“There’re more splendid staircases in both wings,” Edward said. “This one was built for the horses.”
“Horses?” I was incredulous.
“The early Mallyns were enthusiastic horsemen, had to ride every day, and, English weather being what it is, that wasn’t always feasible. The gallery upstairs is one hundred and seventy feet long, fifty feet wide, so they rode there on inclement days, leading the horses up these steps.”
“Incredible,” I said.
“You needn’t look so alarmed. The practice was abandoned over a hundred years ago.”
Just as we started up, there was the loud retort of a door slamming at the east end of the hall. Loud, impatient footsteps rang on the bare stone floor. Edward paused, his hand on my elbow. I could see a man striding briskly toward us, slapping the side of his boot with a riding crop. His head was lowered, and he was muttering something to himself, obviously unaware of our presence. Still a few yards away, he looked up and saw us standing there on the second step. He stopped abruptly, startled. Edward laughed softly to himself.
“Cousin,” he said, nodding.
“So you’ve come back!”
“But of course.” His voice was gentle, with only a faint hint of mockery in those silken tones. “Let me present my wife. Jennifer, this is Lyman Robb, the esteemed cousin of whom I have spoken so frequently. Lyman, Jennifer—Mrs. Edward Baker.”
“How do you do,” I said.
Lyman Robb was glaring at his cousin with lowered brows, a thunderous look on his face. He didn’t acknowledge my greeting. He barely glanced at me. Never before had I seen such hatred made visible as that that burned in those dark, flashing brown eyes as he stared at Edward. They were murderous eyes, I thought, instinctively moving back a step. Edward’s hand held my elbow in an even tighter grip, warning me.
Lyman Robb looked as though he wanted to lunge at his cousin and slash him across the face with his riding crop. With a visible effort, he controlled his rage, though the hatred burned as hotly as ever. Not quite as tall as Edward, he was nevertheless a large, powerfully built man with enormous shoulders, wide chest and lean waist, his legs long and shapely, tightly encased in clinging tan buckskin breeches. His brown boots were splattered with mud, and his thin white cambric shirt, tucked in carelessly at the waist and open at the throat, was sweat stained, the sleeves full and billowing, gathered at the wrists.
I stared at him with a kind of horrified fascination. I had never seen a man so vital, so bursting with life. One could sense the red blood coursing through his veins, and he seemed to seethe with animal vigor. There was a deep cleft in his chin, and his mouth was full, the lips curling savagely at the corners. His nose was Roman, a pugilistic ridge between his dark, arching brows, and with his broad, rather Slavic, cheekbones, his wildly unruly black locks and those murderous brown eyes, he looked like some primitive Hun bent on rape and plunder. Robust, aggressively male, smelling of the stables, he was excessively handsome in a crude, rough-hewn fashion. I could understand now why the aristocratic Vanessa had been ready to throw everything else aside to elope with him.
“Your marriage was very timely,” he remarked. The words seemed to come rumbling up from his chest. His voice was rough, with none of the refined accent of his cousin’s.
“Exceedingly so,” Edward replied.
“It was love at first sight,” Robb said sarcastically.
“Naturally.” Edward’s voice was smooth.
Lyman Robb looked at me fully for the first time, taking in every detail of my dress and person. I wanted to shrink back, but Edward was still holding me firmly by the elbow. Both repelled and fascinated, I held my chin high as those smouldering brown eyes studied me. Robb finally looked away, turning his attention back to Edward.
“She may not know why you married her, but I do. I know all too well. It’s not going to work, Edward.”
“That remains to be seen.”
“The old man almost had apoplexy when your letter got here. He raged for a full week—the servants were afraid to go near him. You thought you would please him, but the reverse is true. He wanted you to marry, yes, but he fully intended to select your bride himself. You gambled, Edward, and you’ve lost.”
“I doubt that, cousin. You see, he hasn’t yet met Jennifer.”
Robb gave a short, crude laugh. “If you think she’ll win him over, then you’re a bigger fool than I thought.”
Edward ignored the comment. “Speaking of wives,” he said, “where is the lovely Vanessa? I should have thought she’d be on hand to greet her new cousin-in-law.”
