Beguiled

by Shannon Drake

  “Of course. You are a Monarchist,” Victor murmured.

  “I’d help the anti-monarchists, as well—had I a clue as to where the killer might strike next.”

  “Dreadful, isn’t it?” Victor asked. He looked a bit guilty. “My feelings on the situation are of no account. I have to print what’s going on with the mood of the country.”

  “You run an excellent paper,” Mark said. “And I am seeking only to keep people alive.”

  Victor sighed. “I’d help you if I could.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Victor laughed dryly. “I don’t know the identity of A. Anonymous—or Olivia Cottage, which is merely another false identity. When I tell you I can’t say, I mean just that. I don’t know who the person is. The article came to me, along with a request for any payment should we publish it, to be mailed to the post office, addressed to Olivia Cottage. The post office in question is quite near the museum. I’m grateful you’ve returned this. I can mail it out again. Though…”

  “Though…” Mark prodded.

  Victor shrugged. “I assume the person must not be in a dire financial condition or they would never be so negligent with a payment.”

  “Have you received anything new from this Olivia Cottage?”

  “Not yet,” Mark said. He smiled. “But I am hoping.”

  “I don’t wish to ask you to betray anyone, but will you let me know if you’re going to publish another article by this person?”

  “Yes, I can do that.”

  Mark thanked him, asked about his family, and left. As he departed, he brushed by Thane Grier. “Good afternoon,” he said, studying the journalist.

  Grier seemed surprised to see him there. “Is anything wro—”

  “Nothing at all.”

  “You didn’t come about the article I wrote?”

  Mark laughed. “You’re a journalist, writing the truth. Why would I have a problem?”

  “I did mention your absence from your own engagement party.”

  “And it is true. I wasn’t there,” Mark said.

  “If you’ve read today’s paper…there’s a small piece about you and Miss Grayson at the museum. It’s quite positive.”

  “Thank you.” Staring at him, Mark frowned. “You were doing far more serious pieces than the social calendar before.”

  “Indeed,” Grier muttered, then said swiftly, “This is not my preferred topic, I admit, but there are many reporters and only so much news. I did write the article on Giles Brandon’s murder.”

  “Yes, I read it. Well done. No sensationalism.”

  Thane Grier shrugged. “Sometimes they prefer sensationalism.”

  “I think you’ve done well. I prefer my news to be just that. An opinion piece is just that—an opinion. The news itself should never be slanted.”

  “Mention that to Victor next time you’re in,” Grier murmured. “Sorry…I just…Oh! Allow me to offer my personal congratulations on your engagement. I am seldom in such awe of a young woman who appears on the social pages.”

  “Thank you,” Mark told him.

  “She has a fine mind,” Grier said.

  Mark nodded, and they made their goodbyes. As he left the office, Mark realized that the reporter had said something very true.

  A fine mind…

  Bright, sharp, witty.

  All in lovely wrapping.

  Thane Grier’s words had struck at the essence of the truth. He might have been drawn in by beautiful appearance.

  He had been seduced by a fine mind.

  HER SKETCHBOOK WAS NOWHERE to be found.

  Although Ally searched high and low, she couldn’t find the sketchbook in which she did so much of her writing.

  Deeply disturbed and exhausted, she crawled atop the rock.

  The highwayman hadn’t come, either.

  A chill slipped through her bones as she contemplated the conundrum she was facing. Yesterday, in the carriage, she was certain she had convincingly denied ever seeing the envelope addressed to Olivia Cottage. But Mark Farrow was the highwayman.

  And if her book wasn’t here…

  If the highwayman—Mark!—had found it, then sooner or later, her denial yesterday would mean nothing.

  MARK’S ORIGINAL INTENT HAD been to ride out as soon as he had asked what questions he could at the newspaper offices.

  But while riding out to his father’s hunting lodge, he realized he could use his time better by first stopping to make another call that was both necessary and very important.

  Elizabeth Harrington Prine was a woman of approximately forty, and still quite beautiful. She was tall, and moved with an elegance that drew the eye as much as did her appearance. She opened her own front door and seem quite startled to see Mark, but she recovered quickly.

  “Mark!” she said. “Do come in. I apologize. I haven’t been receiving visitors lately.”

  “I beg you to forgive the intrusion when you are still in mourning.”

  “You’re not intruding. As you must know, when Jack was…killed, there were police about everywhere. The house was trampled. And then…friends try. They want to help you with funeral arrangements, they bring food, and you must keep up a facade of coping. Finally, when the activity is over, you have time to grieve alone.”

  “Elizabeth, I’m very sorry for your loss.”

  She studied his face with her bright green eyes. “I believe those words from you, Mark. You never dragged down a man because his beliefs were different from your own. However, before you come in, I must warn you—if I ever find out that the monarchy was involved in this wretched business, well, I will end up hanged myself, because I will seek revenge.”

  “I don’t believe any such thing will come to pass, Elizabeth.”

