Beauty and the Clockwork Beast

by Nancy Allen Campbell

  When she had raised her hand in supplication, he had come undone. Without a second thought, he’d hauled her into his suite. She had come to him for protection in a moment of sheer panic, not knowing him well at all, and yet it had been instinctive. She hadn’t gone to Arthur or Jonathan, hadn’t screamed out for help. She had run the better part of the length of the house with terror at her back. What was it about her that not only kept her from fearing him but made her flee to him for sanctuary?

  And who in blazes had tried to hurt her while she slept?

  He supposed she might have misheard something, might have imagined something, but he’d told her the truth. He didn’t doubt for a moment that she was of sound mind. The fact that she had been so desperately afraid last night when only a few nights before he’d witnessed her bravery firsthand as she had run after Marie’s ghost told him that she perceived this most recent threat to be very real.

  The clock chimed six, and he leaned his head back against the chair, his legs propped on an ottoman. The staff would be up and about soon, and he needed to get her back to her chambers before anyone realized she’d spent the better part of the night in his. With resignation, he rose and made his way to the bedroom.

  He turned a few lamps on low, the familiar hum of the Tesla coils filling the air on the initial spark. As the lights warmed, he started a fire to chase away the chill. Finally, realizing he could no longer avoid the inevitable, he made his way to the bed. Would she be lying in the same spot where he’d left her? He imagined she’d look like a peaceful child with her hands tucked beneath her cheek.

  The reality had his lips twitching in spite of himself. She was sprawled on her stomach, her hair wild and tangled about the pillow, obscuring her face like a curtain. A faint outline of her legs, one knee bent, was visible under the thick comforter. An arm hung over the side of the bed, the lace-edged cuff framing her hand. Her breathing was deep and even, and he hated to disturb her.

  “Miss Pickett,” he whispered. The valet’s room adjoined his, and he didn’t want Marcus, discreet though he was, to know she was with him. “Miss Pickett.”

  She didn’t move a muscle, did not even twitch. He reached forward and picked up a handful of hair, lifting it to the side and brushing a few stubborn, clinging strands away from her face. He fought the urge to pull her into the shelter of his arms and keep her there forever. What was wrong with him? He pulled his hand back, shoving it into his pocket. This one was definitely beyond his reach.

  “Lucy,” he murmured but received no response. He leaned down next to her ear and repeated himself.

  Finally, she stirred. Her eyes opened slowly, and as he moved back, he saw the exact moment when the confusion cleared and she remembered everything. He was stunned when she looked at him with a dawning sense of awareness; she wasn’t the least bit afraid. Wary, perhaps, but as she lifted her head and scraped her hair back, he recognized a look that he hadn’t seen from a woman since he had first grown into his lanky body, when he had stretched and filled out, becoming a handsome and reckless young adult.

  Before the incident that left him scarred. Before the war. Before everything.

  He stepped back and tore his gaze from hers, focusing instead on the ridiculously huge and ornate headboard. Clearing his throat, Miles wondered what had happened to the jaded earl who had gone and left a vulnerable man in his place. It wouldn’t do. Not at all.

  “You must return to your bedroom,” he said quietly, “before anyone else is about. You still have roughly thirty minutes before the servants begin working on this floor.”

  She pushed herself fully upright, rubbing her forehead and then her eyes. “Thank you,” she murmured. “Thank you for everything.”

  He took in the gentle lines of her tired face, the hair that tumbled down over her shoulder. It was soft, like silk, and he wanted to bury his hands in it.

  “Go,” he said, motioning with his shoulder, his hands still in his pockets. “We shall speak after breakfast.”

  She studied him closely before she blinked once and donned the expression he recognized as the one she reserved for polite company. It was the civilized Lucy, the one who easily conversed around the dinner table and who didn’t, for a moment, doubt her own abilities. It was nowhere near the Lucy he’d held trembling in his arms mere hours before. Her vulnerability, sentiment, and longing were gone.

  He tried, but couldn’t avert his eyes as she slid out of bed, landing with a wobble before straightening her gown.

  “My lord.” She bobbed a brief curtsey. It was ridiculous, really, but for the best. Any hint of intimacy they had shared had been effectively squelched.

  When she reached the door, he said, “Do not touch anything in your room but that which is absolutely necessary, and leave a note for the maids to wait until tomorrow to clean. I want to take a look before anything is disrupted. I ought to have gone earlier, but if I do so now, I’m likely to be seen leaving your room.”

  She nodded and left. Without allowing himself to linger on things best left alone, he applied himself instead to wondering how someone had gained access to her room. She’d said the key was in the lock on the inside of the door. If someone had attempted to unlock it from the outside, the key would have clattered to the floor. And from her description, it seemed as though she had awoken to the slightest of sounds. To a rush of cold air.

  He closed his eyes, cursing his stupidity.

  Of course.

  With a sense of urgency, he dressed quickly for the day without bothering to ring for Marcus, throwing his ensemble together with habits born from years of experience. He left his suite, still tying his cravat, and made his way down the staircase that branched off just outside his wide, double doors.

