Beguiled (18 page)

“You're not intruding. As you must know, when Jack was…killed, there were police about everywhere. The house was trampled. And then…friends try. They want to help you with funeral arrangements, they bring food, and you must keep up a facade of coping. Finally, when the activity is over, you have time to grieve alone.”

“Elizabeth, I'm very sorry for your loss.”

She studied his face with her bright green eyes. “I believe those words from you, Mark. You never dragged down a man because his beliefs were different from your own. However, before you come in, I must warn you—if I ever find out that the monarchy was involved in this wretched business, well, I will end up hanged myself, because I will seek revenge.”

“I don't believe any such thing will come to pass, Elizabeth.”

She offered a dry smile as she led him into the parlor. Her house was on the outskirts of the village. From here he could head for his father's lodge in the woods—and to the little cottage where he could confront Ally as the highwayman. Meanwhile, he had decided after his conversations with Eleanor Brandon and the housekeeper that it might be of importance to find out more about Elizabeth's whereabouts when Jack Prine had been murdered. Hudson Porter, the first anti-monarchist killed, had not been married. Tomorrow he would make a point of speaking with the man's housekeeper.

“Will you have some tea?”

“Thank you, no, Elizabeth.”

“I didn't think this was a social call.”

“Elizabeth, you weren't here the night he was killed, were you?”

She shook her head. “I was in London. We were invited to a party. Jack wouldn't come. He was convinced it was necessary for him to work. But he encouraged me to go.”

“And what about your housekeeper?”

“My woman works only during the day.” Elizabeth hesitated. “She found him in the morning, when she arrived. I had stayed at the town house in Kensington.”

“I understand there was no sign of a break-in.”

“No,” she said.

“That would mean that Jack quite possibly knew his killer.”

Elizabeth suddenly sat very straight. “You're suggesting he was killed by another anti-monarchist—just as that piece in the paper suggested.”

“Elizabeth, would he have invited a monarchist in?”

She nodded. “Of course, if he knew the man. I know you have your opinions and are still decent to a man even when his differ from yours. God knows, Jack was still
friends
with many a man who supported the monarchy. Good heavens, Lord Lionel Wittburg was very close with Hudson Porter, and he was the first to be killed. And I know that Lord Wittburg was terribly distressed.”

“Elizabeth, how many people have keys to your home?”

She had been cooperative, but now she stiffened. “My husband kept keys, naturally. I have keys, as does my housekeeper.”

“Where are they left?”

“I don't have a habit of leaving my keys about.”

“But where are they kept?”

She sighed. “In my dresser drawer.”

“What about your housekeeper? May I speak with her today?”

Somehow she managed to sit even more stiffly. “I'm afraid I gave her the afternoon off.”

“That's all right. I can come back.” He rose. “Elizabeth, I'm sorry. I am trying to find the truth.”

Elizabeth rose, as well. “You should be looking in the right places, then.”

“And where would those places be?”

She stared at him with angry eyes. “You might start with the Crown!”

He left the house, warning her to lock the door behind him. He heard the bolt click shut. But then, just as he was about to start down the walk, he was suddenly certain he heard something else.

Voices.

Either Elizabeth had lied and the housekeeper was there, or…

Or the widow was entertaining someone else.

Ally had to smile. She knew Violet always did the writing, but she never signed her name. She always signed “The Aunties.”

That they were gone for the evening didn't disturb her. They were always bustling about the neighborhood, taking care of a baby for an ailing mother, feeding a family that was having difficulty. They were the dearest women in the world. She thought often that although she'd had her few wild moments as a child, she had generally been well behaved. Not because any punishment would be fierce, but because she couldn't bear the disappointment in their eyes when she hurt them in any way.

“Clever,” she murmured aloud to herself. “I shall have to remember that when I become a parent.”

She made herself tea and found one of the aunties had left stew simmering over the fire, so she fixed herself a bowl, picked up one of her favorite novels by Defoe and sat before the fire. But words that usually held her spell bound suddenly swam before her eyes.

