“So I flatter myself.” With fingers whose strength belied their aristocratic appearance, Hubert grasped her arm. “In the normal progression of events, you’d be offering to slit my throat in return for my aspersions upon your virtue. Am I to conclude, therefore, that you have been unvirtuous?”
Ever so slightly, Jael winced, due to the pressure of his fingers. Hubert released her at once. “You’re a prosy devil,” she said, with a flash of her perfect teeth. “Do you mean for us to stand here all the night? ‘Twould be a fit punishment for playing you false, were I to catch my death.”
“If the shoe fits,” murmured Hubert. “Still, despite appearances, I don’t think it does fit. You have been with me long enough that I shan’t mistrust you quickly, though that sentiment isn’t one you share. It isn’t an especially comfortable state of affairs, if you will forgive the expression, but I strive to make the best of it. You don’t make it easy, Jael.”
A more sentimental woman might have been touched by so sincere a speech, and from so satiric a source; might have recalled the long time it had taken her to progress from posing as an artist’s model to sharing the artist’s bed. Jael said, dismissively, “Why should I? You’ve had it made easy for you all your life.”
The Honourable Hubert displayed no indignation at being so maligned. Odd as it may have been, in light of his conviction that his petite amie was seeking mightily to throw him off the scent, he was enjoying this exchange.
“What a bizarre effect you have upon my heart, my shrew.” Hubert placed a hand on either side of Jael’s face and forced her to meet his gaze. “That too will not serve. Sir Wesley’s death is garnering a great deal of attention from first my aunt and now, I’ll wager, you. It must be apparent to even a block, which I most definitely am not, that the pair of you doubt the old man died of a simple heart attack. Which leads me to another question: why should you care?”
Jael was a strong woman, if perhaps not so strong as Hubert, whose willowy figure was deceptive; she might have wrenched out of his grasp. Instead, she moved closer into his embrace. “It’s naught to me who or what caused the death of Sir Wesley Halliday,” she murmured, against his warm neck. “As to what the Baroness may think, I neither know nor care.”
Hubert was distracted. Jael could when she wished stir him mightily, despite the familiarity attendant on an association that had endured so many years. Nevertheless, he was no pigeon for her plucking. Even as he kissed his inamorata, Hubert contemplated the sweet smell of opium that clung to her clothing, and the leaves his sensitive fingers found entangled in her hair.
Chapter Nine
Livvy woke early on the following morn, weary and heavy-lidded. The Baroness’s impromptu gathering had not been a notable success. Though Lady Halliday chattered gaily all through the meal, her stepson had been a great deal less sociable. Ned’s account of the hostilities at Talavera (the battle lasted two days and a night, during which a running flame caught the grass on the Medellion, scorching the wounded and roasting the dead), Connor condemned as unfit accompaniment to hot-house fruit and Indian preserves and comfitures; Hubert’s ironic essay into the popular sport of lampooning royalty, he declared unsuitable for delicate ears, a comment that caused Mr. Humboldt to take such umbrage that he left the room with the ladies and did not reappear.
Nor did the gentlemen linger long over their port. Livvy, weary of watching her husband eye Amanda as if she were a tasty morsel and he a starving man, was relieved when Connor Halliday and his step-mama at last took their leave.
After their departure, Dickon didn’t speak two words to Livvy for the remainder of the evening. She had lain awake long hours, pondering her situation, trying to decide what she was to do.
Now she must endure another day’s amusements, chief among them a tour of the Castle grounds, with particular emphasis on the keep, last refuge when the outer defenses had fallen, within its walls a well. One might think the Baroness meant to exhaust her houseguests so they had no inclination for any pursuits not planned by herself.
Livvy slid slowly out of bed, careful not to disturb her slumbering spouse. Even open-mouthed and snoring, the wretch remained a heartbreakingly handsome man.
Whereas she was becoming more pregnant and unlovely by the moment. No wonder Dickon found Amanda attractive. She wouldn’t disgorge her dinner all over his exquisitely polished boots.
Shrugging her dressing gown around her shoulders, Livvy slipped out of the room. An air of suppressed excitement hung over the Castle. She hoped it had to do with the approaching festivities, and feared it did not. When Dulcie was on the scent of a mystery — and when was Dulcie not on the scent of a mystery? — everyone in her vicinity, from maidservant to maharajah, found themselves pressed into service on her behalf.
