by Jean Rowden
Mortleigh had hardly spoken to her all day, but as he passed her in the hall before dinner he had whispered a few urgent words in her ear. He intended to give his lordship a sleeping draught; she would be free to come to his room once the household was safely in bed and asleep.
Despite the fever running through her veins Lucille tossed restlessly in her bed as the clock slowly ticked away the hours. Her thoughts were a torment. She’d always considered lust to be a sin which ensnared men, not women. If some particularly fiery sermon briefly pierced her armour of self-esteem, Lucille might acknowledge herself capable of greed, jealousy, even hatred, but to her, the physical cravings of the body had always seemed a particularly masculine sin. Lying in bed for a second lonely night, she knew she was wrong.
She had no faith; the threat of burning in hell held no fears for her, and yet she delayed. Arrogant and worldly as Mortleigh was, she had no wish to add to his hateful self-assurance. She told herself he was no better than a thief and a rapist, stealing her virtue in the night, and yet she couldn’t deny him; she’d been his from the moment his hands first touched her flesh.
The clock on the mantel struck one. She shuddered, her whole body aflame with desire. The battle was lost.
Knytte lay silent, only the faint creak of old timbers accompanying her as she crept along the deserted passage. Mortleigh let her in at once when she scratched at the door, reaching to draw her into the room and into his arms, his mouth hungrily upon hers before she had a chance to utter a sound, his free hand groping for her buttocks and pulling her roughly against him, so she could feel his hardness. Something inside Lucille rejoiced in his impatience. His need matched hers.
Mortleigh pushed the robe off her shoulder, nuzzling down her neck. Suddenly Lucille drew back, pushing him away. ‘No,’ she said.
For a second he was stunned to immobility. A wicked smile curved his lips but didn’t light his dark eyes. He took her wrist in a vice-like grip. ‘Oh, are we to play games, my pretty little tease?’
‘No,’ she said more urgently. ‘There must be no more marks. It was hard enough to hide the souvenirs you left before; I scratched and scraped at the bite on my neck to disguise it, and made up a story about slipping in my bath. My husband is not a fool.’
‘You offer me milk and water when I’ve already tasted strong wine,’ he grumbled, but he relinquished his hold, and his hands were gentle as he stripped the robe from her, smiling when he realized it was all she wore.
‘There are many different wines,’ she said, stretching her arms above her head and making a slow and sinuous pirouette, ‘and each of them has their place upon the table of a discerning man.’
He carried her to the bed, where the light from the lamp was stronger. For a long tense moment he stared down at her naked body. Lucille slowly put her hands to her breasts, cupping them invitingly, and moving a little to the yielding softness of the mattress. Still he only stood and looked. Driven by her mounting need for him, she caressed her own flesh, tracking the lines his fingers had followed upon her body on their previous encounter, as if his touch had left unseen traces.
Mortleigh delayed his response until she was almost ready to scream with frustration. ‘I shall do my best to suit my tastes to the occasion,’ he said at last, lowering himself on top of her.
Later, as the first light of dawn showed through the heavy hangings at the window, they lay wound together, sated by a night such as Lucille had never experienced. Despite her words of caution, there was a darkening bruise upon her thigh; in response her fingernails had gouged new scratches down his back.
‘What do you think of Knytte?’ Lucille asked, hoisting herself up so she could study his face, dark upon the pale linen.
‘I haven’t seen much of it,’ he replied, opening his eyes to look into hers. He spoke carelessly, but his expression matched hers; this was no idle talk. ‘It appears to be a very rich estate.’
‘Oh yes, very rich. And one day it will belong to me.’
Fully awake now, he stared at her, open greed upon the sallow features. ‘Surely it’s entailed. I heard Lord Pickhurst has an heir, his sister’s child. Didn’t I see him in the garden?’
