Mistress of Sins (Dredthorne Hall Book 3): A Gothic Romance

by Hazel Hunter

  “You are being mutton-headed again,” Deidre told her reflection.

  As she brushed out and braided her hair, she expected to hear Jeffrey enter their bed chamber to begin his nightly ablutions, but the adjoining room remained oddly quiet. Her husband had been equally silent during their carriage ride home from Dredthorne Hall, his expression distant as he stared out the window.

  Something had happened during the brief time when he had left her in the ball room, Deidre suspected. Whatever that was, he had also brought it home with him.

  Quickly she washed her face before going in search of him. Their sitting room remained dark, as did the kitchen, so she went down the hall to Jeffrey’s study. He had left the door open, yet when she looked in he was not sitting at his desk. Instead he stood before the portrait of Thomas More, his hands clasped behind his back as he stared at the martyr.

  “Do not leave, my dear,” Jeffrey said when Deidre would have crept away. “I had hoped gazing upon Saint Thomas would provide me with some solace, but that silly scholar’s cap he wears continues to distract me.”

  His attempt at humor did not mask the agitation in his voice, which drew her to his side. She tucked her hand in his as she studied the painting of his personal hero. Jeffrey never dwelled on the man’s persecution of Protestants, which she personally considered a ghastly business. Yet he had been a man of his time, and his religious conviction could not be denied. He had refused to abandon his beliefs, and had sacrificed his life for his faith.

  “It is his nose for me,” Deidre said. “Very large, I must say. That ridge between his brows, just above the bridge, my father had one of those from frowning excessively. What has upset you, my love?”

  “Tonight, I spoke to William Gerard.” The admission came out of him accompanied by a heavy sigh. “Baron Greystone, I should say. I confronted him about his behavior toward Miss Reed, lost my temper and threatened to do him bodily harm. I think if he had said the wrong thing to me, I would have.”

  “My dear, that was so long ago,” she couldn’t help reminding him. “What good does it now to chastise the man?”

  “I witnessed William compromising Jennet tonight.” Jeffrey rubbed his brow. “I did not wish to. It was purely by accident that I did. From what I saw she welcomed his attentions, and his were quite enthusiastic. I daresay they still love each other. Yet later I found him in the stables with a saddled horse behind him. I believe he means to abandon her again.”

  “How awful.” Deidre recalled the light pink marks she had seen on Jennet’s neck and cheek in the ball room; the unmistakable signs left by a passionate embrace. “Do you imagine she may have, ah, sprained her ankle?”

  They often used such euphemisms for the most intimate of situations; that was their reference for a lady who had gotten with child out of wedlock.

  “I cannot tell you now, but by next summer we should know.” He made a disgusted sound. “I am angrier with myself than anyone. I should have put a stop to it, and taken her from that rogue.” He gestured toward the portrait. “As Saint Thomas believed, qui tacet consentire videtur, one who does nothing may as well consent.”

  “If that is your thinking, then you would be complicit in every wrong done in this parish, I should think.” Deidre slipped her arm around his waist. “My darling husband, you truly are the shepherd here in Renwick.”

  He nodded. “A poor one when the flock wishes to run amok, which seems to be happening more frequently, the older I grow.”

  “Is that really any different from every day?” She knew he blamed himself when his parishioners failed to follow his counsel. “Your duty is to guide with faith, and console with love. The rest you must leave in God’s hands, no matter how difficult that is.”

  Jeffrey kissed her brow. “You always see what I do not.”

  “And I never wear silly hats,” she added with a smile.

  A loud thumping on the door of the parsonage made Jeffrey frown, and he hurried with her to find a very pale Margaret Reed hovering on the doorstep, her hand pressed to her heaving bosom, too winded to speak. Mud dripped from her garments and encrusted the too-large boots she wore,

  “I will fetch the smelling salts,” Deidre told her husband, only to find a restraining hand on her arm.

