Lady Anne and the Howl in the Dark (10 page)

But that, she decided, examining the stair and tentatively putting her foot on the bottom one, was the whining voice of terror that had led to almost marrying Lydia’s brother. Years ago she had been afraid what society would say of her, a plain woman and shamefully unmarried. Saved from a disastrous alliance by Reginald’s untimely death, she had vowed never to listen to that inner voice of unreasoning fear again. Perhaps marriage and a steep ascent up a tower could not be compared, but then again, both could end in tragedy if one was not careful.

She looked straight up. The steps were broad enough, and she had never suffered vertigo. If she stayed by the wall, there would be relatively no chance that she would fall. How would she know what she might discover if she didn’t go up?

She began, step by step, the dimness worse on the side away from the rising sun, and her progress there slower. Cautiously, she wound her way upward, her ankles beginning to tremble. She must not look down, she decided, for that was sure to frighten the unreasoning animal part of her brain, where nightmares and superstition dwelt. How she would descend thusly she had not yet worked out. Time enough for that conversation with herself once she got to the top.

It was a little warmer as she ascended, or perhaps that was her imagination. But it was getting lighter. She paused and looked up. Near the top was a semicircular platform, her goal, and she could see that the windows were larger, set around the wall within more arches. Finally, she reached the top, and it was well worth the nervousness the climb had inspired. She stepped up into the semicircular room and approached the windows, catching her breath from the long climb and the gorgeous view.

Darkefell. The Yorkshire landscape stretched out, the morning sun now rising in the sky. From the valley she could see a long line of hills to the north, spotted with wooded glades and topped by windswept trees. At quite a distance she could see some kind of rocky outcropping and a waterfall that sparkled and gleamed in the rising sun, rimmed by burgeoning greenery. A stream below the waterfall tumbled through the property, winding between groves of trees, disappearing from view, then reappearing; as she followed it down, circling the room and gazing out, she saw more structures. At a distance of about a mile, in a farther reach of the gentle valley, was a neat farm, with a patchwork of fresh green fields and pasturage stretching out from the stream in neat angular shapes separated by dry stone fences and hedgerows. Cows lazily grazed near a byre, and sheep cropped grass on a distant hillside. Just a half mile from the farm nestled a tiny cottage.

She moved to another mullioned window. Closer to hand was Ivy Lodge, with the stables and various outbuildings behind, the marchioness’s elaborate gardens, workers now bustling from task to task. Then, as she circled the tower room, in the distance, on a prominence, was the castle. She took in a long, deep breath. It was gothic and enchanting, the old castle keep and stone wall that disappeared into the hillside, then the more modern attached building, glass gleaming in the rising sun, glittering panes like diamonds, winking and blinking.

Looking toward the highway, down closer to the road just beyond the estate property, which appeared bounded by a low stone wall, was another house, large but modern, too squat for its size. Perhaps Hiram Grover’s home?

Anne turned away from that and went back to the view of the most distant reaches of the marquess’s land, preferring it for some reason. She couldn’t think why. She was pure Kentish, preferring marshlands and sea views; the only wildness she liked was a crashing sea or the flight of a tern overhead.

But this dark landscape, Yorkshire gloom, she thought as a cloud blotted the sun for a moment and sent dark shadows racing over the land. It sent a chill down her back, one that she didn’t dislike. It was rather like the master of the estate, the dark and enigmatic marquess; he was a product of this place—the darkness of its name, and the darkness of its aspect were both an integral part of him and vital to discovering what lay behind his mysterious character. And he unfortunately sent those same thrilling chills down her back.

Movement in the distance drew her attention, and she squinted, leaning her elbows in the arched window opening. Two horsemen, the marquess and his brother, were still riding. Such muscle as the marquess was built of must be honed by many hours in the saddle, but his soft brother was not such a sportsman. Why, then, was he out so early and so far with the marquess?

She watched. They approached a building that looked to be no more than a one-room hut near a grove of trees low on the hillside, and one of them—the marquess, judging from the golden horse—dismounted. Another figure joined them, emerging from the hut. The person moved slowly, and it appeared that he leaned on a stick.