“I haven’t the slightest idea where she might be,” Robb replied, and his tone indicated that he hadn’t the slightest interest, either. “Perhaps one of the footmen has taken her fancy, or perhaps she’s out riding with one of the local gallants who find her so intriguing. Radcliff’s son has been spending a lot of time at Mallyncourt, a worthy addition to her throng of suitors. I’m far too busy to keep track of my esteemed wife. I’ve been working in the fields all day.”
“That’s more than evident,” Edward replied, his fine nostrils giving a barely perceptible sniff.
“My odor offends your delicate sensitivity?” Robb threw back his head and laughed, a rich, full laugh this time. “Forgive me, cousin, and let me apologize to your wife as well. You see,” he said, turning to me, “Edward is the aristocrat in the family. He went to Oxford, while I attended a humble agricultural college. He leads the life of a fashionable gentleman, and me, I work, I’m content to toil like the farmer I am to keep the estate in hand. Your husband wears the fine clothes. He has enough polish for both of us—I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
With that, he strode briskly on down the hall, his shoulders rolling, once again slapping the top of his boot with the riding crop. A moment or so later we heard another door slam loudly. I looked up at Edward. His vivid blue eyes were filled with hatred, icy, controlled, but equally as potent as that I had seen in Lyman’s eyes a few moments ago. I sensed that only their uncle’s presence had prevented physical violence from exploding between them a long time ago.
After a long, tense moment, Edward mastered his emotions, and when he turned to me again, he was as cool and unruffled as ever.
“Engaging chap,” he remarked.
“He’s—rather overwhelming.”
“Yes, that’s quite true. Strangely enough, he’s quite popular in the neighborhood. The tenant farmers worship him, perhaps because he’s willing to work side by side with them. The local gentry consider him ‘the salt of the earth.’ As he’s Lord Mallyn’s nephew, they’re more than ready to make excuses for his—uh—rather boorish exterior. I trust you weren’t too appalled, my dear.”
“I managed to survive the encounter.”
That familiar thin smile curled on his lips. “You handled yourself rather nicely. Come,” he said, “we’ll go on up to the apartment, and after you’ve rested a spell and changed out of your traveling clothes you can meet the rest of the family.”
“I can hardly wait,” I said bitterly.
Still smiling, Edward led me up the wide, flat steps.
Chapter Four
“THE GREEN, I think,” Edward had said nonchalantly, and then he had left me alone in the bedroom, sauntering through the sitting room that connected this room with the other, smaller bedroom. The arrangement, obviously, was to be similar to the one we had had in the hotel. Now, an hour and a half later, rested, refreshed, I could hear him moving about in his bedchamber as I stood in front of the full-length mirror critically examining my reflection.
Even though Edward had told me we dressed for dinner at Mallyncourt, I wondered if this particular garment wasn’t a bit too splendid. A rich emerald green satin, it had great puffed sleeves, off the shoulders, and an exceedingly low neckline. The bodice was formfitting, the waist tight, and the skirt made billowing cascades of emerald over starched crinoline petticoats. “No ornaments,” he had informed me, and I saw now that
he was right. My eyes, surrounded by long, soot-black lashes, were as green as the material, and my rich auburn hair, gleaming with copper-red highlights, fell in abundant waves. Perhaps I wasn’t beautiful, but I had never looked more striking.
Edward will be pleased, I thought wryly.
He was to take me to meet Lord Mallyn, and then we were to join the others downstairs for dinner. I wasn’t nearly as nervous as I had been earlier. I was fully into my role now, the costume, the setting giving me a confidence that had been lacking as we rode to the house. I was Edward’s wife now. Jenny Randall would exist only in those moments when I was offstage, alone, free to indulge in the luxuries of privacy and emotion. As I glanced around the spacious room, it was hard to believe that it wasn’t actually a stage set.