  “Please, I am well.” Margaret dragged in some air. “If I might rest for a moment, and catch my breath. I rode here from the Tindall’s on horseback.”

  Jeffrey looked astounded. “By yourself, in the dark?”

  They ushered her into the sitting room, where he eased her down on their chaise while Deidre lit the lamps. She debated on whether or not to get the small bottle of brandy they kept for medicinal use, but decided against it when she saw the color returning to the older woman’s cheeks.

  “Forgive me for intruding at such a late hour,” Margaret said, her voice still slightly breathless but steadier. “I could not think of what else to do.”

  Jeffrey knelt down beside her. “What has happened, Mrs. Reed?”

  “It is Jennet.” She drew in a deep breath. “I sent our man Barton to Tindall House to await her return from the masquerade ball. I did not wish her to drive to Reed Park alone, you see, after she left Catherine there. I have seen strange men walking about our grounds at night. Men not of Renwick or any of the estates, and now she has not come home.”

  “I saw your daughter just before we left the ball,” Deidre told her before glancing quickly at her husband. “She looked very well. She must have stayed a little longer to enjoy the dancing.”

  “That cannot be.” Margaret swiped at her eyes. “Barton came back to tell me that Catherine returned without her, and then our carriage vanished entirely. My Jennet is stranded at that horrible house. I cannot ride all the way out there, for I do not know the roads. I will be thrown from the horse for certain.”

  Deidre had felt uneasy from the moment she and Jeffrey had entered Dredthorne Hall. Something about the old house made her feel as if dark forces gathered there. Now she wondered if Jennet might have eloped with the baron, or if the house had claimed yet another victim.

  “I will drive our carriage out there directly myself,” Jeffrey said, reaching for his cloak. “You stay here and rest until I come back with your daughter. It will be well, Mrs. Reed, I promise you.”

  “Thank you, Vicar.” Margaret fell back against the cushions. “God bless you for being such a friend to us.”

  Draping the shivering woman with her shawl, Deidre met her husband’s determined gaze. “Be careful, my dear.”

  Chapter 16

  Once outside the hidden library, Greystone gestured for Jennet to stop and stay where she was while he went to the door leading out to the hall. There he eased it open to a small gap and peered out.

  Three men dressed in great coats and masks carried Arthur Pickering’s body past him, heading for the kitchens. Likely they would put his body with Foray’s, where it would remain concealed until the smell of rot or the need for firewood brought the servants. He imagined they had already tidied the scene of the murder.

  Greystone had never cared for Arthur, or his macabre sense of humor, but he had been a skilled agent and an excellent courier. His loss would be felt on both sides of the channel.

  Carefully he closed the door and leaned back against it. He saw how Jennet was staring at him, and the rapidly-darkening bruise on her face. He wanted to stalk out and gut all three of the brutes for daring to strike her, but that would have to wait. Somehow he had to get her out of the house and to safety, and take care of the package.

  Then he would deal with the killers.

  Greystone took hold of her hand, and led her into the adjoining smoking room, which stood dark, but had a window facing the front drive.

  “What are you doing?” she whispered as he tried to open the window.

  “Quiet.” He waved her back and shifted to one side as he saw a slim figure approaching the steps.

  The new arrival wore a heavy hooded cloak that covered body and face,
but he could see boots and dark trousers as the folds of the cloak moved. The men who had killed Foray and Pickering would answer to this one, Greystone suspected. Since he knew they had not found what they had killed for, they would next begin searching the house.

  Identifying the ringleader might well expose an entire network of French agents working in England.

  He waited until the cloaked figure had entered the house before he moved back to Jennet. “Another has come. I must go upstairs. Hide under the dining room table. They will not think to look for you there.”

  “You expect me to cower away while you dart about with killers in the place?” She shook her head. “On the contrary. I am not leaving your side, sir.”

  Greystone knew arguing with her was pointless; she had that stubborn gleam in her eye now.

