Blood Lies

by Sharon K Gilbert

  Despite propriety, Sinclair rushed forward and sat next to her on the edge of the bed. “Darling, wake up.” He touched her hand, and it was like ice. “Beth, please, wake up. You’re having a nightmare, I think.” She turned, thrashing about, as if panicked. He warmed her hand in his, kissing it. “Elizabeth!” he called out, and her eyes popped open.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed, and he could see that her pupils were large, for the moonlight fell across the bed. “What? Where am I?”

  “You’ve been sleeping, dearest. I’m sorry for daring to enter, but it seemed to me that you fought against some nocturnal intruder in your dreams. Are you all right?”

  She slowly made sense of her surroundings. “Captain, is that you?” He nodded. Her breathing slowed, and she began to make more sense. “Oh, Charles, it was an awful dream! I was at a masked ball, and this shadowy prince kept asking me to dance. You were there,” she added, her dark eyes fixed on his face. “And you kept me safe from him, and there was a strange mirror, but then... Well, I’m not sure now. It’s all a bit of a blur already. What time is it?”

  “Nearly nine. I think your grandfather and the others await us for a little music, but if you’re not up to playing, then perhaps you should go back to sleep. I can make your apologies.”

  “I’ve no wish to go back to that dream,” she whispered, rising from the bed with his help and then sitting on the edge. “Give me a few moments and I’ll join you in the parlour.”

  He bowed and left, and the duchess splashed water on her face and straightened her raven hair. The night was cool, so she took a tartan shawl from the closet. Exiting the room, she smiled at him. “Ready for our walk, Captain?”

  “Darling, you are so very beautiful. And yes, I’m ready.”

  They left the upstairs, followed the staircase down to the main entry and slipped away into the night. Elizabeth led her champion past several of the duke’s sentries, whom she greeted with smiles and thanks. The gravel path was lined with boxwood and ornamental trees and curved around to the south and then westward toward the cliffside. Above them, the moon still seemed round, though it had already begun to wane, and the white face shone down upon the roses that now put on a final show before going to sleep for the winter.

  “Do you think much about Whitechapel, Charles?”

  He sat next to her on a stone bench, placing a blanket beneath them both and the woolen shawl in Stuart red around her shoulders. “Occasionally, but I’ve found little time to think lately—at least about things that do not connect to you in some way. Beth, it will be far too chilly here to speak for much longer, for the nights drift toward winter.”

  “It is not so cold,” she assured him. “Not if you keep me warm.”

  He kissed her hands, enjoying the sweet taste of her warm skin against his lips. He had not stopped thinking of the night at the cottage, and though he’d loved her before far more deeply than ever he could have imagined, the dream, if dream it was, had only intensified his connexion to her. “I would happily keep you warm, every day and every night of our lives, if permitted. But first, you and I must determine exactly what happened—what truly happened—in that cottage.”

  What he’d learnt from their meeting, regarding the symbols both at the cottage and the castle, worried Sinclair, and though he had no intention of informing Elizabeth, it was becoming clear to him that Redwing’s goal had been for her to conceive a child that night. Why on that particular night? Was it because of the so-called blood moon, or was there another reason?

  “Beth? Do you prefer not to talk about it?” he prompted, noting her silence.

  She looked away, clearly dreading the conversation. “No, Charles, we must, as you say, discern precisely what happened, but will you allow me to speak first? Only please remember I had been drugged with an unknown compound by Dr. Lemuel, a man intent upon what we do not truly know, but here is how I recall it. And, please, my wonderful Captain, remember that these images are like a dream, rising up in a thick mist as I recall them, and yet in some ways they are more real to me than any waking memory.”

  “Be open and unafraid,” he told her. “And once your dreams have seen the light, I shall tell you of my own.”

