by Hazel Hunter
“Mr. Gerard, I– Forgive me, Baron Greystone,” the shepherd said, his pleasant tenor giving away his identity. He bowed and added, “When I inquired, our host said that I might find you here.”
“Mr. Branwen.” Suspecting Pickering was having another joke at his expense. He returned the bow. “How may I be of service?”
“I should like to have a word with you before I leave for the night. I confess that my wife and I do not keep late hours.” He removed his mask and turned it in his hands. “For that reason, I promise to be brief. It is about Miss Reed.”
Greystone suddenly had the sense of being a boy about to be scolded.
“As it happens I spoke with her earlier about you.” Jeffrey’s brow furrowed. “I worried she might be in some distress over the possibility of meeting you again. That is presumptuous, I admit, but as she has no father to watch over her, I feel somewhat obligated.”
“Miss Reed and I did meet earlier.” He resisted touching his still-throbbing nose. “I believe everything between us has been settled amicably.”
“I would take your word for that, of course, had I not witnessed your meeting Miss Reed earlier.” He made a surprisingly savage gesture in the general direction of the gardens. “You kissed her, and then you carried her off. I saw it all from the window.”
Greystone rubbed his brow. “Mr. Branwen, I can appreciate your concern–”
“You cannot possibly, sir.” The little vicar squared his shoulders as if preparing for a fight.
“–but this is none of your business,” he finished before he thought better of it.
“On the contrary, my lord. You made it mine long before tonight.” Jeffrey marched up to him and poked a finger at his chest. “You did not come to the church at the appointed hour for your wedding. You offered no warning, or explanation, or apology. You vanished without a word to anyone. By doing so you broke a solemn promise you made, not only to Miss Reed, but to God. You were not there to see the consequences. I was. I have been, these seven years.”
What could he say in his defense? Nothing, thanks to the other solemn promise he had made.
The vicar stepped back and visibly tried to compose himself. “Forgive me. I rarely lose my temper, but when I do my ability to minister to others suffers.”
“What have you said that I do not deserve?” Greystone asked. “I am sorry that I upset you, Mr. Branwen. I will be gone from here tonight, and I have no plans to return.”
“If there are consequences for Miss Reed after tonight, you will,” Jeffrey said flatly. “You will come back to Renwick and do right by that young woman. You will stand up with her in my church, before God, and marry her.” He leaned closer, his gaze intent. “And if I must travel to London to drag you back here to do so, sir, rest assured I will.”
Consequences.
Greystone watched as Jeffrey turned and stalked back to the house. Only when he was out of earshot did he slump back against the stable wall and close his eyes. He had not given a single thought to what might result from making love to Jennet. The moment he had kissed her he had been consumed by his passion for her. Nothing had mattered but her. The world might have crumbled around them, and he wouldn’t have noticed.
Now she might be carrying his child, doomed to be born out of wedlock in a small village where everyone would revile and shun them both.
He would marry her, Greystone decided. As long as she had his name Jennet would be protected. She could live at Gerard Lodge with the child and her mother. He would see to it that they wanted for nothing. Once his own mother learned Jennet was his wife, and with child, she would likely wish to join them. They could be happy together, the three of them, raising his heir. Staying away would not be difficult. Men were never much help in the nursery. He would have the consolation of knowing he had saved her and their baby from the very worst of scandals.
It was all decided, except for one problem. The thought of not being with Jennet while she grew heavy with his child made Greystone want to howl at the heavens until the sky splintered and the stars rained down.
Remember your choice.
Jennet returned inside, where she stood for a long moment eyeing the empty reception room. If she sat there no doubt Greystone would find her; if she went to the ballroom he might have the audacity to ask her to dance. She needed a quiet place to tidy herself and think, and recalled what the older woman had said after they had first arrived.
Taking the stairs to the second floor, Jennet kept watch for other guests, but found herself alone when she walked out from the landing. She saw several doors standing open as if in invitation, and looked in the one nearest the stairs before entering the room.
The bed chamber inside had a curious mix of antique oak furnishings and new golden linens and ivory damask drapes. Fresh paint and plaster repairs failed to entirely disguise the cracks and chips in the walls, just as the new carpet only covered most of the scarred floor planks. Some landscape paintings had been hung, and a low fire burned in the hearth, but Jennet doubted Arthur Pickering or any of his friends currently occupied the chamber. So why did she feel as if someone were watching her from inside the room?
“Forgive my intrusion,” Jennet said, loud enough to be heard in the adjoining dressing room. When no one replied, she closed the door and went to the wash stand.
Even as she made liberal use of the soap and cold water, she could still smell Greystone’s scent. She would have to scrub every vestige of him from her person in the morning; for now, she tidied herself as best she could. Additional measures would have to be taken with the borrowed gown. She would sponge the silk with spirits mixed with a little honey and vinegar, and let it dry in the shade out of doors to remove any lingering trace of her assignation in the hot house. The rest of her garments she could rinse out in her bath water.
Greystone would not have to do any of that, nor wait for weeks to discover if he was with child. That made Jennet hate him just a little more.
