by K. B. Owen
At last, the supper bell rang. Thank goodness. If she could get one final look at the entire assemblage to check for anyone she had missed, then she and Charlotte could make their excuses and leave. She was anxious to write everything down before she forgot something.
Concordia and Charlotte were following Sir Anthony and Lady Dunwick to the supper room when one of the maids approached them.
“Excuse me, sir?” she said. She bobbed a small curtsy to Sir Anthony. “Mr. Isley asked you and your party to join him in the study. Would you please step this way?”
Concordia’s heart sank. She and Charlotte exchanged a glance.
Barton Isley was waiting for them in the study. There was no sign of Lily. “Please be seated.” He waved a hand toward the maid. “Close the door behind you as you leave.”
“Something wrong, Barton?” asked a puzzled Sir Anthony.
Isley lowered himself into a chair. “Most certainly there is. Do you understand the need for confidentiality among our order? Why have you brought these two ladies—” his gesture included Concordia and Charlotte “—to such a gathering?”
Sir Anthony looked at his wife. “I thought you had secured permission for Charlotte and Miss Wells to attend.”
Lady Dunwick maintained her dignified air. She addressed both men. “No, I did not. Since this was to be a purely social occasion, such a formality seemed unnecessary.”
Barton’s face grew red. “You foolish woman. A basic tenet of the order is that the membership remain unknown to outsiders.”
Lady Dunwick had gone pale. Sir Anthony leaned over and patted her arm before looking back at Isley. “Now then, Isley, there’s no need to address my wife in such a rude manner.”
“This is a social event, is it not?” Lady Dunwick retorted, her voice quavering with barely-concealed anger. “These ladies are hardly ‘outsiders’. Charlotte is my niece, and is considering membership in the Daughters of the Black Scroll. Miss Wells is a good friend of hers. Her mother, Mrs. Wells, has also been offered membership, based upon her exceptional charitable works. It is quite natural that Miss Wells would be interested in attending this function.”
Isley gave a bark of laughter. “This young woman–” he pointed to Concordia “–has proved herself, time and again, to be exceptionally nosy, prying into the affairs of others, no doubt out of some prurient curiosity known only to her sex. She is the worst possible outsider you could have brought here tonight.”
“And why is that, Mr. Isley?” Concordia asked, giving the man a hard look, even as she clenched her gloved hands together to keep them from trembling. “What do you fear I would learn?”
Sir Anthony gave Concordia a sharp glance of understanding.
Barton Isley glared at Concordia. “Nothing,” he said, through gritted teeth.
Concordia stood, heart pounding. Perhaps retreat was the prudent course. “I apologize for distressing you so. It would be better if we were to leave.”
There was a light rap on the study door, and Lily Isley walked in.
“Barton, shouldn’t you be joining the party?” She stopped, taking in the sight of her red-faced husband and the subdued Dunwicks, rising from their chairs and collecting their belongings. Then she noticed Concordia. “Well, this is a surprise! I hardly recognized you. Whatever are you doing here?” She turned to her husband. “Barton?”
Isley spoke through clenched teeth. “The Dunwicks took it upon themselves to invite Miss Wells and Miss Crandall to our gathering.”
“Oh.” Lily regarded her husband uneasily. “I’m sure it was a misunderstanding, dear.”
“Indeed,” Lady Dunwick interjected apologetically, “I didn’t realize….”
“Of course not,” Lily said sympathetically. “And no doubt my Barton has over-reacted,” she added. “These people are our friends, dear, and certainly do not mean us any ill-will.”
Barton Isley shifted uncomfortably. “Perhaps so,” he said gruffly. “I apologize.”
“Now, that’s better, isn’t it?” Lily said. “And since you are already here, why not rejoin our little gathering?”
Isley glowered at his wife.
“You are most kind, but I believe we’ve had enough revelry for one evening,” Lady Dunwick said smoothly, looking only at Lily and turning a stiff back to Barton Isley.
