Betrayal at Blackcrest (4 page)

“Mrs. Hawke does not receive visitors at this hour,” he said.

I drew myself up with what I hoped was an imperious manner. I might be calling at an inconvenient hour, but I was not about to be snubbed by a mere servant. I glared at him with eyes as icy as his own. When I spoke, my voice would have done justice to any peeress extant.

“I'm quite sure she will see me,” I informed him.

“I'm afraid I can't allow that,” he replied.

“But—I'm her cousin,” I protested, losing my nerve.

The man shook his head slowly, his icy blue eyes never leaving my own. I gnawed my lower lip nervously, finding it hard to keep tears of frustration out of my eyes.

“Mrs. Hawke has no cousin,” he said.

“But she does,” I exclaimed. “I haven't heard from her in over a month, and I've come all this way—”

“What is it, Morris?”

The voice came from somewhere beyond the door, and it was a husky, guttural voice. The servant turned around, but not before I saw the expression of alarm on his face. His regal manner vanished, and he looked nervous. His fingers flew to his jacket, fastening it properly. He was quite obviously terrified of his employer.

“A young lady, sir,” he said, speaking to someone I could not see. He darted a quick look at me, as though wishing I would vanish, and then he drew himself up as his employer approached.

“Show her in, Morris,” the man said firmly.

“This way, miss,” Morris said, holding the door for me.

I stepped inside, gripping my shabby leather suitcase. I found myself in an immense hall with brown and maroon wallpaper over dark mahogany wainscoting. At one end of it a spiral staircase curved up into the shadows, and directly over my head a chandelier with tarnished crystal pendants poured feeble light over the worn maroon carpet.

“That will be all, Morris,” the stranger said.

The old servant shuffled away down the hall. I was alone with the master of Blackcrest. I set down my suitcase and sighed with relief. I smiled at Derek Hawke, but there was no welcoming smile in return. He stood with his hands in the pockets of his robe, looking at me with obvious mistrust. He looked as though he expected me to pull a gun and demand the family silver.

“You must be Derek,” I said with a charming lilt.

“I am Derek Hawke, yes.”

“I'm Deborah Lane. Delia must have told you all about me.”

He made no reply. He still regarded me with wary eyes. I felt that Delia had done well for herself. Derek Hawke was quite clearly a man of affluence, and though by no means handsome, he emanated an animal magnetism that was overwhelming.

He was extremely tall, over six feet, and lean, with a sharp, lanky body that had all the grace and power of a panther's. His features were strong and angular, the cheekbones high and bony, the nose twisted a little to one side, the lips large and wide, out of proportion with the rest of the face. His eyes were brown, so dark that they looked black, glowering beneath heavy, hooded lids. Dark black brows arched over the lids, and thick waves of raven-black hair spilled untidily over his tan forehead.

He stood with his broad, bony shoulders hunched forward, his hands hidden in the pockets of a black brocade robe embroidered with thread of darker black silk. He must have been in his middle thirties, a formidable man who would understandably strike terror in the hearts of simpleminded people like the waitress. I could visualize him wearing the robes of the Inquisition, or in pirate boots and saber, but I could certainly not see him in a parlor in Mayfair.

“Where is Delia?” I asked, looking around as though expecting her to come rushing toward me.

“Delia?” he said.

“My cousin. Your wife …”

“I'm afraid there has been some mistake,” he said calmly.

I smiled again. “I know this is unexpected, but you will forgive me, won't you? I didn't have an address, so I couldn't write, and when I arrived in Hawkestown I found the telephone wires had blown down. You can understand my dilemma. Delia hasn't written or phoned since the wedding, and I'm out of work now and had nothing to do, so, on impulse, decided to pay an impromptu visit.…”

I had been talking rapidly, nervously, smiling as I chattered on, and Derek Hawke had not moved a muscle in his face. The dark, glowering eyes never left my face. The large, wide lips were held in a rigid line of disapproval. I cut myself short and looked at him, afraid now. Something was wrong. I had sensed it immediately.