The lower half of the twenty-foot walls were paneled with white wainscoting, the upper half with creamy white plaster work with designs picked out in gold leaf. The gilt work was continued on the white ceiling, making circular designs around the crystal chandelier that hung down with hundreds of pendants glittering with violet-blue facets, for all the world like diamonds. The towering bed with its purple velvet hangings embroidered in gold and matching counterpane was fit for a queen, and Edward had casually informed me that Mary, Queen of Scots had slept in it for two weeks when she stopped at Mallyncourt en route from one stately prison to another. A rich blue carpet covered the floor, and there was an immense wardrobe, a dressing table, elegant chairs upholstered in violet. Above the vast white marble fireplace was an alabaster freize depicting the wooing of Helen. A fire burned merrily, orange-blue flames devouring a stout oak log, and candles shed a warm golden glow from blue and white porcelain wall sconces. There was, I knew, a servant whose sole duty was to attend to the lighting and extinguishing of candles, another who tended the fires.
“Impressed?” Edward inquired.
I turned to find him lounging in the doorway, resplendent in a black broadcloth suit and white satin waistcoat embroidered with dark blue fleurs-de-lis. Although impeccably attired, black leather boots gleaming, sky blue ascot perfect, there was, nevertheless, a certain carelessness that augmented the total effect. He might have been wearing any old thing, as comfortable in this attire as he would have been in frayed hunting jacket and soiled jodhpurs. An errant lock of dark blond hair had tumbled over his brow, and his expression was slightly bored.
“It’s an incredible room,” I said.
“The carpet’s threadbare,” he remarked. “The upholstery’s faded, and the plaster’s beginning to flake. The room is too large to heat properly. There’s an icy draught, you’ll notice. You mustn’t let all this crumbling splendor overawe you, my dear.”
“Your wife wouldn’t be awed?”
“Not at all. Indifferent, rather.”
“Even though Mary, Queen of Scots slept in that bed?”
“It’s full of wormholes. Pray the whole thing doesn’t collapse on top of you one fine night.”
“You have no romance in your soul. None whatsoever.”
“I’m probably the least romantic chap you’ll ever meet. I’m a realist, my dear.”
“And entirely mercenary,” I retorted crisply.
Edward Baker made no reply, but I could see he hadn’t liked my remark. I was rather pleased about that. For some reason I hoped to goad him out of that aloof, distant poise he maintained. Even anger would be better than his chilly remoteness. He studied me now, lids at half-mast, mouth set in a tight line. I thought he was going to make some cutting comment, but he didn’t.
“Come,” he said tersely, “the old man will be waiting.”
Neither of us spoke as he led me down a narrow hall and then along a much wider one with windows looking out over the front gardens. He held my elbow in a firm grip, a habit that was beginning to irritate me, and his handsome profile might have been sculptured from marble. Nearing the end of the second hall, he stopped, turning to me with a grim expression.
“I think we should set one thing straight,” he remarked. His voice was calm though exceedingly chilly. “You’re my employee. You were brought here to perform a role. We’ve had our little verbal spats—I’ve rather enjoyed them—but henceforth, you’ll show respect. Is that understood? Even when we’re alone together, you’ll show the proper respect.”
“The respect due an employer?”
“Precisely.”
“And if I don’t?”
The question seemed to amuse him. His lips curled in the thin smile I was beginning to know so well. There was something chilling about it, and I felt a slight alarm, almost afraid of him. I managed to conceal it, however, meeting his gaze with one of cool disdain.
“I admire your spirit, my dear, but don’t push me too far. The consequences might not be at all pleasant.”
“You don’t intimidate me.”
“You’ve made a point of telling me that on more than one occasion. Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”
“I wish—”
“I know,” he said wearily. “You wish you’d never agreed to this. You did agree, Jenny luv, and there’s no turning back now. Forget your personal feelings. Do your job like the competent little actress you are, and the reward will be more than ample.”
Never before had the folly of my decision been brought home so sharply as it was at that moment. I must have been mad to have accepted his offer, mad to have come here, and I wanted to rush madly down the hall, out of the house, to forget Edward Baker and everything connected with him. I could feel tears welling up inside. I had never felt so alone, so vulnerable. Edward gazed at me with level blue eyes, fully aware of my emotional crisis, calmly waiting for it to subside. I hated him for knowing me so well, hated myself for displaying signs of weakness. For several seconds I seemed to be torn asunder, and then I braced myself, mentally as well as physically. The tears never materialized. I summoned strength from a hard core inside, and when I spoke, my voice was as cool as his own had been.
