Beguiled

by Shannon Drake

  She started, stunned and alarmed by her own thought.

  “Are you all right, dear?” Lavinia asked.

  “Indeed. Quite,” she replied quickly.

  “Good heavens, you’re not disturbed by that batty woman’s curse, are you?” Andrew asked.

  “She is far too sane and practical a young woman for such silliness,” Thane said, watching her with admiration and a glint in his eyes, as if he understood something about her she didn’t understand herself.

  As they stood there, Shelby came up to stand before Ally.

  “Your pardon,” he said politely to the others. “Lord Stirling has suggested I take you home now, Miss Grayson. He fears the aunts will begin to worry.”

  “Yes, yes, I must go. Good night,” she said, nodding to Thane, Andrew and Lavinia.

  “Good night and God bless,” Thane called after her.

  As Shelby led her toward the door, he whispered, “Camille said you refused to stay for the night when this evening was planned, that you were determined to get home to the aunts. You can still stay, you know. Your bedroom always awaits.”

  “No, but thank you, and thank you for taking me home. When the aunts absolutely refused to attend, I knew I’d have to get back to them,” Ally assured him.

  It was not an easy process to leave. Many guests were still milling about on the castle steps, awaiting their carriages. Sir Angus spoke to her again, giving his congratulations. Lord Lionel Wittburg, looking both old and exhausted, also stopped her, wishing her health, happiness and long life. As Shelby at last helped her into the coach bearing Lord Stirling’s coat of arms, she saw that another of Brian’s men—one of the strong ones who often guarded the gate—was seated on the driver’s bench. Lord Stirling was quite determined that no coach of his would be held up again.

  Seated, while Shelby climbed up to take the reins, Ally looked back at the castle.

  She felt the strangest sense of déjà vu.

  There was the journalist, Thane Grier, standing just a few feet apart from the others at the door.

  There was the sheriff, Sir Angus Cunningham.

  Next to him stood Andrew Harrington, and next to him, Sir Lionel Wittburg.

  The light from the doorway framed the threesome, shadows seeming to fall around them.

  Ally thought she saw a woman…in black.

  She reminded herself that there had been several women in black at the party. Widows in mourning, daughters who had lost fathers, mothers who had lost sons.

  Eleanor Brandon had been in black.

  Eleanor Brandon, newly made widow of Giles, whose husband’s body was scarcely cold. She should have been resting, sedated, in her own home, but for some reason she had ordered her coachman to bring her to the castle.

  She couldn’t have been the woman standing next to Andrew Harrington’s cousin that morning, could she?

  The murder had not even been known at that point.

  Ally gave herself a shake. She was seeing things. Eleanor Brandon had been taken up to bed. She would have been given plenty of brandy by now, and if she had remained as hysterical and upset as she had been, Brian Stirling would have called for a doctor.

  But when she had danced with Sir Angus, she had been startled by another figure in black, one who had uncannily reminded her of the morning just past.

  She sat back in the coach, then looked out the window again.

  Imagined or real…

  In the shadows stood a woman in black.

  MARK POURED IAN A WHISKEY, which the detective accepted with thanks, then swallowed in a gulp. Smiling, Mark refilled the glass.

  “The truth will come out,” he assured his friend.

  Ian took the second serving and walked to the handsome daybed in the parlor, perching on the end of it, cradling the glass between his hands. “Not by legal and customary means, I fear,” he said.

  “However it occurs, the truth will be known,” Mark said determinedly.

  Ian looked at him morosely. “What if you are caught?” he demanded.

  “I will not be caught.”

  Ian shook his head. “Not even you are infallible, my friend.”

  “Then I’ll have to move very swiftly.” He took a sip of his own whiskey. “Three murders, all the same. Each man busy at his desk. Each man writing an opinion piece against the monarchy. No evidence of a break-in. As if the men were murdered by a ghost. We know better. In each case, there must have been a set of keys, either provided by someone in the household or stolen from them. Tomorrow afternoon, I’ll go with you when you interview the housekeeper again.” He hesitated. “Ian, not only do I think the victims knew their killer very well, I believe the killer is an anti-monarchist himself. He—or she, but for the sake of semantics, let’s say he—believes killing his own allies is the best thing he can do to further his cause of toppling the government.”

