Come to Castlemoor (29 page)

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean Mr. Burton Rodd hasn't come to pay his respects. I saw the way you looked at him during the trial, and the other day Bella gave me a few details about what was taking place while I was in that cell. She said you and Rodd—”

“She knows absolutely nothing about it!” I cried. “And furthermore, I don't intend to discuss it one minute more. Wild horses couldn't keep Bella away from Castlemoor, now that Alan's back in Darkmead, but as for me—”

“As for you?”

“I'm going for a walk,” I said abruptly. “There are times, Donald, when I find you absolutely impossible to live with, and if you think—”

“I think you'd better go for your walk if you're going, because we've got a tremendous lot of packing to do.”

I marched out of the room, my blue eyes blazing, spots of color on my cheeks. Donald burst into gales of loud laughter as I slammed the door behind me, and that made me all the more furious. I walked angrily down the hall with its pale-gray walls and thick maroon carpets, passing glittering mirrors that hung in gilt frames and large pots containing dark, waxen green plants. I swept down the curving staircase and passed through the crowded lobby, paying no attention to its heavy chandeliers or gray marble columns. I stepped outside, welcoming the sunshine and all the heady odors of London that filled the early summer air.

Donald had touched a sore spot. I knew it. I knew I had no reason to be angry with him. I
had
studied Burton Rodd all during the trial, admiring his cool, crisp manner and complete command of the situation. He had been extremely handsome in his elegant black suit and tailored white shirt, blue satin ascot about his neck, and I hadn't been the only woman to find him impressive. One of the female reporters covering the trial devoted a whole column to “the dashing Mr. Rodd” whose suspicions had first alerted the police about the cult. I thought the article in incredibly poor taste and had tossed it in the wastebasket immediately.

I owed my life to Burton Rodd.

I tried not to think of that terrible night when it had all come to a head. Much of it still remained hazy, due to the narcotic they had given to me, but I remembered Burton Rodd holding me in his arms while the policemen rounded up the last members of the cult and put them in handcuffs. He had been suspicious for weeks, ever since Jamie's mysterious disappearance and Donald's “accident,” but he knew he had to have concrete proof of the existence of the cult before he could take action. He had finally sent for the police, those men in tight suits whose hard faces had aroused such distrust in Darkmead. He had tried his best to make me leave Castlemoor, sensing the danger I was in, and after the day in his office when I refused to take his money, I had been under constant surveillance.

One of the men had been assigned to watch me at all times, for my own protection, and he had been on duty night and day until that very afternoon I left the house to go to Castlemoor. Another of the men had learned that the cultists intended to meet that night in the ruined city, and they had concentrated all their force on the ruins, hiding among the rocks, hoping to catch all the cultists in one swoop. Burton Rodd had driven Nicola and his mother to the train station and returned immediately to join the men at the ruins. Night fell, and they waited among the shadows. Soon the figures in white began to appear, one by one. A fire was built, the chant began, and a little later Edward and I stepped from behind the rocks and started toward the circle of stone. Rodd had wanted to close in immediately, but the officer in charge of the police insisted they wait until they could actually prove a crime was intended. They surrounded the place, standing just outside the glow of firelight, and they waited until Edward took the knife out and started toward me. They closed in. Edward panicked. He refused to drop the knife. He lunged toward me. Burton had swept me off the altar just in time, even as the policeman fired the bullet that proved fatal to Edward.

It was over. The nightmare was ended. My brother was back, bursting with good health now, and the trial was over. Even the newspaper reporters had stopped hounding us. Everything was settled … but I wasn't. I had been utterly miserable during the past three or four weeks, and I knew the reason why. I could not forget that ravaged face. I could not forget those strong arms around me, those hard, firm lips pressing mine. I may have been unduly conscious of Burton Rodd during the trial, but I knew he hadn't been entirely oblivious of me. More than once I had caught him staring at me. I had not misread the look in his eyes; I was sure of that, yet he had made no attempt to see me since the trial. He knew where I was staying. He knew I wouldn't rebuff him if he came to call.… Well, I couldn't care less, I told myself. I didn't give a hang what he did. Life was rich and full of possibilities. I had done very well before I met Burton Rodd, and I could do very well without him.

I was furious with myself, furious with Donald, furious with the man who said love conquers all. I wanted no part of it if it made one feel so grouchy and sad. I would forget Mr. Burton Rodd, but I certainly didn't intend to go back to Castlemoor, where I would be bound to think of him every minute of every day. I would brazen it out with Aunt Clarice first—tea and crumpets, good works, sensible young men with secure futures whom she would force upon me with monotonous regularity. Better that than being all wrought up and snarling every time someone stepped into a room. Donald could do his book very well without me. I definitely wouldn't go back.

I stopped in front of one of the expensive shops half a block from the hotel. There was a stunning bonnet in the window, light-blue straw adorned with yards and yards of pink velvet ribbon. It would go beautifully with the blue silk dress I was wearing at the moment. I peered at the price tag. It was fantastically expensive. Donald would have conniptions if I bought it. It would serve him right! I went into the shop and bought the bonnet, as well as a pink velvet bag, two pairs of gloves, a blue silk parasol, and a box of linen handkerchiefs. I told the clerk to charge them to my brother and left the shop laden with packages and feeling absolutely glorious. I wondered how in the world I could have been so despondent such a short time ago. I could hardly wait to see Donald's expression when I walked in with all these packages.

