The Pleasure Trap (27 page)

Ernie grinned. “There’s a lady with him, a lady whose identity he doesn’t want anyone to know. I didn’t even get a glimpse of her.”

The maid looked baffled. “Maybe she’s a decent girl,” she ventured.

“Don’t be daft! You know his lordship only takes up with dashers,” and pocketing the silver crown, he sauntered off.

Eve watched as Ash arranged plates of soup and sandwiches on a card table he’d set up close to the fire.

“You still look chilled to the bone,” he said. “The fire will soon take care of that.”

He pulled up two straight-backed chairs, and she seated herself on the one he held for her.

“Fish soup and salmon sandwiches,” he said with a smile. “According to my old nanny, fish is good for the brain.”

Though she had little appetite, she picked up her soup spoon and made the effort to eat. He was trying to put her at ease, but she was bracing herself for more questions. Instead, he talked mainly about his place in Richmond and didn’t seem to expect a response beyond the occasional nod, leaving her free to dwell on her own thoughts.

Her mind drifted back to the quarry garden. Antonia could see into the future. She could sense all its possibilities and pitfalls, but she hadn’t foreseen her own death. Her gift was to help others, not herself, and in those last moments, as her life slipped away, she’d thought only of her daughter.

Things that she hadn’t understood before were beginning to take shape in her mind. Now that she knew the stories Angelo had published were her mother’s stories, she was seeing them with different eyes. The gardens were the gardens she’d dreamed about, only now she knew where they were and who owned them.

There were no tragic accidents. Messenger, or Angelo, had murdered his victims without remorse, and the ghosts who haunted those gardens did not want peace only for themselves. They wanted Messenger to be stopped.

Who would be his next victim? Nell? Lydia?

Impressions formed in her mind. She was aware of a ballroom, music, the French doors giving onto the terrace. She tried to bring the ballroom into focus, but all she could see were girls in white dresses and their partners whirling around the floor.

Her pulse began to race; her breathing was quick and shallow. Her heart felt as though a hand had closed around it and was squeezing it tight. That was where it would all end. That was what her mother wanted her to see. As soon as she stepped into the ballroom, she would know him. Messenger. Angelo. The man who had thrown her mother from the top of the quarry.

“Eve!”

She jerked when Ash’s voice invaded her thoughts.

“Eve! You’re falling out of your chair. I thought for a moment you had fainted.”

She opened her eyes wide and looked up at him. Worry lines creased his brow. He looked so clean and wholesome and as different from Angelo as day from night.

“What is it?” he asked softly.

“Dreams,” she said brokenly.

He drew her to her feet, turned her palm to his lips, and kissed it passionately. “You’re tired, that’s all. These last two days have been exhausting for both of us. There’s nothing wrong with you that a good night’s rest won’t cure.”

The gentle touch of his hands and the worry in his eyes brought the incipient tears spilling over. She cried against his shoulder, great heaving sobs that shook her whole body. She cried for her mother and father, she cried for Ash’s brother, for a young maid and an old footman whom she had never met. But most of all she cried for herself. She could not see a happy ending for her and Ash.

Her fate lay where her charisma led her. Angelo was her fate, or Messenger as she now knew he was. With her last conscious thoughts, her mother had tried to prepare her for what was to come. The nightmare would end with her.

Ash’s hands were running up and down her spine, trying to soothe her, but she couldn’t stop shivering. Suddenly sweeping her into his arms, he carried her to the sofa, reached for her glass of brandy, and held it to her lips, forcing her to drink from it.

When he set it aside, he said, “Don’t move from this spot. I’m only going to get a blanket to wrap you in.”

He was back in a moment with a quilt and a pillow for her head. Her sobs had faded to an occasional hiccup and she managed a husky “Thank you.”

Stretched out on the sofa, she watched as he cleared the card table and set everything in its place. He added more coal to the fire and stirred the embers to give off more heat.

