by Amanda Quick
The envelope tucked under the black ribbon was bordered in black.
9
FOR A FEW seconds she stared at the horrid package, willing it to disappear. Perhaps the events of recent days had affected her nerves so badly that she was starting to hallucinate.
She shook off the dazed sensation and steeled herself to pick up the box. It was surprisingly heavy. She had to use both hands to get a firm grip on it.
She slipped the envelope out from under the ribbon. Her name was written on it in an elegant hand. Miss Calista Langley. There was no return address.
She tried to summon up the faces of the people who had been on the street just before she got into the cab. But in her anger she had been focused entirely on Nestor. She had paid very little attention to passers-by. Traffic had been heavy, as usual in the middle of the afternoon, but the fog had obscured much of the scene.
It dawned on her that she had experienced no difficulty hailing a cab. That was unusual on such a damp, fogbound day. It was as if the carriage in which she was riding had been waiting for her.
She reached up with one gloved hand and rapped smartly on the roof of the vehicle. The trapdoor opened immediately. The driver looked down at her, squinting a little.
“Aye, ma’am?” he asked. “Change your mind about yer destination?”
“No,” she said. “But there seems to be a problem. Your previous fare left a package behind on the seat. It is wrapped in black silk. A mourning gift, I suspect.”
“Right y’are. It’s for you, ma’am. My condolences on your sad loss.” The driver touched the brim of his low-crowned hat and started to close the trap.
“A moment, please. There is some mistake. I have not suffered any loss.”
“I was told the package is for you, ma’am. The gentleman tipped me well to make certain that I picked you up when you came out of the bookshop. Described you very accurately, he did. Said you’d be wearing a fashionable dark red gown and a little hat with a red feather.”
She seized on the one bit of potentially useful information. “A gentleman, you say? I must know him. Was it the man I was speaking with just before you handed me up into your cab?”
“No, ma’am.”
That would have been too easy, she thought. But it was possible that Nestor had employed someone else to put the box into the cab.
“Please tell me what the other man looked like,” she said. “It’s very important that I thank him for his gift.”
“There wasn’t anything in particular about him. Wore a very nice black overcoat, hat, and scarf. Expensive. Early thirties, I’d say.”
“Any jewelry? A stickpin or a ring, perhaps?”
“None that caught my eye. Very good leather gloves, though. Sorry, ma’am, but that’s about all I can tell you.”
The spare description fit several of the gentlemen who had signed up for her services and a few whom she had rejected.
The driver closed the trapdoor. She looked down at the box in her lap. She did not want to open it, not while she was alone. She would wait until she was home and safe in familiar surroundings with Mr. and Mrs. Sykes and Andrew.
She set the box on the opposite seat and sat looking at it, trying to think of what to do next. She needed a plan, some logical course of action. But her thoughts kept chasing each other in hopeless circles that seemed to grow tighter and tighter with each passing day.
This was what it had come to—a life lived on the razor edge of fear. The sense of being watched all the time and the ghastly gifts were playing havoc with her nerves. She could not ignore the situation any longer or tell herself that her tormentor would grow bored with the dreadful game. Her intuition was screaming at her, warning her that whoever was sending her the gifts was growing more obsessed and more dangerous with each passing day.
But how did one fight a demon that lurked in the shadows?
She sat very still, mesmerized by her troubling thoughts, for the remainder of the journey back to Cranleigh Square. Somehow she was certain that whatever was inside the box would prove to be even more frightening than the tear-catcher and the jet-and-crystal ring.
No, she did not want to be alone when she opened the box wrapped in black silk.
10
TRENT WAS AT the library window watching the fog that seethed in the gardens of Cranleigh Hall and drinking the tea that had been thrust upon him by the housekeeper when the cab came up the drive.
Footsteps echoed in the front hall. He heard the door open. The elderly butler appeared on the front steps and made his way to the carriage with a stiff, halting stride.
The housekeeper spoke from the doorway of the library. “I expect that will be Miss Langley. I told you she would be home in time for tea, sir. She’ll be so pleased when she discovers that you are here.”
Trent was not at all certain that Calista was going to greet the news of his presence with any enthusiasm. He watched through the window as the butler handed her down from the cab.
There was something shadowed and grim about her. She held a package wrapped in black fabric and black ribbon in her hands. When the butler attempted to relieve her of her burden she shook her head.
The butler escorted her up the steps and into the front hall. The cab clattered off down the drive.
Out in the hall there was some low-voiced conversation.
A moment later Calista appeared in the doorway, still clutching the black box. She looked at him with a mix of wariness and thinly veiled anxiety. It was, he thought, the expression of a woman who has just received some bad news and is anticipating more of the same.
“Mr. Hastings,” she said. “I was not expecting you today.”
“Which would be an excellent reason for declining to see me,” he said. “I apologize. I took the chance of finding you at home because I wished to tell you that I have decided not to stand in my sister’s way.”
