Goblin Moon (17 page)

He paused for a moment, just inside the door,
surveying the room with an amused and appreciative eye. The
Duchess’s bedchamber was an intensely feminine room with a
seductive look of elegant disarray which (he suspected) was more
likely the result of precise calculation on her part than any
carelessness on the part of her servants. The gilt and ivory bed
was unmade—which was to say, that the silk comforters had been
neatly turned back and the satin pillows plumped up
invitingly—ruffled petticoats, lacy pantelets, and other items of
intimate apparel were scattered across the floor or draped over
chairs; a pair of crystal goblets and a decanter of red wine had
been casually arranged on a table by the bed. Despite himself,
Skelbrooke stooped to pick up a dainty embroidered glove and hold
it appreciatively to his nose. Like all her possessions, Marella’s
glove was deliciously perfumed.

Then, conscious that he wasted valuable time, he
dropped the glove and began to search the room in earnest. The
dressing table was overflowing with scent bottles, pouncet boxes,
and little porcelain jars containing cosmetics. A sofa by the
window contained a hat, two pairs of shoes, a pair of silk
stockings, and other small items. He realized the room was too
large and too cluttered for him to make a thorough search before
the Duchess returned. Unless—

He knew that he would have to risk it. He reached
into his waistcoat pocket and drew out a slim metal disk attached
to a short silver chain. The disk was made of lead and engraved
with kabalistic symbols—it was a talisman consecrated to the
Planetary Intelligence known as Sadrun, the keeper of secrets, the
finder of hidden things. Holding the talisman before him like a
pendulum, Skelbrooke moved slowly and methodically around the
room.

At the north end of the bedchamber, the pendulum
started to swing wildly. Skelbrooke took two more tentative steps,
and the talisman reacted even more strongly, describing a larger
arc with every swing it made. Two more steps and he was facing the
wall. He gathered the disk and the chain up into his hand, spoke a
word to deactivate the pendulum, slipped it back into his pocket,
and began to examine the wall.

Painted in pastel shades and decorated with
scrollwork and cherubs done in stucco, the north wall of Marella’s
bedchamber was the perfect location for a secret panel or hidden
cubbyhole. Skelbrooke smiled a trifle ruefully. He did not
anticipate anything along that line here—he could expect something
more ingenious from the Duchess.

He transferred his attention to a decorative table
done in ebony and gold that stood against the wall. An assortment
of trinkets, fans, note-cards, and the like was scattered across
the table—and one other object, in stark contrast to the rest of
that frivolous room: an old prayerbook bound in pale ivory
leather.

Skelbrooke stared down at the antique missal. That
Marella attended church every Sunday he knew—it was, after all, the
fashionable thing to do—but that the Duchess kept a prayerbook in
her bedchamber lest a sudden pious urge seize her and an
overwhelming desire to say her prayers arise in the middle of the
night—this possibility Skelbrooke did not seriously
contemplate.

But perhaps . . . perhaps it was no common
prayerbook. Knowing what he knew of the Duchess, it occurred to him
that the rites this volume contained might be of a darker, more
occult nature. He picked up the book and began to leaf through
it.

A cursory examination convinced him that the volume
was exactly what it appeared to be: a standard book of devotions
such as might be handed down in any family, and any respectable
woman in Thornburg might be expected to carry to church. He was
about to close the book and put it down when he noticed that one of
the pages was thicker than the rest. With growing excitement, he
carried the prayerbook over to a window and held the page up to the
light. It was not one piece of paper but two, glued together along
three sides, with the fourth side secured by the binding, and what
might be a third piece of paper or parchment inserted in the pocket
between the pages.

Aware that the Duchess might return at any moment, he
removed a stickpin from his lacy neckcloth. The pin had an ornate
golden head, but the body was made of hard steel, in the form of a
miniature stiletto, honed to a razor sharpness. He used it to make
a slit in the pocket. He slid his fingers between the two pages and
extracted a frail piece of parchment, which he slipped, unread,
down the front of his flowered waistcoat. Then he moved swiftly
across the room and carefully placed the book, exactly as he had
found it, on the little ebony and gold table.