  Once on the main level, he headed to the conservatory on the first floor. The room was encased in shadow, the filmy curtains at the windows allowing little light. Walking to the far wall, he lifted a tapestry that had been in the family for six generations. It was horrid—a garish wolf pack in the act of devouring prey—and he had never liked it. Behind it, the stone was bare, and he ran his hand along the wall until he found the spot where a slight indentation gave way beneath his fingers.

  The wall swung noiselessly inward, tapestry and all. He shook his head. He hadn’t been in this passageway since he was a boy, hiding from his mother, who insisted he practice the harpsichord. Then, the hinges had squeaked horribly, and it was the noise that had given him away. Now, someone had gone to the trouble of insuring they were well-oiled. As far as he was aware, nobody ever went into the passageways anymore. There were no children about—hadn’t been for years—and they were the only creatures likely to find joy in their exploration.

  The smell and temperature of the place reminded him of another fact about the numerous passageways: they were notoriously cold. And this particular one connected the conservatory on the main level to Miss Pickett’s room on the second floor.

  Voices coming from the dining room greeted Lucy long before she entered it. She felt raw and wondered if it would be absolutely churlish of her to take breakfast in her bedroom. She thought of the slashed sheets she had found on her bed and changed her mind.

  She had washed and dressed quickly upon returning from Blackwell’s chambers. Following his instructions to the letter, she touched only those things she couldn’t avoid and had styled her own hair in a simple, loosely braided bun at the crown of her head. Scribbling a quick note for the maid to leave the room undisturbed, she’d locked the door and made her way downstairs on legs that still trembled.

  “Oh, Miss Pickett!” Candice beamed when Lucy made her entrance into the breakfast room and rushed toward her, taking both of her hands. “It will be so very grand! His lordship’s bosom friends will be joining us for the ball at Charlesworth House!”

  Bosom friends? Lucy glanced around the room and saw immediately who had captured the young woman’s attentio
n so thoroughly. Oliver Reed stood next to Samuel MacInnes, looking as commanding in real life as he did in the portrait of him she’d seen among Daniel’s things. When Samuel noted her gaze, he smiled and elbowed Mr. Reed’s arm. The gentlemen approached her and Candice, and she clearly heard the other woman’s indrawn breath.

  The men were like panthers prowling among the lilies. The home was polished and perfect, the occupants within it proper and socially acceptable, and Mr. Reed and Dr. MacInnes seemed slightly misplaced. The two friends had an air about them that spoke of a leashed energy. She’d noticed it in her brother after his return from India. It was the same aura she’d sensed in Blackwell. Restless. Ruthless. Determined.

  She smiled and extended her hand as Sam made the introductions. “Oliver Reed, Miss Lucy Pickett. Daniel’s sister.”

  Mr. Reed took her hand, and she inclined her head when he murmured, “A pleasure.” He was a man who wore his clothing well—no fuss or frills, everything tailored, nothing wasted. His eyes were a tawny gold color, his hair a darker brown. He wore it short—shorter than the current fashion—and she was certain he couldn’t have cared less.

  Blackwell entered the room, drawing her attention. Was there a slight pause in his step, or had she imagined it? He turned his attention to Mr. Reed and approached, a wide, genuine smile crossing his face. She sucked in a breath of her own and wondered if Candice heard it.

  The three shook hands and clapped one another’s backs in typical manly fashion.

  “Thank you for the invitation to stay,” Mr. Reed told Blackwell. “I’ll likely be back and forth between here and London, but I’ll stay for as long as I can. And your aunt has graciously asked that we join you all at the celebration honoring your brother and his new bride.”

  Lucy watched Blackwell’s face, feeling strangely intimate with the man despite the barrier he had slammed between them that morning after he’d woken her. He wasn’t interested, and frankly, she couldn’t for the life of her imagine why she should care. She’d run to him for help, but he was the lord of the manor, after all, and it only made sense.

  Blackwell chatted easily with Mr. Reed and Dr. MacInnes, for a moment looking as he might have if his life had been less complicated. She was disrupted from her thoughts when Candice, who still held tight to Lucy’s arm, sighed again. “It will be absolutely lovely,” she said, repeating the sentiment that seemed to be her hallmark. “Nothing ever happens in our sleepy little village.”

  Lucy patted Candice’s arm. “You should make it a point to have a stay in London. So much is going on there that before long you’ll be glad to go back home.”

  Candice’s eyes narrowed fractionally as she watched the men converse. “I have spent time in London.” She turned to Lucy, her eyes liquid, bright. “It didn’t go well.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it. I shall give you my address. We have a small town house, and if you would like, please visit me sometime. It’s not nearly as grand as all of this, of course, but it is lovely. I am frequently in residence because of my work.”

  “You are so very kind.” Candice glowed. “I do wish we had gone to school together. I believe we would have been the best of friends.”

  Lucy smiled, trying to keep her attention focused though her thoughts were across the room. “I’m certain of it.”

  Mr. Grafton entered, and just behind him, Kate and Jonathan. Kate looked well this morning. For that, Lucy was grateful.

