Lady Anne and the Howl in the Dark (2 page)

“I’m coming!” Anne said out loud. “Where are you?”

A soft moan nearby was her only answer. Blindly, Anne turned toward the sound and, arms outstretched, felt past some bushes. The glimmer of lantern light had disappeared, and darkness had closed in again as she wandered close to a brushy area. “Where are you? Help me, so I can help
you!
” Her voice echoed in the darkness, and she suddenly felt silly, with a growing conviction that there was no one; it was her fatigued imagination working. But no, she was not that inventive. There
had
to be someone there! Buoyed by her own common sense, she moved forward, steeling her mind to think rationally.

But all sound had hushed. Slowly, carefully, she moved forward, hands still outstretched in front of her. Impatient with the slow pace, she began to walk more quickly and stumbled through some bushes and over something, falling to the ground and crying out in pain. “What on earth did I trip on?” she said, feeling under her feet.

It was something soft… an animal? The smell of blood filled her nostrils. A
dead
animal? Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she felt the form; it was
not
an animal. There was cloth. Clothing. Skirts. It was a woman!

“Hello? Are you all right? Are you well?” She groped around in the dark, warding off branches from some thorny bush as she tried to find the woman’s face. “Of course you’re not well, but are you ill or injured?” she babbled. Anne took in a deep, shuddering breath, filled with the conviction that there was no point in speaking to the woman. She was dead.

Anne staggered to her feet again, a fierce pain shooting through her ankle, but she could not stay where she was. “Help!” she cried, shoving and pushing away branches, then scaling the low hill that was topped by the road. “Help, someone, anyone!”

She spotted the dark shape of a building ahead and limped toward it, encouraged by the lamp that glowed above the door. “Help me!” she cried again. The house was a large, long ornate building of dark brick with a doorway that opened directly onto a crushed gravel drive. She edged along the low stone fence that lined the property, found the wrought iron gate and the latch in the center, undid the catch, and hobbled up to the double doors, her limping footsteps scraping through the gravel. She hammered on the door, grief for the poor unfortunate she had left behind in the dark welling up within her.

The door swung open, and a footman in livery and a powdered wig bowed low, his face barely creased with puzzlement as he stared at her. “Madam?” he said.

Fury filling her, Anne drew herself up and clasped her damp hands in front of her, saying, “Is this Ivy Lodge? I’m Lady Anne Addison, expected by Lady John Bestwick.”

He simply stared at her and then down at her dress and hands. “This is Ivy Lodge, but we are expecting no one, madam.”

“Let me in. There is trouble in the park!”

“No, madam, I cannot allow—”

“Stop blocking me, you imbecile,” Anne said, pushing him out of the way. He shrank from her in disgust. “There’s a woman in trouble out there. Where is your mistress?”

There was a clatter in the hall, and a light voice said, the tone fretful, “Who is it, Andrew?”

“Lydia!” Anne exclaimed. She pushed past the footman and saw her friend paused in the hallway by an open door that gave onto a fire-lit reception room; the lamplight in the entrance hall gave her complexion a sallow cast. “Lydia, it’s me!” With the appearance of her friend, the awful treatment she had received rushed back to dominance in her mind. “Whatever has happened? Why was I not met at Staunby Post-house?”

Lydia took two steps into the hallway, staring at her, went pale and screamed, then crumpled into a heap.

“Lydia!” A young man strode toward them from a long hallway beyond the entrance, followed by someone else. “Lydia,” he repeated, racing to her side and kneeling by her, raising one hand to his lips. “My dear, what’s wrong?”

“Who the devil are
you?
” a new voice demanded.

Anne whirled to face her inquisitor and found a darkly handsome man staring at her from the shadows. “I am Lady Anne Addison, and I’ve come to visit Lydia,” she stated, imperiously.

“And do you always come visiting at all hours and covered in blood?”

Blood? Anne looked down at her hands and dress. In the golden pool of lamplight, crimson stains sullied her best traveling cloak and her gloved hands; she was daubed in red, the blood of the unfortunate in the dark.

“Oh,” Anne said faintly, gazing down at her hands. “Lord help that poor girl!”

“What poor girl?” the younger man said, looking up from Lydia’s prone form on the marble floor of the spacious entrance hall.

