Eve Silver (25 page)

A gasp escaped her as Anthony tipped his head and looked toward her window. Heart pounding, she almost drew back into the shadows of the drapery, suddenly shy, yet uncertain why that should be so. Forcing a smile, she raised her hand in silent farewell, her fingers splayed across the glass. Then, unwilling to watch him ride away, her emotions too new, too strange, she turned her back to the window, her heart sinking as she heard the hollow clack of the horse's hooves on the cobbled drive, growing fainter, and fainter still. She stood motionless, aching to open the window and call her good-byes, knowing that such a thing could not be done.

What in heaven’s name was the matter with her? She was not one for melancholy farewells and brooding regret. With Nicky off to the stable for a riding lesson with Henry, her time was her own, and for a moment she wished she had not agreed to this alteration in schedule. Nicky’s disarming presence would be a very welcome diversion at the moment.

Pacing restlessly, her mind full of wild thoughts and recollections of her night spent in Anthony’s arms, Emma deliberately crossed to the armoire and retrieved a novel. She would lose herself in the heroine’s story and, for the moment, she would forget her own. Her emotions were too fresh, too confused, and she was not ready to examine too closely her feelings for Anthony. Smoothing her skirt, she was about to settle on the window seat when there was a soft knock at her door.

As Emma opened the door a crack, Meg bobbed an awkward curtsy, her enlarged belly precluding graceful movement.

“Meg!” Emma smiled in genuine pleasure. She pulled the door open wide. “Come in.”

The maid darted a nervous glance along the empty hall and shook her head, keeping her eyes downcast.

“I've a message,” she mumbled, fumbling through the pocket of her skirt.

“A message?” Emma frowned, startled by the pronouncement and perplexed by the girl's odd behavior.

The maid held a small folded sheet toward her. It was sealed in dark red wax. She thrust the missive in Emma's direction, her hand shaking slightly as she did so.

“Meg, are you ill?” A prickle of alarm crawled along Emma's nape. “Come in and sit for moment. Is there aught amiss?”

“Take it,” Meg whispered miserably, shoving the letter into Emma's hand. “I have to get to work now.” She turned away.

Leaning into the hallway, Emma watched in bemused silence as the girl hurried to the end of the hall, her gait made awkward by her heavy burden.

After a moment Emma turned her attention to the note, and upon examination, she found her name scrawled across the front in a masculine hand. There was no indication as to whom the sender might be. She sank her teeth into her lower lip, a flare of hope bursting through her, to sparkle in her veins. Anthony. Could the note be from him?

Closing the door, she then returned to the window seat and sank down on the soft cushion as she considered the blob of melted wax. It bore no seal, its smooth surface giving no hint as to who might wish to contact her.

Carefully, she pulled the wax apart and unfolded the sheet but frowned down at the message, her heart sinking as she realized the sender was not the one she had desired.

Miss Parrish,

I must speak with you. Please. Great danger lurks. Walk in our field at teatime tomorrow. Leave the boy behind. I shall find you.

 Smythe

Our field? He must mean the place she had met him before, when Anthony and Nicky had been away. Odd, that he should send such a missive. To what danger did he refer? The tower? She had already faced that demon and emerged unscathed.

With a sigh, Emma glanced at the window. A memory of the icehouse washed over her, sending glacial talons to flay her composure. She recalled the sensations of fright and dismay, the danger, and the ugly laughter that had spun through her mind, ricocheting off the frigid walls. Though there was a possibility that Mrs. Bolifer was the culprit, Emma had never actually identified the perpetrator of that cruel jest, nor had she determined if someone truly wished her ill. Rubbing her hands against her arms, she tried to warm herself, but the chill persisted.

Could Dr. Smythe be the one who had carried out that spiteful joke, attempting to frighten her from Manorbrier? Why then would he send this curt warning? He may have tried to frighten her in order to chase her away, thus protecting her from the evil he claimed inhabited the castle. Or he may have…

Emma narrowed her eyes at the scribbled letters. Conjecture was pointless. Better to meet with Dr. Smythe and simply query as to his intent. Heavens, she barely knew the man, and here she was spinning shadowy scenarios, when there was likely a simple answer to be had.

