Nicholas saw Block pulling on his black coat over a white linen shirt not tucked into his trousers. He did, however, have his boots on. “Block, get the physician immediately. Go, man.”
Peter stirred some five minutes later. Both Nicholas and Rosalind, now in a dressing down brought to her by Mrs. McGiver, hovered close, her feet, like his, unfortunately still bare. Rosalind dabbed a handkerchief dipped in rose water to his forehead.
“Peter?”
His eyes slowly opened. “My lord?”
“Yes. How do you feel?”
“There were three of you, but now there are only two, so I must be better.”
“Yes, you are better. Peter, what happened? Mrs. McGiver found you unconscious on the floor.”
“My lord!”
It was Marigold, breathing fast, racing to a stop inside the drawing room door. “There are visitors. They’re coming fast, impudent as you please, and here it is barely dawn.”
Nicholas said, “Keep yourself still, Peter. Rosalind is going to give you some nice strong tea. I’ll be back.”
He walked into the entrance hall to see his stepmother standing squarely in front of him, dressed entirely in lavender all the way to the straw bonnet atop her head with two very purple curling feathers that quivered, chin up, looking like a banty rooster ready to take all comers. Arranged behind her were all three of her sons—Richard, Lancelot, and Aubrey.
Nicholas crossed his arms over his chest. “Well, now, it’s true I’ve been gone from England for a long time, but isn’t this a bit early to pay a morning visit?”
Miranda said, “You aren’t dressed. There is a bruise on your foot. Your bare foot.”
He shrugged. “Why are you four here in my house?”
Richard stepped forward. “We had meant to arrive last evening, but our carriage broke down and we were forced to spend the night in Meckly-Hinton.”
His mother whisked around him to stand in front of him. As if she were somehow protecting him from Nicholas? “We were forced to stay the night at this miserable little inn called the Raving Rooster, set in the middle of a village that shouldn’t exist since it has nothing to recommend it.”
“And you got up before dawn to pay me a visit. May I ask why?”
Richard Vail, dressed in black, dark beard stubble on his face, gently eased in front of his mother again. He said without preamble, “We are here to warn you.”
Miranda stuck her head around his shoulder. “I told him, why bother? You hate the lot of us, who cares if you croak it? Or if someone croaks you?”
“Mother,” Richard said.
“Warn me?” Nicholas’s voice was all languid and arrogant, and he knew it drove Richard mad. But Richard didn’t look as if he wanted to kill him; he looked pale, he looked—frightened. Nicholas frowned at him. “I know the four of you would not shed a tear were I belowground, yet you all troop into my house at near dawn to warn me?”
“Yes,” Lancelot said, his poet’s face flushed with anger, his voice nearly breaking with it, “but I didn’t want to come. Don’t tell you a bloody thing, that’s what I wanted, but Richard insisted, blast him. I don’t know about Aubrey.”
“Shut up, Lance,” Richard said, not looking at him. His brother sucked in a curse.
Aubrey, with his red hair and bright intelligent eyes, nearly bounced forward. “I wanted to come, Nicholas. I don’t even know you, so why would I hate you? You and your bride were quite nice to me at your wedding. Listen, Nicholas, the fact is, we are here. Mother is fatigued, though she has the energy of three Druid priests. Won’t you invite us in? We really are here to warn you, that’s no lie.”
“My lord!”
Trying to edge past his half brothers was Block, towing a very tall, very gaunt man in his wake. The man’s hair was nearly as white as his own hair had been in the vision.
“You are the physician, sir?”
The man gave him a short bow. “I am Dr. Knotts. Where is my patient? I hope it is serious enough to justify bringing me out at this unleavened hour of the morning. I say, there are quite a few people standing here in the entrance hall. Madam, I must say you look on the bilious side. Perhaps it is because of the vast quantities of lavender you’re wearing. My lord, would you care to direct me?”
Nicholas eyed his stepmother. “Ma’am, you and your whelps will accompany Block to the library and he will give you tea. I shall be along shortly.”
