In Love by Christmas: A Paranormal Romance (29 page)

The metal head turned, and the thing opened its mouth. A roaring sound filled the field. The other “horses” responded. Their riders had already piled off and stood gaping. The animal—or something—trotted toward its mates. They nickered, ghoulish imitations of horse sounds. As one, they ran for the main road faster than Maseratis.

After filming their retreat, the cameras turned back to Dash, who looked as bad as a human being could, or at least his head did. Leroy stood by in anguish; he had not wanted him killed, just revealed.

The white mush, bone fragments, and blood that were his brain and broken skull quickly reformed, and black, scaled skin covered his wounds. His human flesh dropped away as the horse’s artificial hair and hide had, revealing Dashiell Pondichury, the ninth Duke of Lancature, in his true form: a scaled demon, venom dripping from his jagged teeth, erect scales marching down his back to the end of his barbed tail. He saw Leroy and turned toward him, claws extending. Then he saw all the cameras. Crews from more stations had been arriving. All the big networks were there.

Enzo would not like this exposure.

“Leave here,” Leroy said in his language. “Leave here and take all your spells and deviltry with you. Get away from me, Evil One!” He used a few more sacred words to drive away the satanic. Also to seal the images in the cameras permanently, so that Enzo Donatore couldn’t corrupt them. So that the world could see.

Calling to his teammates in his rasping language, which replicated the sounds of the stones in the bowels of the earth grating, Dashiell headed for the treed park beyond the field, his “men” followed him. Tails and scales burst through their polo garb. They were exposed, and filmed by all the media in Britain.

Leroy was exhausted and at wits end. Crowds from the mansion were heading across the playing field, while the more timid guests ran for their cars. Camera teams and announcers with microphones approached. His team stood on the edge of the sward close to the barns.

“Great One, Ancestors, tell me what to do. I pray to you. What do I do now?” He raised his hands toward the heavens. The winter weather had been holding back for months so that Leroy could complete his errand in Switzerland for Will and get to Ballentyne Manor for his day of polo. Clouds had piled up around the estate as if waiting for a command. Leroy’s prayer was that command.

The deluge was fast and utter. Nothing could describe it: the heavens opened and all the rain that existed fell. All the ladies in their stupid hats, the local gentry, including the owner of the new upscale market with the escalator from the first to second floor “just like in California,” and everyone else who did not belong on the estate ran like chickens pursued by the most vicious weasel ever to draw breath.

The rain was part of their desire to vacate Ballentyne Manor, but the police cars blocking the drive told them that it was
really
time to leave. Officers of the law and crowd of ominous men in black raincoats poured out of their vehicles toward the mansion. The news people stayed where they were, putting longer lenses on their cameras.

What was left was Leroy, the Ballentyne family, most of their original servants, a whole bunch of Irish and Scottish polo players, and a small herd of horses of dubious merit, who could really kick butt like crazy. Or at least play polo.

And more kinds of cops than any of them knew existed.

37

Sorting Things Out

L
er
oy took control.
He turned to his team, “Put the horses away an’ see ‘em fed. Then come to the house. I’ll need you. Tom, bring Arabella out. Let’s go back.”

Arabella clung to him and Tom walked on her other side. They threaded their way along paths that were mostly puddles, soon to be small lakes. Rain whipped them and made talking hard.

“You’re not going anywhere, ‘Bella. You didn’t see what happened when you were hidden in the barn, but Dash and his team, even the horses, showed themselves for the monsters they are. Let’s go. Some things need sorting.”

He put his arm around her and led her toward the house through the downpour. An umbrella’d crowd was milling around the rear patio—the press. Dozens of microphones were shoved in their faces, rain and all.

“What were those horses, Mr. Watches? Robots?”

“Did you know they were robots?”

“Lord Dashiell …” The rain slashed at them, almost blowing them over.

“Why is Interpol here? That’s their van …”

“You better get out of the rain before you electrocute yourselves,” Leroy said. “Let us through. Lady Arabella needs to get inside.”

Another crowd was inside, milling around the vast entry hall. He shoved his way through a troop of serious men and women in black raincoats. Behind them, toward the servants’ stairs to the kitchen, the former staff of Ballentyne Manor clustered, goggle-eyed. Leroy decided to dodge the raincoats and get Arabella settled. He headed for the servants.

“Fulton, everyone.” When he got them gathered round, he asked, “Why are you here?”

Fulton answered for all of them, “We were terribly afraid of Lady Arabella coming to harm. Everyone came to the polo match hoping to keep
them
from carrying her off. It was our only chance.” The staff nodded agreement.