He sank down on his heels at the side of the sofa and brushed back tendrils of hair that had fallen across her brow and cheeks. “What happened?” he asked. His voice was ragged. “What brought that haunted look to your face? Can you tell me about it?”

She gave him an answer she knew he would accept. “Reliving the night my mother died has been too much for me.”

What could she tell him? That she and Angelo were fated to embark on the final act of the play he’d set in motion when he’d murdered all those people? This was knowledge too deep for Ash to accept. Even she had trouble understanding it. But she accepted it. She never doubted that that’s how it would end.

He nodded sympathetically and kissed her brow. “Get some sleep. I’m going to read for a little while in front of the fire.”

“I don’t mind if you go to bed.”

“My bedchamber is like an icehouse. I’m quite happy to sleep in my favorite chair.”

She continued to watch him as her eyelids grew heavy and the warmth from the fire penetrated every pore. When he moved or adjusted his position, her eyes flew open, then gradually closed again. Finally, she slept.

Chapter Twenty-three

They arrived at the Manor in the middle of a domestic crisis. Lady Sayers and her guests had assembled in the music room and Anna Contini was holding the floor. Her stentorian accents blasted their ears, even before they opened the door and walked in.

“Intolerable,” she declared. “They should cancel the May Fair, or at least delay it to give me time to make other arrangements.”

Lady Sayers put out a hand in a pleading gesture. “But, Anna, dear, they can’t cancel the May Fair. It’s been the custom for centuries to hold it in the first week of May.”

She caught sight of Ash and Eve and quickly rose to greet them. Her look of relief was almost comical. “Lord Denison,” she exclaimed, “perhaps you can make Anna see reason. The village common and the Manor grounds have always been taken over for the fair. It’s not only a tradition. It was written into the charter granting these lands to the lord and the people of Kennington by royal decree.”

Ash nodded, though he was none the wiser. “What seems to be the problem?”

“My donkeys,” declared Anna, “and my sheep.”

“Sheep?” said Ash, his brows lifting. No one enlightened him.

Lady Sayers said, “They must be moved to make room for the fair, but Anna won’t hear of it. My own groom has threatened to hand in his notice if I stable the donkeys with my horses, and what he would do with the sheep, I have no idea.”

“My donkeys and sheep must be kept together,” Anna interjected.

The story came out in dribs and drabs. Donkeys and sheep, according to Anna, had a calming effect on each other, and donkeys were better than dogs at guarding sheep. It wasn’t as though she’d bought a whole flock. She’d started with six sheep, but three had newly dropped their lambs, so now her little flock amounted to nine. Twelve counting the donkeys.

“They know one another,” she went on. “They’re like a family, and one of my donkeys,” she added, clinching the argument, “is about to foal. It would be the worst kind of cruelty to move her now.”

Eve used the hiatus in the conversation to take the chair next to her aunt. Liza was silent, she noted, an unusual state of affairs for her. Eve looked at Ash and swallowed a smile. He looked as though he would rather be anywhere but here.

Ash shifted from foot to foot. All eyes were on him as though he were King Solomon. He cleared his throat. “If we don’t move your little flock,” he said to Anna, “the villagers will do it for us, and the law is on their side. Bailiffs may come, and they won’t be gentle. I’m sure we can find some kindly farmer to take them in for a day or two, at least until the fair is over.”

“That’s just it,” said Lady Sayers. “Dr. Braine has offered to take them, but Anna won’t hear of it.”

Anna’s tone was frosty. “His place is two miles from here. I wouldn’t see my little flock more than once a day. And they don’t know Dr. Braine. Though I’m sure he’s very kind, it’s not the same. My donkeys don’t trust people, and with good reason.”

Lady Sayers put a hand to her brow, Liza sighed, and Miss Claverley stared hard at the Persian rug.

Ash said, “Even if we get permission for you to leave them where they are, they would be terrified out of their wits when the fair gets under way. There will be crowds of people milling around, hawkers shouting out their wares, musicians, dancers. And,” he added with heavy emphasis, “a good deal of drinking. There are always a few rowdies at these events who are spoiling for mischief.”

