Against every bit of training from his youth, the strict discipline of his father, Darkefell could feel the seductive pull of just that… having a woman to talk to and in whom to confide. Women—or one woman, at least—offered an openness missing in daily converse with any other soul. Was that what marriage could bring if one selected wisely… a deep, all-trusting, all-confiding friendship?
A wife, among his acquaintance, was an indispensable nuisance, a legal necessity to produce an heir. Affairs of the heart and delights of the flesh were to explore with a mistress. With men, one shared opinions and ideas. But could one woman unite all of that?
This was far too close to the bone and marrow of him for comfort. “Osei,” he said, anxious to change the subject, “they are talking in London of sending Africans back to their various homelands. I don’t know if you’ve ever thought of it. I’ve been meaning to raise this subject for some time but never found the opportunity. If you wish help in finding your family, I would offer what I could. Even if you would like to return to your homeland… I will help.”
Osei stood and bowed, his spectacle lenses glinting in the lamplight and concealing his eyes. “Thank you, sir, but my home is here.”
“Good,” Darkefell said, feeling awkward and so resorting to the hearty mannerisms his father had employed in such a situation. “Good, good. No need to speak of that again, then!” He rose and clapped Osei on the shoulder. “I must go and dress for dinner at Ivy Lodge. Is everything prepared according to my instructions?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.”
***
Agitated, Anne paced, viewed sternly by Irusan, who sat atop her vanity table among the brushes and pots of cream. Mary sat in a chair by the fire, trying to mend the damage done to Anne’s cloak by the brush Anne had pushed through. Robbie, who had been helping the Ivy Lodge stableboy, entered just that moment; by the excited gleam in his eyes and triumphant grin, Anne knew he had information.
“You know something,” she said to the child, who went directly to his mother. “Robbie, you have the look of a fellow with a head stuffed full of information. Out with it!”
He nodded as he leaned on his mother’s shoulder. “Bertie—that’s Gilbert, mum, ’oo is stableboy ’ere—’e sez Miss Cece gave ’im a note, and ’e took it to the fella like you sed. ’E can’t remember rightly if it were that day, but ’e got in bags o’ trouble from Mister Lisle—’e’s the head groom—’bout missin’ ’is chores that afternoon, then remembers you comin’ milady, so ’e thinks it were that day.”
Anne sat abruptly on the edge of her bed, deep in thought. Irusan leaped down from his perch and gracefully up to the bed, then padded across to her and settled half on her lap and half on the bed. He flexed his claws, tangling them in the fine fabric. She picked his claws from her skirt and smoothed the threads.
“’E’s scaret o’ you, milady—’e sez ’e shut you inta the tower by mistake an’ is afraid of a hiding if ’e sez he did it.”
Well, that solved that little mystery, too, Anne thought; so the boy had accidentally locked her into the tower and run away out of fear. “All right,” she said and suddenly stood to pace again. Irusan, dumped unceremoniously from her lap, let out a squawk of disapproval and leaped to the vanity table, knocking down a bottle. The resulting crash made him even more cross, and with a chatter of fury, he leaped swiftly down from the vanity, up to the bed, and then, with one mighty leap, up to the top of a bookshelf. Robbie clapped and laughed. “All right, m’boy,” Anne said, “you’ve done very well. You shall have the entire bag of boiled sweets I promised you, so you can make yourself as ill as you please. But off with you, now. I must dress quickly for the evening.”
Robbie headed off to the dressing room where he and his mother slept, and Irusan, with one reproachful look at Anne, leaped down from his perch and followed the boy. This, of course, was his action whenever he wanted Anne to know that he was especially peeved with her; for to prefer the attentions of a small boy was a “catty” way of expressing extreme indignation.
Anne ignored him. Once the door was closed behind them, she was just about to strip down to her chemise, but a tap at the door stopped her. “Who is it?”
“It is Hailey, milady. Ellen is awake an’ asked for you in particular.”
With an exultant hop, Anne raced to the door, flung it open, and faced the housekeeper. “She asked for me by name?”
“Yes’m,” Mrs. Hailey said. “Wants to tell you something.”
