The Lady Unmasked

by Ava Stone

  “Should you stay, I’m certain Blake would be happy to have you nearby. Someone to talk horses and racing circuits with. He’d be thrilled.”

  Quent nodded in agreement. “The two of you nearby is certainly a selling point.”

  The coach rambled to a stop, and the driver opened the door and lowered the step. Brighid grabbed the basket from the bench beside her, accepted the coachman’s assistance and then Quent climbed out behind her. Just as he was about to direct her into the castle, the stable boy came running towards them as though his hair was on fire.

  “Milord! Milord!” the boy cried. “Are you all right?”

  As all right as he could possibly be considering the bump on the back of his head and the confusion swirling around his heart. “I am. “

  The boy took a couple of heaving breaths. “When Falacer raced back, all skittish and wild-eyed, I didn’t know what to think. I just now got him calm enough to unsaddle him.”

  “He threw me,” Quent said, relieved his stallion had found his own way back to the castle. “Not his fault. He got spooked. Cool him down and give him a little extra attention, will you?”

  “Yes, milord.” The boy nodded quickly.

  Quent patted the lad on the head and then directed Brighid over the main threshold. At once, she squished up her nose as though she smelled something awful.

  “There is an odor, isn’t there?” Quent asked. “I think perhaps opening the windows and a fresh scrubbing…”

  “Sàisde fiadhain,” Brighid said instead with the shake of her head.

  “I beg your pardon?” Quent frowned. What language was she even speaking?

  “You need to burn it as incense in every room. I have some in my stores, but I don’t think enough for the entire castle. Have Mrs. Small send out for more, Quent.” She glanced around the main entrance way. “Quite a lot more.”

  “Sàisde…” He shook his head. “You’ll have to write that down, Brighid. I have no idea what you just said.”

  “Yes, yes,” she agreed. “In the meantime, lead the way to your chambers, my lord.”

  He quirked her a rakish grin. “Why, Mrs. Chetwey, you are forward, aren’t you?”

  “And you’re an incurable flirt,” she laughed. “But I need to look at your head, so if you don’t mind…” She gestured to the main staircase.

  Quent nodded in agreement, even though it did hurt to nod. “This way.” He led her up the stairs and then down one corridor and then another as they reached the family wing. Then he pushed the door open to the master’s chambers and held it wide. “After you, my dear.”

  Brighid preceded him into the room and she looked around as though she was searching for something. Then she turned back around, smiled, and gestured to his four-poster. “Lay on your side so I can take a look at your gash.”

  Dutifully, he followed her orders and laid down on the bed, turning on his side to stare at an old tapestry on the wall, depicting some scene from…What the devil? Was that an impaled Celt surrounded by a Roman legion looking on? How had he not noticed that before? Probably because he didn’t care for tapestries in general and had never been forced to stare at this one.

  “Ouch!” he complained when it felt like she’d stabbed him in the back of the head with a dagger.

  “Oh, don’t be a child,” she grumbled as she cleaned the back of his head with something that stung like the devil. “You’ve got quite a bit of gravel in here, and I have to get it all out.”

  Quent winced as she poked at his gash again. Brighid Chetwey might be a very talented witch but she had the bedside manner of a jungle cat. “Brighid, have you ever heard the local story of Cynbel the Celt?” he asked, looking once again at the morbid tapestry.

  “Of course,” she said. “Everyone in the district knows the story.”

  “And is this tapestry a depiction of that tale?”

  Brighid stopped her work briefly and then said, “Yes, I believe it is. That Roman General looks like Rufus Flavius. You can tell by his golden hair.”

  Rufus Flavius? Quent had never heard that name. “Who was Rufus Flavius?”

  “I thought you just asked me if I’d heard Cynbel’s tale.” She returned to cleaning his wound and making Quent cringe with pain.

  “Same tale?” he asked, his voice an octave higher when it felt as though she’d scalped him.

  “Rufus Flavius ordered the impalement of Cynbel and his family. He was dead himself within the week. His death attributed to Cynbel’s curse upon the invaders, uttered with his final breath.”