If, as she suspected, the highwayman
had
discovered her sketchbook, at some point he would read it.

And what if he had not discovered it? Judging by the way Mark had behaved in the carriage, he had not, or at least he had not read it yet.

What if someone else had taken it?

A chill swept down her spine.

The fire seemed to be crackling low. There was still no electricity in the cottage, and it suddenly seemed the oil lamps cast eerie shadows around the small room.

Don't be ridiculous, she chastised herself. It was certainly her imagination at work, making the normal events of an evening seem strange.

Even so, she set down her bowl, filled with a sense of unease.

She stood up restlessly and paced, heading first to the front door. It was securely bolted.

She quickly went through the house, parlor, dining area, all the bedrooms, and assured herself that the windows were closed and locked.

She was being silly. She had lived here her whole life. Half the time they neglected to lock the doors at all.

Still, no reason not to be safe.

As she walked back along the hallway, on her way to check the kitchen and back door, she heard a sudden thump against the wall in the front. She stood dead still, her blood seeming to congeal.

She waited.

Nothing.

After a moment she forced herself to hurry along the hallway and into the kitchen. As she reached it and started toward the back door, she saw the knob start to move.

For a moment, her breath caught.

She rushed forward and saw that the bolt was indeed engaged. But the round brass knob was still moving, twisting, as some unseen hand tested it.

She stood silent, staring.

Then the movement stopped, and fear swept through her, followed by a greater fury. Whoever was out there had determined he was not entering that way and had gone off to find another.

She silently took one of the chairs from the table, lifting it so it would not scrape and give away her position to listening ears, and settled it by the back door, under the knob. Then she looked wildly about for a weapon. There was definitely not a gun to be found in the house. There were, however, sewing shears aplenty.

But as she started to race through to the sewing room, she saw the iron fireplace poker. She ran to the hearth, picked it up and tested it in her hands, a sturdy-enough weapon. She glanced across the parlor.

There might be no electricity in the cottage, but the aunties had been pleased when Lord Stirling had insisted they needed a phone. They still considered it to be a new-fangled invention, but the queen had decided that she liked the telephone, and that had been enough for many, though there were still not that many places one could call.

Ally hesitated, thinking of the noise when she cranked the line, but she headed toward it, anyway. Ginny, the local operator, would answer. And Ginny could get through to the sheriff, Sir Angus Cunningham, and Brian. But the castle was far beyond the village, and there was no way Brian could arrive quickly. Still, so long as Ginny was able to reach someone…

Ally made a mad sprint for the phone. She vigorously cranked it….

And there was nothing. No sound at all.

Ally realized that whoever was outside had cut the wires.

She stood very still again, listening, her heart thundering so loudly that at first she wasn't able to hear anything else. Then…

Something. A scraping sound. From the direction of Merry's bedroom. Holding the poker tightly in her hands, she crept along the hallway. Slipping into the bedroom, she heard someone working at the window latch.

Then nothing again.

She barely dared to breathe.

In the distance, there was a clicking sound.

Now the intruder was trying the latch at the sewing-room window.

She hurried out of Merry's room and down the hall, tiptoeing as she entered the sewing room. She inched silently along the wall, her back flat against it, and waited. She wished she dared jerk aside the curtain and see who was trying so desperately to gain entrance. She wanted to know the face of her enemy.

She couldn't. She dared not warn the intruder she even knew he was there. She was afraid he might be armed. Even if he wasn't, he could slip back into the darkness of the night far too quickly, and she would then be exposed, while the intruder remained hidden. She couldn't give away her one advantage, the element of surprise.

Suddenly there was a snapping sound. She realized the invader had managed to slip the latch.

There was movement behind the curtain, a seemingly massive body pushing the fabric aside and trying to crawl through the window.

Ally didn't dare wait. She threw herself against the intruder, swinging the poker with all her might.

As she moved, she heard her name.

“Ally!” The cry came from the front of the cottage. Then it seemed to move closer. “Ally!”

