The Pleasure Trap (8 page)

Ash had had to clench his hands into tight fists to prevent himself from strangling the life out of his father. Harry in an asylum? Harry, who’d had a deeper knowledge of life than anyone he knew? There should be more to a man’s character than intelligence and ambition, and Harry’s childlike innocence shamed them all. When Harry died, a great hole opened up in his heart.

Ash had never liked his father. He was a cold man whose authority was practically sacrosanct. From that moment on, however, he despised him with his whole heart. But despising his father wasn’t enough for him. He’d wanted to punish him, so when the opportunity arose, he, the last Denison heir left standing, went off to war. There could be no greater tragedy for an aristocrat than to have his line die out if anything happened to his heir.

He’d been thumbing his nose at his father, but, strangely enough, the war was the making of him. His life as a soldier had been full of hardship and danger, and he had never flinched from either. In the worst of times, he’d never questioned the rightness of what he was doing. That kind of clarity came but rarely.

He took a long draft of wine as he considered how he’d spent the years after the war. He made no apology for the fact that he’d tried to make up for lost time. But pleasure was not his guiding principle, as Eve seemed to think. He rarely thought deeply about where his life was going, but now that she’d made him think, he would have to say that he’d come to a stand. What he wanted was the kind of clarity he’d found when he was a soldier.

And where was Eve Dearing’s life going? She had direction in her writing, but there was a conundrum here. She was quiet on the outside, but the heroines in her stories were adventurous women who were afraid of nothing. What was he to make of that?

The door opened and Ash’s personal manservant entered. Though he was young, no more than in his late twenties, his hair was silver. His expression was inscrutable, his manner was faintly respectful. He was the epitome of a gentleman’s gentleman. Ash knew he was lucky to have him. Many of his peers had tried to lure Reaper away, without success, and Ash had no idea why his manservant was so loyal.

Reaper said, “Do we go out tonight, your lordship?”

Ash looked at the invitations he’d selected and made a face. He shook his head, then thought better of it. “Wait! Send word to Hawkins that I want my coach and bays outside the front door in, say, ten minutes.”

“Where shall I say you’re going?”

“Richmond.”

“Ah,” said Reaper, and that one syllable was eloquent. He closed the door as he left.

Dusk was creeping over the city when Ash climbed up on the box seat beside his coachman. “I’ll take the reins, Hawkins,” he said.

Hawkins handed the reins over without a word. His master was wearing a greatcoat almost identical to his own, a coachman’s coat with a cape at the back. Hawkins knew what that meant and braced himself for a wild ride.

It wasn’t a long drive, no more than an hour, but as the dusk deepened, casting long shadows across the road, Hawkins reached for his musket and cradled it in one arm.

Ash shouted above the thunder of wheels and horses’ hooves, “Don’t worry, Hawkins. If we meet any highwaymen, I’ll run them down.”

Hawkins believed him. Indeed, Hawkins suspected that his lordship would welcome a confrontation with highwaymen. He had that reckless, daredevil air about him that Hawkins remembered from the war. In every charge, in every skirmish, Captain Denison was out in front, leading his men by his own example.

A mile from their destination, Ash pulled on the reins and gradually slowed his team to a trot. By the time they crossed Richmond Bridge, the horses were walking. The house was reached through an avenue of ancient limes that made a vaulted ceiling high above them. There were lanterns on poles to light their way, but the darkness was too deep, too intense, to reveal what lay beyond the watery glow of the lanterns.

When they reached the stable block, grooms came running, some pulling on their jerkins, others their boots. These surprise visits of their master were few and far between. As a result, his servants were invariably caught off guard.

Ash jumped down from the box, leaving Hawkins to see to the stabling of the horses, then he wandered off in the direction of the river. Everyone knew his lordship’s custom, and one of the grooms sent a stable boy to warn the housekeeper that Lord Denison was here and would be staying the night.

At the river’s edge, Ash halted. Memories of Harry filled his mind. Though Harry wasn’t like other boys, he’d found joy in small things—reading, listening to music, and, above all, playing in water. When Ash came home from the university, he would take Harry boating in the river or allow him to float, as long as someone was there to keep him safe from the current. More than anything, Harry had wanted to learn to swim. Ash had tried to teach him, but it was no use. Harry’s wasted muscles couldn’t protect him from the river’s ebb and flow.

In his whole life, Ash had never loved anyone as much as he loved this young brother who looked up to him as if he were a demigod. He wondered what Harry would think of him now.

