A grin lifted Troy’s lips.
Perhaps I have found my own, personal Grail after all.
While he hurried up the front stairs, Hill threw open the door. “Oh, my lord. I heard a commotion on the drive…” The face of the old man crinkled into an unbutler-like smile. “Welcome home, my lord.”
“Thank you, Hill.” Troy shrugged out of his coat and gave it to his butler. “Is my wife in? No? Lord Allenbright and Mr. de la Mere? Not in either? Hm, well, I need a nice hot bath anyway before I’m fit for civilized company.” He grinned. He could have hugged the whole world—including Hill. Only, that would give the poor man the shock of his life. “Could you ask Mrs. Blake to send a tray with some food up to my room? I am ravenous, really. Oh, and will you send somebody to see after my horse?”
“Of course, my lord.”
“And do tell them to take care, do you hear, Hill? It’s a second Brueberry, that horse!” With that, he hurried up the stairs, taking two at a time. God, it was good to be home, to breathe in the familiar scent of wood polish with just the faintest hint of—he sniffed—old mortar and stone. And wet dog.
He wrinkled his nose, then laughed.
At least Drake and Jus’s mad dogs filled the house with life and bursting joy. Exactly what such a dignified, old building needed.
Flowers would be nice, too. Troy sighed. Of course, it was much too late in the year to fill the house with flowers. He would have liked it, though. Perhaps they could set up a hothouse somewhere in the park, so they would have flowers in the winters to come. He would have to talk with his wife about that.
His wife…
Whistling, he strode down the corridor to his rooms. After the days on the road, his large, clean bedroom seemed like heaven. A heaven of soothing dark green and burgundy red, with the big four-poster decked in pristine white. No bedbug would worry him in
there
.
He gave a contented sigh. Yes, it was good to be home.
He looked back to the bed and tried to imagine the pale flesh of his wife between the sheets, her flowery scent soaking his pillows.
But, no.
Troy shook his head to banish the erotic images that fogged his brain. It would take time before he won her trust, much time before he would be able to indulge in sensual games in his bed.
Sighing, he stowed the golden locket in his chest of drawers. What would she say when he gave it to her? Would she understand his gesture? Would she understand that he wanted to start anew? And, more importantly, would she forgive him all the truly ghastly mistakes he had made?
His reveries were interrupted by a maid who brought him a platter laden with sandwiches, cold meat and chicken legs as well as a jug of wine. At the sight, his somber mood lightened, and he dismissed the maid with a smile. In the bathroom he could hear the footmen setting up the tub and filling it with buckets of hot water.
Happily, he munched on a cucumber sandwich while fumbling with the buttons of his jacket and waistcoat. They landed in a bundle on the floor, and he jumped around the room, trying to get his boots off his feet. “Phew. Guess I need a new pair of boots.” He considered throwing the smelly shoes out of the window. But then they would land on the drive, and how would that look?
Shaking his head, Troy shed his shirt and left it on a chair before he got himself some fresh clothes and padded into the bathroom. The steam of the hot water and the scent of clean soap nearly made him dizzy with joy.
Quickly, he got rid of the rest of his clothes. Afterwards he could finally, finally sink down into the warm water. He let the warmth seep deep into his bones before he started to rub the grime of the road off his skin. Soon, the lather of the rosemary-and-lemon soap had dispelled all lingering unpleasant smells. And when he rose from the tub, he felt wonderfully clean from the top of his head to the tips of toes. He dried himself with the soft towel, rubbed his hair until it hung into his eyes in glorious disarray. After weeks his scalp no longer itched with dust and dirt. He truly felt like a man reborn.
With a grin he slipped into the fresh clothes, the white shirt billowing around his torso like a tufty, white cloud.
And now a nice glass of wine…
Whistling, he went back into his bedroom—and stopped dead.
“So I was right. It was you on the road,” said
la Veuve Noire,
and smiled. She lounged on his bed like a sleek, black cat with cruel, cold eyes. “Take him.”
Only then did he become aware of the presence of the two men behind him who had stood like statues carved of stone on either side of the door. There were two of them and they had the benefit of surprise.
