A Rose at Midnight (3 page)

It was no wonder that his wife turned to someone a little more prepossessing. It was just unfortunate that Jason Hargrove had happened to catch Nicky,
in flagrante delicto
it was rumored. A duel was unavoidable, but Nicky didn’t have to make it a killing affair.

Until Hargrove recovered or succumbed, all Nicky could do was bide his time in the country, out of reach of Bow Street Runners and the authorities. It wouldn’t have been so bad if this were his first duel. In fact it was his seventh, and if his bad luck held, it would be his second fatality. Even his more sober family connections couldn’t keep him from the consequences of his current misdeeds.

She’d told him so, too. She’d gone into great detail about his lack of manners and judgment, complaining bitterly about being evicted from her pleasant home because of his imprudence.

He’d simply opened one eye and stared up at her from his lazy perch on her chaise. “You never used to be such a prig, Ellen,” he observed.

“Did you have to mortally wound him, Nicky?” she responded with some asperity. “After all, you were in the wrong. Shouldn’t you have deloped?”

“And gotten my head blown off for the trouble? I’m not such a fool.”

“As a matter of fact, he did,” Taverner announced.

Ellen had jumped, startled. She could never get used to the fact that Nicky’s valet seemed to consider himself an equal, joining into any conversation that suited his fancy. Not that she didn’t try to treat Ghislaine the same way. But Gilly kept erecting walls as fast as Ellen tried to tear them down.

“What do you mean, he did?” she demanded irritably.

“He means I deloped, more fool me,” Nicholas murmured. “Every now and then I have a noble moment. Jason Hargrove didn’t choose to be amenable and accept the token apology. If I hadn’t ducked we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“You needn’t sound so surprised. I mean, you are supposed to be killing each other when you fight a duel, aren’t you?”

“Not necessarily. In Hargrove’s case I assumed he’d be satisfied with my apology, or failing that, first blood. Instead the man tried to murder me.”

“Murder you?” she echoed, confused.

“His first shot went wild,” Taverner offered. “Blackthorne bowed and turned his back, assuming honor was satisfied and all that rubbish. And then he shot again.”

“At your back?” She was aghast.

“At my back,” Nicholas said. “Not only that, he had another pistol in his greatcoat, and was reaching for that. I had no choice. I was fortunate his bad timing and abysmal lack of skill had saved me twice. I couldn’t count on that happening again.”

“So you killed him.”

“That remains to be seen. Last I heard he was still clinging to life with remarkable stamina. Don’t you know that only the good die young?”

“That accounts for your advanced age,” Ellen said with some asperity. “But what does it say about me?”

“Only that you might not be such a starched-up prig after all.” Nicholas was eyeing her with new, dangerous interest. “Maybe you should throw caution to the wind and stay here after all. You can’t expect to experience life if you don’t take a chance or two.”

“Don’t even think it.” Her voice was severe. “You’ve known me since I was in leading-strings, and you should have enough sense to realize that we shouldn’t suit.”

He didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “I wasn’t suggesting marriage, Ellen. I have no intention of getting leg-shackled, ever. That doesn’t mean that I can’t introduce you to a few more… physical pleasures.”

“Put a damper on it,” she replied, much pleased with herself. She wasn’t tempted, not even for a moment. Though she almost wished she were. “I don’t care what Carmichael says—I want you to leave as soon as possible. In the meantime, don’t cause trouble for my servants. Don’t harass the butler—he’s too old for your tricks. Don’t chase my chambermaids—they’re hard to find. And leave my cook alone!” This was said with unbecoming ferocity, and the moment the words were out of her mouth she knew she’d made a mistake.

“The famous female chef?” Nicholas Blackthorne suddenly looked a great deal less drunk than he had moments before. “I would have thought she’d travel with you.”

“She refuses to go. You keep away from her, Nicky or I’ll…”

“The only cooks I’ve known have been mountainous creatures, walking advertisements for their skills. I hardly think I’m going to develop a taste for lumpish ladies at this point in my career.”

“She isn’t…” Ellen had the sense to stop. “See that you don’t change your mind,” she said instead.

But drunken Nicholas Blackthorne was far sharper than she had hoped. “I take it your cook isn’t mountainous?” His voice was silky, dangerous.

