Beguiled (7 page)

“There was one woman in particular, don't you remember? She was next to Sir Andrew's cousin, who was trying to calm her, I believe.”

He opened his mouth to reply, but again the dance was halted. This time it was Lord Joseph Farrow, Earl of Warren, cutting in. Angus relinquished his position.

“You dance beautifully,” the earl informed her.

“Thank you.”

“I understand that you also have the voice of a lark and play the piano beautifully.”

She smiled. “I play the piano—whether beautifully or not is in the ears of those who are listening.”

“I am well pleased,” he murmured, his eyes bright, and he seemed amused.

She smiled, wondering whether or not it mattered if he was or wasn't pleased.

The music came to an end and did not start up again. She turned around. Lord and Lady Stirling, Sir Hunter and Lady Kat, and Maggie and Lord James were gathered in front of the musicians. Brian, holding Camille's hand, began to speak.

“Friends, we thank you so much for coming. As you know, we have all been privileged to play a part in raising a beautiful young woman. Tonight, we are privileged to announce the engagement of our ward, Miss Alexandra Grayson.”

She was certain that her mouth simply gaped open. She shut it swiftly.

“Come, dear,” Joseph Farrow said, taking her arm.

She stared at him, but she was so stunned that she didn't protest when he walked with her toward Brian and the others.

Him?
she thought. They're marrying me off to
Lord Farrow?

Luckily, she realized that Lord Farrow intended to speak. He held her hand, turning her to face the crowd. “I am delighted to come here tonight, to stand in for my son, Mark, who is not able to be here. This is an event long planned by Lord Stirling and myself. Tonight, we announce the engagement of my son, Mark, to Miss Alexandra Grayson.”

The round of applause that rose was thunderous.

But no louder than the pounding of Ally's heart.

She felt as if she had been struck by a train.

Engaged?
And not to a man who could easily be her father, but to a man who could not even be bothered to attend his own engagement party!

Of course, it did not matter who the man was. It was…archaic. She had her own plans, dreams, aspirations. She had already set those plans into motion….

She was numb. Barely aware that her godparents were hugging her, kissing her cheek.

Barely aware that Lord Farrow had taken a ring from his pocket, that somehow it fit her finger perfectly. Suddenly there was a diamond flashing brilliantly on her hand.

“And,” Camille announced loudly over the flurry in the room, “here is our first gift to the newly engaged couple. My goddaughter sings like an angel, and her fingers are pure magic on the keyboard, so…”

Shelby and several of the servants rolled in a glorious piano.

Ally's mouth moved; she tried to thank Camille.

“There is no woman in all of England who looks so lovely in a gown,” Maggie announced next. “Lord Jamie and I have arranged a trousseau.”

Ally blinked as Molly, smiling broadly, came in bearing an array of stunning materials. Again, the room filled with applause, and Ally found herself hugging Jamie and Maggie, all the while feeling like the worst hypocrite in the world.

It was Kat's turn to speak. She walked forward, eyes dancing. “Hunter and I—”

A horrendous scream cut across her words.

The whole room seemed to freeze.

Another scream, followed by an unintelligible spatter of hysterical words, echoed from the entry hall.

“Excuse me,” Brian murmured, starting in the direction of the uproar.

As a body, the guests followed.

Ally, still stunned, found herself swept along in the sea of people.

In the entry, Shelby was trying to hold and calm a woman. She appeared to be perhaps forty and was dressed totally in black. Her hair was silver-gray, and her eyes seemed to be a matching color, burning with insanity.

“He's dead!” she screeched. And, with madness lending her strength, she broke free from Shelby.

Brian lifted a hand, telling Shelby it was all right, to let the woman be.

“Eleanor,” he said softly, reaching out to her.

She looked at him; then her eyes narrowed and she let out another terrible scream. Her black mourning attire sailing around her, she spun, looking at the gathered crowd. “He's dead! And you, all of you, supporting the queen. Damn you! You will kill and kill again for your own aims. He is dead. My husband is dead. Giles Brandon, worth dozens of the likes of you. He is dead!”