  Before Ian could respond, the sound of a door opening and closing came from the front entry.

  Joseph Farrow, doffing his cloak and trusting it to Jeeter’s waiting hands, entered, thanking his valet as he did so.

  He didn’t appear at all startled when he saw Mark and Ian in the parlor. Ian stood immediately, nodding his head in respect.

  “Well?” Joseph demanded, then caught himself. “Forgive me. Hello, Detective Douglas. I hope my son has made you welcome?”

  “Of course,” Ian murmured.

  “We have a few theories, Father,” Mark said, and explained.

  “That’s outrageous!” Joseph said. “Why would an anti-monarchist kill his own kind?”

  “He’s creating martyrs—and trying to cast the blame on the monarchy,” Mark said.

  Joseph poured himself a whiskey and paced the floor. “There were those who tried very hard to blame the whole Jack the Ripper horror on the monarchy,” he said, shaking his head. “Ridiculous! The queen has endured such slander before and remained unbowed. They will not get away with this.”

  “No, Father, they will not,” Mark assured him.

  “So…?” Joseph queried.

  Ian looked guiltily at Mark, then told Joseph, “Lord Farrow, I sincerely believe that the killer is a man of some means. I believe the only way he is escaping so easily is because he has a carriage awaiting him each time he commits one of his deadly deeds.”

  Joseph said, “There were many who believed the Ripper made his escape by carriage, and that is why no one saw him. Then again, the Ripper moved through neighborhoods where slaughterhouses were abundant, and it might well have seemed half the populace wore aprons covered in animal blood. In this instance…” He lowered his head for a moment, shaking it. “In this instance, Detective Douglas, I believe you may be right.”

  “So we must keep following every path until we find the right one,” Mark murmured.

  Ian Douglas set his glass back on the cherrywood brandy table. “I thank you for your hospitality. I will take my leave now.”

  “Thank you, Detective, for your aid,” Joseph told him.

  “It’s my job,” Ian said simply. Jeeter appeared, ready to show him out.

  When he had gone, Joseph Farrow looked at his son. “You haven’t asked yet about your engagement ball.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m sure it was an elegant occasion.”

  “Alexandra Grayson is quite charming, not to mention exquisite,” Joseph said.

  “I know.”

  “Of course you do. She had a meeting with the highwayman, after all,” Joseph said, frowning.

  “Father, I didn’t know who was in the coach, I didn’t see the coat of arms until we had stopped it. And the highwayman, to maintain his credibility, could hardly have ignored such a rich prize.”

  Joseph didn’t look pacified. “Miss Grayson was hardly charmed by a fiancé who could not quite manage to make an appearance.”

  “There was nothing I could do.”

  “I think we should push forward with all haste to finalize this marriage.”

  “What?” Mark said, astoun
ded.

  “You will lose her otherwise,” Joseph said softly.

  “Father, you have told me about this vow you and Lord Stirling made between you, and though you know I find the entire concept ridiculous and outdated, I will honor it because I honor you. But I can hardly lose a woman who is mine only through the machinations of others.”

  Joseph turned away from him, staring at the fire. “I’m afraid her life may be in danger in the future. And though you’ve yet to really know her, I cannot tell you what a tragedy her loss would be.”

  “Father, why—”

  “I can’t tell you. You must simply believe me.”

  “Father—”

  “I learned something from Angus Cunningham tonight, Mark. You have heard of Lady Rowenna? She is the daughter of Lord Carnarenfew.”

  “Yes, yes…she has land and a manor past the western forest area.”

  “She was nearly killed yesterday.”

  “How?”

  “A bullet fired into her house.”