Nothing odd in a good landlord visiting a tenant. From the well-kept landscape, it appeared that the marquess was a very good landowner indeed. Anne’s stomach growled loudly. She had not yet had breakfast, and she was about to turn away to descend, when something caught her eye. Beyond the hut on the hill, a creature loped away. It looked like a dog, but something about it made her think it was
not
a dog; there was something quite,
quite
different about the way it ran.

From her angle, Anne could see the back of the hut; a man crept out a door and began to run. The marquess caught sight of him and gave chase. Anne was watching avidly, clutching the cold stone sill of the mullion, when a creak and slam reverberated up to her, and she gasped, her attention drawn down to the interior of the tower. The door! That was the door to the tower slamming shut. How was that possible?

She raced over to another window and looked below, but caught sight only of the bushes at the base of the tower rustling back into place, as if someone had just gone that way.

What was going on? Was she locked in?

When she went back to look into the distance again, the landscape was calm, the marquess and his brother riding away from the hut, and not another soul—not even the animal—in sight.

Going down was more treacherous than going up, Anne found. Her ankles trembled, and she had to keep one hand on the wall at all times, for every step down felt as if it would bring her tumbling to the bottom. The thought, once it had invaded, left her quivering. Who would find her body if she fell to her death? The door, latched from the outside, would inspire no one to investigate further.

And who closed and latched it? She could eliminate the marquess and his brother, and whoever else was off in the distance with them. To distract herself, she pondered what she had seen from the top of the tower; what was the animal loping across the hills, and who was the person creeping out from behind the hut?

Finally at the bottom, she felt her way over to the door and rattled the latch. Secure. Her heart thudded, but imagining her skeletal remains being found shockingly garbed in a loosely fastened morning gown at some point in the next century would do no good. She took a deep breath and knelt to examine the latch. Daylight framed the door, and a dark patch that was the latch darkened a sliver of open space. If she had her chatelaine, she would have had tools enough to fish through and lift the latch, but she had nothing. She felt around on the floor for a thin stick. Nothing!

She rattled the door and hollered, “Halloo!” then waited. She did that over and over, hoping a groundskeeper or stableboy might hear, but no one responded. Climbing the stairs seemed the only solution, to see if she could catch a glimpse of someone and attract their attention.

The climb did not seem as bad this time, except her legs felt the wear of such an ascent twice in one morning. It was fortunate that she was a seasoned walker and had rambled over her family’s Kentish home acres often in the last few months as she contemplated her future plans.

Her stomach, though, grumbled in an undignified way, complaining that she had not had breakfast nor even her morning chocolate. And that was a ray of hope, she thought as she ascended the last few steps. Ellen would have gone to her room with her before-breakfast toast and chocolate; perhaps she would report Anne missing. Not that anyone would think to look for her up the tower, but they might search the grounds, and she could get someone’s attention.

She looked in the direction of Ivy Lodge. So far, no one was close enough to hail. She scanned the vicinity; the marquess and his brother approached, trotting down the sloping hill toward the low prominence on which the tower was situated. She would have to call out to them, and yet she dreaded the laughter her situation would occasion from the marquess.

She dithered for a moment, but as the two neared, she had to call out or risk being trapped for some time. Patience was not her strong suit, and this was by far the most expedient chance of escape. Embarrassment was the price, but mortification must not keep her from breakfast.

She leaned out the window as the men came through a copse of trees and shouted, “Halloo! Lord Darkefell, Lord John!”

The two men stopped, but only the marquess looked up to the heights of the tower. His face split in a wide grin. “Lady Anne! How delightful to see you again. And how is your morning progressing?”

“I’m fine, my lord, and enjoying the view. It’s spectacular from up here. In fact, I spied you gentlemen on your morning jaunt into the hills.”

Lord John stared up at her and said, “Good Lord, whatever inspired you to climb such a height? I haven’t been up there since I was ten.”

“Lady Anne is more energetic than you, John,” the marquess said, still staring up at her. “Why, I’m sure she intends to run up and down the stairs a few more times before breakfast.” He saluted and called out, “Have a good morning, my lady. Be careful descending.” He turned his horse to ride away.

“Darkefell!” she shouted, irritated.

He turned back but did not speak.

“I would be grateful if you would unlatch the door at the bottom, please,” she said, her cheeks burning with humiliation.

He didn’t tease as she expected. Instead, his expression grew serious. “Am I to understand, since I have full confidence in your intelligence, madam, and do not think you locked
yourself
in, that someone closed the door on you and latched it?”

