A Most Novel Revenge

by Ashley Weaver

  “Hello,” said a voice behind me.

  I turned to see a gentleman standing in the doorway. It was a bit startling, having been talking about ghosts, to see the pale face looking at me from the dimness of the hallway. Apparently, Laurel had not closed the door tightly and it had drifted open.

  The gentleman in question, however, did not look much like a ghost. In fact, he rather reminded me of a statue of Apollo with his classical features and golden curls. Curiously intent eyes, so pale a blue as to seem almost colorless, were looking me over in a matter-of-fact way. It was quite a thorough examination, but somehow I didn’t feel as though he were being rude, even if it was unusual for this strange gentleman to introduce himself to me on the threshold of my bedroom.

  “Hello,” I replied, more to break the silence than for any real desire to start up a conversation. There was something vaguely familiar about the man, but I couldn’t place him. I was quite certain we had never met before, but I felt that I had definitely seen that face. It was the sort of face that one remembered.

  “I’m Gareth Winters,” he said.

  Of course. The artist. I had seen his paintings in the homes of some of my friends. I remembered now, too, that he had been a part of that group that had been here the night that Edwin Green had died.

  There had been a period before the death of Mr. Green when Mr. Winters’s paintings had been very much in vogue, and he was generally considered to possess a good deal of talent. His portraits had been especially sought after, and I knew women who had sat for him, all of them commenting on his golden good looks. But there had not been much art since the tragedy. Occasionally a piece had come up for auction, but his name was not often mentioned in artistic circles these days. I remembered one of my friends telling me that his paintings had lost much of their fire since the Lyonsgate scandal.

  “How do you do, Mr. Winters,” I said. “I’m Amory Ames.”

  “Amory Ames,” he said it slowly and quietly, almost to himself, as though contemplating it. I wondered if he was trying to recall if we had ever met. “You’re a guest of Reggie’s, I suppose.”

  We were all guests of Reggie’s, but I didn’t like to point this out.

  “Yes, my husband and I came at his invitation.”

  “It’s going to be a very unpleasant stay, I should think,” he said, his tone giving no indication of what he meant by that remark.

  I didn’t quite know how to respond to this. Though I had felt very much the same way, it was interesting to hear this opinion from a stranger. “Do you think so?” I asked lightly. “Lyonsgate is quite prettily situated.”

  “No one wants to be here, of course. But there is no telling what that woman has in store for all of us.”

  I knew at once that he meant Isobel Van Allen. I was about to ask him just what he meant, but he said suddenly, “I must be off. I trust I’ll see you at dinner, Mrs. Ames.”

  He wandered away, and I stared for a moment at the empty doorway, thinking of what he had said. None of them wanted to return to Lyonsgate, yet they had all come. I wondered what it was that had drawn them back.

  One thing was certain: if all of Reggie’s guests were as interesting as Gareth Winters, this was going to be an eventful dinner party indeed.

  * * *

  I WAS GLAD when it was finally time to go down for dinner. It seemed the entire afternoon had been building to a climax, and I would be glad to see for myself just how things stood. Perhaps nothing would happen tonight at all, but I felt somehow that observing the others together would give me some hint as to how to proceed.

  Milo came into my bedroom from his just as Winnelda finished doing up my gown. I turned to him, struck, as I always was, by how handsome he looked in his evening clothes.

  “How did you find the Lyonsgate stables?” I asked.

  “They’ve only a few horses here, but they’re fine animals. Not as fine as mine, of course.”

  I smiled. “Of course.”

  His eyes ran the length of me. “You look lovely, as always.”

  “Thank you.” The garnet-colored velvet gown was one of the heaviest of the gowns I had brought with me, though I suspected the usefulness of the thick fabric and long sleeves would be offset by the low-cut back.

  “Are you ready to go down?” he asked.

  “Yes, nearly.” I picked up my bracelet of rubies, diamonds, and onyx, and looked over my shoulder to see that Winnelda had disappeared from the room. I wrapped the bracelet around my wrist and attempted to fasten it with my free hand.

