Dark Temptation

by CHASE, ALLISON

  ‘‘Sorry.’’

  ‘‘It would appear no one is home.’’ The vicar remained in the doorway. ‘‘I think we should be going.’’

  Sophie tamped down her irritation with the man. ‘‘Chad? Nathaniel? Is anyone here?’’

  ‘‘Shh!’’ The vicar shuddered so violently his spectacles slipped down his nose. ‘‘Miss St. Clair! I would thank you not to shout.’’

  ‘‘Who are you afraid of awakening, Mr. Hall? The ghosts?’’

  ‘‘Really, Miss St. Clair—’’

  ‘‘I asked you both to wait in the curricle,’’ Sophie said, ‘‘but you insisted on coming in with me. If you’re frightened, I’ll be neither hurt nor inconvenienced if you choose to wait in the forecourt.’’

  ‘‘No, Sophie, we’ll stay. Won’t we, Mr. Hall?’’ Rachel’s gaze darted over the shadowed walls and the dusty staircase. ‘‘Perhaps now you’ll tell us why it was so important we come here.’’

  Sophie wished she knew what to say. She had no proof, only the warnings of a disembodied voice and an inability to deny her feelings for an admitted rogue.

  ‘‘I need you both to wait here,’’ she said. ‘‘I’m only going as far as the library, which is the farthest room in the north wing. I’ll be able to hear you, and you’ll be able to hear me. I should be only a few moments.’’

  ‘‘What do you hope to discover?’’ Despite the faith Rachel had shown in Sophie on their journey here, the girl’s voice rang with puzzlement.

  ‘‘The truth, I hope. About Chad, this house and its past . . . many things.’’

  Rachel didn’t question her further. She sat at the foot of the stairs, settling in to wait with elbows propped on her knees and chin in her hands.

  A dark object in the vicar’s hand halted Sophie in midstep. ‘‘Mr. Hall, what on earth are you holding?’’

  ‘‘An assurance, Miss St. Clair.’’

  ‘‘A pistol is no assurance. Wherever did you get it?’’

  ‘‘From my pocket, of course. Lord Wycliffe charged me with the responsibility of your welfare. I always take my responsibilities with the utmost seriousness.’’

  ‘‘Yes, well, put it away.’’ She gave a dismissive flutter of her hand.

  ‘‘I can hardly protect you and Miss Gordon with my weapon in my pocket.’’

  ‘‘And neither can you make a tragic mistake and shoot Lord Wycliffe or his manservant.’’

  ‘‘Oh, I . . . yes . . . perhaps you’re right.’’ He tucked the gun away.

  With a shake of her head, Sophie turned in to the north wing.

  At the library door a little voice of reason proclaimed the folly of her intentions. What could she hope to learn here? The truth? Of what? Her uncle and Dominic, and not ghosts, had ignited false shore lights. Chad had admitted his involvement in smuggling crimes. As for those three poor sailors murdered at sea, Chad and her uncle were working to uncover the guilty culprits. What was left?

  ‘‘Sophie, can you hear me?’’

  She jumped at the sound of Rachel’s call. ‘‘I hear you. It’s quite all right. I’ll be a few minutes at most.’’

  She opened the door to find the library exactly as she had seen it last, with its gaping shelves, lack of furniture, and the wide window overlooking the gardens. The window was flush, not a bay, as it had appeared to her from the garden that first day.

  Gather the facts and let their conclusion form as it may, without biasing the outcome. Grandfather always advised his journalists to do just that. But what facts could she gather from an empty room? Closing the door behind her, she went to the window and pressed her palms to the frame.

  And whisked them back with a cry when the casement burned her flesh. Her hands came away unmarked, yet images of flames rose behind her eyes. She could hear the crackle and smell the charred flesh.

  For some moments she battled the urge to collect Rachel and Mr. Hall and put as much distance as possible between them and Edgecombe’s secrets.

  But the voice had told her the answers would be found here.

  Teeth clamping her lower lip, she steeled herself and flattened her hands to the cool glass. Instantly flames leaped around her. She held her ground, clinging to the notion that it was merely an illusion.

  She forced herself to peer over her shoulder at the burning room. A blaze engulfed the shelves. Books curled and disintegrated, their pages dispersing through the air like swarms of fireflies. An inferno encased the furniture. As she watched in horror, the ceiling beams crashed in a shower of embers.

