Nina Coombs Pykare (32 page)

“We had almost despaired of having your company,” the viscount said, giving her a hearty smile. “I was about to ride to the rescue.”

Charles looked her over. She looked a little pale, but otherwise all right. Her eyes were bright, her face smooth. Strands of hair had escaped her chignon to curl around her sweet face. Her new green gown looked well on her.

He thought of that day by the seashore, when he’d lifted her down, the glow in her face, the joy in her eyes. She was an unusual woman, Edwina Pierce, a fine woman, a beautiful woman. “You’re not ill, I hope?”

Leonore looked up at that, as though waiting—hoping—to hear the worst. Why did she dislike Edwina so? As far as he knew the girl had never done a thing to harm her. Edwina’s theories about raising the girls seemed to be working well. Very well.

They were healthy, happy little girls, well, at least Constance was. Henrietta wasn’t nearly as gloomy as she had been.

Edwina shook her head, smiling at him. “No, milord. I’m not ill. It’s nothing serious. Just a slight case of the headache. That’s all.”

Leonore gave her a look of complete disdain and bent back to her chicken, raising a dainty forkful to her mouth as though it were the most delicious food on earth.

Charles looked from Leonore to Crawford. He could tell from Crawford’s face that he was going to say something caustic. Charles sighed. He was heartily tired of the two of them digging at each other. Things were bad enough already. Why couldn’t they live together in some kind of harmony instead of always being at each other’s throats? But Crawford couldn’t resist the urge to taunt. And Leonore was no better. Perhaps even worse. He’d never known anyone with such cold eyes. Strange that a woman like that should be Catherine’s sister. They were as unlike as night and day, cold and hot.

“I’m sure Miss Pierce is sorry to disappoint you,” Crawford said, sending Leonore a pointed look. “But as you can see she’s not really ill.”

Leonore elevated her nose and stared at Crawford coldly. “I can hardly wait till quarter day and we are free of your presence.”

Crawford chuckled. “Sorry, your ladyship. But quarter day will come—and go—and I shall still be here. You’ll see. I don’t intend to desert Charles in his time of need. So I shall have to forego the pleasures of London. For the present at least.”

The rueful look he sent Edwina said plainer than words that this was a real sacrifice on his part.

Charles swallowed a curse. Why didn’t Leonore and Crawford both go back to London and leave him in peace? He stifled a sigh. That was too much to hope for. Much as he wanted to tell his cousin to return to the city and his usual entertainments, and Leonore to go back and make someone else’s life miserable, he didn’t. They thought they were helping him. They thought he needed them. Who knows, perhaps he did.

But not like he needed Edwina, Miss Pierce. Sometimes he thought the stubborn governess was all that stood between him and the specter that haunted him, the specter of Catherine calling him to his death.

Edwina didn’t know that he’d gone to the parapet, before his promise to her, that he’d stood there, debating with himself, thinking how easy it would be to end it all, to join Catherine and be done with the pain. But Edwina Pierce’s determined face had risen before him. He’d thought of his children. He couldn’t leave them orphaned. So he’d come down from the parapet, away from temptation. He’d determined he would fight. With the brave Edwina to stand beside him he would fight Catherine’s wraith and the fate she wanted to bring him to.

The meal seemed to drag on interminably. For the first time since she’d arrived at the castle, Edwina had no appetite. She didn’t let on to it. She forced herself to eat a full plate of food and to make appropriate comments on its goodness. She even requested—and ate—a second helping of apple tart.

She could see that something was bothering Charles. There was more tenseness that usual about his jaw, and often when she raised her gaze from her food she found that he was watching her. She tried to decipher his look, to understand its meaning. He didn’t seem angry, thank the good Lord. Perhaps pensive was the correct word.

In spite of Lady Leonore’s repeated attempts to initiate conversation, he seemed withdrawn. Once he even frowned and, looking at each of them in turn, said, “You’ll have to excuse me, Leonore, Crawford, Miss Pierce. I’m afraid I have too much on my mind to make a good dinner partner.” Then he lapsed back into thoughtful silence.