“I see. You will allow her to remain a client of my agency?”
“As she has taken pains to remind me, she is an adult. She has the right to make her own choices. I can tell that she enjoys your salons. It is just that I fear—”
“You fear she will be hurt if some heartless gentleman takes advantage of her. I quite understand. In your place I would have similar qualms. And I will be the first to admit that I cannot guarantee that Eudora will not suffer such a fate. It is a risk every woman confronts.”
Spoken like a lady who had, indeed, confronted just such a fate, he thought.
“I am keenly aware of that, Miss Langley.” He paused for emphasis. “Might I add that men are not immune from the same sort of misfortune.”
“No, of course not, but generally speaking they have more options when they find themselves in a bad marriage. All I can tell you is that I give you my word that I will do my best to provide Miss Hastings with only the most suitable introductions. In fact, I think I can promise you that she will be safer at any of my salons than she would be in most ballrooms in Society.”
He smiled a little. “Forgive me, Miss Langley, but you are not setting the bar very high.”
She winced. “I suppose that is all too true. But I assure you that I go to great lengths to make certain that I do not inadvertently accept cads and fortune hunters as clients.”
“You refer to those investigations that your brother conducts.”
“Andrew has a knack for uncovering the truth about my clients’ finances and marital status.”
For a short time he could not think of anything else to say. She watched him as if she had no idea what to do with him now that he had delivered his message. He ought to take his leave, he thought. But instead of heading for the door he found himself searching for an excuse to linger in her company.
He glanced at the black box in her hands. “Perhaps I should offer my condolences? I apologize again for the interruption. I was not aware of a death in the fami
ly.”
She shuddered and took a sharp breath.
“No,” she whispered. She straightened her shoulders. In the next breath her voice sharpened. “No one has died.” She moved to the nearest table and slammed the box down with considerable force. “But I vow I would not be at all averse to seeing a certain individual dead.”
It was as if he’d shattered some spell that had bound her. A moment earlier the atmosphere in the drawing room had been still and quiet. Now it was charged with the energy of Calista’s rage and frustration.
“Do you mind if I ask who it is you wouldn’t mind seeing in a coffin?” he said, intrigued.
“I have no idea. But when I find out—” She broke off, visibly fighting to compose herself. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hastings. You caught me at a bad time. I have just sustained a shock. I am not myself.”
“I take it that it is the contents of that box that is distressing you?”
“Yes.”
“What is inside?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t opened it yet. But I’m sure that it will be just as unpleasant as the two previous memento mori gifts have been.”
An edgy flicker of alarm raised the fine hair on the back of his neck. He moved closer to the table and looked at the name on the black-bordered envelope.
“Someone is sending you gifts suitable for those in deepest mourning?” he asked.
“I suppose it’s possible that the sender considers them cruel jokes.” Calista tightened one hand into a fist at her side. “But whoever it is, he has gone too far. I swear, I can feel him watching me from the shadows. He is out there, somewhere, circling, prowling around me, waiting to pounce.”
He touched the envelope. “May I?”
She hesitated. “I did not mean to burden you with my personal concerns.”
“You haven’t done anything of the kind. I am a curious man by nature and you have made me very, very curious.” He glanced at the blob of black wax. There was no impression on it. “You have not broken the seal.”
“I’m sure the note will be similar to the others. Go ahead, read it.”
He broke the seal and removed a card from the envelope. The black border was very wide indicating deep mourning. He read the short note aloud.
“Only death can part us.” He looked up. “There is no signature.”
“There was none on the cards that accompanied the previous two gifts, either,” Calista said.
“The stationery is of very good quality,” Trent said. “Your correspondent is a person of some means.”
Calista shot him a fierce glare. “He is not my correspondent.”
“Forgive me. A poor choice of words, especially in light of the fact that I am an author. I was simply making an observation about the social status of the individual who is tormenting you.”
“I know. It’s my turn to apologize. Forgive my temper, sir. This entire matter has put my nerves on edge.”
“Understandable.” He looked at the box. “Why don’t you unwrap it? The nature of the object inside might provide us with more information about the person who sent it.”
“I doubt it.” But she began to untie the ribbon. “I’m sure it will be similar to the others—some dreadful object intended for someone who is grieving. And it will no doubt have my initials on it.”
That information elicited another whisper of dread.
“The objects are marked with your initials?” he asked, wanting to be certain.
“I have received two gifts thus far, a tear-catcher and a ring designed to hold a lock of hair from the deceased. Both were inscribed with the initials C and L.”
She undid the ribbon, tossed it aside, and then yanked off the expensive black silk wrapping to reveal a plain wooden box. Trent could tell that she was holding her breath.
She raised the lid of the box as if expecting to find a dangerous trap inside.
For a moment they both simply stared at the object in the box.
“A bell,” Calista said without inflection.
It was some eight or ten inches high, cast in some heavy metal and covered in gleaming black enamel. The initials C and L were inscribed in flowing gilt script on the outside.
