“My premonition grew stronger. I begged him not to go.”
Her melodramatics were growing stronger, too.
“But he insisted and disappeared into the dark. I was left alone, and I sat and trembled in fear for my husband’s life.”
“The first time you told me this story, you said you fell asleep.”
Impatient at having her monologue interrupted, she said, “I might have drifted off. A little. Maybe once. But I knew something awful was happening and . . . and it haunted my dreams!” Aimée had started to enjoy the attention. “When the carriage began to move, I came to complete consciousness and I called for Rickie. He wasn’t there, so I looked out the window and . . .”
Sandre saw the moment it became real to her again.
She paled, collapsed back in the chair, and her voice became a whisper. “I saw him at the top of the hill, the Reaper, his winding sheet fluttering in the wind. He was staring down at me. . . . I jumped backward and screamed, just . . . I screamed. When I looked out again, he was gone and there was Rickie, hanging by his neck from the tree.”
“Was he alive?”
“No. He was hanging by his neck from the tree.” She repeated herself as if Sandre were stupid.
“When they’re hanged, men don’t immediately die. Some hang there for an hour before they find their release . . . unless their necks are broken.”
“How would I know that?”
“We have public hangings in this country.” Rebellious and rotting Moricadians decorated the lowland valleys where the peasants lived. It was good to remind them how easily and painfully life could be extinguished. “So you did nothing to help Rickie?”
“He was dead! I think. His head was crooked. I pounded on the ceiling of the carriage, so the coachman whipped up the horses and we raced home.”
“Last time you told me, you said he whipped up the horses and then you pounded on the ceiling of the carriage.”
“I don’t remember which came first,” she shouted.
One of the guards gasped.
That caught her attention, made her realize what she’d done, and in a soft, conciliatory voice, she said, “I beg your pardon, Your Highness. I am distraught. But I don’t remember which came first. I only know that Rickie is dead, and the Reaper killed him.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Sandre saw the guards glance at each other. In a hard, cold voice, he said, “I asked that your coachman be brought in for questioning, and do you know what? Your driver was found bound and gagged in Thibault’s hayloft by the stable hands this morning. What do you suppose that means?”
She gasped like a fish out of water. “The carriage was driving itself under the command of the Reaper?”
No woman could actually be so stupid.
But Aimée was. Sandre knew she was, although he had to draw several long, patient breaths to cool his rage. “No. Someone jumped him, tied him, and took over the task of driving you home precisely so this ‘ghost’ could murder Rickie.” Before she could come up with some other stupid explanation, he said, “Your ghost has accomplices who do as he bids when he goes forth on his murderous missions.”
“Oh.” She clasped her hands under her chin, her blue eyes wide with excitement. “Has the ghost killed other men?”
“No. Not yet.” Sandre’s tone was clipped with annoyance. “For the most part, he poses in his silly costume to terrify the credulous and gullible. But last night, he turned deadly, and I promise you I’ll unmask him, and hang him and every man who assists him.”
“You can’t hang the Reaper. He’s already dead,” she told him.
“I will find the man who attacked your coachman and kill him by slow inches until he reveals all he knows.” Sandre was speaking to the guards.
Aimée wasn’t smart enough to realize that, and answered with that lopsided logic. “The servants of King Reynaldo are all long dead, too.”
“They’re alive! The Reaper and his assistants are living men!” Before she could say more, he snapped, “As a sign of my affection, we’re burying Rickie tomorrow in the royal de Guignard plot.”
“I hate that cemetery. It’s spooky.”
“Rickie would wish to be buried there.”
“Yes. It fits him, doesn’t it?” Aimée bit her lower lip. “I need protection.”
“From whom?” he asked sharply. He would never have suspected Aimée was smart enough to know her days were numbered.
“The Reaper will kill me for daring to speak of him.”
Did the woman never listen? Was she oblivious to her own safety? She might have saved herself if she agreed the Reaper was merely a man masquerading as a ghost, but her insistence on his supernatural powers had fed the peasants’ hope—and doomed her. “I’ll have the Reaper in custody before he can harm you.”
