by Hazel Hunter
“This is the second time you have crossed my path tonight,” Jennet told it sternly, and then sighed and crouched down to pet it. “Never mind me. I do not believe you leave bad luck behind in your travels. If Mama would not break out in a rash the moment she beheld you, I would take you home with me.”
The cat purred loudly and pushed its head against her fingers, and then went oddly still. It swung its head toward a painting hanging above the mantel across from them, and then just as suddenly scampered out.
Jennet regarded the portrait, which showed an older man sitting on a wooden bench surrounded by a patch of roses. He appeared to be staring off at something with great affection, judging by the smile on his mouth. She walked over, and to her astonishment she realized that his face matched that of the man from her dream.
The etched brass plate at the bottom of the frame read Emerson Thorne at Dredthorne, 1714.
Slowly she backed away from the portrait, but she couldn’t look away from the eyes, which seemed now to be watching her.
“I must have seen it when I came into the ballroom earlier,” Jennet muttered, although all she could recall was feeling furious and foolish at the same time. “I do not believe in ghosts. There is no curse, either.”
As if Thorne had heard her, he spoke from her memory. You must be the one to break it.
A low yowl made Jennet flinch, and she looked over to see the black cat again, this time standing with its back arched in front of an open door. Hurrying over to it, she looked in and let out a sigh of relief as she saw it was a study. Arthur Pickering sat behind the desk by the window, his head resting against the cushions, his eyes closed.
He looked as exhausted as she felt.
“Mr. Pickering, I am so happy to find you.” Jennet stood in the doorway, and waited for his reply. He didn’t stir, so she kept talking as she entered the study. “I fell asleep in one of the chambers upstairs, and now I seem to be stranded. I was hoping to return home with one of my neighbors. Perhaps I could prevail on you to call for your carriage?”
Pickering said nothing, and would not look at her.
“I am very sorry to wake you, but I cannot spend the whole night here. Mr. Pickering?” She reached to touch his shoulder, and then froze as he slumped forward against the desk. The hilt of a dagger protruded from the back of his blood-soaked jacket, assuring her that he would never again answer her or anyone.
Greystone watched from the stables as the last carriages left Dredthorne Hall. He’d felt it prudent to remain away from the house until everyone had left, and Jennet with them. Now he could go about his work without complication or distraction. She would hate him the more now for taking advantage of her before he left again. He would have preferred to have more than one wild embrace in the wildflowers to remember on cold, lonely nights.
All was as it should be.
As he approached the door to the staircase tower that led into the kitchens, Greystone caught the faintest trace of a particular, alarming odor coming from the firewood bin. He knew the stench too well to mistake it, but went to carefully lift the lid and look inside.
Foray lay among the splits, his eyes wide as he stared sightlessly at him. Blood from a deep gash across his throat covered the front of him.
Greystone closed his eyes, and lowered the lid carefully to avoid making any more sound. He then turned to scan the immediate area. More blood stained the ground where he suspected the valet had been ambushed; from the scuffling marks in the dirt he had tried to fight free before his throat had been cut. From there his body had been dragged to the bin. Two sets of boot prints, one small and one large, led into the house. When he bent down to peer closely at them he saw traces of Foray’s blood, which they both had stepped in.
Greystone recognized their method. One had approached to distract Foray long enough for the other to come from behind to attack. He straightened and listened for any sound of movement around him. The assassins had killed Foray to enter the house and move against Pickering and the two guards he had brought with him from London.
When they didn’t get what they wanted, they would kill them all.
He reached down to take the dagger from his boot, and walked silently around to the back of the hall. Lights still flickered in most of the windows, giving him a partial view of each room beyond them. All of the footmen had vanished from their posts, and he saw no sign of any of his colleagues, either. One of the garden doors to the reception room had been left open, and through that he heard two low voices arguing in French.
“Oú est-il?” Where is he?
“Je le retrouverai. Emporte la fille.” I will find him. Grab the girl.
Greystone heard something rustle behind him, but as he turned something heavy slammed into his head, hurling him into the black.
Jennet stepped back from Pickering’s body, her heart pounding so loudly she could hear it inside her head. For once she understood why her mother became so distraught in moments of panic. She could happily scream herself hoarse, or faint where she stood. Possibly both.
A man is dead. Now is not the time to become Margaret.
Slowly her reason reasserted itself and coaxed her away from the edge of hysteria. She must make some sense of this. Pickering could not have stabbed himself in the back; someone murdered him. They had also arranged his body so that he would appear asleep.
Was he truly dead?
Jennet inched closer, and pressed her fingers to his neck, just beneath his jaw. She felt no heartbeat, and his flesh had already gone cool and stiff. Touching him made her want to shudder, but then she saw the set of his mouth. He looked almost as if he were gratified, as if he had won some final skirmish before dying.
“I am so sorry this happened,” Jennet murmured.
At that moment the fortune-teller’s words came back to her: Before this dance is done, you will see your own death.
“The dance is over,” she told herself, although looking at the knife in Pickering’s back made goosebumps rise on her skin. Whoever had murdered him might still be hiding somewhere in the house—but who would wish him dead, and why?