  “Shall I?” he asked.

  “Yes, thank you.” I extended my wrist and looked up at him as he bent over it to fasten the clasp. “Milo, Laurel says Mr. Lyons has invited all the guests who were here on the night that Edwin Green died.”

  “Has he?” he asked, straightening.

  “Yes, and we believe it has something to do with Isobel’s return from Africa.”

  “Quite possibly,” he agreed. “It does not have the makings of a particularly happy reunion.”

  “I’m afraid something dreadful is going to occur at dinner.”

  “There’s only one way to find out.” He smiled and offered me his arm. “Shall we?”

  I took his arm and we went out into the hallway. There were electric lights, but it seemed that not all of them were working, for the hallway was rather dark, save for the occasional pool of dim yellow light cast by one of the properly functioning bulbs in sconces. There was also a chill breeze coming from somewhere. I shivered and pressed closer to my husband.

  “It’s quite a pile of a house, isn’t it?” he said. “You’d think Lyons would have had it cared for in his absence.”

  Such a critical sentiment was uncommon coming from my husband, yet not exactly surprising. Milo made sure that Thornecrest, our country house, was kept in beautiful form. He had inherited it from his father, and I sometimes thought it was the one thing in life that he really took seriously.

  “Laurel said she didn’t think he meant to come back at all. She thinks his return has something to do with Isobel.”

  We made our way down the staircase, arm in arm. It was, perhaps, not fashionable for a woman to cling to her husband, but it was so very cold that I wanted to be as near him as possible. I did relax my hold on him as we reached the drawing room.

  Lucinda Lyons rose from her chair and walked toward us at once.

  “Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Ames,” she said, looking only at Mr. Ames. He had certainly gained himself an admirer.

  “Good evening, Miss Lyons,” he replied. “You’re looking very lovely this evening.”

  She flushed. “Thank you.”

  Reginald Lyons came toward us, the same air of unsettled distraction hovering over him. He was not, I thought, very adept at hiding his feelings, though he was clearly making a valiant effort to try.

  “Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Ames,” he said, a bit too enthusiastically. “Let me introduce you to my sister, Beatrice Kline. Her husband is out of the country of business, so he was unable to join us.”

  Beatrice Lyons Kline was a pretty woman, with the same smooth features as her brother. Her hair, in contrast to Reggie’s and Lucinda’s, was dark brown, and she wore it very short. Like her brother, she appeared a bit uneasy, but she concealed it better than he did.

  “How do you do?” she said, politely but without enthusiasm. Her gaze was cool and watchful. She appeared completely at ease, but I noticed the way her gaze moved continually to the drawing-room door.

  I thought the same thing must be on all our minds. We were all wondering just what it was that Isobel Van Allen had in store for us this evening.

  Reggie Lyons next introduced us to Gareth Winters, who made no mention of having introduced himself to me in my bedroom that afternoon. He, too, seemed distracted, but not at all uneasy. He gave the impression that his mind was otherwise engaged by more important things than a room full of mere mortals.

  A few moments later, the curtain came up on th
e evening’s entertainment.

  “I do hope I’m not late,” came the voice from the doorway. It was Isobel Van Allen. She stood for a moment outlined against the shadowy darkness of the hall behind her, until she had all of our attention. Then she made her entrance into the room, wearing an evening gown of black satin with a dangerously plunging neckline.

  “Not at all,” Reggie said with a tight smile. “I’ve been introducing Mr. and Mrs. Ames to everyone.”

  “Charming group, isn’t it,” she said, walking slowly toward us. I couldn’t help but think she looked rather like a cat on the prowl. “But, of course, not everyone’s here yet.”

  “Oh, will there be others joining us?” I questioned casually.

  “One more couple,” Reginald Lyons said. “Phillip and Freida Collins. They meant to arrive today, but their child was taken ill and Mrs. Collins didn’t want to leave her. They’ll arrive sometime tomorrow.”

