Diary of a Painted Lady (16 page)

Chapter Twenty-Five

London

As Horace sat down beside him, Blair threw down the last drops of his second glass of whiskey.

“Starting without me?”

Blair frowned and beckoned to the waiter.

“So it’s like that, is it? Horace asked.

“If I’m to be thoroughly in my cups by bedtime, yes.”

“I know of only one thing that would produce this unusual spectacle. Gina Russo.”

“Too true, my friend,” Blair said dispiritedly.

“That’s funny. I think I saw her yesterday.”

Blair shrugged. “As did I.”

“It must have been her. In a carriage out on the Northern Road.”

“That waiter’s damned slow,” Blair said, gesturing to the man across the room.

“I thought it curious. It was the Earl of Douglass’ carriage. You know that old black vehicle, there’s nothing else like it in London.”

Blair’s eyes widened. “Ogilvie’s?”

“Indubitably. I’d know that crest anywhere.”

Blair sat up. “Going out of town?”

Horace nodded. “I was returning from a few days in Warwickshire, visiting the Mater. Deuced boring place the country is, don’t know why anyone would want to live there. The lady in question appeared at the carriage window for just a moment. If she wasn’t Gina, she has a twin sister. I supposed Ogilvie had the same designs on her as you and has since struck up a relationship with her.”

“She did say she had found a way out of her troubles,” Blair said, thoughtfully. “No, her exact words were ‘I’m in control of my destiny.’”

“Doesn’t sound like she has an arrangement with Ogilvie then, she wouldn’t have a shred of control with him holding the strings.”

“No. He’s a dislikeable man. In fact, Horace, I remember you saying you wouldn’t want to incur his wrath.”

Horace nodded. “Indeed I wouldn’t.”

As the waiter approached their table, Blair waved him away again.

“I say,” Horace protested.

“We need a clear head for this.”

“Do we? For what?”

“Things have gone badly for Gina since I bought that painting,” Blair said.

“Have they?”

“First, Russo was murdered. Then there was that fire in the theatre where Gina worked

Horace leaned forward. “You don’t mean to say….”

Blair leapt to his feet. “Is it such a stretch to presume that Ogilvie is using Gina to get at me?”

“Well, a bit of a one, perhaps,” Horace said. “Actually, a drink might clear our heads.”

“Have one on me.” Blair tossed some money down on the table. “I must go.”

“I say! We had an evening planned. Two lovelies await us. Where are you going?”

“Scotland.”

“Scotland, by Jove!” Horace called to Blair’s back as he hurried from the room.

***

Scotland

The carriage crossed a bridge over a fast flowing river. “Tha’s the River Wick,” Ogilvie said, a note of pride in his voice. “Not long now.”

Each time they stopped for food or a change of horses, Gina was tied up and gagged.

“When we get there, lass, you shall bathe and change,” Ogilvie said. “I can’t have you looking like that.”

Hope flooded through her. He wasn’t going to kill her, not yet at least. Then it occurred to her that he might still mean to ravish her and her spirits sank again. She constantly struggled with her wild emotions, fighting to stay positive. There was always the chance of escape. She must memorize the route the carriage took; she may well have to find her way back to the village alone.

“The hill of Yarrows.” Ogilvie pointed to stony hills dotted with grass and heather in the distance. It all looked so desolate. There wasn’t a cottage or farm in sight. The coachman cracked the whip and the carriage raced along the narrow coast road. Gina looked down onto the rocks far below and shuddered, if they should lose a wheel…

The bleak stone castle came into view. It perched precariously on a narrow promontory above the restless, grey sea. A drawbridge lay open forming a bridge across a wide, rocky chasm.

“When enemies pursued my grandfather, he jumped over this on his horse,” Ogilvie said. His mood had lifted. He’d become chatty and lively as they approached his home. The carriage rattled across the frightening gulf. Below, waves climbed the walls, skittering over rocks.

