He sharpened his gaze on Landrigan. “Get the hell off of this estate before I escort you off.”
Quirking his mouth again, Donal glanced at Nick’s frilly cane. “Ye and who’s army? Humpty Dumpty’s?”
Nick allowed a threatening smile to play over his lips. He’d been in his fair share of brawls over the years. Even in his present state, he could get enough punches in to give this weasel a run for the crown. “Did you not hear? I broke Humpty into pieces. Just like I’m going to do to your eggshell of a head.”
“Well, ride yer little pony over and we’ll have a go at it.”
Nick thrust the stick-horse to the ground and took a step forward on his good leg, clenching the Irishman’s lapels. He and Donal stood in place, muscles coiled, staring one another down until the dowager shoved an arm between them.
“Mister Landrigan, you claim you’re here to visit your aunt. Then by all means, go spend time with her. But stay away from my nieces. They are off limits to you. Are we clear?”
“Clear as an Irish morn.” Donal glanced up at the misty sky and low hanging clouds as he tipped his hat and strode toward the greenhouse. “I’ll be back next month for yer answer to my proposal.”
Cued by the rustle of her skirt, Nick plucked up the stick-horse and faced the countess. “You’re not seriously thinking about marrying that dolt, are you?” She didn’t answer, so Nick altered his tactic. “I assumed your late husband was English, considering his surname.”
She stroked the wagon’s side. “Hayes was of English descent, though his title was based here in Ireland.”
Nick glanced in the direction of Donal’s retreat. “So how did your stepson come about, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Binata’s younger sister—Donal’s mother—was a servant at this castle, years ago, long before I married Hayes. The earl was a very religious man … and appearances were everything to him. So when his servant ended up pregnant with his seed, he sent her away.” She paused, as if unsure she should continue.
“How did she find her way back?” Nick prompted.
“She didn’t. She married an Irish fishmonger in Larne who raised Donal as his son. Eleven months ago, Donal wound up here after finding out the truth about his paternity from his mother on her deathbed. Since the earl was his father, he wants what he deems is his birthright.”
“Ah. And since he’s only half-aristocratic blood, and a bastard to boot, the only way he can have such an inheritance is to marry you.”
Felicity nodded. “He’s been trying for months to charm me into a legal union and acquire the estate. Now that he’s realized I’m not one for charms, he’s resorted to goading me.”
Nick watched her palm trail the leather cord, impressed with her bravery—the way she’d handled Donal’s threats. “You’re a master with that strap, Your Ladyship. To which my leg can attest.”
Running a finger over her shawl along her sternum—a gesture Nick had come to realize was completely unconscious on her part—she blushed. “You may call me Felicity. You’ve earned the right to address me casually, considering.” Her gaze fell to his wounded knee.
With a dismissive nod, she grasped the coiled leather cord and started down the path that led along the stone fence toward the stables on the lower end of a hill.
Pony-cane in hand, Nick fell into step beside her, concentrating on the birds overhead to distract himself from the jabs in his leg. “So, you’re admitting it was you wearing the trousers and jacket the other night. I must say, you’re much more approachable in a dress.” He regarded her delicate profile.
She lifted her chin. Soft daylight peered through the tree branches and swept shadows across the lines in her face. “I’m sorry for your injuries. I was protecting my home.”
“After meeting your stepson, I can see why.”
She swept away a lock of hair the wind had captured and slung across her cheek. Judging by the strand’s length, it appeared to stretch beyond her waist. Nick wondered what it would look like all taken down, hugging her curves and soft skin like a swathe of silvery-gold satin. His gaze slid further and he made an effort not to notice the bounce of pert breasts beneath her shawl as she moved. He failed miserably. He’d already gauged that the woman didn’t wear a corset. He’d like to know what other proper articles might be lacking beneath those mourning clothes.
“So.” He reined himself in with the question burning his throat. “How long has Professor Blackwood—your brother—been dead?”
“Jasper’s been gone for three years.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.” He tried to hide his own despondency by forcing his gaze to the roof of trees which thickened to a wall in the distance.
