Truth about Leo (19 page)

“As you can see, the sixteen steps lead down into this grand chamber. The walls are of red brick, and my colleague the Reverend Mackleford, who is down at the far end, believes that these eight double arches that span the room originally allowed light in to illuminate the ceremonies held within.”

The chamber was of a good size, like that of two large ballrooms put together, and was lit with various lamps and the odd occasional candle set in a dish. Eight graceful arches spanned each side of the room, with a center line of arch columns marching down the middle of the chamber. The lowest parts of the columns were bedecked with painted imagery (most of which had flaked off) and some tiled mosaics that were still visible despite the centuries of dirt and neglect.

“Oooh,” Dagmar said, moving to one of the columns and wiping at it with a handkerchief. “This is gorgeous. Julia, do you see the fishes in this tile?”

“How lovely,” Mrs. Hayes said as she moved over to the arch column opposite. “Why didn't I bring my sketchbook? Look, Philip, at that exquisite tile work.”

“What's that?” Leo asked the curate, gesturing toward a round pit in the center of the room. It was ringed with stone and appeared to have steps leading downward into blackness.

“That is the pool, or bath if you will, for which the chamber is named. If you come closer, you can see that a spring still exists in it.”

Leo stood on the edge and looked down into the pool and saw that indeed, water bubbled up out of the ground. The pool itself didn't contain much water, only a few feet, but Leo guessed it must have its source in one of the rivers that flowed through London.

“What is of such interest over there?” Leo asked, nodding toward the far end of the chamber. Some sort of wooden bridge had been created with a few planks, leading up to a small dais of earth and stone. The distance was great enough across the room (and the light suitably dim) as to make it impossible to see what the half-dozen men were doing.

“Ah, that is our big surprise.” The curate nodded several times in succession. “Our very big surprise. Reverend Mackleford discovered the remains of what we believe to be several slaves. Were they sacrificed here, in this holy place, or were they merely left here when the building was abandoned? Who shall know, who shall know?”

“Dagmar,” Leo called, holding out a hand for her. She looked up from where she and her companion were examining a half-rotted painted image. Julia had a small journal out and was sketching the image. “Did you wish to see the skeletons?”

“Oh, yes!” She all but ran to him, taking his hand and following as the curate led toward the end of the room.

“Now, I should warn Your Highness and lordship that the going here is quite rough. Part of the floor is gone, as you can see, no doubt the result of a sinkhole. We have had some planks put down in order to cross over, but only one person may cross at a time lest the planks fail. Shall I go across first and allow you to come to me, Your Highness?”

Leo pushed past him and strode across the planks, moving surely but swiftly since he wasn't overly fond of heights. He stopped at the end and nodded to Dagmar. “It's safe. Don't look down, though.”

“Whyever not?” Dagmar trod lightly across the board, evidently not feeling the slightest bit bothered by the gaping pit beneath her. Indeed, her gaze was not on it or him, but the people behind him. Leo smiled to himself at the thought of her being so fascinated by something that most people would shun. She really had the most interesting personality traits.

“Dalton? Mrs. Hayes?” he called. “Did you wish to see the skeletons?”

“Absolutely not,” Louisa called, moving over to where Philip and Mrs. Deworthy were now studying the bottom of an arch. “I have no desire to see anything dead, let alone a person. I shall content myself with studying this lovely tile work on the arch.”

“I've been taking down transcriptions of the inscriptions,” Philip said a few minutes later, when he arrived at the plank. He looked at it dubiously before craning his neck to see what it was Dagmar and the others were discussing. “Is that safe?”

“It appears to be so.”

“Ah. I suppose in the name of completion I should examine the last arch for inscription as well.” He hurried across the plank much as Leo had done, with eyes averted from the pit beneath him. “I shall be sure to send in my translations to the scientific society.”

“Not interested in skeletons, then?” Leo watched as Philip made a brief examination of the lower part of the arch pillar, clicking to himself in happiness when he found some engraving.

