Christmas at Draycott Abbey (4 page)

At any other time Ian might have smiled. But not now. “Teague, where are you?”

“Just outside Winchelsea. It’s this damn storm.” Izzy’s voice was curt. “Power lines are down and there’s flooding everywhere.”

“So you’re not at the abbey?” Ian’s eyes narrowed on the racing black car.

“No. Ten minutes—maybe fifteen.”

“Someone else just arrived. Black car, probably an Audi. Can’t make out the plates. I doubt that he’s come to taste the Christmas punch,” Ian said grimly.

“Watch your back,” Izzy Teague said flatly. “I’ll make it in ten.”

The line went dead.

Pain woke her.

Dimly Clair saw lights overhead, moving dizzily. She shuddered, her wet skin frozen and half numb.

She moved restlessly and felt an arm grip her shoulder.

“So you’re finally waking up. I’m glad for it. You took a fair soaking outside in the moat. Ian is taking care of everything, and I will have you tucked up before a fire with warm blankets in no time. Then maybe you would like something to eat? A nice broth with some Earl Grey tea? Perhaps my very special blueberry scones?”

Heaven, Clair thought. When was the last time she’d had a proper meal? When was the last time they had fed her more than dry bread?

She cleared her raw throat, blinking at the gray haired man in the black suit. “Who—who are you?”

“I would be Marston, ma’am. I am the butler here at Draycott Abbey.”

Butler.

Draycott Abbey.

Clair began to remember now. As the first memories returned, so did her urgent need to contact the police. “I have to make a call. The local police first. Please, help me. If you can drive me—or let me use your phone—“

“Of course. Let’s get you tucked in first. We’re having a storm right now, so driving anywhere will be difficult, but I’m certain that Ian will help you arrange a phone call, as soon as he’s free.”

Clair rubbed her throbbing forehead, feeling dry blood stick to her fingers. “It can’t wait. They will be meeting before Christmas. I—I have to contact the inspector in London.”

She began to twist, but the old butler patted her shoulder calmly. “Don’t worry yourself. Everything will be fine. You will be safe here.”

“No. I have to go. They will be coming after me—“

The butler shook his head. “I’m afraid you won’t be able to drive anywhere, not tonight. The temperature has dropped, and we are bracing for an ice storm before morning. The police have warned everyone off the streets.”

Clair closed her eyes, trying to think. She had hoped the storm would be her friend, concealing her tracks. Now she saw it would be her worst enemy.

She blinked as the butler turned, climbing a marble stairway. “I can walk. My head hurts, but I’m feeling a little stronger.”

“I wouldn’t hear of it. Ian was most specific. You are to rest. I think you’ll like this room. It is one of Lady Draycott’s favorites.”

Clair’s breath caught as he nudged open a door with his foot.

Blush pink curtains of thick velvet hung beside towering windows. Antique carpets glowed on warm mahogany floors. A fire flickered below a carved stone mantelpiece.

“It’s beautiful.” Clair was relieved to see the phone on the lacquer desk near the window. Meanwhile, the pounding in her forehead was growing worse. “Do you have some aspirin, Marston? Then I think I can rest.”

“I will bring you everything you need. I’m sure Ian will be back to check on you soon. He has gone outside but he didn’t want you to be disturbed.”

“I see. I’ll be fine here. Thank you again, Marston.”

As soon as the butler closed the door, she darted to the phone. The number she needed was burned into her memory. She dialed quickly and waited.

The inspector Clair needed to contact was out. She left a message on his voice mail, telling him that she was at Draycott Abbey and she had important information for him.

But she left no details, not in an unsecured voice mail. She could not risk turning the information over to the wrong hands. As she hung up the phone, Clair’s shoulders slumped.

She wanted to be done with this responsibility. She wanted to forget these men she had watched for weeks. She told herself that she had done the best possible under the circumstances.

She had been tracked and watched so long that she could not begin to accept that the nightmare was finally over. Curling up on the bed, she closed her eyes and tugged a blanket over her shoulders, lulled by the sound of the rain at the windows.

She tried to believe that she would be safe here. Finally, after so many long weeks.