‘If he lives, the boy gets the title,’ Lucille said carelessly, ‘and an old manor house across the moor, with a few hundred acres of land. It was the family seat, long ago.’ She curled herself against him, catlike, rubbing her face upon his cheek. ‘My father is not a man to make mistakes, his lawyer checked the exact wording of every document before the marriage was agreed,’ she said softly. ‘Women are entitled to own property now, and to keep it. When my husband dies, Knytte will be mine. Of course, his lordship hopes to produce a son, that’s why he chose to marry again so late in life.’ She laughed. ‘He buried two wives without producing so much as a sickly daughter, which suggests the task has always been beyond him.’
‘I hate to think of his hands on you,’ Mortleigh said, surprisingly vehement.
‘Oh, he has the use of a great deal more than his hands,’ she teased. ‘Considering his age he is reasonably proficient. You must share me for a little while. Nobody knows what the future holds.’ Lucille smiled at the shadows above his head. ‘Old men die.’
‘Yes,’ he mused, tracing a finger down her cheek, and not quite repeating her words. ‘All men die.’
‘You’re leaving so soon?’ Lucille hissed angrily, watching the door warily as she and Mortleigh stood confronting each other across the salon. It was dangerous to converse openly while her husband was in the house, but since Lord Pickhurst had spent the day at home there had been no opportunity to talk.
‘Laidlaw promised to write, as soon as he had seen his doctor,’ Mortleigh said. ‘It has been two days and I haven’t heard from him. There were letters from town this morning, but nothing from my friend. Naturally I’m concerned.’
Lucille pouted. ‘Why didn’t you instruct your man to stay with him, if you felt it was so important? Anyway, you don’t need to travel to London yourself. Send a message. My husband has an agent in Holborn, he could be instructed to call upon Mr Laidlaw on your behalf.’
‘But by that time two more days will have passed.’ Mortleigh was calm but implacable; as always when she argued with him, she was losing. ‘I must go to London, but I shall return. Don’t you know your own power? I can’t escape your bewitchment so easily.’ He drew closer; they were almost touching. ‘What is this hold you have over me? Do you slip some love potion into my wine at the table every night?’
‘Don’t be a fool,’ she snapped crossly, turning her back on him and storming across to the window. ‘It’s too late to catch a train tonight, it will soon be dark. You must stay until the morning at least.’ She dropped her voice to a seductive whisper. ‘My husband will be tired, after riding around the park with you for so long, I have no doubt he will sleep soundly. Must I wander the house like a ghost in my shift, looking for company and finding none?’
She watched his reflection in the glass while pretending to look out at the garden; a hint of a smile reached his cold eyes. ‘How could any man refuse you? Laidlaw can wait a few more hours, but I shall leave at first light and catch an early train. All being well, I shall return to Knytte on Tuesday.’
‘Tuesday?’ She rounded on him. ‘I thought you expected to find the wretched man better, yet you’re staying long enough to bury him.’
He chuckled. ‘You have such a charitable spirit, Lady Pickhurst, I swear you are the most soft hearted woman I ever met. I doubt if Laidlaw will require more than an hour or two of my time, but I have other affairs which cannot be neglected.’ He strode across and took her hand. ‘I shall not sleep tonight until you come to me,’ he said softly, ‘no matter how late.’ He touched each of her fingers in turn with his lips. ‘The days will pass. Only the most spoilt child doesn’t learn that waiting for a treat makes it all the better when the desired day arrives. On Tuesday a poor weary traveller will present himself at your husband’s door yet again, and a few hours l
ater I shall be with you, while he sleeps with the help of my little bottle.’
‘As always it’s a woman’s part to wait,’ Lucille said peevishly, ‘and to trust in a man. In case my company is not enough to make you honour your promise, there is something else you might keep in mind. I shouldn’t like you to be tempted into the bed of some other rich man’s wife.’ Lucille stood on tiptoe to whisper in his ear. She spoke only a few brief words, but Mortleigh turned away, his eyes deep unfathomable pools as he stared out on Knytte’s lush garden. After a long pause, he lifted her hand again, and bit down hard upon the cushion of flesh below her thumb.
‘You wish to tie me tight, your ladyship,’ he said lightly, ‘like a spider spinning her deadly web.’
‘Is my offer not sufficiently generous to tempt you, sir?’
‘I have never heard better,’ he replied, ‘but a man may take a little longer than a woman to agree to sell his soul.’