  She offered a dry smile as she led him into the parlor. Her house was on the outskirts of the village. From here he could head for his father’s lodge in the woods—and to the little cottage where he could confront Ally as the highwayman. Meanwhile, he had decided after his conversations with Eleanor Brandon and the housekeeper that it might be of importance to find out more about Elizabeth’s whereabouts when Jack Prine had been murdered. Hudson Porter, the first anti-monarchist killed, had not been married. Tomorrow he would make a point of speaking with the man’s housekeeper.

  “Will you have some tea?”

  “Thank you, no, Elizabeth.”

  “I didn’t think this was a social call.”

  “Elizabeth, you weren’t here the night he was killed, were you?”

  She shook her head. “I was in London. We were invited to a party. Jack wouldn’t come. He was convinced it was necessary for him to work. But he encouraged me to go.”

  “And what about your housekeeper?”

  “My woman works only during the day.” Elizabeth hesitated. “She found him in the morning, when she arrived. I had stayed at the town house in Kensington.”

  “I understand there was no sign of a break-in.”

  “No,” she said.

  “That would mean that Jack quite possibly knew his killer.”

  Elizabeth suddenly sat very straight. “You’re suggesting he was killed by another anti-monarchist—just as that piece in the paper suggested.”

  “Elizabeth, would he have invited a monarchist in?”

  She nodded. “Of course, if he knew the man. I know you have your opinions and are still decent to a man even when his differ from yours. God knows, Jack was still friends with many a man who supported the monarchy. Good heavens, Lord Lionel Wittburg was very close with Hudson Porter, and he was the first to be killed. And I know that Lord Wittburg was terribly distressed.”

  “Elizabeth, how many people have keys to your home?”

  She had been cooperative, but now she stiffened. “My husband kept keys, naturally. I have keys, as does my housekeeper.”

  “Where are they left?”

  “I don’t have a habit of leaving my keys about.”

  “But where are they kept?” />
  She sighed. “In my dresser drawer.”

  “What about your housekeeper? May I speak with her today?”

  Somehow she managed to sit even more stiffly. “I’m afraid I gave her the afternoon off.”

  “That’s all right. I can come back.” He rose. “Elizabeth, I’m sorry. I am trying to find the truth.”

  Elizabeth rose, as well. “You should be looking in the right places, then.”

  “And where would those places be?”

  She stared at him with angry eyes. “You might start with the Crown!”

  He left the house, warning her to lock the door behind him. He heard the bolt click shut. But then, just as he was about to start down the walk, he was suddenly certain he heard something else.

  Voices.

  Either Elizabeth had lied and the housekeeper was there, or…

  Or the widow was entertaining someone else.

  Darling Ally,

  We’ve headed over to the Morton house. Mr. and Mrs. Morton both have the fever, and her sister is on the way, but Father Carroll said they must have some help in the meantime. Edith has made soup, and we have packed up a few other things. I’m afraid we’ll be very late. Please make yourself something to eat, and lock up and don’t let anyone in. Take the greatest care, darling. We love you. The Aunties.

  Ally had to smile. She knew Violet always did the writing, but she never signed her name. She always signed “The Aunties.”

  That they were gone for the evening didn’t disturb her. They were always bustling about the neighborhood, taking care of a baby for an ailing mother, feeding a family that was having difficulty. They were the dearest women in the world. She thought often that although she’d had her few wild moments as a child, she had generally been well behaved. Not because any punishment would be fierce, but because she couldn’t bear the disappointment in their eyes when she hurt them in any way.

  “Clever,” she murmured aloud to herself. “I shall have to remember that when I become a parent.”

  She made herself tea and found one of the aunties had left stew simmering over the fire, so she fixed herself a bowl, picked up one of her favorite novels by Defoe and sat before the fire. But words that usually held her spell bound suddenly swam before her eyes.

  If, as she suspected, the highwayman had discovered her sketchbook, at some point he would read it.

  And what if he had not discovered it? Judging by the way Mark had behaved in the carriage, he had not, or at least he had not read it yet.

  What if someone else had taken it?

  A chill swept down her spine.

  The fire seemed to be crackling low. There was still no electricity in the cottage, and it suddenly seemed the oil lamps cast eerie shadows around the small room.

  Don’t be ridiculous, she chastised herself. It was certainly her imagination at work, making the normal events of an evening seem strange.

  Even so, she set down her bowl, filled with a sense of unease.

  She stood up restlessly and paced, heading first to the front door. It was securely bolted.

  She quickly went through the house, parlor, dining area, all the bedrooms, and assured herself that the windows were closed and locked.

  She was being silly. She had lived here her whole life. Half the time they neglected to lock the doors at all.

  Still, no reason not to be safe.

  As she walked back along the hallway, on her way to check the kitchen and back door, she heard a sudden thump against the wall in the front. She stood dead still, her blood seeming to congeal.

  She waited.

  Nothing.

  After a moment she forced herself to hurry along the hallway and into the kitchen. As she reached it and started toward the back door, she saw the knob start to move.

  For a moment, her breath caught.

  She rushed forward and saw that the bolt was indeed engaged. But the round brass knob was still moving, twisting, as some unseen hand tested it.

  She stood silent, staring.