After so many long centuries
, a voice whispered…

She closed her eyes and slid down into dreams.

Marston spread another blanket over the woman’s motionless body and then stirred the fire. He had brought tea and soup, but she was already asleep.

Her drawn face made him shake his head. But now she was safe. No harm would come to her at the abbey. After a final glance at the room, he closed the door softly and moved outside. His chair was already waiting in the corridor. He sank down, keeping guard just as Ian had asked.

The butler had asked no questions, but he was perfectly aware of what kind of work Nicholas Draycott did. And if his old friend Izzy Teague was venturing to the abbey in a storm like this, it could only mean one thing.

A job of of deadly importance.

So Marston would wait and watch. He was no longer a young man, but he knew things about the abbey that few people did. The air seemed cold, heavy with memories. Glancing down the hall to the Long Gallery, he thought he saw a flicker of light and the sudden movement of the velvet curtains.

Just a trick of his eyesight, an illusion of the shadows, Marston thought. Just another one of the abbey’s little tricks. He had often seen such odd movements in the Long Gallery, near Adrian Draycott’s imposing portrait.

Over the years, the abbey butler had seen many strange things when the moon was high, and tonight some instinct whispered for him to keep all his senses alert. With grave eyes, he studied the closed doors of the silent corridor. Reaching down, he felt the reassuring outline of the heavy metal flask filled with steaming Earl Grey tea. It was a special blend made exclusively for the Draycott family, as it had been done for centuries, since the family first had tea holdings in Kashmir.

Marston savored the bracing brew. But his real comfort came in the weight of the heavy metal flask. He was not too old to use it as a weapon should the need arise.

The thought made him smile grimly as the wind snarled and rain hammered at the windows.

No one would get past him tonight.

More that that, he had to know how to explain the odd sense of connection he had felt between them outside in the rain.

Angry at his tangled thoughts, Ian muttered under his breath, staring at the black car parked at the base of the abbey’s steps. The men had rung the doorbell twice already.

Ian could delay no longer. Something was wrong. All his field experience and training urged him to caution.

Acting on instinct, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed quickly.

A man answered on the second ring. In the background Ian heard laughter and the click of glasses, along with the sound of caroling voices. “MacKay here.”

“Sinclair. Sorry to bother you, Calan. It sounds as if you’re busy.”

“Just a small group of my wife’s friends. The second bottle of champagne is opened, or we wouldn’t dare begin to sing. But you didn’t call to critique our carols, I think.” The man at the other end of the line moved the phone, and Ian heard a door close. The sounds of singing faded away. “That’s better. Now we can talk. I doubt you’ve called for an invitation to Christmas dinner, so how can I help you?”

Calan was one of Ian’s oldest friends. As boys he and Ian had clattered around Draycott Abbey, dreaming of lion hunting and mountain climbing as they raced across the abbey grounds with their friend, the young viscount.

But Calan had never discussed his boyhood. Over time, Nicholas and Ian had come to understand that Calan was not like other boys. Not like other men.

And because of those dark and unusual skills, Ian had to ask a favor of his old friend now. “There’s a problem here. I don’t know exactly what it means, but my instincts are on red alert. I hate to bother you but—“

“It will only take me a few minutes to get there. You were right to phone me, Ian. Especially now, while the viscount and his family are away.” Calan hesitated. “Am I to assume I should keep a low profile? No noise.”

“That would be correct.”

“And I should be prepared for a possible attack?”

“I’m afraid so. Izzy Teague is on his way. But right now, I have unexpected guests. Somehow they made their way through the security at the main gate. That can hardly be an accident.” Ian chose his words carefully. “Earlier tonight, I found a woman in the rain. She was wounded, disoriented. The pieces still don’t match up, but the fact that I’m having visitors now.…”

“Understood. I should be there in fifteen minutes. I’ll have a look. Don’t expect to see me until I’m ready to be seen,” Calan said grimly. “Surprise can be a most useful tool. On a night like this, neither man nor beast should be afoot. The hunting should be good.”

Ian heard the soft laugh. Memories of other nights and other strange things drifted through his mind. He was glad that Calan MacKay was no enemy. Ian was glad too for the hunting skills that his old friend had taught him and Nicholas. That stealth and strength of vision had more than once saved Ian’s life and the life of the royal family he protected.