Beddowes had lost track of time since he climbed out of the pit that was intended to be his grave; it might have been two days ago, or three, he couldn’t tell. Spells of delirium overcame him and he wandered aimlessly across the moors, only to turn towards the west whenever his senses returned to him. For a while he was convinced that his old sergeant major, a man who had fought at Balaklava, was marching at his side, barking commands in his ear, or leaning close to share some illogical advice. ‘Survival, lad, that’s the ticket. Keep your back straight and your rifle clean, and make your poor mother proud. One foot after the other, but make sure it’s left, right, not right, left, got that? Be a bloody officer, you will, long as you do what I tell you.’
During his more lucid moments Beddowes knew himself to be hopelessly lost, but since the alternative to struggling onwards was to lie down in the mud and die, he walked on. He’d done his best to tend his broken arm, sacrificing most of his ragged shirt to bind it tightly to a piece of rotting wood he dragged from a bog, and strapping it high across his chest. This at least had returned some feeling to his swollen fingers, and now and then they would strum a beat in time with the thunderous drumbeat that crashed through his aching head.
There was stained brown water to be had occasionally, so he was rarely thirsty, but he had eaten only grass stems, a handful of bilberries and a few clover flowers since he finished the lump of bread. As another day began, and he struggled to his feet yet again, Beddowes felt a weakness in his limbs that warned him he was nearly at the end of his strength. Setting his back to the sun, he started off, only to come to a halt almost at once. A bird was flying low towards him, with something in its claws. The instinct for survival hadn’t deserted him; he bent to pick up a stone, and flung it with careful desperation. His shot missed the bird, but sent the raptor spiralling higher in alarm. A small dead rabbit fell almost at Beddowes’s feet.
A soldier learns to eat what and when he can. It wasn’t the first time the sergeant had eaten raw meat; he tore at the warm carcass with his teeth, sucking every morsel of goodness from the gift fate had sent him. He still had no idea where he was, or how he’d come to be trapped in this godforsaken moorland, but some scraps of memory had returned. Despite the evidence of his tattered clothes and the state of his hair and beard, he believed himself to be Sergeant Thomas Beddowes, a detective in London’s police force. That conviction was all he had, and all he needed, to keep him moving.
The old library had provided a great deal of material on Knytte’s history, and Phoebe had fetched books and maps for Lord Pickhurst’s heir to study. She had also brought up some books with coloured illustrations of flowers to occupy Eliza. Once the children were settled, she picked up the keys she had borrowed; the butler hadn’t been too happy at letting them out of his sight, and she must take them back.
‘I am going to look at the cloisters again before I return Mr Henson’s keys,’ she said. ‘I shan’t be long, and you have plenty to occupy yourselves. Annie, you’re to stay with the children while I’m gone. Master Rodney, I shall expect to see those notes complete by the time I return.’
‘Yes, Miss Drake,’ the child answered, his mind already on the document he was unfolding, his eyes alight with the thrill of discovery. She smiled, pleased with his enthusiasm, took one last look at the little girl to make sure she was equally engaged, then slipped out of the room. She hurried downstairs, along the corridor to the ancient door that led through the monk’s refectory and thence to the ruins. Going this way, it was unlikely anybody in the house would see her leave.
Jonah was not alone, there were two other men working with him. Phoebe hid in one of the shadowy carrels lining the cloister and watched anxiously; she mustn’t be long, but she was reluctant to leave without having a word with her cousin. Five full minutes passed before her opportunity came; Jonah ordered his assistants to carry one of the new steps up into the tower.
‘Jonah.’ As soon as he was alone Phoebe called, beckoning him to join her. He came, but there was a frown on his normally open features.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I had to speak to you. I know you have feelings for Lady Pickhurst. I’m sorry but you must listen. You know how dangerous it is. Go on as you are and your life will be ruined.’
‘You’ve got no business spying on me, or trying to interfere with my business!’ He loomed over her, a fist raised in anger.
