Seacliff (31 page)

And so the evening passed.

Reverend Lynne spent most of his time wandering between the food table and a long sideboard that held flagons of foaming ale. Morag was nowhere in sight, but as long as his stomach was not complaining, he didn’t mind. Sooner or later she would turn up. The later the better.

Randall danced as long as his legs would hold him, then walked with Quinn Broary outside for a few minutes to clear his head and catch his breath. Snow lay untrammeled on the ground—a blanket of ghostly white covered by a thin coat of ice to rival the river-sweep of stars that formed a diamond canopy over the valley. Twice he wished aloud that Griffin Radnor could have been at the celebration, and twice Quinn dug at his ribs with her elbow, nodding in silence to the dark figures around the estate, men in shadowy army uniforms. Save for a handful of minor incidents, the worst of which had been the partial destruction of the ringstones, they’d kept to themselves. Quiet in the homes where they’d been quartered, they stayed away from the villagers for the most part; nevertheless, they were a sinister force, all the more so for their silent, secretive ways.

Orin Daniels watched Randall and Broary leave the house. Though he’d reconciled himself to the fact of their not marrying, he’d hoped to keep Quinn as a lover. When the goldsmith claimed her attention, however, Orin in his usual taciturn manner had stepped aside. There were no recriminations; the village was too small. Besides, helping his mistress with her plan was a more satisfying way of striking back at the major. He emptied his goblet, refused an offer from Shamac to join her in a dance, and made his way along the side corridor toward the south tower. He wanted to check one more time on the roan, on the clothes Davy had packed with Alice Courder’s help, and then he wanted to see Gwen. She’d been as nervous as a cat since she’d come downstairs. He had to be sure she wouldn’t show herself to the guests, or to Flint. One look, and it would all be over.

Flint watched the burly farrier leave the hall. Then he turned his grim attention to Birwyn, who was still at his station at the rear of the building. There was someone with him, and it didn’t take Flint more than a half-dozen steps to realize the person was Morag, shoving herself against him while his hands worked their way around her buttocks and squeezed tightly. He swore harshly under his breath and lengthened his stride, deliberately coming down hard on his heels to send Nate a warning. It worked. Suddenly, Birwyn pushed Morag to one side, and she smothered her protests when she saw Flint approaching. Quickly, she tidied her hair and gown and gave him a sickly sweet smile before heading back to the ale.

“You’re impossible, Nate,” Flint said, standing with his back to the hall.

“She done asked for it,” Birwyn replied without apology. “Aye, that’s the truth.” He paused. “Morgan is getting drunk.”

“So I’ve noticed.”

“Shouldn’t take me long to get him into the study. You remember what to do?”

Birwyn winked with his good eye, then squirmed uncomfortably in the tight-fitting jacket he’d been required to wear. One hand rested casually on the butt of a pistol.

“See that you do,” Flint cautioned. He faced the hall slowly, brushing at his cuffs. “The major hasn’t gotten this far by being an idiot. Unless we do it right, he’ll suspect the truth.”

“He won’t,” Birwyn assured him. “And the men?”

“They know who pays ’em, Flint. And the few what have complaints will have to answer t’me. Personally.” His grin was brief and diabolical. “You just do your part, and I’ll do mine. Quick as pie we be masters, don’t you worry.”

But Flint did worry. Too many things could go wrong, including a sudden appearance by the rebels who were hiding in the mountains. For weeks he’d been hearing rumors of restlessness, and he knew the source of the problem was Griffin Radnor. Damn him! he thought. He should have killed the cur when he had the chance. Birwyn did not make many mistakes, but when he did they were colossal ones; and now that Radnor was still at large, and with men at his command, there was no telling what might happen. Thank God for the winter storms. The valley would be effectively cut off from the swelling rabble until spring, and by then—

He smiled.

Nate Birwyn suddenly found the toes of his boots fascinating. He had no idea what was running through Flint’s mind, but when that devil’s grin crossed the man’s face Nate couldn’t help but shudder. And he couldn’t help but feel somewhat sorry for Sir Oliver Morgan.