“Good. You’re all hired again.” He pointed at a young woman. “You’re Lady Arabella’s maid.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Take Arabella upstairs and get her out of her wet clothes. We’ll need her in a bit, but she should get warm.”

He gave ‘Bella a little hug, “Go on, now. You’re shivering.” To the rest of them. “That goes for the rest of you too. Get dried off and cleaned up. Then get ready to work.

“Fulton. I’m sure Dashiell was planning a victory banquet. We’ll eat it. No one can leave tonight.” A gust of wind rocked the building. A loud crack followed by a crash indicated that trees were falling along the drive.

“Yes, sir.”

The powwow was on in Lord Ballentyne’s library. Ballentyne sat in his big wing chair, eyes bulging, cheeks going in and out like a blow-fish. “Jolly show, today, I’ll tell you! Dash and his boys can really play.” He scowled when Leroy walked in.

“What is he doing here? Arrest him! He assaulted my daughter. Dash told me all about it.”

“No, he told
me
all about it and I told
you
about it,” said Her Grace. “Terrible thing. I could almost see it the way Dash described it. Forced himself on her brutally.”

“I never touched Arabella!” Leroy cried. “That’s a lie.”

“Yes, it is a lie,” Arabella said, slipping into the room. “Nothing but lies in this place. Leroy never touched me, but I lived in terror of Dashiell Pontichury and his men day and night.”

“As well you might, Lady Arabella,” an odd-looking little man with a bald head held a bowler hat in his hands. “We’re with Interpol.” He turned to Lord Ballentyne and his wife. “We suspect Dashiell Pontichury of murdering his previous three wives.”

“Oh, Dash wouldn’t do that. He’s never been married.” The puffer fish’s cheeks bulged and shrank. Bulged, deflated.

“Dash has
never
been married. He wouldn’t hurt a fly,” said Her Grace. “Let’s stop this dismal talk. It’s bad enough that the rain cancelled the polo match. Why don’t we have a little drink? Cheer us up.

“Does anyone tango? I absolutely
love
it! Dash has transformed my life! We’re going to Spain with him tomorrow!” Her eyes bulged. A fleck of saliva escaped her mouth, shooting past the shocking pink, smeared lipstick on her mouth. “A little tango, and then some din-din? Fulton? Where is that man?”

A mousy woman in a rumpled tweed suit came forward, gesturing for the others to be quiet. “Let me handle this. I’m from National Health.” She knelt by Her Grace. “Are you aware that the polo match ended when Dashiell Pontechury’s horses were exposed as robots and he and his men as monsters?”

“That’s impossible. Monsters aren’t real. The rain. The match was called off. Peter …” Lord Peter Ballentyne kept opening and closing his mouth.

“You don’t know what happened?” said National Health quietly. “Where were you sitting?”

“In the front row of the gallery, with everyone. Everything is quite straightforward; we’re going to Spain tomorrow. Dash saved us.” Her Grace craned her neck, looking for approval.

The guy with the bowler hat stepped forward, “Lord Ballentyne and Your Grace, Dashiell Pondichury, under a number of aliases, is suspected of the murder of three of his spouses and their families, as well as the unlawful appropriation of their assets. The situations involved wealthy families with income shortfalls but substantial assets who were lured by him into thinking he could save them. He married their daughters, as a condition of the financial assistance, and then they all disappeared.

“What do you think of that?” The woman from National Health stepped back, searching the faces of the two older people.

“It’s impossible. Dash showed us pictures of his vineyards, his castle. Of his friend’s castle. We’re going there,” His Lordship blinked and shook his head, denying everything. “They were very real, I assure you. Dash
is
the ninth Duke of Lancature.”

“The dukedom of Lancature doesn’t exist. Dashiell Pondichury, also known as Evan Niell, Nylan Jones-Schmitt and a few other aliases, owns nothing. His friend,” said the fellow from Interpol, “is a major industrialist, Enzo Donatore. He currently owns the properties of Pontichury’s missing wives’ families. He obtained them through legal, but suspicious means. Donatore is being investigated for a number of international crimes, which I cannot discuss.”

“He is also being scrutinized by MI15, domestic intelligence, which I represent,” a tall, thin fellow way in the back bowed. “I can’t say what’s being investigated, just that you’re in deep and muddy water, Your Lordship and Your Grace.

“The word ‘treason’ has often been used with respect to Dashiell and his associates. Including you. MI16, international counterterrorism, suspects that you’ve been laundering money for illegal enterprises globally. Flows of cash leave your accounts and go to various countries. You’re an intelligent man; you should have seen the impropriety of this.”