Phoebe had never seen her cousin lose his temper before. She took a step away from him, tears brimming in her eyes, but she lifted her chin, refusing to be cowed. There might never be another chance to persuade him to give up his folly.
‘If you don’t care about yourself, at least think about her ladyship. If you were discovered together her reputation would be ruined. Who can guess what Lord Pickhurst might do?’
‘Are you threatening to tell tales?’ His face was contorted. It was like looking at a stranger; the boy she had known and loved all her life had vanished.
Phoebe gasped. ‘How can you say such a thing? You’re as close to me as a brother, Jonah, and I care about you. I want to help, that’s all. Please—’
‘Don’t say another word. I didn’t believe Lucille when she told me you were jealous, but she’s right, isn’t she? You’ve set your mind on having me for yourself, because you’re afraid you’ll never find a man any other way. I suppose even a cousin would be better than nothing, even if he’s not a gentleman.’
Shocked to silence, she stared at him. ‘I’ve never …’ she began, struggling to find words. He was already turning away.
‘Jonah,’ she called after him, recovering her voice. ‘I’ve only ever wanted to be your friend, your sister. If you ever need me, I’ll be here.’ He gave no sign of having heard, vanishing swiftly into the tower.
Chapter Nine
Lucille didn’t want to attend the garden party. It was being given by Reverend and Mrs Stoppen to celebrate the nineteenth birthday of their daughter, Agatha. The girl was pretty, in a vacuous kind of way, and she flirted outrageously, keeping a dozen or more suitors constantly at her side. As a married woman Lucille was no longer allowed to encourage the attentions of young men, or not openly at least, and she hated to see single girls like Agatha enjoying themselves.
Having considered inventing some minor malady to keep her at home, Lucille decided against it. Since Lord Pickhurst’s greatest wish was for a son, he was tiresomely solicitous whenever she was indisposed, imagining she might be showing early signs of pregnancy and preparing to provide Knytte with an heir.
Putting on a new dress, adorning her hair, neck and arms with some of the jewels he’d bestowed upon her, and her face with a gracious smile, Lucille went downstairs to accompany her husband to their neighbour’s house. Lord Pickhurst took her arm and led her to the carriage, looking as if he might burst with pride.
They went in the dress chariot, bought for their wedding. At least Lucille could be confident that nobody would arrive in smarter style. She had mixed feelings about Mortleigh’s absence. Since he was her husband’s friend she cou
ld have danced with him once or twice without arousing suspicion, but then she would also have to watch Agatha and her friends competing for his attention.
Dunsby Court was attractive, though small in comparison with Knytte. The grounds were acknowledged to be very fine, the approach being flanked by a double avenue of beech trees, with woodland to the west to act as a windbreak. Lucille stared unseeingly at the trees. Thinking of Agatha had aroused her suspicions. Perhaps Mortleigh had gone to London to see another woman. If so, would he ever come back? The thought tormented her; he’d promised to return. He must return. And once he did he must be persuaded to accept her scheme, and never leave again.
A small movement caught Lucille’s attention. Beyond the avenue, a horseman was picking his way through the wood, only visible for a moment now and then. He was bending low, as if trying not to be seen. It struck her as strange that anyone should choose such an inconvenient approach to the house. She looked away for a second, to see if her husband had noticed the rider, but he was studying the herd of cattle grazing beyond the fence on the other side of the avenue. When Lucille turned back the horseman had vanished.
The chariot bowled on, and very soon Dunsby Court came into sight. Several carriages were drawn up at the entrance, but instead of entering the house, a trickle of guests were strolling towards a large marquee on the lawn, beside which a group of musicians were playing a pastoral melody.
‘How pleasant,’ Lord Pickhurst said complacently. ‘Of course the house has no room to accommodate so many, they have nothing here to rival Knytte, the garden has always been the best feature of Dunsby.’
‘I suppose so,’ Lucille said absently.
‘My dear?’ Lord Pickhurst patted her knee. ‘Is anything wrong?’
‘You will think me petty minded if I tell you,’ Lucille replied, wearing her sweetest smile. ‘I find Miss Agatha Stoppen a terrible flirt. I hate to see such unbecoming behaviour.’