  “Take off your gown.” When her jaw sagged, he took hold of her skirt and shook it, rustling the old silk. “It makes too much noise when you move. I will give you my shirt to wear.”

  For a moment it looked as if she might argue the point, and then she turned and presented her back to him. “Unfasten me, please.”

  Greystone used his dagger to slice through the fastenings, and then played lady’s maid as he helped her out of the old blue gown. He tried to avert his gaze while he removed his shirt, but the sight of her in her undergarments proved irresistible. With but a few layers of thin cotton and linen veiling her body, her long, elegant limbs and slight but shapely curves enticed him. The only improvement would be to strip her down to her skin so he could see the lamplight on her.

  God, but she was lovely.

  Jennet planted her hands on her hips. “This might have been your pleasure every night and morning, my lord, had you kept your promise to me,” she whispered fiercely. “Think on that as you ogle.”

  “That I have.” More than he cared to admit to himself, in fact. Had a day passed that he had not thought of her? Greystone could not recall.

  As he bared his chest she stared and then sighed. “And now I do the same to you. We are beyond all propriety, I suppose. Why must you go upstairs? We could climb out the window there, and run for the nearest neighbor’s house.”

  “There may be more men outside on patrol, and I must retrieve what they have come to steal before the others find it. Also, the damned window has been nailed shut.” He draped her with his shirt, which hung down to her knees, and felt her shiver. “Do not be afraid.”

  “You did not ignore your mother’s warnings to come here,” Jennet muttered. “If I live to see the morrow, I will never hear the end of it.”

  “You will live,” Greystone said as he finished buttoning the placket, and then rested his hands on her shoulders. “Hide beneath the table, please. I will retrieve what I need and come back for you.”

  “They have already caught you once, and bashed you on the head. If they return and find us gone, they will search and find me.” She sniffed. “Besides that, you are a terrible spy. I am not allowing you out of my sight.”

  “If they catch us, they will try to use you to make me talk,” Greystone warned her. “To them we are the enemy, and they would do terrible things to us both, things worse than death.”

  She paled. “Why?”

  “They want something from me, and I cannot permit them to have it.” He stroked his hands down her arms. “I will not surrender you or myself to them. Death is kinder than what they intend. Do you understand me?”

  “Of course.” Jennet swallowed hard and blinked quickly. “I have no desire to… You will be quick about it? So that it does not hurt?”

  “If it comes to that, yes.” He thumbed a tear from her cheek before he kissed her brow. “Stay at my side now, and move as quietly as you can.”

  Greystone took her hand in his. They walked out into the dining room, where he waited at the door and listened before stepping out. Sounds coming from the study told him they were searching that room; they likely presumed Pickering had kept the Raven’s delivery close to him. Only when they found nothing would they come back to the hidden library. He returned to the dining room, and went to the back wall to close the Pandora panel. Inserting his pick from the front, he bent and snapped off the tip of it inside the lock.

  The broken piece of pick would prevent them from opening the panel with a key; they would assume he and Jennet had jammed it from the other side. Forcing it to get inside would take time and tools. It might be another hour before they discovered their captives had already escaped.

  To her credit Jennet moved as surely and silently as Greystone did when he led her out to the stairs. When they reached the second floor he gestured for her to stop while he moved onto the landing. Once he determined no one else occupied the floor, he beckoned to her, and took her into his bed chamber. Once he closed the door Greystone quickly checked the safeguards he had left behind. The undisturbed markers told him no one had yet searched the room.

  “In here,” he told her, picking up a lamp and walking into the dressing room.

  Jennet had no notion of what Greystone had hidden in the small room, and wondered what could be so important that he would risk both their lives to retrieve it. She watched him as he picked up and moved aside the wash stand, and then knelt on the floor. After removing a cut section of floor board, he reached down and drew out a long, scuffed leather case with the most peculiar straps.

  “We will have to wait before we try to leave the hall,” he told her. “Once they have finished searching the first floor, they will go to the hidden library to question us. That will be our chance.”

