With This Curse: A Novel of Victorian Romantic Suspense (2 page)

London, 1873

He was not a ghost. I was certain of it.

Very nearly certain, at least. The clean strong planes of his face were Richard’s, and the arresting pale blue eyes. The fine-boned hand that had swept his high silk hat from his head as soon as I opened the dressing-room door. The cap of bright chestnut hair that gleamed in the light of the gas lamp. And the quick painful bound my heart gave at my first glimpse of the tall, broad-shouldered figure, even before I looked into his face: all of this cried
Richard, Richard.

But he could not be Richard, for Richard was dead.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, and the familiar warm, rich voice was another knife in my vitals. “The doorman—Harris, is it?—told me that this was Miss Ingram’s dressing room.”

“She’ll not be here for another half hour yet,” I said shortly. I knew him now, and the bitter knowledge that he still lived when Richard did not brought a hot rush of anger to my heart. “You may return then, if you like.”

Those disconcertingly pale eyes were gazing at me with such intentness that a cowardly impulse urged me to shut the door on him and blot out that scrutiny. Had he recognized me? Or had the more than eighteen years since our last meeting aged me to the point that he did not know me? Eighteen hard years they had been, and perhaps I had indeed changed that dramatically. And for that, too, I resented this visitor’s presence. It was his family that had wrought the destructive change in my life.

Not just the family,
whispered the cold voice of memory.
The curse.

But he was speaking again. “In point of fact, it isn’t Miss Ingram I came to see.” He seemed to hesitate. “Am I correct in thinking that you’re Mrs. Graves?”

“You are,” I said. After so many years of owning to it, the alias was almost natural, but under that bright gaze I felt ashamed of the pretext, necessity though it was. But what could he want of me—the me that was masquerading as Mrs. Graves? “How can I help you?” I asked.

The lack of warmth or welcome in my voice did not deter him. “I’m Atticus Blackwood,” he said unnecessarily. “My father is Edgar Blackwood, Baron Telford. Perhaps I might come in and tell you my business?”

Grudgingly I moved aside, permitting him to enter. I noticed the pale blue eyes taking in the dressing room, and for a moment I saw it as he must have seen it: the walls and furnishings of a soft salmon pink, the graceful feminine touches of pastel-hued prints and cushioned divan, the skirted dressing table with enormous gilt-edged mirror—all selected to create a setting that would frame its exquisite tenant as perfectly as the great seashell did Botticelli’s Venus. But I was not the resident goddess, merely a functionary, and the feminine elegance of the room was at odds with my stark and stern appearance. My own domain could be glimpsed through the door opposite, which stood open just enough to offer a glimpse of the sewing machine.

A glance in the dressing-table mirror reassured me that I was tidy enough. My springy hair was subdued in a netted chignon, and my black bombazine dress, though unfashionable and severe in its cut, was free of the clinging stray threads and scraps that I seemed always to trail after me. Not that I felt any desire to impress my visitor, but I would have hated for him to see me at a disadvantage. His family had not robbed me of my dignity, whatever else they had taken.

At a nod from me, he took a seat on the divan, resting one hand on an ebony walking stick as he did so, and my eyes automatically went to his right foot. Possibly a stranger might not have recognized at once the deformity, so skillfully did he disguise it with a specially constructed boot, and his gait had seemed scarcely affected at all when he entered the room, but I remembered the brace he had worn in the earliest years I had known him, and how grotesquely he had lurched after Richard, unable to keep up.

He noted the direction of my gaze, and I quickly averted my eyes. It was not merely rude but quite improper for me to eye a man’s limbs. When I had known him before I was a bold, reckless girl who thought little of such proprieties—but time had taught me the danger of that. “What business brings you to me, Mr. Blackwood?” I inquired. “Are you perhaps seeking a modiste for your wife?” If he had not recognized me, I would not help him to do so.