His gloomy thoughts dissipated when he entered the house. His servants always gave him a warm welcome, fussing over him, anticipating his every need. That he spent so little time here made him feel guilty. He was torn two ways. On the one hand, he could never part with the house that held so many memories of his mother and brother. On the other hand, not all those memories were happy. His father had lived here, too.

He always made up for his neglect by spending the day with his steward, visiting his tenants, and ensuring that his estate was kept up to the mark. He had good people running things, though allowances had to be made for veterans who had a hard time adjusting to their new estate.

He did not consider himself a hard master, but if any of his servants tried to take advantage, they were shown the door. The army had taught him that discipline was essential or chaos would result.

When he climbed the stairs to his bed, his thoughts had taken a different turn. He was thinking of Eve Dearing, wondering what she would look like in crimson satin—and where in blazes had that thought come from?

Chapter Six

Eve knew that she was dreaming, but she could not force herself to waken. She was that twelve-year-old girl again, listening to the sound of her mother’s voice. Sheba was there, her great black head damp with rain.

Even in sleep, she could feel her heart pounding, taste the panic rising in her throat. She saw herself sprinting along the corridor to her mother’s room. She saw that the bed had not been disturbed, that the fire had died down. She saw her mother’s notebooks and sketches strewn across the table. She roused the servants, followed Sheba out the back door, and snatched a lantern from its hook to light their steps.

Everything rushed together in her mind, like flotsam in a tumultuous storm—her mother on the quarry floor, the servants dragging her away, her mother’s voice trying to impress on her to be careful. At the end, she saw the ballroom with the glass doors leading onto the terrace. Someone was waiting for her beyond those doors, someone…

She came awake on a panicked cry.

Eve gulped in several quick breaths, as though she’d been drowning and had just come up for air. When she had control of her breathing, she got out of bed and lit a candle from the embers in the grate.

Hugging herself, she sat close to the fire and thought about her dream. She’d always wondered where the picture of the ballroom and debutantes had originated, and now she knew. Now she remembered. It was the picture her mother had put into her mind in her last moments, a warning of things to come.

Why now? Why had the memory of that night come back to haunt her now?

It was her conversation with Ash Denison that had resurrected that memory. She’d told him about the quarry and she’d been thinking about it all night. It wasn’t a dream, it was a memory. Everything that had been vague before was now sharply etched in her mind. Antonia had given her a glimpse into the future, a warning of things still to come.

Gardens. Antonia loved gardens and would frequently make notes or sketch something that had caught her fancy. She was also interested in the fine homes the gardens set off. When it was permitted, Papa would take them on a tour.

This is a happy house,
Mama would sometimes say. Occasionally, she would grow quiet, shake her head, and say the opposite. Papa always became angry when Mama spoke like this. He called her superstitious, but the child, Eve, knew better. Mama had a sixth sense about such things.

Thoughtful now, Eve sat back in her chair. She’d asked her father about her mother’s notebooks, but he said he didn’t know what had happened to them. The night Mama died, everything had been in such confusion that the notebooks had been the least of their worries. They were supposed to have been sent on with her boxes, but Eve suspected that either her father or the fiercely efficient second Mrs. Dearing had destroyed them. Martha wouldn’t want any reminders of a former wife, especially one she regarded as a freak.

Suddenly conscious that her hands were clenched into fists, she deliberately relaxed them.
A freak.
Isn’t that what Ash Denison thought her aunt was? He hadn’t said the words, but she’d caught the look on his face when he’d turned away. Heaven only knew what he’d make of her crazy Claverley cousins if he should ever meet them. She wasn’t a true believer, but there were some things that defied explanation.

“Eve?”

She gave a start when someone rapped on the door. Quickly rising, she went to open it. Lady Sayers bustled in.

“A dreadful business,” exclaimed Lady Sayers. “Some poor wretch has escaped from the asylum, and one of the keepers is at the door demanding to search the house.”

“What?” Eve’s mind was still trapped in her memories.

Lady Sayers heaved a sigh and started over. “A woman has escaped from Bedlam, and the keepers and dogs are trying to track her. They think she may be in the house. I’ve given them permission to look everywhere except the bedchambers that are occupied. Well, I didn’t have a choice, really. There’s no need to upset yourself. This will only take a few minutes, but you’re to stay upstairs. I must tell the others.”