Once she had finished the necessities, she sat down by the fire to think. What she had done in the hot house with Greystone could be concealed; a pregnancy could not. Every woman knew the disastrous consequences of having a child out of wedlock. Bearing his child while yet unmarried would earn Jennet the contempt of the world. It would horrify her mother, scandalize their servants, and estrange every friend they had.
I have been so foolish.
Not only would she be cast out of society, and never again be permitted to rejoin it, but the baby and Margaret would share the same fate. Jennet’s name would be spoken of only as a warning to other young ladies, and then only in whispers. The Reeds would remain in social exile for the remainder of their lives, and her child would be evermore known as Greystone’s bastard.
Despite these dismal thoughts her hand crept down to touch the top of her skirt, and a strange warmth suffused her.
Never had Jennet dared dream of becoming a mother, but the prospect served to strengthen her resolve. Greystone would not care about the baby any more than her, but with some careful arrangement she could bear it without destroying her or Margaret’s reputation. She had heard stories of girls who went away to Scotland or Ireland to have a secret confinement, and returned a year or two later wearing wedding rings and pretending to be widows while presenting their infants. Everyone suspected the truth of such matters, but accepted the pretense.
Would she be bold enough to try the same?
The hope she felt soothed her, and she closed her eyes for a moment. That moment stretched out as she fell into a doze, and then into a dream.
Jennet found herself standing in a cemetery, her costume now covered with black feathers. Before her gaped a deep rectangular hole in the ground framed by four long, sharp-looking scythes. She took a step back, and then leaned forward to look into the grave, which thankfully proved empty. A black marble headstone had been placed at one end, but dozens of names had been chiseled into its surface.
All of them ended with the same surname: Thor
ne.
“I should like to awaken now,” Jennet said, removing the velvet mask from her face. The fabric had turned black, and fell apart in her hands, fluttering to the ground to become more gleaming dark plumes.
“You are in no immediate peril, my dear,” a deep voice said. “Yet I think you must awaken very soon.”
She turned toward the other end of the grave, where stood a tall, heavy-set older man wearing clothes from a century past. A powdered wig sat somewhat askew on his head, which he absently adjusted as he gazed down into the grave. That he was partly transparent and floated slightly above the ground made it obvious he was some form of apparition.
Jennet blinked, but he did not vanish. “I beg your pardon, sir?”
“On the best of days Dredthorne Hall is a precarious place, my dear,” the old man told her. “This is All Hallows’ Eve. Tonight, every soul lost within these rooms has been awakened. Most intend only to wander, but among them walk malevolent and vengeful spirits that one should not cross.”
“I do not believe in ghosts or spirits,” Jennet told him. “Nor have we been introduced. Pray, what is your name?”
“Forgive my discourtesy.” The man bowed. “I am Emerson Thorne.”
“You are the gentleman who built Dredthorne Hall?” When he nodded, she belatedly remembered to curtsey. “Of course, I must be dreaming.”
“You have a gift of seeing what others do not,” Thorne told her. “Even in your sleep, I would wager. I am sorry to say that ladies with your talent do not fare well in my house.”
Jennet smiled politely. “I am imagining you, sir, so I have no need for your reassurance.”
The cemetery became flooded with shadows, which whirled around them before receding. She found herself walking through the gardens, the ghost of Emerson Thorne floating beside her. All around them sprang flowers and vines and leaves made of ice and frost, which sparkled in the bright moonlight. The dazzling radiance made her squint until she spied other diaphanous silhouettes moving along the pathways. All of them appeared to be ladies, each dressed in gowns from the last century.
When they noticed Jennet and Thorne, they flew back into the hall, passing directly through the stone walls.
“If you are indeed haunting Dredthorne, what keeps you here?” she asked Thorne.
“Before I built my home, there stood on these grounds the ruins of an ancient fortress. It fell during the invasion of William the Conqueror. Many hundreds of Saxons died here, where I built my dream home.” The old man sighed. “I should have respected the dead, but I was in love and had not a thought for anyone but my lady. I had the ruins cleared, and Dredthorne built. My rival murdered my wife here. Many other Thorne wives were killed, or driven mad.”
His rambling sounded like the stuff of delusions, but Jennet felt a sudden welling of dread. “I am not married to a Thorne, or any man, for that matter.”
Thorne chuckled sadly. “My family has many branches, including a very distant connection to the Gerard family. Midnight has passed, so you have spent the night in my house, and made yourself William’s wife in everything but name.”
Jennet wanted to laugh it off as part of this ridiculous dream, but in her heart she felt the truth of what he had said. “What would you have me do, sir?”
“Use your gift to your advantage,” the old man said sternly. “If you are clever, I think you may live to see the morning.”
“What am I to look for, Mr. Thorne?” As he started to float back to the house, Jennet reached out without thinking and touched the sleeve of his jacket. Her hand passed through it, and when she snatched it back it felt as cold as if it were encased in ice.
“What they cannot see, Miss Reed.” Thorne glanced back at her. “An end to the curse on Dredthorne Hall. You must be the one to break it.”