Anne was gone for a half hour. Ellen spoke with some difficulty, because her throat was raw, but what she had to say was worth hearing. Anne would now have to hurry to dress appropriately, she realized as she returned to her room. However, the rush was worth it. She wondered if she ought to send a message to the marquess; but no, she would see him soon enough and would let him know that their conjectures were fully supported by Ellen Henderson’s information.
She explained what she had heard to Mary, and then, trembling all over as she stood in the middle of her bedchamber, said, “Mary, I wish to look my absolute best tonight. Despite the odd mix of dinner guests, I expect fascinating conversation and scintillating revelations.” She sat in the vanity chair.
Mary began with her hair. “This interest in your attire wouldna be because of his lordship, would it?”
Anne twisted and stared up at her maid, giving her a sour look but not saying anything. Of course, Mary was partly right. As much as she wished it were not so, she did care what the marquess thought of her. “All right, then—I wish him to think well of me, if nothing else. Make me as attractive as is possible.”
The grin on her maid’s face was broad, and she rubbed her work-worn hands together. “Aye. Now there’s a challenge to sink ma teeth into.”
“Thank you very much,” Anne said, on the edge of being insulted. Her sense of humor reanimated, and she finished with a laugh and said, “I expect wonders, then. Make me as pretty as Emma Hart.” Though she had never met the young woman—of course no lady could meet such a woman as the notorious mistress of the Honorable Charles Greville—she had seen a couple of the paintings Romney had done; they were rhapsodic, and Emma must be a glorious creature. Anne admired beauty, whether male or female, though she never confused pulchritude with politesse.
“I’m verra good, milady—but I’m no’ a miracle worker.”
“I should sack you for impertinence,” Anne said tartly.
“No one else would put up wi’ your captiousness.” With that last sally, Mary set to work in earnest.
Though Anne had decided on her favorite green sarcanet, Mary was firm; she had been given free rein and had her own idea of what Anne must wear. Once the elaborate hairstyle was done, it was time for Anne to begin dressing.
“First, scent,” Mary said, spraying Anne’s chemise with fragrance of hyacinth. “Then your stockings and stays.” She firmly laced in Anne, pulling hard until Anne could barely breathe.
“Why so tight?” Anne wailed, tying her garters with some difficulty.
“We’re going to make the most of your figure, because you’ve got a verra good one, and there is not a man alive who doesn’t like to see a nice pair of upthrust breasts.” Mary’s rolling r’s drew out the last two words.
Anne began to feel the first quivering of anxiety. She was going to look like a trollop, she just knew it! She would have huge upthrust bosoms under her chin and a pinched expression on her painted face, her eyes bulging from the tightness of her stays; she’d frighten everyone but Irusan.
“Now, rump pad, and petticoat,” Mary said. She tied the little roll around Anne’s waist, then fetched a silver-tissue petticoat from the wardrobe, pulled it down over her mistress’s head, and laced it, too, around Anne’s waist, along with a pair of pockets. “And now the gray tabby silk,” she said, fetching the dress from the other room then dropping it over Anne’s head and lacing her up, “and silver-embroidered stomacher.” Finally, lilac damask slippers with silver buckles
, the matching lilac damask fan with silver fittings and amethyst cabochons, and a fine jeweled mechlin collar around her long neck.
When they were done, Anne, afraid to look at herself, turned away from the cheval mirror. “I can’t do it,” she said, shivering. “I can’t look.”
Mary briskly grabbed her shoulders, saying, “Don’t be daft,” as she whirled Anne around.
Anne stared at her reflection. Her hair was glossy, the rich brown color illuminated by pomade and lilac feathers; it gleamed like silk in the lamplight. Her bosom was creamy white, and a single silver locket hung from a glistening chain and nestled in the décolletage below the mechlin lace band. Overall, the silvery dress and petticoat was elegant and lovely, her figure perfection, and tears welled up in her eyes. She had never in her life looked better. She should have known she could trust Mary.
“I will never be Emma Hart, Mary, but you’ve made me a modestly attractive woman. Thank you.”
