He gave her a smile that defied decency. “You’re to be my guest of honor, Miss Boscastle. Let me turn the tables and entertain you for the night. I think it’s time for the next step of your initiation into our household. As long as you accept. Attendance, however, is an irrevocable step. You will be discouraged from leaving here after tonight if you come to my table. Do you understand?”
It was all she could do to maintain a solemn demeanor. He was quite the thespian.
“Is the entire evening to be conducted in this furtive manner?”
“Yes.” He glanced at her cap. “Do you have a decent dress?”
“I have several.”
She had no idea what any of it could mean. It sounded slightly depraved and entirely intriguing. “Eleven o’clock it is,” she said. “As your guest of honor. I would not miss it for the world.”
Chapter 25
Lily could hardly wait for the evening. The suspense stretched her nerves. Shortly after lunch she dropped the duke’s finest china bowl on the floor. Then two eggs slipped out of her basket and broke in the sink. The servants—and it was not her imagination—smiled and elbowed one another like secret operatives assigned to report on her every move. Marie-Elaine’s daughter followed her as she gathered lavender buds in the physic garden to sweeten her bath. She could not fold a towel without the staff halting all activity to watch.
By teatime she was tempted to draw her apron over her head, pull a knife from the kitchen sink, and threaten the footmen in French to tell everything. Or else.
Another member of the staff appeared before dusk, a gentleman she had not previously met but who was introduced to her as the duke’s steward. His face looked mummified, and he wore the longest gloves Lily had ever seen. Marie-Elaine referred to him as “the elusive Mr. Lawton” because he visited St. Aldwyn House only twice a month. The rest of the time he disappeared on the duke’s business.
Then evening came. She bathed by candlelight and dressed in the blush-pink gauze gown that had been designed as part of her trousseau.
A housekeeper would never dare to wear such a dress. Tonight Lily was a guest of honor. She swept her hair into a prim knot upon her nape. She wore no jewelry. It was a relief to regard her image in the looking glass. Her housekeeper’s cap and unadorned muslin skirt added thickness to her face and hips, two areas that in Lily’s estimation required no avoirdupois. Her complexion had regained some color from her work in the garden.
She realized that she had begun to recover from her broken engagement. Her opinion mattered in this house. True, the duke provoked her at times, but with a tantalizing style. She provoked him, too, and yet she sensed he did not mind. On the contrary. He seemed to encourage her.
Would the evening live up to her expectations?
Would she discover that the duke supervised a secret society of eccentrics eager to draw another into its fold? It was all she could do to maintain a solemn demeanor when she descended the stairs to find him, in black evening attire, waiting to escort her to the east wing. She paused. At last.
The forbidden land.
They strolled through connecting torchlit corridors to an arcaded doorway above which a plaster frieze of biblical lions stood guard. Lily glanced back, gasping softly. The duke’s reflection dwarfed hers in a gilt-framed series of Venetian glass mirrors mounted upon the walls. From the terrace outside a fountain sent glittery spumes into the air, like liquid jewels.
“You look beautiful, Lily,” he said. She turned her head, unprepared for the pleasure in his eyes as he regarded her. She felt warm despite the moorland mist that crept through the open doors to curl faintly around the Ionic columns.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“Thank you for accepting my invitation. I was afraid you would change your mind.”
She could see weapons mounted on the wall, statues grouped in mythological scenes, French fables depicted in the tapestries and frescoes on the soaring ceiling.
Busts of Shakespeare, Goethe, and Defoe occupied a high-arched gallery that faced the long windows. The hall appeared to be a tribute to the great storytellers of all time. At least his dedication to the arts had not been a lie.
“It is incredible,” she said, shaking her head.
He smiled. “I’m relieved you think so. I was hoping that you would not be overwhelmed.”
By him. Perhaps. But this wing of the house . . .
This was his domain, a world of whimsy, a secret place sculpted from dreams. And he looked as if he was its ruling prince, as if he had sprung from a fairy tale, his tailored evening wear enhancing his almost too-lean elegance. Any suggestion of slightness disappeared the instant he took her hand. Her fingers brushed a masculine torso that awakened her entire body. His hand tightened possessively over hers, steadying as well as disconcerting her. His grasp urged her to wait just a little longer for the surprise he had planned.
Wait. How much longer could she wait?
It didn’t seem like the time to ask for him to explain the anguished moans she’d heard in the night, the pleas for mercy, the hair-raising scene she had watched him enact behind the burial cairns. Perhaps she should be frightened. If she had not been met with so much kindness in this house, she would have been tempted to turn and flee. But she was compelled by her own curiosity to discover the truth.
Would she wish afterward that she had not been told?
The least plausible explanation for this mystery was that the Duke of Gravenhurst had formed a clandestine organization of wicked ladies and gentlemen who met on his isolated estate to live out their most undisciplined desires. Their master fascinated her beyond measure.
And that Lily was to be initiated as the housekeeper of their naughty society. To judge by the monuments in this hall, its members seemed to be a well-read if lascivious bunch.
