His Wicked Charm

by Candace Camp

  “A passageway?” Lilah breathed.

  Con grinned. “A hidden passageway.” Ducking his head, he stepped through the doorway.

  Lilah followed him, taking a firm grasp of his jacket, and peered over his shoulder. “It’s not a tunnel after all.”

  “No,” he said, gazing at the worn stone steps curving down into the darkness before them. “Even better. It’s a hidden staircase.”

  Con started down the stairs cautiously. The steps were so worn that in some places they almost disappeared, as if the rock around them was swallowing them, and the circular staircase was so narrow that Con all but filled it. Lilah stuck close behind him, her hand on his shoulder.

  The stairs seemed to go forever, spiraling into the darkness in a way that was dizzying, but Con had a sense of the strata beneath them, almost a map in his head of the tunnel that lay at the bottom of the stairs. They emerged into a tunnel far narrower than any in the cellars above and with such a low ceiling that Con could not stand completely upright. It was unnerving to be so deep in the earth, surrounded by stone.

  Lilah linked her arm through his. “I think we have found the dungeons.”

  “Mmm. Hopefully no skeletons in chains.” He held the lantern higher, but it lit up the stygian darkness for only a few feet. “Shall we go on?”

  “Of course.” Lilah looked at him indignantly. “I didn’t climb down those wretched stairs just to turn around and go back.”

  Con grinned and started forward, holding the lantern out in front of him. “Watch out for holes. I’d hate to tumble into some oubliette.”

  “I’m more worried about the tunnel collapsing on us.”

  They came upon a few small rooms, empty of all but dirt and rubble.

  “I wonder where we are,” Lilah commented. “It seems as if we must be beyond the house.”

  “The castle may have been laid out somewhat differently than Barrow House. By and large, we’ve been heading east, in the direction of the maze, but I believe this tunnel is going back under the house.”

  “I wish I had some idea whether you actually know these things or are bluffing.”

  He laughed. “I’m fairly certain. And you can’t deny you have a powerful effect on me.” He couldn’t resist dipping his head and planting a firm kiss on her mouth. They walked on, but at last they came to an abrupt stop at a blank wall. “It seems we’ve reached the end of the road. Quite literally.”

  No amount of searching the cracks and crevices of the stone turned up a latch or lever. Nor could they find any line of separation, however thin, that might betoken a door set into the wall. At last they were forced to admit defeat, and they turned around to trudge back up the stairs to the cellars.

  It was a relief to exit the cramped space of the staircase. The cellars might be dirty and often odorous, but at least one could stand up straight. Con started toward the path back but stopped and pointed in the opposite direction. “We didn’t finish going through the cellars. I got distracted by the staircase. Shall we continue?” He looked at Lilah. “Or perhaps you’re tired. I’m afraid we went straight through luncheon.”

  “No, let’s see the rest of it. I don’t want to wonder if we missed it because we didn’t bother to finish.”

  Con nodded and set off. The pathway ended in a series of connecting rooms, arched doorways leading from one to another. The first room had nothing in it but dirt. The next held a few wooden kegs, one broken, as well as some discarded furniture and a very old chest. They passed through two more, both empty.

  “No doorways, hidden or otherwise.” Con sighed. “If your grandfather found a sanctuary down here, he’s better at searching than I. I fear we’ve wasted this day.”

  “There’s still my grandfather’s office to look through,” Lilah said encouragingly, taking his hand.

  Con smiled down at her, touched by her attempt to buoy his feelings. He squeezed her hand. “Yes. I’m sure we’ll find the key.”

  “And there are the trunks.”

  “What trunks?”

  “Cuddington also told me this morning that my father had all Sir Ambrose’s things packed in trunks and stored away. Personal things from his bedchamber. Father even did some of it himself.”

  “You think then that he packed things he didn’t want anyone else to see? That sounds promising.”