  Against her palms the glass panes of a bay window exploded from the heat. The lead mullions glowed molten. The stone embrasure crumbled. Her hands were blackened, hideous. Her hair sizzled and her clothing adhered to her melting skin.

  In the raging gusts of the fire, a voice hissed, Murder.

  A scream rose inside her, but she forced it down and clung to her last shred of reason. A face filled her vision, a countenance eerily familiar and filled with agony. With a shock she realized the features she had once mistaken for Chad’s were not his, but those of another man. An older man who bore a startling resemblance to his son.

  He raised a burning hand to point. Murder . . .

  In the licking flames another face formed, one distorted by rippling heat waves and half obscured by tangled locks of hair. From within the tousled strands a pair of eyes, searing in their malevolence, gleamed out at Sophie.

  Heaving backward with all her might, she broke free from the conflagration.

  Once more the silent, empty room surrounded her. The window before her stood intact and flush to the wall. Though a lingering sensation tingled through her fingers, the illusory flames had done no damage.

  In startling contrast to the burning heat, a cool breath grazed her nape. She gasped and spun about. ‘‘Lord Wycliffe?’’

  ‘‘Sophie.’’

  Low clouds glazed the landscape and swallowed the tips of the distant crags. Chad had ridden only a few minutes beyond the Gordons’ farm when a sense of unease crawled up his spine. To save precious seconds he had set off across the headland, intending to intersect with the road about a half mile before Edgecombe, but he found no road where it should have been, only an empty, misty stretch of moor.

  He urged Prince on. Even if he had somehow missed the road due to the fog, as long as he continued southward, the rooftops of Edgecombe should push into view. As he emerged from a tangle of whitebeam and heath rush, a badger scurried across his path. Prince shied and reared.

  Without a saddle Chad felt himself slipping. He gripped with his knees and leaned far over the horse’s neck for balance. ‘‘Whoa, boy. Easy now.’’

  With a jolt all four hooves connected with the ground, but Prince’s jittery dance continued. His ears twitched. His tail swished nervously. Chad shortened the reins and squeezed with his heels.

  ‘‘Come on, boy. Sophie needs us.’’

  The gelding swung about, sidestepped, kicked with his rear legs. A sudden wind that smelled of the sea pummeled across the moor. Though the rain had abated, charcoal thunderheads mushroomed across the sky. Chad urged Prince to a walk. The horse took two steps and halted as though encountering a solid wall.

  Chad leaped to the ground and tried to lead Prince on foot. Though he could see nothing in front of him but the mist-coated moor, his chin struck an icy barrier. He tried shouldering his way through, only to stumble backward.

  ‘‘What is this?’’ he cried out. ‘‘Would you stop me now, when she most needs me?’’

  He waited for the answer, senses pricked, nape bristling, nerves humming with impatient energy. Beside him Prince stared with wild, glassy eyes.

  ‘‘Confound it to hell.’’ He considered brandishing his pistol, for all the good it would do. His anger mounting, he searched the mist. ‘‘Show yourself and let’s get on with it.’’

  This way.

  The voice seemed to emanate from the moor itself, from the endless skein of bracken and heather. T
he breeze turned frigid. Prince whinnied, a sharp, raw cry of distress. At the sound of a mournful sigh Chad pivoted. A small, transparent figure wavered a few feet away.

  Chad suppressed an inclination to rant at the little ghost, and instead forced a calm tone. ‘‘What do you want of me?’’

  Come.

  The little ghost took off running, gossamer rags flying out behind her. Her feet neither made a sound nor raised a splash on the saturated terrain. Leading Prince on foot, Chad followed at a half run. He kept his gaze pinned on her, afraid of losing her in the mist. Never before had she appeared to him this way, as insubstantial as vapor.

  Her flight ended at the barrier of a low stone wall.

  ‘‘The chapel? It can’t be. . . .’’

  Drifting clouds obscured the spire. The corners of the structure too appeared softened by the haze, melting into the surroundings. Even the headstones seemed vaporous, not solid at all.

  Urgency overpowered his bewilderment at finding the place in such a state, and where it could not possibly be. ‘‘I’m needed at Edgecombe. Don’t you understand?’’