“Very well, Mr. Baker.”
“I wasn’t mistaken in you,” he replied idly. “I sensed the stuff you were made of. You’ve got strength—fire. You’re going to do a splendid job.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Your best, I’m sure, will be superb.”
“Let’s not keep Lord Mallyn waiting any longer.”
Opening a door near the end of the hall, Edward ushered me into one of the most bizarre rooms I had ever seen. It was vast, almost barnlike, the walls paneled in varnished golden oak, long yellow silk drapes hanging at the tall windows looking out over the west side of the grounds. Although a fire roared lustily in the immense fireplace, the room was icy cold, and it was filled with an amazing clutter of furniture. Vivid Chinese screens stood behind Regency sofas, Oriental tables of beaten brass beside Chippendale chairs. There were great brass gongs and delicate wind chimes, red lacquer chests, piles of colorfully embroidered pillows. Persian carpets were scattered over the parquet floor, and ornaments jostled one another on every available surface: delicately carved ivory figures, tiny jade idols, lacquered boxes inlaid with mother-of-pearl and semiprecious gems, exquisite Ming vases, small crouching dragons of red and silver. A large golden Buddha with a ruby in its forehead sat complacently beneath one of the windows, and there was a veritable forest of dark green plants in ornate brass urns. The place was incredibly dusty, thick coats of it on all the furniture, balls of it under the sofas and chairs. Half a hundred candles filled the room with brilliant light.
“Mementos of my uncle’s travels,” Edward said. “He used to be quite a collector.”
“What beautiful things—”
“Some are quite valuable, some mere trash. He refuses to let the servants touch them—won’t allow the maids in the room. Another of his little eccentricities.”
“I can hear every word you’re saying! I’m not deaf, Edward! Thought maybe you’d be afraid to show your face—and who’s that trollop with you? Red hair! Never liked a woman with red hair! Bring he
r closer, you scoundrel! Let me get a good look!”
Totally unruffled by this harsh outburst, Edward held my elbow tightly and led me across the room toward a huge bed that might have belonged to an Eastern potentate. It was hung with fraying Oriental tapestries, piled high with colored cushions against which the sharp-faced old man was propped. He wore a crimson silk robe and, incongruously enough, had a patchwork quilt of multicolored squares spread over his legs. The quilt was old, decidedly mothy, and might have been made by some farmer’s wife. The table beside the bed was piled high with dirty dishes, bottles, jars, a magpie’s nest of papers and magazines and paraphernalia. There was the unmistakable odor of medicine, of old age, and another, stronger odor that was explained when three ancient, decrepit Pekinese scrambled from their nests of bedclothes and filled the air with shrill, agitated barking.
“Silence!” the old man thundered.
The Pekinese whimpered and scurried back under the covers with remarkable alacrity. Lord Mallyn heaved himself up higher against the cushions. His long, scrawny fingers were festooned with rings. He was very thin, his skin like fine old parchment, and his hair, still profuse, was the color of tarnished silver, spilling over his high forehead in unruly, sweat-damp locks. There were deep hollows beneath his high, bony cheekbones. His nose was beaklike, his mouth a thin white slit. He must once have been an exceptionally handsome man, I reflected, but he showed every one of his seventy years now. Nevertheless he was still imposing, would still dominate any gathering without the least effort. His eyes, dark brown, almost black, seemed to snap and smoulder, showing now venom, now amusement, now impatience as he regarded us.
“I see you’re as feisty as ever,” Edward remarked dryly.
“You expect to find me cringing under the covers like a frightened old woman? You expect me to whimper and whine? You know me better than that, my boy! When I go, it won’t be with a whimper—it’ll be with a bang, the loudest bang you ever heard! Not that I’m about to go. Far from it! These bloody doctors are out of their minds, all of ’em! Well, boy, this is quite a stunt you’ve pulled! What have you got to say for yourself?”
Midnight at Mallyncourt Page 5