A Beguiling Intrigue

by Jane Toombs

  Justine nodded; his words struck a responsive chord. Evidently she and Gavin Spencer had more than a little in common for she, too, had felt the unease of being under the disapproving scrutiny of those around her.

  Hearing the faint throb of drums coming from behind a closed door a short distance ahead, she looked questioningly up at him.

  After a moment's hesitation, he said, “An exotic entertainment from the eastern shores of the Mediterranean for a few of my more sophisticated guests. Nothing really shocking, I assure you,” he added hastily, “merely a trifle unconventional."

  "More than a few people,” she told him, “have accused me of being unconventional."

  "This, however,” he said with a smile—he had a most engaging smile—"is entertainment more to the tastes of my gentlemen guests rather than the ladies."

  He started to lead her away when the door of the room opened and one of the Wellingtons emerged. In the few moments before the general closed the door behind him, Justine caught a whiff of the spicy aroma of incense mingled with the smoke of cigars and, although the room was lit only by a few gaudy Chinese lanterns, a brief glimpse of Gavin Spencer's “exotic entertainment."

  The guests, mostly men, were seated on over-sized cushions along all sides of the room. To the right, a drummer sat cross-legged on the floor, his bare upper torso gleaming a satiny black in the muted light. In the center of the room a woman with hair of jet and skin of copper, her feet bare, her lithe body swathed in flowing diaphanous veils, danced to the rhythmic beat of the drums, a sinuous dance that promised—what? Justine felt she would rather not try to guess.

  Even after the door closed her skin prickled with uneasiness. She sensed an almost tangible presence of something alien and forbidden, but she could not tell whether this otherness came from the heady scent or from the arousing throb of the drums or from the other-worldly light of the lanterns or from some other source entirely. Whatever the strangeness was, it seemed to be communicated to her not by one of her five senses but by some sixth sense.

  She gave a start when a hand gripped her arm. Without a word of explanation, Gavin hurried her along the hallway. When she glanced up, she found him looking at her as though gauging her response to what she had seen.

  "I promised to show you Prospect Hall,” Gavin said, his voice studiedly casual, “and I shall."

  She frowned, but said nothing. Why had he taken her near that room? Had it been inadvertent or by design? Was he testing her in some way, judging her response to the out-of-the-ordinary? Perhaps he wanted to reveal something of himself to her, give her a hint of one aspect of his life. She would bide her time before asking him his reasons since her own reaction to what she had seen, her own thoughts, were hopelessly jumbled. Was it possible to be fascinated and yet repelled at the same time? Might she be, after all, the naïve country girl Quentin claimed her to be?

  She let him lead her to where the corridor ended in a spacious, high-ceilinged hallway. Directly in front of her she saw a staircase rising half a story before turning sharply to the left and disappearing into darkness.

  "These stairs lead to the west wing,” Gavin said as he turned away, his hand firm under her arm. “Prospect Hall is much too immense for the two of us, my mother and myself, so shortly after my father died we closed the west wing."

  As she passed under and archway to leave the hall, Justine glanced back, thinking she had glimpsed movement at the top of the stairs. Now, however, there was only the darkness.

  * * * *

  When he looked down from the top of the stairs and quite unexpectedly saw Justine with Gavin Fletcher, Quentin cursed angrily under his breath. He so forgot himself that he hesitated before stepping away from the newel post into the concealing darkness. When Justine glanced back toward him, he wondered if he had waited too long, but when she gave no sign she had seen him, walking on and disappearing from his view, he assumed that his highwayman's black capes, hat and mask had allowed him to blend in with the shadows of the upper hall.

  Quentin shook his head, unable to understand the ferocity of his sudden anger. He was being petty and mean-spirited, especially since he wanted Gavin Spencer to take an interest in Justine; he meant to encourage him as long as he, Quentin, was convinced of the other man's sincerity.