By the time the Duchess returned to her sitting room,
Skelbrooke was there before her, standing by a window, staring
pensively down at the garden below.

He adjusted the golden stickpin in his exquisitely
arranged neck-cloth. “I am afraid I arrived at an inopportune
moment. Indeed, I feel the awkwardness quite keenly and can only
hope that you will accept my heartfelt—“ he began, only to have his
apology suppressed by a small white hand placed over his mouth.

“It is Skogsrå who is awkward. I am so glad you
arrived when you did,” said the Duchess. “In truth, I find him
rather disagreeable, and only tolerate him for the sake of the good
he may do my poor Elsie. But do not play the fop with me, Francis.
It is amusing in company, I own, but in private I prefer you more
natural . . . more earnest. That is your true nature, is it not?
That quiet intensity I have seen from time to time”

“You are very perceptive,” said Skelbrooke. “You have
found me out. And yet, we are not really so very well
acquainted.”

Taking him by the hand, she drew him over to her
couch. “Then it is time we improved our acquaintance. Long past
time,” she said, in the same husky voice she had used before. “Tell
me something about yourself: where you were born . . . how old you
are.”

Though uncomfortably aware of the stolen parchment he
wore inside his waistcoat behind the daisies and the marigolds,
Skelbrooke forced himself to relax. “I was born on my grandfather’s
estate near Lundy, some four and twenty years ago.

The Duchess raised an eyebrow. “So young as that? No,
I do not really doubt your word. You certainly have the appearance
of a young man, a boy even, but there is something in your eyes, a
look that usually comes with age . . .”

“It is dissipation, Gracious Lady, that has made me
old beyond my years,” he said, with such a mournful air that the
Duchess could not help laughing at him.

“But now you are teasing me. Everyone in Thornburg
knows you to be the most temperate of men!”

Skelbrooke shrugged his shoulders. “As to that, I am
addicted to certain vices which I do not elect to practice in the
presence of . . . ladies. Hence, my frequent absences from the
town.”

The Duchess began to look just the tiniest bit bored.
“I suppose you mean cock-fighting and other tedious masculine
pastimes. We will not speak of them, if you please.”

“I do not mean cock-fighting . . . or other tedious
masculine pastimes,” replied Skelbrooke. “That is: I must confess
to an insatiable appetite for bloodshed, but the torture of brute
beasts has never amused me.”

“Ah,” said the Duchess, her interest reviving. “You
fight duels, do you? Have you killed many men?”

“I have killed scores of them,” said Skelbrooke. “And
there used to be a practice, among wild young men of good family,
to ride the Imbrian countryside in the guise of highwaymen, and rob
carriages and mail coaches . . . merely for the thrill of the
thing.”

The Duchess was smiling now, a warm intimate smile.
He was not certain whether she believed him or not, but at least he
was keeping her amused.

“Heavens above!” said the Duchess. “I believe that I
have fallen into the hands of a rascal. And tell me this . . .
among your other vices, have you perhaps experimented with . . .
the more intricate forms of sexual dalliance?”

Skelbrooke gave a rueful shrug of his shoulders. “One
does one’s best. But as I am not yet five and twenty, I fear you
might find my experience somewhat limited in that regard.”

“Your honesty is refreshing,” said the Duchess. “I
despise a braggart.”She moved closer, so that she was leaning on
his shoulder. “Fortunately, there are some lessons—given the right
teacher, the right pupil—where it is as pleasant to instruct as it
is to learn.”

The lacy neckline of her dressing gown had slipped
very low, revealing a lovely pair of shoulders and a seductive
display of soft white bosom. Her lips were slightly parted, her
breathing was irregular, and her perfume, as Skelbrooke bent his
head to kiss her, was sweet and intoxicating. Her mouth, as he had
expected, was warm and inviting—

Then two things happened to mar his enjoyment: For
one horrifying moment another face swam before his eyes, the face
of a woman equally lovely, who had also a taste for younger
lovers—and whose beautiful body had been the occasion for
trespasses far worse than any mere sins of the flesh. There was
also (less traumatic, but of rather more practical significance) a
faint crackling sound proceeding from inside his waistcoat,
reminding him of the parchment concealed there.