  Her brows rose. “That is why you broke off that tool in the lock, to hamper their entry.”

  Greystone nodded, and gave her a look of approval. “Such impediments are often the best distractions.”

  From the case he took out a coil of wire, some vials filled with clouded liquid, and several palm-size blades that had no hilts. He put back the vials, but tucked the rest of the items into his belt and pockets. He then produced a pair of long-barreled pistols and a small sack, from which he drew a handful of heavy, sharp-studded brass rings.

  Jennet had never seen so many weapons or such unattractive jewelry.

  “Why would a spy need eight ugly rings?” she demanded in a whisper.

  He made a fist and tapped the base of his knotted fingers. “When I wear them and hit someone, they do a great deal of damage.”

  Appalled now, she drew back. “You said you played a merchant in France. Merchants do not beat people.”

  “I play a merchant so that I might travel freely.” He checked the pistols, but his mouth flattened. “Do not ask me more.”

  He kept fending off every inquiry she made, as if she were some stranger to him. It was not to be borne.

  “I consented to have you kill me if we are caught,” Jennet reminded him. “I woke you in the library. Before that, I gave myself to you in the hot house. I have trusted you, far beyond my better judgment, yet you persist in concealing yourself and your actions from me.” She folded her arms. “I am asking more, sir.”

  He set aside the pistols and came to close the door to the bed chamber. “Keep your voice down.”

  She hadn’t realized she was almost shouting at him. As he moved toward his ghastly collection of weapons Jennet took hold of his arm to stop him, and stood on her toes to put her mouth next to his ear.

  “This is about you, Liam, not me. Since the day you left I have wondered what, exactly, made you do it,” she said in her lowest, sweetest voice. “If nothing more, I have earned the truth. Before either of us flee or die, you will tell me the reason why you left Renwick. Or I will put on your ugly rings and hit you until you do.”

  Greystone drew back, walked to the other side of the dressing room, and then returned to her. The look on his face was one of exasperated resignation.

  “I am not merely a spy.” He finally met her gaze, his own shuttered. “If you must know, then I will tell you. I serve the crown as an assassin. I am known as the Raven.” />
  Jennet had thought she could not ever feel as angry as she had after they had made love, and she had struck him in the face. Alas, she had been wrong. “You left me to do this. To become this…this…Raven. So you could go to France, and spy, and kill people.”

  “My targets have been dangerous and vicious men who would do their worst to ensure Bonaparte’s victory,” he assured her. “Interrogators, torturers, and the very worst of brutes from the battlefield. I took no pleasure in it, but for every life I have taken, I have saved thousands.”

  “That is not the material point here.” She took in a deep breath. “You chose to become an assassin instead of my husband. You did not marry me because of this. Have I got that right?”

  Greystone nodded once.

  Jennet could not hit him again. She could not scream. She had no poison. She might use one of his blades to stab him in his black heart, but that would leave her alone to face Pickering’s murderers. She glanced around her, seized the basin from the wash stand, and hurled its contents into his face. He stood there, soaked and dripping, streams of water pouring down his cheeks like tears. She saw some shining rivulets streak his chest, and realized the dousing had removed the silver from his hair.

  “Do you feel better now?” he muttered.

  “I am trapped in this house with a dead man and his killers. I am wearing the shirt of an assassin to whom I gave myself seven years after he fled on our wedding day. Which he did so he could kill the very worst of the French.” Oddly saying it aloud calmed her, and she traced the gleaming marks the dye had left on his skin. “Do you know, I have never felt better in my life.”

  “Keep touching me,” Greystone warned, “and you may revise that opinion.”

  If nothing else, Jennet had settled their accounts and satisfied her pride. Now it cost her nothing to slide her hands up the slick, muscular vault of his chest, and link her fingers behind his neck. The movement brought her body against his, and the warmth of him came through the borrowed shirt and spread over her breasts. She could feel his arms coming around her, the new tautness in his limbs, the swelling bulge of his shaft against her belly.