A long chain of metal links extended from the clapper inside the bell to a finger ring. Trent picked up the gift to examine it more closely.
Calista contemplated the bell with a mix of horror and loathing.
“Dear heaven.” She took a step back.
There was no point trying to soothe her fears by denying the obvious, Trent thought.
“It’s a safety coffin bell,” he said. “I’ve seen advertisements in the press for similar items. At the time of burial the bell is installed above the grave. The chain is attached to the inside of the coffin. The ring goes around one of the fingers of the deceased. The idea is that if the dead person is buried alive by accident and awakens inside the coffin, he or she can ring the bell and summon help.”
Calista turned away, folded her arms very tightly beneath her breasts, and began to pace the room. “He is threatening to bury me, perhaps while I am still alive. I don’t understand. Who could possibly hate me with so much passion?”
A dark fury heated Trent’s blood. It had been a long time since he had experienced such a surge of raw emotion. It caught him by surprise. He wanted to hurl the bell against the nearest wall.
But such a loss of control would not do Calista any good. He suppressed the flash of rage and concentrated on his examination of the coffin bell.
“What are you looking for?” she asked.
“Anyone who goes to the trouble of designing such an expensive bell—to say nothing of the chain and the finger ring—will have no doubt patented it and very likely made certain that each device is stamped with some identification.”
“Hmm.” Calista unfolded her arms. “I never thought of that. Then again, I have not been thinking at all clearly of late.”
He turned the bell upside down and studied the interior—and very nearly smiled with satisfaction when he saw the mark. “J. P. Fulton, London.”
Calista held out her hands. “Let me see that.”
He gave her the bell and watched her peer into the interior, marveling at the sudden shift in her mood. A moment ago she had been cast into the abyss. Now she was flushed with excitement.
“Do you think that if I am able to locate this J. P. Fulton I might be able to find out who bought the coffin bell from him?” she asked.
“What I think,” Trent said carefully, not wanting to raise her hopes unrealistically high, “is that finding J. P. Fulton would be an excellent place for us to start our investigation.”
Calista stilled. “Our investigation?”
“You surely don’t believe that I am going to let you pursue this matter alone, do you? Whoever sent you this bell has as good as threatened your life, and I doubt very much that the police would be of much assistance, at least not at this point.”
“No.” Her jaw tightened. “My brother and I considered going to the police, but what good would that do? There is nothing to be done unless or until the person who is haunting me perpetrates some act of violence.”
“By then it may be too late.”
She looked at him, mute and appalled.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “That was far too blunt. But your situation is dire. It does not allow for social graces.”
She swallowed hard. “I am well aware of that. Please understand. I appreciate your offer to help but this is not your problem, sir.” She set the coffin bell on the desk. “Given the horrid nature of this new gift, I am afraid that there may be considerable risk involved for anyone who attempts to assist me.”
He looked at her. “I am most certainly not the hero of my novels. But I have been told that I have a talent for logical thinking. In addition, thanks to the research that
I have done for several of my books, I have acquired a few useful skills and some connections in certain quarters that may prove helpful.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Never mind, it doesn’t matter now. Let us return to your immediate situation. What precautions have you taken?”
She hesitated. “After the tear-catcher arrived we all assumed that there had been some mistake and that it had been sent to the wrong address. But when the jet-and-crystal-locket ring appeared on my bed—”
“Your bed?” He was shocked, in spite of himself. “This is worse than I thought. Whoever is doing this to you was actually able to acquire access to your bedroom?”
“Yes.” She crossed her arms again as though she had felt a cold draft of air. “As I was saying, since that incident, Mr. Sykes and Andrew have been very careful to check the locks on the windows and doors throughout the entire house each night. I have begun to do the same.”
“How did someone get into your bedroom without being seen?”
“We believe he came in disguised as one of the tradesmen who brought in supplies for the weekly salon,” Calista said. “We suspect he used the old lift concealed in the wall to gain access to my bedroom.”
He thought about that. “Did the intruder take anything?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact.” She appeared surprised by the question. “A framed photograph that hung on the wall of my bedroom. It was a picture of Andrew and me and our parents. How did you know?”
“It just seemed likely that he might have wanted some token to mark his bold move into your private space. He was no doubt consumed with an unwholesome excitement at that moment. After all, he had taken a great risk.”
“I hadn’t thought of it that way.” She shook her head in dismay. “That is very insightful of you, sir. Your theory has a terrible kind of logic.”
“Miss Langley, what you are telling me is beyond unnerving. No wonder you are on edge. Any idea of how the intruder might have learned of the concealed lift?”
“I have no notion, but it is hardly a great secret. Mr. and Mrs. Sykes are aware of it, of course, and so is anyone who ever worked in Cranleigh Hall. Over the years there have been a number of maids and tradesmen who have made use of the lift to move heavy items to various floors.”