They entered the castle through an archway. The sight of the mighty, stone fortress shocked Gina into silence. It was like a formidable prison with small windows and unassailable walls. When they pulled up in a cobbled courtyard, a loud rattling sounded as the drawbridge rose up behind them and sealed up what must have been the only way out.

A tall Scot came forward and pulled Gina out onto the uneven cobblestones. She tried to steady herself, her legs cramped from sitting so long. What hell was this? High towers built to repel marauders surrounded them. She could smell the salt heavy on the air. Above came the screeching cry of gulls, below, the ceaseless, pounding waves. There was sleet in the icy wind that grabbed at her hair and tore it from its pins, blinding her.

Ogilvie strode into a doorway and threw his hat and coat at a scowling servant in a grubby apron. “Bring us hot ale and food and be quick about it.”

Following Ogilvie, the big silent man shepherded Gina along icy, stone corridors and into a barn of a room, its soaring ceiling supported by flying buttresses that reminded her of a church. But that’s where any similarity ended. Alarming battle armor guarded the door. Massive stag’s heads with glassy eyes gazed down from the walls amid crossed swords and shields.

A fire blazed in the cavernous fireplace. Gina ran to it attempting to warm her frozen, aching limbs.

“Come here, girl. Some hot ale will put you to rights,” Ogilvie said.

“I’d like to wash,” she said coldly.

His eyes flashed. “Certainly, your majesty.” He signaled to the tall servant. “Take her to the privy. Lose her and you lose everything you care about.”

When Gina returned, she found Ogilvie at the long table already tearing meat from a joint. In front of him were plates of small pies, oatcakes, strange white cheese, smoked fish and some kind of meat.

She sat down and drank the hot drink. Ogilvie was right it warmed her although she hated the taste. Nibbling at a piece of the cheese and an oat cake, she prodded the meat on her plate with her fork, as if expecting it to rise up and bite her. “What is this?”

“Haggis.”

She took a forkful.

“We make it from sheep’s windpipe.”

She gagged and put a hand to her mouth as bile rose.

Ogilvie looked at her with distaste as she pushed the plate away.

She crossed her arms across her chest.

He ignored her, eating heartily. When he tucked into the Haggis, she looked away as her stomach lurched. He finished and sat back wiping his mouth. “Well, what do you think of Castle Douglass, eh?”

“Big.”

His hand came down hard on hers. “Be very careful, girl.”

“It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before,” she said, annoyed that her heart pounded so loudly in her ears.

“Nor likely to see again,” he said with a sneer.

“I’ve had sufficient. I’d like to go to my room.”

Ogilvie gave a dry laugh. “Certainly, my lady.”

He pushed away from the table. “Come along, then.”

He shoved her ahead of him through a maze of long corridors and up a flight of stone stairs. In an upper hallway, she paused in front of a row of framed portraits.

“My ancestors,” Ogilvie said over her shoulder.

“They look a fierce lot,” Gina couldn’t help saying.

“Oh, some were,” he answered mildly taking no offence at the remark. “Our history is bloody and cruel. We had a massacre in the chapel here in 1308. In 1590 a mistress was murdered and her body bricked up in a wall. She failed to please her master.” He stared at Gina raising his ginger eyebrows. “I believe that in the 1600’s a girl abducted from another clan was raped before she threw herself from the battlements.”

Gina rubbed her arms and shivered.

“Night-time sieges and assaults,” Ogilvie went on. “Clan feuds, great raids and the carrying off of cattle, sheep and women are all part of our violent past. There’s even a secret passage leading down to the sea.”

“Oh, where?”

“You think I’d tell you?” Ogilvie gave his spiteful laugh and moved swiftly on.

Finally, when Gina felt she couldn’t go a step further, he threw open a door and pushed her inside. He followed her in and came up to her, placing his hands round her waist. “We’ll have a wild ride, shall we, lass?”

