Winthrop Trilogy Box Set

by Burnett, May

  After the musical entertainment, Milla did not linger. While Barnaby was still taking his leave of his hostess, she and her companion were already out the door, escorted by an older gentleman. Not Kepler, at least – the fellow was hanging back, talking to a scrawny Frenchman, a Monsieur Lambert, if Barnaby remembered rightly. Not that he cared – as long as the man was not bothering Milla, he could talk to whoever he pleased.

  The night was mild, and his hotel just a few minutes’ walk away. It was a relief to briskly move his limbs after sitting so long.

  Unfortunately, before a minute had elapsed, Major Kepler fell into step with him. “Ah, Mr. Winthrop! I saw you suppress a yawn during the Beethoven piece, but other than that it was a nice, convivial evening, don’t you agree?”

  “Indeed.” Barnaby was civil because it was second nature, but he wished the man to the devil.

  “Your relative, Lady Fenton, was in great looks tonight.”

  “She always is,” Barnaby said shortly. Damn the Major’s eyes! Must he rub it in, that he had been sitting next to her?

  “How much longer are you planning to stay in Regensbad, Mr. Winthrop?”

  “My plans are uncertain.” And even if not, he’d be damned before he confided them to a rival.

  The Major smiled. His expression, for some reason, reminded Barnaby of a cat toying with a mouse, and for a moment he felt uneasy. Yet the other man was no taller or stronger than he, and made no aggressive move.

  “Ah,” Kepler said conversationally, as they crossed another street, “here is a friend of mine – have you met? Doktor Rabenstein, Mr. Winthrop.”

  The newcomer was a tall, brown-haired man, well-dressed in dark colours, with a beaver hat.

  “How do you do,” the doctor said in accented but fluent English. His voice was pleasant and deep. “I am always happy to practice my knowledge of your language, Mr. Winthrop.”

  “While I, alas, have no German at all,” Barnaby said ruefully. The two men were walking on either side of him. For no reason he could fathom, the back of his neck prickled.

  “Why don’t both of you join me for a drink at the hotel, before we turn in?” the Major asked jovially. Rabenstein immediately accepted, while Barnaby was about to demur when Kepler added, “I have discovered something that might be a serious problem for your relative, Lady Fenton. I would like to consult you on the matter.”

  “Then by all means,” Barnaby said gruffly. Surely the Major would not discuss Milla’s problem, whatever it might be, in front of this other fellow, Doktor Rabenstein?

  Presently, they found a table in a secluded corner of the dining room, empty at this late hour, and a yawning servant brought them three generous brandies.

  “I’ll leave as soon as I have finished my drink,” the Doktor said, “then you can talk in confidence.” He went on talking of something or other, but Barnaby felt unaccountably sleepy all at once, though he had not taken more than three glasses of wine with dinner, and was only sipping his brandy. His eyes were drawn to the Doktor's rounded brandy glass, which Rabenstein was holding half-raised and idly turning. It reflected the candle light ...

  ***

  Barnaby awoke with a splitting headache, miserable in mind and body. For a few hapless moments, he groped for the reason, and then it all came back… Milla. The duplicitous witch had led him on, making him salivate after her, hope she would accept him, when all the time… all the time… he had to look at it squarely, no matter how unpalatable and painful. She was Major Kepler’s mistress, and was going to marry the Prussian. He must leave this cursed spa and return to England forthwith.

  He hoped he never saw her again.

  Dimly he remembered that he was supposed to go riding with her this morning. What hour was it? Probably much later than he had been planning to rise, to meet with her. Just as well that he no longer had look at her treacherous face.

  The pain nearly made him double over.

  How could he have been so deceived, so taken in? The artful way she had told him about her childhood, had made him almost pity her… but had she been as innocent as she pretended, would she have suggested they have an affair before marriage? Surely not. It had to be true – he knew it was true – she had betrayed him, and belonged to another. Picturing Milla’s body in the arms of the Major, straining with him in the sheets, stupid tears rose to Barnaby’s eyes.

  He was supposed to pack, to leave, but he felt too miserable. There was no hurry – as long as he left this day…

  A knock on the door interrupted his despairing thoughts.

