The Mark of the Midnight Manzanilla

by Lauren Willig

  Oh, for heaven’s sake! This was absurd. Thoroughly annoyed with herself, Sally marched forward and yanked the tapestry aside. It gave easily on its gold bar, revealing a wall of solid stone.

  Or was it? On one side of the tapestry, the window embrasure was a good three feet deep, deep enough for a wide window seat. On the other, the fireplace stretched back. That left a considerable space unaccounted for.

  Feeling rather foolish, Sally poked tentatively at the stone. The wall creaked. She poked again, harder. When that didn’t work, she shoved.

  With a low groan, the wall swung forward, revealing an alcove liberally festooned with cobwebs.

  There was, mercifully, no skeleton in chains. That, Sally decided, feeling more than a little giddy, would have been a bit much. But there was the burned end of an old torch set into a bracket and a flight of stone stairs that spiraled down into regions unknown.

  Tightening the sash of her dressing down, Sally wedged the door open with the handle of her hairbrush, caught up a candle, and stuck a spare in her sash, just in case she needed an extra. The stairs were of stone, hollowed at the center from long use. One of the staircases of the original castle? Sally wouldn’t have been surprised. She picked her way carefully around the central shaft, debris crunching beneath her slippers.

  Her lips tightened. The sound of it was rather like the scratching and scrabbling she had heard from the chimney.

  Had she been put in that chamber because it was haunted, or because it could conveniently be made to appear so?

  The stairs branched off in multiple directions, a warren of passageways. But there was light coming from one side and one side only. Sally rather regretted not having had the forethought to appropriate one of Miss Gwen’s sword parasols. Oh, well; if she didn’t have a weapon, at least she had her dignity. She regarded the ruffles on her sleeves. Her dressing gown was of rich blue velvet, edged with ruffles of Valenciennes lace. It was quite fetching. It was not very intimidating.

  She would just have to make up for her attire with the force of her personality.

  Whoever it was hadn’t even bothered to close the secret door all the way behind her. (Sally had her suspicions as to the identity of the malefactor. Haunted Chamber, indeed!) Ahead, she could see the back of a heavy tapestry much like the one in her room.

  Gathering her skirts and her dignity around her, Sally swept the fabric aside, announcing, “I know what you’re doing!”

  The duke was seated in a broad chair before the fire, a book in his hand. He had divested himself of his evening attire, and wore, instead, a dressing gown in an exotic pattern on crimson silk. The firelight danced off his dark hair and eyes and shimmered against the liquid in the glass by his side.

  He blinked, frowned, and blinked again. He closed his book over his finger. “Going to bed?” he asked mildly.

  Lucien’s betrothed came to an abrupt stop in the center of the floor, leaving the tapestry flapping behind her. She was dressed for bed, in a dressing gown of rich blue velvet, with a cascade of lace at the sleeves, her fair hair falling around her shoulders and halfway down her back. Loose, it was perfectly straight, with no hint of the curls she affected for fashion’s sake.

  She appeared to be nearly as surprised as he was, which didn’t seem quite fair, given the fact that she was the one who had come bursting out of the wall.

  Unless . . . Lucien glanced at the decanter beside him. No. He realized he didn’t have a very hard head, but he was hardly going to be hallucinating on half a glass of claret.

  And if he were to hallucinate, he decided, his hallucination would not have included the dressing gown.

  His betrothed opened her mouth and then closed it again. “What are you doing here?” she asked suspiciously.

  Lucien looked around him. “The last time I checked, this was my room. Which begs the question, what are you doing here?” The fabric of the dressing gown molded rather nicely to her legs. Lucien wasn’t gentleman enough to ignore that fact. “Not that I’m objecting, mind you.”

  “I—” Sally frowned at him, looking this way and that, as though she suspected him of hiding malefactors in the corners. “You weren’t just scrabbling in the tunnels behind my room and making moaning noises?”

  Lucien put his book aside. “I can say with some assurance that I was not.” He cocked a brow. “Moaning noises?”

  Sally set her hands on her hips, scrutinizing his room. “It sounded like someone calling my name.”