Livvy padded down the cold corridor, and tapped on her hostess’s bedchamber door. “Come in!” Dulcie called.
The Baroness sat propped up amidst her pillows. Strewn across the counterpane were several sheets of notepaper. Around her head was wrapped a towel from beneath which escaped several damp lilac curls.
“Blue didn’t suit you?” Livvy asked. The means by which those thick curls so rapidly changed hue was a secret jealously guarded by the Baroness and her abigail.
“It suited me quite nicely,” said Dulcie. “But it put Casanova’s nose out of joint.”
Livvy eyed the large ball of orange fur snuggled up against Dulcie’s feet. “Shoot the cat,” suggested Bluebeard, from the headboard where he perched.
The room was large, with deeply recessed windows. A tallboy chest of drawers veneered with finely figured dark mahogany stood against one wall, across from it a dressing table inlaid with strings and bands of satinwood, surmounted by a shield-shaped toilet-glass. A silver ewer rested on the washbasin, covered with a clean towel. Dominating the chamber was Dulcie’s vast four-post bedstead. When the curtains were drawn, it would be a room within a room.
“Heaven knows what shocking things this old bed has seen,” said Dulcie, displaying her disconcerting tendency to guess thoughts one would prefer she did not. “Chocolate, Lavender?” A table drawn up near the bed held a pot of chocolate and two cups.
The Baroness had been expecting company? Livvy doubted Bow Street’s Chief Magistrate drank so innocuous a brew. Not that she believed—
But, alas, she did. Once one began to suspect infidelity, one saw it everywhere.
Livvy poured the chocolate, then settled on a charming window seat with scrolled ends and straight legs. “Dickon doesn’t care if I indulge in a flirtation. He told me so himself.”
“Did he?” Dulcie gathered up her writing materials and set them aside. “I shouldn’t try it, my dear.”
“As if anyone would want to get up a flirtation with a female in my condition.” Livvy kept firm grip on her cup, lest she succumb to temptation and hurl it across the room. “It is unconscionable of Dickon to be philandering when I am grown so dowdy-looking I cannot retaliate in kind. Don’t try and tell me he’s not philandering, because I have two excellent eyes in my head. Oh, curse the man!”
Lady Bligh heard out this tirade calmly. “My dear, you are making a storm in a cream-bowl. Dickon has supplied no material for the scandalmongers since the two of you were wed. Flattering as it may be that you think he must be irresistible to every female who crosses his path, I doubt he would appreciate—”
Livvy interrupted. Dickon was lazy and careless and arrogant; he was afflicted by a natural inconstancy; and the woman did not live who could resist his devastating charm. Including Amanda Halliday. She burst into tears.
Lady Bligh sighed, threw back the bedcovers, crossed to the window seat and took her sodden niece-by-marriage into her arms. Livvy sobbed all the harder. Dulcie patted her. “My dear Lavender, you haven’t the least cause for these fidgets. Lady Halliday has caught Ned’s eye. Dickon feels a responsibility for his cousin, as it is right he should.”
If only that were true! But Livvy knew it wasn’t. Inconceivable
that a rakehell with Dickon’s history should look with an avuncular eye upon a pretty wench. “There, there,” soothed Dulcie, and patted Livvy again.
Bluebeard ruffled his feathers. Casanova stirred, tucked his nose under his paw, and went back to sleep.
Dulcie’s abigail, a stern, prim, grey-clad woman, entered the room. Feeling foolish, Livvy removed herself from Dulcie’s embrace. Culpepper bundled her employer closer to the fire, vigorously toweled her damp lilac locks, and scolded that the Baroness would catch her death of cold. Livvy’s tears, with exquisite tact, she ignored.
Dulcie pushed aside the towel that was covering her face. “Have done, Culpepper! What did you learn?”
“Little enough, my lady,” the abigail replied, her tone disapproving. “It’s my opinion you’re stirring up a hornet’s nest.”
