Sea of Secrets: A Novel of Victorian Romantic Suspense (22 page)

“It isn’t a matter of taking sides, Herron. What I did, I did for you.” He said nothing, and, encouraged, I came nearer, until I knelt beside him; he made no effort to stop me. “We spoke of proof, do you remember? Of the need for something that would resolve your suspicions? Well, that is why I told him what I did. I broke your confidence, yes—and hated doing it—but it was in order to test him.”

A pause, while he digested this. “How?”

I explained the reasoning behind my ploy. “And he did not react as a guilty man would have, Herron. So you see, your fears were groundless. Your father’s death was not his doing.”

He was silent for even longer this time, and then he raised his head to look at me. “Did you tell him anything else?”

“Why—no.”

“You hesitated. What else did you tell him? What other pieces of my soul did you sell?”

I sprang up from my place beside him and put the width of the room between us. “I sold nothing,” I said, trying to keep my voice under control. “You have no right to suggest it.”

He gave a guffaw. “I have no right! You are the turncoat here, not I. It was my trust that was betrayed.”

“But I’ve told you why I—”

“Or perhaps you didn’t set out to peddle my secrets after all,” he said consideringly. “He might have charmed them out of you, as you did with me. He’s as persuasive as Eden’s serpent when it suits his purpose. Poor Ondine! Trapped by your own snare.” His voice turned harsh. “I ask again, what else did you tell the murderer?”

“Nothing else! Only—only that I feared for his safety.” I turned back toward him, holding out my hands in appeal. “That is all, I swear.”

“That is quite a lot, for someone who professed to love me,” he jeered.

“How can you doubt that? Oh, dearest…” In a moment I was beside him, reaching my arms around him, but he endured the embrace stiffly and without responding. “Herron, it is because I love you that I went to your uncle. I fear so much for you; I see how you brood over your grief and your suspicion, until they threaten to swallow up everything else in you. I am trying to save you from that, Herron. I can’t bear to see you destroyed by your distrust.”

“And my uncle?” From his voice I sensed that he was softening, but not yet persuaded.

I bit my lip. “I… Herron, I like him. I know what you believe of him, and I can even understand your resentment of him, but I had to warn him. My conscience would never let me rest if I had not.” This brought no reply at all; nervous, I rushed on. “It was as much for your sake as his, Herron: if he is on his guard, you will not have the opportunity to—to do him harm. I’ll not stand by and watch you become what you most revile. That much at least I can prevent.”

“Do you really believe that I would kill him?” The question sounded almost wistful.

“No,” I said, and in that moment I believed it. “But I didn’t want you to have to face the temptation.”

I held my breath, the sound of my heartbeats measuring the moments of silence. At last he sighed, and in that one long sigh he seemed to expel all his lingering suspicion and anger.

“I see,” he said. “I should not have mistrusted you.”

In a moment I felt his arms creep around me. A gasp of pain escaped me as he clasped my injured shoulder, but it was quickly forgotten in the relief and joy that washed over me.

“You can always trust in me, Herron. Always.”

He did not reply, but secure in the circle of his arms I was comforted.

* * *

When, much later, I retired to my room, I found that someone had left me linen compresses and a basin of water that must have been hot in the recent past. On top of the neat stack of linen rested a jar of wicked-smelling ointment and a note: “For your shoulder. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive a loose-tongued old man.”

I smiled at the gift, but of course Lord Claude did no less than he should to apologize for repeating what I had told him, as I had imagined, in confidence. With some difficulty, I unfastened the basque of my gown. How could Herron persist in believing the worst of his uncle? I wondered, as I made gingerly dabs with the once-hot water. He seemed determined to make him a villain, in the face of all evidence. Why, Lord Claude had been so sympathetic when I approached him…

…So sympathetic that I had forgotten my mission halfway through our conversation in concern for his own welfare. The realization was like a slap in the face, and I stood gaping stupidly until I found out I was dripping cold water down my back. I wrung out the cloth and put it aside. My cheeks burned at the memory of how easily I had been distracted from my design to “test” him. How could I have become so muddled that I lost sight of my entire reason for seeking him out?