“But—”
Nicholas didn’t look back at her. He directed Dr. Knotts to the drawing room. He heard grumbling behind him but didn’t turn.
As he stood by the door watching Dr. Knotts gently shove Rosalind out of his way, he called out, “Come with me, Rosalind. You and I must dress now. We have unexpected guests.”
Not twelve minutes later the two of them returned to the drawing room to see Dr. Knotts standing beside Peter, the doctor’s arms folded over his chest.
He turned at Nicholas’s entrance. “My lord, there is nothing to warrant leeches.” He sounded disappointed.
“Do you know what caused Mr. Pritchard to collapse?”
“He carries the curse of youth, which is idiocy, but he assures me he was not drunk. I have no idea what made him faint, for that is what he did, pure and simple. He had no seizure, no sudden pain in his head or limbs. So I must conclude that he collapsed for the simple fact that he is young and untried and—”
Nicholas said, “He is older than I am, Dr. Knotts.”
“Then it must be a stricture in his bowels. This is not uncommon, particularly in young men with excesses of male vigor.”
Peter sat up suddenly, thoroughly alarmed now. “A stricture in my bowels?”
“Aye, lad, but it will work itself out. Now, I must be off.” And Dr. Knotts, after bowing to both Nicholas and Rosalind, was gone within the next second, Block at his side.
Nicholas said, “Don’t worry, Peter. I fancy the good doctor has no idea why you passed out. Odd things sometimes happen when you least expect them, but then they pass. How do you feel?”
“I am fine now, my lord. I honestly don’t know what happened. I was feeling quite fine, and suddenly, I saw this bright flash of white and then you were leaning over me, speaking to me.”
It was the light that had laid him flat, Nicholas thought. But why? He said to Peter, “I wish you to confine yourself to very light duty today, Peter. Let’s not take any chances. Now, my stepmother and my three half brothers just arrived. Her ladyship and I must attend them. Rosalind, come with me.”
She asked him again as they walked to the library, “Richard wanted all of them to come here to warn you? That is nonsense, Nicholas, and you know it. I do not trust any of them, except perhaps for Aubrey. He seems harmless enough.”
“Richard looks scared. No, he is scared. He’s not a good enough actor to fool me and that alone gives me great pause.”
In the library, they found the three brothers seated, drinking tea and eating Cook’s gooseberry muffins. The Dowager Lady Mountjoy stood next to the fireplace, a teacup in her gloved hand.
“I never liked this room,” Miranda said when they walked into the library. “It’s dark and cold, and so I told that mad old man.”
“I agree,” Nicholas said. “Now, Richard, you will tell me exactly why you have descended on Wyverly Chase.”
But Richard was staring at Rosalind.
“You’re here,” he said.
“Well, yes, I live here.”
Miranda said, “Richard has had a dream, Nicholas, a dream that—”
“Why don’t you let Richard tell us about the dream, ma’am,” Nicholas said pleasantly, his eyes never leaving his half brother’s face.
“Terrified about a silly dream, just like a girl,” Lancelot said, and gave his brother a fat sneer.
“If you don’t have anything useful to say, then shut up, Lancelot,” Nicholas said. “Now, Richard, what is this all about?”
Richard rose. He looked straight at Rosalind and pointed his fing
er at her. “She killed you, Nicholas. I watched her kill you.”
Rosalind didn’t protest. She smiled at him and marveled aloud, “What a lovely thought that is—killing my husband and here we are newly wedded. Hmmm. Have you looked at your brother, Richard?”
“Of course I have! What of it? I’m very nearly as big as he is and probably more dangerous!”
That earned him an ironic look from Nicholas and another big smile from Rosalind. “Please, do tell me exactly how I managed to kill my husband.”
“You think this is amusing, do you? You stabbed him, damn you. I watched you stab him.”
Nicholas said slowly, “Did you happen to see the knife, Richard?”
“Why do you care what the bloody knife looks like? That is the least of your worries. This woman—your precious new bride—who has no family, no known background—she killed you.”
“Then what did she do?” Nicholas asked him.