Nicky usually had his tea a bit early, taking his riding lesson with his father while Emma shared tea with Cookie and Mrs. Bolifer. Anthony had said that Henry would oversee the lesson in his stead while he was gone, and while today’s lesson had been moved to the morning, there was no reason that tomorrow’s could not be had in the afternoon. Hence, finding a way to occupy her young charge while she walked would prove no great hardship.

Letting out a small huff of air, Emma made her decision. Dr. Smythe would have a companion for his afternoon promenade and, with any luck, she would have some answers.

o0o

The next day flew quickly by, and Emma found that teatime arrived before she realized it. She walked with Nicky toward the stable, listening to him chatter about the visit he had had with his grandparents. What manner of people were they? she wondered. She did know that Anthony’s mother was dead, and that the woman that Nicky referred to as Grandmama was Anthony’s father’s second wife.

“The day we got there, Grandmama started asking me questions,” Nicky said.

“Did she?” Emma murmured. “Questions about your pony?”

“No.” Nicky skipped three steps forward, then turned to look at her. “She asked me if I’d like a new mother, if I wanted Papa to find a wife.”

Emma gasped at the unexpected pain wrought by those simple words, the sensation twisting her heart in a viselike grip. A wife. Dear heaven.

“And while we were there, Grandmama had so
many
women to tea.” Nicky huffed and flopped his arms, indicating just how deplorable the situation had been. “She wanted Papa to go calling, but he would not leave me and she was very cross. Grandmama said I was too little to go along, and Papa said that if I was not to go, then he would not go, for he had no interest in finding a wife.”

As Nicky tossed out that comment, Emma’s mood brightened a small bit.

Nicky snatched up a large stick and lunged as though engaged in a duel, then continued his story as he charged his imaginary enemy. “Papa seemed pleased not to have to go out, and on the last day he was definitely pleased when the Misses Felicity and Prudence took their leave. They kept rubbing his sleeves and picking bits of lint from his coat, but I never saw any lint, only they kept picking it, and finally Papa asked if they would like him to simply remove the garment, and they giggled and giggled until it hurt my ears.”

Closing her eyes, Emma struggled to calm her racing pulse. This she had not considered, this terrible possibility that Anthony might marry, might bring his bride here, to Manorbrier.

Nicky gave a violent war cry, and Emma’s eyes snapped open once more. He looked up at her and smiled.

“Then I told Grandmama that the only new mother I would have is
you
.”

“Oh, dear,” Emma breathed.

“Yes,” Nicky said, his brow furrowing. “That is
exactly
what Grandmama said. ‘Oh, dear.’ And then she said that you are most unsuitable, Miss Emma. That you are illy…illy…illy….” He let out a great huff of air. “Does that word mean you’re ill?”

Uncertain whether to laugh or cry, Emma shook her head. “No, Nicky darling. The word ‘illegitimate’ means something else entirely.”

“Oh, good. Because I would not like it if you were ill, Miss Emma.” And then he threw his arms about her, burying his face in her skirt and hugging her as tightly as he could. “And I think Grandmama is wrong. You are very suitable,
perfectly
suitable for me.”

Resting her fingers on his silky hair, Emma allowed herself one single moment to dream, to wish that this amazing child were hers to love for a lifetime. She pressed her lips together. Foolish dream for a foolish girl.

“Here is Henry,” she said, gently loosing the child’s embrace. “Enjoy your ride, Nicky.”

“I will, Miss Emma.” And with a jaunty wave he was gone, leaving Emma to ponder his words as she hurried toward the appointed meeting place with Dr. Smythe.

A cloud drifted across the sun. So Anthony’s stepmother wished to see him wed. Why was she surprised? Despite the rumors that swirled about him like a fetid mist, he was a man whom many would consider an excellent match. A man of wealth and standing, with fine family connections.

Handsome. Strong. Brilliant. With hands that turned her blood to fire, and lips that—

She quickened her pace. He was man who would marry a lady of his station.

And she was the bastard daughter of a long-dead lord.

Was that where he had gone? To some country retreat to meet a woman of his stepmother’s choosing? Was it possible he had lain with her, made such wild and sweet love to her, and then followed his stepmother’s behest that he find a suitable wife? Dear heaven, the thought was too terrible to be borne.