The person she had attacked let out a grunt of pain. She screamed as hands pushed against the fabric and managed to grab her wrist.

“Ally!” She heard her name being called again.

Then came the thundering of footsteps nearing the window, and a deep muttered curse came from the figure caught in the drape. Suddenly her wrist was released.

The curtain wafted in the night breeze.

Then it began to move again, was jerked aside.

She lifted the poker, ready to swing.

“A
LLY
!” M
ARK CALLED
.

“Oh, God,” she breathed.

He stared at her. Despite what had just happened, she wasn't in a state of panic. She stood, her hair cascading around her face, pale and taut, but ready to do battle, a poker raised high in defense, eyes narrowed.

He was glad she had decided not to strike. After all, he was a masked man, half inside a window.

She dropped the poker when she recognized him, and he spared a moment to realize in irritation that she seemed perfectly willing to trust a highwayman with her safety.

“You're all right?” he demanded quickly.

“Yes.”

“Keep your guard up. I'm going after him.”

He damned the situation. Arriving at last, he had barely dismounted in the small yard in front of the cottage when he had seen the dark figure sneaking around the back. He didn't know if he had been seen, didn't know if Ally had been alerted in any way. So he'd shouted fiercely for her, allowing the intruder a chance to escape. Still, it might not be too late to find him.

Cursing beneath his breath, he tore into the woods, in the direction in which he thought he had seen the figure escaping. There were a few broken branches at first; a path he thought he could follow. But in the forest, the darkness became complete, thick enough to easily swallow a man up. There were a million hiding places.

A million places from which to attack, as well.

Although he didn't think whoever had been trying to gain entry was still around. The culprit had failed, then run.

Better to run and live to fight again another day.

Disgusted, furious with himself, he walked back toward the house.

He approached the window first, certain Ally would still be on guard. “It's me,” he called. She swept back the curtain. He caught hold of the window frame and jumped inside.

She was still holding the poker. Her eyes held a wild look, but her breathing was growing slower.

“Did you…?”

“No.”

He reached for the poker. “It's all right. You can put this down now.”

They were in near darkness, the light that softly bathed them coming from the lamps in the hall. He touched her face and took the poker from her. “He's gone.”

They were in the aunts' workroom, he realized. Dressmakers' dummies stood in eerie silence, draped in various pieces of apparel. He took her arm, leading her toward the hall and then down to the parlor, where he set her down on the sofa.

She rose instantly. “The window—” she began.

“I'll take care of it. Wouldn't want any criminal types getting in.”

She stared at him, then started to laugh. “You're a highwayman,” she reminded him.

“But I don't break into
houses,
” he informed her.

He left her then, hurrying back to the sewing room.

The intruder had bent the latch. He could repair it, using the blade of his knife and a fair amount of pressure, but it had been weakened. What was worse was the fact that none of the windows in the place was invulnerable. He found a stout wooden beam—part of a stand for a mannequin, he imagined—and he used it to wedge the window shut. No one would be breaking in again that way unless they actually shattered the window.

Still, the cottage wasn't safe.

Back in the parlor, he noticed the phone. “Why didn't you call for help?”

“The line has been cut.”

“Stay here,” he said.

She lifted her hands, smiling again. “I have nowhere to go.” But she stood as he started toward the front door.

“Where are you going?” he asked with a frown.

“With you.”

“Ally, whoever it was, he was after you, not me. I'm just going to see about the phone connection. I'll be right back. Please, stay inside. And lock the door when I'm gone.”

It didn't take him long to discover that the phone connection had indeed been severed. When she opened the door to let him back in, he felt a rising sense of anxiety he had not imagined possible. He paced the parlor.

“You cannot stay here. I'll…You'll ride with me. Lord Farrow is in residence at his lodge tonight. You'll be safe with him.”

“No,” she said firmly.

“No? Ally, are you mad? Someone tried to get in here, most likely to kill you.”