“Yes.”

“Knowing you were up there?”

She was about to protest that she didn’t know that but was arrested by his expression. Even from a distance, his fury was evident.

“This is too much,” he said, vigorously throwing himself from the saddle and staring up at Anne. “Come down, my lady, at once.”

Lord John, foreshortened in her view from on high, patted at his jacket and frowned, then glanced up at the sun rising above the trees. “It must be time for breakfast. I’ll ride back, Tony, and tell Mother to wait for Lady Anne.” He rode off toward the lodge.

Anne, her ankles now aching, made her way down the steps as the marquess unlatched the door. He opened it. Blinded by a stream of the rising sun, she stumbled directly into his arms and looked up. She jerked away, pulled her shawl closely around her, and limped out, trying to ignore the soreness of her ankles.

“Let me take you back,” he said.

“I can walk,” she replied.

“No need when I can carry you.” He scooped her up and threw her onto his horse, then leaped up behind her.

She was seated sideways, so her hip was firmly pressed to an uncomfortably intimate part of the marquess. She had studied—covertly, of course—an aged copy of Cheselden’s
Anatomy of the Human Body
in her father’s library and knew precisely what was where. The only question left was how much of
what
the marquess had; if she discovered that, she was sure she would self-immolate on the spot in a blaze of heated conjecture. His lordship used a hunting saddle, she had observed, with a low pommel and cantle; so was that hardish lump against her hip his pommel or his lordship?

To distract herself from such indecent thoughts, she considered his behavior as he settled himself. He was unbearably commanding! “Please let me down, my lord,” she said, her voice as steady and her tone as frigid as she could manage in such an intimate position. “I’m perfectly capable of walking.”

“You were limping. Why walk when you can ride?” he said, putting his arms around her and taking up the reins. “Now, what were you doing up the tower?”

The smothering sense of attraction she experienced whenever she was near him annoyed her. When she was alone and a little cooler, she would ponder it, discover its genesis, and defeat it, she decided. “I was looking over your property, sir,” she said, holding herself stiffly away from him but still terribly aware that her hip was settled firmly against his groin. “I saw you and your brother up on the hill, speaking with someone, while some kind of creature that was
not
a dog loped off into the distance and some man tried to sneak out of the back of the hut. What say you to that?”

He chuckled, and she could
feel
the sound of it rumbling through his broad chest and vibrating into her where her upper arm rested against his body. When he didn’t answer, she looked up at him. His chin had beard stubble, and his dark hair was loose, curling deliciously against his thick neck, above a limp cravat loosely tied. She swallowed. “Why don’t you answer?” she asked.

“Answer? But you didn’t really ask a question, did you?”

“There we are back to unanswered questions piling up,” she said, irritation threading through her voice. “Why are you trying to block me, my lord? Why not just accept my help in figuring out what is going on here?”

His grip around her became firmer, and he leaned forward, pressed more closely to her as his horse mounted a rise. “Just because my silly sister-in-law invited you here to calm her idiotic fears, it doesn’t follow that I should enlist your aid in solving the tragedy that occurred. There’s nothing going on, my lady, that should concern you
or
Lydia. The best thing you can do is tell her to mind her husband and take up a pastime. Needlepoint or whatever young ladies do to fill their days. Netting purses. Trimming bonnets.”

She was speechless with anger. Just so was
her
entire life written off with such advice. No wonder she had no desire to marry.

They approached Ivy Lodge from the rear, and he leaped down, grabbed her by the waist with his iron grip, and lifted her off his horse then leaped back up. “Good day, my lady. And stay out of places where you don’t belong, or I may not be around to rescue you next time.”

He turned his mount and galloped away.

She stared after him, realizing that she hadn’t asked him who he thought locked her in. But then,
he
didn’t conjecture, either. Surely that was strange? Unless he thought he knew who had done it. With that disturbing thought, she walked up to the lodge and in, going directly to her room to dress appropriately for the breakfast table.

***

In a black rage, Darkefell rode back to the castle. Who had
dared
lock Lady Anne in the tower? Not John, at least, though his brother was keeping something from him, and Darkefell was dreadfully afraid it concerned the maid, Cecilia, and her death. Not Osei, who was being questioned by the magistrate; Sir Trevor persisted in believing that Darkefell’s secretary killed the girl. Whether it was unreasoning prejudice or simply that Osei and Cecilia were walking together that evening, Darkefell didn’t know.