“I don't know what your game is, young woman,” the man said, “but I can assure you you won't get far with it here. I don't like intruders at Blackcrest, particularly intruders who claim I'm married to a woman I've never heard of in my life.”

I stared at him in stunned silence. Then I gave a nervous laugh.

“We'll exchange jokes in the morning,” I said. “Right now I would like to see Delia. Will you fetch her?”

“Perhaps you didn't understand me,” Derek Hawke replied stiffly.

“But—” I began. “You're Derek Hawke. This is Blackcrest. Delia told me—”

“I've never heard of this woman,” he said.

“She's your wife. The butler said Mrs. Hawke—”

“The Mrs. Hawke that Morris referred to is my aunt. She is sixty years old.”

The words did not seem to register. I stared at him for a long time with eyes that did not seem to focus properly. My hands seemed to move of their own accord, fumbling with my purse and taking out the crumpled telegram she had sent me. I held it out, and at the same moment my legs seemed to give way.

My face was buried among the folds of black silk. Strong arms supported me. I tried to raise my head, but it seemed to take far more effort than I could muster. The next thing I knew I was being guided into another room, the ironlike arms holding me, the wiry body forcing me to move. Derek Hawke led me to a sofa, forced me down to the cushions. When, moments later, I sat up, the mists evaporating from my brain, he was standing over me, a glass of brandy in his hand.

“Drink this,” he ordered.

“I never drink,” I said.

“Drink it,” he commanded.

I took the glass with trembling hand. I drank the fiery liquid. It burned fiercely, but it enabled me to see clearly. I put the glass down on the table beside the sofa and looked up at the man who hovered over me.

“I never faint either,” I said, knowing how foolish it sounded.

“Then that was quite an effective act, Miss Lane.”

“It wasn't an act,” I replied.

“You're sure? This whole thing seems to be one great act to me. I want to know what you think you're up to?”

“I think you'd better let me ask the questions, Mr. Hawke,” I said. My voice quivered, and it distressed me.

I sat up straight and pulled my skirt over my knees. I was so weak I did not think I could manage to stand for a while yet. Derek Hawke was looking down at me with hooded lids, his arms folded across his chest. I had to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. It was no position from which to be grand, yet I managed to sound as though I were in full command of the situation when I spoke again.

“What have you done with Delia?” I asked. My voice was hard, and it carried beautifully.

“Nothing at all.”

“Where is she?”

“I have no idea.”

“What have you
done
with her?” I repeated.

“My dear young woman, I will tell you one more time. I have never seen this woman you refer to.”

“You have the telegram. Read it.”

“I have already done so.”

“Are you still going to tell me—”

“I am going to tell you nothing,” he said.

He strolled across the room and took a slender brown cigar out of a box that sat on the mantel. He rolled the cigar between his fingers before putting it in his mouth. He struck a match, cupping his hands over the flame and raising it to the cigar. Then he stood at the hearth, one arm resting along the mantel. His dark eyes watched me, and he seemed to be contemplating the best way to dispose of me. The butt of the cigar glowed as he pulled on it. He removed it and blew a cloud of smoke. His lids narrowed.

“I must warn you that I've had plenty of experience with blackmailers,” he said. “A man in my position frequently has to deal with such people. The fact that you are young and attractive will not make me any more lenient if you persist in this charade.”

“You think I've come to blackmail you?”

“What else should I think?”

“I don't know, Mr. Hawke.”

I was calm now, in complete possession of myself. Derek Hawke was undoubtedly shrewd, but I could see through his accusations. He wanted to put me on the defensive. It would give him more time, and he needed time to formulate some story. I did not know what he had done with Delia, but I did know that he had not reckoned on my coming here like this and confronting him. It had taken him by surprise, and he was trying to cover up by attacking me before I could voice my own accusations.

“Delia is not at Blackcrest?” I said.

“Certainly not.”

“She has never been here?”