She was almost at the door when she turned back. “Eve, where is Dexter?”

Eve’s mind was fully awake now. “Perhaps he’s with Andy.” Dexter had the run of the house and Andy, the bootboy, looked after him when Eve was too busy. But Dexter always spent the night in her room.

Lady Sayers nodded and went out.

Eve’s brow knit in a frown. When had she last seen Dexter? She’d let him out before going to bed and told Andy to let him in. Then where was he? Had Andy forgotten?

She went to the window and looked out. Men with lanterns were brandishing sticks and beating at the shrubbery like gamekeepers rousing pheasants for the shooters. There were dogs sniffing at bushes, but it seemed to her that they had lost the scent.

“Poor wretch,” she said under her breath. Who wouldn’t want to escape from Bedlam?

There was a knock at the door, and when Eve answered it, a footman told her that she was wanted downstairs. Heart beating a little faster, she followed him out. Just inside the front door, one of the keepers had Dexter on a leash, and in his free hand he clutched what looked like a filthy stocking.

His face was red with anger, though he spoke civilly enough. “Is this your dog, ma’am?”

Eve looked at Dexter. Oblivious to the trouble he’d caused, he gazed happily back at her.

“Yes,” she said. “He’s my dog. Thank you for bringing him home. I hope he hasn’t been a trouble to anyone.”

“Trouble!” The keeper breathed in and moderated his tone. “I’ll tell you what your dog has done. He has taken this stocking,” he waved the article in question, “and laid a false trail for my dogs to follow. I’ve had to call them off.”

As contritely as she could manage, Eve said, “Did the stocking belong to the woman who ran away from the hospital?” When the keeper nodded, she went on, “I’m truly sorry. I’ll see that it doesn’t happen again.”

The keeper muttered something under his breath, unhooked Dexter, and abruptly left the house.

Eve lost no time in returning to her room with Dexter at her heels, then she sat on the bed and scratched his ears. His head was damp. “At least tonight we can be happy for that poor woman. If it’s raining, the dogs won’t pick up her scent.”

Her hand stopped scratching Dexter as she became lost in thought. A runaway from Bedlam was no laughing matter. The woman could be dangerous. But there must be a better way to treat these poor wretches than to lock them up in an insane asylum, then forget all about them.

She heard the tramp of feet as men left the house, then the sound of feminine voices outside her door. Lady Sayers’s voice rose above the others, telling everyone to get back to bed and that they’d talk about it in the morning.

When Eve slipped between the sheets, she left the candle burning. Dexter’s weight at her back was a great comfort. She listened as she heard the sound of the rain, no more than a whisper at first, then louder as the heavens opened. That would wipe out the woman’s scent so the dogs could not pick it up again.

She closed her eyes, but sleep would not come, and after tossing and turning for half an hour, she threw back the bedclothes and got up.

The unpleasant encounter with the keeper kept running through her mind. She wondered where the runaway was and whether she’d found a dry shelter and had enough to eat. She was torn two ways. Maybe Bedlam was better than letting her die of exposure or starvation. Who was she to say?

St. Mary’s of Bethlehem Royal Hospital. It was a grand-sounding name, but the name didn’t change what went on inside the building. Everyone knew that shackles and physical punishments were still the most common method of controlling the deranged. There were other more humane places of confinement, but they cost the earth. Only rich people could afford them. There were no influential patrons at Bedlam to protect the interests of the patients.

Eve knew one thing. She wouldn’t wish her worst enemy in Bedlam.

Her restlessness made Dexter restless, too. He was scratching at the door to get out. For once, she didn’t mind. The keepers and their dogs were long gone, and a short walk might clear her mind and calm her fidgets.

After lighting a fresh candle, she put on her warmest coat, pulled on stout walking boots, and draped a shawl over her head. Even in April, the nights could be chilly. Commanding Dexter to heel and cupping the flame of the candle with one hand, she left her chamber and traversed the long corridor to the door to the servants’ staircase.

Halfway down the stairs, Dexter sniffed the air, then scampered past her before she could stop him. What was worse, her candle went out. Feeling her way with one hand on the rail, she descended the stairs one careful step at a time. On the landing, she halted. It was highly irrational, but she couldn’t persuade her feet to move. Ears straining, she listened. At the very least she should hear Dexter whining to get out. There was nothing, not even the sound of his breathing.

