The Spare (26 page)

"By way of Pennhyll Castle?" Sebastian said.

"Falmouth by way of London and Pennhyll Castle, if you can believe that."

"What ship have you got?" God, he could feel it all, the snap of canvas in a freshening wind, wood creaking, a ship splitting the water.

"The
Adventure
."

"Thirty-four gun frigate," Sebastian said.

"Captain at last."

"You deserve the post, Egremont."

"Thank you."

"Now, I hope you're staying for a good long visit."

He shook his head, smiling. "Not long, I'm afraid. We're on blockade in French waters. My Lord."

Sebastian wished he could smash the reserve between them. "Nothing's changed, Egremont. I'm still the same man who thrashed you at cards every night."

Egremont looked around him. "You live in a castle. The butler calls you 'my Lord Tiern-Cope.' "

"I'm still a sailor." He shrugged. "A sailor."

"How is your wound, sir? I heard at least once that you'd died of it."

"Fansher's looking after me."

His grin widened, looked more natural. "Must be nice to have the old man about."

"It is. Will you stay the night at least? There's a damned fancy party here tonight. And a severe shortage of dashing gentlemen."

"I left my things down the hill and walked up here." He grinned. "I wondered if I'd be allowed through the front door. Thought I might be sent 'round the back."

"I'll send for your things and for tea, too, if you'd like something to drink and a bite to eat."

"A meal would do me well just now. I've been traveling for days, it seems. And, if it's not terribly bold, I wouldn't mind a room straight away. I feel like I've not slept in a month. My Lord."

"Egremont," he said, "if you call me anything but Sebastian, I'll knock you flat."

He laughed. "You've done well for yourself, and I don't mean the title or the castle." He sat again, crossing one booted foot over a knee. "This suits you, you know."

"What?"

"Pennhyll. Living here."

"Tell me about the war."

"The
Glory
, I was first lieutenant there as I hope you recall, was on blockade most of the last year. Near Toulon. Not like you, sailing to hell and back."

"Much action?" He glanced at the corner. The Black Earl stood there, silent as the grave.

"Some." He grinned. "Enough prize money to ask Kate to marry me."

"Bring her here after you are married." He wondered at the invitation, for like as not he'd be thousands of miles from Pennhyll when Egremont got married. "I'd be pleased if you did."

"A kind offer, and one to which I shall hold you, Cap—Sebastian—when the war is over. Kate would much like it." They fell silent while tea was brought in. It was done with silent efficiency. All Sebastian had to do was lift a hand to signal his satisfaction.

Egremont stirred milk into his tea. Leaning back on his chair, he said, "You'll think I'm ripe for Bedlam, but I dreamed of you last night. We Welsh set great store by our dreams. Did I ever tell you my grandmother was a witch?" Egremont's mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed serious. "It's said my mother inherited the self-same talent. They had the second sight. Both."

"You, too?"

Egremont shrugged.

"Might have told me that before now. Could have come in useful."

"Kate's the one who told me certain dreams are sure to come true. Now let me tell you about the dream I've just had and be done with it."

"Go on."

"Three times I dreamed of you. Each time I knew you by your eyes. That uncanny blue.

"I dreamed of you in the chapel. At your side was a woman with red hair. The priest read the vows, and you were married and happy, Captain. Happy at long last." He threw up his hands. "There you have it."

"And you believe dreams are a portent of the future?"

"Kate would say I must tell you. You wore a tunic down to your knees, in brilliant blue and gold, as one of your fine ancestors might have worn."

"I take no stock in dreams."

Egremont refused to laugh. "She was so real. Red hair and curls like my Kate would kill to have."

Behind him, the fire popped, and Sebastian shivered.

"Red as a new penny, Captain. And very pretty, if I may say so."

"I've had my bloody fill of dreams."

Egremont reached into a pocket and drew out a thick envelope. "From the Admiralty, my Lord Captain." He held it out. "Command of a fleet, I'm sure." He grinned, looking much more like the man who'd been his friend and trusted lieutenant. "If Fansher's been looking after you, then no doubt you're hale and hearty. There's talk of an offensive, smashing what's left of Boney's Navy. If ever a nobleman were fit for command of a fleet, it's you. Perhaps I'll be sailing under your command again.