  The impalement of Cynbel and his entire family. Lila and her sister had glossed over the gory details. Either they didn’t know them or they didn’t want to repeat them in front of Hope, Grace and Patience. “It’s an unusual scene to put on a tapestry,” he said.

  “I’d imagine Mary Routledge either acquired it or had it commissioned. This would have once been her room, you know?” She abandoned his head and began to rummage around in her basket. “You’re going to need a few stitches.”

  “Bloody wonderful,” he muttered under his breath, then steeled himself for the jabbing of her needle. Something niggled in the back of his mind. “Why would my great-grandmother want a tapestry of Cynbel and Rufus Flavius in her bedchamber?”

  “Well, Cynbel was very powerful, and you know how she craved power.”

  That was true. She’d held a séance in the dungeons and opened a portal to the other side in her pursuit of power. “Or she was mad.”

  “She was never that,” Brighid said, pulling the thread through his first stitch. “Evil, clever, vicious – yes; but not mad.”

  Quent snorted. “Then morbid. Who would look at this every night?”

  “She was searching for him,” Brighid said matter-of-factly. “She might have thought it would aid her pursuit.”

  “Beg your pardon.” Quent frowned in confusion. “She was looking for whom?”

  “Cynbel.” She pulled the thread through once more. “The story I heard is that Cynbel was the reason Mary Routledge was trying to harness the power of the Marisdùn spirits. She was searching for his entity. Not that anyone knows for certain, but it was quite likely that his life was taken on these grounds.”

  “I would have thought the fort.”

  “Construction on the oldest parts of Marisdùn began during the Roman reign.” She snipped off the edge of her thread. “It is said that whoever holds Cynbel in his or her power can never be defeated.”

  “Cynbel was defeated though, wasn’t he?” The tapestry clearly showed that.

  “His mortal body, certainly. But he did take his revenge on Rufus Flavius from the grave, did he not?”

  It could have been anything that killed the Roman.

  “They say in death Cynbel was more powerful than he had been in life.”

  “That is saying something for a man with tree trunks for arms.”

  Brighid laughed. “Yes, well, legends are legends for a reason, are they not?”

  He supposed that was true. Quent rolled over and sat up, smiling at his friend’s wife. “Thank you for—” he gestured to his head “—this.”

  “Anytime.” She smiled in response. “But you may have a concussion, Quent. So do stay awake for—”

  “My lord,” Mrs. Small interrupted from the threshold. “Pardon me, but do please come at once. There’s been an accident.”

  “An accident?” Quent leapt to his feet.

  “What’s happened?” Brighid reached for her basket.

  “It’s Caldwell, ma’am.” It looked like she was blinking back tears. “It seems he’s fallen into his fire, sir.”

  “Dear God,” Quent breathed out. “Lead the way, Mrs. Small.”

  The portly housekeeper bustled in front of Quent and Brighid, leading them down the back staircase, through the billiard room and out into the courtyard. Then they rushed to the smithy at the far edge of the property, to find the place surrounded by Thorn, Garrick and at least a dozen servants, all with their hea
ds hanging low.

  Brighid sucked in a breath.

  Quent’s stomach dropped at the sight. “Damn it all,” he grumbled. The man was most definitely dead for so many people to be gathered around in sorrow.

  “Sounds like he slipped,” Thorn muttered quietly. “Then burned himself alive.”

  Garrick winced at hearing that. “Just awful,” he whispered. “Boys in the stables heard the screams, but it was too late to do anything by the time anyone got here.”

  “Awful indeed.” Horrific might be more apt. Quent’s stomach clenched again. He spotted Bendle in the crowd and said to the butler, “We’d better send for Sir Cyrus.” The local magistrate would, after all, want to be informed about the situation.

  Eleven

  “Poor Caldwell,” Callie began as she and Lila made their way into Ravenglass just like they used to. “It’s simply tragic.”