  The ducal chambers were located on an inner courtyard, shielded from the elements, but even here the wind whistled along the window frames. Hullingden had a multitude of nighttime noises. Lucien had half forgotten that in his time away. “Are you sure it wasn’t the wind?”

  “Absolutely not. Or—mostly not.” Sally chewed on her lower lip. “I can tell the difference between my name and a breeze. Did you know that there was a secret stair behind my room?”

  “It’s hardly that secret.” Lucien hadn’t thought about them for years, but the passages in the walls had been a boon to a small boy, perfect for evading bedtime, mushy peas, and other unpleasantness. He gave the paneling an affectionate pat. “The walls of Hullingden are riddled with passageways. Stairs, priests’ holes, subterranean tunnels—we have them all.”

  “Well, it was secret to me.” Sally folded her arms across her chest, making the fabric of her dressing gown gape in interesting ways. Lucien caught a glimpse of the nightdress below, a fine linen not best suited to chilly castles in October. “Have you thought of affixing labels to these passages, for the edification of the unwary? Or do you prefer to surprise your guests with nocturnal visitations?”

  “I,” Lucien pointed out, justifiably, “am not the one roaming the night.” He managed to drag his eyes away from her more obvious assets, and frowned. “Why do you have a candle stuck in your sash?”

  Sally put a hand defensively to the wax at her waist. “I didn’t know how far the stair would go. I didn’t want to be caught in subterranean caverns without a candle.”

  “That was very resourceful of you.” Lucien did his best to contain his grin, but he wasn’t entirely successful.

  “I believe in being prepared for every eventuality,” said Sally grandly. She looked pointedly at Lucien. “Every foreseeable eventuality. I did not foresee that the stair would end in your bedchamber.”

  “I’m crushed,” said Lucien cheerfully. “You were expecting an oubliette, perhaps? Or a subterranean chamber lined with corpses?”

  His betrothed’s lashes flickered guiltily.

  Lucien snorted with laughter. “I don’t have to ask what you’ve been reading.”

  Sally tossed her hair back over one shoulder. “If you will line the walls with secret passageways . . . ,” she said sternly.

  “I’ll make sure to add a skeleton or two, just for form,” Lucien promised. “Would you like some cobwebs as well?”

  Sally flicked with distaste at a smudge on one sleeve. “Those you have,” she said, sounding distinctly disgruntled.

  Lucien couldn’t resist. “If you will disappear down secret passageways . . .”

  Sally gave him a look. Changing the subject, she gestured to something behind him. “Is that the Belliston coat of arms?”

  Lucien glanced back over his shoulder, but all he saw was the ducal bed, raised on its own dais. It took him a moment to realize that she was referring to the massive representation of the Belliston coat of arms, carved in bas-relief on the bed frame and painted in gaudy red, blue, and gold. It loomed out from between the gathered bed curtains: the two halves of a broken sword forming a triangle beneath which one could see three stylized drops of blood.

  The craftsman who had carved it long ago had not stinted on the blood.

  The motto running across the scroll on the bottom read, “Bludde wyll owt.”

  “Yes, it’s one of
them.”

  Sally walked over to the dais, trailed her blue velvet skirts behind her, and squinted into the gloom beneath the bed curtains. The mattress creaked as she rested one hand against the foot of the bed, craning her neck for a better view. “It’s quite . . . sanguinary.”

  “Sanguinary,” Lucien echoed, as the mattress creaked again. “I suppose so.”

  It belatedly occurred to Lucien that this was, perhaps, not the most orthodox of interviews. Admittedly, Sally’s robe was of a heavy, opaque fabric, but all it would take would be one tug—not that he was thinking of doing the tugging—on that sash to reveal what looked like a very thin nightdress below.

  And there was that very large bed, conveniently placed right behind them.

  Sally looked back at Lucien over her shoulder, her golden hair a bright spot in the dark room. “Have you considered a nice heraldic beast? A lion perhaps? Or a gryphon?”

  “Or a fluffy bunny?” Lucien said blandly. He stepped forward to offer her a hand. “It’s not quite as gruesome as it seems.”

