“I don’t know,” she said.
“Yes, you do.” He snapped.
“‘Twas nothing,” she said wide-eyed. She lifted a shoulder in a half shrug. She looked like she wanted to bolt for the door.
“Do not lie to me, girl. I will know.”
Her eyes darted back to the book.
“Yes,” he said softly as he watched her slowly bring her eyes back to him from the book. She had a hard time looking away. “You understand, do you not? You feel its power,” he said. “It is the devil’s book, and I will know if you lie.”
Bain considered. If she lied, what would he do? Would he have to kill her? She would return for the book. She would be a danger to him then, but she was such a tiny thing. He could place his hand over both her mouth and nose at the same time and make an end of it. He could snap her neck. Say she fell while dusting the top shelves. Perhaps that would be better. End it now before the book had a chance to corrupt her with its evil, but something stopped him from doing the deed. Perhaps it was the innocence in her eyes. Lord Bain wanted her to tell the truth, and perhaps it would free them both. Would the truth truly set him free?
She bit her lip. Bain supposed she would not tell him. Why should she? Why should she tell him what the book promised? Why would she tell him her fondest desire? Her eyes went back to the book where it lay and then once again to him. She was not sure which to be more afraid of, him or the book. He could see the question in her eyes.
He could have warned her that what was contained within those pages was far more dangerous, but he did not. Instead he smiled at her. Perhaps that would put her at ease.
“I suppose I was woolgathering. I was only dusting,” she began, and he grew impatient.
“I shall have to sack you,” he interrupted; “I cannot abide a liar.”
“No!” she shouted, and then she spoke and the words flowed over themselves to get out of her mouth. “Please Milord. Have mercy. I need this position.”
“Then tell me the truth.”
“I only thought of my young man,” she said quickly. “I thought: I so wanted to marry him, but we… are good. We have done nothing untoward. We only hope to marry… one day. No time soon, Sir. We do not have the money. Please Sir, do not sack me. I only want to save my money from this job until one day we can marry. I am a good girl. I only thought of my young man. That is all. I have done nothing wrong. ‘Twas only a thought.”
The Earl looked at her for a long moment. And that was how it started, with a thought; a wish; a desire. She looked near tears. He reached for his book, and turned a page. As soon as he touched it he felt its power. The letters did not speak to him as they once did. They were capricious. He had to coax them now. He had nothing more to offer them. He ran his hand over the page: up and down and up again, petting it like a beloved cat. Once he had only to put a finger upon it. Bain glanced up to find the girl edging towards the door. He looked at her blandly.
“By your leave, Milord. I have other work,” she said. She gestured towards the door. She wanted to escape.
“Stay,” he said, and he felt the power in his voice, power that he had so tried to give up.
“Yes, Milord.” She was huddled against the door as if she expected him to attack her.
“Did you write your name?” He asked.
“What?”
“Your name, girl!” He said impatiently. “Did you write your name in my book?” Then he thought she probably did not know how to write. “Did you make your mark?” he corrected. Would that work, he wondered. Did it have to be a name or would a simple X suffice? Was that why the book did not affect her so? But no, she had said she could read. With effort, he drew his hands away from the book and stood glowering at her.
“No Milord. Of course not. I would not deface your property. It is a fine book.”
He heard the wistfulness in her voice and realized that she was not totally unaffected; she was simply affected less than he was.
“It is a cursed book,” he said. He did not believe her. She had written her name, the sly thing. He knew she did. “Let me see the first page, where the names are,” he said. He did not touch it, simply because he wanted to do so. No. Instead he would see what the book did to her. Let her be the one to touch it.
“Yes, Milord.” She turned the pages gingerly and then moved aside so he could sit at his own desk. His name was the last, signed on the page, and she was no longer touching the book. She spoke the truth. She could touch it and release it, by her own will. It seemed to cost her nothing. He had never had a day when it did not affect him. He looked down at her. She was standing leaning foot to foot and wringing her hands together. Her hair was escaping from her cap, and her apron had a bit of soot on it as if she had strayed too close to the fireplace as she dusted. Now, she was hovering like she wanted to run. Bain supposed she did. She was but a child. Could this truly work?
