Lord Satan (16 page)

Libbetty roamed the corridors of Cauldreigh Castle, almost
forgetting that she was “It” in the game of hide-and-seek. No sounds reached
her from the players, and this opportunity to look around The Castle was
precisely what she had sought when she and Alonso sneaked in some weeks before.

How to search for clues, though, without being caught? She
could not risk a repeat of her frightening experience, being captured by Lord
Neil. However, she could memorize the layout of The Castle as she searched for
spots where players might hide, and discover where Jonathan Colton’s and Lord
Neil’s bedchambers were. Then she could hide there when her turn as It was
completed. The plan was risky, but it could result in finding proof of the
miscreant’s guilt.

Still, as she walked the corridors alone, Libbetty’s spine
prickled. The Castle had an ominous atmosphere and no lack of secret niches in
which to hide—or for danger to sneak.

Just as on her previous incursion, candles glimmered in
brass sconces set at intervals in the walls, casting alternating patches of
bright light and shadowy darkness. At every turning of the corridor and
irregularity of the plastered walls, the flickering light failed to penetrate.
Here and there, under a massive, medieval-appearing table or in the lee of a
huge chest, gloom pooled forebodingly.

Surely she was near the room where she and Edwina had
“refreshed” themselves on the occasion of her first official call at The
Castle. Cauldreigh’s suite loomed just ahead. Did Lord Neil have rooms close
by his nephew? What about the other guests? No parts of the modern wing had
been declared off limits for the game. She opened several doors, peeking into
the chambers.

They appeared to be the bedchambers of the guests from
London. Would Mr. Colton’s chamber be one of these? She ventured in,
undertaking a swift search for articles which identified the occupants,
pretending she was looking for hiders in the game.

It appeared the maids had tidied the rooms, as little in the
way of personal effects was visible. How could she identify who occupied the
rooms? One was clearly a lady’s chamber, presumably either Mrs. Dalrymple’s or
Miss Clark’s. Libbetty could not violate their privacy by entering.

The others, however—she needed time to look around more
thoroughly. But, as she opened one door, she heard low-voiced whispers and
rustling, then a giggle. Libbetty stepped in.

The bedchamber was made up as for a guest, but just as with
the others, it showed no personal items or other signs of occupancy. A dull
green damask coverlet lay on the massive oak bed, with draperies of the same
fabric at two tall windows on the far wall. Brighter green satin swags
decorated the tester over the bed. Libbetty began to back out the door when
muffled noise and turbulent movement issued from behind the drapery at one
window. She strode over and grasped the green damask, revealing Irene Bassett,
her hand over her mouth in a futile attempt to stifle her giggles. “You found
me!” she shouted happily.

“Yes,” Libbetty answered, “and now you are It.”

Irene pouted. “I don’t want to be It. I’m too scared to
walk around this old Castle alone.”

“I found you, so now you have to be It,” Libbetty explained.

“You can find someone else.” Tears pooled in Irene’s eyes
and ran down her face.

How could she make Irene do anything she didn’t want to do?
The girl’s tears and terror dismayed Libbetty.

Irene stared at her hopefully. “If you find someone else,
he can be It, can’t he?”

“But I haven’t found anybody.”

“Francis is hiding behind the other curtain.”

“Confound it, Irene. You aren’t supposed to tell other
people’s hiding place. I told you to keep quiet.” Francis revealed himself
from the other window.

“Yes, but now that you are found, you can be It,” Irene said
with unassailable logic.

“You didn’t have to follow me in here. You should have
found your own covert.” Francis said aggrievedly, sounding no more than a
young boy to Irene’s perpetual little girl.

“I was scared to hide alone.”

Libbetty sympathized with her. She was nearly as
chicken-hearted, because her courage failed her at the thought of being caught
in someone’s chamber searching for clues. “Please, Francis, be It this time.
It is too much to ask of Irene to have to search all by herself in this huge place.”

“All right,” he agreed sulkily.

“Hurray!” shouted Irene, her usual sunny nature restored.

A while later, Libbetty passed along another hall, searching
for a hiding place. Behind her, slowly fading, excited squeals and giggles
from the other guests told their zest for the game.