A faint, wry smile touched his mouth. It was a handsomely modeled mouth, I observed with some surprise. But of course—it was Richard’s mouth. Strange, though, that every feature that had been handsome and distinctive on Richard had always seemed drab and homely on his twin brother. Identical though the two might have been in most ways, Richard had always been the one who took one’s breath away, dazzling and reckless and athletic; Atticus had been the wan figure in the background. To realize now that the difference had never been in their physical appearance but in their personalities was something of a shock.

“My wife,” he said, “is indeed the reason for my calling on you, but not in the way you suggest. I believe that you were once in my family’s employ, were you not, under the name Crofton?” I nodded shortly. “I gather you’ve been married and widowed since that time.”

“Neither,” I said, more shortly still. “When I took employment with Miss Ingram and began traveling with her troupe, I found that it wasn’t prudent to be known as an unmarried female. Becoming a widow has afforded some protection.”

The intent scrutiny relaxed. “Ah, yes, I see. Some men will refrain from making unwanted advances if the object of their interest is cloaked in the solemnity of bereavement. It’s unfortunate that you were forced into such a deception, but I salute the wisdom of it.” The smile again, more relaxed and cordial now. “I must admit, though, that your alias substantially delayed my discovering your whereabouts. I’ve been searching for you for quite some time now.”

“Indeed?” The thought made me uneasy. What further ill fortune was this family to visit upon me? My wariness must have shown in my face, for he was quick to reassure me.

“Don’t be alarmed, Miss Crofton—or do you prefer Mrs. Graves?”

“If you please,” I said, wondering if he had guessed that I had chosen the name for its similarity to the only place where I had known happiness… the same place that had destroyed it.

“Mrs. Graves, then. I’ve come with a proposition that I hope you will profit from.” The pleasant richness of his voice wrapped around me like cashmere, disorienting me; it was Richard who had spoken like this, so that every word sounded like an endearment. Atlas—for that was the mocking nickname Richard had given his brother—had spoken rarely, and then almost inaudibly. The years had lent him eloquence and assurance, and I found myself resenting him for it. These things had been Richard’s birthright; it was unjust that they should now have passed into the keeping of his unworthy sibling. If Fortune had been compelled to obliterate one of the Blackwood brothers, why could it not have been this one?

I ought to have been shocked at myself for so ruthless a thought. But it was not, I admit, a new one. In the terrible days and weeks after the news of Richard’s death had reached me, I had thought it sometimes:
Why Richard and not Atlas? Why take the paragon and leave the ruin?

“Pray go on,” I said, to stem the tide of bitter thoughts.

He folded his hands on the ivory handle of his walking stick. It was carved in the shape of a globe, and I wondered with a start if he somehow knew of the nickname Richard had given him. “My father is dying,” he said bluntly. “He suffered a stroke some months ago and is not rallying as he should. The doctors believe he has little chance of seeing out the year.”

I could not say I was sorry. Lord Telford had permitted his wife to throw me out of his house and into a world I was unprepared to navigate alone.

He continued, “In recent years my father has been much concerned with the future of the Telford title. In particular, it distresses him that I haven’t married. He professes to be aware of the quite reasonable objections a suitable young lady might make to my deformity—and the very real possibility that it might be passed down to our children—but he’s unaware of the other consideration that has prevented my marrying: the family curse, as it’s known.”

“You sound as if you do not believe in the curse,” I said, curious in spite of myself.

He shrugged, and I noticed again the breadth of his shoulders; I had remembered him as a spindly youth, but perhaps my memory of him had been colored by dislike, either mine or Richard’s. Or perhaps he had a tailor as clever as his cobbler. “My belief in it is immaterial,” he said. “It’s the fact that all of the marriageable ladies in my circle believe in it that presents the difficulty. And hence I come to you.”

“How do I come into the matter?” I said, startled. “I’m not acquainted with any eligible young ladies to introduce to you, if that is your hope.”