Was it possible to be free? He looked at the fire, crackling in the hearth. He should throw the damned book into it and let the flames consume it. Only he did not know if that would work. He only knew he could not do it. Perhaps she could. Not while he lived though. He did not want to die. He had more reason than most to fear death. There would be an accounting, and now that he was older, he was not looking forward to the paying for all he had gained in this life.
“Sit,” The Earl told her. She perched on the edge of the chair like she was ready to take flight any moment.
Well, he supposed that would be the smartest thing to do — run. Run far away from him and the damnable book. But perhaps this girl was his salvation. He had to hope that; he had to hope that someone could touch the book with impunity. He had to hope that someone in this world was good enough to face the devil and survive.
He had thought that of Laura, his first wife, but she had run when she realized the evil he was courting. Perhaps she was the clever one; only she had run too late, he supposed. They were both too late. And then there was Joy, his poor, weak Joy, his second wife. Even her name was a farce. He should have left her alone, but he had been desperate for an heir then, and her father had wanted the marriage, and he had capitulated.
It had not mattered. None of it mattered; not what he had wanted; nor what her father wanted. All that mattered was what the devil wanted and the damned book. It had taken both his wives and his infant son, and in turn gave him what he had once thought he wanted. It gave him power. It gave him money and a title. They were such empty things. He wished he could return to his youth and turn back the hands of time. He wished he could undo the evil he had done.
He had thought not to marry again, after Joy’s death. To break the cycle of evil - but that was before he had met Caroline. The book had sworn him to secrecy all those years ago, but he had to tell Caroline. He could not keep this secret from her. He loved her. And Caroline had been sure that love would be enough. Their love would be enough, and he had allowed himself to hope. Caroline was untouched by the evil then. He had thought that she would be safe. Now she was ill, and the doctors saw no reason for her decline. He knew that it was his fault. The book would deny him this happiness. It would take another life. That was evident with Caroline’s weakening and steady progression into illness.
But it wasn’t just the book that was evil. It was in him now. It wasn’t just the book that would take another life. He would take another life. That was his mistake. He had tried to exonerate himself, when he could not shirk the responsibility. He could not shuffle this duty off to another, but neither could he accomplish this alone. Even if he died, he was sure that the book would seduce another. It would capture his precious Caroline, or his unborn child; or, barring that, there was still his younger brother.
No. He could not allow the evil to continue.
It was his greed that had started the whole mess. It was his greed that had robbed his elder brother of his rightful place as Earl, his due and his life. It was his name that was signed in blood on the page of the thing. He was the one responsible for the
deaths of his father and brother, of his wives and his first stillborn son. He was no less a murderer because the deed was not done by his own hand. He was responsible. No one else, and he would pay for his sins.
Now he was not even sure that an heir was a good idea, but Caroline was already with child, and he was desperate to end the evil and save them. He would trade it all, the money, the wealth, the fame and fortune, even his own life, if only the lives of his wife and unborn child were spared. He would gladly live in poverty, but the book would not release him.
Now, he stared at this fresh-faced girl in front of him. He could not will the evil to her. That would only compound the wickedness he had already perpetrated. No. He had to end it. He had to find a way. But she had touched it, he reminded himself. No one else had touched it so. Perhaps God had sent her to help him.
“Are you good?” he asked softly. “A good and God-fearing girl?”
“I try to be, Milord,” she said. “I say my prayers and I go to church every Sunday.”
Would it be enough? He wondered. “What is your name?” he asked.
“Ruby, Milord. Ruby Barnet,” she said.
“Miss Barnet,” he repeated. “I am going to ask a favor of you,” he said.