“Perhaps it was just someone who was desperate,” she said. “Someone who saw the aunts leave, perhaps, and thought the cottage was empty.”

He stared at her, and she flushed. “Why would I suddenly be in danger?” she demanded.

“Why indeed?” he murmured. “The reason doesn't matter now. You can't stay here.”

“I have to stay here. Don't you see? The aunts will come back, and we don't know that they won't be in danger, too.”

He stared at her, clenching his teeth tightly. But she was right. Someone out there was ruthless. There was no question about it. And he couldn't put her aunts in danger. Still, it nagged at him that she had almost certainly lied to him. She was quite probably Olivia Cottage, also known as A. Anonymous, and since three grown, able-bodied men had had their throats slit…

He sat down. “We'll wait.”

“
We'll
wait?”

“Do you really want me to leave right now?” he asked her.

“How will I explain you to the aunts?”

“Where did they go?”

“To the Mortons' house, to help out. The Mortons are ill.”

“Then we must wait for them to return, then leave. None of you can come back to this house tonight.”

“And where shall we spend the night?”

“At Lord Farrow's.”

She sighed. “This is…bizarre. It's probably because of Mark Farrow.”

“What?” he demanded.

“Well, I am no one, and I have nothing. I've lived my life in these woods in no danger. But now, I am suddenly engaged to Mark Farrow, and you see what has happened.”

She had seldom appeared more beautiful to him than she did then, seated on the sofa in a simple skirt and white blouse, hair free and wild, eyes serious in the firelight.

“I think this may go beyond your engagement to Mark Farrow,” he told her, trying not to sound irritated.

Could she possibly suspect that he and Mark were one and the same?

“And why else would someone be seeking to harm me?” she asked.

“I don't know. Perhaps you should tell me.”

“You're an outlaw,” she reminded him.

No, she didn't know. Couldn't know!

He let out a sigh of frustration, wondering if he should tell her the truth. Never, since she was clearly not being honest with him.

“None of that matters. You can no longer stay here.”

“As I said, I will not leave until they have returned.”

“Perhaps you should pack a few things and be ready to leave once they arrive.”

“And you're going to wait? And greet them? If the poor dears see you, they'll have heart palpitations on the spot.”

He started to pace, ignoring her as if she hadn't spoken.

“Must you?” she demanded.

“Must I what?”

“Prowl so. Will you please sit down?”

He was startled when she patted the place by her side. “Sit, please. You're making me nervous.”

He frowned, then sat. He was stunned when she leaned against his shoulder. “I am so tired,” she murmured.

He couldn't resist, despite the peril of the night and the very real concern he felt for her safety. He leaned back, setting a hand upon her hair and head, urging her to rest her head on his knee. “Rest, then…rest for now. How long do you think the aunts will be?”

“Their note said they would return late,” she murmured, practically curling onto his lap. Her hair spread over him. She was warm against his legs. He had to force himself to focus on something other than the instant reaction of his body to the nearness of this woman.

He set a hand on her hair again, smoothing it back. I am in love, he thought, even though he knew everything she had ever said was sensible. He barely knew her. And yet he knew all he needed to know. She was promised to him.
Him?
She lay so trustingly, so intimately against him, though as far as she knew, she was promised to another man.

He'd never wanted anything so much in his life. But…wanting her so much, he could force nothing. Indeed, with her there, he barely dared to breathe.

She stirred.

His body stirred in response.

Could she tell? He could not give himself away.

He swallowed hard. “How much later do you think they will be?”

“I don't know the time now.”

“It's close to ten.”

“Probably another hour…two hours.”

He might well combust by then. He forced himself to concentrate. “Do you know where you struck the fellow with your poker?”

“In the curtain,” she replied ruefully.

“Did you catch his face?”

“I don't believe so, and he still had strength in his arms, enough to grab my wrist. I believe I must have struck him in the torso.”

“I wish you'd caught him in the legs.”

“I'm dreadfully sorry,” she snapped.

