by Mary Balogh
Caroline, having been jolted from her observations when Isobel’s fingernails dug into her gloved arm, murmured something appropriate and returned her attention to the box where Lord Ruthven had been sitting.
He was gone.
Fiddlesticks and ferndots.
Caroline half rose in her seat, leaning forward to peer toward Lord Rude’s box in the event that he’d simply moved to the back of the space. But she could see no sign of a tall, dark figure lurking in the back, and she settled back in her seat, frowning worriedly. Something was wrong. He was up to something nefarious.
She knew it.
And she was the only person here who suspected.
Then she looked over at the box with the delicate brunette woman. The woman had taken a seat in the second row of chairs, leaving Caroline to wonder how such a small figure meant to see over the other occupants of her box. But she didn’t appear to be discouraged by her view, for the woman leaned near the man next to her as if to exchange some comment.
When the young man responded, the brunette smiled demurely, then accepted a handkerchief offered her. The gentleman was clearly besotted, and she seemed quite as delighted to be in his presence. Yet…Caroline caught a certain angle of her expression, and something seemed odd. As if it were not as innocent as it appeared.
And that was when the prickling became stronger over her bare shoulders. Perhaps the woman was married…and she’d fallen in love with this younger man. Yes, that made sense. She was much older than the smart dandy next to her.
But if the woman was married, she must, of course, find a way to dispose of her husband. The prickling became stronger. So delicate, so demure and innocent-looking…but Caroline was not fooled. Just like the villainess in Mrs. Tenet’s novel The Iron Gate, the woman seemed all innocence…but she was slowly poisoning her husband to death so that she could be with her younger lover.
Of course, the villainess in Mrs. Tenet’s novel had different motives that involved a chest of family jewels, but that didn’t matter. She was the same sort. Caroline had seen it in that brief flash of her eyes.
She jumped when Isobel grabbed her again. “You simply must come with us,” Isobel demanded. Her voice was pitched with excitement.
Caroline firmly withdrew her limb, certain that in the morning her skin would be decorated with small bruises. Isobel had no sense of how her excitement manifested itself.
“May she, Mrs. Argenot?” Isobel had turned to the older woman, who, despite the activity going on around the theater, seemed to have been quite engrossed in the play below. “May she indeed?”
Caroline smiled at Isobel’s enthusiasm. The girl’s blue eyes sparkled, and she looked so pretty and alive that any lingering annoyance about her propensity for inflicting bruises faded. “And what is this great plan?” she asked, glancing briefly at the boxes.
Lord Rude had not yet returned, and Mistress Poison remained in tête-à-tête with her younger companion. Perhaps it wasn’t she who’d garnered Rude’s attention after all.
Yet Caroline was certain that if Rude had left the box, he must have done so for some nefarious purpose. He must have.
“Why, James has concocted a scheme to take us on an evening picnic to the abbey ruins tomorrow,” Isobel said. “Come, James, will you not tell Caroline about it?”
“Would be my pleasure, Miss Merrill,” Mr. Thornton said, leaning forward from his seat behind Caroline. “Could show you my new pair. Just bought them today, and a fine step they have, if I do say.” His smile showed a wide expanse of very white teeth and a charming dimple in his left cheek.
Her first response to the invitation had been a leap of delight, but then Caroline recalled her engagement to meet Miss Henry tomorrow afternoon at the old bath spa. She feared that would not give her enough time to return home, change and be ready to join the Thorntons for an early evening. “Oh, dear,” she said with great apology. “I am afraid I have already been engaged for tomorrow. I should very much love to go to the ruins,” she added quite truthfully. “But I must decline. Unless it could be arranged for another day.”
Ruins, whether they be bathhouses or abbeys or castles could only be filled with fascinating finds. Ghosts, remains, hidden secrets and old passageways—and under the moonlight of an evening picnic? What more thrilling adventure, she could not conceive.
Though Caroline’s disappointment was acute, she was in no way inclined to cancel her arrangements with Miss Henry, even if she must let the opportunity pass.