“Me?”
“Yes, you, child,” he said more gently.
“Begging your pardon, Milord. I am not a child. I am woman of one and twenty.”
She lifted her chin a little. She was a child, he thought. “Yes,” he said again. “As far as I know, you are the only one who can touch the book with impunity.”
“I didn’t touch it with anything but my fingers, sir. Honest.”
He closed his eyes a moment. Was he really going to do this? Yes, he thought, for Caroline and his unborn child. He may not have another chance. He felt suddenly hot with fever and somewhat faint as if the book knew he was planning its demise.
“Sir. Are you alright?” she asked. “Are you ill? Should I call for someone?” The girl stood, and he understood her need to flee. He had felt the same at first. But that hesitancy would not last. It would call to her soon enough.
“I am not ill,” he said. “Nonetheless, I shall be dead soon. You must listen. While there is time. You must swear to secrecy. No one must know. Quickly now. While I am still lucid,” he said.
Chapter Three
Ruby stared at him. She knew some called His Lordship mad. Perhaps he was. Would a mad man tell you he was mad, she wondered? He was no longer in his prime, but neither was he decrepit.
“Surely you will have a long life, Milord” she said.
He had a young wife and seemed personable enough now, although he had frightened her at first, and people whispered about him and his young wife. It seemed discourteous, their whispers, the Countess being so unwell. Ruby suddenly felt sad for him. The Earl had no children yet. He had this big house and lots of money, but no one to share it with but his sickly wife, who did not seem like she could give birth to a healthy child.
That thought made Ruby unaccountably melancholy. She liked the young Countess. Ruby prayed for her daily. She told the Earl so.
“I pray for you and your lady,” she said. “no matter what is said…” She covered her mouth with her hand. She was very forward to speak so to him. “I am sure all will be well,” she said. “God be good.”
“God wants nothing to do with the likes of me,” he said.
“But—" Ruby began, but her tongue froze at his look.
“It will be fine, if you do what I ask of you,” he said again.
She nodded, agreeing readily.
“Whatever you wish of me, Milord. I will be happy to help.”
He laughed; a short bark.
“Do not be so quick to agree,” he said. “I doubt that what I ask of you will make you happy. It may seem simple. But it will prove more difficult than you can imagine.
“What would you have me do, Milord?”
She frowned, a little worried now.
“Get the book,” he said. “I wish you to wrap it for me.”
She stared at him stupidly.
“Wrap it,” he repeated. “Like a gift, and tell no one, do you hear?”
Ruby relaxed a little. Wrapping a gift and keeping it secret was not so hard. And if the Earl wanted her to do this errand for him, then he certainly wasn’t sacking her. That was a good thing.
“Swear it,” he repeated. “Swear by all you hold dear, you will tell no one of the book.”
“I will tell no one,” she agreed. “I swear.”
“Good,” he said rubbing his hands together gleefully. “Good.”
The Earl was far too happy for a simple present wrapping, Ruby thought. The Earl went to the cupboard and brought out a length of brown paper, the sort one would wrap fish in. It was not very fancy. She had thought he wanted to make a gift of the book, and told him so. He grunted at her and she wondered if she should be afraid. He seemed so mercurial.
“I want you to wrap the book up,” he said at last, “as if for the post.” His voice was very calm as if he were making an effort not to scream at her. She was not sure what she had done wrong. She frowned at him but wrapped the package nonetheless. Turning the large book over in her hands.
“There,” she said when she was finished. She smiled at him. “Ready for the post.”
Ruby looked at him for a moment but he urged her to continue.
“Go on,” he said, and pushed more paper towards her. “Wrap it.”
She wanted to argue that it was already wrapped, but instead, she covered the book with more paper and folded the ends under. When she had finished wrapping it a second time, she thought aloud.
“It seems a shame to cover something so beautiful.”
She ran her hand along the edge of the wrapping in a soft gesture, and he slapped her hand away.
