by Sandra Dubay
But Justin's attention was soon diverted from Lord Summersleigh's chagrin and back to the problem at hand. He'd remembered Lord Rawley's attraction to Dyanna at the Tower and Charlotte's telling him that Dyanna had seen Rawley in Geoffrey's company during her first foray into London by night.
"Harley Street," he called up to the coachman. It was not unlikely that Geoffrey had taken Dyanna to Rawley's house and Justin could not suppress a shudder at the thought of Dyanna in the clutches of that vice-ridden old satyr. God only knew what was happening to her at that moment.
As the carriage left Grosvenor Square and rolled up Brook Street, Justin's hand stole beneath his coat and fingered the silver-inlaid butt of the pistol he'd brought from home.
The room had suddenly fallen silent. It was an ominous, fearsome silence and Dyanna's eyes were filled with fear as she looked up from where she crouched near the door.
In the shadows across the room, Geoffrey loomed over the still form of Lord Rawley, who lay at his feet. The crop dangling from his fingers, Geoffrey turned the old man over with the toe of his boot.
A moan, anguished and filled with terror, escaped from Dyanna's lips as the candlelight illuminated the old man's face. The stark white paint of his face was striped with bloody welts. His eyes, wide open and staring, gazed into the darkness that shrouded the ceiling.
She raised her horrified gaze to Geoffrey's face as he turned toward her. "You've killed him!" she moaned. "Murdered him!"
"Who are you going to tell?" Geoffrey demanded. "How do you plan to get away?" An evil grin contorted his face. "I think, dear Dyanna, that I cannot afford to let you go.''
Heart pounding wildly against her ribs, Dyanna scrambled away from the locked door. Fleeing across the room, she yanked at the window, but it too was locked. Below, in the street, she saw a carriage drawing up. Frantic, she pounded on the glass with her fists, trying desperately to attract the attention of the coachman or whoever might be inside the carriage.
She screamed as Geoffrey's arm snaked around her waist and tried to drag her away from the window.
Justin stepped down from the carriage and gazed up at the house. As he did, the shadows flickering in an upstairs window caught his eyes. Fists pounded at the glass, hands clutched at the dark draperies which were torn down as the person was dragged away from the window.
Drawing his pistol, Justin ran up the steps and pounded on the locked front door.
The young boy in his Indian silks opened it and was thrust aside as Justin pushed his way into the house. The boy was alone on dutythe few other servants in the house had long since retired to their rooms, not wishing to hear the screams that issued from the locked room upstairs.
"Where is your master?" Justin demanded.
The boy's wide eyes were fixed on the pistol in Justin's hand. He was not inclined to offer himself in defense of a master who had often beaten and abused him. Lifting his arm, he pointed up the stairs.
"Third door down, on the right."
Bolting past the boy, Justin thundered up the stairs. Dyanna's screams, echoing down the hall, spurred him on. He could hear her begging, pleading, but not with Rawley. She was calling Geoffrey's name. Culpepper!
Justin rattled the latch. The door was locked. Backing away from the door, he launched himself against it and, splintering the wood of the door and the jamb, crashed into the room.
Dyanna lay sprawled across the bed. Geoffrey, one knee on the bed, the other foot braced on the floor, loomed above her. With one hand, he held her throat in a choking grasp; in the other gleamed a long, curving Turkish dagger.
The crash of the broken door startled them both, and Dyanna took advantage of Geoffrey's loosened grip to scream. But his hold on her tightened quickly, and he brought the cold, razor-sharp edge of the blade to rest beneath her right ear.
"You're too late, DeVille!" he snarled. Wild, horrible laughter filled the room. "I'm going to kill her! Now!"
Dyanna moaned, but the sound was drowned by the blast of the pistol as Justin pulled the trigger. The knife nicked Dyanna's flesh as Geoffrey fell across her, crimson blood spreading from the ragged hole in his coat.
Justin dragged Geoffrey off Dyanna and frantically searched her for wounds. The cut on her throat was slight. He daubed it with a handkerchief and satisfied himself that she was not hurt.
"He killed Lord Rawley," Dyanna whispered, trembling in the circle of Justin's arm.