“But you must come with us,” Isobel cajoled. “Whatever can be more exciting than to visit the old abbey? And James will drive us, and we shall have a splendid picnic! You must cancel your engagement and plan it another day, Caroline! You must, for I vow I shall not allow you to miss the day.”
“Perhaps if Mr. Thornton’s schedule permits,” Mrs. Argenot, who sat on the other side of Caroline, said gently, “you might arrange it for a different day? I would not be surprised if the day turned rainy tomorrow, for the clouds this evening were heavy and dark. If it does not rain tomorrow, it looks as if it will be quite stormy tonight, leaving it very wet tomorrow.”
“But with whom do you have an engagement tomorrow that you are abandoning us?” Isobel demanded, speaking over Mrs. Argenot’s quite sensible suggestion. “I simply cannot accept that we should go without you, Caroline! Can you, James? It just cannot be. We must convince her to come with, dear brother. We must go tomorrow evening! The scheme has been made up already!”
Caroline imagined that if Isobel had been standing, she would have stomped her foot and perhaps even crossed her arms petulantly over her middle. And, as this was the first mention of such an adventure, she suspected its inception had been only moments ago. Hardly a disruption in any plans.
“I should very much love to attend,” she said appeasingly. “But earlier today I made arrangements with my friend Miss Henry for an afternoon engagement, and if it is to be wet again, as Mrs. Argenot suggests, I do not think it would be all the thing to go tomorrow.”
She glanced back over to the boxes and noticed with a start that Mistress Poison had left her seat, and so had her young gentleman friend. Caroline straightened, her heart thumping, scanning the interior of the box. No, indeed. They had left.
Could they be bent on putting Mistress Poison’s husband out of his misery this very night? Was it possible that he was waiting at home, ill in bed from his rancid tea, and she was too impatient to wait for his death any longer? She meant to hurry it along, perhaps with a well-placed pillow, held by her young lover?
Or did they merely plan to take a stroll about the gallery, perhaps to finalize the details of Mistress Poison’s husband’s demise? What better place to discuss such a topic than in a public, yet private place?
And had Lord Rude indeed been watching Mistress Poison for his own purposes? Even if she planned her husband’s death, one could not sit back and allow her to fall into the hands of a vampire.
Yet, Caroline told herself she should not worry, for if the woman had a companion with her, certainly she would be safe from any attempt by Rude to lure her into the dark.
But, then again…Caroline pursed her lips. The man seemed rather young and a bit flimsy, like the foolish dandy in Mr. Starcasset’s novel who was lured to a gentleman’s club by Lord Tyndale, only to find that it was populated with vampires like Tyndale himself. The poor fop became Tyndale’s latest victim and was left for dead, bleeding into the cobblestones of Baker Street.
She tried to settle in her seat and even to watch the play, but Caroline could not keep her thoughts from wandering hither and yon. She must investigate, if only to ease her own mind.
Gathering up her skirt, which happened to be an unusual lavender color that Mrs. Argenot claimed looked particularly well with her honey-colored hair, Caroline bent to her friend’s ear and said, “I must excuse myself for a moment.”
“Oh, indeed,” Isobel said. “Dear James will escort you, and he must convince you to join ou
r party tomorrow.” Her smile seemed complacent, as if certain that her brother would succeed.
Caroline tried to think of a manner in which to decline his presence, but there was no polite way to do so. To her chagrin, Mr. Thornton offered his arm and led her out of the box.
“I confess, you might find it to be a bit of a bore,” she told him as they started along the long room that served as gallery for the theater patrons. “I merely wished to walk a bit and to…uh…admire the murals and statues.”
She realized belatedly that the majority of the murals and statues were little more than cherubic angels playing harps and lyres, with long, faded red scarves streaming out behind them. Not particularly imaginative, nor worth a second glance. As she warned him: boring.
They were not the only couple strolling through the gallery, she noted. But none of the other random visitors were Madame Poison, her young lover or Lord Rude.
