The Lady of Lyon House (15 page)

“I must be going now,” I said in a cool voice.

He smiled that diabolical smile. I blushed.

“You look like an urchin and try to speak like a duchess,” he said. “Don't look so offended and above all, don't blush. I abominate young ladies who blush. They think it coy and appealing, while actually it makes them quite unattractive.”

“You're incredibly rude,” I said.

“I also abominate men who mince and flutter over young ladies because they happen to have a pretty face. Your face is pretty, by the way. I'd like to paint it some time.”

“That's quite out of the question,” I replied coldly.

“Pity. It would make a good canvas.”

“If you will get out of my way, I'll leave now. I promise not to disturb you any more, Mr. Ashley.”

He grinned, stepping aside with a flourish of one long arm. “Any time at all, lass. Disturb me all you like, as long as I'm not working. Then I would probably hurl a paint box at you.”

He walked along beside me, taking great long strides. He was so very tall, casting a long shadow on the path. We walked through the orchard and passed Dower House. It showed signs of his occupancy. Smoke rose from the chimney and the front door was open, a beautiful rust-red dog curled in front of it. He lifted his head as we passed. He was an Irish setter and one of the most beautiful dogs I'd ever seen. He leaped off the porch and bounded up to us. Philip Ashley laid his hand on the dog's head, stroking it.

“What a lovely dog,” I remarked.

“I wouldn't go anywhere without Harrigan,” he replied. “One thing I want to say before you leave, Miss Meredith. You shouldn't roam around like this alone. It isn't safe.”

“It's perfectly safe,” I snapped. “Whatever could happen to me?”

“Suppose I was a rake with a taste for young ladies with blonde hair? I could sweep you off your feet and carry you away to a fate worse than death. Fortunately, I don't particularly care for blondes.”

“You're being absurd,” I said.

“On the contray, I'm quite serious.”

I looked up at him. His face was expressionless, the thin pink scar a disconcerting line against the tanned skin. He was serious. I wondered what his game was. It was perplexing, to say the least. He had followed me in the fog, night after night, and then he had come brazenly in to the music hall, sat at one of the front tables, making no effort to conceal himself. Now he had followed me to Devonshire, and he was warning me not to wander around alone. What was he planning? If he meant to do me harm, he had certainly had the opportunity. Instead, he was showing a serious concern for my welfare. I did not trust him. He was waiting for the right time, the right moment to carry out some scheme, and then he would be as ruthless as his demeanor suggested he could be.

“I seem to be getting all kinds of warnings,” I said.

“Oh?”

“Edward Lyon warned me not to go to the village alone.”

“Then I wouldn't go alone,” Philip Ashley replied.

“This is Devonshire,” I said crisply. “It isn't London. There are no white slavers lurking around every corner. There are no thieves or pick pockets or thugs waiting to ply their craft. The most dangerous thing I can think of is a bull getting loose, or perhaps catching poison ivy. I am eighteen years old. I am a full grown woman. I believe I can take care of myself, thank you.”

“You look twelve,” he said, “with that dirt on your cheek.”

I wiped my cheek angrily. He grinned.

“Now tell me about Lyon House,” he said. “Is your family staying there?”

“I have no family. I am visiting Mrs. Lyon.”

“I've heard a lot about her. I must call on her. It's the neighborly thing to do.”

“I wouldn't advise it,” I said crisply. “She doesn't like strangers, Mr. Ashley.”

“Unsociable?”

“Extremely.”

“So I've heard. I wonder why. Doesn't sound like the Corinne Lyon I used to know.”

“You know Corinne?”

“I met her once when I was a boy. My father knew her well. He sold her several valuable items.”

A woodpecker was pecking on the oak tree in the front yard, its scarlet head vivid on the gray body. The noise was loud and monotonous, and the dog barked at the bird and ran towards the tree. Philip Ashley paused to watch as the woodpecker flew away, scolding the intruder. The dog, sleek rust-red in the sunlight, ran around the yard in circles until the woodpecker had disappeared, then he came bounding up to his master, looking pleased with himself.