She gasped, holding her stinging fingers.
“It is not beautiful,” he said. “It is cursed.” He studied her for a long moment and then turned away. “Wrap it again,” he said. He took a step away, but then turned back to watch her.
She did not argue that it was already wrapped twice. His eyes were bright and he seemed intent upon the wrapping.
“Milord, is something wrong?” she asked.
When she paused, he snapped.
“Can you not see the words moving?” he asked. “You must wrap it tighter or they will crawl out. Always crawling,” he muttered. “Like some wretched bugs. Wrap it! Go on. Wrap it!” When she began wrapping again, he breathed a sigh of relief and began muttering to himself. “I shall never have to touch the damned thing again,” he mumbled. “Have done,” he said. “You shall take nothing else from me, you devil. I am done with you until my dying day.”
“Pardon, Milord,” Ruby said, wondering who exactly he was speaking with. Certainly not her. She would do what he asked and be finished with it. She was quite anxious to get out of the room. The Earl seemed a bit glassy-eyed and fanatical. He was frightening her.
She stopped and stared at him. He was standing with his arms crossed and his hands tucked under his armpits. His jacket was bunched up and wrinkled. Sweat had appeared on his brow.
“We should tie it,” he muttered. “Tie you up with string. Bind you.”
“Milord?”
“Bind it,” he said.
“Oh. How’s that?” she asked. The package was bulging and misshapen, but it was well covered with the brown paper. Not a bit of the shiny surface showed. She turned it over in her hands to look at it and he made a strangled sound.
“Milord?”
“Keep wrapping,” he said. He began to pace, looking over her shoulder and then backing away. Once he was so close she could feel his breath on her neck, but then he pulled away, muttering to himself.
“Wrap it and bind it. We shall tie it up with string.”
She had overlapped several more leaves of the brown paper over the book and she hesitated.
“More,” he demanded. “It must not find its way fre
e. You saw it didn’t you. You saw the letters. You know.”
She was beginning to think he was truly mad. He crushed the palms of his hands against his eyeballs and groaned.
“Milord?” she asked hesitantly. She wondered if she should say she didn’t see anything of the sort, or if that would set him off. She wished, uncharacteristically, that Missus McTavish would make an appearance. Ruby wondered if he did murder his previous wife, and began to worry just a bit about the new lady of the house. Idiot, she silently chided herself. She should worry about herself, not the Countess.
The Earl took his hands from his eyes then and spoke. “Hurry!” he snapped, and she continued wrapping, around and around, as quickly as she could, until the book was encased in a brown cocoon of paper.
“Can you still hear them buzzing?” he asked.
“No,” she said gently.
“Good.” He sank down in a chair. He looked exhausted and quite pale.
“Where are you sending it?” she asked. “Shall I post it for you?”
He looked up at her with a malevolent smile.
“You would love to do that wouldn’t you?” he asked in a low tone. “You want to keep it for yourself.”
“No! I would never do that. It is a gift. I would only post it. I swear.”
“It is not a gift,” he said. He gave her the string to tie it.
She wrapped the string around several times and then knotted it. It was too thick for her to break, so she asked, “Is there something to cut the string with? In your desk perhaps, Milord?” she urged.
“No,” he said. “You must not cut it. ‘Twill cut your own throat.”
He took the string in his hands and snapped it, easy as that.
Ruby felt a rush of misgiving at how easily he snapped the string. His hands were strong and his mind… well, it was not.
“Will that be all, Milord?” she asked, anxious to get out of his presence. “Do you not have a meeting?”
“Ah, yes, the meeting,” he said. “They will be here soon. They must not see you. When I am dead,” he continued. “You must burn the book. Swear you will do it. You must see it burned.”
Love in the Moonlight: A Regency Romance All Hallows' Eve Collection: 7 Delightful Regency Romance All Hallows' Eve Stories (Regency Collections Book 6) Page 23