  “I thought so. I told Cuddington to have Ruggins find them and bring them down from the attic.” She came to a stop. “Con... There are trunks down here.”

  “You mean that old chest in the room back there?” Con looked doubtful.

  “No, it’s too old. And why stick it way back there? But closer to the stairs into the house, after the wine cellar and the storerooms for foodstuffs, there were some rooms filled with odds and ends. I’m sure I saw chests and boxes in there.”

  They turned back, heading toward the stairs, and as Lilah had remembered, near the front, they came upon a storeroom containing a number of trunks as well as old furniture. The trunks were of varying sizes and shapes, but all were covered in a uniform dust of disuse. Con opened the closest and found a stack of old clothing and shoes. Lilah wound her way through them and stopped beside a humpbacked trunk. Leaning down, she wiped away the dust on the center of the top. “Con.”

  Her voice was sharp, and Con’s head snapped up. “What?” He stepped across a trunk and around another to join her.

  “Look.” She pointed to the symbol of a triskele adorning the top of the chest.

  A slow grin spread across his face. “Lilah, my love, you’re a wonder.”

  He tried to lift the lid, but it wouldn’t move. He squatted down beside it, examining the keyhole on the front side. “I think I can open this, if you’ll lend me a couple of hairpins.”

  After a moment, the lock clicked, and Con opened the lid. A square of folded white material lay on top, covering the other contents. Con took it out and stood up, letting the fabric unfold. It was a long loose-fitting garment made of white linen, slightly yellowed with time, that fell past Con’s knees. The sleeves were long and bell-shaped, tapering to a point, and embroidered spirals marched down the front.

  “I think we’ve found it.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  “IT’S A SURPLICE,” Lilah said, reaching out to touch it. Her pulse raced.

  “A priest’s clothes?”

  “Yes, the vestment that’s worn over the cassock. But obviously not a normal priest’s surplice.” Lilah ran her hand over the embroidered triskeles on the shoulders, one on each side and a third one high on the back. Multiple spirals were sewn down the left side of the robe.

  “What do you want to wager there are twenty-seven of these spirals on the front?” Con asked. “Three times three times three.”

  Con folded the garment and handed it to Lilah, then rummaged in the trunk again. “There are two more robes in here. Aha. And here are some candles. Ceremonial, I’d guess. Some books.”

  “If this was where they stored their paraphernalia, they would be likely keep the key in here, too, wouldn’t they?”

  “One hopes. We need to take everything out of this trunk and examine it.” He cast a glance around the dusty room. “But not here.”

  “You’re right. I’ll tell Ruggins to have it brought up to—where should we do this? The library?”

  “How about Sir Jasper’s billiards room?” Con suggested.

  “The smoking room?” Lilah asked, surprised.

  “Yes. It’s one of the few rooms in this house that actually has a key. I think we may want to lock these things up.” He delved into the trunk again and came up with two small bundles of papers, wrapped round with ribbons. “But these, I think, we’ll take up and look at now.”

  “Letters?”

  “Hopefully very informative letters.” Con handed her one of the bundles, returning the surplice to the trunk.
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  Lilah hurried back up the stairs, filled with anticipation. She wondered if this was what Con felt when he was on the trail of a clue in one of his investigations. She could understand why he enjoyed it. The hunt was exhilarating.

  Inside the smoking room, Con shucked off his jacket as he was wont to when he began work. Lilah watched him roll up his sleeves, and heat curled deep inside her in response to the sight, just as it had the other day. But now she knew what lay beneath his clothes, the pleasures hinted at.

  She remembered the different textures of his skin—his stomach smooth as satin, the firm, fleshy nipples, the prickle of hair on his chest—and she remembered, too, that intriguing way the hair narrowed to a thin line leading downward. She thought of her forefinger trailing down it.

  As if feeling her gaze, Con looked over at her. His face shifted subtly. “If you continue to look at me that way, we’d better lock the door.”

