Authors: Victoria Lynne
“I imagine carrying a loaded pistol doesn’t hurt much, either.”
“You noticed that, did you?” Chivers pulled his jacket closer to his body. “And here I thought I was so discreet.”
“Expecting problems?”
The Home Secretary hesitated for a moment, as though choosing his words carefully. At last he replied, “Given the number of years I have spent in this line of work, I’ve acquired what my mates at the Yard have come to refer to as a nose for trouble. That intuition led me here tonight. Of course, I’m wrong as often as I’m right, but still—”
“What do you know of Thomas Fike?” Morgan asked directly.
“The artist?”
“Yes.”
“Not a great deal, but I am privy to the latest gossip. He’s rumored to be quite the ladies’ man, is he not?”
“So I’ve heard. I’ve also noted that he seems to have developed a particular interest in my wife — one that strikes me as rather excessive, given our present circumstances.”
Chivers frowned. “I see. He’s here tonight?”
“Yes. Over by the —” Morgan nodded at the rear stair, then stopped abruptly as he discovered it deserted. Fike was nowhere in sight.
“Viscountess Barlowe?” Chivers asked immediately.
Morgan looked toward the center of the room. But the previous waltz had ended, and a new group of dancers had assumed the floor. Southesby and Julia were gone as well. His heart in his throat, he scanned the room. It wasn’t possible. They couldn’t have disappeared. Not that quickly.
Damn it.
Where the hell was Southesby? Where was Julia? Why hadn’t he been watching her?
As his gaze returned to the rear stairway, a feeling of ominous dread spread through his veins. Morgan moved instinctively toward the stairs, taking them two at a time as he rushed toward the upper floors. Chivers followed without a word. On the second level they found a long, dimly lit hallway filled with a series of closed doors. They stopped for a moment, studying the doors as they gained their bearings.
Then Morgan heard it. The shrill, piercing sound of a woman’s scream filled the darkened hall.
For a long while, by sheer will alone, he had dominated the fire. He had controlled the blaze that raged within him. But no longer. Now it was getting out of control. Conquering sin alone wasn’t enough. He had made no sacrifice. There had to be a sacrifice, or the flames would bellow out of control, eating away at him until they destroyed him completely.
It was already happening. The world was spinning around him, events moving too quickly for him to grasp. The dream kept coming back, terrorizing him night after night. He couldn’t sleep, couldn’t function. He was inadequate, fumbling, and confused. It was getting noticeable; people were beginning to remark upon it. Something had to be done. He turned and gazed across the room. There was only one sacrifice that would be worthy.
Flame. His beloved Flame.
She had started the fire that consumed him.
Her death was the only thing that would end it.
Julia stepped from the ladies’ retiring room, the small tear in the hem of her gown adequately repaired. Edward Southesby was a lovely man and a charming conversationalist, but perhaps the most awkward partner with whom she had ever shared a waltz. Spying him standing outside, enjoying a pipe with another gentleman, she sent him a smile that she hoped would convey the inconsequential nature of the damage. The poor man had been horrified at his clumsy misstep.
Receiving his polite bow in return, she considered the matter closed and moved discreetly through the ballroom, searching for Morgan. Unfortunately her husband was nowhere to be found. Thus she drifted somewhat aimlessly about, feeling ridiculously alone and conspicuous. Soon, however, she was rescued from her abandoned state by the host of that evening’s gala.
She greeted Jonathan Derrick with a warm smile. “My sincerest congratulations.”
He looked momentarily puzzled by her words, as though he had been occupied with some deep inner contemplation. Then understanding broke across his features. “Oh. I see. You mean this marriage business. Yes, yes. It’s about time I took care of the matter. I suspect Miss Prentisse will do very nicely, don’t you?”
“I’m certain you’ll be very happy together.”
“Yes. I’m certain we shall.” He hesitated, a look of pained consternation on his face as he lumbered along beside her. “There’s been some talk of the unseemly speed of our courtship. Perhaps I should have waited a month or two before offering for her hand.” He gave his head a helpless shake. “It was not my intent to cause your family embarrassment by pressing my suit with undue haste.”