“I’ll have your carriage brought around,” Lily offered, pulling on the bell, “but I was wondering...Concordia, could you possibly stay? Only for a little while. I know it’s terribly late. You didn’t have the benefit of seeing the production, but there is a most promising senior I want to talk with you about. I’m thinking of taking her under my wing.”
“Unfortunately, I came with the Dunwicks,” Concordia said, glancing uneasily at Barton Isley.
Lily waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, don’t worry about that. I’ll send you back to the college in my coach as soon as we’re done, I promise.”
Concordia was torn. She was tired and felt the instinct to retreat, but on the other hand, her plans had been interrupted. Perhaps she could learn more in a confidential tête-â-tête with Lily Isley, if the discussion could be turned to the Black Scroll.
Concordia turned to Lady Dunwick. “I’ll stay here for a little while longer. Thank you for your kindness. I regret the trouble it caused.”
Lady Dunwick squeezed her hand as she turned to leave. “No matter, my dear.” She dropped her voice. “Actually, it has given Sir Anthony and myself a great deal to consider, regarding this group.”
Charlotte said goodbye to Concordia next, her forehead puckered in concern. “You’re sure you want to be alone with them?” she whispered.
Concordia nodded. “The house is full of people. I’ll be fine.”
Charlotte reluctantly followed the Dunwicks out.
“Oh, Barton,” Lily said, “the judge was asking for you. Perhaps you should return to our guests?”
Not bothering to suppress a scowl in Concordia’s direction, Isley gave a curt bow and left them.
“Well, then!” Lily said brightly, “let’s leave this awful manly space—Randolph Maynard likes to surround himself with a great many riding trophies, doesn’t he? Quite the horseman. There’s a cozy little sitting room upstairs that’s much more pleasant.”
Lily led the way, down a walnut-paneled hall on which half a dozen portraits hung. No doubt Maynard’s ancestors, Concordia guessed. Several appeared as heavy-browed and curmudgeonly as Maynard himself.
“Why wasn’t the dean in attendance tonight?” Concordia asked as they walked.
“Oh, he was here early on, but was called away, most likely before you arrived.” Lily shrugged. “Some urgent school business. We assured him that we would take over his host duties.”
Concordia wondered what might be going on at the college that would require Maynard to drop everything and leave a major social function. Everything had seemed fine when she’d left.
Lily stopped one of the maids along the corridor. “Bring us some tea in the sitting room, will you?”
The room was quite luxurious, in fact, with floor-to-ceiling drapes of burgundy velvet, deep leather club chairs, and the most cushiony carpet that Concordia had ever sunk her heels into. Mr. Maynard certainly enjoyed his creature comforts.
Concordia smothered a yawn as she tried to sit upright in her corseted gown. The sooner she could be out of this contraption, the better. “What student were you referring to?” she asked. “Miss Stephens, perhaps?”
“Oh,” Lily said vaguely, gesturing to the maid to set the tea tray on the table beside the window, “Give me a moment to get this tea steeping. It’s a special herbal blend I like to keep around. More like a medicinal tisane, really. The steeping time is the key: too long and it’s rather bitter, and too little, and it’s less effective. But it’s good for soothing the nerves. The extra effort is worthwhile, I think.”
She went over to the table as the maid left. Concordia saw her fussing with a tin and strainers, but with Lily’s back t
o her, she couldn’t see much else.
“What makes you think my nerves are strained?” Concordia asked bluntly.
Lily hesitated. “That’s part of the reason I wanted to speak with you in private, dear. I wanted to apologize for my husband’s behavior.” Her brow puckered. “Barton’s been under a great deal of pressure lately.”
“There’s no need to apologize,” Concordia said politely.
Lily brought over the cups, passing one to Concordia, and went back to retrieve a plate of appetizers the maid had brought from the dining room. She set it down between them. “I realize you never had supper; you must be famished.”
Concordia took a sip of her tea first, suppressing a shudder. Despite Lily’s care, it was rather bitter. She plucked two cubes from the sugar bowl.
“What sort of strain has Mr. Isley been subjected to? I’m not aware of any problems going on at the school,” Concordia said.