Once the last of the guests had left, Pickering paid and dismissed the servants for the night. The speed with which his temporary staff left amused him, for he didn’t share their fear of the old house. Dredthorne Hall had the sort of shabby, pathetic charm possessed by an aging French courtesan who refused to surrender to the ravages of time. One had to admire that sort of tenacity.
Catherine Tindall had surprised him, a rare experience. He had enjoyed burying himself in the soft vise of her quim, and plumbing the warm, wet paradise of her lips. He wasn’t too certain if he cared for the other things she had done while fellating him, but the entire interlude had been refreshingly novel. Perhaps when she returned to the city he would make a point of calling on her, and arrange another tryst.
His smile faded as he considered the task ahead. He and Greystone would ride until dawn to reach London, where he would deliver the goods and then report to his superiors. His recommendations would not be welcome, but after seeing the baron’s reaction to Jennet Reed, he could no longer be relied upon as expected. Indeed, he felt certain that if William returned to his work, he might expose them all.
Pickering entered the study to retrieve his satchel, and heard the door slam shut behind him. He glanced over his shoulder expecting to see Foray or Greystone, and looked into the dark, flat eyes of a killer.
Unwelcome as they were, it seemed his last guests had arrived.
“I say, the ball is over, dear chap.” After noting the knife scars on the intruder’s hands, he started for his desk, only to find another brute blocking his path. “You gentlemen should finish out the night at the village tavern. The wine tastes little better than swill, but their ale proves surprisingly good.” He waggled his brows. “The little blonde at the taps is even better.”
“Sit down,” the one with the scars growled, his English as thick as his muscles. “Ruban comes to speak with you.”
Pickering feigned a puzzled look as he did as he was told, but a chill collected in his chest. He knew Ruban’s reputation to be well-earned, and his own limited skills useless in this situation. He would never again leave this room alive. Since he had long ago accepted that as a very possible fate, that left tending to matters to protect those who might survive the night.
Everything depended on Greystone now.
Oddly Pickering thought of Jennet Reed, and the sharpness in her lovely eyes. Since he preferred skillful whores to ladies, and remaining unencumbered rather than playing the devoted husband, Pickering felt few regrets. He wasn’t sorry he had bedded her friend, but he regretted his pretense of pursuing Jennet. She was a true lady, and her heart still belonged to another. He found himself simply wishing he could see her smile one last time, and hear that delightful laugh of hers. Of all the women he had ever admired, she was the most superb.
He also had to put an end to this farce before Ruban arrived to question him, so he turned his thoughts to his duty. The henchmen guarding him seemed nervous, and not particularly clever. He had encountered many such men in his time, and knew exactly how to provoke them.
“I think there has been a terrible mistake.” Casually he picked up a file containing the deeds to Dredthorne. “I do have something that may be of interest to your emperor, however. If I give it to you, will you spare my life?”
The scarred agent smiled, showing too many teeth. “But of course.”
Pickering stood and came around the desk, doing his best to appear hopeful and eager. As soon as he drew near the hearth he flung the file into it, setting it aflame. The big brute snatched at it, and the other men shouted. He smiled even as he felt the blade hit him and bury itself in his back. Tottering a little, he returned to his desk, and with the last of his strength sat down.
“What did you do?” the brute demanded as he loomed over him.
“Why, I won, you idiot.” As the darkness crowded close, Pickering closed his eyes, and let it take him.
Chapter 14
What brought Jennet out of her peculiar dream was the smell of her former betrothed and one-time lover. As she sat up his scent seemed to grow even more pronounced, and she turned her head to find it coming from the upholstery. At some point this night he must have sat
in the same spot to leave his scent there.
Had she come to his room without even realizing it? Or had he come in while she had been dozing? Was he standing somewhere in the shadows, watching her?
Jennet allowed her stiffened shoulders to relax, and made a show of yawning and stretching. As she did so her gaze wandered around the chamber, but once more there seemed to be nothing to indicate any presence other than her own. She heard nothing but a distant creaking sound, likely from the wind against the old shutters. What she did see was the narrow door to the balcony standing a little ajar. Rising as silently as she could, she tiptoed over to it, took hold of the knob, and yanked it open.
The balcony stood empty.
“You are being a ninny,” Jennet told herself as she stepped out onto the veranda. The wind had grown lighter but colder, and beneath her she could see Prudence Hardiwick and two other young ladies climbing into a carriage. The rig in front of them held two gentlemen who were laughing and calling back to the ladies something about being the last to go. They looked as if they had imbibed just as much as Catherine.
Catherine.
Jennet called out and waved to them in hopes of stopping them. By that time both parties were driving off, however, and the clatter of horse hooves on the drive drowned out her voice. Hoping to catch them, she hurried out of the chamber and down the stairs, but by the time she reached the front entry the drive stood empty. As she turned she saw the footmen had also gone, likely to clean up after the guests. She went directly to the ballroom, which stood empty.
“Hello?” Jennet felt slightly alarmed now. “Is anyone here?”
A low moaning sound came in from the adjoining room, but when she stepped out to see who made it, she found herself facing the black cat that had earlier darted across the drive. The feline regarded her with its yellow-green eyes for a moment before it padded over to rub itself against her skirts.