Julia sent him a reassuring smile. “Perhaps people will assume you were so swept away by the depth of your emotions for Marianne that you could not contain yourself another day.”
His puzzled expression returned, then he gave a startled bark of laughter. “Ah, an impetuous love match. That’s very amusing. Very amusing indeed, Lady Barlowe.”
Julia’s smile slowly faded. “You sound so flippant.”
“Flippant?” He echoed, looking stunned by the suggestion. “At four and forty years of age, I can hardly be expected to play the part of the lovestruck swain, now can I?” He shook his head. “No, I am merely being realistic, my dear. Your uncle is a pious man, and he has raised two lovely and virtuous daughters. I believe that Miss Prentisse and I will suit each other. All I can hope is that we share a few years of comfort and companionship.”
“I see.”
A small smile appeared beneath his bushy mustache. “You sound as though you disapprove.”
“It’s not my place to either approve or disapprove.”
Despite her words he gave a small shrug and continued. “The lower one’s expectations, the less chance that one will be disappointed. I far prefer a ship with stable moorings to one that has been swept away upon a passionate sea. Not all marriages can be love matches like yours. Not everyone has the temperament for it.”
A love match,
Julia thought. Was that how she and Morgan were perceived? That notion — no matter how misdirected — sent a quiet thrill racing down her spine.
A love match,
she repeated silently to herself, savoring the phrase. Perhaps she wasn’t so ridiculous to believe that something in Morgan’s touch, something in his gaze, reflected a new depth of feeling between them. If others saw it as well, perhaps it truly existed.
Catching sight of her cousin across the room, holding court and preening before a flock of well-wishers, Julia reluctantly redirected her thoughts to the conversation at hand. “You’ve certainly made Marianne very happy.”
“I’m glad. She’s been generous enough to forgive me this fiasco.”
“What do you mean? The party is lovely.”
“You’re too kind,” Jonathan Derrick replied absently. He took her arm as they walked, leading her across the room. “Do you remember last Season? A visit to Madame Tussaud’s was all the rage. I thought it would be dreadfully clever to engage her services for this event. But this atrocious weather is conspiring against me.” He cast a despairing glance at a pair of melting wax lovers and gave a deep sigh. “I can only hope that the unfortunate condition of the figurines is not as apparent to everyone else.”
“I’m certain it’s not,” she returned politely.
As they moved past a pair of doors that led to the dining salon, the earl’s expression of troubled anxiety returned. He stopped for a moment, watching his servants bustled about the great hall as they made the final preparations for the evening meal.
“We’ll be serving a lamb stew,” he muttered. “Dreadful. No one serves lamb stew. I should have remained firm in my decision to serve some sort of fowl. People enjoy fowl, do they not?”
“I’m certain the lamb will be—”
“I’m not any good at this sort of thing,” he interrupted, almost as though speaking to himself. “But it is obligatory. Always taking, never giving back. Not the thing at all. One must host in return. Particularly when one has an engagement to announce. My mother was a lovely hostess. Lovely. Do you see the alcove about the stair? The one with the Roman statue?”
“Yes.”
“When I was a small child, I used to hide there and watch the galas my parents would host. That was forty years or so ago, of course. Everything was different then. This hall would be filled, always a veritable crush. But I could pick my mother out instantly. She would float across the room dressed in a gown of vivid silk, like some sort of beautiful butterfly. Her hair was almost your color, did you know that?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Perhaps in the future Miss Prentisse will take care of these matters for me. But then, of course she will. She’ll be the new Lady Bedford, won’t she?” he said, as if the thought had just occurred to him. He shook his head, an expression of grave befuddlement on his face. “How very strange.”
Julia experienced a sudden urge to comfort the man. Morgan had labeled the earl as merely socially inept, but to her his ramblings struck a deeper chord. Although he seemed to mean well, Jonathan Derrick exuded a perpetual air of lost innocence and confusion. He reminded her of one of those unfortunate souls who went through life with an expression of bewildered pain in his eyes, like a shaggy puppy who didn’t understand why he was repeatedly kicked.