  Which was why, against his better judgment, he was skulking about here in the west wing of Prospect Hall. He disliked what he was doing, for he had never pictured himself as a stealthy intruder who furtively made his way into the upper reaches of another man's home, but tonight that was precisely what he had done.

  He was here because Rodgers, despite making inquiries during his trip to town, had failed to discover any clues to the identity of Mrs. Alicia Mallory, the mysterious woman who had supposedly taken up residence in the west wing of Prospect Hall where she and Gavin Spencer—did what? Quentin had not the slightest inkling. He was, however, determined to discover the truth before the evening was over.

  He walked cautiously along the unlighted, musty hall with his right hand now and again touching the near wall to keep himself from losing his way. He ignored a distant creaking as the old house settled; he shrugged off scurrying sounds nearby, telling himself it was undoubtedly made by mice in the walls.

  Reaching once more toward the wall, he groped in vain as his hand encountered—nothing at all. He must, he realized, have come to a turn in the hallway. Peering to his right he saw a thin horizontal line of light coming from beneath a door. Rodgers had been right, as he invariably was; someone did live in the west wing. Could it be Mrs. Mallory?

  Walking ahead with more assurance, Quentin approached the door to the lighted room only to hesitate when he reached it as, momentarily, his misgivings returned. He was doing this for Justine, he reassured himself, to protect her from making a possibly grievous mistake. If Gavin Spencer led a secret life, and Quentin had always believed him too good to be true, then this room might very well reveal the nature of that secret.

  He lifted the latch, pushed and felt the door swing inward. Narrowing his eyes and peering into the dimly lit, sparsely furnished room, he saw a woman, her graying hair gathered in a bun at the back of her head, sitting at a desk reading by the light of two candles.

  At first she failed to see him, but then, as though sensing his presence, she gave him a startled stare and opened her mouth as though to scream.

  "I beg your pardon,” Quentin said, raising his hands to try to tell her he meant no harm. Realizing he still wore his highwayman's mask, he hastily removed it. “The costume ball,” he explained. “Could you kindly direct me to the ballroom?"

  The woman rose warily from her chair.

  "Do you happen to be Mrs. Alicia Mallory?” Quentin asked.

  "Yes, I'm Mrs. Mallory,” she said cautiously.

  "How extraordinary.” After taking a step into the room, Quentin stopped to glance down at her cluttered desk. A suspicion began to take shape in his mind. “I have heard so much about you ... in London."

  "You have?” Mrs. Mallory's voice showed she was both pleased and suspicious.

  "And about your wonderful work,” Quentin went on, stepping even closer to the desk as he wondered precisely what the nature of that work might be.

  "I never dreamed,” Mrs. Mallory said, “that my fame, scant as it is, had spread beyond a small circle of friends."

  "It has, I assure you.” Quentin stepped to the desk, looked down at the papers there and smiled to himself. His suspicion had been correct. Now he understood why Mrs. Mallory was here at Prospect Hall and he knew the nature of her relationship with Gavin Spencer.

  When, several minutes later, he left Mrs. Mallory's room in the west wing, he started toward the stairway intending to find Justine and reveal Gavin Spencer's secret. She should be immediately informed as to what sort of man this supposed paragon was. But wait. He stopped, scowling. Was that the honorable thing to do? This was not, certainly, a matter of life and death. Should he reveal what he had discovered by stealth when th
e other man's secret might have very little bearing on the desirability of Gavin Spencer as a suitor? Damn. This was a dilemma.

  Never one to vacillate, Quentin made up his mind. His lips must remain sealed. Gavin Spencer's secret would remain safe. For now, at least.

  * * * *

  At that very moment, Gavin Spencer was showing Justine still another room in the sprawling labyrinth of rooms that comprised the east wing of Prospect Hall, rooms built as additions to the original house by his paternal grandfather, Hayden Spencer. This particular room was decorated in a style popular in the middle of the preceding century, the furniture all of mahogany, the legs of the desks and tables ending in ball and claw feet, the elaborate mirror featuring two candles in holders at its base.

