Moth to the Flame (18 page)

This weekend suddenly had the feel of an endurance test.

*          *          *

Twenty-four hours later, Alicia stepped from her bath, wrapped herself in a huge fluffy white towel and stepped back into her bedroom, with its Queen Anne four-poster bed, rich pink silk hangings, and an original Turner on the far wall.

It was like something from a fantasy.

After their arrival, Rupert had informed her that dinner was at eight, in a small, cosy, family dining room, just off the main hall. It had been, she was relieved to discover, a simple, family-only meal.

The Countess of Warrington was a very impressive lady, but as coldly polite and distant as an ice sculpture. As well as the Earl and Countess, Rupert's sister, Lady Camilla, and her fiancé had joined them for the evening.
Camilla
was like her brother in looks, but there all similarity ended. Where Rupert was self-effacing, Camilla was outgoing. While Rupert was sweet-natured, Camilla was astringent. Alicia was puzzled by the rather amused, speculative looks that she'd caught Lady Camilla cast her way all through dinner.

All in all, Alicia had been glad when the meal was over.

Now she sighed as she turned the setting on her hair-dresser to a cooler temperature, affixed the brush and began to dry her hair.

She'd spent a lovely day, riding in the water-meadows with Rupert, enjoying a pub lunch, before returning to the house. There, she'd played a game of chess with her host, narrowly losing. Rupert, she'd noticed again, had beamed with happiness as she scored yet another hit with his father.

All in all, she thought now, her stay at Warrington hadn't quite been the ordeal she'd been expecting.

Throughout the afternoon, caterers had arrived by the van load. Masses of flowers had been carried in. The Housekeeper and an army of chattering servants had busily prepared for tonight's Ball.

Her hair now dry and framing her face in a mass of black waves, she decided to be daring, and leave it down for a change.

She applied the barest hint of make-up—just a touch of gold eyeshadow, and a natural-
coloured
glossy lipstick—donned the silk and lace knickers she'd brought with her and the wired, uplifting bra that was so uncomfortable to wear, but which gave such good results. She unrolled her stockings, putting them on with infinite care, and slipped on silver satin high-heeled shoes. Then she walked to the wardrobe, and the ball gown she'd brought with her.

She pulled the gown out and ran a hand over the pink silk. It was a bold gown, one that she and her mother had chosen together on one of their trips to Milan. As she put it on and glanced in the mirror, she was relieved to see it was as spectacular as she remembered it. It left her shoulders completely bare, and the contrast of her creamy skin and raven locks against the deep pink strapless top which covered her breasts was breathtaking. Her uplift bra gave her a modest, but most definitely appealing cleavage. Below the stiff bodice, the gown nipped into a tight waist, and fell in an almost dead straight, lustrously gleaming line to her ankles. She donned long white gloves and looped the unusual necklace of jet and silver, bought to go with the dress, around her neck so that it sparkled and glowed at her throat. When she stepped back to view herself, she knew that she would not let Rupert down.

The sound of cars arriving outside had her grabbing her tiny, envelope-style evening
purse—and
moving to the door.

Rupert was hovering in the corridor, waiting for her. He looked perfect in the black tuxedo, and the way he stopped dead and gaped at her as she walked towards him, made her heart swell in tender fondness. ‘Rupert,' she said softly, and held out her arm. ‘Will you escort me downstairs?'

The hall was full of people as they turned the bend in the sweeping staircase. Winstone, the Butler, was just admitting an older couple. A mammoth urn of white orchids, freesias, roses and carnations frothed in the centre of the black-and-white tiled hall.

It was one of those moments when everyone seemed to freeze for just a never-to-be-forgotten moment of time. The older couple looked up at the spectacularly handsome, contrasting young couple coming down the stairs, and their faces softened.

The Earl and Countess followed their gaze.

The Countess, for the first time ever, looked approving. By her side, she felt Rupert swell. The evening was already a success. And she was glad. But she was even more pleased that tomorrow she'd be going back to Oxford.

Back to Jared.

The Warrington Ball passed as the March Ball always had—in a whirl of vintage champagne, dancing, gourmet food and music.