“Thank you, Calan.”

“No need. Keep your eyes to the hill and your face to the wind. You’ll see me before you hear me.”

The line went dead.

Calan was gifted with abilities that even now Ian could not completely understand. It was Calan’s skill to blend into the darkness and hunt by stealth and strength, a creature of night itself. Only twice had Ian seen his old friend change. The sight of that dim creature he became had left Ian more than a little unnerved.

The doorbell rang again.

Ian smoothed a hand over the outline of his Berretta, tucked in the back of his waistband where it could be easily reached. He looked out at the front steps.

Two shapes stood outlined against the night, flanking the door.

Wind gusted down the stairway and icy fingers brushed his neck in warning. He had a sudden, unmistakable sense of memories, as if a friend whispered at his ear of lies and loss.

Of love betrayed…

Once again they come.

Watch the night. Watch your back well, old friend.

The doorbell rang again, and Ian shrugged away a strange sense of disorientation, as if he was caught in two different times. In two different bodies.

Tonight you would do well to keep your wits about you
, the old house seemed to whisper.
Tonight you will hunt, and the prize will be far beyond what you expect.

Ian paid no attention to the strange fancies of a dark, cold house. He was a man now, with too much experience and too little hope. So his fingers rested lightly on the Berretta as he walked to open the heavy oak door.

There were two men on the steps, rain glistening on black coats. Their faces were expressionless.

Ian kept his hand on the door, one eyebrow raised. “Can I help you?”

“Sorry to bother you, sir.” The taller man reached into a pocket and flashed a badge. The logo of the Sussex Police looked authentic, Ian thought, but the flash of the image had been too fast for certainty.

Ian frowned, forcing up a look of surprise. “Police?”

“I’m afraid so. It’s official business. Could we come in, sir?”

“Of course.” Ian opened the door slowly. “Is something wrong?”

“I am Inspector Hampton. Sorry to trouble you so late.” The taller man glanced up the broad staircase. “I didn’t get your name.”

“Ian Woods.” It was the pseudonym Ian usually used. Only a handful of people knew the name, and it would cover him until he understood exactly what was afoot. “Come into the library, please. The family is away, but I can manage to round up some tea for you. Perhaps something stronger, if you care for it, Inspector?”

“Nothing for me. As we’re on duty, I’ll get straight to the point.” The man in the dark coat followed Ian into the small study on the abbey’s first floor, glancing around alertly. Something about that look sent another instinct of warning up Ian’s spine.

“I hope there’s been no crime in the village. It’s general very quiet down here.”

“I’m afraid there has been a crime. We were tracing an escaped prisoner from Hastings. She got away in the storm. We’ve been going house to house, warning the residents.”

“A woman, you say? Good Lord, what is the world coming to?” Ian moved to the fire, careful to keep his left shoulder to the wall so that his right arm was free. “But we’ve seen no one here. It’s all been quiet.”

“You’re certain of that? No one has come with a story of a flat tire or a car breaking down? Maybe an excuse that they were lost?” Again the inspector’s sharp eyes roamed across the room.

He looked like a man who would miss nothing, Ian thought.

“Nothing at all. I wish we had something better to report. It would be a pleasure to see this criminal brought to justice.”

The man in the black raincoat nodded slowly. He raked a hand through his wet hair. “I should warn you that this woman is lovely. She has used her beauty to bring several men to their deaths. She preys on the very wealthy. Judging from the house, you might fit that bill, Mr. Woods.”

“Oh, I doubt that. I live very simply. I have my dog for companionship and that’s all I require.” Ian gave an awkward laugh, as if he was a little embarrassed by this admission of his simple lifestyle. “If you leave me your card, I will be glad to contact you should I have anything to report. It’s the least I can do.”

The man near the door pulled a card from his pocket. The crisp vellum bore the imprint of the Sussex police force. This too looked authentic.

But paper was easy enough to forge, Ian knew. “Anything I can do to help, Inspector.” Ian waited, letting a hint of impatience tighten his features. “You’re sure you wouldn’t care for a brandy? It’s damn cold out there.”