“I saw Mrs. Lyon riding down the road this morning,” he said. “Perhaps flying is a better word. She had a long green veil that trailed behind her. Quite an energetic old lady, isn't she?”

“Riding is her outlet,” I said. “You said that your father sold her several things. Is he a tradesman?”

He ignored the question. He seemed to be thinking about something else. A fence surrounded the lawns of Dower House and we had arrived at the gate. A chain was fastened from the gate to the first slat of the fence, and a rusty lock hung on the chain. I looked around in despair, wondering what I should do. Philip Ashley smiled, touching his lip with the tip of his tongue. He shrugged his shoulders.

“I have no key,” he said. “It seems to have been lost. I'll have to saw the chain one of these days. Anyway, it keeps peddlers away. I come and go through the back yard. There's a stone fence there, quite easy to leap over.”

He seemed not at all concerned at my dilemma. I felt another blush coming on, and I turned my face away, not wishing to appear coy or naive.

“Have you any suggestions?” I asked, my voice icy.

“Tea, perhaps? I could brew some up in a few minutes.”

“No, thank you.”

“You could come in and see my paintings,” he suggested casually.

“You're abominable!” I said.

“So it would seem. All my friends tell me that.”

I was furious with him, but I did not intend to let him foil me. I put my foot on the bottom rail of the fence and climbed up, tottering just a little. Philip Ashley made no effort to help me. He stood with his hands in his pockets, his head cocked a little to one side. I climbed over with as little awkwardness as possible, anxious to keep my petticoats hidden. I leaped to the ground on the other side of the fence, and as I did so I heard a loud rip. My skirt had caught on a nail and a great tear had parted the material, exposing great quantities of ruffled petticoat. I gasped, whirling around so that he could not see them. Philip Ashley laughed. He was still laughing as I ran down the road to Lyon House.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

T
HE PRESENCE
of Philip Ashley made itself felt very soon in the county. He was the kind of man who could never go unnoticed. He would either dazzle or terrify wherever he went. He seemed to do a combination of both in the village. He went there every day, and at first the villagers had been highly suspicious of the demonic figure who stalked down the streets. His tallness, his loose-limbed gait, the bright pink scar on the darkly tanned face all set him apart from the ordinary, and Molly said that little children had run from him at first. He bought painting supplies from the hardware store, set his easel up down by the river and began to paint. He had gone to the inn several times, and each time he had bought rounds of drinks for all the customers. He was very liberal with his money at all the stores, and this helped win the villagers over. Soon the very children who had run from him were sitting politely for him as he painted their portraits, holding the coins he gave them in their grubby hands.

Molly had seen him herself, and she was ecstatic in her descriptions of him. She claimed that the village girls were bedazzled, each trying to win his favor. Two of them had fought for the privilege of bringing his lunch from the inn to the spot where he had installed his easel. The much discussed Connie Brown, the voluptuous baker's daughter, had offered to sit for him, and Molly suggested that merely sitting was not at all what she had in mind. The arrival of Philip Ashley was causing almost as much excitement as the county fair, which was now being set up outside the village.

His presence was strongly felt at Lyon House. I had not mentioned my encounter with him to anyone, but Corinne soon had the news that the Dower House had been rented out. She was furious, particularly when she discovered that the man who had rented it was an artist—riff-raff, no doubt. She claimed that the old harridan in London hated her and deliberately let Dower House to the most unsuitable tenants, just to spite her. She was even more furious when the man had the audacity to call on her, presenting himself at the front door as though he were a friend of the family.

We were in the parlor at the time. Agatha Crandall was with us, her face just a little flushed from the alcohol she had been consuming. When the maid came in to announce the visitor at the front door, Agatha sat up alertly, watching Corinne with sharp eyes. The maid handed Corinne a small white card with Philip Ashley's name printed on it. She flew into a rage, telling the maid to send him away at once.

“Imagine the nerve of the fellow!” she cried.

“He says he knows you, ma'am,” the maid said timidly.