  For a moment, Lilah was tempted to do just that, which went to prove how very deeply she was in trouble, but she recovered her wits and shook her head. Con sat down on the floor and untied the ribbon on his bundle, spilling the letters out in front of him. Con had a peculiar propensity for sitting on the floor, but she could see the sense in it here. She sat down beside him and began to go through her batch of letters in a more orderly fashion, laying them out in neat piles beside her.

  “All these are from Sabrina’s grandfather Emory.”

  “Mine are from Bertram Dearborn.” Con looked at his much smaller stack. “Clearly our Bertie was not much of a correspondent.” He watched her organize her letters. “Tell me, what are you doing?”

  Lilah looked up. “Separating them by dates. I’m putting the ones dating from before Ambrose’s book in one pile, the much later ones in another, and these are the ones from right around the beginning of the Brotherhood.” She frowned at his grin. “What are you laughing at?”

  “Not laughing, sweet Lilah. I just enjoy watching you work. You’re so orderly.” He reached out to take her hand and bring it up to kiss.

  Lilah couldn’t suppress the little shiver that ran through her at the touch of lips on her skin, but she covered with a tart response. “Yours, I see, are rather more haphazard.” She nodded at the pile spread out in front of him.

  He kissed her hand again and released it, then turned back to his task, plucking out a letter from the pile and scanning it rapidly. Lilah, too, began to read, starting with the letters around the first dates in the book.

  “I found something,” Lilah announced triumphantly. “This is from Emory at Oxford. He talks about school, but then he says how much he’s looking forward to the holiday and ‘going on a lark with you and Bertie.’” She added her own emphasis to the last few words. “And he wonders whether they will ‘stumble over any skeletons down there.’”

  “Sounds like they were going down into the dungeons, doesn’t it? We may have to check it again. Perhaps we should take more lanterns.”

  Lilah returned to her stack. “Emory starts writing again after he returns to Oxford. He references their ‘discovery.’ So they found it between—” she checked the dates of the two letters “—December 5, 1840, and January 19, 1841. The first recorded date in my grandfather’s book was in June of 1841.”

  “It took Ambrose a few months to cook up his theories and start conducting ceremonies. They found it close to the winter solstice. So that might be why they decided to tie the ceremonies to those four times. What does he say about their discovery?”

  “Nothing helpful. He doesn’t say what it is or where they found it.” Lilah handed Con the letter and picked up another. “Here he’s making plans to ‘try it again.’ That’s three months later.”

  “Here’s one from Bertie—the man was not good about dating his missives. He goes on and on about how his luck at the tables has changed.” He scanned a few more pages. “This one calls the idea of the keys a ‘bang-up notion.’ Next he’s talking about an investment and attributing it to—I’m not sure of this word—Mattie, I think.”

  “Matres, perhaps?” Lilah answered. “Emory has a pretty long discourse on Ambrose’s theory about ‘Matres’ in this letter. Wasn’t that in the book?”

  “Yes. The three goddesses grouped together like the Fates.”

  Lilah began to read Emory’s letter aloud. “‘I agree with your theory regarding the connection of the Matres to the Sanctuary.’ He talks about the importance of the sacred power of threes. Then he says, ‘However, I am not convinced that the Matres was three goddesses in one in the same way as Hecate. But like her, they were connected to the Otherworld, in particular guiding lost souls through the Gateway.’”

  “Pedantic sort, wasn’t he?” Con said wryly.

  “Yes. One could wish that they’d been a bit more specific about what they found and where it was, instead of philosophizing.”

  “Even though Bertie’s ‘not one for religion’ and Blair seems to regard it more as an intellectual exercise than faith, they seemed to believe in the blessings. It makes it more understandable that they kept up with it over the years and were insistent that their sons carry it on, but—”

  “But it doesn’t help us find either the place or the key,” Lilah finished for him.