Emma shook her head, thrusting those unpleasant possibilities from her mind. He had made no promises, save one—that she could remain by Nicky’s side. She had known from the outset that there was no future for them, only a present that she was determined to relish to the greatest possible degree.

“Miss Parrish, I had feared you would not come.” Dr. Smythe’s greeting interrupted her musings, and she jerked back in surprise, pressing one hand to her breast as she scanned the vicinity, searching for him.

He stood in the shade of the hedgerow, his face shadowed by a dark cap.

“I startled you,” he observed. “I apologize.”

Dropping her hand, Emma turned to face him. “You seemed most inclined to speak with me, Dr. Smythe.”

Stepping from the shadows, he removed his hat and peered at her closely, concern etched in the fine lines that bracketed his mouth. “You are in good health?”

“I am, thank you.” Mindful of the time, she said, “Please be brief, sir. Nicky’s riding lesson will last only one hour. I must return posthaste.”

“Has he followed you?” Glancing in the direction of Manorbrier, Dr. Smythe made no further move to approach her.

Emma shook her head, confused. “Nicky?” she asked, and then she understood. “If you refer to Lord Anthony, he is away from home.”

“There are others in that household who could follow. His minions.”

Emma blinked at his choice of words. His softly voiced observation brought to mind both the suspicion Delia had written of in her diary—that Mrs. Bolifer dogged her every step—and the troubling conversation she had overheard outside Anthony’s study.
You let her roam about? Why was no one with her?
Emma wondered what Dr. Smythe knew that she did not, and she could not help the quick turn of her head, the questioning glance over her shoulder just in case she had, in truth, been followed.

“Ah! So my words cause you no surprise,” he observed sadly, as though distressed to find that he was correct. “I had hoped you would be spared.”

“Dr. Smythe,” Emma said in a firm tone, determined to remain unmoved by yet another whispered warning, “please state the reason you wished to meet in this clandestine manner. I am uncomfortable with the whole of it.”

“You would be even less comfortable if I did not warn you that you are in grave danger, with none about to save you. Do you know that there have been deaths at Manorbrier?” His eyes were fixed unblinkingly upon her, his expression open and earnest.

“Yes, I do know. My cousin, Delia, and her newborn daughter died there some years ago.” Emma noticed that his features tightened at the mention of Delia, and she recalled from what Delia had written that the two had been acquainted. “And the governesses, as you have mentioned before.”

“Your cousin knew what he was.” He nodded as he spoke, a slow rocking of his head that hinted of some great insight, some secret knowledge. Smythe took a step closer, speaking in a low voice that implied confidentiality. “Not at first. But slowly, over time, she began to see what she had married. She paid for that knowledge with her life.”

“You believe the rumors that my cousin was murdered?”

He studied her for a long, uncomfortable moment. “No rumor, but undiluted truth. She was most definitely murdered.”

Emma gasped. “How can you be certain?”

“I am a physician. There were definite signs on the body. Bruising about her throat… And there are others who have died a painful and terrible death. An untimely death brought about by all too human malice.”

Taking a step back, Emma swallowed, pressing her hand to her own throat. Though she knew of the other deaths already, something in his tone made her shiver, and a horrible feeling of dread crawled over her at his assertion that there was proof of Delia’s murder.

“I am aware that two governesses died. Mrs. Winter and Miss Rust. Both dead by sad
accident
.” A flicker of surprise tinged his expression at her statements.

“Do you dismiss them so easily?” he asked softly. “They died because of
him
.”

Anthony. He marked Anthony as a murderer. Emma shook her head. “What is your implication, sir? That there has been foul murder perpetrated at Manorbrier castle? Go, then, to the authorities. And if there is proof of my cousin’s murder, take that to them as well.”

 “The proof was buried with her. And what will the magistrate do without proof? He will be swayed by Craven’s title and wealth, and he will not be the first.” He stepped closer still and in his eyes she read his concern. “But I fear for your safety, Miss Parrish. I offer you aid. The time may come when you find yourself in desperate straits, convinced of the danger to both body and spirit. Evil abounds, permeating the walls of Manorbrier. The Round Tower…” His voice trailed away.