“It is my deepest pleasure, Miss Merrill, to accompany you,” he told her, patting her gloved fingers, which had curled lightly around his forearm. “I could have wished for nothing more than to have a few moments of your time, in which I might express my sincere admiration for you and your person.”
He gave her that smile again, wide and white, and with the deep-cut dimple, and Caroline formed her lips into a responding one. “Why, thank you, Mr. Thornton,” she replied.
“I do hope,” he said a bit pompously, “that you would give me the great honor of addressing me by my given name, James.”
“Oh,” Caroline said, and felt the swarm of heat over her cheeks. How forward of him, after knowing her for only two days! But she was fully aware of the honor he did her by the request and, feeling a bit like one of those wooden toy men her brothers had played with, bobbed her head. “How kind of you, Mr…. er, James.”
How odd, how foreign, to be speaking a man’s Christian name. Of course, she spoke of her brothers in such a manner, but never had she done so before to any other adult man. As her mind raced and bobbed along, and she was aware that Mr. Thornton—James—had led her to the end of the gallery, she reminded herself of her purpose for coming out of the theater box and Caroline gathered back her thoughts.
“Mr…. er, James,” she said, “I wonder if you might be so kind as to fetch a refreshment? Did I see that they offered lemonade?”
“But of course, Miss Merrill,” he said. “Whatever you wish. Come along, I do believe I saw a table in this direction.”
“Oh,” she said, stopping. She gave him her most charming smile. “I wonder…would you perhaps bring it back for me? I am simply enamored of this…uhm,” she fumbled for something to say, then continued, “this lovely painting. The detail of the cherub’s wings! I must admire it, and learn how the artist’s technique was applied.”
“Of course, Miss Merrill,” he replied. “I did not know you were a painter.” Was it her imagination that he continued to use her name as a reminder that she had not yet given him leave to call her by her Christian name? “With your permission, I shall return in haste.”
Oh, please do not. “Thank you, James,” she said. “And…I would be honored if you felt familiar enough to call me by my Christian name, as well.”
“Caroline. Such a lovely name,” he told her. James gave a bow and he started off, leaving Caroline in her contemplation of the cherub’s wings until he was safely out of sight.
“I cannot see what you find so admirable about that painting,” came a familiar sardonic voice behind her.
Caroline nearly leaped out of her skin, barely controlling herself from clasping a hand to her chest and gasping like one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s heroines. Instead, she curled her fingers into her palms and willed her heart to stop its frightened pounding.
“It looks as if a child had done it,” continued Lord Rude.
While she privately agreed, she couldn’t exactly divulge that her reason for admiring the work was so that she would have a private moment to try and find the man standing in front of her. “And what brings you from your theater box this evening?” she asked boldly, thinking that if she detained him with some conversation, he might also be foiled in his plan of coaxing Mistress Poison—or which other victim he’d identified—into his clutches.
Caroline could not help but notice how crisp and snowy white was his shirtwaist, and how intricately his burgundy and black cravat had been tied. Yet, he seemed to have a bit of dust or ashes on an otherwise pristine costume, gray and clinging to his right sleeve as well as the same side of his coat.
His dark hair, which would be described as being the color of a raven’s wing in one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s thrilling novels, had been brushed neatly back from his high forehead and chiseled cheekbones. As was the fashion, his sideburns grew long, but they were neatly trimmed and did not threaten to swallow his face. The rest of his strong features had been carved by the same bold sculptor—a straight, prominent nose, large deep-set eyes and a solid, square chin.
Imposing and arrogant, and truly quite handsome, Lord Rude nevertheless seemed to have an air of suppressed energy simmering beneath his well-cut coat. He reminded her of one of her father’s stallions—Teton, a black, muscular monster that barely restrained himself while bridled, and even then allowed only Caroline’s father and her brother, Robbie, to ride him.
Rude was definitely more of a Lord Tyndale type of vampire than a Lord Ruthven, she decided at that moment. She felt her palms dampen beneath her gloves. Very attractive and very dangerous.