He had to laugh. “No, you were quite wonderful, actually. You did not cower in a corner, nor did you run out into the danger, screaming madly for help. You attacked him before he had a chance to attack you. But…it might be possible to notice someone limping, you see.”

“Oh? Is there a tavern where all criminals go for their nightcaps? Where you might imbibe and watch for a limping intruder?”

“I doubt the man was your run-of-the mill criminal, Ally.”

“The longer I think on this, the more I'm certain he was just some poor fellow who saw what he thought was an empty cottage in the woods and was seeking only food and a few trinkets to steal.”

“That's not the truth, and you know it.”

Her fingers moved upon his knee as she adjusted herself to look at him. His body quickened, but he forced himself to calmly meet her eyes. She smiled suddenly.

“What?”

“This is insane. You're an outlaw,” she said softly. “Yet here I am, so trusting, all but in your arms. You held up my carriage, behaved abominably, and yet…I trust you,” she whispered, her eyes huge, her voice low and sensual.

His jaw locked for a moment. He forced it to work. “You're engaged.”

“So they say.”

“There is a ring on your finger.”

“Yes, a rather lovely one. But with effort I can surely remove it.”

“You need to marry Mark Farrow.”

“Oh? Have you suddenly turned into my guardian?”

“Your life is in danger. You are not thinking clearly.”

She reached up and lightly stroked his chin. “At least you're a noble outlaw,” she said.

Those fingers on his flesh. Her eyes…

He suddenly set her upright. There was still the possibility that the intruder might come back, perhaps with reinforcements.

“Ally—”

“I don't know what it is about you,” she said, watching him as he got up and stood before the fire. Then she sighed, running her hand over the place at her side where he had so recently sat. “Even if I am to marry Mark Farrow, I am not married yet, am I?”

“What are you saying?” he demanded, afraid his tone was far too fierce.

She smiled. It was a beautiful, sad, wistful smile. “I am saying I may well have to marry the man, but I am a modern woman. My life is my own. And I am not married yet.”

“Are you propositioning me, Miss Grayson?” he demanded. He couldn't help but feel his temper start to rise. If she didn't know…

Every possessive bone in his body started to ache.

“Never,” she said.

He breathed a sigh of relief.

“I would never put it so,” she whispered. “I have just found that…well, I am about to enter a life I did not seek, a marriage I did not wish. But before that time, I am a free woman.”

Damn her! She had to know, surely. She was doing this just to torture him. He had to say something.

But he had no chance to reply. He heard the approaching sound of wheels turning, a horse's hooves thudding.

“They're here,” he said.

She leapt to her feet. “You have to go.”

He stood still. “No.”

“What? How on earth shall I explain you?” she demanded, looking wild again. “Good heavens, they said they'd be late!”

“Imagine.”

“Go! You've got to leave.”

“No. Who is driving them home?”

“No one. Violet always drives the rockaway coach.”

He nodded and started toward the door. She all but threw herself against him. “No!”

“There is no help for it.”

He stepped outside, calling, “Please, don't be afraid.”

Despite his words, Violet screamed. Merry, at her side, let out a choking sound. Edith, in the rear, appeared to swoon.

“Darlings, it's all right!” Ally cried.

She rushed to help a now-disheveled Edith find her feet. He strode forward, thinking Violet the staunchest of the three.

“Madam, I am so sorry to upset you.”

“It's him. It's the highwayman,” Merry breathed.

“But not at all a dangerous man, I swear. However, there
was
someone dangerous here tonight, trying to break into the cottage and almost succeeding,” he said quickly.

“What?” Merry gasped.

Edith nearly swooned again. Ally steadied her.

“Listen, please…the highwayman helped me,” Ally explained desperately. “He drove the intruder off when he was nearly in the cottage.”

“The point is,” Mark put in, “you can't stay here.”

That created a furor and one of the most curious conversations Mark had ever heard.

“Can't stay here?” Violet echoed.

“But where will we go?” Merry demanded.

“We can't just leave everything,” Edith managed in a whisper.