  “Are you there, Barnaby?”

  It was her! But he was not supposed to see her again! Barnaby frantically looked around the room, but a grown man did not hide, and there was no place for a tall man to do so. Confused, he did not reply.

  “He may be sick,” a male voice said. That grey-haired servant of hers. “Let me get a key from the concierge, Milla.”

  What, the servant called her by her first name? Perhaps she was intimate with that fellow too – if you looked past the servant’s garb, he was a handsome, tall specimen, if a little old for her. But who knew what Milla’s tastes really were? He did not know anything about her, not really. Only yesterday he had believed her chaste and honourable.

  This morning he knew better.

  The man left, but Milla continued to knock on his door, calling softly, “Barnaby! Are you there? Are you all right?” She sounded, for all the world, as though she really cared. What a consummate actress she was.

  Cowering in a room, hiding and refusing to answer, was unworthy behaviour, something he had never before done. He had no reason to hide, like some child afraid of being found by the adults. He struggled into his dressing gown and unlocked the door.

  Milla burst in like a whirlwind. “Barnaby! Are you sick? I was worried when you did not turn up with the horses, and the stable master said you never came. And you aren’t dressed yet. How bad is it?”

  Barnaby did not reply, could not find the right words. He stood there dumb-struck, staring at the perfidious beauty he would never have. Words rose to his lips in a jumble, but he could not find any that would make sense.

  She frowned. “Am I wrong to be concerned? Did you merely drink too much last night? That is not like you.”

  “What do you care?” he said at last, his voice dripping with bitterness. “You are Kepler’s woman. You only toyed with me. I don’t ever want to see you again.”

  Milla stiffened. Her beautiful blue eyes opened wide. How well she simulated shock and outrage!

  “What do you mean? Have you taken leave of your senses, Barnaby?”

  “Don’t lie to me.” He had trouble keeping his voice even, and once again, traitorous tears threatened. He blinked furiously. “I know that you are his mistress, that you have promised to marry him. Just stop lying to me, please. I cannot take any more.”

  She stared at him, the dismay in her expression gradually replaced by calculation. “How do you know that? I suppose the Major told you, but why would you believe him?”

  “Does it matter?” He deliberately turned his back upon her, and staggered to his valise. He should get washed, dressed, get as far away from her as he could. Milla had not denied his charge, not that he would have believed her, had she protested her innocence. He knew what she was, now.

  Why did it hurt so very much? She was not worth such agony. She had chosen her route, her path in life, one that would hardly lead to happiness.

  “Barnaby,” her voice was pleading.

  “I think we’d better go back to Mr. Winthrop, and Lady Fenton. As long as that is your name. Then it would be Frau Kepler, I suppose.”

  “Tell me,” she said slowly, “did you meet a Doktor Rabenstein recently, by any chance?”

  He frowned and his headache worsened. “I cannot remember. Just go away, Lady Fenton. I have to shave and dress, this room is no place for you.” Still turned away from her, he splashed cold water on his face. In the mirror he caught sight of his
unshaven cheeks and chin, the dark shadows under his blood-shot eyes. No wonder she did not want him.

  “You don’t remember that you wanted to marry me?” Milla asked. Would she never stop pestering him? He heard her moving around the room, but did not turn. He did not want to see her, to weaken in his resolve.

  “It no longer matters. Now that I know you have lied to me, have betrayed me, I feel nothing for you.” It was so – or was it? If only his head would stop aching so. He no longer knew what was true or false, only that he needed to leave, to get away from Milla before he completely lost his mind.

  “Very well,” she said with appalling indifference. “I’ll have them send up some coffee, and leave my servant to help you pack. You don’t look in a fit state to do it yourself.” He did not turn until he heard the door close behind her back, and then he sank down into the only chair, and put his head in his hands. What had happened, that his life, his hopes, were destroyed so cruelly from one day to the next? But he simply could not stay. He had to leave, today.

  Some minutes later, Louis, the servant, came in with a small tray and a cup of coffee. In hopes it might alleviate his headache, Barnaby drank it down. The brew tasted even more bitter than usual, despite the sugar someone had added liberally.

