“I desire to come in. Open the door.”
Torqo growled deeply in his throat.
“It – it is very late, ma’am,” Serena stammered. “I have – r-retired. Can we not speak on the morrow?”
“Open the door,” the Marchioness repeated and now there was something so menacing and so horrible in her voice that Serena knew beyond any shadow of doubt that danger and hatred were lurking there in the passage, a hatred that was menacingly vibrant even though its author remained invisible.
She could feel evil reaching out to envelop her. She saw too that Torqo sensed it, for his hackles were rising.
“I have retired, ma’am,” Serena repeated, but her voice was weak.
In answer the latch clicked up and down again. There were several thumps against the door as if the Marchioness had put her shoulder against it and then, through the gap between the lintel and the door itself, there appeared a long thin shining blade of steel. It was like the long poisonous tongue of a reptile.
Serena saw it, gasped and felt in a moment a terror that made her so weak and faint that she could hardly stand.
That sword, stained as she well knew with the blood of a murdered man, was no figment of her imagination, it was real, it was there.
Soon it would be within the room at her throat, piercing its way through her warm flesh. There was only a bolt, fragile and insecure, between herself and a maniac obsessed by a hatred and a bestiality beyond all reason and all sanity.
Trembling, Serena looked wildly around her. She glanced at the window and knew there was no escape that way.
Then she remembered the door in the turret! She sped towards it and wrenched it open. Swiftly, with fingers that shook so violently that she could hardly control them, she lifted the latch of the smaller door that led on to the staircase.
Even as she did so she heard the sound of splintering wood and knew that the bolt on the door of the bedroom was giving way. But already she was on the stone steps and was running down them, feeling her way in the pitch darkness.
Behind her came Torqo.
As she flung open the door into the library, she heard a crash and knew that the Marchioness had found her way into her bedroom.
But she was in the library. The lights were on and she saw that the old Marquis was sitting at his desk.
She ran across the room to him.
“Oh, my Lord,” she panted. “Help me! I – ”
She stopped suddenly.
He was leaning forward and she thought at first that he was writing, but now she saw that, while the quill was still in his hand, his head was on his arm and his face hidden. She stood very still.
There was no need to speak again and no need to touch him. She knew, without the need of words, that the Marquis was dead. He had died at the writing of his history, the way, Serena thought, that he would have wished to go.
For a moment she forgot everything, her own fear and her own danger, in a sudden overwhelming sense of compassion. In the death of the old Marquis she had lost a friend.
And then a sound startled her, a sound that recalled everything, for it was the footsteps of someone coming slowly down the stone stairway.
It was at that moment that a panic beyond anything that she had ever known in the whole of her life swept over Serena. It was almost beyond comprehension to be alone with a dead man and know that she was being pursued by a woman who was determined that she too should die.
Seeking escape frantically like a cornered animal, Serena ran through the library door. Fortunately she knew the way down the main stairway that led into the garden. She reached the door and pulled back the bolts.
Then the fresh air was on her face and she was free.
With Torqo bounding beside her she rushed wildly across the lawn, down the Rose Garden, across another part of the garden and on and on until she reached the gate onto the cliffs.
She was guided in her flight entirely by instinct, neither thinking nor reasoning, driven by a terror that bereft her of everything save the thought of evading the Marchioness.
Just as she reached the cliffs, a storm broke.
There was a sudden clap of thunder, a streak of lightning and the rain came pouring down as though the skies had opened, but she ran on. The thunder was in her ears and lightning in her eyes, the rain beating against her and soaking her to the skin, seeming in its force almost to tear her clothes from her.
She ran on, the thunder roared again and it seemed to her in that moment that the Marchioness was just behind her. The lightning seemed linked with that streak of cruel steel – the steel that she had seen buried in the smuggler’s throat.
The rain lashed her face. Blinded she could see nothing, she was alone in the darkness with her own fear.
Still she ran.
She gave a sudden cry of terror.
She had stepped forward into nothingness. She felt herself fall and strove against her falling, but it was useless.
The thunder drowned the sound of her voice – and then there was only Torqo’s deep baying and below the splash of the waves against the cliffs.
Chapter Seventeen
The Marchioness stopped and stared down at her dead husband.
Her mind was so inflamed with the desire for revenge and so bemused by a fire that seemed to consume all thought save that of a hunger for blood that she did not for the moment recognise him or remember who he was.
Then through a red mist reason returned to her for a split second and she called him by name. He did not reply and she made a movement as if she would have touched him, but the hand that she outstretched held the naked rapier-like sword and the glint of the steel reminded her of whom she sought and what was her avowed purpose.
Serena!
That girl, that minx, who had defrauded her of so much and who should be made to pay not only for the bad luck and ill-fortune she had brought to Mandrake, but also for presuming to marry Justin.
Craftily the Marchioness remembered that with Serena’s death her fortune of eighty thousand pounds would become theirs. Yes, theirs, because in this moment she was linked with her son, linked against all who threatened to disrupt the personal kingdom that was Mandrake, a fortress, as it had always been, against all who were alien.