  Then the movement stopped, and fear swept through her, followed by a greater fury. Whoever was out there had determined he was not entering that way and had gone off to find another.

  She silently took one of the chairs from the table, lifting it so it would not scrape and give away her position to listening ears, and settled it by the back door, under the knob. Then she looked wildly about for a weapon. There was definitely not a gun to be found in the house. There were, however, sewing shears aplenty.

  But as she started to race through to the sewing room, she saw the iron fireplace poker. She ran to the hearth, picked it up and tested it in her hands, a sturdy-enough weapon. She glanced across the parlor.

  There might be no electricity in the cottage, but the aunties had been pleased when Lord Stirling had insisted they needed a phone. They still considered it to be a new-fangled invention, but the queen had decided that she liked the telephone, and that had been enough for many, though there were still not that many places one could call.

  Ally hesitated, thinking of the noise when she cranked the line, but she headed toward it, anyway. Ginny, the local operator, would answer. And Ginny could get through to the sheriff, Sir Angus Cunningham, and Brian. But the castle was far beyond the village, and there was no way Brian could arrive quickly. Still, so long as Ginny was able to reach someone…

  Ally made a mad sprint for the phone. She vigorously cranked it….

  And there was nothing. No sound at all.

  Ally realized that whoever was outside had cut the wires.

  She stood very still again, listening, her heart thundering so loudly that at first she wasn’t able to hear anything else. Then…

  Something. A scraping sound. From the direction of Merry’s bedroom. Holding the poker tightly in her hands, she crept along the hallway. Slipping into the bedroom, she heard someone working at the window latch.

  Then nothing again.

  She barely dared to breathe.

  In the distance, there was a clicking sound.

  Now the intruder was trying the latch at the sewing-room window.

  She hurried out of Merry’s room and down the hall, tiptoeing as she entered the sewing room. She inched silently along the wall, her back flat against it, and waited. She wished she dared jerk aside the curtain and see who was trying so desperately to gain entrance. She wanted to know the face of her enemy.

  She couldn’t. She dared not warn the intruder she even knew he was there. She was afraid he might be armed. Even if he wasn’t, he could slip back into the darkness of the night far too quickly, and she would then be exposed, while the intruder remained hidden. She couldn’t give away her one advantage, the element of surprise.

  Suddenly there was a snapping sound. She realized the invader had managed to slip the latch.

  There was movement behind the curtain, a seemingly massive body pushing the fabric aside and trying to crawl through the window.

  Ally didn’t dare wait. She threw herself against the intruder, swinging the poker with all her might.

  As she moved, she heard her name.

  “Ally!” The cry came from the front of the cottage. Then it seemed to move closer. “Ally!”

  The person she had attacked let out a grunt of pain. She screamed as hands pushed against the fabric and managed to grab her wrist.

  “Ally!” She heard her name being called again.

  Then came the thundering of footsteps nearing the window, and a deep muttered curse came from the figure caught in the drape. Suddenly her wrist was released.

  The curtain wafted in the night breeze.

  Then it began to move again, was jerked aside.

  She lifted the poker, ready to swing.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “ALLY!” MARK CALLED.

  “Oh, God,” she breathed.

  He stared at her. Despite what had just happened, she wasn’t in a state of panic. She stood, her hair cascading around her face, pale and taut, but ready to do bat
tle, a poker raised high in defense, eyes narrowed.

  He was glad she had decided not to strike. After all, he was a masked man, half inside a window.

  She dropped the poker when she recognized him, and he spared a moment to realize in irritation that she seemed perfectly willing to trust a highwayman with her safety.

  “You’re all right?” he demanded quickly.

  “Yes.”

  “Keep your guard up. I’m going after him.”

  He damned the situation. Arriving at last, he had barely dismounted in the small yard in front of the cottage when he had seen the dark figure sneaking around the back. He didn’t know if he had been seen, didn’t know if Ally had been alerted in any way. So he’d shouted fiercely for her, allowing the intruder a chance to escape. Still, it might not be too late to find him.

  Cursing beneath his breath, he tore into the woods, in the direction in which he thought he had seen the figure escaping. There were a few broken branches at first; a path he thought he could follow. But in the forest, the darkness became complete, thick enough to easily swallow a man up. There were a million hiding places.

  A million places from which to attack, as well.

  Although he didn’t think whoever had been trying to gain entry was still around. The culprit had failed, then run.

  Better to run and live to fight again another day.

  Disgusted, furious with himself, he walked back toward the house.

  He approached the window first, certain Ally would still be on guard. “It’s me,” he called. She swept back the curtain. He caught hold of the window frame and jumped inside.

  She was still holding the poker. Her eyes held a wild look, but her breathing was growing slower.

  “Did you…?”

  “No.”

  He reached for the poker. “It’s all right. You can put this down now.”

  They were in near darkness, the light that softly bathed them coming from the lamps in the hall. He touched her face and took the poker from her. “He’s gone.”

  They were in the aunts’ workroom, he realized. Dressmakers’ dummies stood in eerie silence, draped in various pieces of apparel. He took her arm, leading her toward the hall and then down to the parlor, where he set her down on the sofa.