His Lordship sputtered, “No. Those transfers were perfectly legal. Dash said so. Just setting up the financial arrangements …”

“
Your daughter would have been murdered
if you had gone to Spain. Murdered, but
brutalized
first.” A good-looking, middle-aged man in a black suit almost shouted. “She came to my firm in utmost distress, terrified for her life. We were able to save her assets. But her
life
would have been forfeited if we didn’t protect her from
you.
Don’t you understand
that
?

“We
did
protect her, calling in interested agencies,” he waved his hand, indicating the crowd in the room. “I am Lucien Craig, Queens’ Counsel, of Freinheim, Tarne, Craig, et. al., representing Lady Arabella.”

“Solicitors and barristers, cabbages and kings,” Arabella’s mother waived her index finger, grinning foolishly.

“Her Grace is intoxicated,” Leroy said. “Dashiell hooked her on something. Look at her.”

The woman from National Health pulled a pen-light out and peered Arabella’s mother’s eyes. “Her pupils are pinpoints.”

“She wasn’t like this,” Arabella’s eyes misted. “Mama has had problems at times, but not like this.”

“Oh, you’re such a piker, ‘Bella. No fun at all.” Her Grace looked around the room as though in the middle of a party. “I’m not inebriated. I just feel good. Is that a crime?”

His Lordship sat silently, puffing, not appearing to understand anything. “Dash
saved
us. He paid our bills and taxes. He saved the Manor. We gave him mortgages; that’s only fair, but at very low interest rates. Our solicitor said it was a great idea.”

“Where is your solicitor now? I represent Lady Arabella. My colleagues and I are here to assure her rights. Where’s your boy?”

“Don’t know. Suppose he couldn’t make the polo match with the rain. Pelting down, isn’t it?” The lights flickered. The rain lashed the windows of the old mansion. “Who would come out on a night like this?”

“We’ll need to do more thorough clinical interviews, but as far as I am concerned, neither of them is mentally competent,” the National Health lady said.

Arabella made a little bleat, but Leroy touched her arm and soothed her.

“Since they are not mentally competent, they cannot enter enforceable contracts, including the mortgages they signed on their properties.” That was Arabella’s lawyer. “Have those mortgages been registered to Dashiell Pontechury?”

Someone else answered. “I’m from the Royal Bank of England, Sensitive Investigations Unit. We found the documents in Pontechury’s safe deposit box at the bank in the village. They have not been registered in any name but that yours, Lord Ballentyne, though they do bear His Lordship’s signature. Cagey bastard, … excuse me, ladies. Dashiell was so lazy and sure of himself, he thought he could let them lie around and not even move them to a more secure bank.”

“So we still have the estates and the Manor?” Arabella looked delighted.

“No. Not quite. I’m from the National Trust,” a dour gentleman spoke for the first time.

“And I’m from Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs,” said another. “The taxes on these properties are in arrears. You’ll have to pay them or forfeit the estates. They’d make great additions to the public …”

“My firm represents Lady Arabella. We cannot discuss this further. Lady Arabella needs informed counsel. I suggest that we meet with members of HMRC after a study of the matter.”

Leroy smiled. Arabella’s lawyer was on the ball. Maybe Will Duane did have the best lawyers in the world.

Thunder shook the house, volleying first on one side of the mansion and then the other. The lights flickered again.

“We need to wrap this up while we still have light,” Leroy said.

“I need to have some papers signed, Lord Ballentyne and Your Grace,” the National Health lady moved forward toward the old couple. She had a folder of forms, already filled out. “We’re going to put you in a hospital for evaluation. That will determine your mental competence officially. If you are incompetent, then the mortgages you signed are invalid.”

“Do we have to give the money back? I spent some of it,” said the old “Lord Blowfish.”

“Yes, you will.”

“Then we’re not signing anything and we’re not going anywhere. Where’s Dash? We need to talk to him.” He crossed his arms in an expression of defiance.

“If you are mentally
competent
, Lord Ballentyne,” said Arabella’s solicitor, “then the Crown will raise more criminal charges against you than you can imagine, plus the issue of human trafficking.” The lawyer and everyone in the room glared at the old man.

“Human trafficking?”

“Yes, the condition of Dashiell Pontichury’s giving you the mortgages was your daughter, was it not?”

“Yes, of course. He wanted her as part of the package. How’s that …?”

“Ask those missing women and their families. I’d sign the papers and go for a nice rest, Your Lordship.”

“Do you think I should set a formal table for the people from Interpol and the others, Mr. Watches?” Fulton asked Leroy.

“No. I’d make it easy for them. Just five or six pieces of silver. Make up rooms for everyone too. Trees are down on the road. No one will leave tonight.”