Sebastian took Egremont's packet, thick enough to be several commissions.
The Right Honorable Sebastian Alexander, Earl of Tiern-Cope
. His orders had come at last.

«
^
»

12:30
p.m.

Olivia slept until half past twelve. By the time she'd been to visit her mother, her stomach reminded her she'd missed both breakfast and luncheon. Wearing the only gown that remained to her, she left her sleeping mother in search of the others and something to eat. Twenty feet from the hallway that lead to the more modern wing of Pennhyll, Olivia's garter fell to the floor. Her stocking drooped around her ankle. "Oh, bother." She snatched up her garter and checked the hall behind her. Empty and silent as the grave. She ducked into the nearest room, a darkened salon with windows closed up so tight she had to leave the door ajar for light. Throwing the garter on a nearby table, she leaned against the wall and hiked up her skirt. From toe to two inches above her ankle, the stocking was silk sprigged with dainty pink flowers, the rest thick cotton.

Cool air whooshed over her, and she heard one of those strange noises to which Pennhyll was so often subject. Feet softly stepping, or someone sighing or metal parts moving. Her shoulder blades itched as if someone behind her stood poised to touch her shoulder. No one was ever there. Except, of course, in her imagination.

She smoothed her stocking and fastened her garter before going into the corridor. Dead center in her back, her skin pimpled. A finger reaching, touching her… right… there. A draft swept the hall, carrying a breath that sounded for all the world like a low reverberation of her name.
Olivia
. She checked the hallway. Nothing. No one lurking in a corner, no shapes half glimpsed in the shadows and still the footsteps echoed in her ears, the rhythm of conversation, murmuring. Cloth sliding against cloth.

My heart.

She clapped her hands to her ears, but the voice echoed as if it were inside her head.

My
love
.

"No."

Olivia.

Brilliant blue flashed at the periphery of her vision. Not behind her but in the salon where she'd been standing so that anyone passing by would see her with her skirts up to her thighs. The Tiern-Cope livery was green, not blue, so she hadn't seen a servant. No servant would wear a color that bright. No servant could afford the sort of fabric that held a dye of such a rich hue.

With a steadying breath, she peered left down the hall, then right. "Miss Royce?" The jingle of metal parts moving made a bell-like sound, receding with the source. "Lord Fitzalan?" The air stirred, carrying the scent of old leather and musty cloth and beneath that a tinge of something acrid. The itch between her shoulder blades flared into dread. She wasn't mad. She wasn't. "Hullo?"

Farther down the hall something shimmered, a trick of the light perhaps because the hallway remained empty. The sparkle of silver didn't fade. She squinted and for a heart-stopping instant she saw a man watching her from the shadows. The hilt of a sword rose above his shoulders. His hand rested on the belt around his waist. The bell-like jingle came from the scabbard moving against his chainmail shirt. She blinked, and the man wasn't there. "I am not mad," she whispered.

Someone touched her shoulder, and she let out a yelp.

"Olivia?"

She whirled. Her cousin watched her with those dark, dark eyes that always made her think of nightmares. When her heart started beating again, she said, "Leave me alone."

He took a step back, hands raised. "You called out. Besides, I'd like a word with you. More than a word, actually." Olivia shook her head, but he took no notice. "I know Tiern-Cope's spoken to you." He moved closer. "Dear cousin. Let's not beat about the bush. I've been to Far Caister, seen where you live. Used to live. You were never comfortably settled, but your situation is more dire than ever."

"I'll manage somehow."

"But you needn't manage at all. Olivia, marry me and put to rest the cares I see in your face. If you're worried about your mother, don't be. She'll have the best care I can provide."

"How kind you are, Hew." She swallowed the lump in her throat. What sort of daughter turned her back on an end to the disaster her life had become? Light flashed behind her eyes, momentarily blinding her.

"You belong at the Grange." He took her hands. "Cousin. Olivia. Do not worry. Let me take care of you. Even if you tell me no, I'll take care of you." His fingers curled around her wrists. With her vision only partially cleared, she struggled to keep her balance. "Dearest Olivia. Tell me your answer is yes."

