Any Wicked Thing (38 page)

And then—nights of horror, the tremors from opium withdrawal so violent Cam had to bind him to keep him safe. The man nursed him, then provided him with a sequence of woman to prove to him that everything still worked as it should.

But it didn't. No matter how fetching the women were, Sebastian needed to feel dominant. The ropes and the blindfolds became essential to his release. Freddie had been the only woman Sebastian had taken under him with any semblance of normality, and even then, he knew he would always have her submission on the proper day.

“You need to put the past behind you,” Cam continued. “Maybe your Freddie can help you. She makes an unlikely femme fatale, but she seems to be your femme. Do you suppose you've loved her ever since you were children?”

No. He'd had feelings for Freddie, of course, mostly those of annoyance. Yet she was always there. Dependable. The fixed star of his youth that had very few points of light.

“I was always daring her to do things. To get rid of her. But she never backed down. She broke her ankle once because of me. I dared her to fly out of an apple tree at home. She must have been seven or eight. She wasn't very high up—I wasn't a total little shit. I had shown her sketches of angels with wings, you see, and told her she had some, too, but they were invisible.” He remembered her round blue eyes, solemn with wonder in her pudgy little face. “She fell to earth like a stone, but never cried.”

“You bastard.”

Sebastian knew Cam was grinning in the dark. “I was. She was like a burr caught in my breeches.”

“And still is, from what I can tell.”

True. Freddie rubbed at him in the most uncomfortable ways, prickling his conscience as he dared her to become his darkest fantasy.

It needed to stop. He needed to leave her. Keep her safe.

“It's all over, Cam, whatever we were doing with each other. You heard our argument. Now I can leave her in peace and gamble away my new fortune.”

“You never were much of a gambler, Sebastian. But Miss Wells is one risk you really ought to take.”

“No more lectures, Cam. I don't want the last words I might ever hear to sound too bloody much like a boring sermon.”

“Heaven forefend! Well, what shall we discuss in our last moments?” Cam asked, his voice light.

“Nothing right now. I'd like to go to sleep, if you can believe it.”

“Good Lord, Sebastian, it's still daylight and will be for hours yet.”

“I don't care. I'm tired. My arms ache. We'll wake up in the middle of the night and start banging away again. The castle will be quiet then, people more likely to hear us.”

“They'll just chalk it up to my ancestors and roll over. Damned inconvenient, these ghosts.”

“They'll be Freddie's problem soon. Shut up now, Cam.” Sebastian tucked an arm under his head and closed his eyes. He would be rich, or at least richer than he was, have a chance to get Roxbury Park to turn a profit and perhaps even make some wise investments. In a year or five, he might find some poor girl to marry him to keep Freddie forever out of reach.

P
erhaps Frederica had been silly taking a supper tray up to her room, but she was a coward, plain and simple. She could not face the men at the table this evening, nor could she do justice to her dinner. Tomorrow Sebastian and Cam would be leaving, and she would never clap eyes on them again. The castle would be hers, for good or ill. Her life would begin again, without Sebastian's insidious demands. His drugging kisses. His hands smoothing over her skin. His cock—

The silverware clattered as she descended the stairs. She needed to put the past weeks firmly behind her. He had shown her his true self this morning, and their affair was over.

She expected to find the kitchen empty at this hour, the fire banked, but instead everything was in an uproar. Mrs. Holloway was shouting, slamming pots and pans about, splashing water on the floor. Poor Alice cowered in the corner out of the way, twisting her apron between roughened fingers. Warren was scraping platters, parceling the leftovers into covered crocks, flinching every time Mrs. Holloway cursed. The other men seemed to have slunk away from the battle zone, leaving their half-finished dinners behind.

“Good riddance, I say! All that work, and for what? Bloody cheek, that's what it is!”

“Now, Betty, dear—”

“Don't ‘Betty, dear' me! Do you know the trouble I had getting that leg of lamb? Wanted to give him a nice last meal, and what does he do? Goes off somewhere with that friend of his without a word. I suppose when he comes in at midnight he'll expect supper all over again. Well, he'll not get it! He can have bread and butter and like it!”

Girding herself for Mrs. Holloway's criticism at her own uneaten food, Frederica set her tray on the table. “What's happened?” She stacked up the abandoned plates and brought them to the sink.

“Ice-cold dinner, that's what, but it was hot at nine effing o'clock like he always wants it. Two hours Mr. Warren waited upstairs, getting young Kenny to run back and forth with the food to heat it up. Not fit for the pigs now, it isn't. All of us down here, waiting on His Grace before we could relax and have our own meal. My stomach is in knots. I don't know why I ever liked that boy, truly I don't.”

Sebastian was gone, then. She didn't need to hide in her room after all. Frederica reached for an apron. “Here, let me help you clean up. I'm sorry Sebastian was so rude, but he's left now, and we can go back to the way we were.”

Warren cleared his throat. “I'm sorry, Miss Frederica, but His Grace has not actually departed as yet. His things are in his room, and Mr. Ryder's servants are still here. As are the horses and coach.”

“I'll be glad to see the back of Mr. Ryder's valet, too. All the tales he tells about those heathen lands. It's not right for an English gentleman to travel to such places. They can't be healthy.” Mrs. Holloway pointed a soapy finger at Alice. “Go to bed, child. And don't think because you're up past your bedtime that you can sleep in tomorrow. There's work to be done, like always.”

Frederica waved good night to Alice, then wiped a dish and set it on a rack. “I don't understand. Where could they be?”

Mrs. Holloway attacked a greasy pan with a scouring brush. “Well, we know the village pub is closed, so that's out. There isn't a gentry neighbor for miles and miles, and anyhow, the horses are still here. When they didn't turn up for dinner, I sent the men to comb through the castle, just in case the roof fell in on them somewhere. There's no sign of them inside.”