Edwina kept silent, too. She wasn’t sure she could speak normally to any of them. When the meal was finally concluded she got almost eagerly to her feet. “Please, excuse me,” she said. “The headache is worsening. I’m afraid I must go lie down.”

“Of course,” the earl said, and the viscount nodded in agreement. Lady Leonore didn’t bother to nod. Or even to look at Edwina. She was cold and unfeeling, that one.

But, Edwina told herself as she left the room, she had no energy to spare on worry about the lady’s disdain. She must find an answer to the awful mystery that hung over them. She must find Catherine’s killer so that they would all be safe.

She couldn’t prove it, of course, but she was more and more convinced that Catherine had been murdered, and that it was no ghost but some human agent who—for whatever reason—was haunting the castle.

The thought gave her no comfort as she hurried up the broad staircase and along the dark hall to her room. Ghost or human murderer, both were dangerous. No number of candelabra could make those dark shadowy halls bright enough for her comfort.

Almost out of breath, she reached her chamber door, opened it, and stepped inside. The rustle of paper halted her there, right inside the door. She took another step, paper rustled again. She looked down. A square of white lay against the dark stones. Someone had left her a note.

With trembling fingers she picked it up. Almost holding her breath, she crossed to the bed and put her candle on the table.

Who would be sending her a note? Her heart began a sweet pounding. Could Charles want to see her? But if he did, why hadn’t he just said so?

Because, whispered the voice in her head, he didn’t want the others to hear, didn’t want them to know that he -

“Enough silliness!” she said to the empty room. “If you want to know who this is from and what it says, just open it.”

That’s what she did. She couldn’t help herself, of course, her gaze skipped immediately to the signature. It
was
from Charles.

She sank down on her chair, hardly able to comprehend this. She took several deep breaths in an effort to clear her mind -and then she read.

Dear Edwina:

I have been thinking about what

you said and I believe you’re right.

Catherine didn’t leap to her death.

She was pushed. My gentle wife was

cruelly murdered! And I know who did it.

Her heart was pounding so loud it frightened her. Charles knew! He knew who the murderer was.

She had to stop reading and take some more breaths.

Then she went on.

I realize that I must have proof. And I

do. But unfortunately that proof is on

the parapet. Will you meet me there near

midnight so that I can show you?

Faithfully, Charles

Her heart still pounding, she read the note again—and yet again. Was this note the reason for the strange looks he’d sent her during dinner? For his withdrawn behavior? There were no words of love in it, none of the protestations of affection that her heart yearned for.

She conquered her disappointment over that and set herself to wondering what kind of proof Charles could have. Would he know how the stone had been tumbled down and-

She froze there on the edge of the chair. It was Charles’ cloak that had the telltale tear in it. What if it had been Charles who pushed the stone? What if this was a trick to lure her to the parapet and murder her—as Catherine had been murdered?

Simpson had mended the cloak she said belonged to Charles. Simpson had no reason to lie about it. Surely someone else could have used his cloak. That was it. That had to be it.

Sitting there in the quiet room, Edwina tried to think. What was she to do? She couldn’t ignore this note. If she did that, Charles would think she didn’t trust him. But if she did as it asked- If Charles really was the killer- She would soon be dead, too, as dead as Catherine.

She bowed her head. Even death was better than not knowing the truth, than suspecting the man she loved was a murderer.

Chapter Thirty-three

In his bedchamber, Charles paced the floor. Back and forth, back and forth, he went, unable to sit still. She was out of his sight, but not out of his mind. No matter what he did, his thoughts kept going back to Edwina, to the way she’d looked at him at dinner. To the fact that he hadn’t had the chance to tell her that he’d made up his mind, really made up his mind—not just saying it to placate her—that he truly meant to stand and fight. And- He stopped in his pacing, and stared into the flames. God, how he wanted her to stand beside him.

He straightened. Yes, God help him. He wanted Edwina beside him. Now and forever. As his wife. But he couldn’t tell her that. He had no right to ask that of her.

Still, he could tell her that he’d decided, really decided, to fight. He glanced at his pocket watch. It was late, almost midnight. He’d like to tell her tonight, before he went to sleep. That way he’d rest better, sleep sounder. So would she.

Of course, she might be asleep already. In that case he’d wait till morning to tell her.