It was with a mixture of regret and relief that he
realized he could not, after all, accept her invitation,

Chapter
14

Containing sundry Curious matters.

Motherwell prison was a grim and lowering pile built
on an island in the middle of the river Lunn, about two miles above
Thornburg. It was a cold, hard, barren island, with only a narrow
stretch of pebbly shore. At high tide, the beach disappeared
altogether, and the water came almost up to the rusty prison
gate.

So it was on Midyear’s Day, when the tide was at its
highest, that an elegant black barge landed just below the gate and
let off two passengers: a very young gentleman in a wine-colored
coat, and a lady, perhaps ten years his senior, exceedingly smart
in oyster satin and a wide-leghorn hat. With great diffidence, they
approached the warder at the gate.

“We wish to speak with the governor,” said the youth,
and a small coin passed between the iron bars.

The warder grinned at them, revealing crooked black
teeth. “What names?”

The lady made an agitated motion with her hands. “Is
it absolutely necessary for us to tell you our names?”

“’Tis, if you wants to speak with the governor,”
replied the warder, pocketing the coin. “He’s a busy man, the
governor, and he don’t see just everybody.”

The two visitors held a whispered conference. “Why
not, after all?” said the young man. “You’ve made no secret of your
intentions; everyone in town is already talking. You said so
yourself: the only way to proceed is to conduct the entire affair
openly and treat the necessity as if it were naught but a grim
jest.”

“Yes, yes,” replied the lady impatiently. “But it is
one thing to hear one’s name bandied about by one’s own
acquaintances, quite another to hear it spoken in a place like
this. Oh, very well. Do as you think best. The whole situation is
so degrading, how could it possibly be any worse?”

They returned to the gate and peered through the iron
grillwork. “Lord Vizbeck and his cousin, Lady Ursula Bowker,” said
the young man.

“Honored, I’m sure,” said the warder, and sketched a
mocking little bow as he unlocked the gate and ushered them in.

“Are you honestly determined to do this thing?” Lord
Vizbeck whispered to his cousin, as the guard led them down a dank
and shadowy corridor.

“I am,” replied Lady Ursula. “What other choice do I
have?” The youth gave her hand an affectionate squeeze. “You might,
for instance, think of marrying me.”

“Impossible,” said Lady Ursula. “Nor would you offer,
if you had any idea of the extent of my debts. They would swallow
up your entire fortune whole. In any case, your mama has a very
good idea of my wretched circumstances, and though she has been
kind to me through all my troubles, she would never consent to our
marriage.”

“I come of age,” said Lord Vizbeck, “at the turn of
the year, and then there would be no need for my mama’s
consent.”

“Thank you,” said Lady Ursula, “but I do not wish to
spend the interim languishing in a debtor’s prison.”

The governor received them in a high, cold room,
overlooking the prison yard. He was a meagre little man with
parchment-colored skin, a crooked wig, and an enormous hooked nose.
He offered Lady Ursula a chair and sent the warder for another to
accommodate Lord Vizbeck.

“And how may I be of service to your ladyship?” he
asked, resuming his own seat behind a large, cluttered desk.

Lord Vizbeck answered for her. “The lady finds
herself in financial difficulties. I will not bore you with the
details; it is enough to tell you that her creditors are growing
impatient, and a writ may be issued against her at any time.
Therefore, she requires a husband to assume her debts.”

The governor tipped back his chair, made a steeple of
his hands. “I see,” he said. “Something in the felonious line, I
take it—a murderer or a highwayman, on his way to an appointment
with the hangman? Yes, indeed, I think I can provide just what you
want. A most gentlemanly youth—the sort to behave himself and not
put your ladyship to any embarrassment at the wedding ceremony.
He’ll be executed . . . let me see . . . on Friday afternoon at one
o’clock.”

He tilted his chair forward, rested his elbows on the
desk. “Yes, I believe that something can be arranged, but I feel
obliged to warn you that even in Motherwell husbands do not come
cheap. This man I am thinking of, for instance, he’s a hardened
rogue for all his engaging ways, and he won’t consent to marry you
and cheat your creditors merely for the love of your pretty blue
eyes—oh, no!”