Yet her mind, chaotic and entangled, could not for long sustain the thought of sharing that fortress or that Kingdom with anyone, even her own son. Whatever the title deeds might say, she believed that the real Mandrake was the one that she had created and that was hers and hers alone.
Yes, hers, for whatever her husband and Justin might say to the contrary, this great home existed today merely because the fashionable world found it a tolerable gambling place.
She had made it a rendezvous for the people who mattered and she would defy anyone, whoever it might be, who challenged her supremacy here.
The Marchioness threw back her red head as if she faced a hostile mob and once again the mercury-like glint of steel recalled her resolution.
She would kill Serena!
That was what she intended to do, to rid Mandrake of her once and for all and to rid Justin of her too.
The white powder that she had sniffed so freely but a short time ago had created a wildness that was an intoxication within her veins. She knew that her strength was equal to any task, however formidable. She knew that she was unconquerable, nothing and no one could stop her.
She turned away from the old man lying silent and still. She saw beyond him the open door, which showed her all too clearly the way that Serena had taken.
She went through it and then hesitated, for there were steps leading downwards into the garden and a passage in front of her that led back to the house. Which way had Serena taken?
“I will find you, wench! I will find you!” the Marchioness cried out. “Don’t think you can escape me.”
Her voice brought the old valet from his room at the far end of the passage. He opened the door, the light shining behind his grey hair.
H
e saw who it was and came forward.
“Did you call, my Lady?”
“Where is she?” the Marchioness asked in a deep resonant voice that seemed to echo down the passage.
“Where is who, my Lady?”
“That girl. She came this way.”
“I know not of whom you speak, my Lady. I was waiting for his Lordship to ring. ’Tis time he retired to bed.”
“I seek – a girl,” the Marchioness said menacingly and then the old valet saw what she carried in her hand.
“My Lady – oh, my Lady,” he exclaimed.
“Out of my way, fool,” the Marchioness cried. “I will find her. You can be sure of that. I will find her.”
The man fell back against the wall. He saw the madness in the Marchioness’s eyes, heard it in her voice and he was afraid.
She swept past him. The old valet stood trembling when she was gone and then hurried towards the library.
The Marchioness swept on. For the moment she had lost her sense of direction and was not certain where she was going or why.
Suddenly she found herself on the first floor landing, and running towards her with agitation written all over her features was Martha.
“Oh, my Lady,” she cried. “I have been searchin’ for your Ladyship everywhere.”
“Where has she gone?” the Marchioness asked in a savage frustrated tone.
“Where has who gone?” Martha enquired.
“That crafty chit, Serena – Staverley,” the Marchioness snapped.
“Why, she is in her room, my Lady.”
The Marchioness turned as if she would retrace her steps to the second floor, but Martha clutched her arm.
“Wait, my Lady,” she said, “I have somethin’ of grave importance to tell you.”
“What is it?” the Marchioness enquired. “I have no time to linger.”
Martha looked over her shoulder and spoke in a whisper.
“The smugglers, my Lady, they are here.”
The Marchioness looked at Martha for a moment as if she did not quite understand what she said and then she repeated slowly,
“The smugglers! Here? Tonight?”
“Yes, my Lady. Have you forgotten that your Ladyship sent for them? You said you had urgent work for them. Don’t you recollect, my Lady? I took the message for you myself this very forenoon.”
“Yes, yes, of course.”
“Quickly, my Lady. They are waitin’ for you. You have gold for them? Can I find it for you?”
The Marchioness turned, as if reluctantly, towards her own bedroom.
“Now think, my Lady,” Martha entreated. “Oh, God in heaven,” she said suddenly, “it’s that devil-mix powder you have been takin’.”
“Silence, fool,” the Marchioness said. “What I take is my own business. Maybe that is what I want at this moment, more of it, more to make my brain clear.”
“’Tis clear enough,” Martha said soothingly. “But look, my Lady, you have dropped the sheath from your swordstick.”
The Marchioness stared at the sword in her hand.
“I have to find her,” she muttered. “I have to find her.”
“Yes, yes, my Lady,” Martha said. “But hurry now, the men are waitin’.”
They reached the Marchioness’s bedroom and she stood in the centre of the room while Martha went to the dressing table.
“The gold? Where has your Ladyship hidden it?” Martha asked.
“I have none!”
“No gold?”
Martha was horrified. Her mouth dropped open and she stared stupidly at the Marchioness.
“Then why, why did your Ladyship send for the men?”
“Because I need money, fool. Because they will obtain it for me. Bring me my jewel case.”
“Your jewel case, my Lady?”
“Yes and swiftly too,” the Marchioness ordered impatiently.
Staring at her as if she had taken leave of her senses, Martha fetched the big leather-covered jewel case from the locked drawer in the wardrobe.
When her back was turned, the Marchioness went to the dressing table and pulled open the drawer that contained the snuffbox. She sniffed once, and yet again, and then she drew a deep breath.
She glanced at herself in the mirror. She saw that the pupils of her eyes, enormously dilated, were dark and menacing. She saw that her skin was very white, her lips quivering.