  “Yes,” Lila agreed. And it was. The poor man. She couldn’t imagine a more awful fate. “Papa was graveside first thing this morning for services. I just don’t understand how it happened. He’s worked in that smithy for as long as I can remember. He had to know it like the back of his hand.”

  “Cyrus says he slipped on something, hit his head and was pinned in the forge.”

  Lila shivered at the thought.

  “Braden and Cyrus were at Marisdùn nearly all night.”

  “How is your brother? I never see him anymore.” Once upon a time, Lila couldn’t get Sir Cyrus to leave her alone, but ever since Alice, the baker’s sweet daughter, had caught the magistrate’s attention, Lila hadn’t seen him at all, not even at Sunday services.

  “I think he’s going to propose. Can you believe it?”

  “He does seem very taken with her.”

  Callie bumped her shoulder with Lila’s. “If you want to be my sister, this is your last chance. I’m sure I could get him to change his mind.”

  Lila couldn’t help but laugh. Sir Cyrus was hardly the sort she could imagine spending the rest of her life with. He was about as different from Lord Quentin Post as one could get. Still, he had a genuine heart and she truly did hope he and Alice would be extraordinarily happy. “And break poor Alice’s heart?” she teased. “I wish them all the best.”

  “I was afraid you’d say that.” Callie smiled as they approached High Street. “Oh, I meant to tell you. Daphne and Wolf arrived at Marisdùn last night. She’s going to meet us at Appleton’s.”

  Of course, Daphne had always possessed a sweet tooth. “Just like old times, hmm?”

  “Almost,” Callie agreed. “You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Of course not!” Lila touched a hand to her heart. “I adore Daphne, and if she’s at Marisdùn, I won’t be seeing her there. So this is wonderful.”

  “I know you adore her. It’s just that we haven’t had a chance to talk, just the two of us. I was hoping we’d get the chance yesterday, but you had to leave so suddenly.”

  Yes, when Lord Quentin had arrived out of the blue. “I am sorry about that.” And even though Callie was and always would be Lila’s closest friend in the world, she couldn’t tell her that she had to escape Braewood in that moment because Lord Quentin had arrived. The man was, after all, her family now. “But Papa has been insisting on attending Dorcas Society functions of late and I realized I had to be home to meet him or he’d be in temper.”

  “Your father is always in a temper.”

  “Yes,” Lila agreed. “But even more so if I forget something important.”

  “Well, just tell him that Lady Bradenham is in town for the next sennight and expects your full, undivided attention until she leaves.”

  “Have you been gone so very long, Lady Bradenham, that you’ve forgotten who my father is?” Lila laughed. “Besides, he’s not terribly fond of the Post family. So I doubt that your very lofty name would mean much to him at all.”

  “Yes, well, the Posts are perfectly pleasant people.” Callie winced slightly. “With the possible exception of my mother-in-law, but I hear that is to be expected.” Then her face brightened. “Speak of the devil,” she said cheerfully as a shadow fell across their path.

  “Speak of the devil?” Lord Quentin’s voice made Lila’s heart leap. “Were the two prettiest girls in all of Cumberland discussing me?”

  Callie laughed. “We were talking Posts in general and the dowager marchioness in particular.”

  His warm, hazel eyes flicked from Lila back to Callie. “I do hate it when I’m confused with my stepmother.”

  “Never that, my dear, Quent.” His sister-in-law giggled once more. “But as you are a Post in general—”

  “And in particular,” he added with a grin.

  “Yes, well, I was simply saying that the Posts were perfectly pleasant people.”

  His gaze flashed back to Lila. “I do hope, my dear, you weren’t taking the opposite stance, unless it was to specific Posts in particular. Braden can be a great bore. Hope completely ridiculous. Grace could try the nerves of a saint. And Patience—”

  “Are you saying you are the most perfect Post, my lord?” Lila couldn’t help but laugh. But then he’d always had the ability to charm her, with just a word or two and with one of those soul-searing gazes of his. Even knowing that he didn’t love her, she couldn’t help but love him.