“The girl… the dead girl… oh, it
must
be a female, for the body wore skirts,” Anne muttered, still staring at the crimson smears on her dove gray gloves.

The older, bolder man strode toward Anne. “Andrew,” he said, over his shoulder to the footman, who hovered in the shadows near the door. “Have a maid get a basin of hot water for this woman and call Lady John’s abigail. Tell her to bring smelling salts. My sister-in-law has fainted again.” To Anne, he said, “Let me remove these gloves and your cloak and shawl.” He unbuttoned her cloak at the neck. “They’ve gotten the worst of the gore. Now, what do you mean, a
body?
Where?”

Anne shrugged away from him and said, “I beg your pardon, but who are you, sir?”

He firmly took her hand and unbuttoned, then stripped off, one glove, casting it aside. “I could ask the same of you, but there are more pressing concerns. I surmise from the blood on you that someone is in trouble. What happened? Did your carriage overturn? Was there an animal attack of some sort? Tell me!”

He efficiently unbuttoned the wrist and stripped off the other glove as Anne reflected that he seemed well versed in unclothing a female. “I beg your pardon?” Her head swam. How odd, she thought, putting one trembling hand to her forehead. The entrance hall, lit by flickering lamplight, whirled above her, and the chandelier, centered in an ornate rosette in the coffered ceiling, spun. She shook her head and took a deep, trembling breath.

“Shall I slap you?” the man growled, grabbing her shoulders in his large, naked hands.

“
Slap
me? How
dare
you say such a thing!” Anne cried, focusing on his dark eyes and well-molded lips. She tried to twist out of his grip, but he was far too strong.

“Good.” He gave her a little shake and released her. “I thought that would straighten you out. You have courage and are made of sturdier material than Lydia. You won’t faint. Now, tell me, what happened? And where? We must get some men together and help whomever ‘she’ is whose blood you wear.” He turned to the young footman who had just returned from his errands and snapped, “Andrew, summon Lisle and one of the grooms from the stable and have them meet me outside the front door immediately. There’s a female in distress somewhere on the grounds who needs our assistance.”

“No, I fear not,” Anne said, her legs wobbly. Exhaustion and sorrow left her weak. She limped to a chair and collapsed on it.

“What do you mean, you ‘fear not’?”

“She’s beyond earthly assistance. I believe she expired just before I got to her.”

“
Expired?
” he exclaimed. “If you mean she died, then say so!”

Anne looked up at the assertive gentleman, examining his gleaming dark eyes, and said through gritted teeth, “Expired, died, passed away, gave up the ghost. She is
dead,
sir, in any vernacular or common phrase you wish to hear it.”

Unmoved by her stinging response, he asked, his expression skeptical, “Who is she?”

“How am I to know? I just this minute arrived. Even if I hadn’t and was acquainted with all of the inmates of this house, it is dark as pitch out there. I couldn’t see a thing. I could barely make my way here.” She slipped off her cloak and carefully laid it aside, bunched with her shawl, unwilling to examine the gore. A maid bearing a basin of steaming water bustled in and set it down on a table near her, then uncertainly stood a ways away.

He stared at her. “You arrived on foot? How extraordinary. Do you make it a habit to drop in unannounced on friends on remote estates?”

“That’s enough,” Anne said, rising. “
That is enough!
I will not tolerate this treatment. There is a woman out there dead, not more than five hundred feet away. Levity ill becomes the situation.”

“I was not being humorous but asking a question. I have only your word so far—a lady arriving alone, bloody, and disheveled—that there’s a woman in trouble. So answer me; do you make it a habit to visit unasked? And did you indeed arrive on foot?” His dark eyes gleamed, and white teeth flashed.

Big
white teeth…
the better to eat thee with,
as Perrault wrote. She felt faint. Wolves. The howl in the dark. A woman screaming, savaged. But no, there were no wolves in England. “No… no,” she repeated, regaining her voice. “I do not make it a habit to visit unasked, and I did not do so this time. Lydia summoned me, and I’m still lacking an explanation as to why there was no carriage awaiting me at the Staunby Post-house.”

“I would like an answer to that, too,” he said, turning to the young man holding Lydia. “What’s this about, John? Why would your wife invite Lady Anne and then fail to let anyone know about it?”

The young fellow gazed desperately toward the stairs that wound up from the entrance into the darkness of the next floor. “Where is Lydia’s abigail?”

