“I really would like to go with you to the lodge next time so that I might observe—”
Miles shook his head and moved away from the desk. He thrust his hands deep into his pockets and looked out the windows to the land below. His land, as far as the eye could see. Tangled, twisted, overgrown lands, haunted with an aura that constantly had him on edge. “Never. It is not worth the risk, you know that. I’ve gone so far as to have Mrs. Romany and Poole lock me out of the lodge at night.”
Sam was quiet, and Miles eventually faced him, resting his back against the window. Sam had stretched out in the chair, his long legs sprawled in front of him, and he tapped the pencil against his notebook with narrowed eyes. “And yet we managed in India.”
“Exactly. So you shouldn’t need to witness anything further.”
“I wouldn’t exactly say I was witness to anything there—that any of us were. I want this mechanism to work, Miles, but I can’t do it if I don’t understand exactly what we need.”
“You’ve studied my father’s failed mechanism, not to mention the one you implanted in me after battle. Even from my limited experience, I can see that your design is already a vast improvement over the old one.”
“I need to be able to measure your vital signs during—”
“I can’t guarantee your safety, and I could never live with myself if something were to go wrong.” Miles felt anger tight in his chest and an alarming burning sensation behind his eyes. He needed to calm himself. The stress on his heartclock increased when he was angry, which was, unfortunately, nearly every waking moment.
“I am beginning to wonder if you even care about our success. If you have a death wish, my lord, you ought to have just crossed enemy lines when we were in battle.”
Miles looked evenly at his friend. “How very droll.” In truth, there were times he wished he had stepped in the path of a ray gun or missile during his time at war. Jonathan could have taken on the mantle of all things Blackwell and Miles would be resting comfortably in hell, which was surely where his kind went.
“If you do not allow me to help you, your days are numbered. Your heart apparatus will not be able to sustain the constant stress. Your father had issues with his heartclock, and with your added . . .”
“My added what? Condition? Such a delicate way to describe it.”
Samuel crossed one booted foot over his knee, still tapping the end of his pencil against the notebook—a sign Miles recognized that the metaphorical cogs in Sam’s head were churning and spinning.
“Which generation was the last known to also share your . . . condition?” Sam asked. “Some time ago, I would presume?”
Miles closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the window. “My father.”
When Sam didn’t respond, Miles opened his eyes. Sam’s mouth had gone slack. “Your father was a shifter? A wolf?”
Miles nodded.
“How long have you known?”
“Since my eighteenth year.”
“How did you discover it?”
“I saw it.”
Samuel closed his mouth and slowly sat up in the chair. The tapping of the pencil had ceased altogether, and had Miles not been feeling so incredibly weary, he might have had made a joke at his friend’s expense.
“Did anyone else know? Anyone at all? Family?”
Miles thought of his extended relatives with disgust. “Heaven forbid, no. And I’ve never told a soul. I doubt my mother was even aware, although she must have at least suspected.”
The pencil tapping resumed. “And Randolph has secured himself a position on the PSRC. Does Oliver suspect him of sending the notes? Randolph did disappear suspiciously from our barracks once at the same time you went into the hills to shift. He could be setting you up for blackmail, and if that fails, he’ll send the Committee to your door.” Sam paused. “Have you considered telling Jonathan?”
“I don’t intend to ever breathe a word of this to anyone. There are exactly four people in this world that I trust, one of whom is my brother, and I would never burden him with this. As the age of majority has come upon him and gone, I must assume he will not fall victim to it.” He smiled without humor. “The condition.”
“Possibly.” Samuel pursed his lips. “Or perhaps not. We simply do not know enough about it. Do you have access to old family histories? Journals? As many generations before your father as you can find?”
Miles nodded. “In the library archives. The older volumes are under lock and key. My father insisted upon it, and I’ve never bothered with them.”
“I had intended to stay until morning, but think I will impose upon you for at least an additional day.” Samuel paused. “Dig out the old diaries. I’ll look at them tonight.”
Miles nodded slowly. “Thank you, Sam. For your efforts, your time. Heaven knows I do not deserve it.”
“Yes, you do. You saved my life in battle more than once. And even if you hadn’t, our bond is thicker than blood. I do not do this out of some noble sense of duty. I would see you happy, Miles, and living a full life.”
“I fear you may be wasting your time,” Miles murmured and turned back to the window. He looked down over the side lawn and saw his sister-in-law and her cousin strolling toward the stables in smartly turned-out riding habits.
Kate was traditional in her attire, while Daniel’s sister wore a daring pair of skintight breeches and knee-high riding boots. She laughed at something Kate said and placed an arm around her cousin’s shoulders. She was full of energy. Alive. Happy. She had made it very clear that she was at Blackwell to help her cousin. There was an air of confidence about her that suggested she probably conquered everything she set her mind to.
Lucy Pickett would be the one at a social gathering to lead up a rousing match of cricket or croquet. From the looks of her, she’d probably also hold her own in target practice with a ladies’ model ray gun or in a three-legged race across the lawn with a partner.