“Leave her alone, Nicky. For once in your life, do the decent thing.”

She was shocked by the expression on his face. A sudden bleakness washed over the charm and attraction. “I never do the decent thing, Ellen. It’s part of my charm.”

“Nicky…”

“Shall I recite to you my sins? Maybe then, in your so conventional goodness, you can absolve me. Shall I tell you about the tavern maid who drowned herself when she found she was pregnant by me? About my mother, who wasted away when my older brother died, knowing that in me she had nothing left to live for? About the de Lorgny family, who went to the guillotine because I refused to help them? You know the family history—madness and evil abound. I could tell you about the boy I killed in a duel ten years ago. A simple boy, innocent, who had just made the grave mistake of losing his fortune to me at the gaming table and then accusing me of cheating. He was green, not much more than a child, really, and his family’s pride. And I snuffed out his life when I was too drunk to do more than notice. Shall I tell you more?”

“No, Nicky,” Ellen said faintly.

The bleak expression left his face, and he suddenly looked years younger, and alarmingly attractive. “And don’t think you can save me from my demons,” he said casually. “Other women have made that mistake, only to be brought down with me. Run away, Ellen. Tell your cook to keep safe in her kitchen, tell your chambermaids to hide in their attics, tell the fathers to lock up their daughters. The despoiler of virtue has arrived, and no one is safe.”

“Don’t be absurd, Nicky.” Ellen’s voice was gentle.

He looked at her then, and she realized the bleakness hadn’t left after all. It had simply settled in his dark, unfathomable eyes. “Don’t you be absurd, Ellen. Run away.”

She’d done just that. Run, without even bothering to pass along Nicky’s warnings. In Ghislaine’s case it would have done no good. Ghislaine never listened to warnings, never seemed to listen to a word Ellen said. It was a wonder they were friends.

She also, however, kept her distance from men, and from the world abovestairs. She allowed her mistress to be her friend, but only on her terms.

When visitors were around, Gilly remained in the kitchen. When Ellen was alone in the house with only the half-deaf Binnie for companionship, Ghislaine would join her.

If only she didn’t have this miserable sense of foreboding that leaving Gilly at Ainsley Hall had been tantamount to sealing her doom. It was ridiculous, of course. Of all the women Ellen had known in her life, no one was more able to take care of herself than Gilly. She had secrets, Ellen knew. Dark, terrible secrets, that put the shadows in her eyes and the little catch in her laughter. Those were secrets she wouldn’t share, not with anyone, even a friend who wanted to lighten the burden.

But those secrets would also protect her against the Nicholas Blackthornes of the world, and worse. Ghislaine had looked into the face of hell at one point in her life, and she hadn’t flinched. She’d make mincemeat of anyone who tried to harm her.

Besides, there was something to be said about an enforced stay at her brother Carmichael’s seat in Somerset. She truly liked her sister-in-law, Lizzie; she doted on her nieces and nephews; and, best of all, Carmichael’s best friend, Tony, was due for an unexpected visit.

She adored the Honorable Sir Antony Wilton-Greening; there was no other word for it. Thank heavens he was too indolent to notice. Or if he had, too kind to make fun of her. She’d trailed around after him when she’d been an awestruck child of eight and he’d come home from the university with her older brother. She’d talked his ear off five years later when she was going through her horse-mad period; Tony was an acknowledged whip and prime expert on all kinds of horseflesh. And she suffered through the agonizing, embarrassing pain of puppy love when she was seventeen and he danced with her at her first ball.

For two years afterward their friendship had been strained. Not because of him. Tony knew how to charm even the most recalcitrant of females, and woo them out of their sulks.

No, it was because back then she couldn’t be around him without blushing scarlet and stammering, and those impediments were so embarrassing that she simply kept away. She had watched him from the windows when he came to visit Carmichael, she had peered at him from across crowded ballrooms, she had scurried out of his way whenever she could. But at night, when she was alone in her bedroom, she dreamed such wonderful, impossible dreams. Dreams that made her blush even deeper whenever he was around, dreams that made her stammer even more. Positively licentious dreams, where he loved her with a manly passion and not a trace of his indolent ease.