An illustration from a risqué book she had once read about the Hellfire Club and its imitators formed in her mind. A lady in a half-unhooked corset standing in a candlelit chamber with a whip in her hand, shirtless gentlemen kneeling around her. Lily quickly replaced the picture with that of a decently clad gentlewoman stirring a teaspoon. Her imagination did take her to strange places.
“Lily?” the duke said gently, questioning her sudden hesitation. “I think our company is ready for us.”
Suddenly she decided she might not be ready for his company.
He smiled again.
How could she resist?
His gloved fingers squeezed hers and lent her courage. His presence infused her with a reckless excitement that overpowered her doubts. Despite her current status, she had been raised to be polite. It was too late to turn down this invitation. His eyes gleamed like smoke with underlying sparks of mayhem.
The doors opened before them.
She drew her breath.
Bickerstaff, in immaculate livery, bowed. Emmett and Ernest stood at either end of a massive table lit with long-branched golden candelabras. Heavily scrolled silver dishes shone on the pure white damask tablecloth. The guests rose as the duke escorted her forward: Marie-Elaine, Mrs. Halford, Wadsworth, other servants, the Reverend Mr. Cedric Doughty and his young wife, another gentleman whom Samuel introduced as Baron Ardmore, a friend and poet from a neighboring village.
She stared across the table at the serving platters she had not seen prepared. Samuel walked her to her chair. The gilt figures of a lady and gentleman embraced beneath the glass dome of the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece. It was well past eleven.
“Sit down, Lily,” Samuel whispered, giving her another gentle nudge. “I’m sure you guessed that I have a secret. It’s past time I shared it. I know you will agree.”
She glanced down again at the table. “Yes, I do wish to be told the truth.” At least she thought she did.
The reverend’s wife smiled at her, looking too proper to belong to any amorous club. There also weren’t any whips, chains, or sacrificial altars in sight. Of course, the east wing had other rooms. Would Lily be led into ano
ther labyrinth of secrets?
Her face must have reflected her thoughts.
“Sit down,” Samuel said in amusement.
His familiar manner reassured her.
She sat, her gaze narrowing on the duke. She had never known a gentleman to play such an enticing game. “A midnight confession,” she said, her voice controlled, her hands trembling. “I admit it. Your Grace has intrigued me.”
He lifted his wineglass to her with mordant cheer. “You’re a captive audience. You belong here now.”
She felt her pulse quicken. She could feel the other guests staring at her. They seemed perfectly normal, if entertaining one’s own staff could be excused for a night. It was anything but the saturnalian revel she had feared, and yet she could not ignore the duke’s last words, the expectancy in the air.
She lifted her chin, her voice faint but clear. “To what exactly do I belong?”
Chapter 26
He could have replied, To me.
He wanted nothing else but to be her protector, to rekindle the spark that had ignited between them in London. Still, now that he understood why she had been forced to come to him, he would be half a man to take advantage of the refuge he had provided. Lily would have to admit she wanted him on her own. He believed that she did. Pray God he would not ruin his chance by revealing who he was tonight. And that she would not regard him as another spurious male.
He would lose everything if she betrayed him. He needed her trust perhaps even more than she needed his.
He would give anything to keep her here. Since she had come to his house, he had discovered a depth to her that beguiled him. Another woman would have considered taking a domestic position as a step down. Or a complete fall. But Lily had accepted her place with humility. She treated the other servants like friends. She had not allowed her disgrace to steal her dignity.
She was the perfect fit for Samuel, Lord Anonymous, and St. Aldwyn House. He would never find another woman like her. None of the heroines he’d created could compete with Lily for raising tension and excitement.
He smiled at her over the rim of his glass. She looked delicious in that pink gauze dress. He exhaled quietly. Her eyes reflected a good-natured confusion, a cautious willingness to play along with the game.
“Well?” she whispered with an edge of impatience, her shoulder lifting in a shrug that made him wish they were alone. “Out with it. A midnight confession. I could use a little diversion in my life.”
“Welcome to Wickbury, Lily. I can’t tell you how delighted I am that you have become part of our world.”
She stared at him rather stupidly, the other guests erupting into a stream of chatter that went over her head. It took a moment or two for the truth to penetrate her daze. His eyes danced with sheer enjoyment, a look utterly devoid of shame.
“Wickbury,” she said, hearing herself laugh, a reaction to hide her bewilderment, a rush of anxiety.
“I think she knew all along,” Marie-Elaine said softly.
The reverend’s wife threw Lily a sympathetic look. “I didn’t believe it either, when we moved to the parish. It was two years before my husband told me, and only then because he caught me with a certain book. At that point I had to confess my infatuation with the author. I did get a scolding.”
“The author.” Lily rose from her chair, studying Samuel’s face. “You are—”
“Lord Anonymous.” He stood, smiling the beautiful smile that had riveted her the night of the masquerade.
She shook her head, disbelieving. How could she not have guessed? He had dropped more clues than she could count. “You’re—”
He grimaced. “Don’t make me repeat that absurd sobriquet. I didn’t choose it.”
“And everyone accused me of madness,” she said. “I never dreamt it. Am I dreaming?” She sat down again, so astonished she barely noticed the other guests and staff covertly leaving the table and exiting the room. She was suddenly alone with Lord Anonymous. Part of his inner circle.