Justin glanced at the body. "I can't say that's any great loss." He looked at the startled, staring faces of Rawley's servants, who had gathered in the broken doorway. "Your master is dead," he told them. "Lord Culpepper has killed him."
Like magic, they disappeared and Justin led Dyanna from the room.
They met no opposition as they descended the stairs and lift the house. The servants were too busy looting their dead master's house to care who came and who went.
Climbing into the carriage, Justin held Dyanna in a comforting embrace as the carriage rolled away down Harley Street.
Chater Thirty-Five
The entire household gathered in the entrance hall to welcome Dyanna home and congratulate their master on his recovery of her.
In short order, Dyanna was handed over to Charlotte to be bathed and put to bed. Dyanna remained silent throughout, deciding not to confide the horrors of the night to the girl, who was almost as distraught as her mistress. Dressed in a nightdress of delicate silk, Dyanna lay in her bed, scarcely daring to believe that she was safe, rescued from the clutches of Geoffrey and Lord Rawley. Justin had come for her, saved her, brought her home. How tender he had been as they'd rode home from Harley Street! How gentle and solicitous of her well-being. Surely his feelings for her must be more than merely those of a guardian for his ward.
She caught her breath as she heard the click of the sitting room doorlatch. Footsteps crossed the sitting room floor, paused at the bedchamber door, then entered.
Looking up, she found Justin beside the bed. His velvet robe swirled around him. The moonlight shone on him, gleaming in the golden depths of his tousled hair.
"How are you feeling?" he asked, sitting on the edge of the bed.
"Well," she answered. She shivered with remembered horror. "Geoffrey meant to kill me, Justin. He would have if you hadn't comeI'm convinced of it."
"So am I," Justin agreed. It puzzled him, for he had always thought Geoffrey's object must be Dyanna's fortune. But he was obviously willing to see her die; he hadn't seemed concerned about her when she'd fallen from the carriage in Newington, either. There was more to this than he knew, and he meant to get to the bottom of it. But not now . . . not now. . . .
"You made a very fetching boy," he teased her, tugging at one of her silvery curls. "Very fetching indeed."
"Thank you, milord," she said, giggling.
"But I must say, I think you looked far more lovely in your other disguise."
"Other disguise?" she repeated, wondering if he'd realized that she had been the footman in the hall that night.
"Yes. At Barkleigh House, as Madame LaBrecque."
"Who . . . how do you know?" she whispered, stunned.
He explained Charlotte's mistake in bringing the wrong box from the closet, and Dyanna could not help smiling, imagining Charlotte's chagrin over her mistake.
Justin stroked the delicate line of her jaw. "I should have known that night," he said softly. "I should have recognized you. God, how I wanted youfrom the first moment I saw you. I've never wanted anything the way I wanted you that nightthe way I want you now. . . .
Dyanna trembled, seeing the fire of desire in his golden gaze. "No," she whispered, but she knew at that moment it was inevitable.
"Yes," he replied, and then she was in his arms, held, cradled, caressed.
Dyanna gazed up at him, her beautiful aqua eyes filled with the wonder of his face above hers. She was fascinated by him, caught in his spell, drawn to himthe moth drawn too near the flame of his passion.
For a long mom
ent they lay there, frozen in time, as if afraid the magical web of desire they had so effortlessly spun about themselves might shatter like crystal if either moved, if either spoke.
Dyanna's hand quivered, lifted, hovered for a moment in the air like a timid, fluttering butterfly, then touched his cheek, brushing it, caressing it, before her fingertips gently explored the sculpted contours of his full lips. Justin kissed her fingertips, his tongue darting out to caress them, tease them. Their eyes met and held, and his lips came down to cover hers softly, briefly, gently, in a lover's kiss of heart-stopping tenderness.
He moved away from her and she reached out a hand to draw him back.
"Justin," she whispered, her fingers aching to touch him again, her arms to hold him. Every part of her yearned for him, craved him with a hunger she could no longer deny. Whatever had passed between them before, whatever problems might face them in the future, mattered not at all at that moment. He was desire incarnate and she was not complete without him.