  As he led her from the room, Gavin said, “Will you accept my apology?"

  She stared at him in confusion. “Apology?"

  "For taking you anywhere near that room where you saw the dancer."

  "What I saw failed to shock me.” On the other hand, the sensuousness of the dance had disturbed her. Still, there was a difference in the two feelings, although only of degree.

  "I view you, Justine,” he said, “even after our admittedly brief acquaintance, as a very special young lady, one who is not only different but also rather extraordinary. I happen to consider myself different as well. I say so not from pride, but to make you aware of the truth. I may have been tempted, wrongfully tempted I now admit, to hide nothing from you, hoping you would come to accept me as I am."

  His praise warmed her, but made her ill-at-ease at the same time. Did he really know very much about her? She doubted that he did. And she was aware she knew even less about him.

  Before she could reply—perhaps so she would not have to reply—Gavin opened another door and stood aside so she could look past him at furniture fashioned in the Roman manner. One of the bookcases resembled the façade of a temple, a sideboard was covered with a marble top and a couch was shaped like a Roman bed.

  "As you are probably aware,” he told her, “this style was popular only fifteen years ago. My grandfather had the rather peculiar notion that he would never die as long as the Hall kept growing and so, as the years passed, he added one room after another. In the end, of course, his notion was proved wrong and he did pass on, but he lived well into his seventy-sixth year. There were those who considered him an eccentric and called this house his folly, but we in the family were rather proud of the old man."

  What strange behavior, Justine thought. Recollecting that someone had described Gavin's father as “daft,” she asked, “Did your father have the same notion about the house?"

  "Not at all. As often happens with fathers and sons, my father took quite the opposite tack. Soon after he inherited the Hall, all of his affairs went to the bad and, as he slipped into a decline, he began selling off his land acre by acre to meet his growing debts. He once told me he expected to live until the last parcel was sold, but not one day more. He, like my grandfather, was proved wrong in the end since he had only disposed of a little more than half the estate by the time he died."

  When Justine made no comment, Gavin said, “Happily, I inherited neither my grandfather's mania for building nor my father's need to sell."

  Justine wondered whether his father's fecklessness had in some way led Gavin Spencer into his life of adventure. He had, perhaps, felt compelled to prove something to himself as well as to his family, felt a need to redeem his father's misspent life with one of achievement.

  Gavin seemed so contradictory. An imposing figure of a man, tall and broad-shouldered, a man who had proved his courage time and time again, he was unfailingly courteous and surprisingly gentle. He did not seem to challenge her in any way; he harbored none of the threat of violence she at times detected in Quentin.

  As they walked on in silence, the sound of the music became louder, but when they came to the top of the staircase leading down to the ballroom, Justine held back. “Something puzzles me."

  Gavin looked at her sharply, then smiled. “You have only to ask and I shall do my best to answer."

  "A few days ago I read your narrative of your expedition's thrilling trek across Russian steppes. I enjoyed the book tremendously, especially the felicitous way you described your adventures in that alien land."

  He sketched a bow.

  "The style of writing in the book, though, is nothing at all akin to the way you fashion your sentences when you speak. It never occurred to me before that the manner in which one writes, the cadences and the use of words, and the way one speaks might be completely different."

  "I could tell you that such a difference is very possible, but I have a very good reason to want to be completely honest with you. Therefore I shall make my confession and throw myself on your mercy. In a sense I deceived you; I deceived everyone who read my books. You see, Justine, I never wrote them."

  CHAPTER 14

  Taken aback, Justine said, “All the books describing your travels were actually written by someone else?"

  "By a woman, it so happens,” Gavin told her, “a widow named Mrs. Alicia Mallory. When I return from one of my journeys to a foreign land I give her my diaries and my journals to read and we discuss the events and decide what to include and what to leave out. She then proceeds to write a first draft of the book, I make whatever changes are necessary and she goes on to prepare the final version."