Richard’s face flushed, his eyes darkened. “You think this is all a jest? You’re mocking me?”
“Tell him what she did, Richard,” Aubrey said. “Tell him.”
42
Richard gave Rosalind such a venomous look she wanted to cross herself.
“She dug out your heart and held it up as if it were an offering to some heathen god, your blood streaking down her arms, dripping off her fingers. There was blood everywhere. She was covered with your blood, Nicholas, splattered upward even to her face.”
“What did she do with my heart?”
Lancelot took a step toward Nicholas, fist up. “You bastard, you don’t believe my brother. He doesn’t lie, damn you. Listen to him if you wish to live.”
“I’m listening, Lancelot, but so far it sounds like a tale Grayson Sherbrooke would write, perhaps set at Stonehenge. You said this was a dream, Richard?”
“I’m not sure, actually, I was in a sort of waking state, so not really a dream, no. More like a vision. A vision of something that will happen. I was alone, in my bedchamber at home, and time lost all meaning to me and then the vision came into my brain, clear and sharp. I could even smell the blood when she cut your heart out of your chest.”
Nicholas looked at each of them in turn. He saw bone-deep resentment in Lancelot, a sort of academic interest on Aubrey’s face, flat contempt on Miranda’s face, and on Richard’s face—cold fear. He said to his half brother, “You came to warn me because—?”
Miranda stepped forward, her expression now venomous. “She held up your heart, you moron, and she chanted foreign words Richard didn’t understand. Your wife killed you! And you have the gall to question your brother’s motives in coming to help you?”
Rosalind spoke. “Richard, what was I wearing in this vision?”
“A white robe belted at your waist with a thin rope of some kind. Its ends hung down nearly to your knees. Your hair was long down your back.”
“You are certain it was me?”
“Yes, all that wild red hair, your blue eyes. It was you.” He frowned. “But it was as if you were in a different time, in a different place. I don’t know, that doesn’t really make sense, but I know it was you.”
Nicholas said, “So now she’s a vestal virgin of some sort or a high priestess?”
“I don’t know,” Richard said finally. “I don’t know. There were no priests hovering about, no one else, only the two of you, you bound on your back and her leaning over you.”
“Do you know why I cut out my husband’s heart?”
Richard, for the first time, looked uncertain. “I don’t know that either,” he said slowly. “All I know is that you did it.” He looked at Nicholas. “You asked me what she did with your heart. She flung it away from her, as if it were refuse, then she rose and stood looking down at you sprawled at her feet, and she was rubbing her bloody hands together.”
“Like Lady Macbeth?”
“No!” Richard shouted at her. “There was no real blood on Lady Macbeth’s hands, only her guilt made her believe that, but your hands were covered with Nicholas’s blood.”
Rosalind said, “We did have an argument last night, and I admit I wanted to smack him with a book, but I didn’t even do that. This ripping-out-his-heart business, that would require a dedication to something fanatical. Another time, another place, I think you said.” And she thought of the bloody knife in her own vision, the white drops sliding to the floor off the tip. Where had the blood come from?
“Be it elsewhere and in another time, you still did it, I saw you do it!”
“My lord.”
Nicholas turned to see Block in the doorway, looking stiff and proper, though his eyes were a bit on the wild side.
“What crisis is upon us now, Block?”
“The old earl’s ghost will not stop singing lewd ditties. Mrs. McGiver requests that you order him to stop.”
Nicholas turned to his half brother. “Would you care to attend the old earl’s ghost, Richard?”
Richard gawked at him. “A ghost? You’re saying the old earl’s ghost is real? That is nonsense. There are no ghosts. My grandfather is in Hell where he belongs.”
Rosalind, seeing that Nicholas was primed for violence, said, “Richard, why do you find a singing ghost more unbelievable than me dressed like an ancient priestess plucking out Nicholas’s heart and offering it as a sacrifice?”
“Let us go to the drawing room,” Nicholas said. “Block, tell Mrs. McGiver we will take care of the ghost.”
The door to the drawing room was open. Outside in the entrance hall stood Mrs. McGiver and Marigold, both listening intently, neither of them looking particularly alarmed.