“Absurd! How could he possibly know me? Tell him to go away and not come back. Presenting his card like a gentleman! Send him away, girl. I have no intentions of letting such riff-raff in my parlor!”

“Don't be so hasty, Corinne,” Agatha said, her voice very sweet. “Some very respectable men paint now. Besides, he says he knows you. It would be interesting to see just how that could be possible.”

“It's none of your business, Agatha!”

“You may be making a mistake,” Agatha purred.

The maid was still standing in the middle of the room, a look of bewilderment on her bland face. Corinne whirled on her, her brown eyes blazing. “Move, you ninny! Do as I told you!” The girl ran out of the room, her face scarlet. Corinne sank back on the sofa, a deep frown on her face. Agatha Crandall stood up, her violet taffeta skirts rustling. She parted the draperies and looked out the window, watching the man leave. I could see him from where I sat. He walked down the drive with his arms swinging, his dark chestnut brown hair blowing in the breeze. He did not look at all disconcerted by the rude dismissal.

“He's very tall,” Agatha said. “Stork-like, those long legs. Come look, Corinne, Perhaps you do know him after all.”

“Don't bother me,” Corinne snapped.

Agatha Crandall let the draperies fall back in place. She smiled and patted her girlish curls.

“I think someone from Lyon House should extend a polite welcome,” she said. “The servants have been saying all kinds of fascinating things about the young man. Perhaps I'll pay him a call.”

Corinne looked up sharply.

“You wouldn't dare!” she said violently.

“But, Corinne, dear, I would. I am not bound to this house like you are. I can come and go as I please. I think it would be quite exciting to pay my respects. Perhaps he would like to paint me.”

She left the room, smiling enigmatically. Corinne sulked, her face set in a disgruntled expression that did not leave it all day. She was in an even uglier mood than she ordinarily was, and I stayed away from her. That night she and Edward closed themselves up in the parlor, supposedly to talk over accounts. I found that odd, as Corinne had never shown any interest in them before. They both wore grim expressions when they came out, and I could not help feeling that they had been talking about the new tenant of Dower House. Edward went over to the sideboard and poured himself a stiff drink. When he had finished it, he poured another, something I had never seen him do before. I wondered what could explain this strange conduct.

I thought about all this that night as I lay in bed. Philip Ashley appeared to be exactly what he said he was, a painter who had come here to paint. That was exactly what he was doing, and there could be no mistake that he was an artist of sorts. His quick sketch of my face had proven he knew at least something about sketching. He was painting down by the river in the village, and Molly reported that some of the canvases were quite good, although she was certainly no judge of art. If I had not known for sure that he was the man who had followed me in London, I would never have questioned his authenticity. He was a painter. He wanted to get away from the uproar of the city for a while so that he could paint in peace. That was understandable. Many artists preferred to work in the country.

The fact remained that he had appeared at the music hall every night, and after I told Mattie about it she sent me away. Now he was here in Devonshire, causing all kinds of comment, making no effort to remain unobtrusive. He had appeared shortly after the arrival of the two men who had inquired about me in London, the two men Bert had described. Edward Lyon had seen these two men, had recognized them and hurried me away from them. They had left the village, but Molly assured me they were still somewhere in the county.

Edward had seemed upset tonight, and Corinne was nervous. Agatha Crandall made mysterious comments and acted like the possessor of an important secret. All of this had something to do with me, some way, somehow. It was like a wheel, going round and round, destination unknown. I was at the center of that wheel, and the revolutions around me seemed to make no sense. I remembered the moments of fear in London, the darkness and the secret threat. It seemed incredible that it had followed me here. It was incongruous with the sunshine and flowers and apparent serenity of Devonshire, and yet it was here.

I closed my eyes, trying frantically to sleep. My mind was a whirl of questions, faces, images, all of them blurred together. I saw dark shadows closing in, and I heard words that were not clear. Over and over I saw one face, a face that would seem to explain this whole thing, but it was indistinct, the features blurred behind a veil. I felt sure that if I could rip that veil aside everything would be clear. I went to sleep finally, but it was a sleep filled with nightmares.