“You sound disappointed yourself.” The countess stalled on the path. “Does this dampen your willingness to invest, the fact that a woman now runs the business alone?”
He stopped beside her, curbing the desire to come clean with his true intentions. Only a fool laid his cards on the table without having an ace in hand. “No. I am curious about something, though. You called me ‘Dark Raven’ the other night. It’s the last thing I remember before blacking out. And I heard you mention something about a ghost to Donal.”
“Hmm. Surely you’ve heard the rumors about this place.” She melted him with those tragic brown eyes—their soft depth a contrast against the stony gray of the sky overhead.
“I have, but something tells me it’s beyond rumors at this point.”
“Let me put your mind at ease. There’ve been sightings by my eldest niece of some shadowy man. Though she never gets a good glimpse of him, she’s dubbed him the Dark Raven because his silhouette flutters as if he’s made of feathers. She’s convinced it’s a ghost, and has her little sister believing it now.”
“And you think it’s your brother’s spirit?”
Her expression flashed from startled to scowling in less than two blinks. “Absolutely not. I put no stock in the superstitious sagas of the afterlife.”
Nick rubbed his whiskery chin in thought. “The novel you penned with my sister would say otherwise.”
“That was a one-time farce. I’ve long since put such frivolities behind me to present a good example to the girls. They need pragmatism in their lives. Bad enough they have Mister Landrigan pulling their strings. He’s either hired some cretin to wear a costume or is playing the role himself.” She took up walking once more, casting Nick a sidelong glance as he moved with her. “Contrary to the whisperings you’ve heard of this castle, there is no one, or nothing, haunting it.”
“Tis a shame. I rather hoped there was.”
“Why?”
“Macabre curiosity,” he blurted the half-truth.
“I venture it’s more than a passing fancy to you, considering that book my groundskeeper found with your possessions.”
A barbed jolt shot through Nick’s leg when he put too much weight on it. He stopped in his tracks, digging the stick-horse into the ground for balance.
Felicity hesitated a good three steps ahead of him, back turned. “From what Emilia said, your mother’s family came from Catholic stock. Would you care to inform me”—she looped the whip around her shoulder—“why her son would be indulging in something as pagan as supernatural folklore? Or perhaps this is the influence of your father’s Romani side? Ghosts, curses, and superstitions?”
Nick stiffened his jaw. “I’m willing to exchange truth for truth. First, you tell me the real reason you married the Earl. And why you lied about the girls being yours.”
Inhaling deeply, Felicity started forward again. “Make yourself at home in the dining hall, Master Nicolas. My family and I will join you to discuss our business over breakfast.”
As she left, Nick observed the sway of her hips—graceful and unassuming, yet undeniably seductive. He cleared his throat, unwilling to let their conversation end on such a curt note. “So, it’s to be a mixed company gathering. I suppose sausage is out of the question then.”
She continu
ed her stride, but he could tell by the easement of her shoulders that his comment had had the desired effect. “Feel free to indulge on your own while you await us. You strike me as a man well versed in servicing himself.”
The path declined on a slope, and he smirked at her descending back before turning toward the castle.
He needed something to carve.
Nick sat in solitude on a cushioned chair, ankle propped atop a pillow. His hands jittered, itching for creation. His muse had reawakened. For over a year, he’d thought it dead. Each time he drew out his knife to create something, Mina’s blood-drenched nightgown tainted his mind’s canvas.
Now all he could see was Miss Felicity’s face, her delicate wrinkles around a jaw set to an angle of grim grace as she cracked that whip at Donal. Nick wanted to make a rendition of her magnificence in that moment. But his knife was still at large.
Glancing around the room, he struggled to relax. He felt out of place at the head of the table even though the cook had directed him to sit there. He courted the idea of going up to visit Johnny Boy, but his leg throbbed relentlessly. Taking the short staircase just to get inside the castle had been bad enough. He wondered how he’d ever made it down the flights this morning or would ever make it up again for bed tonight.