“It’s as if I’ve walked through a mirror,” she said to herself distractedly.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, this is the other side of what I saw—or what you wanted to show. Everyone appears the same on the outside, but you were only reflections before.” She could not stop the note of censure that stole into her voice. “You are far deeper than I first perceived.”
“And this upsets you?” he asked with concern.
She frowned at him. “Please give me a little time to decide.”
The candle flames accentuated the deceptive vulnerability of his face. She gazed around him to the empty chairs that the reverend and his wife had occupied. She gasped in realization. “Oh,” she said, her eyes lifting to Samuel’s. “You put him up to testing me, tempting me to betray you. How awful of you both.”
“It was his idea.”
“That is no excuse.”
He bowed his head, but Lily was unmoved. “You didn’t betray me,” he said, and looked up at her. “As I recall, you defended me.”
“Yes, not knowing who you actually were. And that you weren’t merely eavesdropping but hoping to entrap me.”
His eyes narrowed in disagreement. “I hoped for the exact opposite.”
Lily wasn’t sure what to make of him. “What would you have done if I had thrown myself at his feet and pleaded for him to save me?”
“That would have been a problem,” he admitted.
“I walked right into your trap,” she said thoughtfully.
He leaned his head to hers. “Walk closer, I implore you.”
“You’re going to knock over the wine,” she whispered, her voice catching. “Your housekeeper would be displeased.”
“Then I shall be careful,” he whispered into her ear. “I want to earn her approval above all else.”
He drew his chair closer to hers and sat. His knee touched hers. She couldn’t move. “What do you make of it? Is it truly a shock?”
“An understatement.”
“Have some wine.”
She took several sips.
“Did that help?” he asked in concern.
She nodded to be agreeable and stared across the table at his hand. She tried to picture his long, gloved fingers grasping a pen, writing the dark stories that had stolen her heart. Instead, all she could envision was his hand stealing down her back. The duke of duality. Was it a shock? She finished the rest of her wine. She didn’t know if it was red or white. She was too dazed to taste the difference. Nor had she set this table.
“I have never been so wrong about anything in my life,” she said without thinking.
He looked worried. “What do you mean?”
“The author of Wickbury. You aren’t a woman.”
His laughter rang pleasantly across the room. “I hope you aren’t disappointed.”
She glanced up at his face. “No.”
She didn’t know what she felt. Maybe it was elation, curiosity, most certainly relief.
He said, “You’ll never know how tempted I was to prove myself to you the night of the masquerade.”
She shook her head again. “I was afraid you were going to confess that you were some sort of a warlock.”
“Rather like Sir Renwick Hexworthy?”
“Now that you mention him, yes.”
He regarded her with an intensity that she could not escape. “I remember that you favored him over Wickbury.”
She felt the wine suddenly go to her head. “Of course, neither of them is real.”
His voice dropped to a confidential tone. “They are to me.”
He wasn’t only Lord Anonymous. He was Michael, Lord Wickbury, exiled young earl, the hero too valiant for his own good. He was Sir Renwick Hexworthy, the villain that his lady readers ached to redeem. Longwand. And Lord Wickbury—Broadsword. Of all the conceit. Or was he in fact magically endowed? The series more than hinted at the sexual prowess of both men. Why did she have to think of that now?
Lily relea
sed a sigh. So that was what Samuel and Bickerstaff had been doing at the cairn last night. The scene had looked familiar because Lily had seen it foreshadowed in his last published novel. How could a woman’s heart not be touched by a scoundrel whose grief had led him on a ruinous path?
Betrayals. Abduction. Secret pacts. Digging up dead sisters. Trapdoors and alchemy. As if being a duke weren’t enough.
Her thoughts tumbled out of control. This man—the writer, that was—had kept her awake with his delicious intrigue for nights on end. And that was before she had even met the rogue. Or rogues. The masked devil in London who had unabashedly tried to seduce her had nothing on the characters he had created. Separately, a lady might have a chance. Combined, their magnetism simply overpowered.
Possibilities intrigued her. She was sipping wine with Sir Renwick. Or at least with the man whose twisted mind had invented all Renwick’s thwarted passion, power lust, and evil machinations.
Come to think of it, the duke and Sir Renwick shared the same physical characteristics—the raven hair, penetrating eyes, the supple physique—and she stopped that line of thought. Her lips firmed. She would not ask him what had inspired the code names Longwand and Broadsword.
She might have to wait until he wrote a chapter on the subject for her alone.
A warlock. Samuel wished it were true. He understood how she had come to that conclusion. His staff and friends had awaited her like a coven about to wage a metaphysical war. All this mystery and melodrama a few minutes before the stroke of twelve. What should she have expected? It was too late to take back his confession. Magic in reverse. He had disenchanted his own housekeeper. She looked as if she was still not convinced.
“I knew there was something,” she murmured as he reached for the wine decanter. “But not this. I saw you and Bickerstaff on the moor, by the way.”
He looked at her. “I know.”
Her full lips gleamed in a smile. “Do I have to take an oath that I won’t tell?”
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