“No, we had better be on to the next house. It is going to be a long night. They’re forecasting an ice storm before dawn.” The man turned abruptly at the door. He bent down and pulled a pale scrap from the carpet.

Ian cursed silently when he saw the piece of wet fabric. He remembered that thin cotton. It must have torn from her dress. Worse yet, there was a dark bloodstain at one corner.

The inspector glanced at Ian. “Yours, Mr. Woods?”

Ian gave an embarrassed laugh. “I’m afraid it is. I hurt myself earlier. I was out shooting and I slipped in the rain. I ended up shooting myself in the boot. Damned embarrassing. Didn’t want to mention it, Inspector. Nothing a man wants to boast about, you know.” He reached down to his leg and winced. “Hurts like hell, if you want to know the truth of it.” He gave another embarrassed laugh.

The inspector nodded slowly and slipped the piece of cloth into his pocket. “As you say, it’s nothing you would want to brag about.” His eyes moved to his unsmiling companion. “But since she is a dangerous criminal, you wouldn’t mind if we had a look around would you? Through the back rooms. Upstairs too.”

“Of course. Be my guest. But the abbey is completely deserted. Only myself and the old butler are in residence.”

In a quick jerk of the wrist, the man sent his companion forward, out into the hallway. The man moved silently back to the kitchen.

Ian sat down on the edge of the big mahogany desk and reached down, triggering a silent alarm. Marston would see that the woman was out of sight.

Ian leaned down to pour a liberal measure of sherry into a crystal glass. “Take your time, Inspector. If you don’t mind, I’ll stay here and nurse my drink. My toes have begun to throb most damnably.”

The man gave a look of distaste, dismissing Ian as an utter fool.

That had been Ian’s intention.

He did not follow when the officer moved out into the hall. There was no reason. Ian had already made certain that the abbey’s security cameras were functioning perfectly. They would tell him exactly what he needed to know.

When footsteps rang down the stairs ten minutes later, Ian ran a hand through his hair, leaving it bristling and unruly. He tugged his jacket askew and splashed sherry over the old tweed.

Perfect. Now he was the very picture of a drunkard well into his cups.

“All finished, are you? No devilish felons discovered in the Long Gallery, I hope.” Ian gave a rough laugh. “I wouldn’t mind a little company tonight, as a matter of fact.”

“Not
this
kind of company, you wouldn’t.” The officer swept a dismissing glance as Ian sagged drunkenly against the wall.

“Of course. Quite right. Wouldn’t care to be cut up into pieces in my bed. That is what she does? Uses a knife?”

“Hardly. Poison is more her style. I’d be careful what you drink tonight, Mr. Woods.” The inspector pulled his wet raincoat on. “Be sure to call me if you have anything to report. We will be in the area.”

Somehow he made it sound like a threat.

As they moved to the door, Ian moved awkwardly after them, one hand to the wall in a further display of inebriation. “Well then, stay dry. Or as dry as you can. One hell of a storm, no mistake about it.”

The inspector turned back. He seemed thoughtful. “You say there’s no one else here. Only you and the old butler?”

“That’s right.” Ian felt the hairs stir along the back of his neck.

“You mentioned a dog. Where is he?”

“Oh, I expect he’s out in the storm. Likes to hunt. I give him free rein of the grounds.”

The inspector nodded slowly. “Good security.” His hand moved to his pocket. Ian moved back, seeming to stumble, and his hand slid to the Berretta behind his back.

Light shone on the driveway. A car motor growled and came to a stop. Light footsteps raced up the drive.

The doorbell rang.

Ian didn’t move.

The inspector’s eyes narrowed. “Are you in a habit of expecting company this late, Mr. Woods?”

“It’s an old friend from London. He was due quite a while ago. I suppose the storm delayed him.” Ian shuffled past and leaned against the door for a moment, puffing loudly. When he opened the door, he blocked the view with his body and made a quick movement of warning with his fingers.

Izzy Teague stared at him and then nodded.

“About time you got here. I expected you hours ago, Harris.”

“Traffic from London was a nightmare.” Izzy gave a booming laugh. “I hope you have some of that vintage Draycott port waiting for me.”