Burton Rodd was standing in front of the shop, almost as though it had been prearranged. I felt my pulse leap. I almost dropped my packages. I quickly gained control over myself and met his eyes with a cool, level gaze that showed complete lack of concern. He might have been a rather dull acquaintance, out of sight, out of mind, or someone met at a party and forgotten as soon as the music stopped playing. He wore an elegant black suit and a pearl-gray satin vest embroidered with darker-gray fleurs-de-lis, smoky-blue ascot, and dark-gray top hat, which he swept off his head as soon as he saw me coming out of the shop.

“I suppose you expect me to believe this is a coincidence,” I said in a cool voice.

“On the contrary,” he replied. “I was on my way to your hotel when I saw you going into the shop. I've been waiting out here while you've been laying the foundation for your brother's bankruptcy.”

“He just signed a wonderful contract this morning,” I said icily. “I seriously doubt that my purchases will send him to debtors' prison.”

He grinned. There was something different about him, something that had not been there before. It was more than the elegant new clothes, went much deeper than the surface. The face was still ravaged, still lined, but the tragic stamp was missing. The dark eyes sparkled, no longer brooding, and there was about him a new vigor that affected his whole personality. It was as though an oppressive weight had been lifted from his shoulders, giving a jaunty spring to his carriage and making him even more formidable. I summed up these changes in him while the grin played on his lips.

“How have you been?” he inquired.

“Smashing,” I said nastily. “And you?”

“Busy.”

“Indeed?”

“I left for France immediately after the trial,” he informed me. “My mother sent me a wildly incoherent letter about an eccentric Russian countess and a secret formula and a fantastic new business enterprise. I rushed across the channel posthaste. I finally located her in a musty laboratory in the slum district, wearing a soiled blue smock and surrounded by bottles and burners and glass tubes and baskets of violet petals. She handed me a bottle of perfume, introduced me to the countess, and said they had formed a partnership to manufacture the stuff. I was horrified, as you might imagine, yet surprisingly enough, the scheme is quite sound—so sound that several avaricious French businessmen were moving in, hoping to take over. I put an end to that. For the past three weeks I have been consulting lawyers, signing papers, making arrangements to sell the factory in Darkmead.”

“You're going into the perfume business?”

He nodded. “Incredible, isn't it? The business is going to boom, and someone has to keep a firm hand on the reins while the women dash about in the laboratory. They already have a staggering number of orders from leading boutiques, and the countess is experimenting with a face cream that is supposed to remove wrinkles and restore a pearly glow to dry skin.”

“Amazing,” I said.

“I've even sold the castle,” he continued. “Have you heard of Lord and Lady Cleland? They're vegetarians and antivivisectionists who have an enormous following—a cult, you might say. They believe the world is going to end in a year or two, and they want an isolated place where they can await the dire event surrounded by their apostles. Castlemoor is ideal. My lawyer is drawing up the final papers this afternoon. They want occupancy no later than September. That'll give me just enough time to take care of all the final details at the factory and gather up the various items Mother wants shipped to France.”

“And then?” I inquired.

“I have my eye on a house on the outskirts of Paris,” he said. “It's small and unpretentious—no dungeons—but surrounded by acres of parkland and countryside. I've almost decided to buy it.”

“Will you?”

“That depends,” he said quietly.

We were still standing in front of the shop. Burton took the packages from me, gripped my elbow, and started walking me down the street toward the hotel. I was confused and bewildered, unable to sort out my reactions to all he had been telling me. We walked slowly, and the silence between us was unnerving. I felt I had to break it.

“How is Nicola?” I asked.

“Making life hell for an Austrian diplomat, an English lord, and a miner from America who apparently owns half the state of Montana. I think the American has a slight lead on the others. The last time I saw her, she was babbling about the challenge of frontier living and the fascinating possibilities of copper and silver.”

“Nicola will do well for herself,” I said.

“I expect to have news of an elopement any day now.”

We were nearing the hotel. I stopped.

“You—you said you were on the way to the hotel when you saw me going into the shop. Do you have—business there?”

“Of sorts.”

“Really?”

“I planned to bring you one of the first bottles of perfume turned out by the new firm. It's in my pocket.”

“I rarely wear perfume,” I said peevishly.

“And to ask you how you'd like to live on the outskirts of Paris.”

The world shimmered with radiance, but I would have gone to the stake before letting him know what these last words had done to me. I tossed my head and became suddenly very interested in a shop window.

“Well?” he said.

I looked at him, my brow arched.

“How would you like to live on the outskirts of Paris?”

“What an outrageous question.”

“I fail to see anything outrageous about it!” he said testily.

“I hardly know you, Mr. Rodd.”

“I'll be in Darkmead for the rest of the summer. You'll have plenty of time to get to know me.”

“I'll be very busy—”

“You damn sure will.”

“Really, Mr. Rodd, I see no reason—”

“At the end of summer we'll leave for Paris—”

“Nonsense,” I interrupted.

“As man and wife,” he concluded.

“You're dreaming.”

“You'll be on that boat with me,” he snarled.

“I wouldn't think of it,” I said blithely.

“You'll think of it,” he retorted. “Twenty-four hours a day.”

“You're terribly sure of yourself, Mr. Rodd.”

“Not at all. I'm just sure of you.”

“Are you?”

“Quite. Do you have anything else to say?”

I started to make a scathing retort. I held it back. Burton Rodd looked down at me with glowering eyes, ready to fight some more if necessary. I smiled. He was determined to have his way, and any further argument would have been futile. He saw the smile and knew that he had won. He took my arm possessively and led me toward the hotel. I wondered if he knew his victory was one I had been planning for a very long time.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1970 by Tom E. Huff

Cover design by Julianna Lee

ISBN: 978-1-4976-9829-1

This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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