Mistress (17 page)

Amelia sat down heavily on a chair. “So we were right. The first one was only the beginning.”

“I told you this would happen,” Otis muttered darkly. He went across the room to where Zoe sat and put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Blackmailers always come back for more. It’s the nature of the beast.”

“What am I going to do?” Zoe wailed. “I could handle the first payment and I suppose that I can handle a second. This blackmailer seems to be shrewd enough to keep his demands within reason. But I cannot continue to pay blackmail for the rest of my life. Sooner or later he will surely bleed me dry.”

“We’ll find the bastard,” Otis vowed. “And when we do, I’ll personally wring his neck.”

Zoe lifted one hand to touch Otis’s fingers in a grateful gesture. She looked at Iphiginia. “Have you discovered anything at all?”

Iphiginia sank down slowly onto a claw-footed chair. “I believe I have eliminated three of the men who played cards regularly with Guthrie eighteen years ago and who also move in Masters’s circle.”

“Which ones?” Otis demanded.

“Lartmore, Judson, and Darrow. I have managed to get into all of their studies or libraries and examine their wax jacks and seals. None of them appear to use black
wax. Nor did I discover any seals engraved with a phoenix.”

“They may have hidden both the seals and the wax,” Amelia pointed out.

“Yes, I know,” Iphiginia said. “Masters remarked upon that possibility also. But I searched their desks very carefully. In any event, we have no choice but to continue along this line of inquiry. The black wax and the phoenix seal are the only clues that we have.”

“They have got us nowhere thus far.” Zoe slumped back against the curve of the sofa and heaved a theatrical sigh. “I am lost. What are we going to do?”

“There, there, do not take on so, m’dear.” Otis patted her shoulder. “We’ll find a way out of this.”

Iphiginia refolded the note and contemplated the seal. “I wonder if Masters’s friend has also received a second blackmail note.”

Amelia frowned. “An excellent question.”

“I know nothing of the demands his acquaintance may have received,” Zoe muttered. “But I can tell you that I must act immediately. The note said that the money is to be delivered to the appointed place at precisely midnight tonight.”

“A cemetery at midnight,” Iphiginia mused. “How very melodramatic. It would seem our blackmailer has been reading some of Mrs. Radcliffe’s gothic novels.”

“Either that or he enjoys amusing himself in this strange manner,” Zoe muttered.

“Yes.” Iphiginia made her decision. “I shall deliver the money this time.”

Zoe, Amelia, and Otis stared at her in amazement.

“Absolutely not,” Zoe said. “Otis will handle it, just as he did last time.”

“You cannot possibly undertake such a dangerous task, Iphiginia,” Amelia said.

“Quite right,” Otis announced. “I’ll deal with it.”

Iphiginia raised a hand for silence. “The note specifically instructs Zoe to bring the money. That means the
villain will no doubt be watching from the shadows to see that his orders are carried out. He will expect to see a woman. If he does not, he may very well ask for ten thousand pounds next time.”

“Ten thousand pounds” Zoe looked as though she were about to faint.

Otis produced her vinaigrette. “Here, m’dear.”

“Thank you.” Zoe took a gentle whiff of the smelling salts.

Otis scowled at Iphiginia. “You cannot make the delivery. Someone is bound to recognize that little white carriage of yours and wonder what you are about visiting a cemetery at midnight.”

“Do not concern yourself. I shall be perfectly safe.” Iphiginia frowned in thought. “I’ll use a hackney coach and I shall pay the coachman to wait for me. I shall dress anonymously and wear a cloak with a hood that will conceal my features. If the villain sees me, he will assume it is Zoe.”

“But Iphiginia”—Zoe looked horrified—“it’s a cemetery, for goodness’ sake. At midnight, no less.”

“After a year traipsing about the ruins of Italy, I am quite accustomed to sepulchral ruins.”

“This is hardly the same thing as a visit to Pompeii,” Amelia muttered. “Zoe is right. It is much too dangerous.”

“Cannot allow it,” Otis said authoritatively.