  “Can I help with the packing?” the man asked, in his flawless English. Probably why Milla had employed him in the first place… or did he have other, less obvious qualities? Had he enjoyed her youthful body? The thought was hateful.

  “Just leave,” he said wearily.

  The man nodded and obeyed. For a couple of minutes, Barnaby stared at the door. He should get up and lock it, before more unwanted visitors came to disturb his last morning in this horrible place. Why had he come here, again, if he was leaving it so wretched?

  He could not bring himself to stand up from the armchair. The headache was receding, but a great weariness came over him, almost welcome, though he knew he must get up, pack, depart. Something in his brain insisted, and he would do it as soon as he had rested a few more minutes. Ten or fifteen, no more.

  Chapter 20

  Milla walked on the sidewalk outside the Hotel Bitterschwarm with long, angry paces. She could have cheerfully killed someone, preferably the Major and Doktor Rabenstein. How and when had they pulled Barnaby under their malign influence? And what else had they commanded him to do, besides hate her and not believe a word she said, and depart without seeing her again? Was that why he had turned his back on her so cruelly, and refused to look at her? She felt cold, and hugged her arms against her body, stopping for a moment as her eyes were drawn to his second-floor window.

  If he had looked miserable, she felt no less so. Why, why had she not fallen straight into his arms the moment he had arrived, told him she loved him, and straightaway left Regensbad behind? She had thought there was all the time in the world, that they could simply resume the courtship she had foolishly interrupted in England. A happy life together had been hers for the taking, and by stupid temporising now she might have lost all. To have the future she had counted on snatched away like that was unbearable. She could not, would not accept it. Anger came to the rescue. This was a time for swift action, mourning what she had lost would have to come later. If it was truly lost, she would wreak terrible revenge on the men who had cost her so dearly.

  With his back towards her, Barnaby had not seen her remove his purse from his effects. Milla could not, would not allow Barnaby to depart like this, on the very day when she had intended to accept his proposal.

  No, she would not accept the loss of Barnaby’s regard as definite, at least not until she had exhausted every means she could think of. Major Kepler, or whatever his true name was, would not succeed in driving them apart. Barnaby had to be cured, even if she had to force Rabenstein at pistol point to reverse whatever he had done. The problem – one of many problems, drat it – was that Rabenstein would never voluntarily tell her what he had ordered Barnaby to do, and she could not believe anything he might say.

  With a start, she realised that Rabenstein would have drawn out any dangerous secrets Barnaby possessed, and perhaps set him up for later fleecing, as well. Barnaby was a rich man, well worth plucking.

  Not a single penny of his fortune must fall into the hands of those scoundrels, though money hardly mattered at this point. It mattered to Kepler, though… any day now he would be presenting his latest proposal to her. They still had not found out enough about his background to confound him. Dividing her attention between Kepler and her courtship had been a terrible mistake, in retrospect.

  A pair of riders passed by, raising their hands in greeting. Monsieur Lambert, alias the French prince, and a Bavarian officer. She nodded back, pretending all was normal; though they might wonder why she was unattended. Who knew what financial damage the young Frenchman might be suffering even now? But she had no attention to spare for him. Barnaby had to be her first, her only priority.

  If he returned to England in his present state of mind, he’d tell all and sundry of her supposed affair with Kepler. Her name would be mud. There already were doubts about the circumstances of her first marriage and her husband’s subsequent death in a duel. After four years, all that should be largely forgotten, but Barnaby’s revelations would be doubly harmful.

  No, he could not be allowed to depart until his brains and memory were unscrambled. Hadn’t Louis told her there was another mesmerist in the city of Ulm? It was not that far, they could bring him to Barnaby – or Barnaby to him – and try to reverse the damage. She would pay anything, if she could save him from this unnecessary misery. Would the man speak any English, though? If he spoke only German and French, did a foreign language diminish the efficacy of mesmerism? Rabenstein, damn him, had nearly subdued her in German, and was an accomplished linguist.