  “Agreed. But be patient with me, Charles, for this is difficult to tell. Were you any other man, I’m not sure I could recount it at all, but I have always known that I may trust you completely—even when first we met. Very well. We spoke of the cottage, and I told you that I sensed that you had laid me upon a bed, though I was not sure how or where, or even why, if that makes sense. I see you nodding, so I suppose that it does. The bed was inviting and warm; I do remember that very well. The air was pleasant, filled with the sweet smell of burning wood. A part of me understood that I lay in that bed, and I knew you sat nearby, if that makes any sense. Yet, I had a strange feeling that I walked in a dream, for though I knew myself to be sleeping—or so I thought, again these memories are ephemeral—yet I walked, for I could feel the cool, dew-covered grass beneath my bare feet.

  “Music floated upon the very air, played by some unseen hand. No source did I perceive, and yet like sweet, seductive music—a violin, to be precise—this melody whispered into my mind. I felt my body moving, swaying as if dancing to the seductive tune. I wore different clothing in this dream, and as I said, my feet were bare. Behind it all, and this truly makes no sense, I could hear dogs barking—at least, I think that they were dogs. Or wolves, perhaps,” she said, beginning to tremble. “I know not which. I only remember thinking that the sound was somehow familiar. And then…” she continued, her face grown suddenly soft as she looked directly into his eyes. “Then, I saw you.”

  He wanted to speak, but he knew what this confession must be costing her, so he remained silent, holding her hand to give her strength.

  “You were there, and you looked more handsome than I’d ever seen you look before. The fire danced in your wonderful eyes, and you seemed to me a prince of the night, and the music grew louder, and the night warmer, and you came to me, kissed me deeply, your hands caressing my...my body, and you moved closer and then—you—you…”

  “Be brave, dearest. I am listening, and I make no judgment.”

  She turned away for just a moment, as if steeling her nerve. “You pulled me to you, and we began to dance in time, our bodies in union, and…oh, Charles, must I say it?”

  He took her into his arms, holding her tightly. “No, my love. You needn’t say it, for my own dream was the same. The music, the dance, and it was you with whom I danced, though I did not realise it at the time. And wolves howled in the distance all the while. And we shared an intimacy that only a man and wife would share. Is that what you meant?”

  She nodded, her eyes downcast. “But that cannot be! Why does my mind tell me that this was not just a dream, but what actually happened in some mystical way?”

  “Because, Beth, I think it did happen. Wait, hear me out,” he said, as she pulled away in panic. “Listen. Hush now,” he said, drawing her into his long arms and stroking her dark hair to calm her. “I also fell into this dream, this hallucination, whatever you may call it, for you and I had been given some strange soporific mixture, darling—it was in the tea, I believe. I fell asleep whilst keeping watch over you from a chair beside the fire. You slept soundly in that bed, but I never came near you—not with my waking will. Not until... Beth, when I awoke I was lying next to you in that inviting bed, and our discarded clothing lay strewn about the floor as if we had tossed them there, but I do not remember doing such a thing. I only remember the dream, and then I awoke to find... Beth, I believe that what you and I both fear, did in truth, happen. I should have found a way to fight the drug, fight the enchantment if that is what it was, for I begin to see through that darkened glass St. Paul wrote about so long ago, but I did not resist! Darling, I believe I left all sense behind and behaved like…like a…beast!”

  “No, Charles,” she
whispered, glancing up at him, her dark eyes shining with love. “You could never be that.” She sat still as a stone, her head against his chest, and he could feel her tremble. “Charles, I did not resist either. Though, I should have, I did not. What does that say about me?”

  He kissed her hair. “Beth, I love you so very much.”

  “Yes, I know it, Charles, and it makes me happier than you can imagine, for I have loved you for as long as I can remember.” She looked up, her eyes wet with tears, but she smiled as she stroked his cheek. “My darling Captain, you have no cause for remorse. You behaved like a wonderful guardian who had been drugged, and who would never have done such in other circumstances,” she said gently, though her hands still shook. “Charles, I thought and have thought, since our return to the castle, that somehow it had all indeed, really, truly happened. I do not know what this means; I only know that I love you all the more for it, if that makes any sense. My one regret is that I cannot remember awakening in your warm embrace.”