Taking her outstretched hand, he drew her up. They stood together beside the bed and Dyanna shivered to see the burning desire, the longing in his eyes that matched, even exceeded, her own. She stood, trembling, while his fingers moved over her, unfastening her gown, drawing it off her shoulders, letting it fall. It seemed only a moment later that she stood before him, her skin flushed and warm, tingling with anticipation of his touch.
When his robe had joined her nightdress on the floor, they stood together, his hands cupping her face. Eyes as gold as the sun and as blue as the sea gazed into one another. Their love had been inevitablethey were destined for one another, born to share a love that neither time nor treachery could destroy.
"Justin," Dyanna whispered, her head falling back as his mouth sought the warm, scented softness where her throat and shoulder met.
His arm slipped behind her knees and he swept her up and laid her back on the bed.
Dyanna trembled as he touched her, caressed her, kissed her, awakening all the passion within her, making her want him, need him with the same raw, primal desire that burned inside him for her.
He waited, still he waited, reining his desire, until her arms went around himuntil she opened herself to him, offered herself to him, until her desire demanded him.
And then they were one, moving together, giving and taking, finding together a paradise so exquisite that nothing they had ever known, not even the breathless, shattering climax of their love, was more beautiful.
Dyanna awoke with the dawn, feeling drowsy and sore and wonderful. She stretched beneath the sheets and turned on her side. As she did, her eyes met Justin's. He lay beside her, propped on one elbow, watching her.
"Justin!" she cried, blushing. "How long have you been watching me?"
"Not long enough," he replied, bending to kiss her shoulder above the drawn up sheet. "I want to talk to you, Dyanna," he said seriously.
"Just talk?" she cooed, twirling the golden curls on his chest with her finger.
"For now," he said, taking her hand and lifting it to his lips. "I want to talk about Geoffrey . . ." He laid a finger on her lips as she would have protested. "And about Octavia FitzGeorge."
As they lay there, the morning sun glowing behind the drawn draperies at the windows, Justin told her the truth about Octavia FitzGeorge, Geoffrey's relationship with her, and Justin's reasons for setting the woman up in the house in Gracechurch Street. When he'd finished, Dyanna sat up in bed and fixed him with a curious look.
"So there was never anything between you and Miss FitzGeorgeor Lady Culpepper as the case may be?"
"Never," he insisted. "Now, I want you to tell me something. Tell me what in the world gave you the notion of dressing up in Tom's clothes."
Slipping from the bed, Dyanna retrieved her books from the table across the room. "In this one," she told him, "Jenny Flynn disguises herself as a boy. And so does Lady
Feversham in this one." She shrugged. "It seemed like a good idea."
"What about this one?" he asked, picking up the book about Lucifer Wolfe. A shadow crossed his face when he saw what it was.
"Where did you get this?" he asked, "No, don't tell me. Geoffrey Culpepper. Right?"
She nodded. "He told me it was really about your father and mother and Lady Naysmith, Caro's mother."
Sitting up in the bed, Justin flipped through the book. "I suppose they might have been the inspirations for these characters," he admitted. "My father shared the common interest in alchemy popular at that time. Lady Naysmith was his mistress, and my mother did die in a fall from the tower of Castle DeVille. My father perished in the fire that destroyed the castle. That, it would seem, is the basis for this book, but the restthe sorcery, the cruelty, the murderthese are all products of the writer's imagination. All right?"
Dyanna nodded, feeling foolish for having taken the story so much to heart, and for having placed so much trust in a lying wretch like Geoffrey Culpepper.
"All right," she agreed.
"What do you say," Justin went on, "to leaving today for Wildwood?"
"I'd love to," she agreed wholeheartedly.
"In a few hours I shall go to the authorities and explain my part in Geoffrey's death and
tell them what I know of Lord Rawley's death. When I come back, we'll go.''
"In a few hours," Dyanna repeated. "And what, my lord, shall we do in the meantime?"
Reaching for her, Justin drew her to him and kissed her lips, her throat, her breasts, as he drew her down beside him in the bed.
"I think we can think of some way to wile away the time," he murmured, his tongue teasing the soft creamy flesh around her navel. "Don't you?"
Chater Thirty-Six
It was late afternoon when the lumbering black traveling coach rolled up the long, curving drive to the sparkling new front of Justin's homeWildwood.