S
hortly before midnight the party subsided. Energies were flagging, and the drinking had caught up with most of the guests. The music had shifted into a low background melody, soft and pleasing, and a few of the villagers had already paid their respects to their hosts and left for home. But not before Oliver stunned the assemblage and his wife with a brief speech thanking them all for attending Caitlin’s birthday celebration. Then, with Bradford’s solemn assistance, he passed around to each family a tiny package which, when opened, was found to contain three gold sovereigns. The gasps, muffled cries of joy, expressions of disbelief—both astounded and suspicious— filled the halls of Seacliff for the better part of an hour.

Oliver reveled in the attention. He accepted gratitude and a few women’s tears with magnanimous bows, brushed aside perfunctory protests, and totally ignored Caitlin’s amazement. Where he’d amassed all that gold she did not know, but she was positive it had not been from any legitimate dealing. And she was sure his magnanimity was an unabashed ploy to gamer loyalty and incur debts. To her dismay, in many cases it was working.

But his gesture also produced the precise moment she’d been waiting for. With all the commotion, the renewed toasts to Oliver’s health and hers, she realized she would have no better time than now. A sharp pain pierced her breast as she made her decision. What she was doing was irrevocable, and to postpone it further would be lethal. She made her way through the groups of dancers and talkers as quickly as she dared without seeming in a hurry. Catching Orin’s eye, she gave him a brief, significant nod. He disappeared. Then she checked on Birwyn and found him talking with one of his men at the back of the center hall; Flint was nowhere to be seen, and Oliver, she saw as she left the room, was leaning toward Bradford and listening intently to him.

Her heart drummed, and she felt beads of perspiration begin to form on her brow. Her smile stiffened falsely, and when she suggested that the musicians play something more lively, she thought the quaver in her voice would betray her in an instant. But no one seemed to notice anything amiss. They took her hands and shook them, kissed her cheeks, complimented her on her gown and coif, and left her alone.

In the hall she remembered her gift. She caught Bradford on his way to the dining room and told him to take the bust immediately to her apartments. When he balked, she snapped the order again, stood there not caring how insulted he felt, and watched as he picked up the sculpture in his arms. When he returned, she nodded, but she did not take her eyes from him as he made his way up the stairs. She wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d contrived to stumble and drop the piece.

A draft from the front door chilled her ankles and made her shiver.

Morag Burton swept past her on the arm of a farmer who was too drunk to notice anything but Morag’s exposed breasts.

“Are you all right, m’lady?” Reverend Lynne asked solicitously, his hair disheveled and his cheeks flushed with drink. “May I get you something?”

She did not look at him. A cold serpent was making its way through her, and no matter how hard she pressed her gloved hands to her stomach she could not still its effects.

“M’lady?”

“I’m fine,” she said quickly. “It’s all this excitement, that’s all.” Again she was positive her smile was too rigid. “A moment of quiet and I’ll be right as rain again.”

“I’m sure,” the vicar said. “Well… I believe I shall try a taste of your cellar’s marvelous brandy. I’m told it’s quite elegant.”

She nodded, said nothing, then released a long-held breath when he walked unsteadily away into the dining room.

It isn’t going to work, she told herself. I just know it’s not going to work.

A brief scuffle sounded somewhere, followed by the raising of a few angry voices. The music played on. The glow from the candle tree blurred and shimmered. People passed her without speaking, and it was some time before she understood they weren’t even seeing her. The gold sovereigns, the food, and the drink had combined to render her virtually invisible.

It isn’t going to work, she thought again.

Orin stepped out of the side corridor, brushed a hand wearily through his hair and vanished again.

Bradford returned from her rooms empty handed. My God, she thought; my God, it’s now or never.

A slow and steady inhalation, a holding, a prayer, and she started down the hall, exaggerating her nervousness in hopes anyone passing would think her slightly under the weather. From drink or her illnesses, she didn’t care which. Those who noted would remember her heading for the staircase, looking rather lost and somewhat befuddled.

At the juncture of hallways she paused. Behind her the party seemed to have gained its second wind; ahead, Nate Birwyn was not at his post. She searched the length of the hall, peering into the shadows beneath the standards and alongside the staircases on either wall, but no one was lurking about. Flint was still missing, and her husband had apparently responded to Bradford’s message, as planned.