The earl looked at Julia and gave a sudden start, as though surprised to find her still standing beside him. “Well,” he said, forcing a choppy laugh, “well, now. That’s enough of that.”
He had taken her arm a few minutes earlier. At the time she had assumed that it was nothing more than an absentminded gesture of politeness on his part. But as they stepped away from the main ballroom and moved toward an outside terrace, it became evident that he was steering her in a particular direction. Julia came to a firm stop, regarding him with a puzzled smile. “Where are we going?”
He blinked in startled surprise. “Forgive me, Lady Barlowe. I thought I had mentioned it.” He gestured across the vast lawns toward a building that was barely visible through the thick summer foliage. “I have an engagement gift waiting to be presented to Miss Prentisse after supper — a rather large painting of a mother and child that I thought she might enjoy.” He paused, an embarrassed blush staining his cheeks as he admitted, “The truth is, I transformed the boathouse into a private studio and painted it myself. But now I’m not at all certain whether it’s worthy of Miss Prentisse. The last thing I wish to do is to embarrass her further. I wonder if I could trouble you to view the piece and render your honest judgment of it. I shall not be offended in the slightest should you suggest that I wait for a more private moment to present it.”
“I see.” She hesitated, instinctively disinclined to leave the ballroom. Then again, it would be rather rude of her to refuse her host’s earnest request. That decided, she cast an anxious glance at the sky. The fat droplets of rain that had fallen earlier had temporarily ceased, but it looked as though the dark clouds brewing above them might open up again at any moment. “I suppose we shall have to hurry if we don’t want to find ourselves soaked by this storm,” she said.
Jonathan Derrick rewarded her with a beaming smile. “Wonderful. I am forever in your debt.”
He led her away from the terrace and along a crude stone path that meandered through the trees. Random gusts of wind shook the branches overhead, causing murky shadows to leap and sway over the ground beneath them. Residual droplets of rain spilled from the leaves and fell upon the slick stones. Twice Julia stumbled and would have fallen were it not for the firm grip he had on her arm.
“I suspect that you are saving me from the embarrassing fate of being memorialized in print,” the earl said as they walked. “An award for the most grievous error in judgment is hereby given to the Earl of B, who made a folly of the celebration of his engagement by showing the poor taste to present his fiancée with the dismal gift of a painting he himself executed. The ‘Trotter’? Is that it?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You know. That dreadful social column that everyone buzzes about.”
She sent him a wan smile. “‘The Tattler,’ I believe.”
“Ah, yes. That’s it. Stuff and nonsense, but I suppose it is better to be noticed than to be passed by completely.”
His words were nearly an exact echo of Morgan’s sentiments. Nevertheless, her column was a subject Julia preferred not to discuss. Fortunately their arrival at the boathouse spared her the necessity of a reply.
He released a satisfied sigh. “Here we are at last.”
Until that moment she had been concentrating on the rough ground beneath her feet. Now she looked up to see a small wooden structure that overlooked a large pond. Although the storm clouds blocked most of the moonlight, she could still make out the basic details of the building. With its thatched roof and profuse blossoms filling the window boxes, it reminded her of a quaint storybook cottage. The shutters had been firmly latched shut, but brilliant rays of light shone from within, escaping between the shutter slats and beneath the doorjamb. The earl gave a small, polite bow, opened the door, and ushered her inside.
Julia took two steps into the cottage and abruptly froze.
Dominating the center of the simple, one-room structure was a large bed that had been dressed in crimson satin sheets. Hundreds of brilliant white candles blazed from every surface that surrounded it. They cluttered the mantel and the shelves and tables. Flickering candles filled the windowsills. They glowed from atop the headboard and the wall sconces. The burning tapers were even arranged in thick clusters on the floor. Everywhere she looked, she saw tiny, writhing buds of flame.
Her gaze swung back to the bed. Above it hung a gilt-framed portrait that had been draped in black gauze. The painting depicted a redheaded woman holding a small blond boy in her lap. But it was apparent even at a glance that the hand that had executed the portrait was unstable at best. The woman’s features were grotesquely distorted, as though she were wracked with pain. An expression of pure terror filled the child’s face. Completing the background were scores of ominous, swirling, blistering flames.