He never stood a chance.
But, oh, how he struggled. Even as rough hands twisted his arms behind his back, wrenched them until the pain made him gasp.
The woman’s trilling laughter filled the room. “Did you really think I would not find out? Och
, mon petit niais,
it was so easy to find out. A question here, a question there—voilà. You will not slip away a second time, oh no. I will put you to such good use.”
Lillian had been right all along.
Panic surged up in Troy as he sought to evade the rough hands, hands that had handled his body before. Remembered hurt and humiliation lent him strength.
Never again.
A shove of his shoulder. A loud clatter. He managed to get one arm free. His hand reached out. The ripping of material. Then a blow to his head, causing an explosion of new pain.
Dazed, Troy fell onto the bed. From a great distance, he beard the woman’s voice, full of malice, “But of course we will leave a small souvenir for
ma chère fille
…”
A searing pain at his ear, and then—darkness.
PART V
And on her lover’s arm she leant,
And round her waist she felt it fold,
And far across the hills they went
In that new world which is the old:
Across the hills, and far away
Beyond their utmost purple rim,
And deep into the dying day
The happy princess follow’d him.
—Tennyson,
The Day Dream
Chapter 17
Before Lillian had even reached the top step to the entrance of the Hall, the door swung open with a flourish. “Oh, my lady.” Hill beamed at her, his old face creased with wrinkles of happiness. “The master has returned.”
“Lord Ravenhurst has returned?” she echoed. Her heart missed a beat—only to start thumping uncomfortably loudly afterwards.
Hill stood back to let her pass. “Dusty from the road, but else fresh as a pin.”
To freeze her hammering heartbeat, Lillian reached for the chill in the stone. “He rode?” The coldness trickled through her veins, but, oh, too slow, much too slow.
“Bought himself a mean old horse and named it Brueberry the Second.” The old butler looked ready to burst with joy. “Oh, my lady, after all this time, the master is finally acting like himself again!”
His joy was so contagious that, despite herself, Lillian felt her lips curve into a smile and the precious coldness ebb away. “That is lovely,” she said softly and crossed the threshold into the entrance hall. Yet the moment she stepped into the house she knew something was wrong. It might have been a change in the atmosphere, a whiff of perfume still lingering, but whatever it was, it made the skin of her neck prickle with unease.
Her smile faded as quickly as it had come. Concerned, she turned back to the butler. “Have there been any visitors today?”
“Visitors?” A puzzled frown appeared on Hill’s face as if he found the concept of visitors to Bair Hall completely beyond his experience. “Like Lord Allenbright and Mr. de la Mere?” he asked carefully.
Lillian nodded.
His expression lit up. “There were no visitors, my lady.”
“Nobody called?” she pressed.
“Nobody, my lady.”
Uneasily, she glanced around the hall in an attempt to locate the source of her apprehension. Apart from the first earl’s bear having a more munched-on look than ever before, she could not detect any differences.
“Are Lord Allenbright and Mr. de la Mere in?” she asked with mounting anxiousness.
“No, my lady,” Hill answered in dignified tones, apparently quite relieved to be back on familiar turf. “They went for a drive in the gig, and Mrs. Blake packed them a basket for a picnic.”
“I see.” Lillian hurried toward the stairs. “And Lord Ravenhurst is in his room?”
“He sent for a bath, I believe.”
“Thank you, Hill.” Her stomach churning, Lillian gathered up her skirts and rushed up the stairs. She did not care whether her exit looked undignified or what the old butler might think about it. She just wanted to see her husband, wanted to reassure herself that he had come home safe and sound. Never before had the stairs seemed so numerous, the way into the wing with the private apartments so long.
An eerie silence reigned in the empty hallways of the upper floor. For a breathless moment Lillian felt as if caught in a nightmare of deserted corridors with closed doors. It made her hasten her steps until she was almost running.
Finally,
finally,
she reached the door to the master bedroom. Here, however, Lillian hesitated. Her fears suddenly seemed childish and fanciful.
She stared at the solid wood of the door.