Nicholas motioned the group into the room, placing his finger over his lips to keep them quiet. Once inside, Nicholas said toward the wing chair, “I am here. Rosalind is here. Other relatives are here as well. What is it you have to sing to us this morning, sir?”
A minute passed. Two.
Richard said, “It is as I thought. Servants are fanciful, they make things up, they—”
A creaky old voice sang out,
I am tired of strife
I am tired of trouble.
He stirs the pot
And it boils and bubbles.
Once he comes the danger’s near.
Once he acts then death is here.
Go to the Pale and slay the source
Else the future may change its course.
“Don’t be afraid, it’s merely the old earl,” Mrs. McGiver said kindly to Miranda Vail and the three young gentlemen surrounding her, all of them looking sheet white and ready to bolt. “He loves to sing, you know,” she added, all confiding now, “and usually he doesn’t make much sense. What he just sang, now that wasn’t lewd. A warning it sounded like to me. I wonder who this he is? I don’t like the sound of this, my lord.”
Rosalind didn’t either. She wondered who this he was as well. How were they supposed to get to the Pale to find and slay this bloody source to keep the future from changing from what it should be?
Nicholas said into the dead silence, “Thank you, sir, for your fine song. Your rhyming was inspiring as well.”
Miranda said in a choked whisper, “There is no one here. We are the only ones in this room. This—this ghost—he sings like this all the time?”
“This was a trick,” Richard announced to the room at large, “some sort of absurd trickery done by a servant who is hiding behind the draperies. One of you doubtless made up those ridiculous words for him to sing.” He strode across the drawing room as he spoke. “Where are you?” he yelled, shaking his fist. “Come out from your hidey-hole now, else I’ll gullet you.” He pulled a knife out of his coat pocket and brandished it at the draperies.
The draperies didn’t move.
Richard flung them back. There was no cowering servant there. He looked behind each piece of furniture. He found nothing at all.
“Where are you, you bastard?”
An ancient moan came from the depth of the old wing chair before
it toppled onto its side to the floor.
Miranda Vail screamed.
Rosalind, Nicholas, and his four relatives sat at the breakfast room table.
Rosalind said into the strained silence, a smile in her voice, “Let me assure you again that our ghost is harmless.” None of them looked too certain about that; indeed, Rosalind wasn’t all that certain either that Captain Jared was merely the singing messenger. She said, “Enough excitement for the moment. We’ll have a lovely breakfast.”
“I could not eat,” Miranda said.
“I can,” Lancelot said. “I’m hungry.”
“You are so pretty sitting there daintily spreading butter on your muffin,” Richard said to his brother. “Just look at you, the image of a romantic poet. As for your gluttony, you’d best take care else you will strain your trouser buttons.”
“I am not pretty, damn you!”
Rosalind called out, “Block! We are ready for another breakfast course.”
Aubrey said, “This is a lovely room. Are you certain the old boy isn’t dangerous?”
“I don’t think so,” Nicholas said. “He makes no threats. He simply sings and occasionally sends his chair toppling to its side.” He shrugged. “One becomes used to it.”
“You do not believe me,” Richard said, and he drummed his fingertips on the mahogany tabletop.
Nicholas said, “Richard, tell me about the knife Rosalind was using.”
“The bloody knife?” Richard smashed his fist on the table. “You’re concerned about the bloody knife when what you should be thinking about is how to rid yourself of this vicious bitch before she murders you!”
“Cook has made some lovely toast and scrambled eggs, not to mention kippers and—” Block froze in his tracks at the violence he saw on his master’s face, indeed felt in the air itself.
Nicholas rose slowly from his chair. “You will apologize to my wife, Richard, and you will do it now and with grace and sincerity.”
Richard shot Rosalind a look. His voice was halting as he managed to get out, “I am worried about my half brother. He does not seem concerned, and any intelligent man would be very concerned. We all came here to warn him, but—”
Catherine Coulter the Sherbrooke Series Novels 6-10 (9781101562123) Page 152