“I do not recall asking your opinion,” responded the Baroness. “You might recall that the recreations of servants are dependent on the favor of their employers. Do I not allow you to occasionally go dancing? Do not I provide you with pin money when you attend recreational events?” Culpepper grudgingly admitted that these things were true. “Nothing could be more provoking,” Dulcie concluded sternly, “than ingratitude. I trust I make myself clear? Excellent. Continue.”
Despite her dejection, Livvy bit back a smile. The Baroness’s retainers more than earned their generous wage. Her amusement faded as she recalled her own reluctant efforts on Dulcie’s behalf. There were benefits to marriage, even marriage with a faithless rogue.
Culpepper grasped a comb and pulled it through her mistress’s damp hair. “Sir Wesley had the first of several heart attacks right after Cade was banished. The most severe attack of all took place recently, result of a quarrel with Connor about the new Lady Halliday. The doctors feared Sir Wesley wouldn’t survive, and it’s due to his lady’s nursing that he did. Everyone in the neighborhood holds her in the highest regard.”
“And Connor in the lowest,” mused Dulcie. “One might almost think he deliberately sets out to rouse ill will.”
Culpepper sniffed. “There’s been talk of evictions, and cottages being tumbled, as soon as Connor Halliday is officially master of the Hall.”
The Baroness reached for her snuffbox. “Sir Wesley was ever one to heed a hard-luck tale. His son, I fear, is not. Do go on, Culpepper. You don’t seem to think Connor Halliday is harsh but fair.”
“A fair man would not set traps, my lady. There are other stories, about local girls who went into service at the Hall. Concerning not Sir Wesley, but his son.”
“Droit de seigneur?” Dulcie raised her brows. “I wouldn’t have considered Connor a man to tryst with provincial maidens, being as he’s so conscious of his station in life.”
So. Even the perspicacious Lady Bligh was occasionally wrong. Livvy recalled the Baroness’s opinion of her own spouse’s recent behavior. Perhaps these mounting errors were an indication of advancing, enfeebling age. She pretended not to see Dulcie’s reproachful glance.
“It’s true enough, from all accounts,” continued Culpepper. “The locals believe that Connor Halliday also keeps a mistress in London, because he often visits Town. That last quarrel between Connor and his brother was over a female who was no better than she should have been. It’s said Connor wanted her for himself, but she fancied Cade.”
Dulcie flicked her snuffbox open. “Said by whom?”
“The Halliday cook.” Culpepper’s comb encountered a snarl and she paused to work it free. “Under oath of secrecy. Her brother is Connor Halliday’s valet, and she heard the tale from him. Connor was furious when he learned Sir Wesley had caught Cade with the girl. She was no more than fifteen.”
Here, had Livvy needed it, was further proof of the untrustworthy nature of the opposite sex. “What became of the poor child?”
Culpepper set aside her comb. “The cook couldn’t say. Maybe she ran off with Cade. The cook did say she wouldn’t put it past Connor to have put paid to the pair of them. She thinks he’d deal likewise with Lady Halliday if he dared.”
“But he doesn’t dare,” commented the Baroness. “His dislike of her is too widely know.”
Livvy found herself quixotically compelled to defend a man she distrusted. “Really, Dulcie! Think how distressing it must be for someone as proud as Connor Halliday to hear his name bandied about in this horrid way.”
“But he’s not here to hear it,” Lady Bligh pointed out. “You’re overset, Lavender. I think you should go back to bed.”
“I’ll do nothing of the sort.” Livvy jutted out her chin. “You mean to pitchfork that poor man into one of your muddles. It’s plain as the nose on your face.”
The Baroness wrinkled that aristocratic appendage. Before she could speak, a tap sounded at the door.
Gibbon entered the room. At his mistress’s request, the butler reported what he’d learned at the inn. No detail was omitted, not even Abel Bagshot’s yearning for a Patent Warm-Air Stove. “I think Bagshot knows no more than he’s already told.”
The Baroness inhaled a pinch of snuff, and sneezed. “I think otherwise. Mr. Bagshot hints it was in hope of snaring his brother that Connor set the traps. That pokes a hole in Culpepper’s theory. One does not set traps for a ghost.”
“It’s not my theory,” Culpepper protested, “but the cook’s. This is a bad business. I can’t think what the Baron would say.”
