Seacliff

by Andrews, Felicia

At the juncture of hallways she paused. Behind her the party seemed to have gained its second wind; ahead, Nate Birwyn was not at his post. She searched the length of the hall, peering into the shadows beneath the standards and alongside the staircases on either wall, but no one was lurking about. Flint was still missing, and her husband had apparently responded to Bradford’s message, as planned.

  She uttered a short prayer then, and with a hand to her diamond necklace she darted into the side corridor and hurried toward the south tower. As if a heavy door had been closed the revelry faded in her wake, and she could hear nothing but the rasp of her breath between her lips, the soft fall of her slippers on the carpeting, and the screams in her mind every time a stray draft flickered a candle.

  The south tower entrance loomed directly ahead.

  Beyond it, Gwen would be waiting with her change of clothes and a cloth sack containing her belongings. They would wear men’s clothes, making riding easier and providing a nighttime disguise. At the exit she would find Orin. He would take them across the snow-covered lawn to the stables, pretending to escort two staff members who’d taken too much brandy. Once there they would mount and be gone. With luck, the alarm would not be raised for at least two hours, and by that time they would be through the hills’ gap, heading south toward Bristol Bay and Cardiff.

  Cardiff, and freedom.

  She was several feet beyond her father’s study door before she realized it stood ajar. After glancing over her shoulder, she slowed reluctantly. A lamp glowed within. Who…? She stopped, looked to the tower and could not contain her curiosity. Slowly, walking on her toes, she made her way back and listened. There was no sound from inside. With one hand trembling she pushed the door open and stepped over the threshold. It took several moments for her eyes to adjust to the dim light, several moments more before she saw the figure lying on the floor on the other side of her father’s desk.

  Voices suddenly sounded from the corridor.

  Without thinking she slammed the door behind her and hurried over to the figure.

  Her hands covered her mouth barely in time to smother a scream.

  It was Oliver. He was on his stomach, his legs akimbo and his arms thrown over his head. One stocking had been pulled down to his calf, and his jacket was spread open in a black velvet puddle. The wig, which he treated with more care than he had for her feelings, was lying on its side like some beaten, white-furred animal. And from between his shoulder blades rose the ebony-handled knife her father had used to break the seals on his correspondence.

  If there was blood, it had blended long ago into the dark of his clothing.

  “Oliver?” she whispered, dropping to her knees. She reached out tentatively toward his back, withdrew her hand suddenly, and reached out again. She shook him.

  “Oliver?”

  She shook him again, felt a softness and turned her palm to the light. Blood stained her glove. Oliver Morgan was obviously dead.

  “Oh, my God, Oliver!”

  “Pity, isn’t it?”

  She cried out and whirled around, hands spread on the floor to keep her balance. From the shadows in the room’s far corner James Flint emerged, smiling. At the same moment the door was flung open and Nate Birwyn strode in, Ellis Lynne right behind him.

  “Told you,” Birwyn said. “Heard some shoutin’, and there you are.”

  The vicar nodded as if the man with the white patch had been talking about two children brawling in the schoolyard.

  Caitlin’s eyes widened and looked haunted, as all she could do was gape. Lips quivering violently, she reached out in a pleading gesture.

  “My dear,” Flint told her, “it seems to me you have a problem.”

  24

  As dizziness swept over her and all sensation was lost in a distant buzzing filling her ears, she sagged back onto her haunches and prepared to give herself up to the welcome darkness. But just as she was slipping over the brink she felt someone take gentle hold of her arms. She resisted. She wanted to flee, and this was the best way she knew how. The hands were insistent. And when the spiraling, hypnotic lights that had invaded her mind faded to painful starpoints, she allowed herself to be lifted to her feet, where she swayed until an arm slipped around her waist and guided her to the high-backed desk chair. She sat with her head back and her eyes closed, concentrating now on not losing consciousness. Though she’d not heard a threat, she knew instinctively that she was in danger.

  From behind her closed eyelids, she could hear a sharp snapping sound, a rattling, and the flutter of a heavy cloth in the air before the cacophony settled. A grunt of satisfaction sounded, and footsteps crossed the floor.