She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. God in heaven, this was a momentous decision, life changing. Permanent. "I want Lord Tiern-Cope to negotiate the terms."

"Terms?"

"Yes."

She willed herself not to react to the tightening of his fingers around her wrists. His eyes flashed. "What terms could you possibly have?"

"A jointure." Her throat felt thick. Her scar ached, pinpricks of pain. "Set aside for me now." She swallowed hard. "And clear provisions for any children."

Hew's eyes narrowed. She rotated her hands, trying to loosen his grip. He was going to leave bruises. His mouth curled. "Do you imagine," he said, biting off his words, "that I will not take care of my wife and children?"

One last time, she twisted her wrists. "Hew."

He let go of her. "You insult me."

"What if something should happen to you, Hew?"

"I said I would take care of you."

"My father did not take care of my mother. Or me."

He opened his mouth to say something but stopped. He gave a curt nod. "I'll speak to Tiern-Cope." He reached for her again. "In the meantime, Olivia, let me assure you I am well pleased. We'll do well together." He took a step toward her. "May I kiss you?"

The man with the sword flickered into her vision. His hand went up, grasping the pommel of the weapon strapped across his back. The sound of steel coming free of the scabbard vibrated in her ears.

Hew touched her shoulder, bending toward her and then turning to look. "What are you staring at?"

"Nothing." The face from her nightmares filled her head. Fear and pain built in her so that she thought her body would shatter from the effort of trying to hold it in. His head dipped again, and she stumbled back.

"We're to be married." His eyes glinted. "I have acceded to your demands. Why shouldn't I kiss you?"

Her head swam.

"Olivia?"

She did not know which way was up. Her head threatened to burst open.

"Have you a vinaigrette? My God, Olivia."

She heard an echo of sound, a deafening clap that brought a scream boiling up. She tried to take a breath and could not. She could not feel the floor beneath her feet.

"Olivia? My God, what's the matter?" He clutched her shoulders. Some atom of memory transformed him into the face from her nightmare. Fear welled up as if it were happening all over again. She thrust out her hands and connected with his chest, rocking him onto his heels.

"Don't touch me." Her stomach threatened to turn inside out. Her head hammered so she could barely speak from the pain. "Don't touch me." The man in the shadows moved toward Hew, his sword out if its scabbard. He roared. She clapped her hands over her ears to block out the sound. The swordsman advanced, weapon raised.

"There's nothing there," Hew said.

The man brought down the sword in a deadly arc. She screamed, scrambling back.

"Olivia."

She ran and didn't slow until she came to a hallway that terminated in a multipaned window of thick, old-fashioned glass. Her breath rasped in her throat, but the dizziness and nausea eased enough that she stood steadier on her feet. She heard again the gentle ringing of metal sliding against metal. Musty air rose up with the same smell of leather and dust, an acrid undertone beneath. She whipped her head toward the end of the hall. At first she didn't see anything. The light shifted and swirled, and the swordsman materialized from the shadows. Gold and red emblazoned his tunic in a chevron against a cobalt background. The sword was back in its scabbard, strapped across his back. He was tall, with broad shoulders and dark hair, and he looked like Sebastian. Timed to the wind stirring the ivy outside, he vanished through the wall.

She blinked and walked toward the end of the hall. The stonework came to a point above the window, indicating she'd ended up in the medieval portion of Pennhyll. Ivy on the outside walls partially covered the window and filtered the waning light. Nearly all the window panes had some flaw or bubble that made the passage of sunlight a matter of unpredictability. What's more, clouds scudded past the sun and that same wind moved the leaves and threw irregular, flickering shadows on the carpet. To her right was a doorway, with a stone arch over the top.

"Olivia?" A distant voice. "Where the devil did you go?" Hew. Coming nearer. She bit her tongue, heart thudding like a hammer on an anvil at the thought of her cousin coming after her. Her stomach cramped, and her skull threatened to split. "Where are you, Olivia?"

A flight of circular stairs led downward, but no one had been here in ages. Even the air smelled musty and old. Cobwebs hung in one corner of the doorway; dust coated the stairwell. The light shifted behind her and cast a shimmering shadow on the stairs. Outlined in the dust on the stone floor was the perfect imprint of a pointed-toe boot.