“None better. But there’s been a spot of a problem. Some kind of criminal has escaped. The inspector from Hastings came to alert residents in the area.” Ian turned, holding the door as if he was about to lose his balance. He gave another embarrassed laugh. “Enough sherry for me, I’d say.”

He moved back and waved Izzy Teague inside. The man’s chiseled mahogany features were damp with rain as he studied the two men in the foyer. “Police, is it? What’s going on?”

The inspector glanced outside at Izzy’s car. “A dangerous criminal has escaped. She’s still somewhere in the area. If you see anything unusual, contact me immediately. Don’t try to handle her yourself. She’s more dangerous than you can imagine.”

“I came to England to relax, not get swept up in one of your devious mysteries. And since I’m half frozen myself, perhaps you’ll excuse me. I’m going to warm up at the fire.”

“I didn’t catch your name.”

“Ty Harris.” Izzy shrugged out of his leather coat. “Specialty furniture importer. Offices in London and on Peachtree Road. Atlanta, Georgia.” Izzy flashed a grin and held out a business card. “Call me if you’re interested in some excellent reproduction Georgian furniture, Inspector.”

The policeman studied the card carefully and slid it into his pocket. “I’ll keep that in mind, Mr. Harris.”

His lips flattened as he saw Ian leaning against the wall, looking more drunk than ever. “Best to stay indoors tonight. The rain will be turning to ice before morning. Dangerous conditions for walking—or anything else.”

Ian nodded and smoothed his rumpled shirt. “No problem there. No intention of going out tonight, Inspector.”

At the door, the inspector turned. “By the way, there was no record of the name Woods listed as owner of this property. The house and grounds belong to the Viscount Draycott and his family, do they not?”

“So they do. Nicholas Draycott has gone off on holiday. I think he’d had enough of all the Christmas bustle and folderol. He asked me to pop around and keep an eye on things in his absence.”

The inspector nodded slowly. “I see. Then I will leave, with another reminder that you stay indoors tonight. You can reach me at that number on my card should you need me.”

Ian gave a leering laugh. “That I will, should anything turn up. Or if
anyone
turns up.” He clicked his tongue. “A female murderer. Beautiful, too. Gad, what is the world coming to, I ask you?”

But the man standing in the library ten minutes later looked anything but casual or inebriated. Ian’s face was grim as he watched Izzy set up a high-tech laptop computer and connect it to a freestanding hard drive.

“When she said the woman’s name, she told me that they had killed her. Maybe you’ll find a record of a crime in your database. But I warn you that she wasn’t making much sense. Given the rain and the cold, along with her wound, I’d say she was in shock.” Ian paced impatiently. “As soon as you get your search running here, I want you to have a look at her. She seems stable, but I’m taking no chances. If she needs to be seen at a hospital, I’m driving her there tonight.”

“Not possible. The conditions were bad when I came down, and they have already begun closing the major roads. We’ve got a nasty ice storm headed our way, my friend. You keep her immobile and warm, and I’ll handle the rest.” He looked up, frowning as Ian continued to pace. “Why don’t you go upstairs and start now? Be sure that she doesn’t get up. Keep her warm. Use blankets and hot water bottles, whatever you like. If she wants water, give her a glass with a straw to sip through. No food. No medicine. If she wakes up and is lucid, call me.” Izzy shook his head and went back to work. “You’re going to walk a hole in that carpet if you keep pacing that way.”

Ian frowned, unaware that he had even been moving. Why did the weight of responsibility hang on him so heavily tonight? He stabbed a hand through his hair and shrugged. “I’ll do that. Let me know what you find out about those police officers who arrived so conveniently.”

“Count on it. If that chatty one is an inspector from Hastings, then I’ll eat my hard drive,” Izzy said coldly.

The same suspicion had already struck Ian. He walked to the window and pulled back a curtain. The cars had gone now. Nothing seemed to move out in the stormy night. “Calan MacKay is due shortly. You know him, I think?”

“Well enough. Although I doubt
anyone
knows all there is to know about our Scottish friend. What you’re telling me is that he’ll be outside, keeping an eye on things? Even though we won’t see him.”