But I already knew the answer. Unhappily, I remembered that caressing voice, the hypnotic tenderness. Herron had said it himself: his uncle was gifted with an almost uncanny power of persuasion. And I had fallen victim to it. I had let him make me his tool.

I muffled a cry: “No!” It had not been like that. Lord Claude was not that sort of person. Why, look at the consideration he had shown in sending unguent for my wounded shoulder. It was one more proof of how compassionate he was.

And how wise, pointed out a cool side of my brain, not to give me anything more valuable. Had he sent a gift of his usual extravagance, it would have looked as if I were indeed being paid for sharing my knowledge. But there would seem to be no dishonest motive behind the innocent proffering of medical supplies.

“And there was none!” I snapped at the mirror. Why must I see a dark motive now behind his kindness? Why must a charming manner be the mask and symptom of a corrupt heart?

Herron’s distrust was infecting me. That was what was the matter with me. He was so convinced of his uncle’s vicious character that he saw its blazon in every facet of the man, and his conviction had planted the distrust in me as well.

Miserably, I pulled off my dress and threw myself into bed. All the contentment of my reconciliation with Herron was destroyed. It isn’t fair, I thought childishly. At last I find a wonderful family who loves me, and I cannot even be allowed to trust that love—to trust them! Against my will, against all my efforts I was being forced to choose a side. I was heartsore for Herron’s troubles, but why, why did they have to poison my life as well? Why must he drag me into his private vendetta?

My last waking thought was a disloyal echo of Felicity: bother Herron.

* * *

Guests were arriving now in droves. Every day carriages deposited a steady influx of people, and the vast front hall was constantly thronging with servants carrying trunks and valises. More and more, conversation after dinner turned to the coming ball, which was to be the crowning event of the house party, and frequently the drawing room was the site of merry galops and waltzes for those who did not wish to wait until the great night.

Charles was teaching me to waltz; he had regained his strength to such an extent that he scarcely ever carried his cane any more, and in the afternoons, when the drawing room was deserted—or in the morning room, where there was another pianoforte—we would seize Felicity or Aminta and make her play, while Charles practiced with me. Sometimes Felicity, who loved to dance but was not old enough to attend balls, would partner me while Charles played for us, and we would as often as not end up convulsed with laughter in the confusion of deciding which of us was leading. Zeus added to the chaos by romping around our feet and barking his enthusiasm.

Once Lord Claude came upon us during one such session, and he wheedled us into allowing him to join in: I found that Charles had spoken truth when he talked of his father’s fondness for dancing. Lord Claude was a nimble partner and an enthusiastic one, and deftly swept me around the room. I enjoyed dancing with him, but I did not enjoy the doubts that seized me whenever I saw him now. Herron’s suspicions had clouded my trust, however slightly, and I was never quite able to enjoy his uncle’s company without being needled by misgivings.

Of Herron himself I saw little. At first I thought, with reason, that he was trying to avoid the onslaught of company, who would have accorded not at all with his desire for contemplation and solitude; later I realized that he was avoiding me as well. There were still evenings when he would seek me out in my study, but they grew more rare. He also ceased to confide in me. He spoke less and less of what was in his heart, although he brooded, if anything, even more. His silence frightened and depressed me. He was withdrawing from me, and I did not know how to fight it. He did not reject me, nothing so definite; but he was less giving of himself, more remote, and when he kissed me now it was without any emotion at all. In vain I urged him to tell me what I could do to make things right between us; when I spoke, now, he scarcely listened.

This much I did know: he still harbored a gnawing distrust for his uncle. My test had not convinced him—had even, I suspected, inspired him with distrust for me as well. I could not help but think that this was the cause of his new reticence, his drawing away from me. Even though he had seemed to accept my explanation, his behavior toward me changed from that time forth. If the truth were told, I clung to this explanation for his coolness. I could not face the possibility that he simply no longer loved me.

That he persisted in cherishing hatred toward his uncle was soon made amply plain—not only to me, but to the entire household.