Lord Rude lifted his eyebrow and fixed his gaze on her. Caroline felt that little tremor shiver through her when their eyes met, and she yanked hers away.
“I had business to attend to,” he replied to the question that she’d already forgotten she’d asked. “But I need not inquire what has drawn you from your seat.”
Surprised, she forgot herself and her attention flew back to his dark eyes. “What do you mean?” Could he have realized her purpose?
His lips, thin with mockery, curved up on one side. “Whether it was your excuse or that of your companion, the result is the same: a few stolen moments of privacy whereupon he might wax rhapsodic about your freckled, button nose or your cornflower-blue eyes.”
Caroline clapped her hand over her nose. How much powder had she applied to cover that horrid wash of freckles? Apparently, not enough. And at least she didn’t have dirty smudges on her clothing. “I do not have a button nose,” she retorted. She’d always thought of her proboscis as being larger than it need be. “It’s much too large to be considered buttony.”
He gave a short laugh. “It is all a matter of perspective, I do believe.” He gestured to his own prominent feature. “But I find it interesting that you do not deny the presence of freckles, yet argue the size of your nose.”
“I cannot change the size of my nose,” Caroline replied, wondering how she’d come to be engaged in such a conversation with a suspected vampire. “But I can attempt to obliterate my freckles. And it would be much more polite if you were not to mention them.”
Lord Rude gave a short bow. “I shall leave that to your companion.”
“Have you been digging in a fireplace?” she asked, unable to keep from mentioning the ashes. “Your coat is a bit dusty. Just…there,” she added with a little gesture.
“Ah,” he said, and brushed at it. “My apologies if it offended you.” The ash filtered into the air, pungent and musty, like nothing she’d ever smelled before.
But when he returned his attention to her, she saw that his expression had changed. “You and Mr. Thornton seem to have become quite familiar with each other. Dare I presume that the man has taken your fancy?”
Caroline could hardly believe the effrontery of his question. “Mr. Thornton is very kind,” she said, with a pointed emphasis on this last word. “And I cannot imagine why our relationship should be of interest to you, Lo—” She caught herself before speaking the moniker she’d given him privately.
Rude cocked that eyebrow again. “I was merel
y attempting to make conversation, Miss…?”
“We have not been properly introduced,” she reminded him. And lifted her so-called button nose.
“You state the obvious,” he replied dryly. “And since we have commenced with discussing the others’ appendages as well as flaws in dress, I had thought to rectify the situation. But apparently that is not to be so.”
“If there is ever a reason for us to be formally introduced, I am certain that instance shall occur.”
“Indeed.” Then his expression became even more forbidding. “I should like to remind you once more, madam, that young attractive women like yourself ought to take care in walking about alone. I can’t think what Mr. Thornton—is it?—thought to leave you unattended.”
“It was at my own request,” she replied. Glancing about, she reassured herself that they were not the only occupants of the gallery, and that she could summon assistance if she needed it.
“How convenient,” he murmured, his ironic gaze sweeping over her, “that you have so quickly enthralled Mr. Thornton.”
Enthralled? Caroline caught her breath. For him to use such a word…the term used to describe the vampire’s power over his victim. Her suspicions solidified. “Mr. Thornton is no Lord Tyndale,” she retorted meaningfully. “I am certain of that.”
“Tyndale?” Lord Rude stilled, and suddenly Caroline felt very aware…and perhaps a bit frightened by the black expression that came over his face. “What do you mean mentioning Lord Tyndale? Do not tell me you have read Starcasset’s book?”
“Why, I have indeed,” she replied, taking a very small step backward. She felt a statue’s pedestal behind her. “And I have found it to be quite enlightening.” It was an effort to keep her voice steady in the face of such a response.
“Enlightening? You would find it so, wouldn’t you?” He appeared quite angry. “However did you come by a copy of that ridiculous tale? It was never supposed to have—” He caught himself, and for the first time, Caroline felt as if Lord Rude were tipped a bit off balance.