  She raised her vacant eyes to him, immobilizing him with her stare. A thin arm gestured at the rows of headstones.

  Foreboding raised gooseflesh on his neck. ‘‘No. She isn’t here.’’

  A gaunt finger pointed.

  ‘‘You want me to go into the churchyard?’’ He swore under his breath. Leaving Prince outside the wall, he stepped through where the gate had once been. The stunted forest of headstones surrounded him, seeming to float above the ground. Merely a trick of the mist, he knew, but . . .

  The chapel walls were fading, revealing the moor beyond.

  ‘‘What is this devilish place?’’

  My home.

  ‘‘You?’’ His glance returned to the headstones. ‘‘You’re buried here?’’

  She no longer tends my grave. No one tends my grave. I am forgotten.

  ‘‘It isn’t actually here, is it?’’ he said with sudden comprehension. ‘‘The chapel. The churchyard. It exists elsewhere, but somehow you’ve conjured its form here on Blackheath Moor. Is that it?’’

  The wind scattered a few raindrops. He wiped them from his eyes, and when he opened them again his pulse ricocheted at what he saw. Dropping to his knees he reached out to trace the carving at the top of the granite stone in front of him.

  Rosebuds. Seven of them.

  She shall bury me with roses.

  She had told him that in a dream. A little girl in braids and a pink dress, hurrying him along for her birthday party. Leading him to the sea. To Sophie, drowning in the waves.

  Here were those roses, etched to mark her grave. He gripped the sides of the stone and bowed his head to read the engraving.

  BORN 6 MAY 1819, DIED 13 MAY 1826

  BELOVED DAUGHTER

  ELLIE ROSE QUINCY

  ‘‘Good Christ. I understand now. You’re . . .’’ He looked up to find her gone, in her place a gathering of darkness that was denser than shadow. A nothingness that radiated hopelessness and pure, cold despair.

  ‘‘Ellie Rose, come back. Where are Sophie and Rachel? Is your mother with them? They’re in grave danger. You can help me . . . please . . . come back. . . .’’

  ‘‘Lord Wycliffe!’’

  The shout brought him to his feet. Around him the headstones fell away like toppling dominoes to disappear into the ground. The low stone wall dissipated. The glistening chapel gave a final glimmer and was gone. On the rolling terrain where the stones had stood, the breezes swept the heather and the deep browns and faded greens of the moor grasses.

  The road to Edgecombe stretched only yards away from where he stood. Gordon and Reese pushed through the thinning mist on horseback.

  ‘‘What happened?’’ Gordon called. ‘‘Were ye thrown from your horse?’’

  From the way they regarded him, Chad knew neither man had seen anything unusual, only him kneeling in the wet grass, surrounded by miles of empty moorland. He shook his head, collected Prince’s reins and hopped up onto his horse’s back.

  ‘‘Why are ye here, man?’’ Gordon’s exasperation was plain to hear. ‘‘Why aren’t ye at Edgecombe looking for the lasses?’’

  Chad ignored the question. ‘‘Reese, have you seen Kellyn this morning?’’

  ‘‘Earlier, at the Gull.’’

  ‘‘Not since?’’

  ‘‘Of course not since. Why?’’

  ‘‘Because I’ve reason to believe she may be in danger too.’’ He clucked Prince to a canter, trusting the two men to follow.

  At the sound of her name Sophie whirled, a hand flying up to clutch her throat. The ghastly images no longer filled the empty room, but the horror of Lord Wycliffe’s death lingered. Her heart pumping against her stays, she turned to confront a familiar figure standing in the open doorway.

  ‘‘Kellyn! Good heavens.’’ She pressed a trembling hand to her breast. ‘‘Why, for a moment I thought . . .’’

  ‘‘That you saw a ghost?’’

  A glint in the tavern owner’s blue eyes commanded the truth. ‘‘How did you know I’d say that?’’

  Kellyn tilted her head. ‘‘Because it doesn’t surprise me. This house fairly pulses with the echoes of the past.’’

  ‘‘You feel it too. But . . . why are you here?’’ She offered a shaky smile. ‘‘Not that I’m not pleased to see you.’’

  ‘‘I’m sorry I startled you. With Chad occupied I thought it prudent to check up on Nathaniel. He’s a hard worker, but he needs a certain amount of looking after.’’