  He took her chin, kissing her lips, softly at first, but as she returned his kiss, with greater passion. “Oh, I do love you, Elizabeth! I love you, and it feels right to say it. Yet, I fear what may come of our marriage, should we do such. Paul is a man I should regret hurting, ever. And I know you feel that way, too. And then there is Redwing. Surely their dark hand in all this is obvious, and I begin to wonder if the entire affair—the kidnapping, and perhaps even the mad chase from Branham, were not part of some long, fiendish game meant to end in my marriage to you.”

  “Can such deceit and foreknowledge exist?” she asked, realising at once how naive the question sounded. “I must tell Paul the truth,” she said at last as he held her. “He deserves to know. All of it.”

  “Yes, dear, I agree, but allow me to do it. If he hates me, then I can live with that, but I would never wish for Paul to have even one dark thought about your purity of heart. I shall speak also with Uncle James, and if he believes it best, then I will retreat as you become my cousin’s wife. However, if he sees no harm otherwise, then I intend to fight for you, Beth, if your heart still desires it.”

  “Desire it? Yes, Charles, it does, and I do! I love you, and I shall for all eternity, my darling. Nothing and no one will ever alter that fact. And whatever Redwing’s reasons for forcing us together, whatever their dark plans, I shall not fear them, so long as you are by my side.”

  He took her hands, helping her to stand, and then walked her back into the southwest entrance, where Laurence had just arrived to find them and bring them into the music room.

  In the shadows of the night, where no human could see him, a tall man-shaped being watched, his red eyes glowing from within a spectral face.

  Oh, my sweet, young duchess. You follow my plans as if it is your own desire. Trent is a useful tool at times, but soon I shall dispense with him and reveal myself to you, and once the blood of your line and Sinclair’s has firmly established itself and is in my control, I shall take you and your beautiful body—all for myself.

  CHAPTER Twenty-One

  3:30 a.m.

  Paul Stuart awoke to darkness. Drowsy beyond his capacity to remain awake, he had bid goodnight to all in the music room and retired to his own upstairs apartment, leaving the company at eleven and falling asleep within moments of shutting off the lamp. Having decided he no longer needed to be treated as an invalid—or rather no longer wishing to be—the earl had forsaken the west drawing room for more familiar surroundings. Elizabeth retired soon after the earl, and her apartment lay just around the corner near the main staircase. Charles slept in a large apartment across the hallway, once occupied by Connor Stuart.

  Lorena MacKey, the unexpected guest, had charmed her hosts during their musical evening, though she failed it seemed to bring much good humour to the earl’s cousin Elizabeth, despite offering to sing several songs she’d learnt in medical school after visiting a music hall. The men had laughed at the humourous lyrics, but Elizabeth and even Charles—Lorena had noticed with delight—seemed distracted and thoughtful. Beth had played but declined to sing, explaining that her head still hurt somewhat. Instead, the duke had shared his own curious repertoire, though he had no voice for singing, and even the staff had laughed when he offered impressions of a favourite chanteuse he’d once seen in Paris.

  Now alone within the moonlit room, the earl’s cool blue eyes slowly accommodated to the dim light as he stared at the coffered ceiling. Turning, Paul felt a sharp pain in his shoulder, so he decided to drink more of the doctor’s mixture, which stood in a wine glass just where he’d left it, beside his bed on a night stand. He drank the remainder and then set the empty glass back onto the marble-topped table, staring once more at the ceiling of the shadowy room as he waited for the concoction to take effect. Lying there, Paul thought of Lorena and her brash ways, and then he reminded himself that his future lay elsewhere, though he wondered now if Elizabeth’s heart still felt the same. Yes, she loved him, but did she love Charles more? He had no answer, and he had promised to wait for Christmas, so wait he would.

  Adele.

  His sister’s name whispered inside his mind as if someone had spoken it.

  Adele. Who is Adele?

  Again, a voice, as if someone lay beside him, softly entreating him to reveal secrets from his past.

  Adele. Precious Della. He would have to tell Elizabeth soon, because she had a right to know that the child whom all believed to be his father’s ward, Paul’s adopted sister, an orphan whose mother died when she was only two, was in fact Paul’s own daughter.