Clooney had told him he should stay off of his feet for a couple of days. Now he wished he’d listened.
He took in his surroundings. Compared to the dining hall at home, this one was twice the size though much less formal, obviously not here to impress guests. The table appeared to be set for ten, which in Nick’s count, included all of the servants. The domestics were treated like family. Nick liked that idea. It reminded him of his own upbringing and seemed magnanimous on the part of Miss Felicity.
The cook had mentioned earlier that breakfast was a casual meal here, implying that everyone wandered in and out at differing intervals until all had eaten.
It was obvious Donal wouldn’t be attending. Mulling over the countess’s reaction to the Irishman—Nick wondered what their past entailed.
Thumping his palm on the table, he rattled the silverware at his place setting. He’d overheard Donal bait her about dying caterpillars. Nick wondered if it could be the Heliconius butterflies he’d read of in his almanac. If so, his sojourn here was now even more pointless.
A dead professor, he could reconcile. But dead butterflies? That would be the end of his quest, and his hope.
For an instant, he allowed a glint of altruism to enter his thoughts. The dowager was in financial straits. And he had given her false courage with his trumped-up investment plans.
Nick gave the table a final thump, trying to shove the thought from his mind.
This wasn’t his problem. Now that he knew Jasper was dead and the Heliconius were dwindling, he shouldn’t care one way or other what happened to the countess or this estate.
He ran his gaze over the room again. It was actually a combination of rooms: a dining area and a parlor woven into one. Winged-back chairs and settees curled around the fireplace to form a large sitting area. Generous windows stretched from the ceiling to the floor along three walls. Sheer drapes invited any available light to glaze the wooden floor. When paired with the strings of miniature white electric bulbs strung from one end of the ceiling to the next and the cheerful fire in the fireplace, the room boasted the radiance and warmth of a sunny meadow—not a shadow anywhere in sight.
Children’s drawings graced the windowless wall with bright color and vivid imaginings. Some were of butterflies and tulips, some stick animals, and then one grouping of collages made with real flower petals and leaves. Those must have been crafted by the older girl, for they were more sophisticated. They had words scripted at the bottom of each paper—scientific names which suggested they were specimens put on display. Around the hearth, an assortment of dolls sat wearing their laciest dresses with miniature tea cups in their laps.
Nick smiled, realizing that this room, and no doubt this entire estate, had been styled around the needs and wants of the two young girls that lived here. It was obvious Miss Felicity loved them, catered to them even. He found himself curious as to the story behind her dead brother. Did a guilty conscience bid her service as a guardian to these girls? Is that why she felt so responsible for them?
In the right corner sat a desk where a dusty phonograph, its wooden case not much bigger than a shoe box, shared space with stacks of books. Apparently, the music player served as more of a prop than entertainment.
Most of the books appeared to be study related: arithmetic, literary tropes, and an introduction to the Gaelic language. He recognized one—a translation of the French work The Book on Mediums, by Allan Kardac. It poked out from the bottom of a pile. Being a study on the theory of spiritism and the basic methods of joining the physical and spiritual worlds, it seemed strangely out of place among the secular reads.
Nick tilted his head thoughtfully. It appeared Miss Felicity hadn’t been forthcoming after all. Someone was indeed preoccupied with the spirit realm in this castle, and he’d venture it was her.
Perhaps she was the answer. Her brother, Jasper, had surely left behind journals of his findings. It was possible the dowager had taken up his studies considering they had the same blood running through them.
He straightened in his chair as the maid, Rachel, and the old cook bustled into the well-lit room. They nodded to him, busy with the arrangement of fragrant pudding, scones, and jams along with steaming kettles of coffee and tea across the long dining table. From beneath her lashes, Rachel glanced at him several times.
When the cook left the room, Rachel’s gaze caught on Nick’s earring. He tipped his head and she blushed, dropping a china cup. Leaning forward, he caught it before it hit the floor.
As he handed it back, their fingers touched and she batted her lashes, too tongue-tied to say anything other than, “Thank ye, Yer Graceship.”