  ‘‘Is he here? I called but he didn’t answer.’’

  ‘‘Aye, he’s belowstairs, doing what he does best—cooking. He helps out at the Gull sometimes.’’ Kellyn pushed off the door frame and sauntered a few steps into the room. ‘‘I sent your cousin and the vicar on down to him for a bite to eat.’’

  ‘‘Did you?’’ Sophie frowned. It seemed unlike Rachel—and the vicar, for that matter—to have left her without a word.

  ‘‘You’re flushed,’’ Kellyn said. ‘‘I hope you aren’t feeling out of sorts.’’

  Sophie’s reply burst out before she could stop it. ‘‘Did you know that Lord Wycliffe was murdered?’’

  Crossing to her in a flurry of shocked concern, Kellyn grasped her hands. ‘‘Chad? He’s dead?’’

  ‘‘No. I mean his father. The fire was deliberately set.’’

  Her relief palpable, Kellyn released Sophie and shook her head. ‘‘Franklin had been drinking that night. He passed out and knocked over a lamp. It was a wonder the entire house didn’t go up.’’

  Sophie glanced over her shoulder at the window. ‘‘They replaced the old bay when they rebuilt, didn’t they?’’

  ‘‘The masonry had crumbled from the heat. How did you know?’’

  Sophie didn’t explain. There were no words to describe what she had experienced. Only Chad would understand. Only he would believe her.

  ‘‘Franklin Rutherford was well liked in Penhollow,’’ Kellyn said. ‘‘Why would anyone wish him harm, much less end his life?’’

  Sophie hesitated in answering, then remembered that Kellyn had been at the farm for much of yesterday, had learned about the men at the moorland farm and their connection to the piracy that plagued Penhollow. ‘‘Supposing Lord Wycliffe was murdered by smugglers who wished to use his property, as the Keatings once used Edgecombe long ago?’’

  ‘‘A fanciful notion.’’ Kellyn drifted away, strolling the length of the room and occasionally running her hands over the mahogany shelving. ‘‘The elder Lord Wycliffe loved this room. It was his favorite. He loved standing at that window and surveying the gardens and the sea beyond.’’

  Her slow circuit continued. ‘‘His gardens, his view of the sea. He took great pleasure in his right of ownership. As if an individual could ever lay claim to such things, preserve them as his alone.’’ Her mirthless laugh startled Sophie. ‘‘He hardly understood this pla
ce at all. Never appreciated it for what it truly is.’’

  ‘‘What do you mean?’’

  ‘‘This room, and everything destroyed in the fire . . . none of it mattered.’’

  ‘‘No, I . . . suppose you’re right. What is a house compared to a man’s life?’’

  ‘‘That isn’t what I mean.’’ Kellyn continued pacing. ‘‘The wings of this house aren’t original. They were added by later owners, tiresome aristocrats who felt the need for drawing rooms and fancy dining halls, parlors and libraries. Did you know that?’’

  From across the room Sophie regarded Kellyn and saw what she had previously failed to notice.

  In place of the woman’s usual shoulder-baring chemise and boldly striped skirt, a gold-and-russet brocade gown draped her figure, the hems of the overskirt tucked up to reveal a quilted satin petticoat and a pair of polished tasseled boots. The molded surface of a stomacher pushed at her breasts and tapered to a downward point at her waist. Sophie immediately recognized the dress; it had hung in the wardrobe upstairs.

  Her perplexity grew. Had Kellyn shared so intimate a relationship with Chad’s father that she kept clothes in his house? And such outlandish clothing at that?

  ‘‘Is something wrong, Sophie?’’

  Her gaze darted back to Kellyn’s face in time to perceive her cunning grin. ‘‘I . . . no. Of course not. I was simply admiring your gown. It’s lovely and . . . unique.’’

  ‘‘Do you think so?’’ A mocking quality in her voice made Sophie’s apprehension rise. She nodded in reply, confused by this abrupt change in the woman. She found herself inching toward the doorway and wishing for the return of her cousin and the vicar.

  Long strides brought Kellyn to the threshold before Sophie reached it. ‘‘Let me show you something else unique. Come.’’

  With little choice but to comply, Sophie followed her into the adjacent game room, where Kellyn lifted an object from the felt-topped card table. ‘‘Do you know what this is?’’