No one had found Mrs. Dalrymple and Captain Forsyth after
the previous round, leading Libbetty to suspect the enjoyment in hide-and-seek
could sometimes be less than innocent.

In a corridor she had not entered before, she saw a huge old
oak wardrobe. With difficulty, she pried the door ajar and poked her head
inside. It contained nothing but cobwebs, one of which brushed against her
face, surprising an exclamation from her.

She almost closed the door and went on, but hearing someone
approach made her jump in and pull the door to. The door grated and stuck
slightly ajar. The little band of light piercing the blackness offered
reassurance and eased her shut-in feeling.

Seconds later the door creaked open again, briefly limning Lord
Cauldreigh against light from the hall, before he climbed in and pulled the
door tight, enclosing them in darkness.

“I am hiding here,” Libbetty hissed.

“I know. I watched you go in.” He made rustling noises.

“Find your own spot.”

“It’s much more amusing to hide with someone. You don’t
like being alone in the dark, do you? I know I dislike it excessively.
There’s plenty of room for both of us.” He moved closer to her, the warmth
from his body nearly touching her.

“If you do not leave, I shall.” Libbetty brushed by him.

His arms quickly clasped around her and held tightly,
preventing any further movement. “Let me go,” she squeaked.

Cauldreigh loosed his hold, but kept his hands on her
shoulders and whispered, “You don’t want to be found, do you?”

Libbetty recalled her plan to make Lord Cauldreigh fall in
love with her. With the recent drama, the plan had taken a remote place in her
mind. Here was an opportunity to see if he could care for her. “It isn’t
proper,” she demurred, but mildly.

“Ah, but you can’t expect me to leave when I’ve been waiting
this age to be private with you.” He gently exerted pressure on her shoulders,
turning her to face him.

She did not resist the pressure of his arms, with a shiver
half of curiosity, half misgiving. She smelled Lord Cauldreigh’s male
fragrance and felt the muscles of his torso move as he bent to kiss her. In
the dark he fumbled, finding the corner of her left eye, then her nose, and
finally her mouth.

The brush of his lips on her face briefly aroused pleasant
sensations in her. Then a maelstrom of emotion hit her—the feelings Lord Neil
stirred with every glance. No, she could not love Lord Cauldreigh. She fought
to break free. Briefly he tightened his hold, but as she resisted more wildly,
he released her.

“Oh, you are odious!” she exclaimed.

He laughed. “Do you mean to say that you didn’t enjoy that
kiss?” His tone expressed disbelief, and Libbetty’s cheeks burned in shame at
the calculation of her scheme.

“No, I didn’t,” she lied. “You surprised me. I never
expected you to behave so—so ungentlemanly. You are abominable, a snake in the
grass, a cad, a—a trifler. Let me go at once, you villain!” She groped in the
darkness for the door and threw her full weight against the unyielding wood.

“I’m sorry, Miss Bishop. I didn’t mean to upset you,
truly.” His hand brushed her arm. “Don’t leave, I’ll behave myself, I vow.”

“You are impossible. I would never stay here with you after
that—that display!” The door stuck fast, giving the lie to her words, and she
redoubled her efforts. Suddenly it yielded with a creak, tumbling Libbetty out
into the passageway and caroming her into Lord Neil, who stood just outside,
arms akimbo.

Her chin smacked his elbow—luckily padded by his coat, or
she would have bitten her tongue. She grabbed at him to regain her balance,
clutching a handful of sleeve, sprawled against him in a most ungainly way,
aware of the hard body under the evening clothes. For a moment she relaxed,
not wanting the touch to end, but immediately she drew back, heat spreading
across her face all the way to the tips of her ears. Libbetty glanced up
sidelong.

His smug and knowing expression confirmed that he had heard
all, or most, that had passed between her and Cauldreigh. She pulled away, trying
to make herself small, shaking inside. He unfolded his arms, grinning at her,
and clapped his hands soundlessly. “Bravo, Miss Bishop,” he said.

Her face flamed painfully. “You, sir, are no better than
your nephew. Anyone who would eavesdrop on another’s conversation is beneath
contempt.” She fled down the hall to the sound of his mocking laughter.