  “Splendid. Then our little party will be complete,” Isobel said with a slow smile, her eyes on Reggie. He refused to meet her gaze, his jaw set.

  There was another movement in the doorway, and we all turned to look.

  “Ah, there you are, Desmond,” Isobel said. She stretched out her hand to him, and he came toward it, as if by unspoken command.

  He, I was quite certain, had not been at the scene of the original tragedy. He was much too young. Strikingly handsome, with black hair and eyes the color of warm honey, he was deeply tanned, despite the fact that it was the middle of winter. I wondered if he had come from Kenya with Miss Van Allen. Of course, Milo somehow managed to maintain his glowing complexion all year round, so this theory was not necessarily a sound one.

  It turned out, however, that my guess had been correct.

  “This is Desmond Roberts. My secretary,” she said with a smile that plainly announced he was much more than that. Whatever else she might be, there was no subtleness about Isobel Van Allen. “He’s been with me for over a year now.”

  “How do you do,” he said, his smile revealing very white teeth.

  Up close he was even younger than I had supposed. I should have been very much surprised to find that he was older than twenty-three or twenty-four, at least two decades younger than Miss Van Allen. It seemed that she was consistent in her preferences. I wondered idly if he actually did any secretarial work. I found it hard to picture him sitting at a typewriter as she dictated.

  “I write romance novels under an assumed name, and Desmond has been invaluable to me in my work,” she went on, running a hand along his arm. “He’s found innumerable ways to inspire me.”

  Milo’s gaze caught mine, and his brows rose ever so slightly.

  Dinner was announced just then, which spared us any additional awkwardness.

  The dining room looked as though it had not much changed in the last five hundred years. It was a long, dark room with high wood-beamed ceilings, and a wooden table ran almost the length of the room. An enormous stone fireplace, carved with the Lyons crest and complete with a stag’s head and battle-axes hanging above it, dominated one wall. I was glad to see there was a fire roaring in it and even gladder to find that my seat put my back toward the heat, for my evening gown was indeed proving it had not been designed with warmth as its primary objective.

  The food was very good, and our conversation, though superficial, was pleasant enough. For all our politeness, however, I could sense something much less civilized beneath the surface. The tension was high, and nearly everyone looked vaguely ill at ease, everyone excepting Isobel Van Allen.

  She looked pale and lovely in dim light. She sat beside Reggie Lyons, but I had not seen them speak a word to each other all evening. Nevertheless, I felt that, despite the fact that she was a guest here, she seemed to be holding court. There was the look in her eye, the self-satisfied countenance of a woman who was pleased to know something that no one else knew. I wondered when she would choose to let the rest of us know her secret.

  As it turned out, she waited until dessert. A lovely trifle had just been set before us, but she did not give us time to enjoy it.

  “I did hope to wait until we were all together,” she said suddenly, taking advantage of a momentary lull in conversation to make herself heard. “But since Freida and Phillip have been delayed, I suppose I shall tell you without them. I have some news.”

  Her words had a startling effect. Though there was nothing inherently worrisome in her statement, I saw a shadow cross Reggie Lyons’s face, and it felt as if everyone had gone completely still.

  She paused for a moment, perhaps to revel in the atmosphere of palpable dismay, before she continued. “We needn’t hide the fact that there was a lot of unpleasantness when I published The Dead of Winter.”

  “Unpleasantness,” Beatrice Kline said in a cold voice. “Is that what you call our ruin—and Bradford’s death?”

  “I merely told the truth as I saw it. The consequences were not my fault.”

  “Not your fault?” Beatrice spat out. She had gone pale, her eyes bright with some mixture of fury and grief. Whatever she professed about her feelings for him, she had not taken Bradford Glenn’s suicide lightly. “It was all your fault from the beginning. It should have been you who died.”

  Isobel gave a low laugh, her dark eyes shining. “And now the claws are out. You always were the honest one, Beatrice. No pretenses. It’s so much better that way, don’t you agree?”