Jennet noticed traces of soot blackened his sleeves, and now she could smell the faintest odor of smoke coming from him. Glancing at the hearth, she saw a fragment of singed paper on the bricks, and paper ash among the glowing coals. He had burned something, but why?
“Be at peace, sir.” She moved her hand to his cheek for a moment before she turned and called out as loudly as she could, “Hello, is someone there? Please, I need help in the study. Please come quickly.”
Jennet heard footsteps, and hurried to the door. There she nearly collided with three men dressed in heavy coats and hats, and wearing black masks over their faces. For a moment she thought they might be guests who had lingered, until she saw their eyes, and the pistols in their hands. She spun and ran for the window behind the desk, but before she reached it hard hands grabbed her and dragged her back. She fought, screaming as she tried to wrench free.
One of the men jerked her around and slapped her so hard she would have fallen if not for the other two seizing her arms.
“Enfermez-la,” the brute said to the others, who dragged her out of the study.
Jennet understood French well enough to know they had been ordered to lock her away. This seemed the perfect moment for a swoon, which she feigned at once. They lifted her off her feet and carried her between them through the house, unaware that she kept her eyes open to slits and watched everything they passed until they entered the dining room.
They brought her to the back wall, where one of them inserted a key into a slot in the painted panel. The wall swung out like a door, and they carried her inside and dropped her before leaving. She didn’t move until she heard them turning the lock, and then cautiously lifted her head.
Moonlight from a window provided some thin light on the small room, which appeared to be a library of sorts. A series of mirrored panels occupied one side of the room, but shelves covered the othe
r walls. From the dusty state of the books Jennet doubted that anyone had used the concealed library in years.
She couldn’t see any candles or lamps about, and only ashes filled the old hearth to one side. As she pushed herself upright, Jennet’s hand touched what felt like a sleeve. She squinted until she made out the silhouette of a man sprawled on his back.
“Sir?” Surely he had to be one of the servants who had been similarly assaulted by the brutes. Yet when she moved to lean over him she saw that a scar divided one of his brows, and the silver hair at his temples. “Oh, my God, no. Liam.”
Greystone did not stir.
Terrified now, she touched his neck with a shaking hand, and uttered a small cry of relief when she felt his pulse throbbing beneath his warm skin. He was not dead. They had not murdered him. His chest barely moved, however, and when she slid her hand to his cheek she felt the sticky warmth of blood. A new rage bloomed in her breast, but she clamped down on it. She had to think rationally, and make use of her resources.
She needed him more than anything.
“You must awaken now, my lord.” Jennet patted his cheek, but he remained unmoving. “Baron Greystone, we have been taken captive, and Mr. Pickering murdered. You must help me.”
Still he did not stir, and she began to fear the worst. Had he been stabbed as well? Would she find a dagger in his back, and blood pouring out of him? How could she go on if he died in her arms?
An unreasonable anger rose up inside her, and she shook him.
“You cannot die, Liam. No matter how often in the past I’ve wished you dead, this night I absolutely forbid it.” She took hold of his shoulders, pushing him over until she could see his back. When she didn’t see a knife, she rolled him to his back and then shook him as hard as she could manage.
A low groan came from his chest, and his shoulders moved under her hands.
No one would have blamed Jennet for what she did next. She dropped down on him, plastering herself against his chest, and held onto him as she fought back her sobs. He would not die, not in this house, not tonight. They would work together and find a way out of this.
Once she had regained her control, Jennet pushed herself upright.
“I need your help, my lord. Doubtless you have survived worse,” she added, grimacing as she tried to pull him into a sitting position. “That scar above your eye attests to your fortitude as well as your foolishness. We will need more of the former if we are to see the dawn.” She was babbling, but considering what she had endured, she was entitled. “Come now. Look at me. Show me you have regained some of your senses.”
“Jenny.” He opened one eye and peered at her. “What the devil?”
“Arthur Pickering has been murdered,” she told him. “I found his body in the study. Someone stabbed him in the back. He was burning something, I think. When I called for the servants to help me, three masked men seized and dragged me here. They spoke French. Did they attack you?”
“Yes, outside.” Greystone turned his head. “Where are we?”
“I believe it is Dredthorne Hall’s much-lauded hidden library.” She nodded toward the door. “We have been locked in.”
“Of course, we have.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “For God’s sake, why did you stay? You should have left with the others.”
“I fell asleep upstairs.” Was he going to blame her for their predicament? “By the time I awoke everyone had gone. Why are you still here?”
Greystone rose with slightly unsteady movements, examining the room around them before he went and listened at the door. He returned to help her up and looked all over her.
“Did they harm you?” When she shook her head, he turned her toward the window and touched her swollen cheek, his fingers gentle. “And this?”
“When they seized me, they did not care for my screaming. It is nothing.” She fought an urge to rub her face against his hand. “Truly, my lord, I am well.”
“I will attend to whoever struck you, I promise,” Greystone said, sounding almost eerily calm as he reached under his shirt and unstrapped something, removing a thin dark case. “What did these men say to you?”