  “I do like the sound of that.” He quirked her a grin that she felt all the way to her toes. Then he turned his attention once more to his brother’s wife. “Speaking of Posts, Callie, is my brother in town today?”

  She shook her head, and her blonde curls bobbed against her shoulders. “He’s at Braewood keeping watch over your sisters. He’s been threatening all day to stick a certain earl’s head on a pike should the fellow come within ten feet of Hope, just so you know.”

  “I shall warn the earl in question when I next see him.” He heaved a sigh, then a rakish twinkle lit his eyes. “Actually, my dear sister-in-law, I am quite put out with you, now that I think about it. I thought you liked me at least a little.”

  “Me?” She touched a hand to her heart. “What could I possibly have done, Quent?”

  He winked at Lila. “It is my understanding from the lovely Lila here that over the last year you have written her quite a few tidbits about our family’s goings on.”

  Callie cast a sidelong glance at Lila as though she was thoroughly confused. “We are old friends. We’ve always told each other everything.”

  “Yes, but in all that time, you didn’t mention me even once. Certainly, I’ve done something of merit, something you could have told Lila about in regards to me. I am feeling quite slighted.”

  Callie laughed, catching on quickly that he was teasing her. “I shall have to remedy that this instant, Quent.” Then she towed Lila closer to her and said in a very loud whisper, “You will never guess why Lord Quentin is hosting his masquerade tonight…”

  And in that instant, Lila’s heart twisted in her chest. Lord Quentin’s brow furrowed quite dramatically as though this little game had taken a turn he hadn’t counted on.

  “…He’s searching for an angel who kissed him last year,” Callie confided, “and—”

  “—he hopes to duplicate the event, from invitation lists to costumes, in the hope that the elusive lady will reappear,” Lila said, keeping her eyes even with Lord Quentin’s. “Yes, I know.”

  “Oh!” Callie sighed. “He already told you. I supposed you don’t have any idea who the girl is?”

  “I’m not certain she exists,” Lila said, watching his lordship as closely as she ever had.

  “She’s not a figment of my imagination,” he said, sounding much more curt than usual.

  “That doesn’t mean she exists, my lord.” Then Lila glanced at Callie to her side and said, “We really shouldn’t keep Daphne waiting. It’s been so long since I’ve seen her.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” the marchioness agreed as she nodded farewell to her brother-in-law. “See you tonight, Quent.” And then she linked her arm with L
ila’s once more and started towards Appleton’s.

  “He’s at Braewood, you say?” Lord Quentin called after them.

  Callie glanced back over her shoulder. “Until this evening when we all head to Marisdùn.” Then she resumed her course, towing Lila right along with her.

  Something in Quent’s chest twisted painfully as Callie and Lila strode down High Street away from him. He wasn’t entirely certain what it was, but he thought it quite likely was his heart. He truly hadn’t expected his heart to be involved in anything upon his return to Ravenglass. It had been a different organ all together that had motivated this twelve month search.

  If he wouldn’t look quite ridiculous doing so, he would kick his own arse for the unfortunate turn in that last conversation. It was all his fault. He couldn’t even blame Callie. He’d set her up perfectly to say the one thing he’d really rather not have her say to Lila. He’d been a complete idiot not to think that through. A complete and total idiot.

  He heaved a sigh as he started for the taproom stables where he’d left Falacer that morning.

  What was he even doing, flirting with Lila Southward anyway? He’d come to Ravenglass for his angel and that was that. But every moment spent with Lila made the desire to find his angel diminish that much more. He had, in short, gone and lost his bloody mind.

  To make matters worse, he didn’t have time to think about any aspect of this situation either. He’d just buried a dead servant. He had talk to his brother about the blacksmith’s pension. He had guests already arriving at Marisdùn. He had to somehow find an enormous stash of sàisde fiadhain, whatever the devil that was. And he…Damn it all. His mind went right back to Lila Southward and the expression she’d worn just now.

  She’d seemed angry with him, hadn’t she? Or was it hurt he’d seen flash in her grey eyes? He cringed at the memory then nodded at the stable lad to retrieve his stallion.