hand in a reassuring manner. “I won’t leave you alone, yâ sabāha, Anna and I will stay the night.”
Relief swept across her face, and she sighed. “Thank you.”
As she sank deeper into the bed, he pulled the bed linens up to her chin and proceeded to tuck her in beneath the covers. The action came to him naturally as if he’d done it many times before. It felt comfortable, and he relished the sensation. His destiny would not offer him any other moments like this.
The delicate scent of jasmine floated up off her skin and he longed to kiss her. Aware of Anna’s presence behind him, he satisfied himself by stroking her cheek with his fingers. Dousing the gaslight beside her bed, he squeezed her hand one last time.
“Go to sleep, Constance. I’ll be here if you need me.”
Not waiting for an answer, he moved to the fireplace and sank down into one of the chairs facing the hearth. Anna raised her head from her mending with a curious expression on her face.
“Can I fetch you something, my lord? Perhaps a hot toddy?”
“No thank you, Anna.” He turned his head to stare into the fire.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her nod before she returned to darning the sock in her hand. The maid might be curious about the evening’s events, but she would be circumspect in her chaperone duties. Jacobs was a harsh taskmaster when it came to discreet behavior among the household staff.
He wasn’t sure about others though. Something told him Oliver would be far from discreet when he returned to London. The idea of his cousin spreading stories about Constance sent a flash of anger streaking through him. He refused to let her be the topic of the moment among the Set. He’d have to make it clear to the man the folly of gossip.