“This is my proposition.” His blue eyes, icily pale, were once again disconcerting me with their intentness. “I’d like to ease my father’s last few weeks or months of life by bringing a bride to Gravesend. If you will consent to be that bride, for as long as my father lives, I’ll settle on you a sufficient income to keep you in comfort the rest of your days.”

This effectively robbed me of speech, it was so unexpected, and perhaps to give me time to collect myself he continued, as calmly as if he had not just proposed marriage to me.

“My father’s condition is so pitiable that I cannot imagine the term shall be very long. Perhaps we might extend it by a few weeks after his death, so as to forestall the worst gossip—although of course there will be talk. We may wish to spread word that your own health is delicate, so that when you depart from Gravesend to a healthier climate it won’t come as a complete surprise.”

Finding my tongue, I said, “Your father would be disappointed that you chose a bride too old to give you children. You would do much better to find a younger, ah, confederate for this scheme.”

His gaze swept over me from head to foot, with a casual appraisal so like Richard’s that I swallowed hard. “I think that in less severe garb than your widow’s weeds, you’ll look not much older than you were when you were put out of the house.”

He had said it—voiced the great awkward unacknowledged fact of our acquaintance. And now that he had done so, I had a clue to help me toward an explanation for this bizarre visit.

“Are you attempting to make amends to me?” I asked. “Is that why I am the one you approached?”

“You are assuming that I haven’t already approached and been rejected by other choices,” he said, with amusement in his voice. “But yes, in fact, I have always felt that my parents were unduly harsh with you. You were little more than a child.”

“I was seventeen,” I said, stung, even though I knew I should accept his more flattering version of the past.

“Just so. Very young, very impressionable. And my brother would have made an impression on anyone.”

There was sympathy in his voice, and that smarted worse than anything he had put into words.

“Thank you for the olive branch,” I said crisply, “but I’ll leave it to another young woman of reduced means to help you in your current difficulty.”

“And what young woman would that be?” he asked wryly. “As I said, my deformity is a strong discourager of marriage. No bride wants a husband with a club foot, especially as the father of her children.”

This was indelicate but honest, and I was forced to respect him for confronting the unpleasant truth. In return I felt compelled to be equally honest, even though that meant being equally indelicate. “So you approach me, a woman too old to bear children.”

“That was not my reason,” he protested. “Your age is immaterial, Cl—Mrs. Graves. I wouldn’t expect you to bear lifelong consequences from a temporary domestic alliance. Our marriage would be in name only.”

Our marriage.
It sounded offensive coming from the lips of anyone but Richard. “How considerate of you,” I said icily. “But you seem to have overlooked the other objection: the curse.”

That made him blink in what seemed genuine surprise. “Mrs. Graves, surely you don’t believe in servants’ gossip.”

He regretted the words as soon as they were spoken; I could see his brow contract in a wince. But I said mercilessly, “You forget, Mr. Blackwood, I
am
a servant.”

“I sincerely beg your pardon. I meant no offense. Only—you must know the story to be nothing more than fantasy. You lived at Gravesend for years.”

“Yes, and see where I am now.” The bitterness in my voice was plain even to my own ears, and my hands had curled into fists. “Why shouldn’t I believe in the curse? Can you not see that I am living proof of it?”

“Proof? I don’t under—”

“I lost my love.” My voice was shaking now, and I dropped it to a whisper. I would show no weakness before any of the Blackwood line. “I lost Richard.” I stood abruptly, signaling an end to our meeting.

He leaned heavily on his stick as he got to his feet, but I felt no pity for him. “Please don’t reject my offer just yet,” he said. “Take a few days to consider it.”

“As inviting as that sounds, Mr. Blackwood, I don’t think there’s any point in discussing the matter further.” Three steps took me to the door, which I had left ajar, so I did not have the satisfaction of flinging it open for him now. Instead I stationed myself beside it meaningfully. His gait before had seemed almost normal, but now his bad leg almost buckled beneath him as he made his way to where I stood by the door.