“Never mind that right now. Lydia will recover, but the girl in the park will not, if we are to believe this… lady.”

Anne felt her hands curl into fists. “And who, sir, are you to question me?”

He met her angry gaze and, despite the awful situation, there was a hint of humor in his beautiful eyes. “I am the Marquess of Darkefell, master of all you survey,” he said, spreading out his brawny arms to encompass all.

Anne stared at him, drawn into his gaze by the hypnotic force of his fine dark eyes. She turned away finally and stared down at the marble floor. “Then it truly is your concern to find that poor girl. Find her, my lord,” she said, her voice cracking with sorrow. “I cannot bear to think of her out there alone.”

Grimly, he answered, “If she’s dead, then she’ll not know if she’s alone or accompanied. Are you certain she’s dead?”

Anne nodded. “Yes. Oh, yes, I’m sure.”

“Nevertheless, I’d like to find that out for myself.” Two rugged men came to the open door, with hounds baying and torches flaming. “Finally!” he growled. He strode toward them, pausing only to look back at Anne and say, “Am I to assume I should be searching in the park toward the road, my lady?”

“Yes,” she said. And then he was gone, and with him went all vitality in the room, for Lydia was still unconscious, and the fellow—presumably her husband, Lord John Bestwick—hung over her, the two immobile, like a marble statue of dying lovers. Anne limped to Lydia’s side and knelt by her. “Does this happen often?” she asked the young man.

He was gazing down at his wife’s pale face. “No… yes… only a few times. More lately.” He looked up. “Where is her abigail? Where is Cecilia?” he cried, a hint of desperation in his voice.

Anne stood. A cowering maid stood in the shadows, but that evidently was not Lydia’s abigail; a footman lingered near the girl, and she summoned him with a brisk wave of her hand. He moved forward, and she said, “Andrew, isn’t it? Has Lady John’s maid been summoned?”

“No one can find her, m’lady.”

“That is unacceptable. Someone else, then, to help her ladyship… the housekeeper?”

“I’ve summoned Mrs. Hailey. She was out in the kitchen garden, m’lady, but she’ll be here momentarily.”

“Good. And where is her ladyship, the marchioness?” she asked about Lydia’s mother-in-law.

The footman simply shook his head, unable or unwilling to answer that question.

“Well? Where is she?” Anne, accustomed to dealing with recalcitrant servants, would not be opposed.

“No one can find her, m’lady,” the footman finally said.

Anne turned back, knelt again by Lydia, and examined the young man. He was a stout, well-formed fellow, a bit fleshy for Anne’s taste, but solid and pleasant looking. “I take it that I truly was not expected by anyone?” she said. “I am, by the way, a good friend of Lydia’s.”

“My lady,” he said, with a nod of acknowledgment. “I recognize your name—you were engaged to her brother at the time of his tragic death, and she speaks of you fondly. No, my wife told no one of your visit.”

“How extraordinary.” Anne sat back on her heels and examined Lydia. A nerve jumped below one eye, and her breathing was rapid, not like one in a swoon. “And yet her letter was quite specific as to needing immediate aid. I sent a reply by Royal Mail before setting out myself.” The jumping nerve quickened. “She must have received my confirmation yesterday that I would be here today,” Anne mused. “I traveled by the supremely uncomfortable but swift Royal Mail, simply because Lydia’s plea for help was too pitiful to ignore.”

“Help?” He frowned up at her, his smooth, pale forehead wrinkling. “Did she say why she required help?”

“Ooooh.” Lydia stirred. She put one trembling hand to her forehead.

“Lydia, my darling,” her husband said, bending over her and tenderly brushing back a lock of hair from her brow.

“What happened?” she murmured.

“You fainted.” She stirred, and he put his hand on her shoulder in a quelling motion. “No, don’t try to get up yet.”

Anne watched with a skeptical eye. “Lydia, hello. Why did you not tell anyone I was coming? I had to walk all the way here from the post-house and had a dreadful experience on the way up.”

Lydia’s husband gave Anne a fierce look and shook his head.

“Anne!” That quavering hand touched her brow again, and she appeared bewildered. “I forgot to tell John that you were coming. It slipped my mind, and you see, I thought you were coming tomorrow.”

“Did you receive my letter?”