  Mark shook his head. “Perhaps a hunter was lost, misfired—”

  “I believe it was an attempt to kill her. She is known to be an illegitimate grandchild of the queen’s uncle.”

  “Father, I admit to being completely lost.”

  “Miss Grayson lives in a cottage in the woods. With three doting aunts and not even a guard dog.”

  “Father, I have agreed I will marry her.”

  “Very soon,” Joseph said. “Unless you are blind, you must realize it will be no hardship.”

  Mark looked down. A hardship? Never. His encounter with the young woman in question had stayed with him all day. She hadn’t been in any way what he had expected. She was strong, not a wife he would simply take and protect. She was opinionated. She was smart and sharp and…

  He didn’t see her accepting such a marriage easily.

  A rueful smile curved his lips. “Father, why have you never remarried?” he asked softly.

  “Why?” Joseph repeated with a frown. As usual, Mark saw his father’s eyes grow soft at the mere memory of his mother. “I love her still, son. No other woman will ever be my wife.”

  “It would have been nice to be allowed that emotion myself,” Mark said simply. “Meanwhile, we are in a very grim situation here.”

  “All the more reason this must happen quickly,” Joseph said. “I’m sorry, son. The situation is far too dire to allow emotions to rule. My prayer is only for this to happen quickly and that Miss Grayson be safe. You are going to be an earl one day, yet you decided you must sign on in secrecy with the queen’s private guard, must play detective, must risk your life….”

  Joseph turned away. Mark stiffened. “Father, you served in the military.”

  “Yes, and I survived, praise God. If you’re going to continue to risk your neck, I’d like to at least have a grandchild!”

  “Well, that’s rather straightforward,” Mark murmured. “I will make sure that I…that I see Miss Grayson, that…she’s kept safe. But don’t you see, Father? The faster we solve these terrible crimes, the sooner everyone will be safe. Tomorrow morning, the news of Giles Brandon’s death will be told in grisly detail in the papers, and the last article he wrote will run, as well. Would to God there was someone out there with the power of the pen who would suggest it is the anti-monarchists themselves who are behind these heinous murders.”

  “Would to God,” Joseph said wearily. He started for the stairs, then turned back. “Mark, forgive me. I am proud of you. I raised you to know your own mind. I…couldn’t bear to lose you, that is all.”

  “You won’t lose me, Father,” Mark assured him.

  Joseph went on up the stairs.

  The clock over the fireplace began to chime.

  It was already morning.

  Jeeter came into the room. “Sir…I have acquired a first edition of the paper.”

  “Thank you, Jeeter.”

  Mark hurried across the room and accepted the paper. He could still smell the scent of the fresh ink.

  As he had expected, the headline blazed with the murder of Giles Brandon. Halfway down, on the right-hand side, was Giles Brandon’s last article.

  But halfway down, on the left-hand side was another article. Its opening words seemed to blaze loudly, too.

  Is the monarchy guilty? Or is a zealot at work, an anti-monarchist willing to commit the murders of his own friends and comrades just to topple the monarchy and enact a change in government?

  Mark’s mouth gaped open. Luckily he was near a chair, for he was able to sit instead of winding up on the floor.

  Good God! He had just been saying they needed such a writer, and here…

  He read the article. It was excellent, pointing out all the reasons why it was most unlikely that either the queen or some other member of the monarchy could be involved. The writer listed all the reasons why a deranged and passionate zealot might well be responsible. It was excellent. Of course, it had been written before anyone had known about the murder of Giles Brandon, but even based only on the two previous murders, it still made perfect sense, the words cleverly arranged, the arguments entirely persuasive.

  He looked quickly for a byline. A. Anonymous.

  He folded the newspaper, rose and set it thoughtfully on the table by the newel post.

  A. Anonymous.

  Thank God for the pseudonym.

  If the writer’s real name ever became known, A. Anonymous would become a prime target for a grisly murder.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “I’M JUST GOING FOR A WALK in the woods with my sketch pad, as I’ve done at least a thousand times over the years,” Ally said, looking from one dear but alarmed face to another.