She’d grown out of it, of course, as all adolescents, even the shyest ones, do. He’d helped, though she never knew whether he’d guessed her dark secret or not. But he’d continued to treat her with the same brotherly charm, teasing her gently, helping her through the trauma. The day his engagement to the gorgeous Miss Stanley was announced, she considered slashing her wrists. The next day she told herself she was well on her way to being cured.

Still, the friendship remained. There were things she could tell him that she could tell no one else, not even her brother. And she never had to worry about the stilted rules of society, or flirtation, or male and female silliness. Tony would never, ever want someone like her. Not when every single husband-hunting female of beauty and fortune had flung herself at his head for the last fifteen years. She could be at ease with him now without worrying what people would think. She was simply an honorary sister, and she refused to consider anything else.

It was still a wonder to her that Miss Stanley had cried off. How anyone could have rejected Tony was beyond Ellen’s comprehension, both then and now. But Tony had simply shrugged, smiled his charming smile, and said they wouldn’t suit.

“But why?” she’d been bold enough to push him, with the arrogance of her then nineteen years and her recent recovery from her passion for him.

Fortunately no one had been around to chastise her for her boldness. “Because, dear Ellen, she told me I simply didn’t love her enough. That if I had to choose between my horses and her, I’d choose the horses. Since she was absolutely right, I couldn’t put up much of an argument. I’m a sad case, Ellen. I suppose I’ll simply have to wait for you to grow up and marry me.”

She’d laughed, ignoring the very faintest remnant of a twinge. “I’m already old enough to get married, Tony. And I’m certainly not going to marry you.”

“Why not?” he demanded lazily, a mocking glint in his cool gray eyes.

“Because,” she said, “if I had to choose between my horses and you, I’d pick the horses.”

He’d shouted with laughter at that, and she’d had no compunctions about her flat-out lie. But she hadn’t lied about one thing. Tony would be the last man she’d marry. Simply because he’d never ask her. One never got one’s hopes and dreams handed to one on a silver platter.

She’d arrived at Meadowlands still feeling uneasy, but the word that Tony had decided to make a last-minute visit went a long way toward banishing her concerns. She hadn’t seen him since Christmas, and she’d missed him. She always missed him, terribly, but she judged it wise to ration her time with him. If she indulged too, much, she might develop a fatal taste for him, the way certain men develop an attraction for rum or gaming. Once accustomed to his presence, she might be far too unwilling to give it up. So she only allowed herself small doses, just enough to keep her spirits up.

She needed her spirits lifted today. No matter how often she told herself that things would be fine at Ainsley Hall, that Gilly could take care of herself, she still had this dreadful sense of foreboding. Something quite devastating was going to happen. And her comfortable, peaceful life was never going to be the same again.

“Such a to-do,” Mrs. Rafferty clucked, heaving her massive bulk onto one of the small kitchen stools. In another place and time Ghislaine would have watched in amusement, wondering whether the stool would withstand the assault. But not today.

“Indeed.” Wilkins, the elderly butler, harrumphed. “I don’t know about such goings-on in a gentleman’s house.”

Ghislaine managed to bestir herself. “Lady’s house,” she corrected faintly, because it was expected of her. “This is Lady Ellen’s house.”

The two other senior servants had invaded her kitchen, sending the junior staff about their business. It was late the next day, the staff had finished cleaning up after supper, and Ghislaine had the odd notion that the three of them were conspirators. They weren’t, of course. She had acted alone. As always.

“Even worse,” Mrs. Rafferty said with a disapproving sniff. “For that wicked man to die in his bed here is somehow… indecent, that’s what it is.”

Ghislaine held herself very still, the familiar coldness washing over her. “He’s dead, then?”

“No. Doctor Branford expects him to pull through, which is a mixed blessing as far as I’m concerned. Mr. Blackthorne’s never been anything but a trial and disaster as far as his family is concerned. Even someone as distantly related as Lady Ellen is affected.” Wilkins could look very dour, and he did so now. “It would do everyone a service if he were to quit this earth, but I’d rather he didn’t do it in Lady Ellen’s house. Think of the neighbors.”

“Such a mess, too,” Mrs. Rafferty said with a sigh. “Casting up his accounts all over the place. Gastritis, the doctor called it. Seems like an unpleasant way to die.”