The abigail’s eyes glittered, and she smiled. “His lordship values the woman beneath the attire far more, if he’s wise, for never have I met a woman wi’ a heart like yours.” She paused then tagged on, pragmatic as always, “But borrowed feathers willna hurt you for one night.”
“Why have you never done this before, this, this…?” She broke off and gestured to her reflection in the mirror.
“Ah, nouw that’d be whisperin’ tales to a birdie, wouldn’t it?” Mary said with a wink.
“I have no idea what you mean.”
“Good. It’s time to go down, milady. Have a good e’en, and don’t muddle wi’ a murderer.”
***
The family gathered as the guests arrived. Lord John and Lydia sat in the drawing room while Lady Darkefell stood near the door, greeting people as they arrived: Sir Trevor Pomfroy, the vicar and his wife, Richard Allengate, Hiram Grover, Mr. and Mrs. Benjamin Jenkins, Miss Beatrice Lange. It was an odd assortment. His mother had complained, but the marquess overruled her objections in ordering this impromptu dinner party.
But where was Lady Anne? Darkefell fumed, glancing at the clock in the hall. She was necessary to their plan, for she was the only one he trusted to play her part perfectly and to catch things he might not. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a movement on the stairs and turned.
Lady Anne descended, and as she emerged from the dimness of the wide staircase, he was assaulted by the vision of elegance she had become in the few short hours since he had last seen her. He leaped up the three steps remaining and grabbed her arm. “Why the devil did you make yourself over into some kind of society diamond? What are you thinking?”
“What do you mean? Unhand me!” she said in clear, frigid tones, yanking her arm from his grasp.
“I mean,” he muttered, “how are you going to melt into the background and watch the exchanges we hope for if you stand out like a bird of paradise among hens?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Darkefell. I’m simply wearing appropriate clothing. To dress otherwise would be to invite derision. I assure you, I shall blend in far better dressed thusly than as some fright, as you clearly prefer.”
She stalked down the last three steps, leaving him fuming. He followed, regulating his facial expressions as his mother guided guests who had never been to Ivy Lodge—Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins and Miss Beatrice Lange—to the appropriate room.
The play was about to begin.
Anne burned in silence as she strolled toward the drawing room. How dare the man take exception to her style of dress? Just because he had not seen her in proper attire, did he think she didn’t own any beautiful clothing? That was the perfect example of how impossible he would be to whatever unfortunate woman married him. He could be all charm and appeal when he wished, and then become, in the next moment, imperious and unbearably high-handed.
She entered the drawing room and paused, glancing around at the gathering. The first face that drew her attention was Lord John. He was pale, appeared ill, and she felt a qualm as to their procedure. Lydia, too, looked ill, and in fact appeared to be faint. She sat in a chair but leaned heavily on her husband, who stood beside her.
What was wrong with those two? Lydia looked up at her, and their eyes locked. Anne thought she mouthed, “I’m frightened,” but couldn’t be sure, and her attention was demanded at that moment by Mrs. Lily Jenkins, who flounced over to her.
“What is going on here?” she asked.
Anne was ready for this and replied, “Lady Darkefell thought it would be kind to have a little dinner party for me, as I will be here only another few days. She invited everyone I mentioned having met and found congenial in the last weeks.”
The young woman appeared mollified and said with exaggerated politeness, “I beg your pardon, my lady, for my tone just now. I was just that taken aback at finding so many others arriving.”
Anne watched her eyes as she said, “Are you uncomfortable with any of them, Mrs. Jenkins? I would not want you to feel ill at ease.”
“La, of course not, my lady,” she said in light tones but with hard eyes. “I am perfectly accustomed to every upper level of society, I must say, for my husband is of the most elegant family in town, I assure you.”
“Speaking of elegance, I understand Mr. Jenkins aspired to the hand of Fanny Allengate once, but that she turned him down or broke off her engagement with him?”
“Well,” the young woman said with a sour expression on her narrow face, “he proposed only out of kindness, you know, to an old family friend, for she had just lost her father. But he was so relieved when she released him, for he had been in love with me forever, he was just shy to say it. He knew I had refused more eligible offers, you see, and did not have confidence in his ability to attach a woman of my spirit and strength.”
