"The only problem is the one I intend to create for your dear wife's stepfather. That man will die by my hand, Rhys, so prepare yourself for it."
Spence eyed him warily. “What prompted your sudden bloodlust?"
He wouldn't repeat it, Michael decided. It was not his story to tell. “Suffice to say, the more I learn of him, the more I realize that he is undeserving to draw breath."
Rhys didn't question Michael further. He would learn the truth from Emme later, but Spencer would have to remain ignorant. “If he does die by your hand, please do it discreetly."
Michael's only response was a curt nod.
Spencer cleared his throat and said, “Which section of the tunnels are we searching today?"
"The tunnels under the south wing to start. I want to find out how this bastard is coming and going."
They each took their lanterns and headed into the warren-like dungeons to continue their search.
Emme conducted her own search. She had begun in the gallery, at Larissa's suggestion. She didn't know what had prompted the suggestion, but when Larissa was certain of something there was usually a reason. When Larissa slept after the painful confessions that morning, she'd contemplated what to tell Rhys. Her fury, her need for some sort of retribution for Larissa was consuming. Stidham's contempt of her, the hurled insults she had suffered at his hands, were nothing in comparison to what he had done to her sister. She ached for her sister, for the cruelty that she had been forced to endure.
She pushed those thoughts aside and forced herself to focus as she stepped into the gallery. She strolled along, examining each portrait with care. It was when she reached the family portrait with Rhys and his siblings that she paused. Next to it there was a portrait of the previous duke, Rhys’ father. Emme's eyes widened as she took in the small, intricate, filigreed cravat pin that he wore with only one small diamond adorning it. It was the same pin Rhys had found in the south wing.
The former duke had passed away long before Rhys’ first marriage, long before Elise had begun entertaining her lovers in the hallowed halls of Briarwood. Who had inherited the pin?
She needed to tell Rhys where she had seen the pin before and determine what significance it could have. In the hallway she rang for a footman and instructed him to have the portrait moved to the library. She then returned to the library herself to await Rhys’ return.
She did not have to wait long. She heard the heavy door bang in the corridor, the same door she had used prior to her first private encounter with Rhys. The noise of the door was followed by the sound of male voices. When they reached the library Emme noted that the lot of them were filthy. Covered in dirt and cobwebs, they all looked worse for wear.
She reached for the bell pull and instructed Winstone to have luncheon brought in.
After he had left, she looked pointedly at Rhys and said, “Did you find anything?"
He shook his head. “Not a bloody thing."
Emme smiled. “I think I've found something and before you begin to yell, I did not go near the tunnels!” Stepping aside, she indicated the portrait. “Look at the pin."
It was Michael who stepped forward and stared in growing recognition. “I knew I'd seen it before."
Rhys stared at the portrait, at the cravat pin, and felt his heart sink. “Jeremy inherited that pin. I will speak with Tinsley and see what he knows."
Michael posed the question that plagued them all. “If the pin was your father's, what does the inscription mean? We had assumed it was from Elise to whomever but what if the ‘E’ was someone else altogether?"
Rhys considered it. “It is possible. My father's given name was Alexander, though I cannot recall anyone ever using his name freely. Even my mother called him Briarleigh."
"We need to see if the pin that Jeremy inherited is still amongst his things. Perhaps it isn't the same pin, but a duplicate and if it is a duplicate we need to find its origins,” Emme said.
Spencer nodded thoughtfully. “I think that is the wisest course of action at this point."
Emme left them to their lunch and went upstairs to check on Larissa.
After she had gone, Rhys turned back to Michael and asked, “Have you heard from Hycliff about the buttons?"
Michael shook his head. “He's traced them to a tailor on Saville Row, but unfortunately the man has passed on. It was a dead end."
Rhys cursed softly. It had been too much to hope that they would identify the fiend so easily. He knew that it couldn't go on much longer. They were all but living like prisoners in their home.