Dyanna leaned out of the window to gaze at it. They had been traveling, it seemed, forever, and she longed to reach their destination. Justin smiled as an exclamation of admiration sprang to her lips. He had created a beautiful home there, on the land that belonged to his ancestors for generations.
Of grey stone, the house was an elegantly simple block with a steeply pitched roof pierced by six dormer windows. Centered on the west front was a pedimented portico supported by four fluted columns.
A tall, stately woman in brown merino, her greying hair covered by a close-fitting cap, hurried to meet them as they descended from the carriage.
"Good afternoon," Justin said. "You must be Mrs. Stour. I hope everything is ready for us?"
"Indeed it is, my lord," the housekeeper assured him. As had all the servants, she had been engaged by Justin's estate baliff. "We were prepared for your arrival before, but Miss Caroline told us you would be delayed."
"Yes. Unavoidably delayed." Justin gazed around the hall with a critical eye. Though he had been assured that the house was progressing as planned, he'd had no notion it was so close to completion. He was relieved to find the house itself finishedthe furniture he'd purchased delivered and uncratedand only the landscaping of the wooded park still to be accomplished.
"This is Miss McBride," he told Mrs. Stour. "Miss Dyanna McBride. My ward."
The housekeeper curtsied. "If you will follow me, miss, I will show you to your rooms."
Dyanna exchanged intimate, lovers' smiles with Justin, then followed Mrs. Stour across the hall and up the splendid oak stairway whose newel posts boasted carved urns and fruit in a credible imitation of the exquisite work of Grinling Gibbons.
Above, the housekeeper showed her into a large and airy chamber with pale yellow walls and a canopy bed hung with cream and yellow French toile.
"Will this room be satisfactory, miss?" the housekeeper asked, stepping back as footmen carried in Dyanna's trunks.
"It will do very well," Dyanna assured her.
"If you need anything, the bell is there, next to the fireplace."
"Thank you, Mrs. Stour. I'll ring."
&nb
sp; Curtsying, the housekeeper followed the departing footmen out of the room. As the door closed behind her, Dyanna stumped into a chair near one of the two tall windows that illuminated the room with afternoon sunshine.
"Would you like to try on the new bonnets now, miss?" Charlotte suggested, eager herself for Dyanna to try on the delectable new creations she had been sent to fetch before they'd departed from London.
"No, I don't think so," Dyanna replied, shaking her head. "Perhaps later." She looked up at the maid curiously. "You were gone a long time, Charlotte. Weren't the bonnets ready?"
"There were a great many ladies at Mrs. Bond's shop," the maid replied, evading the question. Turning away, she hid the guilty flush that suffused her cheeks.
But Dyanna, tired of sitting so long in the carriage, did not notice as she rose from her chair.
"I feel like exploring," she told the maid. "I wonder if Justin would mind if I looked around a little outside."
Leaving her rooms, she went downstairs and met Mrs. Stour in the downstairs hall.
"Where is Lord DeVille?" she asked.
"His lordship is gone," the housekeeper revealed. "He rode away almost as soon as you arrived."
"Rode away? Where to?"
"Why, to see Miss Caroline. Naysmith Court is only a short distance away, miss."
"Miss Caroline," Dyanna repeated dully. An image of the gold and pink beauty of Caro Naysmith flashed into Dyanna's mind. "Thank you, Mrs. Stour," she said, forcing a friendly smile. "I think I shall go out and walk a bit."
The housekeeper tied her bonnet ribbons while Dyanna drew on her silk-fringed paisley shawl. Going to the door, Mrs. Stour held it open as Dyanna stepped out into the late afternoon sunshine.
Lost in her thoughts of Justin and Caro, Dyanna was upon the ruins before she realized it. Overgrown with vines and ivy, they seemed to have grown up out of the very ground and were now sinking back into it. They were jagged, blackened, and, to Dyanna's fertile imagination, romantic.
One tower remained of Castle DeVilleone tower that had not completely escaped the conflagration which had consumed the once-proud, crenellated structure. It rose, square and solid, its windows long since broken, though whether by the heat of the fire or the ravages of time, Dyanna could not tell. She circled the tower, fascinated. It was like something out of a fantasyor one of the fanciful Gothick novels she so delighted in.