  The guests arranged themselves at the table while the ’tons placed large serving platters on the sideboard and removed the coverings. Candice chose the seat next to Lucy, while Arthur secured the one across from her. He inquired about her health, wondering how she’d rested and commenting on the beauty of the morning. Lucy nodded at all the right places and answered his questions without much thought. She was preoccupied with the man at the head of the table and the state of her room upstairs.

  Breakfast passed uneventfully, Aunt Eustace strangely quiet and the earl’s friends charming and entertaining. The whole affair was excruciatingly formal, and Lucy wondered how the mood might have been if only Blackwell and his friends dined together. She felt like an intruder wandering into a tableau that didn’t concern her, one where she was not entirely welcome.

  As the guests discussed their plans for the day and then left the table, Blackwell made eye contact with Lucy and motioned his head toward the hallway. “I’ll meet you in an hour,” he said to Sam and Mr. Reed. “Until then, please make good use of the stables.”

  Lucy told Kate that his lordship had some questions for her of a botanical nature, and while her cousin raised a brow, she didn’t press the matter. Blackwell reached her side and indicated for her to precede him from the room. As she turned to leave, Arthur materialized.

  “And where are you headed?” he asked.

  Blackwell spoke before Lucy could. “One of the horses is showing signs of an illness. I’ve asked Miss Pickett to share her botanical knowledge with me in hopes we might find a solution.”

  Arthur wrinkled his brow. “Do you not have a veterinarian on retainer?”

  “He is useless.” Blackwell placed a hand at the small of Lucy’s back and propelled her from the room.

  “You need lessons, my lord,” she murmured once they were alone.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “There are ways to handle people that prove more effective in the long run.”

  “I find my way to be most effective. And quick.”

  Lucy lengthened her stride to keep up with Blackwell, who had crossed the main hall and was moving into the north wing on the main level. She motioned to the room adjacent the library as they moved past it. “Is that not your den?”

  “We are going elsewhere.”

  “Elsewhere?”

  Another turn of a corner had them before a set of double doors Kate had pointed out as the conservatory, which she had said was little used, if ever.

  Blackwell gave Lucy a long look before he finally twisted the handle of one of the doors and pushed it inward. Motioning for her to enter the room, he followed her and switched on the sconces that flanked the entrance.

  A grand piano sat in the corner to her right, with wrought-iron furniture painted white and upholstered in various shades of spring green placed in multiple seating arrangements about the room. The walls were papered in a light-green toile, and a large, plush carpet anchored the room at the center.

  A harp graced the far left corner, and seated next to it, a cello on a stand. A delicate crystal chandelier hung from the center of the ceiling, and a window seat against the far wall would be the perfect spot to sit with a sketchbook or novel.

  “This is lovely,” she murmured, taking in each detail with a cultured eye.

  He grunted, glancing at her. “You are surprised.”

  “It is very . . . feminine. Serene. Someone with subtle taste decorated this room.”

  “My mother.”

  Lucy looked at Blackwell, trying to read his tone, which was far from revealing. If anything, it was conspicuous in its lack of inflection. “Did she play many instruments?”

  He nodded. Placing his hands in his pockets, he looked around the room. “Everything in here. Plus the flute. She insisted Marie and I learn a little bit of everything as well.”

  “Do you have a favorite?”

  He gave a light shrug. “I suppose I enjoy the piano and cello equally.”

  “Very different instruments. Perhaps to cater to your mercurial moods.”

  Blackwell glanced at her sharply, and she regretted that she’d tipped her proverbial hand. She’d decided when leaving his suite that morning that she would not let on that he had bruised her feelings. Or perhaps it was her pride. They had shared a few intimate moments in her terror the night before, and she supposed she’d been hoping on some level for a deeper sense of familiarity, a less stilted formality. There was
also the fact that being around him did strange things to her insides, and it was an insult to her ego that he was apparently not also similarly affected.

  He narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing her for a long moment that had her wanting to fidget. Enough, already! “So, my lord,” she said. “Why have you brought me here?”

  Blackwell still watched her with ice-blue eyes that she feared saw everything. He finally blinked, his expression flat, and motioned with his head. “I brought you here to see this.”

  He moved to the wall and ran his fingers alongside a tapestry. Intrigued, she followed and stood beside him as he pressed what must have been a hidden mechanism, because the tapestry swung open to reveal a dark, recessed enclosure. She gave a small start of surprise at the revelation. “Is it a priest hole, then?”

  Blackwell shook his head and reached into his coat pocket for a small torch that he flicked on, illuminating the darkened area. Stairs led upward, and she rubbed her arms absently at the cold air that escaped the opening and flooded into the conservatory. Realization dawned, and her mouth fell open as she looked up at the ceiling, her mind’s eye seeing directly to the floor above.

  “Yes,” Blackwell said and, placing a hand on her arm, pulled her into the passageway with him. “Up,” he told her and followed as she lifted her skirt, ascending the narrow stone staircase.

  The stairs curved, and the passageway turned as they continued upward until they reached a small landing. Blackwell’s torch illuminated a door, and he felt alongside the seam between the door and the frame, searching for what she assumed must be another triggering mechanism.