He grimaced. He couldn’t tell her the rest, of course. Couldn’t tell her that he loved her, that he wanted her next to him forever. He had no right to do that. No right to intrude on her life, no right to ask anything of her.

He could fight, he could stand against Catherine, but he had no right to drag Edwina into the battle, to put her life in jeopardy. Besides, he loved her too much for that, too much to put her in danger.

He straightened his cravat. But he could see her, if he could, he would see her, and tell her what he’d decided. 

* * * *

Edwina waited—and waited—while the slow minutes dragged by. Her resolve didn’t waver. She was going to meet Charles. She had to meet him, to show that she trusted him. Finally, when the clock in the hall struck half past eleven, she crept from her room, clutching her candle and praying that she was doing the right thing.

Hurrying through the dark halls, she looked around, afraid someone might see her, note where she was going, and try to stop her. But there was no one there. No one to see her as she headed for the deserted part of the castle.

She was doing a foolish thing, and some part of her knew it was foolish, reminded her of its foolishness. But mostly she could only think of Charles—and how much she loved him. She reached the tower stairs without seeing anyone and heaved a sigh of relief. The door was unlocked, but then she’d expected it would be. She opened it and hurried up, this time not even noticing the spiders. Charles was waiting for her. At last she could be with him, at last they could get this terrible mystery solved.

She set the candle on the ledge, opened the upper door and hurried out. It was dark, the moon half behind a cloud, but she could still see that the roof was empty. Charles wasn’t there. Her heart fell. She was too early. She moved away from the stairs. Maybe she’d misunderstood the time. She’d have to wait.

She shivered a little. With the sun gone down, the air had turned cold. In spite of the summer season, the wind from the sea was chilly. She wrapped her arms around herself. Why hadn’t she remembered the chill wind, thought to bring along a shawl?

The darkness of night had turned the tower sinister and mysterious, even more frightening than it was in the daytime. The moon was barely showing, and clouds scudding across the face of it threw moving shadows into the corners. She shivered again.

Where was Charles? Why wasn’t he here to meet her as he’d said he’d be? Perhaps he’d been delayed. Someone, Lady Leonore maybe, had kept him talking and he hadn’t been able to get away as he’d planned. Or maybe it was the viscount talking to him, delaying him. Or perhaps Charles had fallen asleep. It was nothing to get worried about.

She turned to look out over the ocean. She’d just watch the way the moonlight made the waves sparkle—it was lovely—and wait. Charles had said he’d come and he would.

There! That was the creak of the door opening. Charles was here! She whirled toward the door, happiness swelling in her heart. And froze in her tracks, biting back a cry of dismay. It was not Charles who stood there, but a figure in flowing white. A figure that shuffled toward her with slow menacing steps and upraised diaphanous arms.

“Who are you?” Edwina cried. “What is it you want from me?”

“Gone. Want—you—gone.”

The hoarse vengeful voice raised gooseflesh on her bare arms. That couldn’t be Lady Catherine’s voice. That was not the voice—or the intonation—of a lady. Besides, there was something about it, something familiar-

“I am not leaving here,” she insisted, pleased to hear that her voice held steady in spite of her fear. “This is my home now.”

The figure hesitated, then took another shuffling step toward her. “You got to go,” it said. “Leave here. Else the curse’ll—”

Edwina gasped. She knew that voice! She was certain now. “Mrs. Simpson! Why on earth are you pretending to be Lady Catherine’s ghost? How could you—”

A wail went up from Simpson, a wail that set Edwina’s teeth on edge. “‘Tis the curse,” Simpson cried, throwing off the white hood that had hidden her face. Moonlight showed Edwina her ravaged face, her eyes bright with fear.

The curse? “But—”

Simpson frowned. “‘Twas me that told her ‘bout the missing men, them as vanished when they built this place.”

Icy cold gripped Edwina’s heart. “You mean when they built the treasure vault?”

“Aye. The treasure vault. They was buried in it, poor fellows. To pertect the treasure. Or so we all believes.”

Edwina’s knees wanted to collapse on her, but she was close to the truth now, she had to stay strong. “But Mrs. Simpson, what has that curse to do with Lady Catherine?”