“And it's too dangerous to send a search party out on the moors at night, Miss Frederica. Not that I think they're out there. It's still raining. Why would they be outdoors on such a filthy night?” Warren asked.

Could they be making one last attempt at finding the treasure? “You checked the cellars? The dungeon?”

“That was the first place I told the men to look. I thought perhaps the duke and Mr. Ryder were packing up some of the old duke's reserves to take with them. There are still some fine vintages down there, and I know you don't care for spirits.”

No, she certainly did not, but she could see why people craved something in a crisis. If she had a tot of brandy to hand, she would not object. It was unlike Sebastian to be so thoughtless of the staff. Something was not right.

“You're going to rub the pattern right off that dish, Miss Frederica. Go sit down and I'll fix you a cup of tea. You didn't eat much, either. Why do I waste my time for a pack of ungrateful young people?”

“Where is everyone else?”

“I sent them off to bed,” Warren said. “If the duke and Mr. Ryder don't turn up by dawn, they'll be ready to search. It just seemed pointless to have them hang around. And Betty scared them half to death.” He winked at her.

At least there were six of them to look, counting Mr. Ryder's people. Of course, she would help, too, if she had to. “You're quite sure we haven't had some sort of cave-in today?”

“I haven't heard or seen a thing, save for the wind and the driving rain. The castle's been noisy all afternoon and night, Miss Frederica, and that's a fact. The Walkers are out in full force.”

“Nonsense, Warren. You know you don't believe in ghosts. It's just the weather.”

Mrs. Holloway set a cup of tea in front of her and sat down. “Poor young Kenny. All this has overset his nerves. Said the old earl is out and about looking for his lost gold.”

Sebastian and Mr. Ryder had stirred something up here, and now they were paying for it. While Frederica did not believe they were victims of ghostly revenge, it did not bode well that they'd disappeared and skipped dinner. They
always
ate. And ate. One would think they were still schoolboys.

What did she care where Sebastian was or if he was hungry? He was leaving tomorrow. She took a sip of hot, sweet tea. “This is delicious, Mrs. Holloway. I certainly appreciate you, even if others do not. And once my funds are released to me, I'll make sure your wages are never late again.”

The cook flicked a hand at her. “I'm not going anywhere. As long as there's a roof over my head, a bed to sleep in and food in the pantry, I'm fine.”

“About the roof. I know you made a jest about it, but I plan to tear down much of the castle. I won't be able to keep it in repair, and there will be less work for all of us.”

“It's a good thing the old duke is dead, then. He wouldn't hear of any alterations like that.”

Frederica sighed. “I know. I hope he doesn't join the Archibalds to haunt me. Warren, won't you join us?”

“No, miss, I'm off to bed myself, though I doubt I'll sleep a wink. Good night, Betty.”

“Good night, William.” Mrs. Holloway rearranged the caster set on the table waiting for Warren to divest himself of his oilcloth apron and leave the kitchen. Once he did, she leaned across the table. “I truly thought the duke would ask you to marry him. I'm sorry he didn't. Only proves he's a young idiot.”

“I don't want to marry, Mrs. Holloway. I'm content with my life as it is, really.” The lie tripped so easily from her tongue, she almost believed it herself.

“Men are the devil. You don't have to tell me twice. Mr. Holloway, God rest his soul, was a dreadful trial.”

Frederica remembered Mr. Holloway well. A friendlier drunk one couldn't find, so Uncle Phillip had endured him for the sake of Mrs. Holloway's excellent cooking. When he was sober, he'd been handy with a hammer and nails, but the castle had proven too much for his limited windows of productivity.

“Thank you for the tea.” Frederica rose from the table. “It's almost midnight. We all need some rest. I'm sure Sebastian and Mr. Ryder can fix themselves a sandwich when they get in.”

Mrs. Holloway sniffed. “I'll not waste a minute of my sleep worrying about them. Good night, Miss Frederica.”

Frederica took her candle back upstairs and changed into her nightgown. Warren was right—the castle creaked and shrieked tonight. Somewhere a shutter was banging in the storm. If the downpour kept to this level, perhaps Sebastian would not leave after all. If he came back from wherever he was to leave. She would take a page out of Betty Holloway's book.

But despite her best intentions, she lay awake in the dark, listening to the Walkers do their worst. It was impossible to sleep through the thunking, so being a practical woman, she got up to make the best use of her sleepless night. There were books to stack and furniture to dust. Curtains to shake against the rain-soaked air. Clothes to brush and hairpins to return to their tin.

After an hour of puttering, she was no closer to feeling Morpheus's beating wings. She picked up a book from her bedside pile, but was unable to concentrate on the words. The argument with Sebastian kept intruding, but he was leaving, so why did she care if he had the last word? He didn't care enough about her to spend any more time here, breaking their monthlong agreement. He had insulted her for the last time, but not before she'd disgraced herself like a petulant child. Sebastian brought out the very worst in her. She shut her eyes, remembering tackling him to the ground like a Shrovetide football player. Where was the fencer with finesse?

It was just as well he had ended it. Any more of Sebastian's insidious instruction, and she would be fit to find residence in the most exclusive whorehouse in England. She'd even heard its name once—Mrs. Brown's. So innocent a name for a place that was undoubtedly so wicked. She gathered the full name was Mrs. Brown's Pantheon of Pleasure, which was surely a mouthful. Some university students had made the pilgrimage to Yorkshire to see the famous scholar the Duke of Roxbury, and Frederica had overheard their conversation about it with the poor duke as they attempted to establish themselves as men of the world. Little did those boys know how little Uncle Phillip cared for London or the women that would be housed by Mrs. Brown.