Anna was silent as she thought this over. Finally, she said, “I suppose I have no choice. I’ll go and tell Dr. Braine that I’ve decided to accept his offer.”

When she left the room, a long silence ensued. No one seemed to know whether to laugh or gnash their teeth. Finally, Lady Sayers said, “Thank you, Lord Denison. That was well done. Anna is very sensitive, but her love of animals is too extreme. Sometimes I think she likes them better than people.” She added hastily, “But I truly admire her.”

Miss Claverley picked up her embroidery. “Anna,” she said, “is sensitive to any creature that has been hurt, whether it’s a person or an animal. I believe she loves Lydia and the boy who looks after her sheep as much as she loves her donkeys.”

She was startled when everyone laughed.

“No. I mean it,” she protested.

“Well, she doesn’t like dogs,” said Eve. “She told me to keep Dexter away from her.”

“Yes, dear, but if Dexter were hurt or had an accident, she would be devoted to him. So…” she beamed at the company, “what I say is that we should show our appreciation by moving her donkeys and flock for her. I think she would trust us to take proper care of them, don’t you?”

Lady Sayers made a halfhearted protest. There was too much to see to. Liza’s ball was coming up. The decorators hadn’t arrived to paint the walls and she wanted to be there to see that they’d chosen the right colors. The masons hadn’t finished pointing the bricks on the west wing, and she wanted their ugly scaffolding gone before the ball. None of this swayed the others. They had made up their minds to help Anna, and her ladyship gave in when she saw that she was in the minority.

Things worked out for Anna better than expected. Not only had Dr. Braine offered to shelter her little flock but, on hearing of Anna’s reservations, his mother invited both Anna and Lydia to stay over at Hill House until the fair was over. Then Anna could visit with her donkeys as often as she liked and still keep an eye on her friend.

The following morning, when they assembled in the courtyard, Anna cast a measuring eye over her volunteers. They were making a hen party of the event, except for Neil. Ash had excused himself on a flimsy pretext, which, Anna told Eve privately, relieved her mind. Neil was afraid of men.

“Too many people,” Anna observed, and immediately cut her novice shepherds to the most able bodied of the company.

Lady Sayers, Miss Claverley, and Lydia went ahead in the comfort of Lady Sayers’s coach, while the others put on stout walking shoes and scraped together a collection of makeshift shepherd’s staffs.

Anna’s boy—as they were coming to call Nell—was a little apart from the others, a cap pulled low on his brow. He didn’t speak to anyone, and only Anna spoke to him. It seemed to Eve that everyone was in on their secret and took their cue from Anna.

It was hot, but not too hot for the long walk or herding the sheep, and Anna kept them entertained with a running commentary on the three donkeys she had rescued—Faith, Fanny, and Fiona. Eve was deeply impressed by the bond Anna had established with her little troop. They were affectionate creatures and brayed softly whenever she scratched their ears. There were no goads to prod them. Anna wouldn’t have allowed it. Where she and her boy led, her little flock followed. Poor Dexter had to be left behind. He was too hale and hearty, too much of a dog, to be included in Anna’s little infirmary of lost souls.

Eve knew that there were clouds on the horizon that the naked eye could not see. She knew he was out there somewhere, waiting his chance, but she had the advantage of him. She could read his mind. This nerve-racking state of affairs would not go on for much longer, for she had devised a scheme to lure him into the open. It was too late to turn back, and when he came for her, she would be ready.

She pushed the thought to the back of her mind. The danger wasn’t imminent, and it was a glorious morning. She intended to enjoy every minute of it.

She plodded on and deliberately opened her mind to the sounds and sensations around her. No surprises here. She received nothing but vague impressions, just what any normal person would pick up with a modicum of intuition. Liza was grumpy because she’d thought she was going to have the doctor all to herself, until Lydia was invited to stay on at Hill House. Anna’s laughter betrayed her happiness. She hadn’t known she had friends beyond her little band of animals.