Miles was the sort who brooded on the sidelines like the predator he was. The rumors swirled and spun, grew larger each season. Clara’s and Marie’s deaths had only put a big black underscore on what was already a declining reputation. Oh, he would certainly never be snubbed. He would always be invited to every social event the country could invent. It was considered a coup by the ladies of society to have him in attendance at their balls and soirees. Some ladies, ruled entirely by greed and status, thrust their young daughters in his path in hopes of a good match. He had no patience for it, nor any inclination to ever marry again. And if society knew the truth of what he really was, they would bar the front door and scream.
Jonathan was his heir, and assuming his brother and Kate had children, the line would continue on into the eternities, making his ancestors and his father very proud. For his own part, it was an empty, hollow victory. After his mother had died, his cold, aloof father had become even more cold and aloof, secretly gambling away the estate. When the “condition” had come upon Miles, he had known his fate was sealed. It was not for him to have a normal life; the fiasco that had been his marriage to Clara was proof enough of that.
He watched Miss Pickett’s trim figure as she neared the stables. She moved with the grace of one entirely comfortable in her own skin. She was the perfect reminder of everything that was light and good. Of everything he was not.
Miles shook his head. “I do not believe I am destined to live a full life.” He turned back to Sam. “Are you certain you wouldn’t rather enjoy the guest suites?” He gestured to the expansive room with its domed glass ceiling. “It does get cold up here.”
Sam shook his head with a wry smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes. “I like sleeping where I can see the stars. Since India I’ve not done well through the night in enclosed spaces.”
Miles felt a wave of self-recrimination. He’d been so consumed with his own troubles he’d not thought t
o ask after Sam’s welfare. The war had been hard on them all. “Where do you sleep at home?”
“On the floor next to the balcony.” He smiled, and this time the humor reached his eyes. “Gives my valet fits, but he knows by now not to say anything.” Sam waved a hand in the air as if to clear it of the conversation. “Besides, I’m becoming intimate with the constellations. One could do far worse.”
Dear Daniel,
How are you, I am fine, and etc. etc. I must dispense with frivolities and come directly to the point. I am visiting Kate at Blackwell Manor and have some concerns. What do you know of Blackwell, himself? I mean to say, I am well aware that you and he are good friends, but this house seems to have its fair share of secrets, and I wonder if you would be willing to shed light on anything about the man or the family beyond what we read in the society pages. Did you ever meet Marie Blake? What was your opinion of her? It appears she died a most tragic death. As you are often privy to gossip and juicy tidbits from your passengers, have you heard anything at all relating to her demise? Knowledge is power, and I am in desperate need of both.
Also, Kate is ill. I am not certain what to make of it at this point, but I am doing my best. I will keep you and Mamma and Grandmamma abreast of any further news regarding her. You will, of course, read between the lines—I am concerned. I would think she is being poisoned if not for the fact that everyone is served from the same platters and nobody else in the house exhibits her same symptoms.
You’ll be pleased to know that your friend, Dr. MacInnes, is visiting Blackwell and sends his regards. He and Blackwell spend time together sequestered on the third floor. Kate doesn’t know why, but as I am infinitely curious, I would dearly love to know the nature of their business. But, truly, it is none of mine.
I will close now, so that I might send this letter out with the daily post. You’ll understand my reluctance to telescribe you with any of this. I cannot very well have a copy of the transmission left behind in the archive room for all and sundry to read. You and I both know that nothing is safe, even under lock and key. And on a related note, I do still have the location of your pocket watch. When you can determine where it’s hidden, you may claim it. I must say I am disappointed in your lack of success thus far. I found my strand of pearls in a matter of days.
Your most affectionate sister,
Lucy
Lucy tossed and turned, finding it nearly impossible to fall asleep and remain there for any length of time. The storm that raged outside seemed to be encamped directly over the house; lightning flashed mere seconds before the thunder sounded, and she wondered if the house would see an interruption of the Tesla service before the elements finished their tirade.
The day had been pleasant enough. She and Kate had gone riding for a good hour after breakfast, and, after lunch and Kate’s brief nap, during which Lucy had written to Daniel, the two of them had answered correspondence in the form of wedding felicitations that had continued to pile up despite the fact that Kate and Jonathan had been married for two months.
Lucy also took some time that afternoon to familiarize herself with the library. The magnificence of it took her breath away. The last time she had seen it had been in the dark of night, and given her encounter with the surly Lord Blackwell, she had hardly taken note of the room’s splendor.
The library was two stories high, open in the center with spiral staircases winding up to the second level on either side of the room. The main area in the center was outfitted with three separate seating areas: one to the left at the hearth; one near the enormous wall of windows that housed cushioned window seats and a set of French doors, ten feet in height, that led to the patio outside; and one final furniture grouping to the right of the room that included a chaise longue, a pair of Queen Anne chairs, and a large writing desk. With the exception of the windows, the walls surrounding the room were lined with books of every size, shape, and subject.
While Kate had settled into a comfortable chair near the fireplace with an Austen, Lucy wasted no time in finding the area devoted to the botanical sciences—up the staircase to the right. She owned copies of a few of the titles she found, and she was delighted to see several rare volumes she’d been wanting to get her hands on for ages.