The thought renewed his purpose, and he said, “We'll head back to the tunnels after lunch then. There is still a lot of ground to be covered."
It was hours later that Emme and Larissa were seated in the small morning room, idly perusing fashion plates. For herself, Emme had no interest, but Larissa needed clothes. A few of her own gowns had been altered to fit her, and a few that Lady Phyllis had passed along as well, but with Larissa's slight frame, only so much could be accomplished.
"I think this would look lovely on you,” Emme said and pointed to a sketch in one of the magazines. It was a simple day dress, but done in a stunning shade of green that would look lovely with Larissa's vibrant red hair.
"I cannot allow your husband to purchase a wardrobe for me. I've sent a letter to mother and she will send along my things shortly,” Larissa said.
"He wouldn't mind. Rhys is incredibly generous."
Larissa laughed. “Only because he's madly in love with you."
Emme's heart stilled. “Don't be silly, we married because we were caught in a compromising position. It was more about a momentary lapse of propriety than about a love match."
Larissa smiled. “That might have been true at the time but I have seen how he looks at you. He does love you, even if he isn't capable of uttering the words. Some men aren't, you know?"
"Words mean little at any rate,” Emme said, “I prefer to judge a man based on actions and Rhys’ actions have shown him to be a caring and considerate husband, if a bit high-handed at times. We'll leave the question of love to the poets and focus on the more pressing issue of how to deal with an autocratic man."
Larissa sighed, but didn't press the issue, for which Emme was thankful. Turning back to the fashion plates, Emme held up one that she knew Larissa would not be able to resist.
"Perhaps one gown,” Larissa conceded softly, effectively changing the subject.
Emme smiled. “Then it should certainly be this one; it will be so charming on you."
As they were putting the fashion plates away Emme saw movement from the corner of her eye. Glancing up, she saw Melisande in the hallway. She had never seen the child inside the house but only in the gardens before. She glanced at Larissa and while she knew her sister couldn't see the child, she knew that Larissa was aware of her presence. With a dismissive wave of her hand, Larissa indicated that she should go.
Rising, Emme strolled into the hallway and followed Melisande as she made her way toward the south wing.
The child stopped just outside the entrance and peered over her shoulder. “I like your sister, Emme. She's very nice, but so very sad."
Seating herself on the floor, Emme met the strangely direct gaze of the phantom child. “She is very sad. Some people have been very unkind to her."
"If I had lived, you and I would be sisters now. I would be grown. I would have a husband and children but I never would have let Jeremy or Rhys become involved with Elise and then you wouldn't be here. Maybe this is how it was supposed to happen? Do you think?"
It was an alarming train of thought, to look at the sequence of events and recognize how one shift could have altered everything. “I really don't know, Melisande."
Melisande had stopped listening. Her attention became focused on a point behind them, in the distance. When she looked back at Emme her eyes were filled with fear and pain. “He's coming, Emme. You must hide."
Emme glanced behind her. She could he
ar footsteps, but she didn't question Melisande's judgment. She rushed through the entrance into the south wing, her slippered feet silent on the marble floors. Rhys and the other gentlemen were in the tunnel. Larissa was still in the morning room and too weak to be of assistance at any rate. All the servants were far away. Her heart thundered in her chest, pounding with panic and fear.
She entered a small sitting room. The furniture was shrouded with Holland covers and the mirrors were draped. As she turned, she caught movement out of the corner of her eye. The curtains billowed and glass crunched under her feet. One of the panes of glass had been broken out. The lawn beyond was very exposed and if she attempted to flee that way, she would surely be seen.
Searching for a place to hide, she turned back toward the room and noted a large cabinet in the far corner. Crossing to it, she opened the doors and quickly closeted herself inside. The wicker screens of the cabinet doors afforded her a view into the room and she pressed closer.