“Nonsense,” Iphiginia said. “There is no danger. The blackmailer is hardly likely to murder the person who leaves the money. That would be rather like killing the goose that laid the golden eggs.”

Zoe looked aghast.
“Murder
. Dear heaven. I thought we’d at least established that the villain is not a murderer.”

“A poor choice of words,” Iphiginia said quickly. “What I meant to say was that there is no reason the blackmailer would want to hurt me.”

“I’ll come with you,” Amelia said.

Otis’s brows jiggled up and down. “So will I.”

“I must come, too,” Zoe said.

“No, no, no.” Iphiginia shook her head impatiently. “Impossible. The blackmailer might see the three of you and decide to make good on his threat to increase the demands. No, we must obey his instructions to the letter.”

Amelia frowned. “Why are you so determined to make the delivery this time, Iphiginia?”

“I am hoping to learn something useful,” Iphiginia admitted.

Zoe’s eyes widened. “Never tell me that you are going to try to observe the blackmailer as he picks up the money. I cannot possibly allow you to take such a risk.”

“No, of course not,” Iphiginia said. “I would not do anything so rash.”

But that was precisely what she intended.

Tonight’s visit to Reeding Cemetery might well be an opportunity to discover a useful clue to the villain’s identity.

At ten minutes to midnight the hackney carriage clattered to a halt at the fog-shrouded gates of Reeding Cemetery.

Iphiginia, dressed in an old nondescript gray gown and a long gray cloak, peered out into the darkness.

Tendrils of cold mist coiled around the tombstones and monuments that dotted the small cemetery. The pale glow from the hackney’s lamps penetrated only a snort distance into the fog. Iphiginia shivered as she collected the canvas bag full of banknotes and a lantern and prepared to descend from the carriage.

The blackmailer could not have chosen a more unnerving setting than this, she thought as she opened the door. It had clearly been a deliberate ploy to frighten his victim. She wondered if he had even been clever enough to predict the fog.

She stepped down from the carriage, hoisted the lantern, and looked up at the coachman.

“I shall return very shortly.”

The coachman’s face was heavily shadowed by the broad brim of his hat. “Ye certain ye want to pay yer respects to the dear departed at this unholy hour, ma’am?”

“I promised,” Iphiginia said. “It meant a great deal to the poor woman to know that I would carry out her last request.”

“She’s long past knowin’ if ye fulfill her bloody stupid request, if ye ask me. Well, go on, then. I’ll wait ‘ere for ye.”

“Thank you.”

Iphiginia walked to the gates of the cemetery. She was not certain what she would do if they were locked.

But the heavy iron gates swung slowly inward when she pushed against them.

Iphiginia stepped into the graveyard. She held the lantern aloft and tried to peer through the mist. The light illuminated the first row of tombstones.

Iphiginia pressed on deeper into the cemetery. She read the names on the stones as she went past.

An oppressive weight settled on Iphiginia. It sent an icy shudder through her soul.

Amelia had been right. This was a considerably different experience than a tour of the ruins of Pompeii.

But there had been no choice. Iphiginia knew that Zoe would not have lasted two minutes in this ghostly place. Her dramatic imagination would have been overcome by the atmosphere. She would not have been able to make the delivery and the result would have no doubt meant steeper demands from the blackmailer.

The yawning entrance of a large stone grotto loomed
in the fog directly in front of Iphiginia. The twin halves of an elaborately designed iron gate stood open. The dark, shadowed interior beckoned.

Iphiginia caught her breath and held the lantern higher. She had never thought of herself as possessing melodramatic sensibilities or an impressionable temperament, but this was very nearly too much, even for her.

The flaring lantern light picked out the name that had been carved above the arched doorway.

Iphiginia hesitated on the brink of the monument’s threshold. The lantern illuminated only the first few feet of the stone passageway.

A cold, damp draft seemed to emanate from the depths of the sepulchral grotto.

Iphiginia’s pulse raced so swiftly that it made her feel light-headed. Her stomach churned. The urge to turn and flee back to the waiting hackney nearly overwhelmed her.