*

Trevor stepped out and leaned against the wardrobe in a pose
of studied nonchalance. “Hullo, Uncle Neil,” he said.

Neil restrained the strong urge to plant his nephew a
facer. “You had best take care,” he warned with no attempt at polite
sparring. “You could find yourself leg-shackled.”

Trevor shrugged. “I only kissed her. She no more wants to
find a husband than I to take a wife. She doesn’t have a matchmaking mama
guarding her every moment.”

How could Trevor react with such nonchalance? Elizabeth
might seem to tease and play the coquette, but she had no notion of the
passions she aroused. She was an innocent—her antiquated father had seen to
that. “Nevertheless, if you were caught together, it would damage her
reputation. You’d be expected to repair the injury in the only honorable way.”

“You exaggerate. Nobody would expect me to marry the girl
because of a kiss in a closet.”

“You don’t know how narrow-minded country people can be.”
Neil refused to ask Trevor what he felt for the girl. He knew Trevor had
carried on flirtations with a number of young ladies before taking up his
commission in the army, but Miss Bishop was a different matter. God, at the
moment he wanted to shake Trevor like the sulky boy he resembled. He turned
abruptly and walked away before his rage erupted. He had to remember how
unthinkable any connection between him and Miss Bishop would be.

If Trevor’s feelings for the girl grew serious, Neil would
step aside. But he would never forget how she looked this night, like a peach
confection.

*

Back in the small ballroom where the game-players gathered,
none of the other participants had yet appeared. Francis apparently still
searched. Or perhaps the next round had started, with another person as It.
In any case, she now had a chance to investigate.

If Lord Neil were not the person wishing Cauldreigh’s death,
Mr. Colton was the best candidate. She did not like to think that amiable man
could wish anyone harm, but she felt almost sure of Lord Neil’s innocence.

It was rumored Jonathan had financial difficulties. Perhaps
she could find evidence of this in his bedchamber. Duns from people to whom he
owed money. Or he might have a gun. She did not know which room was Mr.
Colton’s, but she had already found most of the guests’ rooms. She would not
allow her previous cowardice to prevent her from finding what she could. If
she were caught, she could claim to be searching for a place to hide. It was
an opportunity not to be missed.

She returned to the corridor where she had found Francis and
Irene and stopped at the first of the doors she had opened, recalling the
appearance of the rooms. Two had been decorated in a feminine style—no doubt
Miss Clarke’s and Mrs. Dalrymple’s. Which ones were they? That was just
before she entered the hiding place of Irene and Francis—another room
decorated for a woman, although there were no other female guests at The
Castle. Therefore, the first three rooms she had looked into must belong to
three of the four male guests: Mr. Colton, Lord Chester, Captain Forsyth, and
Sir Rodney. But which three of them?

Jonathan was family. His chamber would be closer to those
of the other Colton men. She passed the doors she had opened earlier in the
evening. Then there was Lord Cauldreigh’s room. Across the hall and down just
a little, the room she and Edwina had used on that first visit. She opened the
next door.

A man’s room. Walnut paneling, a massive four-poster bed
with dark blue velvet hangings, a large walnut armoire against one wall.
Libbetty entered and shut the door behind her.

A masculine smell greeted her nose, spice and some woodsy
odor and another ineffable essence. She inhaled deeply and walked to the
armoire. As she opened it, the male scent strengthened. She recognized it
now. Before she could take steps to retreat, the entrance to the hall burst
open and Lord Neil stepped into the room. “Good God, what are you doing in
here?”

Jumping, she slammed her hand in the armoire door. Her
startled squeak changed into a yelp. Lord Neil instantly came to her, lifting
her hand and checking it over. He drew her to a table on which sat a pitcher
and bowl, and plunged her hand into the pitcher. Earlier it likely contained
hot water, but the contents had cooled enough to soothe the throbbing of her
battered fingers. “Does that feel better?” he asked. She nodded, though she
couldn’t contain the tears spilling from her eyes.

He pulled her hand from the water and examined it, touching
the fingers despite her wincing protests. “Not broken, I think, but it will be
tender for some time.” He picked up a discarded cravat from a nearby chair and
dried her hand. “You still have not said why you are in my room.”