He shook his head slowly.

“I don't believe you,” I said.

“If you searched the place, you would find no sign of her, nor any sign that she had ever been here.”

He swept his arm out, as though bidding me to make such a search. It was an elegant gesture. There was nothing of the dandy about Derek Hawke, yet he was an aristocrat, hard, cruel, elegant in every respect. His voice, so harsh, so reminiscent of movie gangsters in smoke-filled dives, only emphasized this refined, steellike elegance. It was not simulated. He had the same natural quality that made the lion superior to other beasts, and it was real, an almost tangible part of him. He was born to dictate, to rule, and he would allow nothing to jeopardize this right.

I knew I was up against something far too strong, but I was not going to give way. I intended to fight him, however impossible that might seem at the moment.

“She told me she met you in London,” I said.

“Then she was lying.”

“She described you. She described this house.”

“With a little research, anyone could do that.”

“The telegram—”

“It's real, no doubt, but it contains lies.”

“I believe you're the one who is lying.”

“Do you, Miss Lane?”

“I think the police would be interested in this, Mr. Hawke.”

“I'm sure they would be. However, it might prove embarrassing for you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that I am not Bluebeard, nor do I run a white-slavery ring during my spare time. I've never seen this woman, nor has she ever been inside my home. I can prove that, and if you insist on continuing with this farce, I'm sure my lawyers can find some way of restraining you.”

“You can't intimidate me,” I said.

“No?”

“I'm not afraid of you—or your lawyers.”

“You don't give up easily, do you, Miss Lane?”

“Not at all,” I replied.

“Rest assured I was making no idle threat. The police would laugh at your story, and my lawyers would see to it that you paid the penalty for such accusations against me. There are libel laws, Miss Lane.”

I stared at him. I could think of nothing to say. My chin trembled and I was afraid I was going to burst into tears. That would have been disastrous. I glanced about the dimly lit room, taking in details I had not noticed before. I saw the dark walls with the faded tapestries hanging on them, the ancient chairs covered with worn green velvet, the tables carved of some dark, heavy wood. My eyes kept returning to the man who stood so menacingly at the hearth, smoking the cigar. He would be capable of anything, I thought, anything at all.

I contained my alarm. It would do no good for me to give in to the emotions that seemed to be bursting inside. Delia was missing. This man knew where she was, or what had happened to her. At the moment he was the only avenue to her. Whatever he had done, he had not been careless about it; of that I was certain. If he said he could prove she had never been here, he could. I felt cold all over as I watched him crush out the cigar and move slowly toward me.

“Hasn't this gone far enough?” he asked. There was a note of kindness in his guttural voice, and for a moment I almost believed he had been telling the truth. “Surely you realize you can't carry this thing through? I don't know what you were intending to do, but it won't work. I can assure you of that.”

I stood up. I met his gaze with level eyes.

“I'm sorry to have troubled you, Mr. Hawke,” I said.

“No trouble. It's been most interesting.”

He seemed to be relaxed now, ready to pass the whole thing off. He was very convincing. Had Delia not talked about him for a month before she left London, had she not described him and the house with such perfect detail, and had I not received the telegram from Hawkestown, I would have found it easy to believe everything he said. As it was, I knew he was lying, and I intended to stay in Hawkestown until I found out exactly what had happened to my cousin.

“I've met many confidence men in my life,” he said, “but never one so attractive. Try someone more gullible next time, Miss Lane. You've stepped out of your league with me.”

Don't bet on it, I said to myself.

“May I have the telegram back, Mr. Hawke?”

“Oh no, Miss Lane. I'll keep that.” He patted his pocket. “It'll be interesting to trace it.”

He gave me a tight smile. It would prove useless to argue with him, and I was certainly not strong enough to take it from him by force. The telegram was the only tangible evidence I had, and now Derek Hawke had taken it. I might not have the slip of paper, but the words on it were engraved in my memory. He couldn't take that.

“I must go,” I said, gathering up my purse.