“I can,” retorted the Baroness. “Since he isn’t present, we shan’t regard it. Maximilian is much better occupied where he is.”
Doing what? wondered Livvy. How did Dulcie remain indifferent toward the ladies on whom her husband’s approving glances fell?
“You exhaust my patience!” said Dulcie, frowning. “Maximilian casts no approving glances on females other than myself, at least when I am present, and if I am not present, whyever should I fuss? Which reminds me, I meant to ask your opinion of the dinner menu: pickled sturgeon and sweetbread ragout and gooseberry hops.” Livvy blanched, and swallowed hard, and fled.
The door closed behind her. Said Lady Bligh, “Continue, Gibbon. You were about to tell me there was mischief done in Lady Margaret’s Garden last night.”
Damned if he knew how she knew these things. Gibbon’s left eyelid quivered. “The fountain has been cleaned out and is now working. ‘MURDER’ was written in the sand around the flower-beds.”
“One may conclude that the place is not shunned by everyone,” the Baroness remarked. “Who made these discoveries?”
“Lady Halliday.”
“Ah. What better place to seek out solitude than in Lady Margaret’s Garden, where one is not likely to be interrupted, save by a stray wraith? What has Lady Halliday to say about her discovery?”
“I gather she was in such a state that there was no making sense of her.” Gibbon pulled a silk scarf from his pocket. “This was found near the flower bed.”
“You filched it? How enterprising.” Lady Bligh held out her hand. Gibbon passed her the scarf. Holding it, the Baroness returned to her bedstead and sat down. This movement disturbed Casanova, who yawned and rolled over on his back. Bluebeard opened his eyes, stretched his wings, and ventured a comment about dead men’s chests.
Dulcie did not share Livvy’s inhibitions about conversing with a bird. “Yes,” she said “but is Cade dead?”
Chapter Ten
The sky was overcast. Occasionally an eerie yellow light illuminated the dark clouds. Wind whistled through the ivy that twined around ancient towers and crept along old stone walls, rattled through the Castle’s crumbling disused wing.
It was not the best of days to be out riding on a skittish horse, but Ned paid no more heed to his nervous mare than he did the ominous sky. This was hardly the first time he had braved inhospitable weather on a mettlesome steed. He had survived countless Peninsular thunderstorms, when terrified horses broke loose from their pickets and galloped madly into enemy lines while men lay sleepless and sodden on the muddy ground. Had been at Albuera, where
Colonel John Colborne’s magnificent Light Brigade had been blinded by a sudden hailstorm and mowed down. Would never forget the terrible dead of the Peninsular battlefields, who had been stripped of clothing by those comrades who survived, and of their flesh by the vultures that swooped down from the skies and the wolves that crept down from the hills.
Odd, to find himself now camped at Greenwood Castle. He had left Jael curled up with Austen on the settee, the pair of them reading an improving tome entitled The Memoirs of Dick the Pony and making irreverent remarks, while Livvy sought a tactful means of persuading Jael to put on shoes.
He found Lady Halliday waiting on horseback, as she had promised in her note, under the beech trees. “You came!” she cried, above the wind. “I am so glad. It is extremely bad of me to have asked you to ride out in such weather — though I couldn’t have known that the weather would turn so bad, could I? — and it is extremely good of you to have obliged. We must seek shelter, for it’s going to rain.”
Ned followed her through the park. Amanda led him not to the Hall, as he had expected, but to a neglected garden enclosed by high walls and barren trees. There were some signs of recent restoration. The water in the fountain flowed swift and clear.
The wind grew stronger. Ned tethered the horses in what had once been a storage shed.
The first raindrops began to fall. Amanda tugged at his sleeve. He scooped her up and, at her direction, dashed down a gravel pathway and into the temple at its far end.
He set her on her feet. She lit a lantern. Ned wandered around the room. Small high-set windows. Broken furniture. Cracked mirrors. “What a sad place this is.”
“Isn’t it?” Amanda brushed raindrops from her riding habit. “I had never been here before Sir Wesley’s death. This was his first wife’s garden, and then her memorial. Something happened — no one will tell me what — and he forbade everyone the Garden and kept the temple locked. Except it wasn’t locked when I found him, and no one has seen the key.”
The Ghosts of Greenwood Page 6