“Nothing at all. One spoke in French to the others, and told them to lock me up. They all seemed genuinely menacing. Do you think they meant to rob Mr. Pickering? Why would they be French?” She watched as he took what appeared to be a long metal instrument from the case. “What is that?”
“A tool.” He walked over to the door, listened again, and then inserted the lock pick into the key hole. “You are quite certain that Arthur was dead?”
“He had a knife in his back, and did not breathe or move. I could not find a pulse on his neck.” Jennet joined him at the door and watched as he carefully turned the pick. “How can you do this?”
“It is part of my work.” He met her gaze. “To serve the crown in my position, such skills are required.”
Jennet frowned. “You are His Majesty’s locksmith?”
“That is one way of putting it.” Greystone turned his attention back to the lock. “How many men did you see in total?”
“Only the three who grabbed me. You are a gentleman, and heir to a great estate, but you have employment? Why would you need to work?” When he didn’t reply she folded her arms. “Did your father gamble away all of his fortune? Or did you? Oh, Liam. Tell me you did not.”
“It was never about money.” He cursed under his breath before he added, “I pose as a French merchant supplying the emperor’s soldiers.”
“You would have to do that…in France.” When he nodded, bile rose in her throat, making it hard to speak. “Exactly which crown do you serve in your capacity, my lord?”
“Ours, my dear. I am their spy.” Something clicked, and he drew the pick out from the lock. He tried the door, frowned and then reinserted the instrument. “The locks in this house are newer than those I have encountered in my travels, and I am not particularly adept at this. It will take some time.”
Nothing he said made any sense to her. “Very good, then while you work you can explain to me how you became a spy.”
“Without His Majesty’s permission, I cannot. The work is very sensitive.” Greystone shifted as the lock made a rusty sound. “There, I almost have it.”
Jennet felt her stomach knot and leaned back against the wall. “This is why you would not marry me? Because you wished to play-act a merchant while you wander about the French countryside spying?”
“More I cannot tell you,” he said, sounding tired now. “Only know that my leaving had nothing to do with you.”
“Oh, of course it didn’t,” she said, making a careless gesture. “We were only to be married, that morning. I cannot imagine why I should be involved in your decision. I was to be your wife. No one of importance at all.”
He sighed. “I meant only that you played no part in the decision.”
Greystone assumed the length of their parting had made her memories of him fade. Even now she could see the twitch of the muscle along his jaw, the tension in his shoulders and the fact that he would not look directly at her.
“Do you think you can lie to me like this and I would not know?” Jennet demanded. “You, a spy. I would sooner believe my mother a witch. Have the decency to admit that you left me in pursuit of your own desires, whatever in God’s name they were. Go on. I will not faint. I did not faint on the day you left, as it happens.”
He eyed her. “What did you do?”
“I brought Mama home, and went to my room, and much more than that I cannot remember. I tore my wedding gown to shreds and had Mrs. Holloway burn the remains,” she tacked on. “What did you do? Oh, of course, you cannot tell me. It is spy business.”
“I left behind everything I wanted that day.” Greystone hesitated before he added, “Indeed, I think the only pleasure I have felt since I left Renwick was with you in the hot house tonight.”
She turned her back on him. “Do not remind me of how shamelessly I behaved.”
&nbs
p; “You did nothing wrong,” he said softly. “The blame is mine. I seduced you.”
“Given how practiced you are at such endeavors, I should not disagree, but we both wished it to happen.” Jennet rubbed her eyes. “I knew you would be here tonight. I knew I should never come. Yet here I am, and now disgraced again. No matter what I do, it seems to be my fate.”
Greystone smiled a little. “Was it so terrible to make love with me, Jenny?”
Answering that would require honesty on her part that she had no intention of offering to him. “Being an unmarried lady, I have nothing to compare to the experience.”
“I regret that I hurt you. I had thought…” He stopped and sighed. “I would not have touched you, had I known it to be your first time with a man.”
How glad she was that only the moon provided light now, for her face felt as if it were flaming—but not with embarrassment.
“You mean that you assumed that I took lovers after you abandoned me?” Jennet demanded, newly outraged. “Or that I married someone else? Well, sir, I did neither thing. I am the same as I was when you left Renwick. Or I was, until this night’s madness.” She rubbed her brow. “I cannot believe I am going to say this, but my mother was right.”
The lock chose at that moment to make an odd, metallic screech, and the door creaked as it swung inward. Greystone opened and held it as he peered through the gap, and then turned to her.
“You must not make a sound,” he warned.
Chapter 15
After returning to the parsonage, Deidre Branwen retreated to her dressing room to remove her shepherdess costume and don her nightdress. She did so with relief, for she had never liked pretense of any sort. She also felt deeply disquieted by their visit to Dredthorne Hall. Jeffrey had claimed it perfect, as it had been years since anyone had come to harm there, and that was likely true. Still, from the moment they had entered the old house Deidre had felt very nervous. For all the lamps and candles, too many shadows filled the rooms, as if shades of those who had died there lurked in the corners, watching for the next lost soul to join them.