It was some minutes later that the door to the small sitting room opened and a man entered. Though his back was to her, she recognized him instantly. It was Alistair. He strolled through the room, his movements idle and seemingly unhurried. He paused in front of a small desk and opened the drawer. He rifled through the papers in the desk drawer, chuckling lightly at one or two of them before replacing them. With one final glance about the room, he left.
Emme hadn't drawn breath the entire time he'd been in the room. Now, lightheaded with panic, she drew in a deep shuddering breath and rested her forehead against the cabinet door. She shook with relief and shock. It wasn't an admission of guilt and there was certainly nothing in his behavior to indicate his guilt. But given Melisande's reaction to his approach, Emme was left with little doubt. The question now would be how to prove it.
After several minutes, when she felt somewhat steadier, she carefully opened the armoire and stepped out into the room. Her knees were shaking but she moved forward regardless. She reached the doorway and though her pulse raced and she felt physically ill with fear, she peered into the hallway. Seeing nothing, she heaved a sigh of relief and moved forward into the corridor. As she made her way back toward the main section of the house, a noise just ahead of her sent her heart stuttering. Looking down the hall, her heart sank as the large figure steeped from one of the many alcoves that dotted the hallway.
Alistair loomed in front of her, a black ribbon twined through his fingers. “Hello cousin."
She fastened a falsely bright smile onto her face and said, “Alistair, what are you doing here?"
He laughed, the menacing sound echoing through the room. “Don't play coy. It doesn't become you. You know why I'm here. I've seen the way you behave, the way you whore yourself."
Emme couldn't believe what she was hearing. It was as if he were mimicking what had occurred with Pommeroy earlier. “Whore myself? Really, Alistair. You mustn't speak to me that way."
She backed away, toward the open door of the drawing room. If she could get to the window, she could at least get outside and have a chance at escape. He continued his approach, following her back into the sitting room.
He moved closer. Emme sidestepped, trying to get away from him but he grasped her arms and shoved her roughly against the wall. He stood so close she could feel the hard ridge of his erection pressing against her.
"I've watched you. This house is riddled with secret passages, and some of them are uniquely equipped with peepholes. When she would come to town, Elise and I would go to brothels and pay ridiculous sums of money to watch expensive whores service men the way you serviced your husband."
She felt positively ill. “You are repulsive. Let me go,” she demanded.
He laughed cruelly, his grip tightening, bruising her arms. “Oh, no! Bedding Elise was sweet revenge against my dear cousin Rhys, but taking you, whom he actually seems to give a damn about, that will be the sweetest revenge at all."
Emme groped behind her, hoping that there would be something that would serve as a weapon. Her hands closed around a porcelain figurine on the shelf behind her. “I would never permit your filthy hands on me!"
There was glee in his eyes when he said, “Of course you wouldn't. But then I wasn't really asking your permission. In fact, I prefer not to have it. Fight me. Struggle, scream! It only makes it better."
Swiftly, Emme brought her knee up. She didn't hit her intended target, but in ducking the blow, he loosened his brutal hold on her upper arms. She twisted her right arm free and brought the figurine down, landing a staggering blow against his temple. He was between her and the window so she turned to her only other avenue of escape.
Jerking away from him, she ran for the door. Her slippered feet were sliding on the dust-covered floor as she ran down the hallway. She could hear him behind her. Her heart thudded painfully in her chest. She had almost reached the door, her outstretched fingers brushed against the wood to push it open, when hands fisted in her hair and yanked her back. She screamed as he pulled her to the floor, her skirts tangling around her legs.
He slapped her, the back of his hand striking her cheekbone with such force that it made her ears ring. She tasted blood and realized that her teeth had cut her lip. She struggled against him, using her hands, her feet, anything that she could to get him off of her, and then the ribbon was around her throat. He pulled it tightly, just enough that her breath was restricted but not entirely cut off. She clawed at it but she couldn't get her fingers beneath the satin.
"Have you any idea,” he whispered harshly, his breath hot in her ear as his weight crushed her, “what a beautiful sight that is?"
She gasped, struggling for air, when he loosened the ribbon slightly.