Aimée hugged herself, her arms protectively around her chest. “May I leave now? I want to go home and get my maid.”
“And go where?” he asked cordially, wondering all the while if she intended to leave the country.
“To Lady Fanchere. Eleonore is my dear friend. And your cousin. I need her.
Need
her.” Her voice wobbled pathetically.
Lord and Lady Fanchere were his supporters in all things. Eleonore had been his companion when he was a boy, and still believed he retained his youthful ideals. Fanchere was not so blind to Sandre’s faults, but he knew on which side his bread was buttered.
Yes, Aimée would go to them and tell her fantastic tale. Eleonore would kindly laugh at the story, and that would be the end of that. In addition, it would be good for Aimée to be seen in their company after this visit with Sandre.
“Then by all means, you should go to Eleonore.” He glanced at the window. “But it’s a long drive, and it’s getting late. Remain here until morning.”
“No! I mean . . .” Aimée wildly looked around. “I’m not prepared. I don’t have my maid. No clothing . . .”
He almost smiled to see her squirm like a worm on a hook. “Nonsense. This is the palace. We have hundreds of rooms, ladies’ clothing of every size, seamstresses for alterations, and maids who are eager to serve. Quico’s wife is one of our maids, isn’t she, Quico?”
One of the guards nodded stiffly.
“Her name is Bethania. A lovely woman. Very respectful. Very responsible. She lives to please. Isn’t that right, Quico?”
Quico nodded again, once, his face blank.
“See? Here you will have your own personal guard to protect you and your own personal maid to give you whatever you wish. Most important, you can’t travel in the dark.”
“I can. Really.”
“You’re afraid of the Reaper,” he reminded her.
“Yes, but . . .”
Aimée wasn’t as stupid as she seemed.
Putting his hands on her shoulders, he helped lift her to her feet. He kissed her forehead. “Tomorrow you may go to Eleonore. For tonight, I insist you stay here. I couldn’t bear the guilt if I allowed you to leave and you were killed, too.”
She watched him, her eyes wide and unblinking with terror.
“So you will stay. I command it.” He waved his hand and Quico opened the door for her. As she tottered out of the room, he said, “You may rest assured, in Rickie’s name, I will bring this Reaper to justice.”
She cast him one last, petrified glance, and with Quico at her back, she disappeared down the corridor.
At once a new guard took Quico’s place.
Sandre’s congenial smile faded. He wouldn’t kill her tonight. That would be too obvious. He rang for Jean-Pierre de Guignard, his newly anointed second in command.
“How may I serve you, Your Highness?” Jean-Pierre was a lesser cousin, the son of a sot who had died when he broke his neck riding drunk down the meanest street in the old capital, and a noblewoman famed for her expertise in the French style of love—and her willingness to practice it on many men consecutively. So although Jean-Pierre was clever, well-read, and skillful, he was not welcome in the finer homes of Moricadia, not even those of his de Guignard relatives.
For those reasons alone, Sandre knew he could depend on Jean-Pierre to do everything to prove himself worthy of Sandre’s trust.
But there was more. Jean- Pierre looked like a de Guignard—dark hair, handsome face, muscular build—yet his eyes were a curiously pale blue. There were theories about why they were that color, most of them amusing, vulgar, and involving his mother and the results of her promiscuity. But Sandre had his own theory. He believed that Jean-Pierre was like a dog on the verge of rabies, and that his eye color was a warning provided by nature to protect the unwary. He believed that Jean- Pierre could be trained to be the deadliest man alive. As long as Sandre held the chain, he would be glad to provide the training.
Now Jean-Pierre bowed low, a little too overcome by his promotion, a little too obsequious. This son of a whore understood the precariousness of his position, and he intended to do whatever he needed to secure it.
Sandre liked the ambition, fear and neediness. He could make use of that.
In a low tone, but loud enough for the guards to hear, Sandre said, “I will not have anyone spreading rumors of the Reaper and his revenge. Carefully, tactfully, silence Aimée.”
“As a lesson to all?” Jean-Pierre asked.
Sandre thought of Eleonore and shook his head. “I won’t have trouble in the family. But she must be a lesson to others who put their hopes in a royal family that the de Guignards defeated long ago.” He gazed at the guards, sending a message to them, their friends, and their families.