  She smiled, shaking her head. “What on earth is the matter with you darlings this morning?” she demanded.

  Violet, tall and very slim, clasped her hands together. “Ally, all those other times were before you were waylaid by the highwayman.” Violet gazed at Merry, Merry gazed at Edith, and then they all gazed at her.

  Ally realized suddenly that in the days since the ball, they had kept her extremely busy. Sunday there had been church, and then they’d asked the rector back to the house for dinner. Monday Violet had needed help with a gown. Tuesday Merry had needed assistance in the garden. Edith had asked her to help in the kitchen on Wednesday, and so on. There had been something that needed doing every day. And now it was Saturday again.

  A week since the ball and her engagement to a man she had yet to see.

  A week to remember her encounter with the highwayman. A week…and no real chance to have a conversation with any of her guardians.

  A week in which she’d at least had a bit of time to write.

  “The highwayman…please! Is that why you’ve kept me so busy? To keep me from going out? He is long gone.”

  “And after that, dear Ally became engaged,” Merry said, smiling dreamily, as she had so often since Ally had come home from the party. “I still dream of the way you looked coming home. You could have been such a princess!”

  “No, my darling, not a princess,” Ally protested, but Merry was already waltzing about the room with an imaginary partner. Ally had to smile. She loved them all so much. Violet, the sternest of the three; Merry, ever-young at heart; and Edith, who held the scales between the two, sometimes as cheerful as Merry and sometimes stalwart in supporting Violet’s far stricter tendencies. They had been waiting for her outside the front door when she had returned and flitted about like a threesome of oversize fairies, demanding to know every last detail. She had thanked them over and over again for the dress. They had insisted it was all Maggie’s doing, but she could see the pleasure in their eyes when she told them how many compliments she had received on the gown.

  She had described the castle, the dinner, the dancing—and the announcement that had so taken her by surprise, an announcement that had been no surprise to them. She had left out the part about Giles Brandon’s wife coming in, screaming hysterically and cur
sing her. When they had pressed for more details, she had obliged at first, then told them, “No, not another word. It was a lovely party—except for one thing.”

  “And that was?” Violet asked, puzzled.

  “You three were not there. And I determined last night I will never go to another party or event—no matter how kind my godparents are—unless you are there, as well.”

  “Oh, but, dear!” Violet protested.

  “We’re…we’re…we’re not…party types,” Merry managed.

  “Oh, no, no, no,” Edith said.

  “Then I am not, either,” Ally said. “I never should have let you get away with it this time,” she said sternly.

  “Oh, but…we’re not…” Violet tried again.

  “If you dare say that you’re not society and I am, I will refuse to go to the castle ever again! I’m an orphan. You raised me. You are my parents. Do you understand?”

  Merry giggled. “We’re all old women, dear.”

  “You are my family. I adore my godparents. They are wonderful people, and I am incredibly lucky to have them in my life. But you are my family. Are we understood?”

  They looked at one another. “Of course, dear,” they said in unison.

  Her mind returning to the present, Ally said, “Please, I’m just going for a walk in the woods.”

  “You really mustn’t,” Violet argued.

  “You’re engaged now,” Merry told her.

  She stiffened. If she told them she didn’t feel at all engaged and wasn’t at all sure about going through with the marriage, they would simply stand there arguing until doomsday.

  “Engaged,” she murmured. The ring sat heavily upon her finger. “But not married,” she said brightly.

  “Oh, dear, what does that mean?” Merry asked Violet.

  “Well, she’s going through with the wedding,” Violet said, then looked at Ally. “You are going through with the wedding, aren’t you?”

  “Oh! She must go through with the wedding!” Edith exclaimed, and looked worriedly at the others.

  “Ally, dear,” Violet said, “what did you mean—that you’re not married yet?”

  “It means I’m going for a walk in the woods,” Ally said, grinning. “I love you all so much,” she added, giving each of them a hug. Then, before anyone could stop her again, she slipped her cloak off the peg by the door and hurried out.