  No one said anything. It seemed everyone but Beatrice had been stunned into silence. I glanced at Reggie Lyons. He was clenching his teeth, his face white.

  A smile played on Isobel’s lips as her eyes moved around the table. I could fairly feel the exhilaration emanating from her. She was enjoying this, every moment of it.

  “Now, when we’re being so honest with one another, seems like the perfect time to make my announcement. There were a great many secrets revealed in that book, but there was more to the story than even I knew at the time. There has since been information that has come to light that I was saving until the time was right, and now it is.” She paused, letting her words hang in the air before delivering the coup de grâce. “I’ve decided to write a second volume.”

  4

  THERE WAS A moment of absolute silence—even the logs on the hearth seemed to have ceased to crackle—before Reggie Lyons swore loudly and sprang from his seat, his chair crashing to the floor. “You can’t do this, Isobel.”

  “But I am doing it, Reggie.”

  “I won’t allow it,” he said through his teeth.

  Isobel laughed, a low, throaty laugh, but her eyes were suddenly hard. “I don’t think you’re in any position to prevent it.”

  His face went scarlet, and I feared for a moment he would suffer a fit of apoplexy.

  It was then that Beatrice’s cold voice rang out in the silence. “Just what is it that you think you know?”

  Isobel’s eyes locked on hers. Hatred fairly crackled in the air between them. “Are you sure you want me to speak so openly, Beatrice?”

  Beatrice’s gaze did not waver, but nor did she answer.

  Isobel allowed the silence to fall as she took a slow bite of trifle, letting the question hang in the air for a long moment. I could hear Reggie Lyons breathing from across the table.

  I wished I could see Milo, but he was seated on my side of the table, and I couldn’t turn without being obvious. Laurel, too, was seated where I couldn’t see her. I wondered desperately what both of them were thinking.

  “Why gather us all together like this?” my cousin asked. Though I couldn’t see her, I could detect the distress in her tone. “Why not just write your book and be done with it?” It was the very thing that I had been wondering.

  “Because I need you,” Isobel said.

  Reggie Lyons gave a strangled laugh.

  “What makes you think we’re going to do anything to help you?” It was the first time Gareth Winters had spoken. There was no anger in his voice. He sounded almost as though he had n
o particular interest in her answer.

  Isobel looked at him, a smile touching her lips. “Beautiful Gareth, always so far removed from everything. You’d like to help me, wouldn’t you? For old times’ sake?”

  He said nothing. Isobel’s gaze left him and the softness dropped from it. “I think you’ll all come to see my point,” she said. “In time. And now I think I’ve said as much as I care to for one night.”

  With that, she rose gracefully from her chair, the men rising automatically with her, save Reggie Lyons, whose chair still lay on the floor at his feet. He was leaning heavily against the table, and I hoped that his legs would hold him.

  “I think I’ll just go back to my room now,” Isobel said, casting a sweeping glance around the table. “I have some writing to do. I intend to finish the book within the month. I have the feeling it will be quite the sensation.”

  She was halfway to the door when Reggie spoke.

  “I’ll kill you first.” The words were barely a whisper, but were perfectly audible in the dead stillness of the room.

  In response to this threat, Isobel looked over her shoulder at him and clicked her tongue. “Shame, Reggie. In front of your guests.”

  And then she was gone, and it felt rather as though all of the air had gone out of the room with her.

  We were all quiet for a moment, sitting in something of a stunned silence.

  “If you’ll all excuse me,” Reggie said suddenly. He turned and strode from the room.

  And still no one spoke.

  I think we were all in a bit of shock. I could not, in all my many years of society dinners, remember anything remotely as dramatic occurring at the dinner table.

  It was Beatrice who marshaled her poise first.

  “That was unpleasant,” she said, a profound understatement. Her gaze caught mine. “Allow me to apologize, Mr. and Mrs. Ames. I’m sure that was terribly embarrassing for you.”

  “There’s no need to apologize,” I said. It was not, after all, she who had orchestrated the climactic scene.