The minutes dragged by. She had to talk herself into moving. In all likelihood, Dexter was devouring something one of the kitchen maids had inadvertently left out or something he’d pilfered from the slop pail, or perhaps one of the servants was still up, or…or…

The woman who had run away from Bedlam.

She went down the stairs as silently as she could manage and entered the kitchen. There was some light to guide her, a soft glow from the embers in the grate, but there was no sign of Dexter or anyone else. She lost no time in lighting her candle from the embers, then she turned and surveyed the room. Everything was just as it should be.

She wasn’t afraid. She didn’t want to call Dexter to her. The image of the runaway from Bedlam had become so fixed in her mind that her one aim was to do nothing that would frighten her off.

With the stealth of a cat, she flitted from room to room and found them in the laundry room. Dexter saw Eve first and gave a little whine, but he didn’t leave the woman’s side. She was huddled against the big copper boiler that heated water from morning till night for the exhaustive demands of Lady Sayers’s household.

When the woman saw Eve, she jumped up. Her eyes were wide with alarm; her breathing was shallow and strained. In one hand, she held a hunk of bread.

“Don’t be afraid.” Eve’s voice was as gentle and as unthreatening as she could make it. “I won’t hurt you or tell anyone you’re here.”

Her words seemed to make no impression. The eyes were still wide with fear.
She’s only a girl,
Eve thought, and she took in the threadbare gown mired in mud and the hair tangled with leaves and burrs. Her feet were bare and scratched.

She looked into those fear-bright eyes. “You’ve made friends with my dog. I want to be your friend, too.”

She didn’t know where the soothing words were coming from, but they weren’t having an effect. “My name is Eve,” she went on. “What’s yours?”

No response, but the girl’s eyes darted to the door behind Eve, and Eve wondered whether she was barring the girl’s only way out or whether the girl was afraid there was someone with her.

“I’m all alone,” she said. “Just Dexter and me.”

The girl was racked with shivers. Eve put down her candle, stripped off her coat, and draped it over the back of a chair. “Take my coat,” she said. “It will keep you warm. I promise, I won’t keep you here or tell anyone where you are. If you want to leave, you can go, but at least take my coat.” She removed her shawl, then her boots, and set them on the chair. “These are for you,” she said.

The girl’s panic seemed to have died down, but she was still poised for flight. “You must be hungry,” said Eve. “I’ll go to the pantry and get you something to eat. Do you like cheese? Then we’ll talk about what we’re going to do. I’d like to send you to my home in Henley—” She broke off and shook her head. She was rattling on before she’d taken stock of the situation. This girl had escaped from Bedlam. She could be dangerous. For all Eve knew, she might well be violent. Eve didn’t relish the thought of grappling with a madwoman.

But something else was at work in her. She was roused by her mother’s memory tonight and could hear Antonia’s voice telling her to trust her instincts.

When in doubt, trust your instincts, Eve.

That was how she’d chosen her first pony, though he’d looked like the runt of the stock. But Ginger had proved his mettle by winning ribbon after ribbon at every fair they’d visited.

Trust your instincts, Eve.
She did, but Dexter’s presence was an added bonus. Dexter would protect her to the death if need be.

The girl’s mouth worked. “Nell.”

Oh, ye of little faith,
thought Eve, and smiled. “Is that your name?”

The girl gave a tiny nod.

“I’ll get you something to eat, Nell.”

Eve left the candle on a table and slowly backed out of the laundry room. It took her several minutes to feel her way into the kitchen. Once there, she lit the candle on the mantel and got what she wanted from the pantry. When she returned to the laundry, the girl had gone, and so had the clothes she’d set out for her. The door to the side of the wooden tubs was ajar. Eve pushed it open a fraction and saw that it was the door to the coal cellar.

So that’s how the girl had got in. She’d taken refuge in the cellar and had been drawn to the laundry by the heat from the boiler.

Eve closed the door and was on the point of locking it when she paused. If the girl screwed up her courage to enter the house so that she could warm herself at the boiler, what harm was in that? She wasn’t dangerous. Nothing could convince Eve that the girl was dangerous. She was like a stray dog that had been abused by its master. The keepers at Bedlam had done this to her.

Dexter poked his nose into her palm. “I’m not angry at your friend,” she told him. “I’m angry at the world in general.” She let out a long breath. “Let’s give her time to get away. We can always go out later.”

They padded back upstairs. Eve went straight to the window and looked out. Nothing moved except the branches of the trees as the wind rustled through their leaves.