  “Not quite?” Sally looped up her trailing flounces in one hand, resting her other hand lightly in his. Ungloved, her fingers were long and slender, and very white against his sun-darkened skin. “Blood will out?”

  It took Lucien a moment to remember what they were talking about. “One of my ancestors backed Henry Tudor on Bosworth Field. The story goes that he was run through three times. Each time he staggered to his feet and resumed fighting. When the new king thanked him, he is said to have replied, ‘I regret that I have but three drops of my heart’s blood to give for my sovereign.’ Then he promptly collapsed.”

  “I see.” Sally perched on the edge of a red velvet settee, her blue velvet skirts fanning out around her. “How very distressing for him.”

  “Not very.” Reminiscent amusement creased Lucien’s lips. His father might not have been terribly invested in the day-to-day running of the estate, but he had been a limitless repository of family stories, particularly of the saltier variety. “He was nursed back to health by the daughter of the local baron, who bore a very blond child nine months later.”

  Sally raised her brows. “Indeed.”

  Lucien caught himself up short. “I really shouldn’t have told you that, should I? In fact”—he looked down at Sally, who had made herself quite comfortable on the settee and showed every intention of staying for some time—“you really shouldn’t be here.”

  Sally dismissed that with a wave of her hand. “Such things do go on.” She leaned back, tilting her head up at him. “Was this child your ancestor?”

  Lucien coughed. “I’m afraid not. As a token of the king’s gratitude, he was offered a royal ward who came with several nice castles and a number of serfs.”

  “That’s appalling,” said Sally indignantly.

  Lucien held up his hands. “One doesn’t acquire a dukedom by being nice.”

  His betrothed looked at him narrowly. “One doesn’t hold on to one by being nice, either.”

  Lucien tensed. “What does that mean? You can hardly be advising me to go out and exercise my droit du seigneur. I mean—” Damn.

  “Don’t be silly,” Sally said sternly.

  Did she have no idea what a tempting picture she made, halfway reclining on the settee, with her hair loose around her shoulders?

  Lucien shoved his hands in the pockets of his dressing gown. “You should be going back to your room,” he said gruffly.

  Sally rose, her robe gaping distractingly. “Because you don’t want to hear what I have to say?”

  “Because I— Did you hear that?” Lucien spun on one heel.

  Sally tagged along after him. “You can’t avoid me that easily.” From the recesses of the wall came a thud, followed by a low moan. “Oh. That.”

  Lucien strode to the tapestry and lifted one corner. “It came from the passage.”

  “Maybe it’s the wind,” said Sally pointedly.

  That didn’t sound like the wind; it was a low muttering. Almost like . . . an incantation. Lucien looked at his betrothed over his shoulder. “That wasn’t the wind.”

  Sally didn’t waste time on “I told you so.” “I’ll get the candle,” she said briskly. “Would you like to go first?”

  “Like” wasn’t exactly the operative term. Lucien opened his mouth to suggest that she stay behind, then thought better of it. Some lost causes were noble; others were just lost. “That case, on the table. There are two pistols. Hand one to me.”

  “And the other?” said Sally, proffering the case.

  Lucien offered it to her, butt first. “Try not to shoot me in the back.”

  Together, they ducked behind the tapestry and through the gap in the paneling. There was a mechanism that controlled it—Lucien remembered that much—but someone appeared to have forced the lock so it wouldn’t catch. The door easily swung open.

  He hadn’t remembered the passageways being quite so grim. Or so cold.

  The skirt of Sally’s robe brushed against his ankles. He could feel her breath against his ear. “Do you see anything?”

  There was another thud, followed by muttering.

  Lucien paused, pistol cocked. “If that’s a French spy,” he murmured, “it’s a remarkably clumsy one.”

  He could feel Sally’s fingers on the belt of his dressing gown. “Miss Gwen did say that he was hideously maimed,” she whispered.

  A misshapen shadow lurched into view, moving with a shambling, uneven gait.

  Lucien leveled his pistol. “Drop your arms and show yourself,” he commanded.

  “Drop my—” The voice was young, English, and more than a little bit slurred. The shadow resolved itself into a man in a caped greatcoat. Hal Caldicott tripped over the hem of his cloak. “Lucien?”