Anne was not fooled for one tick of the clock by Lily Jenkins’s bluster. Her words were those of a determined shrew who will always characterize herself as spirited rather than shrewish.
Richard Allengate and Mr. Benjamin Jenkins were talking affably at that moment, and Anne watched while Richard played his part. He frowned and leaned into Mr. Jenkins, asking him the question and giving the salient information with which he had been supplied by the marquess. Mr. Jenkins looked surprised, then glanced toward his wife. Mrs. Jenkins’s eyes widened in alarm and swept across the room toward her husband.
Mr. Hiram Grover, attired in an old-fashioned, wide-sleeved jacket and bag wig, was sitting by the fire when Mr. Osei Boatin walked into the sitting room. Anne noted the watchful gaze of the gentleman and his increasing agitation as Mr. Boatin walked steadily over and took the chair opposite him by the fire. Mr. Boatin said not a word; he merely sat, gazing calmly into the fire. Grover moved so he was facing slightly away from the secretary.
The stage was set.
Lord Darkefell, with a significant—and dare she say sheepish?—look to her, took a position near the fireplace by the mantle. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention?”
The majority of the people gathered turned their attention toward the marquess, but there were a few notable exceptions. Hiram Grover, his face and neck showing a brick red color as his wig slid askew, stared into the fire. Lily Jenkins, also red-faced, clasped her hands together and stared up at her husband, who bore the shocked expression of a man who had just had mist cleared from his gaze and seen horror. Lord John seemed concerned only with Lydia, who still looked faint and ill.
Anne faded into the background and watched each one in turn, waiting.
Lord Darkefell cleared his throat and began: “I have been remiss in addressing the concerns of my people, the people of Hornethwaite and Staunby, for the last year or more. I have no excuse, not when people were laboring under fears I ought to have soothed and instead exacerbated.”
The vicar, who stood with his wife and Miss Beatrice Lange, spoke up, saying, “My lord, as much as you are responsible for the people in a corporal sense, it is I who bear the responsibility of caring for their spiritual needs and immortal souls, and
I feel—”
“Not now, Mr. Sydney,” the marquess said, holding up one hand. “In an effort to clear the air and to inform all of you—for each one of you has your sphere of influence and can disseminate what comfort I have to offer—I am going to reveal the truth about some things that have been, until now, clouded in a shroud of doubt and suspicion.”
Anne watched Benjamin Jenkins, his frown deepening as he threw a questioning glance at his wife, who gazed at him in mute appeal. She tugged his sleeve and said something, but he shook his head and firmed his lips. It looked, to Anne, as if she was pleading to leave. She put one trembling hand to her forehead in a feign of illness, but he was unmoved, folding his arms over his chest.
“I don’t have solutions to everything,” the marquess went on, letting his gaze travel over the gathering. “I cannot say who killed Tilly Landers, nor do I know who was responsible for Fanny Allengate’s unfortunate death. I believe I do know who caused that poor girl much torment before her death, though, and loss of her sterling reputation after.”
Richard Allengate still bore the look of solemnity he had ever borne, but now there was an added element of anger directed toward only one individual.
“But Cecilia Wainwright, whose well-being was my responsibility in a way not one of the other unfortunate girls’ was… well, I know how she died. Ambitious, but foolhardy in that ambition, she aspired to a life beyond what she could ever have as a lady’s maid. She was brutally and foully slaughtered, not by a wolf nor a werewolf—there never was any werewolf but some frivolous fellows and myself—but by a human hand. She was murdered by someone in this room.”
Twenty-Three
The expected gasp went around the room, and Lydia wavered, her husband’s firm arm the only thing that kept her upright. Several voices called out, “Lord Darkefell is the werewolf?” “Is that true?” and “Killed… by someone in this room? Surely not?” but they stopped when Lady Sophie Darkefell stepped out of the gloom.
“This is enough!” she said, approaching the marquess. “Tony, you cannot invite people to dinner and then accuse one of murder.”
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