“Eleanor,” Brian said again, but when Shelby would have moved, he silently shook his head, once more allowing the woman her moment of pain and fury.

Again she spun, as if looking for someone in particular.

Ally was startled when the woman's wild eyes suddenly settled upon her and she stretched out a bony, black-clad arm. “You!” she shrieked. “You would-be child of the elite. Curse you! May you die a thousand deaths. So this is your birthday? And you are newly betrothed? Then again I say, curse you! May you die a wretched death before your wedding day ever falls.”

G
ILES
B
RANDON
'
S TOWN HOUSE
was heavily guarded, barricaded by a score of policemen. As he entered the home with Ian Douglas, Mark asked, “How many people were in here after the body was discovered?”

Ian lifted his brows and shrugged unhappily. “The housekeeper and the first officer she found patrolling the street, then another three or four officers. After them, the coroner and several of his assistants.”

Mark nodded. Nothing to be done.

He carried a lantern and began his search on the walkway outside the heavy wrought-iron gates. He could see no traces of blood, nor, in the finely manicured grounds, any sign of disturbance. Reaching the front door, he and Ian again made a scrupulous search of the marble, tile and brick that made up the entry.

The entryway was clean, as well.

“Please tell me the housekeeper wasn't allowed to wash the floors or straighten anything once the body was discovered,” Mark said.

“As soon as I was called, I saw to it that nothing was touched. I asked her about the floors, and she said she hadn't washed them. She had been working in the kitchen, thinking that would be where she could accomplish the most without making noise. When she first arrived, she believed Giles was still working.”

A thorough search of the floors, walls and furniture in the front of the house gave no hint of blood or disturbance.

But as they mounted the stairs, Ian just a few steps in front of Mark, the detective gave a little cry. “A smudge!”

Mark shone the lantern on the spot. Indeed, it looked like a smudge of blood, left behind by a shoe. It was small, however, and suggested only that the killer must have left by the front stairs.

“The man must have gushed blood like a volcano spilling lava,” Ian said. “Yet it appears his killer escaped the flow.”

“He was in back, no doubt behind his victim, and the blood would have spurted forward.”

“Still, it must have been a bloodbath,” Ian said.

“But we believe this killer has slain two other victims in like fashion. That would mean he learned how much blood would flow when the throat was slit.”

“Kill a man—and know enough to stay clear as he died,” Ian said with disgust.

“May I see the room?” Mark asked.

“Indeed, that's why we are here,” Ian said.

Upstairs, in Giles Brandon's office, it became even more evident that the killer had known what he was doing. Brandon had been killed when he had been standing behind his desk. The killer had seen to it that he had faced forward and fallen forward as he died. There was a pool of congealed blood on the desk.

The man's typewriter, his own weapon, was caked with it.

“He was gripping his last work as he died?” Mark asked softly.

Ian nodded. “And we handed the article over to the paper—though it bashed the government, as usual. The chief thought that holding back such a piece, when word of it was sure to leak out, would be far more dangerous than allowing it in to print.”

“Quite right, I imagine. Still…the pages must have been smudged with blood.”

“The article will run in the morning's paper,” Ian said. “Along with the news of the man's death.”

Mark nodded. “Let's hope there's some sanity out there to counter it.”

In his mind, he then began to try to imagine what had happened. There was one corner in the room where someone might have stood unnoticed. Far left, behind the desk. Two bookshelves met there, filled with dark volumes. If someone stood very still…

He went to the corner, watched the desk.

“I'll be Brandon,” Ian said quietly.

And so, together, they played out the scene.

“I believe that Brandon stood first, then heard his killer and turned,” Ian said.

“Right. Then the killer came forward,” Mark said.

“Brandon lifted his arms, so, as he realized the killer was wielding a knife…” Ian continued.

“The killer came forward…and slashed.”

“He gashed Brandon's arms, the blood dripped down.”

“While Brandon reeled from the assault, the killer grabbed him by the shoulder and shoved him back around.”

“His throat,” Mark said, “was then slit, left to right.”

“Brandon fell forward, reaching for his article.”

“The killer stepped back instantly. The blood spewed forward. The knife, however, would have been dripping.”

