The Birth of Blue Satan (44 page)

“Not tonight. But I may go to France. I should see to the business of my estate. No,” he continued, “tonight, I only have to return to my lodgings at the Fox and Goose. But having ridden half the night already, I find I am a little tired.”

“Why have you ridden half the night, my lord?” She spoke with unconscious sympathy.

He smiled wistfully back at her. “Perhaps for the same reason that you rested your head against the door?”

She sighed and moved to hold on to one of the bed posts. Leaning against it, she said, “That is very likely.”

“Then there is nothing more to say. We did our best, Mrs. Kean. If Letchworth had given himself up—” He did not finish, but looked down at his hands. “I cannot be sorry for having killed him. My father would have done the same for me . . . though sooner perhaps.”

“I quite understand you, my lord, and you must not blame yourself for what has occurred. Either on that day
or
on the day your father was murdered.”

He gave an unamused laugh. “Mrs. Kean, it is only the knowledge of my blame that makes my current situation tolerable. How else can I justify all I have lost?”

Her heart ached painfully for him. She wished he could spare himself these regrets. She only hoped that time would help him to see more clearly. He must forgive himself or he would never make another push to recover his position.

“Your friendship is the one blessing I have to be thankful for. If you ever have need of my help, no matter what it might be, at any time or in any place, you have only to send for me. Will you promise to do that, Mrs. Kean?”

Her agreement would help to salve his conscience, but she would not give it without one condition. “Only if you promise to do the same, my lord.”

His silence told her that she had surprised him. He laughed. “Very well, dear lady. Or, should I say, dear friend?”

“I believe that both are accurate, my lord.” She felt herself blushing. His laughter, which seemed to stem from delight, had the same effect on her as before, as if a softly-burning candle that heated but did not burn had been lit inside her.

“I know they are. And now, my very dear friend, Mrs. Kean,” he said, springing to his feet, as if he had never claimed to be tired, “I shall show you the secret to my miraculous entry.

“Remember,” he said, as she followed him to the wall across from the foot of her bed, “that I once told you that this room is a very handy chamber?”

Hester nodded.

“Well, it truly is. See this piece of carving which resembles the top of a pineapple?”

“I do see it, my lord.”

“If you ever want to escape from this house, you have only to turn it so, and . . .”

Hester was amazed to see the shape of a door appearing in the paneling. It swung away from her, as if on a spring, making only a slight squeak. A small, dark closet stood revealed beyond, and a cool burst of earthy air floated upwards out of the blackness inside.

“It’s a staircase!” she exclaimed in a whisper. “I had no idea that this doorway was here.”

“This is the closet where I found the documents my father hid. I came in this way one night after I escaped from Sir Joshua’s men.”

He stepped into the tiny space and lit a torch. It roared into life, illuminating the narrow staircase with its damp stone walls. She peered down the stairs, as he held the torch out to help her see. But its beam only reached a short way into the dark. The steps appeared to descend into a black, bottomless well.

“At the base of these stairs is a tunnel that goes to an undercroft in the ruins, near where we met.” St. Mars explained why it had been built, and he asked her to show it to Mr. Bramwell, if the King should ever change his current position and decide to persecute the nonjuring priests.

She promised him she would.

“No one else knows of this, except you and Tom. I know you will keep the secret to yourself. I wanted you to be aware of it in case you should ever have need of it.” He showed her how the latch in the closet could be opened, should she ever enter her room from the ruins.

As St. Mars extinguished his torch and stepped back into her bedchamber, Hester assured him of her discretion and thanked him for honouring her with the secret.

“I thought it only fair to tell you about it—” he grinned— “considering this is the passage I will have to use to enter my house. I will not use it often, but I should hate to frighten you when I do.”

The idea that he might pass through her room at who-knew-what hour flustered Hester. “Not at all, my lord. Of course, you must use it as often as you wish.”

Then fearing that he might take her words for an invitation he would not welcome, she added, “I do not suppose that you could give a little knock?”

His eyes danced with laughter. “I shall most certainly knock, and I shall take care not to disturb you at any more awkward moments, Mrs. Kean.”

She could not help laughing back. “You are goodness itself, my lord.”

They stood smiling. Then something sad must have occurred to him, for his look turned wistful. With a wry twist to his lips, he said, “I should be going now. But I meant what I said. If you should ever be in any need, I am your servant.”

“You
are
kind, my lord.”

“Not at all. It would give me great pleasure to serve you. More than I can ever express.”

Hester curtsied, her eyes lowered so that he would not see how much she wished him to stay. But he raised her up, and taking both her hands in his, kissed them with more earnestness than was courtly, before ducking behind the wall.

Not bothering to light his torch, he called back up to her as he vanished. “Good night, Mrs. Kean.”

“Good night, my lord.”

Hester waited until no more sounds came from below— no footsteps, no falling pieces of earth, no brushes of air that might have been caused by a swirl of his cloak—before closing the secret door and laying her hands on the carving that could open it up again. She made very certain that she remembered which one it was, before turning to seek her bed.

She
would
see St. Mars again.

For after all the murders of your eye,

When, after millions slain, yourself shall die;

When those fair suns shall set, as set they must,

And all those tresses shall be laid in dust,

This Lock, the Muse shall consecrate to fame,

And midst the stars inscribe Belinda’s name.

This book is dedicated to

my mother,

Marguerite Johnston Barnes,

for her loving mentoring and help

and her writer’s genes

and to

my father,

Charles Wynn Barnes,

for his constant encouragement

and for having enough faith in me to offer to back this project.

Copyright © 2001 by Patricia Wynn Ricks

Electronically published in 2000 by Belgrave House

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94117-4228

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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.