She uttered a short prayer then, and with a hand to her diamond necklace she darted into the side corridor and hurried toward the south tower. As if a heavy door had been closed the revelry faded in her wake, and she could hear nothing but the rasp of her breath between her lips, the soft fall of her slippers on the carpeting, and the screams in her mind every time a stray draft flickered a candle.

The south tower entrance loomed directly ahead.

Beyond it, Gwen would be waiting with her change of clothes and a cloth sack containing her belongings. They would wear men’s clothes, making riding easier and providing a nighttime disguise. At the exit she would find Orin. He would take them across the snow-covered lawn to the stables, pretending to escort two staff members who’d taken too much brandy. Once there they would mount and be gone. With luck, the alarm would not be raised for at least two hours, and by that time they would be through the hills’ gap, heading south toward Bristol Bay and Cardiff.

Cardiff, and freedom.

She was several feet beyond her father’s study door before she realized it stood ajar. After glancing over her shoulder, she slowed reluctantly. A lamp glowed within. Who…? She stopped, looked to the tower and could not contain her curiosity. Slowly, walking on her toes, she made her way back and listened. There was no sound from inside. With one hand trembling she pushed the door open and stepped over the threshold. It took several moments for her eyes to adjust to the dim light, several moments more before she saw the figure lying on the floor on the other side of her father’s desk.

Voices suddenly sounded from the corridor.

Without thinking she slammed the door behind her and hurried over to the figure.

Her hands covered her mouth barely in time to smother a scream.

It was Oliver. He was on his stomach, his legs akimbo and his arms thrown over his head. One stocking had been pulled down to his calf, and his jacket was spread open in a black velvet puddle. The wig, which he treated with more care than he had for her feelings, was lying on its side like some beaten, white-furred animal. And from between his shoulder blades rose the ebony-handled knife her father had used to break the seals on his correspondence.

If there was blood, it had blended long ago into the dark of his clothing.

“Oliver?” she whispered, dropping to her knees. She reached out tentatively toward his back, withdrew her hand suddenly, and reached out again. She shook him.

“Oliver?”

She shook him again, felt a softness and turned her palm to the light. Blood stained her glove. Oliver Morgan was obviously dead.

“Oh, my God, Oliver!”

“Pity, isn’t it?”

She cried out and whirled around, hands spread on the floor to keep her balance. From the shadows in the room’s far corner James Flint emerged, smiling. At the same moment the door was flung open and Nate Birwyn strode in, Ellis Lynne right behind him.

“Told you,” Birwyn said. “Heard some shoutin’, and there you are.”

The vicar nodded as if the man with the white patch had been talking about two children brawling in the schoolyard.

Caitlin’s eyes widened and looked haunted, as all she could do was gape. Lips quivering violently, she reached out in a pleading gesture.

“My dear,” Flint told her, “it seems to me you have a problem.”

24

A
s dizziness swept over her and all sensation was lost in a distant buzzing filling her ears, she sagged back onto her haunches and prepared to give herself up to the welcome darkness. But just as she was slipping over the brink she felt someone take gentle hold of her arms. She resisted. She wanted to flee, and this was the best way she knew how. The hands were insistent. And when the spiraling, hypnotic lights that had invaded her mind faded to painful starpoints, she allowed herself to be lifted to her feet, where she swayed until an arm slipped around her waist and guided her to the high-backed desk chair. She sat with her head back and her eyes closed, concentrating now on not losing consciousness. Though she’d not heard a threat, she knew instinctively that she was in danger.

From behind her closed eyelids, she could hear a sharp snapping sound, a rattling, and the flutter of a heavy cloth in the air before the cacophony settled. A grunt of satisfaction sounded, and footsteps crossed the floor.

Her eyelids danced, then lifted, and when she looked over her right shoulder she saw that Oliver’s body had been covered by a panel of velvet drapery yanked down from the window. Outside, though the fogged windowpanes, she could see the waning moonlight glimmering off the snow. And shadows. Movement. Horses snorting white breath, carts trundling along the lane, the glint of lantern light off bridle and harness.