Eve’s eyes came to rest on Anna’s boy, and her lips quirked in a secret smile. Neil made her very, very happy. Her little runaway was becoming domesticated, up to a point. Eve could not remember a time when she felt so much in harmony with a group of people.

She breathed deeply. The shadows could wait. She was just an ordinary girl enjoying an outing with her dearest friends. This happy respite would end soon enough.

The interlude of harmony came to an abrupt end the night before the opening of the fair, when Ash barged into her room moments after she’d come upstairs to go to bed. He was waving a copy of the
Herald,
and he was white with anger.

“I couldn’t believe it when I read it,” he said. “You’ve written a story about the quarry garden. You’ve written about your mother’s suspicious death. And your name is at the top of the page as the author of this piece.” He slapped the newspaper on the dresser and came toward her. “What I don’t understand is how you managed to persuade Brand Hamilton to publish it!”

She kept her chin up and her knees locked. “No persuasion was needed. His editor jumped at the chance of publishing a short story by the celebrated Mrs. Barrymore. Now, if Angelo had submitted a story, I’m sure your friend would have let you know.”

“You’ve set yourself up as bait,” he roared.

She almost cowered under the force of his anger, but, of course, she’d been expecting a heated reaction from him when he read the paper, just not as heated as this. “It’s the logical thing to do,” she said.

Her appeal to logic did not sway him. He stood there glaring at her. She began to pace.

Turning suddenly, she said, appealing to him, “Forget about my charisma. I still say that Messenger is deathly afraid that someone is out to expose him. That’s why he attacked Lydia. Now he’s not so sure—No! Hear me out!”

When he closed his mouth and folded his arms across his chest, she gave a little nod of approval and picked up where she had left off. “Imagine his feelings when he reads that story about my mother’s death. He knows that Mrs. Barrymore and Eve Dearing are the same person, or if he doesn’t, he can easily find out. He’ll think I’m going to expose him. And who better than I? I know those gardens. I know what happened at the quarry. Oh, yes, he’ll come for me. All I’ve done is give him a little push—”

He drowned out her words. “He could just as easily turn his attention to your father. He knows those gardens, too. He knows Messenger, and you don’t.”

“My father is not a writer! He couldn’t have written those stories.”

“Ha! People change all the time. All I’m saying is that we can’t know what Messenger will do.” He stopped, drew in an angry breath, and let it out slowly. “What am I saying? You’re a Claverley. You know everything!”

The jibe hurt. “That’s not true. But I do know that this man has to be stopped, and this is the way to do it.”

“It didn’t occur to you to consult me first?”

“Of course it occurred to me. But I knew you could stop publication if I couldn’t persuade you to agree with me.”

“You’ve really thought this through, haven’t you?”

She’d hurt him, she realized, really hurt him. Chastened, she said softly, “Try to understand. I’m tired of looking at every man I see, trying to determine whether or not he could be Messenger. Is he the right age? The right height? Would he still have dark hair or would it be shot with silver? My mind is never at rest. There isn’t a stable hand or a footman here who hasn’t come under my scrutiny. And that’s not all. I put my acquaintances and friends to the same test—Leigh Fleming, Philip Henderson, Hawkins, Reaper—”

She stopped when he began to shake his head. “What?” she asked.

“Hawkins can barely write his own name, and the others are too young.”

“Well, of course, I didn’t really consider them, but you see what I mean? If this goes on much longer, I really will be crazy.” She took a step toward him and looked appealingly into his eyes. “Tell me the truth, Ash. If you were in my shoes, wouldn’t you do everything in your power to draw this devil out?” She put her fingers over his lips to stop his quick retort. “Think of Harry. How far would you be prepared to go to catch his murderer?”

He shook his head, but his rigid posture gradually relaxed and he gave a wan smile. “Point taken. But I insist that you follow my orders to the letter. Hawkins will be your shadow if I’m not here, and you’ll carry that pocket pistol you set such store by on your person at all times.”