She clutched the bag of banknotes tightly, took a deep breath, and walked a few paces into the grotto.

It was as though she were walking into a cave.

The darkness was so deep that even the lantern light appeared to weaken in the face of it. Iphiginia could see that whoever had built and dedicated the monument had spared no expense. The stone walls were heavily carved. The design was a strange combination of twisting vines and open books.

Iphiginia raised the lantern to read the words that had been engraved on one of the stone books:

The terrible groan of iron hinges sounded from the open mouth of the grotto.

Iphiginia spun around, a scream on her lips.

“No.”

She dropped the sack of money and ran for the entrance.

She was too late. A cloaked figure appeared briefly in the mist. The iron gates slammed shut. The ominous rasp of a key in a lock echoed down the passageway.

Iphiginia fought back terror as she raced toward the gate. “Wait. Please, wait. I’m in here.”

She reached the sealed gates just in time to see the cloaked figure disappear into the fog. She gripped the iron bars of the gates and shoved with all her strength. They did not budge.

She was trapped in the sepulchral grotto.

She opened her mouth to call for help. Surely the coachman who had brought her here would be able to hear her. But even as the thought occurred, she heard the receding clatter of carriage wheels and steel horseshoes on the pavement.

The hackney was leaving.

“Help me,” Iphiginia shouted into the dark mist. “I’m here, in the grotto. Please come back.”

There was no sound from the graveyard. The mist seemed to thicken at the gates of the grotto as though preparing to invade the interior.

A rush of anger overcame Iphiginia’s panic.
“Bloody hell.”

Then she noticed the small piece of paper lying at her feet. She bent down and picked up the note. The lantern light revealed that the missive was sealed with black wax.

“Bloody hell.” Iphiginia glanced at the lantern. She wondered how much longer it would continue to burn.

And then she wondered what Marcus was doing and
whether or not he had noticed that she had not turned up at the Sheltenhams’ ball.

Marcus stopped pacing the length of Iphiginia’s library when he heard the door open. He swung around to confront Amelia. She was wearing a nightcap and a chintz wrapper. Her face was pale and strained.

“Where the devil is she, Miss Farley? And before you answer, you had better know that I am in no mood for lies. Iphiginia was to meet me at one o’clock at the Sheltenhams’. It is now nearly two.”

“My lord, I will not claim to be your greatest supporter, but I do believe I am rather glad to see you tonight.” Amelia closed the door and walked into the room. She glanced at the tall clock. “I have been growing increasingly anxious since midnight.”

“Anxious about what?” Marcus clenched his fingers around the edge of the marble mantel. The disturbing sensation he had begun to experience sometime during the past hour was riding him hard now. Something was wrong.

“It is Iphiginia, my lord. I am very worried.”

“What is she about this time? If you tell me that she has taken it into her head to explore some other man’s study in search of black wax and a phoenix seal, I vow I will not be responsible for my actions. I have had enough of her reckless ways.”

Amelia clutched the lapels of her prim wrapper and regarded Marcus with somber eyes. “She is at Reeding Cemetery.”

Marcus stared at her, dumbfounded. “A cemetery? At this hour? For God’s sake, why?”

“Lady Guthrie received another blackmail note.”

“Damn it to hell.”

“The instructions were to leave the money at a new sepulchral monument in Reeding Cemetery. Iphiginia undertook to carry out the task in her aunt’s place.”

Marcus felt as if he had just stepped off a cliff. For an instant raw fear gripped his gut. And then rage swept through him. “How did she dare to do something like this without telling me?”

“Iphiginia knows that you do not trust her. Why should she trust you with all of her secrets?”

“She goes too far this time.” Marcus strode toward the door.

“My lord, where are you going?”

“Where do you think I’m going? Reeding Cemetery.”

“Thank you,” Amelia whispered. “I have been so concerned.”

“Save your thanks. I doubt that Iphiginia will be glad to see me. In my present mood, I am bound to prove even less amusing company for her than the ghosts in the cemetery.”