  How anguished Barnaby had looked just now! Was it uncivilised of Milla that she found him appealing even in his unshaven, bleary-eyed state? With one exception, in the past she had only seen him perfectly groomed and point-de-vice. If they were married she’d see him rumpled and rough every morning, sleepy every night. It was not a terrible prospect. But would she ever have the chance now?

  This catastrophe was her fault. Had Milla never challenged the evil Doktor, Barnaby would still be in his right senses. At this moment, they might be strolling on a Parisian boulevard, arm in arm, engaged and happy. Had she told Barnaby about Rabenstein’s abilities, he might have had a chance to escape or frustrate him, as Milla had done. She should have foreseen that the villains could get at him outside the spa; a skilled mesmerist could practice his trade anywhere, anytime. Or could he? She needed to learn more about the limitation of the art, in particular, how the effects could be undone, how long they lasted. Judging by Frau von Martenstein, several months at the very least. It could not be forever, could it? Perhaps it depended on the potency of the mesmerist.

  At last Louis joined her, his expression grave.

  “Did he drink the coffee?” she asked sharply.

  “Yes, I stayed by his side till I was sure he had done so. He must not be familiar with the taste of laudanum, for even bitter coffee cannot completely mask it. He grimaced, but drank.”

  “And the dose?” There was another, more immediate worry. Neither Louis nor she were apothecaries, and reactions to the drug could vary a great deal.

  “It should be enough. I had to give him a large dose, since he’s tall, and the coffee will counteract the effect to some extent.”

  “At any rate, he’ll be unable to leave the hotel without his purse,” Milla said. “He cannot pay his bill without it.”

  “He may have some additional coin hidden among his luggage. Many travellers do,” Louis pointed out. “But no matter, the laudanum will do the trick.”

  Yes, except it might work too well. People died from taking too much, especially if they were new to the drug, as Barnaby presumably was. Guilt and fear gnawed her innards. “How do we get him from the hotel into our lodgings? As you said, he’s
quite tall and heavy.”

  “I can manage,” Louis said, “if you insist, but I am not at all sure it is wise, apart from being illegal. Once he awakes, he’ll be very difficult to control. Unless we can rid him of this compulsion to dislike you and go home, he will make our lives hell.”

  Milla shrugged. She’d rather have Barnaby under her eye, no matter how rebellious, than worry about him in his absence.

  “Also,” Louis warned, “If anyone finds him there, you’ll have a scandal on your hands. Everyone will think he’s your lover, but in his present frame of mind he won’t be inclined to marry you, should your good name suffer.”

  She mutely shook her head, but Louis went on inexorably. “He may also escape. Just because he is under a compulsion does not mean Winthrop will be unable to use his reason, strength, and ingenuity.”

  Milla was not about to underestimate Barnaby. “If we kept him tied up…?”

  “A few days, perhaps, but if you truly plan to marry him, it might not be a good idea. He may never forgive you.”

  “Even if he does not, if we part after this,” Milla said, after short consideration, “I simply cannot allow him to stay under Rabenstein’s influence. If only we can find someone to undo it! By now he should be asleep, please go back, pack his effects and watch over him.”

  “Very well. You’d better ready his room – which one is it to be?”

  “My own,” she decided. “It is the furthest from the road, and most private. He may want to call for help until he understands that it is pointless.”

  Shaking his head, Louis returned to the Hotel. Milla hurried back to her lodgings.

  She had been furious when Barnaby kept her waiting for their ride, then increasingly worried as nearly two hours passed and he did not arrive nor send a note, behaviour completely out of character. Thank Heavens that she had not stayed home in dudgeon, or ridden out with Veronique instead, as she had been half-inclined in her irritation.

  The Major and Doktor had to be punished for this new transgression. She had waited too long, should have denounced them to the authorities even with insufficient evidence. There had not been any Mental Water Treatment scheduled recently, that she could have used to stage a trap; it was only offered every few weeks, presumably whenever Rabenstein had gathered a select group of rich victims. Indeed, now that she thought back, his assistant had not been at all keen on including Milla, trying to persuade her to wait for a later date, when ladies only were treated. Milla was only allowed to participate after insisting that she would not stay that long.