  Sally let out a gusty breath. “So much for spies.”

  Lucien lowered his pistol. “Hal? I thought you were in town?”

  “I am— I mean, I was. I mean . . .” Hal floundered in the folds of his cape.

  Lucien leaned down and gave his cousin a hand up. As he did, Hal’s eyes focused hazily on Sally.

  “Miss Fitzhugh? What are you doing— Oh.” A look of drunken comprehension spread across his face. It stopped somewhere just short of a leer. “Oh.”

  Sally reflexively tightened the belt of her dressing gown. Lucien resisted the urge to wipe the leer off his cousin’s face.

  “It’s not what you think,” Lucien said grimly.

  Hal held up his hands. “Not thinking anything at all. None of my business what you do with your own—”

  “Betrothed?” supplied Lucien repressively.

  “Just so.” Hal looked owlishly at Sally around Lucien’s arm. “Nuptials coming up and all that . . . No one . . . blame you for anticipatin’ . . .”

  Sally leaned forward and glowered at Hal. “I am not here,” she said succinctly. “Do you understand me, Mr. Caldicott? I am not here. I was not here. I have never been here.”

  A foolish grin spread across Hal’s face. He made an attempt to stand, and would have stumbled, but for Lucien’s supporting arm. “Oh, I understand.”

  “No, you don’t,” said Lucien wearily.

  Sally took matters into her own hands. “I am a figment of your imagination. Do you hear me? A figment.”

  Hal winced as the candle flame danced across his dilated pupils. “Awfully loud for a figment,” he complained.

  “He’s foxed,” said Lucien under his voice. “He won’t remember anything once he sleeps it off.”

  “Heard that!” said Hal indignantly. “I’m not—that is—maybe I’m a little—hic!—indish—indish—under the influe-whatsis.”

  “A little?” said Sally.

  Lucien looked to Sally. “You should go.”

  “You’ll be all right?”

  “I’ve put d
runks to bed before.” His cousins in New Orleans were no strangers to overindulgence.

  “I’m not—”

  “I know,” said Lucien. “I know. You’re only a trifle indisposed. Let’s get you to your room.” Lucien hefted his cousin up, looping a limp arm around his shoulders. “What the devil have you been drinking?”

  “Bl-blue ruin.” Hal shook off Lucien’s supporting arm, catching himself against the wall. “I’m ruined. Ruined with blue ruin.” He looked at his cousin with sudden alarm. “Won’t tell my father?”

  “Your secret is safe with me.” Lucien made a flapping gesture at Sally behind Hal’s back.

  “Here.” Sally darted forward to lift the edge of the tapestry for him. “You can’t manage both him and the door.”

  Hal’s arm slid from the wall. He sprawled inelegantly on the stone floor. “God! If I could make it all just go away!”

  “I rather expect it might, at that,” said Lucien prosaically. Giving up all attempt to shoo Sally out of the way, he said, “There should be a basin to the right of the bed.”

  Hal caught at the hem of Sally’s robe. He looked up with glittering eyes. “I need more gin.”

  “No, you don’t,” said Sally, giving her dressing gown a good, hard yank. “Gin is the last thing you need.”

  The basin, on the other hand, was looking increasingly necessary.

  Lucien grabbed Hal beneath the arm, making an attempt to hoist him up, away from Sally. Hal’s eyes rolled back in his head, showing an alarming amount of white.

  “I keep seeing her—keep seeing—” A blast of gin hit Lucien full in the face. “I saw Sir Matthew Egerton at the Cockeyed Crow.”

  Lucien froze, letting his cousin’s arm drop. “Here?”

  Hal slid down along the wall. “He followed you. All the way from London.”

  “That’s hardly a feat of tracking,” said Sally acidly. “Following the Duke of Belliston all the way to his ancestral home.”

  Both men ignored her. Lucien turned to Hal. “Did he say anything to you?”

  Pressing his hands against the rough stones of the wall, Hal clawed his way upright. “He thinks you did it.” His words were slurred, but his intent was clear. “He thinks you killed Fanny.”