Of course, President Langdon’s hansom had monopolized Isley’s office for a fortnight, but she couldn’t imagine the bursar still sulking over that.
Lily fluttered a hand dismissively. “He can be a bit…highly strung, especially when it comes to finances. There have been several investments which have been preoccupying him lately.” She observed Concordia closely. “How do you like the tea?”
Obligingly, Concordia took another sip. It was marginally better with sugar. “It’s...unusual,” she said, politely drinking the rest of the dreadful stuff.
Lily nodded. “I’ve found it to be an acquired taste.”
“So,” Concordia said, trying to return to the topic at hand, “what did you want to discuss regarding....” She hesitated.
What were they talking about? Why couldn’t she remember? She glanced over at Lily in confusion. “Um, regarding....”
Lily was looking at her in concern. “Are you all right, Concordia?”
Concordia tried to answer, but no words came. She was also having trouble moving her fingers, and could do nothing but watch as the teacup slid from her grasp. She felt a dizzy, plummeting sensation, as her mind tried to form her next thought.
“Let me help you, dear,” she heard Lily say anxiously.
dear...dear...dear echoed in her head as she slid to the floor, sinking into the blackness.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Dean Maynard had reached the end of his patience with student pranks. At his former school, the lady principal had kept her young ladies under strict control. Here, the girls ran amuck. Miss Pomeroy was sadly lacking as a disciplinarian. And many of the faculty were no better.
Especially Miss Wells. It was no surprise that she was a literature teacher. Through sad experience, Maynard had concluded that scholars in those arts weren’t possessed of the orderly mind one found among those dedicated to the sciences and mathematics. Add to that the lady professor’s unbridled curiosity and tendency to meddle where she had no business, and it made for a vexing combination. He remembered the unease he felt when he saw the newspaper reporter hand a piece of paper to Miss Wells at the luncheon, and that lady later leaving the room. He’d felt an obligation to see what she was up to. And what did he find? The lady crouched over a nearly-dead Rosen in the gardener’s shed.
Maynard shook his head. Nothing but trouble, that one.
At least Miss Wells wasn’t the problem this time. Maynard scowled as he re-read the slip of paper.
There is an emergency at the college. You are needed at once. ~Gertrude Pomeroy
He had just begun greeting his guests at the Masquerade Ball that evening when it was delivered. He’d made his apologies and hurriedly left, reaching campus at breakneck speed.
Only to find that there was no emergency. It was well past the students’ ten o’clock bedtime and everyone had settled down for the night. All was quiet.
Just to be sure, Maynard went to his office. Nothing was amiss there, either; no note, no one waiting for him.
The only other soul in the building was President Langdon, working late in his office. Maynard tapped on his door.
“Something wrong, Randolph?” Langdon asked.
“There certainly is,” Maynard retorted. He tossed the note on Langdon’s desk. “Take a look.”
Langdon frowned as he read.
“Where is Miss Pomeroy now?” Maynard asked.
“She mentioned retiring early,” Langdon said. He stood. “I hate to disturb the lady, but we should get to the bottom of this.” He glanced at Maynard’s formal attire. “How unfortunate that you were called away from a special event.” His brow arched in polite inquiry, but Maynard, who took his Brotherhood oath seriously, said nothing.
DeLacey House had a single porch light burning, and it was with great reluctance that Langdon rang the bell. Langdon and Maynard waited for several minutes before the housekeeper, a dressing gown hastily tied around her waist and hair in a fraying braid over her shoulder, opened the door.
“Mr. Langdon! Mr. Maynard! Why, what’s wrong?”
Maynard stepped forward. “We must see Miss Pomeroy,” he said brusquely.
President Langdon glared at Maynard before turning back to the housekeeper. “I apologize for the late hour, but it’s urgent we speak with her. Can we wait in the parlor while you get her?”
“O’ course, sir,” the woman said. “Right away.” She closed the door behind them and hustled up the stairs.
Miss Pomeroy, graying-brown hair twisted sloppily atop her head and glasses askew, walked into the parlor a few minutes later.
“Whatever’s wrong?”