Rupert danced with Alicia constantly, and the fact was not missed by the more
matrimony-minded
ladies of the county. Midnight came and went. Two o'clock came and went. Eventually Warrington began to empty, and Alicia bade the Earl and Countess goodnight.

By four o'clock, the house was silent.

Feeling bone-weary, Alicia crawled into bed and fell instantly asleep. She was awoken by the sound of blackbirds singing and some heavy object sitting down on the end of her bed. She opened bleary eyes, saw a descending blond head, and felt herself being kissed. She struggled instantly into alert, appalled wakefulness.

‘Rupert,' she spluttered, pushing him away from her. He was still dressed in his tuxedo, and when he leaned back from her, his face was oddly flushed. She realised she wasn't the only one who had drunk too much champagne.

‘Rupert,' she said again, sitting up against the headboard and pulling the sheets up under her chin. ‘I don't think you should be here,' she said warningly.

Uneasily, she realised she was potentially in a very embarrassing position. On the other hand, she didn't intend to put up with any nonsense from Rupert, either.

‘Sorry,' Rupert said quietly, instantly putting her fears to rest. ‘I know I shouldn't have. But you looked so beautiful, lying there asleep. I really came in to give you this.'

And, whilst she wilted in relief, he suddenly
held
out his hand. In it was the most amazing ring she'd ever seen. A square cut sapphire, surrounded by a starburst of diamonds. A veritable Queen's Ransom of a ring.

It looked ancient. And priceless.

She gaped at it. ‘Rupert?' she breathed. ‘What . . .'

‘It's the Warrington Ring,' he said simply. ‘It's an heirloom. It's been in the family for over a hundred years.'

Alicia felt her mouth fall open. She wondered, for one brief moment, if she was actually dreaming. If she'd never woken up. ‘Rupert, but . . . we're not engaged,' she blurted out. She pushed the hair out of her eyes. Tried to struggle free from this feeling of growing unreality. Had she missed something, somewhere? Had she . . .

‘I wanted to make it official, darling,' Rupert said, leaning suddenly closer. And for the first time, Alicia clearly saw, in the gleaming, feverish light of his eyes, the ugly, scary, unmistakable glint of insanity.

She felt herself go cold. Deathly cold.

‘I know father approves of you,' Rupert carried on, his voice tumbling over itself now in its eagerness to explain. ‘And that's important. Really important,' once again he reached out to grab her arm in a familiar gesture, but this time his fingers curled around her wrist in a strong, talon-like grip.

She licked her lips, blinking, trying to force
herself
to think. Keep him talking, she heard a quiet, firm voice pipe up in the back of her head. Whatever happens, keep him talking. ‘Is it? Why?' she asked gently, quietly, as if she was talking to a terrified horse that might bolt at any moment.

‘Because of the money, you see,' Rupert said, waving a hand in the air. ‘He was going to give it all to Camilla, but now he's seen you, I know he won't.'

He's not making sense, Alicia thought in growing panic and hysteria. He's not making any kind of sense at all! She fought back a desperate wave of panic. Of self-recrimination. Why hadn't she spotted this . . . mental unbalance in him before? Was she so blind? So stupid? ‘I see. Money,' she echoed, trying to keep her voice flat and calm and soothing. She had to get him out of here. Then she would be able to think!

‘But now it'll be fine,' Rupert rushed to assure her. He didn't like to see his beloved so upset. ‘Father approves of you. We'll be married, and you'll have sons to carry on the family name. That will please him.'

‘Yes,' Alicia murmured faintly. ‘I'm sure it will. But, Rupert, don't you think you should leave now? If your father were to catch us together like this he might . . . er . . .'

‘Oh, yes, of course, darling,' he agreed. ‘You're so sweet. So old-fashioned. But you're right of course. It simply wouldn't do.' He was
so
relieved it was all over. She'd accepted him. They were engaged. He was safe.