She was a grown woman, not a child prone to tears because of a bad dream in the middle of the night.
And then, it came again. A feeling of unease washed over her, stronger than before, and left her so weak-kneed she nearly stumbled.
“Dear God,” she murmured. “Dear God.” When she raised her hand to knock on the door, she saw that her fingers were trembling. She only managed a weak rap against the wood, which Ravenhurst surely did not hear, for she received no answer.
A second knock, louder this time, also brought no reply.
Perhaps he was still in the bathroom, was still soaking in the bathtub; perhaps he could not hear her because of that. Perhaps…
Yet her clammy fingers had already clenched around the doorknob and turned it. The door swung open, revealed a view into the room in dark green and burgundy red, an empty room, a silent room. No splashing of water to be heard.
Her heart leapt into her mouth.
Where is he?
She strode into the room, looked around.
It was still empty, still silent. Yet the creases in the bedspread of the large four-poster, a carelessly discarded dirty shirt across the padded chair, a small dusty bundle of luggage, all revealed that he had been here. And sure enough, the room smelled of soap, the rosemary and lemon he preferred, overlaid by a hint of… a hint of…
Lillian went icy cold.
No. No, it cannot be!
She scanned the room once more.
A silver box on the floor in the corner, the cheroots spilled over the expensive carpet.
A tear in the dark, heavy bed curtain.
A splatter of blood against the white of the bedspread.
Lillian gasped.
No. Please, God, no!
An icy fist clenched around her chest, pressed the air from her lungs until her knees buckled and she sank down to the floor, panting. “No,” she sobbed. “No. Not him.” She thumped her fist onto the thick carpet, again and again. “
No!
” she howled. “You cannot take him, too!”
Breathing hard, she let her chin sink on her chest.
Damn you, Camille, damn you. I wish I had poisoned you after all!
Bitter remorse cut through her. If only she had been stronger.
But you weren’t. And now he has to pay the price for it.
“No.” Lillian fought against the panic that welled up inside her.
Think, Lillian! Think! If she has taken him, she would not leave like that. Surely she would leave a message. Something.
Lillian blinked. Yes, a message. Her stepmother relished power games. If Camille had found out about Ravenhurst, if she had abducted him, she would want Lillian to know what she would be doing to him. There
had
to be a message.
Stumbling, Lillian came to her feet. “Where?” she whispered. “
Where?
”
Frantically, she looked around the room, searched his bathroom, his dressing room, raced through the adjoining door into the countess’s dressing room, where the wardrobes were full of her clothes, through the door into the bedroom, and farther into the countess’s sun parlor at the far end of the wing. And there, on the table, she spotted the letter. It leaned against a small bundle, something that resembled a handkerchief marred by rust-brown stains.
With trembling fingers, Lillian picked up the letter and opened it.
Chérie—
I believe I have something of yours. If you want it back you have to come to me. Meet me at the big boulder in the forest. I have left you something so you see that I am speaking the truth.
C.
Lillian swallowed hard before she dared reach for the small bundle on the table. It weighed next to nothing, yet the brown stains had stiffened the fabric, and it revealed its contents only reluctantly. Carefully, Lillian smoothed the material, rubbing her thumb over the corner where the fabric was still clean and white, over the neat, tiny stitches of the monogram.
MS
, intertwining, for Murgatroyd Sacheverell. Again and again, she rubbed her thumb over his initials and stared at the tiny thing that nestled in the rained folds of the handkerchief.
At first she did not recognize the thing, alien as it looked, all smeared with brown and red, at places so dark it was almost black. It might have shriveled a bit, so it took some time before the shapes began to make sense, before Lillian's mind was able to supply the missing bits.
Camille would never cut off a piece of flesh she still might have some use for, such as a finger, a tongue or even a toe.
Lillian closed her eyes.
Instead, she had cut off the lower part of his ear.
Acid bile rose in Lillian’s throat, choked her. “Damn you, Camille,” she whispered. “Damn you for this.”
Nanette had been wrong all along: Troy would not be able to protect her from harm, for he himself had fallen prey to malevolence, to evil.
Again.