He smiled at the grandiloquent title—perhaps a byproduct of her Irish upbringing. Rachel was a pretty piece, with green eyes as warm as a spring meadow, bright red tendrils of hair falling from beneath her mop cap’s pleated edges, and fleshy curves waiting to be plucked like ripe fruit. A few years ago, he would’ve already been planning a way to get under her skirts and wouldn’t have had too hard a time getting there.
But now, all he wanted was information.
“Rachel, is it?”
She nodded, pressing her shapely lips together as she settled the cup and saucer on the table.
He smoothed the linen napkin where it wrinkled beneath the dish’s placement. “Rachel, I’m embarking on a business venture with Her Ladyship. I’d like to buy her a gift—a gesture of goodwill. I was hoping you might offer some insight into her hobbies and personal interests. Could you help me with that?”
Gaze darting over her shoulder to assure the cook hadn’t returned, Rachel smiled. “Aye, sir. I’d be happy to.”
“I see she likes to read.” He gestured to The Book on Mediums. “Is the spirit realm of particular interest to her?”
“Well, that one used to belong to her brother. She don’t read much for pleasure, mind. Too busy with the upkeep of the place. She could use a good romance or two, if ye ask me—” The maid cut herself short and swallowed hard, polishing some silverware with her apron.
Nick frowned. Obviously the maid knew nothing of her proprietor’s dalliance with the pen and the sweeping romance she’d written with Emilia. It seemed Miss Felicity kept everything close to the vest, even from those she lived with; he knew that feeling all too well. He also knew how lonely locking away every secret could be. “So, I should buy her a sweeping romance, aye?”
Rachel traced her trembling fingertip around a saucer’s edge, making its cup rattle. “Not sure that would be an appropriate gift, Yer Graceship.”
Grasping the maid’s hand to still her fidgets, Nick issued his most charming smile. “No need to worry. I shan’t tell her what you said.”
Smiling back, the m
aid’s features relaxed. She stared at their joined hands, her cheeks pinkening again.
The cook waddled in. Upon seeing them, a scalding fury lit her green eyes.
“I’ve told ye time and again,” she scolded the maid, “not to bother the Lady’s guests. Remember the trouble it got ye in last time? There’s work to be done in the kitchen. Pots to scrub.” The cook snagged Rachel by the elbow.
Nick stood, leaning on his good leg. “I initiated the rapport. She tried to leave but I wouldn’t let her. Please … I did not intend for her to be punished.”
Rachel cast him a grateful glance, but the cook was unconvinced. She dragged the young maid out without another word.
Shaking off the episode, Nick’s attention fell back to the book as he sat again. So the dowager-ice-queen needed some romance in her life. At one time, he could’ve used that to his advantage. He would’ve been just the man to melt her. He’d honed his skills of seduction on older women bred of wealth and loneliness. Much to his parents’ utter shame, he’d once made a career of fornication, earning gifts of fineries and wardrobes by satisfying the lusts of his adulterous lambs. Vanquishing older women came easily to him. But upon meeting Mina, he’d abandoned such pretense.
However, this widow seemed different than any he’d ever met. Her wounds ran deep. He could see it every time he looked in her eyes.
Where he to regress back to those old ways, just for a short time, that vulnerability could be his way in.
The sound of shuffling boots distracted him as the stable hands came in from the corridor connecting to the stairs, carrying Johnny Boy on the stretcher. Clooney walked behind them with a wide pillow. The moment the pit bull saw Nick, he started struggling to get free, his tail thumping against the chest of one of his escorts.
“Whoa there.” Nick laughed. Using the table for leverage, he stood. “Careful with his throat.”
“Sit down, lad.” Clooney dropped the pillow on the floor at the right side of Nick’s chair and motioned the stable hands over to ease the dog onto the cushion. “I told you to be giving that leg a rest today. I can see pain all over your face.” The old man walked over to a pine sideboard and started to jiggle a key in the middle cupboard’s lock. “You need some laudanum.”
The Glass Butterfly Page 6