“So,” Ian mused, “he must have stashed the knife quickly to keep it from dripping as he exited the room.”

“Stairway again,” Mark murmured.

Ian nodded.

They passed the one small smudge and made their way down the stairs. There, they paused.

“Back entrance,” Ian mused.

“Let's try it.”

They took the hallway that passed by the dining room, parlor, kitchen and pantry. At the rear door, Mark angled his lantern, directing the light on the doorknob.

“Yes, he left this way.”

“I don't see…ah!” Ian murmured. Once again, the speck of blood was so small it might have gone unnoticed forever. “The back was locked, as well.”

“The killer had the key,” Mark said.

Ian opened the door. Mark lifted the lantern. A tiled trail led into a garden setting with white-painted wrought-iron furniture. A small fountain bubbled, the sound oddly cheerful. The men looked at each other and moved toward it. There were flecks of blood on the stonework.

“Well, here's where he cleaned his weapon,” Ian said softly. “Then…”

“Then he continued on through the back,” Mark said, wandering along a dirt path that wound between pruned oaks. He came to a dead end at a brick wall.”

“All right, how did he scale this?” Ian demanded.

Mark turned to him. “He had an accomplice, someone who waited and tossed him a rope. He climbed to the top and leapt over the wall, landing on the walkway below. Here, in the rear of the house, there is very little street traffic. There are other upper-class homes, but at that time of night, most people would be sleeping. He leapt to the sidewalk, and then he and his accomplice slipped easily through any crowd, then headed to a safe place, because some of his garments must have been bloodied.”

“A safe place or…” Ian murmured.

“A carriage,” Mark said.

“A fine carriage, one that could move through the streets with little danger of being stopped by the police,” Ian said. “I'm certain we'll discover this person if we can only discover where the bloody clothing was left.”

Mark nodded and shrugged grimly. “Ian, the killer might well be concealing his deeds by riding away in a fine carriage, as you say. But do you really believe he would dare hold on to the bloody clothing? Why not dispose of it?”

“Because, when you dispose of something, it might be found,” Ian said firmly. “I also believe…” He paused.

“What?” Mark asked.

“I have no real basis for this, but…I don't believe we're dealing with a madman, but rather a cold and calculating political assassin. Still, I think this person is convinced of his own superiority. His own righteousness. Therefore I believe he keeps whatever vest or cloak or other garment he uses to hide the knife while he makes good his escape. It's something he perhaps even gloats over. Why are you staring at me?” Ian asked. “Do you think my theory is ridiculous?”

Mark shook his head. “Not at all. But I was thinking that…all right, we know the killer is agile. Able to move in silence. Able to scale a wall with a rope.”

“Yes.”

“What we don't know is that the killer is a man. We might be looking for a woman.”

“But Giles Brandon is—was—a large and powerful man.”

“Which may be why we see the defensive wounds. He may have thought he had the power to wrest the weapon from his attacker. I'm not saying that we
are
looking for a woman. I'm just suggesting that a female killer may not be out of the question.”

 

A
FTER
E
LEANOR
B
RANDON
screeched out her desperate curse, the entire castle went still, frozen in time. No one moved. It seemed as if no one even breathed.

Then again, it might have seemed that way to Ally only because she herself was so stunned and unnerved by the curse directed against her.

She fought the chill that ran up her spine and spoke herself. “Mrs. Brandon, I am very sorry for your loss. I can only pray that God will bring you peace.”

And then Brian Stirling had hold of the woman, his hands on her shoulders. He turned her to face him. “Eleanor, please, before God, none of us would have wished Giles dead,” he said. “We're all sorry for your loss.”

Eleanor Brandon was no longer a whirlwind, a shrieking harpy. She seemed to collapse into Brian's arms, shaking and sobbing. She slammed her hands weakly against his chest. “What will I do now, Lord Stirling? What will I do now?” She straightened suddenly. “You will have me arrested.”

“Eleanor, I will not have you arrested.” Brian looked up. Ally knew he was seeking Camille.

She hurried forward, followed by Lady Maggie.