Maynard passed her the note.
Miss Pomeroy’s eyes widened as she glanced at it. “I never sent such a thing. There’s no emergency here. Why, I wouldn’t have known where to reach you even if I’d wanted to.”
Maynard sat back in surprise. The lady principal raised a point he hadn’t considered. Who would have known where he was?
President Langdon stood apologetically. “Of course. We’ll let you get back to bed. My apologies again for disturbing you.”
Miss Pomeroy waved a hand dismissively. “No matter. Rest assured, I’ll do my best to get to the bottom of this in the morning.”
“Thank you Miss Pomeroy,” Maynard said, also standing. “Good night.”
Randolph Maynard had two choices: return to the ball—but that was an hour’s drive—or simply walk back to his on-campus quarters and go to bed. As it was nearly midnight, the latter option was looking better. The surge of worry had long since ebbed. He felt drained.
And yet, the riddle troubled him as he carefully hung up his jacket and trousers. Someone from the Brotherhood had sent him the false message. Only the Black Scroll members knew he would be hosting the event at his country house. He’d been very careful about that. But the bigger question was—why?
Sleep, when it came, felt snatched in bits and pieces. His dreams were fitful, disturbing. Men, elegantly attired and wearing masks, came up to talk to him. He didn’t know them. He felt himself itching to snatch the mask off each face, to learn who they were. In his dream, he finally succumbed to the impulse. There was another mask beneath the first. He pulled off the next mask, and then the next, and felt himself swallowed up in an endless line of masks....
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
The blackness faded. Concordia lifted her head from the bed. She cautiously propped herself on her elbows and waited for a dizzying wave of nausea to pass. She was alone in what appeared to be a man’s bedroom, with framed paintings of horses on the walls.
Where was she? It was an enormous effort to concentrate. Then she remembered. The masquerade ball. Randolph Maynard’s country house. She must be in Maynard’s bedroom. She didn’t like the thought of that.
What happened?
Concordia tentatively shifted her legs over the side, and fingered the silk of her ball gown, trying to remember.
The bedroom door opened, and Lily Isley walked in with a tray.
“Oh, my dear! Thank goodness you’re awake. I’ve been
so worried.” Lily set down the tray and felt Concordia’s forehead. “An illness, perhaps?”
Concordia shook her head, trying to clear the cobwebs. This sudden collapse had felt nothing like a gradual illness.
“Perhaps your corset was too tight,” Lily went on. “I loosened it a bit for you, while you were sleeping. I hope you don’t mind.”
Concordia minded very much, actually. She was starting to remember. The bitter-tasting tea. Her glance fell upon the tray Lily had brought. “What’s this?”
“Oh, just a cup of beef broth and some toast,” Lily said soothingly.
“Thank you, but I should go,” Concordia said, clutching the bedpost in an attempt to stand. The room teetered and she closed her eyes.
“Nonsense, you can’t travel in this condition,” Lily said firmly. “Why don’t you lay down for a bit longer? Then we can take you home. Here, have some broth.” She held out the cup.
Concordia took it, although she had no intention of consuming another thing in this household. She glanced suddenly at the window, which was open a crack for air. “Did you see that?”
“What?” Lily went to the window, and Concordia, with an unspoken apology to the dean for ruining his carpet, dumped half the broth over the far side of the bed. When Lily turned around, Concordia had the rim of the cup to her lips.
“I don’t see anything.”
Concordia gave her a sheepish look. “I thought I saw a lantern in the orchard. A trick of the light, I suppose.” She passed the cup back to Lily and lay back against the pillows with a sigh. “That was very good. Thank you.”
Lily glanced into the cup before setting it aside. “Of course, dear. Now, you just rest here for a bit. I’ll leave you the toast.” She closed the door quietly behind her on her way out.
Was it Concordia’s imagination, or was there the faint click of a key being turned in the lock?
She sat up again, taking deep breaths to fight through the dizziness. After a little while, the floor no longer loomed up at her. She groped her way to the door, and quietly tested it. It was locked, as she had suspected.