However, Lady Anne was an insufferable snoop. Perhaps someone was as irritated by the woman as he was. And yet… with all the exasperation Lady Anne caused him, he could not stop thinking about her. Holding her close to his body as he took her back to Ivy Lodge, he had felt a wicked urge to kiss her again or to carry her off somewhere and make her pay attention to
him
rather than the puzzle of poor Cecilia’s death.

Unaccountable and completely unsuitable.

Why had she even gone up into the tower, and what could he tell her to put her curiosity at rest about his and John’s trip to Edward Carter’s hut? He shouldn’t need to say anything, but she was indefatigable when it came to the small mysteries of Ivy Lodge and the castle. It was vital that she not puzzle out the solution to
that
little enigma, even though it had nothing at all to do with the maid’s murder. He would certainly tell her some lie—perhaps that the figure she saw was Daft Neddy and Bull, his dog. That would have to do, and to hell with her if she didn’t believe him. But he would need to remember to tell John to go along with the lie.

He paused for a moment at the top of the rise and gazed at Darkefell Castle; when had he begun to do things he was not wholly proud of just to keep his family safe? He had compromised his integrity, and it shamed him. He had lied and worse, but would do it again, over and over, given the same circumstances. He pressed his heels in, and Sunny responded immediately, leaping into a gallop.

In a foul mood, he put his steed into his groom’s trustworthy hands and hurled himself into his home, through the echoing halls of the modern section of the castle and up to his chamber. His mind kept going to Osei; if his secretary had not agreed to the solitary meeting with the magistrate, Darkefell would not have allowed it. His valet silently attended him as he changed from his morning riding gear into more presentable clothes, but as his mood ameliorated, he remembered Lady Anne’s condemnation of his inability to allow her to aid him in the investigation.

He did have questions to which she was, perhaps, uniquely situated to find the answers. His sister-in-law Lydia was afraid of him. He had tried his best, but the silly chit still shied away from him like a nervous mare. He had tried gentleness, humor, even silence, but still she eyed him as if he would eat her if she came too close. But she trusted Lady Anne, apparently more than she trusted her husband. Lydia must know more about Cecilia’s secret life than she was divulging, but she was stupid enough not even to be aware of what she knew. Lady Anne could, if directed properly, ask the right questions and give him the answers. But how to engage her help now that he had rejected it so boorishly?

Harwood finished with the cravat, and Darkefell gazed at himself dispassionately in the mirror. He was handsome. He wasn’t vain about it; it was simply part of his life. With Lady Anne, he did have one tool at his disposal; she was physically attracted to him. He felt it, saw it in her eyes, could see her breath quicken, her cheeks pink. When he leaned against her in the saddle—more closely then he had needed to, certainly, even as he stifled the urge to do more—she had trembled. He was adept at exploiting such a rare thing as female passion, and he was not loath to do so, but he was surprised to discover ardor in her. She was intelligent, and he had always thought that clever women lacked the capacity for lust, and therefore would not experience animal attraction as lesser women sometimes did. But Lady Anne Addison was powerfully attracted to him. That, he had to admit, fascinated him.

He had been with passionate women. He had been with intelligent women. But one who was both? She intrigued him, and he was a little afraid of her for that very reason.

He descended and strode into his wood-paneled study to find that Osei and the magistrate were still there. It had been hours. Osei was wan and weary, as pale as he ever could be. His gaze, when it slued to his employer, held a hint of desperate entreaty in the dark brown depths glinting behind the spectacles.

“Sir Trevor,” Tony said, stalking to sit behind his desk, “you will allow Mr. Boatin to rest. He’s told you everything he knows.”

“Ah, but that’s the trouble, my lord. He has told me everything he
wishes
but will not divulge some key points. What am I to think?” Sir Trevor, his mobile, thin-lipped mouth drawn down in a frown, was clearly irritated by Osei’s reticence. He paced to the window and back. “He was with Miss Wainwright just before her death but says that he saw her go into the lodge, and then departed. Now, since the maid was found outside, that is certainly false.”

“Don’t be ridiculous—Osei may well have seen Cecilia go into Ivy Lodge, but that doesn’t mean she stayed there.”