“No music tonight,” commanded the duchess, perhaps a week after that dramatic scene in the drawing room. “I won’t have everyone wearying of dancing before the night of the ball. Tonight we shall have tableaus instead.” An excited murmur rippled through the room; evidently this was a popular pastime. “I give you an hour in which to choose your confederates, decide upon a scene to enact, and make your preparations. Jenkins and Mrs. Appley” (this was the housekeeper) “will be happy to assist you in locating whatever properties and costumes you need. In one hour, then!”

The company surged into activity, as groups formed and began to pick over ideas for scenes to enact. Charles and Aminta immediately seized upon me. “You must be in our tableau,” Aminta decreed. “I’ve had such a clever idea, although Charles thinks it silly. Where is Felicity? We’ll need her as well.”

“She seems to have been claimed already,” said Charles, and there was a note in his voice that made us turn and look in the direction in which he was staring. It was Herron who had drawn Felicity apart, and as I watched he also extracted grave Lord Pettifer from the crowd.

“I had no idea Herron would be interested in joining in,” said Aminta, with the same puzzled tone as Charles. “I wonder what he can be up to.”

Neither Charles nor I challenged the assumption that he was “up to” something. Herron had made it plain that he wanted no part of the festivities up to this point, persisting in observing mourning for his father. Indeed, he had been conspicuous every evening for his gloomy demeanor and his habit of sitting apart to watch the merrymaking with a cynical eye. I wondered if the others shared my misgivings at this sudden participation in the revelry.

I had no time to ponder the matter further, however, since we had to prepare for our tableau. Aminta’s idea was that we should portray the judgment of Paris; since we had lost Felicity, we whistled for Zeus and cast him as the third goddess. “Venus, of course,” Charles proclaimed, and found some yellow crepe hair to provide the spaniel with alluring golden locks.

Because of Zeus, the company had some difficulty in identifying our tableau when at last our turn came; Lord Montrose, still wearing his costume of Henry II from the scene in which he had taken part, did at least guess that our scene was taken from classical mythology: he declared that we represented Orestes being pursued by the Furies. But he may only have meant to tease his wife.

After the duchess and Lord Claude had guessed the correct answer and we had resumed our places among the audience, Herron and his group took their turn. One end of the drawing room was serving as the improvised stage, with chairs for the non-participants ranked at the other end. Footmen had brought in folding screens to mask the preparations from our view, and I wondered with some trepidation what would be revealed when the screens were put aside. Aminta leaned over and whispered, “Do you know what Herron plans to do?” and I shook my head.

“I know no more than you.”

In the event, we did not have to wait long. In a very few minutes the footmen were beckoned to remove the screens, and the murmur of speculation died away in expectancy.

The lights had been dimmed for effect, but the tableau seemed to leap out at us: Herron, crouching grotesquely and wearing a padded hump on one shoulder, was instantly recognizable as that paragon of villainy, Richard III. He was eerily convincing with his face distorted in an evil leer, one arm drawn up like a broken wing, as if withered. His gold velvet costume suggested medieval garb, although I was puzzled by the false beard he wore; had not Richard been clean-shaven? He bent over the apparently dead body of Lord Pettifer, who lay covered in a black pall, his hands folded on his breast. Light glinted off a saber in Herron’s good hand, and he slowly and deliberately wiped the blade on the funeral drapings, as if cleaning it of blood.

I knotted my brow, wondering what episode from Richard’s checkered career this represented. This could not be the murder of the little princes in the tower; but who?

Then Felicity entered, clad in mourning and pantomiming tears, to fling herself upon Lord Pettifer. Evidently she was his grieving widow. At the sight of Herron she started back with an expression of loathing, but he silently urged her to stay, kneeling and offering her the sword. He held it out to her hilt first across the corpse, with an ingratiating smirk; she seemed to shrink away, yet hesitated, half fascinated by him in spite of the hatred she should be feeling.

For I knew now what this scene was, and from the way others were nodding, I saw that they had recognized it as well. Herron had chosen to portray Richard at the moment when he wooed his future wife over the body of her husband, whom he had killed.