"We don't want it to end too quickly,” he said. “That would spoil all of my plans for you."
"You killed them! You killed Melisande and Elise!” she said, confronting him with the ugly truth.
"Shut up,” he growled, and pulled the ribbon tighter. His hands were rough as he pulled her to her feet. “She deserved everything that happened! Everything!"
She was going to die. The truth of it sank in with sickening clarity. Larissa had no idea where she was. Rhys and the other gentleman were investigating the tunnels because she'd insisted that the answers were there. No one knew that she'd come to the south wing except Melisande. No one would be coming to her aid. In the end, it would be too late.
Rhys stood shoulder to shoulder with Michael, as Spencer smashed the lock on the ancient trunk. They'd discovered the small chamber far into the maze of tunnels under the south wing. They'd also discovered that this tunnel led into the woods, near the site of Melisande's murder. When the lock clattered to the floor, Spencer opened the trunk and pulled out the bundled fabric. He shook it out and Rhys stared in growing horror at the lavender dress streaked with brown. He had no doubt that the brown stains were his sister's blood.
Michael's voice was low, filled with shock when he spoke. “Melisande was killed by a woman?"
Realization and growing horror crept through him. “By a woman in mourning. It was Eleanor. Eleanor was still in mourning for Uncle Reginald that summer."
"Why? What possible reason could she have had? And the manner in which she was killed—it's impossible!"
It unfolded clearly before Rhys in his mind's eye. With the information that Michael had given him, he understood why she had done it. “She was protecting Alistair. She might have killed Melisande but it was to hide the fact that her son had brutally raped a child, his own cousin. We have to go back. Emme and Larissa are alone in the house with only Eleanor and Mother."
"It's quicker to exit onto the south lawn than to weave our way back through the tunnels,” Michael said, hot fear coiling in his belly.
Spencer bundled the dress up, stuffed it into the satchel he'd brought and followed the others out. As he stepped into the sunlight, movement in the distance caught his eye. He saw Larissa running across the lawn with what looked to be a pistol in her hand. “What th
e devil?"
"He's taken her!” she screamed, still running toward them.
She stumbled and Spencer rushed forward to help her. She shoved the gun case into his hands. “He's taken Emme!"
"Taken her where?” Rhys demanded.
He didn't bother to ask how Larissa knew this. He'd come to understand that Larissa had her own gifts that were just as incomprehensible to him as Emme's.
Michael uttered a foul curse. “I know where he's taken her."
Suddenly, Rhys did as well. He took off at a run, headed for the clearing where it had all begun. Michael followed but veered off the path to circle behind. Spencer and a weakened Larissa followed behind him. When he reached the clearing his blood ran cold. Alistair was there, and he held Emme in front of him, using her as a shield. The ribbon around her throat bit into the tender flesh of her neck and he could see that she was struggling for air. Alistair also held a pistol, the barrel pressed against her cheek.
"Alistair, let her go. Let her go, now and you can walk away. The other things don't matter,” Rhys said, and it was true.
He would give up pursuing justice for Melisande; he would give up everything for Emme. Standing there, knowing how desperately close he was to losing her, he knew that there was nothing he wouldn't do to save her.
"Very gracious of you cousin, but I don't think that I will,” he sneered. “Always so magnanimous, just like our dear brother was. Jeremy was always looking down his nose at me, just as you are. Your title doesn't make you that superior. By all rights, it should have been mine! Or didn't you know that? That your illustrious father was fucking my mother under the noses of their duped spouses? Oh, I can see that you didn't."
He paused and gestured with the pistol for Spencer to halt, which he did. Then the shining barrel once again pointed at Emme. Alistair continued, the vitriol and rage spewing out of him like poison. “I am the eldest son and yet I've had to watch as my title went first to your whelp of a brother and then to you."
While Alistair's rage and jealousy weren't surprising, his revelations, if they could be believed, were shocking.
The Haunting of a Duke Page 23