  “That’s it for Bertie. At least he wasn’t long-winded.” Con restacked the letters and tied them. “Perhaps we should look at the earlier letters from Emory since he was more assiduous at corresponding. It sounded from that first letter you read that they had some idea where they were going. Perhaps they’ve discussed it earlier.” Lilah handed him one of her stacks, and he continued to read. “Hmm. Listen to this. ‘I am concerned about the disturbing dreams you have been having.’ Perhaps your grandfather was being pulled by this force, as you were. Guided to it, so to speak.”

  “I wish it would tell me where it is, then.”

  “You’re pulled to the maze,” Con pointed out.

  “But how could the maze be the Sanctuary? It’s hardly a secret. And there’s no door.”

  “It could be underneath the maze. A trapdoor.”

  “I thought your theory was they were talking about the subcellars.”

  “Yes, but I’m always open to other ideas. Beneath the maze, you’d still have the idea of the underworld, which seems to figure into their belief. This gateway they’re guarding could be the gateway to the dead.” He tilted his head, thinking. “Maybe the maze sits on top of some ancient burial ground.”

  “A bit gruesome, meeting in the midst of the dead bodies.”

  “We’re talking about university-age lads. I suspect the grue would be one of its appeals.”

  “The more you say about young men, the gladder I am that I’m female.”

  Con laughed. “So am I, my dear.”

  They went back to reading, and the room was silent until Con said, “Lost John—who the devil is that?”

  Lilah stared at him blankly for a moment, then began to laugh. “Last John, I imagine, not Lost. Why on earth were they discussing him?”

  “Your grandfather found some journal written by him, which influenced his thinking.”

  “Really?” Lilah said doubtfully. “It would have been terribly old.”

  “Blair was skeptical, as well.”

  “Last John was an ancestor. There were three Sir Johns in a row before the grandson got more creative and named his son William. The family refers to them as John Major, John Minor and Last John.”

  “Well, apparently Ambrose wrote Blair, saying he’d found this Last John’s journal, and it revealed that there were tunnels beneath the house—I can’t tell if he means the dungeons or something besides that. Ambrose believed that your ancestor found a secret passageway. Not only that, John added to it.”

  “This is all so bizarre.” Lilah shook her head. “Secret passageways. Ancient gods. A gateway to the Underworld. How am I to believe this
?”

  “It does sound like something out of one of those books you and Liv like.” He shrugged. “I don’t know that it’s true. But if it was all a mad delusion, what did the young men do? Why did they meet for so many years? Why does Dearborn believe in it? There must be a sanctuary.”

  “Yes, one that’s going to destroy us all in a few days.” Lilah grimaced and returned to reading the letters. “I’m finding almost nothing in these newer letters.” She picked up the last one in the stack. “This isn’t from Emory—oh, I see. It’s from Hamilton—Sabrina’s father. It’s after Hamilton’s father died, thanking Ambrose for his condolences.”

  Con flicked a finger at the date. “Look. Emory died at a young age, too.”

  “Yes, I suppose it was. They found the Sanctuary while he was in university, so he must have been around twenty. That would have made him only forty-eight or so when he died.”

  “Don’t you find it odd? Emory’s son Hamilton, Sabrina’s father, died when she was twelve or thirteen, so he must have been in his forties, as well. Your father passed on at...”

  “Forty-four.”

  “You said Sir Ambrose died before you were born, which would make him around fifty. I don’t know when Bertram Dearborn died, but he’s obviously gone, as well. Of these six men of the Brotherhood, only Niles Dearborn is still alive.”

  “You think Niles killed them all? I can’t believe that.”

  “No, I don’t think so. His crimes are generally smaller. I’m just pointing out that it’s peculiar for this many men to die before their time.”

  “We don’t know how old Mr. Dearborn’s father was when he died.”

  “Do you remember him meeting with your father and Dearborn?”

  “I don’t remember him at all.”

  “Then at best, he must have died when you were still a child. Five men—and for all we know, Niles could be at death’s door. That’s a very great coincidence.”