She lost track of time, blissfully whiling away the hours making notations in her own journals and adding details to her meticulous observations about certain herbs and their properties, especially as they might relate to counteracting the Vampiric Aid.
Later, at supper, she, Kate, and Jonathan had entertained the Charlesworths without the benefit of his lordship, who had gone out for the evening with Samuel MacInnes. Aside from a comment about a possible vamp attack in town, which Lucy made a mental note to examine further, there had been nothing compelling in the conversation, and Lucy had found herself wishing Lord Blackwell had been there, if only to have provided some entertainment with the lovely Aunt Eustace, who had been at her surly, caustic best.
Lightning flashed again, illuminating Lucy’s room in a blinding glow. She squeezed her eyes shut, still seeing the light behind closed eyelids. A shutter banged somewhere overhead, and Lucy opened her eyes to the room, which was once again encased in darkness except for the scant light that shone through the turret windows in the corner.
She thought she felt a breeze—just a slight ruffling of air, really—but it made no sense in a room with closed windows. She rubbed her eyes and shifted her position in the bed, looking for a more comfortable spot, when her gaze caught on the woman who stood, still and silent, at her footboard, watching her.
Marie Blake was again resplendent in her red evening gown, her eyes focused on Lucy, her expression hard. The apparition narrowed her gaze, and Lucy’s heart tripped in her chest.
She didn’t much relish the thought of the woman shaking her out of bed, so she scooted closer to the side to make a quick escape. To where, she didn’t know, and her heart beat furiously as Marie continued to regard her with a certain amount of venom in her expression.
“Lady Marie,” Lucy whispered and winced as the lightning flashed, followed by an earsplitting crack of thunder that made her jump. “I . . . that is . . . I’m not entirely certain . . .”
Lucy’s voice trailed off as a long, red furrow appeared across Marie’s cheek and down her neck, spreading across the expanse of her chest and the bodice of her dress. As Lucy watched, horrified, the ghostly wound slowly widened and began dripping blood.
A small, inarticulate sound escaped Lucy’s throat as another scratch appeared, this time beginning on Marie’s forehead and tearing across her nose, dripping dark red as it traveled down her face and onto her chest beside the first wound.
“She was torn to shreds,” Kate’s voice echoed in Lucy’s head as she stared at the vision before her with eyes wide, wanting to look away but unable to. “It looked as though she’d been attacked by a wild animal.”
Marie’s gaze remained riveted on Lucy’s face, even as blood trailed into her eyes.
Lucy exhaled, nearly forgetting to draw another breath. Lightning cracked again, and Marie slowly moved toward the door. She paused, looked back at Lucy, and inclined her head toward the hallway.
She is insane if she thinks I’m going to follow her! Lucy stared at the apparition, mouth agape.
Marie stood poised at the door, trickles of blood soaking black through the fabric of the dress. A row of three scratches appeared on Marie’s arm, and Lucy realized that if the vision continued, she would see all of it in its gory mess—Marie Blake, torn to shreds by a wild animal.
The thought propelled her out of bed, and she stumbled to the wardrobe for her outer wrap with one eye still on the door. Perhaps if she hurried, Marie could show her whatever it was she wanted her to see and then maybe she would leave. Maybe the grisly wounds would stop appearing.
Or maybe the ghost was leading her to her own bloody end.
“Right,
then,” she whispered as she fumbled with a pair of slippers. She approached the door with dread, not wanting to come any closer to the apparition than was absolutely necessary. Her eyes burned with unshed tears that she blinked back. If she managed to survive the night without fainting, or worse, it might well be a miracle.
Marie glanced back at her, and Lucy stood straighter. Her legs felt weak, and she was so very cold. She set her expression firmly, trying to look fierce, and wished for all she was worth that the moisture in her eyes would evaporate. Quietly exhaling, she watched Marie pass through the closed door.
She reached for the latch with a hand that shook so badly she had to steady it with the other. Opening the door, she saw Marie standing in the hallway, waiting. To Lucy’s immense relief, the blood was gone, the woman’s appearance unmarked.
Marie traveled the length of the hallway, around the corner, and to the front staircase as though she were flying—which, Lucy reasoned, she probably was. By the time Lucy reached the landing, she was nearly at a run. She headed down the stairs to keep Marie in sight, fighting the instinct to run the other way, one hand trailing along the banister, the other clutching the skirts of her nightgown and robe. The clock in the main entryway struck one o’clock as she rounded the corner and then headed north on the main level.
The hallway was dark, and Lucy wished she’d thought to grab a Tesla torch. As it was, she had to rely on the glow emanating from the woman in front of her. She saw Marie enter the portrait hall and was still several doors away when she struck a solid object at the library entrance.
The object had arms that snaked around her waist and dragged her into the large room before she could so much as blink. Gasping for air that had escaped her from the collision, she pushed against a solid wall that must have been the outer casing of a ’ton.
“Stop,” the figure ground out, and Lucy looked up at a face that was inches from her own.
Beauty and the Clockwork Beast Page 7