  Her eyelids danced, then lifted, and when she looked over her right shoulder she saw that Oliver’s body had been covered by a panel of velvet drapery yanked down from the window. Outside, though the fogged windowpanes, she could see the waning moonlight glimmering off the snow. And shadows. Movement. Horses snorting white breath, carts trundling along the lane, the glint of lantern light off bridle and harness.

  A glass was pressed into her hand. She stared at it dumbly until she recognized the amber liquid. She took a slow, cautious sip and shuddered at the languid fire snaking down toward her stomach. She coughed and sipped again. The glass shook, and she held its fragile stem in both hands.

  By the time the brandy was more than half gone the room had returned to focus, and she looked up to see Flint lounging against the opposite wall, examining the backs of his hands.

  “… a little early, but no mind,” he was saying to Birwyn and the vicar. “It’ll work out if we don’t rush it.”

  “What… ?” The word struggled through a guttural strangling, and she cleared her throat harshly. Flint took his time meeting her questioning look.

  “What will work out?” she demanded weakly. Then she nodded toward Oliver’s body without actually seeing it. “You’ll not get away with this, you know, James Flint. This is one thing you’ll not—”

  “Oh, belt up,” Birwyn snarled. “We don’t need your talk just now.”

  “Shame,” Flint scolded lightly. “But he’s quite correct, Caitlin. What you’re going to do now is listen very carefully. And if you’re as smart as I know you are, you may walk out of this room alive.” He smiled and turned to Lynne. “In a moment you’ll have to see the rest of them start leaving. Apologize to Lady Morgan. You know what I mean. As for this, well, I think we won’t really bother to break the news until morning.” A look at Birwyn, who had closed the door softly behind him and pulled one of his pistols out to caress the long barrel. “Have you picked someone yet?”

  Birwyn nodded.

  Flint pursed his lips, and Caitlin choked back the urge to scream. They were handling all of this so calmly, so matter-of-factly that it might have been a nightmare she’d fallen into on her way to… Her eyes widened, but she sensed no knowledge of her impending escape in Flint’s hard expression. Dared she hope he hadn’t caught wind of it?

  “Caitlin,” he said then, “it appears you have two choices here, as doubtful as that may seem to you now.”

  “Do I?” she said. Her laugh was bitter, and short. “Do I really?”

  “Indeed,” he told her. “The first is, of course, the least pleasant. It appears to all of us in this room that your husband has been murdered. What must be uncovered is the name of the culprit.” He leaned toward her accusingly. “Was it you?”

  “Don’t be an ass,” she snapped, and pressed herself against the chair’s high back, feeling rather than seeing the body lying behind her. Nausea rose, subsided, and it took no great feat of logic to understand that more than one life was in jeopardy in this study.

  “Of course it wasn’t,” Flint said soothingly. “We all know that, don’t we, gentlemen?”

  Lynne nodded vigorously, but Birwyn only grunted.

  “But neither is your innocence in stone,” Flint continued. “Dear Nate, as you doubtless heard, was alarmed by a heated argument as he passed along the corridors
on his duties. The vicar here, wandering about on his own as is his wont, also heard the commotion. Now Nate, being a disciplined soldier, understood instantly the import of the voices, and he took it upon himself to enter the room without permission.”

  “Terrible it was,” Nate offered with a slow shake of his head. “Took the breath right from me lungs.”

  “Shocking,” the vicar volunteered.

  “Of course it was,” Flint said. “There, lying on the floor and expiring rapidly, was the master of the house. And there, standing over him”—and he reached out suddenly and grabbed Caitlin’s wrist, twisting her palm to the light—”with blood on her hands was his wife. It’s no secret, of course, she despised him for the way he lorded it over her family estate. I expect there was a great deal more, secrets of the bedchamber, to which we will never become privy. A sad state of affairs. But then, murder always is.”

  “I will see you in hell, James Flint,” she hissed. But though Flint tensed, she made no move to attack him. Her limbs had turned to ice as she now saw the full contours of the perfect trap into which she’d fallen, and which numbed her mind into the most basic of reactions. “You bastard,” she hissed, though she’d no strength to give the epithet weight.