Alicia let out a shaky breath. Then, before she could stop him, he suddenly grabbed her hand. She felt her whole body stiffen in shock, but he only reached for the ring and slipped it on her finger. To her horror it was a tight fit. She felt herself wince as he forced it brutally over her knuckle. Of course, when the ring was made, women were tinier than they were now. And had much smaller fingers. In portraits of more recent Warrington women, she'd noticed this very ring adorning their little fingers.

But Rupert had pushed it on to her engagement finger. She could feel the finger throbbing slightly at the tight restriction of the band.

‘Now, I'd really better leave,' Rupert said. ‘I can't resist you!' Then, with a smile of dazzling brilliance that in itself could never be classed as normal, he leaned forward and kissed her again.

Alicia had never in her life been prepared for something like this, and simply froze. But the kiss was soon over, and then he was backing away, smiling, talking inanely about life at Warrington, about looking in the attics to see if he could find a crinoline and lace gown for her to wear for their wedding, and she could think of nothing to do but watch him back away. Then he was gone.

Instantly, Alicia shot out of bed and locked
the
door. She leaned against it panting. She was scared. And upset.

She'd never had to deal with a mental illness before.

She thought about the cold natures of the Earl and Countess, and shook her head. It was not surprising, really, that a man as sensitive and vulnerable as Rupert should have problems.

But . . . Oh, what should she do about it?

She ran to the bathroom and thrust her hand under the tap. Rubbed soap vigorously around the ring, but it was no good. She simply couldn't get it off. And, in truth, she was wary about pulling too hard, in case she should damage the ring. It was obviously a museum-quality piece. She forced herself to take a deep breath. Stood over the sink, gasping and shaking and telling herself uselessly not to panic.

Her finger was swollen, that was all. Rupert had bruised it putting the ring on. As soon as the swelling went down, she would take the ring off, and send it back to the Earl with a sort note of explanation. But even as she thought it, she shook her head. How could you write a letter to an Earl telling him his son needed psychiatric help? What would he do to Rupert? She shuddered, imagining his rage at his son. Would Rupert be locked away in an institution?

No. Surely not. She shuddered again. Not
even
the Earl would be so cruel. Would he?

She spent a miserable few hours then, hours spent pacing her room and waiting for the rest of the household to stir. After such a late night, they were not going to be early risers. She packed, longing to get away. She even, at some point, contemplated calling for a taxi, and leaving like a thief in the night. But somehow, she couldn't do that to Rupert. It would be so cowardly. So unfair to leave him to face the music alone. No matter how badly he'd scared her, she was sure he wouldn't harm her, and she didn't have the heart to do that.

So she waited until the breakfast gong sounded, and then, dressed once more in her blue suit, went down to the small breakfast room. But there, the Countess noticed the ring almost at once. Camilla, in the process of helping herself to bacon and eggs, froze at her mother's gasp. The Earl noticed the frantic head-bobbing motion of his wife as she kept looking pointedly at Alicia's hand.

Instinctively, as Alicia walked towards the table, she tried to keep her hand behind her back to hide it, but suddenly Rupert was there. Taking her hand firmly in his own. Leading her to the table where everyone could see his mark of ownership.

And Alicia didn't dare say anything, realising grimly that she was no psychologist. She might do Rupert irreparable mental harm
if
she just blurted out that it was all a mistake.

That she didn't love him. That she had no intention of marrying him. What she had to do, she realised, was get him to see an analyst. Perhaps once they were back in Oxford, away from this damned house and these awful people, she could persuade him to see someone.

The Earl glanced at the ring. Looked quickly up at his beaming son. Glanced, with a more thoughtful look at Alicia.

‘Well,' he said quietly, as Alicia felt her heart sink to her shoes. ‘We have reason to celebrate it seems?'

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Davina walked up the now familiar Banbury streets, and made her way to a burger joint in the shadow of an impressive church. Sitting in the far corner, furthest away from the counter, was Gavin Brock. She was all business as she dropped a rather battered satchel beside her chair.

‘I've deposited the money in your bank,' she told him abruptly. ‘You can check if you like.'

Gavin did just that, walking to the nearest public telephone box, where a very helpful voice on the other end cheerfully informed him that his bank account was now looking
very
healthy indeed.

‘Well?' she asked abruptly, as Gavin returned.