Then she gave a laugh of triumph.
“Egad, but I am in looks tonight! More beautiful than I have been for many a long day.”
“Yes, yes, your Ladyship, but don’t linger. The men are waitin’.”
“Let them wait,” the Marchioness replied. “Open the box, woman, and let’s see what we have within.”
Martha turned the key and swung back the heavy lid. Inside, each one in a velvet-lined compartment, lay the Vulcan jewels.
The Marchioness put out her hand and picked out two great necklaces, one set with rubies the size of pigeons’ eggs, the other with diamonds that seemed to glitter with a strange fire as the light of the candles was reflected in them.
“The next tray,” she commanded sharply.
Martha obeyed her, lifting the tray to reveal bracelets and tiaras to match the necklaces. The Marchioness gathered two or three of them into her hands and turned towards the door.
“My Lady, where are you goin’?” Martha asked. “You cannot dispose of the jewels. They are his Lordship’s, my Lady.”
“And what would my son need them for?” the Marchioness asked lightly.
“They are his, my Lady – his to give to his wife.”
“His wife!”
The Marchioness turned round swiftly on her, her face contorted almost beyond recognition.
“That is whom I seek – Justin’s wife. Where have you hidden her?”
Martha gave a cry.
“I have hidden her nowhere, my Lady. Oh, go now, go. The men will be getting’ impatient. Speak to them, send them away and ask them to come another day, for there is danger for your Ladyship and for us all while they linger here.”
“I am not afraid.”
The Marchioness laughed again and then she turned with a swagger, the light gleaming on the great tangle of jewels she held in the one hand and on the sword she carried in the other.
“Shall I come with you, my Lady?” Martha asked in a low voice.
The Marchioness looked down at her scornfully.
“And what help would you be? No, wait for me here. I will be back in a few minutes and then together we will seek for that baggage.”
She went forward as if she was walking on air. Indeed she felt at that moment as if she had wings and they bore her down the narrow staircase to the hidden door in the panelling. She made no effort to light the candles in the tunnel. She knew her way by instinct and, as she moved forward in the dark, she did not falter, not even when she came to the top of the stone steps.
Down, down she went, the damp cool air coming to meet her as she descended.
Every now and then there was a distant crash of thunder that seemed to reverberate, echo and re-echo ominously, but the Marchioness paid no heed.
Soon she saw the cave lights ahead of her and, when she entered, it was to find the torches flaring and the men standing round waiting for her arrival.
She swept in suddenly amongst them, a creature from another world with her bare shoulders glittering with jewels, her red head held high, her eyes compellingly dark and strange.
Padlett came forward.
“Good evening, your Ladyship.”
“So you are here,” the Marchioness commented.
“Yes, your Ladyship. You sent for us, we are ready.”
The Marchioness looked at him and for a moment she did not speak, then as if to hurry her he said quietly,
“Your Ladyship has the gold for us?”
“Gold! No, I have no gold,” the Marchioness said. “I have these. Take them! They are exceeding rare and should purchase all you can carry a
nd more.”
She threw out her left hand with a flamboyant gesture. As she did so one of the bracelets fell from her hold and lay glittering on the damp floor. No one moved to pick it up.
The men stared at her and there was a murmur between two or three of them in the background.
“Jewels, my Lady!” Padlett exclaimed. “’Tis not easy to sell such ware across the Channel. ’Tis better that we have gold to take with us.”
“But I tell you,” the Marchioness said impatiently, “that I have no gold for you. Take the jewels. They will sell for thousands of guineas. They are valuable, I tell you, exceeding valuable.”
Padlett glanced towards the men he was the spokesman for. What he saw in their faces strengthened his own reluctance.
“I’m sorry to disoblige, your Ladyship,” he said, “but ’tis not easy in France to dispose of such things. There are spies everywhere. And they will as like as not think such rare pieces are stolen, ’Tis yellow gold those Frenchies want.”
“You will do as I command you,” the Marchioness said and for a second her eyes narrowed and there was an ominous note in her voice.
Padlett turned to the other men as if to seek their advice. One of them, a big hulking fellow with a beard and a broken nose, piped up,
“’Em be dangerous ware, ’tain’t reason to take ought but gold and we be a-wantin’ more for the journey too. Five guineas, ’tain’t enough. There’s other nobs that’ll pay seven jacks and more. Also we be a-wantin’ our pickings. A bottle of blood-an-thunder per man and summat for each of us to take home and all.”
“You will have neither brandy nor anything else from the cargo,” the Marchioness asserted furiously. “You know my rules. You have been told them often enough.”
“Aye, but we be a-goin’ to make our rules now,” someone shouted.
“Dogs, curs, do you defy me?” the Marchioness screamed.
She faced them angrily, the sword in her right hand glittering a little as her fingers tightened on the handle.
“And what’ll you do to us if we do?” someone asked in a low undertone. “Spike us as you spiked young Adam?”
The Marchioness stood there, her breath coming quickly and the nostrils of her thin nose quivering a little with sheer rage.
A Hazard of Hearts Page 32