“Yes, but—”

“It was quite specific as to my arrival this evening. How could you mistake it?”

“I don’t know. I… ” She trailed off, and her eyes fluttered closed again.

In the next moment several things happened at once: the door swung open, and the marquess, carrying someone, strode in; Lydia tried to get up, and a heavyset woman bustled in with a vial in her hand. Anne’s heart thumped at the body in the marquess’s arms. A female form drooped, the modest clothing rent. Blood saturated the cloth, but worse, much worse, was the raw, ragged flesh at the neck. She had been savaged.

Anne stood as Lydia screamed and fell into another swoon. The housekeeper—for so Anne assumed the plump woman must be—rushed to her and aided Lord John to lower his wife back down to the floor, and Lord Darkefell’s steady gaze met Anne’s eye across the limp body in his arms. No hint of levity danced across his face now. His expression was grim and filled with fury, which she judged was not aimed at her but at the perpetrator of such a foul deed.

“The poor girl,” Anne said, swallowing back her revulsion at the gore. “Who is she?”

“Lady John’s maid,” the marquess said. “This is the earthly remains of Cecilia Wainwright.” With that, he strode through, across the hall’s marble floor, and directly toward some back room, kicking doors open ahead of him with one booted foot.

***

The next few hours were not as shocking as the first. Anne had been guided to her room, provided with hot water for washing and tea for drinking, and now she paced—albeit with a limp—wishing she knew what was going on. But the situation was complicated. She was an unexpected guest, putting the household to quite enough trouble without demanding information or making herself a nuisance, especially at such a time as this.

But finally she couldn’t stand waiting. She ventured out and limped downstairs. The house was a Jacobean villa, small in comparison to the usual interpretation of the style, but exquisite in design. Anne descended to the second level, where (she had learned from a maidservant) the family’s living rooms were located. Painted wood paneling lined all of the carpeted hallways, and portraits adorned the walls, with lit lanterns on sconces between. It had been modernized, Anne had learned in a letter from Lydia describing her first visit to her new home, by the dowager marchioness, Lady Sophie. It was not clear to Anne why Lydia and John didn’t live in the castle with the current marquess, since the man wasn’t married and didn’t have a family; but having met him, she could conjecture. Lord Darkefell was imperious and possibly unpleasant.

Anne ventured into a room that had been pointed out to her by a footman as the family’s evening parlor and found that Lydia and John were ensconced by the fire. A graceful woman of middle years stood by a table nearby. “Pardon me,” Anne said. “Am I intruding?”

“No, of course not, my lady,” Lord John said, bowing. “Come, join us.” He indicated the fireplace, where a cheery blaze glowed and flickered, warmth filling the wood-paneled room.

As Anne crossed the carpeted floor, the fellow continued, “Lady Anne Addison, this is my mother, the Dowager Marchioness Lady Sophie Darkefell.”

“My lady,” Anne said, offering her hand with a slight curtsey. The other woman briefly touched her fingers and then turned away.
Humph… some greeting.
“Lydia, how are you?” Anne asked, turning toward her friend, who was tucked into the chair with a robe over her legs.

“I should be asking
you
that, Anne, dearest, for what a welcome you’ve had!” The young woman held out her arms, and Anne leaned in for an embrace. “I’m sorry,” she whispered in Anne’s ear.

“For what?”

“For everything.”

“Nonsense,” Anne said, standing.

“I beg your pardon?” Lady Darkefell said, turning back toward her. “What is nonsense?”

Anne gazed steadily at the lady. There was something cold in the marchioness’s gaze, a lack of welcome, perhaps, or a hint of aversion at Anne’s appearance. Without her portmanteaux, the best Anne had been able to do was tidy herself. Her dress was still covered in road dirt, though her shawl and cloak had protected her dress from the worst of her awful adventure. “My friend was exclaiming at the poverty of my welcome, and I was saying nonsense, she must not apologize.”

“Well, if one will make unexpected visits, one must not expect to be greeted appropriately.”

A rush of anger kindled at the continuing misapprehension that she was not there by invitation. “I reassured her that an hour’s walk in the wrong shoes, nightfall, and the hideous discovery of a gore-besmirched body in the park was no mean welcome at all, and if she had devised it as entertainment, she could not have pleased me more,” Anne said. “That it was an awful tragedy was merely the sad conclusion to a diverting beginning.”