They didn’t cower. Instead, they looked stoically back.
They had hope—a hope that would have to be quashed.
If his theory was right, Jean-Pierre was just the man to do it.
Chapter Eight
T
he next morning, Emma’s eyes opened wide. Her heart beat fast; her breath labored in her lungs; she was trapped in the twisted sheets, damp with her fear and sweat.
She’d been dreaming. Of the Reaper. A nightmare of confused images—of a forest with branches that clawed her like fingers, a wolf with glowing white eyes and a ghoul without eyes. Of apprehension and pain and . . . and . . . what? She didn’t know.
Sitting up slowly, she freed herself from the panic and her voluminous nightgown.
The nightmare must have been caused by yesterday’s news, overheard in a private moment between husband and wife. The Reaper had murdered Lady Fanchere’s cousin, hanged him by the neck until he died.
Poor Lady Fanchere had been shocked, but she hadn’t forgotten her responsibilities. She had ordered Emma to stay in bed, had Tia return to watch over her, and every time Emma woke she was served small meals designed to tempt a deprived palate.
So yesterday’s frailty was vanquished. To dwell on a nightmare was foolish, and she was not foolish. She had been given a chance to make a different life for herself, and she wouldn’t fail. This would not be like last time, when she had left England as a companion to Lady Lettice, wide-eyed and enthusiastic at the idea of seeing foreign lands and historic monuments. Instead, she had found herself trapped in one hotel room after another, waiting in dread for Lettice’s return.
Emma could serve Lady Fanchere flawlessly—she knew she could—and so she climbed out of bed, steadied herself, then looked around.
The morning was far advanced, the sun shining, and she saw today what yesterday had escaped her attention.
For a servant’s chamber, the room was large and well-appointed, and she wondered if, now that she had recovered, she would be sharing it with other serving women. Walking to the window, she looked out at the back of the estate. A sweep of well-tended lawn dropped down to a cliff, precarious in its nature, and there, clinging to the edge, stood a small, old castle—the dowager house that imprisoned Michael Durant. The stones looked cold, but Emma had no doubt that Lady Fanchere had made him comfortable within.
Clean clothing had been hung in the highboy in the corner: undergarments, petticoats, and an attractive blue cotton gown, and on the floor, a pair of simple black leather shoes. She dressed quickly, attaching the white, starched collar and cuffs, finding the waist a little large, the hem a little short, but the material good and—she peeked into the small mirror placed atop the bureau—the color flattering. Her complexion, except for the abrasion on her jaw, glowed like alabaster lit from within.
Abruptly, she stood up straight. She had no reason to be vain. She had always been thin, and her sojourn in Europe had pared off more weight. Her hair was so intensely brown it was almost black, freakishly dark against her fair skin. Her face was oval, starting with a widow’s peak in the middle of her forehead and ending in a chin pointed as a witch’s, so Lady Lettice said, and Lady Lettice said she had a deplorable habit of allowing her emotions to kindle in her changeable eyes—and those emotions had not been complimentary to Lady Lettice. For that, Emma had paid, and more than once.
A tray of sliced bread, cheese, and fruit had been left on the bureau, and she ate a quick, satisfying meal, then walked briskly to the door. Opening it, she found a flight of stairs that descended to the second level. She stood there uncertainly, not knowing whether to turn right or left, when a stately gentleman came around the corner.
A second look proved she was wrong. Not a gentleman, but the butler dressed in formal black and white. Middle-aged, tall, and stout, he carried himself with such palpable dignity she identified him as English even before he spoke.
“Miss Chegwidden, I presume.” He bowed. “I am Brimley. You’re seeking Lady Fanchere?”
She curtsied. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Brimley. If you could give me direction, I would be most appreciative.”
“Follow me, and while we walk, I’ll apprise you of the situation in the household.”
“Thank you.” He wanted to put her in her place, to impress on her her station here. She didn’t mind; as Lady Fanchere’s companion, she had become an important cog in the Fancheres’ home, and he, as butler, was responsible for keeping that home running smoothly.