  “Be that as it may.” He continued his pacing. “Mr. Birwyn, in one of the most curious of life’s little byplays, has suddenly and most astutely realized he was quite mistaken from the start. Isn’t that correct, Mr. Birwyn?”

  This isn’t happening, Caitlin thought wildly; I’m just losing my mind, that’s all. This really isn’t happening.

  “Aye,” Birwyn said solemnly, though he was incapable of holding back a grin at Flint’s toying game. “Seems I heard this fightin’ goin’ on in here, see, and I says to the vicar here we oughta do somethin’ about it ’cause it sounds like the major’s gotten hisself into a spot of bad trouble.”

  “Exactly,” said the vicar, nodding like a puppet.

  “So,” Birwyn continued in a monotone born of obvious rehearsal, “we comes in all sudden like, and saw that drunken sot Mike Phobis standin’ over the major, puffin’ and pantin’ like he’d just done hisself a hell of a fight. Blood all over him, there was, a terrible mess. Fair turned me stomach, it did.” Again Lynne agreed, his expression so somber he looked almost comical.

  “Well, it took a bit of doin’, but it turns out Phobis heard about all that pretty gold the major was pourin’ at the party, so he decides he wants a bit of it for hisself. Greedy little bastard. Always was. From Northumberland he comes from. Queer lot up there, very hot-headed. Good riddance, if you asks me. He don’t fight good nohow.”

  Caitlin’s desire to scream had been replaced by an overwhelming urge to laugh. It started as a slight giggle in the midst of Birwyn’s practiced testimony, and finally exploded beyond her control at the man’s gall in assessing Phobis’ character. The three men were taken by surprise: Lynne was startled, Birwyn glaring, Flint had slightly lifted a brow.

  Caitlin saw none of it. With hands clamped hard over her face she rocked and laughed hysterically, her feet kicked out blindly, her eyes spilled tears and stained her white gloves. It wasn’t until Flint had had his fill of her outburst and cracked a glancing fist against her head that she gasped, choked, and stopped laughing. Rage replaced her mirth. Heedless of the danger she was in, she launched herself from her chair toward Flint, but when his fist caught her in the chest and sent her back to her seat, she yelped and found herself gulping for breath.

  “Cor,” Birwyn muttered, half in admiration.

  At that moment a stream of curses poured from Caitlin’s lips, invective coated with acid that filled the room until Hint raised a hand to strike her again. She clamped her mouth shut, feeling the heat of her anger and desperation redden her body from her cheeks to her bosom.

  “You will be silent,” Flint ordered her quietly. “You will be silent, and you will listen.”

  Birwyn nudged the vicar with an elbow, and Lynne shrank against the door.

  “I think I’ve heard quite enough, thank you,” Caitlin said coldly.

  “Ah, but you haven’t told me which tale you prefer.”

  Mad, she judged; the man is completely mad, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

  “Vicar,” Flint said then, “you’d best be on your way. I’ll have a man reach you before dawn to clue you in on what our lady has decided.”

  Lynne hesitated, licking at his lips, but a faint grunt from Birwyn sent him out the door before Caitlin could blink.

  Flint settled himself again, clasping his hands in front of him. “Caitlin, perhaps we’d better be more direct, since there’s not much time left before we’re discovered.”

  She glared, hoping for a miracle that would make her hatred tangible, her gaze lethal.

  “You see, if we come to the conclusion that it was, in fact, you who did the major in, then there are a number of things that will happen.” He held up one finger. “The first is your incarceration. Since we are not quite as barbaric as the French, we will spare both your head and your pretty neck. But I suspect you will spend the rest of your days in a cell half this room’s size, with nothing but straw for a bed, rats and lice for companions. You will grow old in there, Caitlin, and you will die forgotten. Meanwhile, Seacliff will pass into the hands of the man who can afford its upkeep. I think it need not be said who that man will be.”