  Justine shook her head in denial. “But your name is on the book as the author,” she protested.

  "If the book was published under Mrs. Mallory's name, as I confess it rightfully should be, hardly anyone would buy a copy and so very few people would have the chance to learn about Russia, Egypt, Greece, and Africa. I did write the narrative of my first journey to Switzerland, but alas, Mr. Cloverly and the other book sellers considered it quite unacceptable and therefore introduced me to Mrs. Mallory."

  "I suppose not everyone has a narrative gift,” Justine admitted, concealing her surprise and disappointment. “But then I also suppose that accomplishing something of significance in this world is more important than merely being able to write about it."

  "I always believed so. Not that I begrudge Mrs. Mallory earning a fair recompense for the skill needed to turn my leaden words into gold."

  "As far as we know from reading the Bible,” Justine said as she sought to convince herself that Gavin had done nothing dishonorable, “Jesus never wrote a word of the Gospels, never left any written record of his own, all we know of him was written by his disciples. Not,” she hastened to add, “that I compare you to Him."

  "Of course not.” Gavin smiled slightly. “As I told you, I have one aim and one aim only, and that is to be completely honest with you. Otherwise I would have kept my little secret to myself."

  He had mentioned having a secret, Justine recalled. Although dismayed to discover he was not the author of the books bearing his name, she told herself that his deception, while disappointing, was less than damning. And he had willingly, almost eagerly, revealed the truth.

  "Before we return to the ballroom,” he told her as he turned aside and opened a door opposite the top of the staircase, “I want to show you where my career, if career is the right word, had its beginnings."

  Looking past him, she was surprised to see an ordinary chamber whose furniture was covered with Holland cloth. On the far side of the room, French doors led to a balcony overlooking the moonlit rear of the Hall.

  "This was a box room when I was a boy and we often played here, Clive Culver and I. How I hated Clive Culver. He was the son of a friend of my father, a big burly fellow who took delight in teasing me, in calling me names, in accusing me of being a not only a coward but a mother's boy as well. He threatened to thrash me if I ever told anyone about his bullying."

  Even as Justine admired his frankness, she had difficulty imagining Gavin Spencer being afraid of anyone or anything.

  She followed him across the room where he opened the French doors and they stepped on
to a small balcony enclosed by an iron railing. She saw an identical balcony close on fifteen feet away with doors leading to an adjoining room.

  "One day,” Gavin told her, “Clive and I were on this balcony when I boasted that I could leap from this railing to the next."

  Leaning over the rail Justine looked down and, in the pale light from the moon, saw stone flagging far below. Shivering at the prospect of plunging to injury or possible death, she shook her head. “Did you really think you could leap that far?"

  Gavin shrugged. “I had no idea whether I could or not, but I was tired of being the butt of Clive's taunts. I might not be able to leap from railing to railing, but at least I could try. Clive, of course, maintained that no one, boy or man, could leap that far and dared me to do try, hoping, I expect, that I would cry off and thus prove him right about my lack of courage."

  Gathering his flowing white robe in one hand, Gavin climbed to the top of the rail. “He left me no choice but to make the attempt, or that was what I thought. How could I decline his challenge without branding myself a coward? I climbed up here, holding to the side of the house with one hand, afraid to look down, and belatedly realizing I could never jump that distance without a running start. And perhaps not even then."

  "What did you do?” Justine asked.

  "This.” Gavin crouched on the rail.

  Justine's hand flew to her mouth to stifle a gasp of horror as he suddenly leaped up and out toward the other rail. She knew with a fearful certainty he would never reach it, that he would fall to his death far below on the flagstones. How foolhardy to attempt such a dangerous leap! She watched with disbelief when, instead of falling, he grasped the creeper vines growing up the side of the house, clutching them with the fingers of both hands while at the same time gaining a momentary toehold on the side of the house with his boots, scrabbling his way across the wall to drop safely onto the far railing.