“Come, Eleanor, let me take you upstairs. You must stay with us tonight. I'll get you some brandy.”

Eleanor shook her head, looking at them both. “He wrote against the Crown. I know how you felt about the articles he wrote.”

“This is Great Britain,” Camille said, “where we are free to express our opinions. Giles was entitled to his beliefs. Now, come along, Eleanor. Please, let us help you.”

The woman lifted her hand in a weak wave. “My…coachman.”

“We'll see to him,” Maggie assured her.

“Please, everyone,” Brian said, turning to address the crowd of elegantly clad guests who still stood in the foyer, silent, gaping. “For those who wish to stay on, the musicians will continue to play.” With Camille and Maggie comforting the still-weeping Eleanor, he cut through the crowd and went straight to Lavinia. “If you're not leaving, my dear friend, I would cherish a dance.”

“As if I would leave after such an offer,” Lavinia responded teasingly. “I would love to dance.”

As the two moved back toward the ballroom, Hunter did his part, bowing before another society widow and taking her hand. Lord Jamie also became a volunteer on the dance floor.

Ally didn't realize that she hadn't moved until Kat came to stand beside her. “Are you all right, dear?”

Ally smiled ruefully. “Let's see. I've just found out I'm engaged, my fiancé couldn't be bothered to appear for the announcement—perhaps
he
didn't know, either?—and now I've been cursed. Quite an interesting evening.”

Kat laughed softly. “You forgot the part where you were held up by a highwayman, as well. Oh, Ally, please, don't let Eleanor's ravings become something real in your mind.”

“That was quite a curse.”

“Well, I don't believe in curses, so don't let this one play havoc with your mind. Meanwhile, you didn't get your gift yet from Hunter and me. So…” Kat reached into a pocket in her skirt and produced a jewel box. “Please, Ally, take it.”

“Thank you,” Ally said softly, taking the box and opening it. The box contained a scarab, an incredible piece of workmanship, gold and jeweled and elegant. She estimated that it was worth a small fortune, and she shook her head. “I can't take this.”

“Ally, Egyptology is what we do,” Kat reminded her. “And it's not an artifact, it's a new piece that we commissioned. Hunter has seen to it that the real scarab is in the museum in Cairo. But though this is a copy, it is precise, and with the precious stones arranged as they are, it is supposed to be magical. It will deflect any threat.” She smiled. “The original was given to Princess Netahula-re. It was said that her brother's wife attempted to murder her with poison. She didn't die, merely became sick, and her brother's wife was caught attempting to kill her, so
she
met a dire fate—a rather ghastly one—instead. So this scarab, like the original, will protect you. If there
is
such a thing as a curse—which, of course, I don't believe—now you've been protected. So all is well.”

“I don't believe in curses, either, but I do thank you and Hunter with all my heart. But Kat, I truly need to speak with all of you. I had no idea what was really going on tonight, and—”

“Kat, there you are!” Hunter, a bit out of breath, found them in the doorway. “Oh, you gave her the scarab. Do you like it?”

“I love it. It's beautiful. It's too much.”

“Nonsense. You've grown into a woman we all hold in great esteem,” Hunter told her. He kissed her cheek, then caught his wife's hand. “Not to be rude in any way, but I've now danced with a dozen oversized and aging maids and madams, and I'd like one dance with my wife. Ally, you'll excuse us?”

“Yes, but—”

The two hurried away to the dance floor, Ally staring after them in frustration.

She lowered her head, thinking that perhaps tonight was simply not the right moment to try to talk to them and get them to understand. Somehow, though, she would have to convince them that they had done an excellent job with her education, so now she could not help but long to use it.

“My dear?”

She spun around. Lord Joseph Farrow, Earl of Warren, now her intended father-in-law, was by her side.

“You mustn't be worried by the ravings of a distraught lunatic,” he said softly.

“I'm not worried,” she told him. Logically, she knew she was telling the complete truth, yet there was still that little edge of fear playing along her spine.

But, she reminded herself, she had the scarab!

“Will you honor me with a last dance?” he inquired. “The hour has grown quite late, and I must be on my way.”

“Of course,” she murmured.