  Paris had been the earl’s first assignment in the early days with the Foreign Office, and the twenty-two-year-old viscount had traveled incognito to accomplish his secret mission. As a spy for the British government, he had assumed an identity as a struggling painter named David Saunders, a reprobate who would do anything for money, living in Montmartre on the Rue Caulaincourt.

  To maintain believability, Paul spent countless hours in unsavoury places: gambling houses, brothels, opium dens, illegal boxing rings, and the like. It was in one of the brothels, an upscale maison close called La Chabanais that he met and befriended a beautiful prostitute named Cozette du Barroux, rumoured to be the favourite of a wealthy banker named Michel Fermin. This banker’s connexions to a smuggling ring that specialized in war materiel had not been proven, and it was Paul’s assignment to obtain corroboration. However, known only to a handful of inner circle members within the Foreign Office, the viscount also used his time in the French backstreets to pursue information about Redwing.

  Despite making every effort to keep his relationship with du Barroux all business, Paul had grown fond of her, for the prostitute’s life had taken a bitter road, and he could see that many of her customers, though paying her well, considered her so much dust beneath their expensive shoes. When his assignment was completed, and the banker’s secret financials exposed, Paul had visited Cozette one last time to say farewell. She had wept bitterly, pleading with him to take her with him. Knowing such was impossible, the viscount had left her with five-thousand francs in the hope that she might leave that life behind and begin anew.

  Two and a half years passed, and Paul returned to Paris for a more ‘official’ duty, helping to negotiate a treaty fixing import fees betwixt several European nations and England, and whilst there, Fermin, who had left his banking position in disgrace, paid the viscount a visit. It was a tense and unpleasant confrontation, but Paul maintained that he knew nothing of any person named David Saunders. Fermin threatened and probed his enemy’s defences, even daring to mention the House of Aubrey’s rumoured pursuit of a secret cult known in Parisian circles as la Bande de la Colombe Blessée or the Band of the Wounded Dove. The encounter had nearly come to blows, but realising perhaps that the young viscount outmatched him physically, Fermin had left suddenly, pretending he’d made a mistake.

  Unconvinced by the former banker’s sudden cha
nge of mind, Paul had followed Fermin and discovered him talking with du Barroux regarding a small child in her care. Cozette had lost much of her former beauty in the years since Paul had kissed her goodbye, but she still bore a proud expression in her gaunt face. She appeared ill, and Paul heard her speak of dying soon. Fermin then delivered a terrible blow to the viscount, which haunted his nights for weeks, by revealing to Cozette that her child’s father, a man named David Saunders, for whom she had spent two years searching in vain, was in truth a devious and manipulative liar with great wealth—in fact, a titled Scottish lord!

  Paul’s guilt nearly overwhelmed him, but he remained faithful to his mission, completing it just before Christmas. Whilst preparing to return to London, he decided he could not leave Paris without visiting his daughter and asking her mother’s forgiveness. His intent was to set them both up in a small house and make sure they wanted for nothing, however Cozette’s plight proved far worse than ever he might have imagined.

  He called on du Barroux in her tiny apartment, for she had lost her home at Le Chabanais as soon as she refused to seek an abortion, and a fallen woman who is pregnant is no longer a commodity but a hindrance to a proprietress. She was very ill, nearly out of her mind with fever, her health failing. She had caught a chill whilst walking, she had insisted to him, but Paul recognised the signs of advanced consumption. He summoned the finest doctors, but the disease had already ravaged her poor lungs, and Cozette would soon die.

  Deciding that he could not simply abandon her again, nor the child she told him was his very own, Paul took them both to a beautiful, private home in the countryside and kept them with him until Cozette’s death six weeks later. The woman explained that she had tried to find him when she learnt she had fallen pregnant, but his garret was empty, and she found no one who would tell her where David Saunders had gone. Her deep love for him made it impossible to destroy his child, so she had supported little Adele as best she could, using up every franc he had left with her to make sure the child wanted for nothing. The wicked Fermin had discovered her secret, and promised to find Saunders for her, if she would but give him a description.