  She looked down at her fingers, held limp in her lap. “However, the second choice is rather pleasant, if I do say so myself. Here, you have come upon the assailant immediately after the vicar and my lieutenant. He will, of course, be hanged. But you… you, my dear, shall survive admirably.”

  “As what?” she said flatly.

  Flint looked at her, surprised she hadn’t joined him in his game. “As the mistress of Seacliff, what else?”

  “Will I really?” she said, making it evident she doubted the generosity he displayed.

  “I give you my word, Lady Morgan.”

  She scoffed, and he sighed in exasperation.

  “It will work this way and no other, my lady: you will keep your rooms, all your staff, all those marvelous luxuries to which you have grown so devoted.” A thought occurred to him, and he snapped his fingers in delight. “Naturally, you’ll also inherit the major’s lands in Eton. Judging from your rather boldly proclaimed lack of interest in England, however, I expect you’ll wish to sell them as soon as is proper.”

  “Why should I?” she challenged.

  “Well, Caitlin, you’re really not up to traveling these days, are you? I mean, your illness, your bereavement…It will be quite some time before you take to horse again, isn’t that right?” She looked up in a panic, her heart frozen, her eyes wide. “What… what do you mean?”

  “I mean, Caitlin,” he said sternly, “what I say. You will survive. I give you my word you shall. But on my terms, my lady. On my terms alone.”

  She was almost too terrified to ask: “Which are?”

  “Except for a very occasional stroll around the grounds, and an appearance now and then before the locals to be sure they don’t stampede like the herds they guard, you will remain within these walls. You will live, but you will not leave.” She gripped the armrests tightly, fighting off the temptation to swoon.

  “Though,” he added thoughtfully, “I imagine you’ll try to escape now and then. You wouldn’t be Caitlin if you didn’t, I suppose.”

  As if seared by a brand she straightened, her hands now in fists that strained the seams of her gloves.

  “As a matter of fact,” he said, smiling, “I’m sure you’ve done so in the past. I would be very disappointed indeed, my lady, if you hadn’t at least planned to escape your confinement, perhaps even made a futile attempt at it now and again. And you’ll continue to do so, I’m sure.” His lips parted in a decidedly feral grin, and she could have swore the scar at the comer of his mouth fairly glowed with anticipation. “You don’t contradict me, my lady. Am I to assume that I’ve hit near the mark?�
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  “It occurs to me,” she answered as brittlely as she could, “that someone like Morag Burton is much too good for you. She probably feels as if she’s been wallowing with swine.” Flint ignored her jibe with a disdainful wave at the air. “It’s obvious we have no martyr here,” he explained to Birwyn. “You will waste no time seeing to Mr. Phobis. I myself shall alert the staff to our little tragedy as soon as Lady Morgan has composed herself.” He gestured, and Birwyn left them alone.

  And once the door was closed Caitlin was on her feet. She made no move toward Flint, nor did she look at her husband’s body. Instead, she turned and began fussing with the scattered papers still lying on the desk. None of the words on them made much sense; none of the figures seemed familiar to her. Perspiration ran in torrents along her spine and down her sides, and once again she had to struggle to keep from feeling nauseated,

  Madness. It was all madness, and she had no alternative but to acquiesce to Flint’s demands.

  But it wasn’t the thought of life imprisonment that made her shoulders droop and her knees refuse to lock. It was the idea that her escape had been stymied by her own inaction. Had she moved sooner, had she not waited until virtually the last minute to leave, she could have avoided all this. She would have been well on her way, and though Oliver might have been killed in any case, she would have had at least a fighting chance to prove her innocence before a friendly court in London. But not here. Here she would be considered guilty no matter which road she took; the only saving grace was the chance to choose between seeing another sunrise and suffering eternal darkness.

  She placed her hands gently on her bare shoulders and closed her eyes tightly.

  “Caitlin,” Flint whispered, “it won’t be all that bad, I promise you. You shall have free run of the house and grounds as before, and I will see to it that you come to no harm.”

  She looked at the shelves in front of her, at the ledgers and books. “And what happens to your army, Mr. Flint?”

  “Ah, they’ll be waiting for their arms. That frigate from Glasgow has a deeper hold than most suspect.”