His meaty breath on her face repulsed her. “Leave me alone!’

Ogilvie’s hands tightened in a boney clutch and he shook her. “To the bed, come. Don’t make me hurt you.” Weak from lack of food and revulsion, her empty stomach rumbled loudly. “Can I go to the privy please?” she asked. “My stomach’s upset.”

With a scowl, he stepped back. “There’s a chamber pot under your bed. You’ll agree to my demands more readily after you’ve been here a while.” He crossed to the door.

After the door closed behind him, Gina slumped onto a straight-backed chair, shaking with relief. She heard the bolt drive home. It shut her in, but it also shut Ogilvie out. Her lie had bought her some time at least. She shivered; the room was dreadfully cold, with the fireplace bare, and very little furniture, except for a four-poster bed with faded red hangings. A layer of dust, thick enough to write her name in, covered everything. As she moved through the room a cloud of dust motes swirled through the air.

She went to the window and opened it. The wind rushed in, so frigid it made her blink. At least it reminded her that she was alive. But for how long? She perched on the window seat, gazing out at the drab, grey landscape; nothing but gulls and sea as far as the horizon. Her eyes watered from the cold and she quickly closed the window.

Resting her weary head on the sill, she allowed herself to cry.

Minutes later, Gina sniffed, angry at her weakness. This would not save her. Rising, she went over to the bed. A gown had been laid out for her to wear. An involuntary laugh escaped her lips. The dress of purple and green plaid had a very full skirt, gathered in a bunch on each hip. There was also a flounced petticoat and a fur-lined cloak. She pounced on the cloak, wrapping it round herself and snuggling into it, it took her a while to discover there were no other undergarments. Now was not the time to be fastidious, she told herself. She picked up one of the slippers. It felt soft and dry. She removed her damp boots and put them on.

They fitted, lifting her spirits further.

Gina went around the room, looking for spy holes or gaps in the wainscoting, but found nothing. She dragged the chair over and braced it under the door latch. Stripping off her damp, rumpled skirt, soiled blouse, jacket, undergarments and stockings, she hastily washed herself from head to foot with icy water from the basin on the bed stand. She shivered with cold, but her skin glowed and energy flowed back into her body.

She picked up the gown which had a row of impossibly tiny buttons down the back. After wrestling with it for several minutes, Gina managed to do most of them up.

The sun began to set and the room darkened. Two brass candlesticks sat on the fireplace mantle, but only one with a candle. She lit it and the small glow was reassuring, although it cast shadows over the room, but neither would she be in total darkness. She took the other candlestick with her to the bed and tucked it under the pillow.

Wrapping herself in the cloak, she lay down, coughing as dust rose. She stared into the flickering, dark shadows and her empty stomach rumbled. Slipping her hand under the pillow, she took hold of the candlestick, which felt reassuringly solid. She kept her eyes on the door but her eyelids grew heavy and she fell asleep.

A pounding on the door woke Gina from the deep sleep of exhaustion. She pulled herself upright, her head swimming. The candle had guttered. Grey light shone into the room through the window, failing to brighten the bare, grim room. “Who is it?”

“Time for ye breakfast,” came a man’s voice thick with brogue.

She went to the door and removed the chair. Opening it, she found the big, brusque servant standing there, his shoulders filling the doorway. “I’m to take ye down to the Hall.”

“Good morning,” she said brightly. She noticed he had a bandage around his hand.

“Have you hurt yourself?”

“A knife cut in the kitchen,” the man mumbled dropping his gaze to his boots.

“Do you work in the kitchen as well? You must be tired. I hope that Lord Ogilvie treats you well. What’s your name?”

“Jarred,” he said. “Come.” He stood aside for her to pass.

Her skirts were too long. Gina gathered them up and descended the stone steps. On the third step, she caught her slipper in the hem of the dress and stumbled. Jarred’s strong hands grabbed her around the waist just in time to save her from falling.