“What?” Philip asked as he squatted next to the base of the column in order to see it better. He glanced over his shoulder at the group of people on the dais. “Oh, not so much, no. Bones are bones. They can't tell us nearly so much as what our ancestors left behind in written form.”

Leo watched with some interest as the gaggle of clergymen and Dagmar all made a thorough study of the heap of brown bones, busily discussing theories of who the people where, why they had been cast upon the dais, and whether or not they had been bound before death.

“I don't see how you can say that they weren't slaves when it's quite evident by that scrap of iron shackle that the poor victims were bound in such a way as to guarantee their immobility,” Dagmar argued with a man who had been briefly introduced as the Reverend Mackleford. She was about to continue when a shout from the far end of the chamber had them turning to look.

“Help!” came the cry. “Help me, someone!”

“What on earth?” Dagmar rose to her feet, absently dusting off her gown as she peered along with Leo into the dimness. No one was visible, although a brief flutter of color from behind one of the arch pillars indicated the source of the sound. “Is that Julia?”

“She's trying to kill me! Philip, save me!”

The voice echoed down the long chamber, the horror in it seeming to grow with each reverberation. Leo started toward the plank bridge, Dagmar at his heels, but Philip Dalton sprinted past him, crying, “Louisa!”

He reached the plank first and crossed it quickly, but stumbled just as he was reaching solid ground on the far side, falling and half twisting, frantically scrabbling at the dirt in order to keep from plunging into the pit. His thrashing legs caught the plank, and for one moment, it balanced precariously, then tumbled into the abyss with a dull crash.

“Help!” came a strangled cried from the far end. “Strangling…me…”

“Dear God, can it be?” Dagmar clutched at Leo's arm, instantly releasing it when she realized it was his wounded one. “Has Julia lost her mind and actually attacked Louisa? Leo, we must do something!”

By now the cluster of clergymen were immediately behind them, all demanding to know what was going on. Philip had clawed his way to his feet and dashed down the length of the room, yelling that he was there and all would be well.

“Dalton will see to her,” Leo consoled Dagmar, who was now clutching his good arm, the both of them straining to see what was happening behind the first pillar. Just as Philip reached it, a small figure crawled out a few feet and collapsed. He immediately bent over the woman, his shoulders bowing as he clutched her to his chest.

“Oh no, it cannot be, it just cannot be,” Dagmar said softly, her words drown out by the demands of the clergymen for someone to do something, for someone to fetch a new plank, more lanterns, and lastly, a doctor, none of which was possible trapped as they were.

Philip stayed where he was for a minute, visibly rocking on his knees before he carefully set down his bundle, pulling off his coat to lay over the woman's head. Dagmar's fingers dug into Leo's arm. He ground his teeth, wanting to be on the opposite side of the pit, desperate to assess the situation. Without glancing back, Philip suddenly disappeared.

“What is he doing?” Dagmar demanded to know.

“I assume he's gone for help.”

“You don't think Louisa—” She stopped, unable to say the words.

Leo shook his head. “I don't know what to think. It would appear that Mrs. Hayes has suffered from some sort of an attack—ah, there is someone.”

Around the column that blocked their sight of the stairs leading upward, a handful of men and one woman appeared, Philip Dalton amongst them.

“Bring a plank!” Leo bellowed at them. “We can't get across the chasm without one!”

The workmen had clustered around the fallen woman, but one of them, lifting his head and glancing their way, turned and shoved a youth toward the door.

“That's Julia whose arm Philip is holding,” Dagmar said in a whisper. “Do you think—”

“I don't know,” Leo repeated, every nerve in his body jumping with the need to be acting. He hated being trapped and unable to offer assistance. “Where the devil is the plank?”

“There!” the curate next to them shouted triumphantly, and all the men around them shouted encouragement as the youth staggered in with a heavy wooden plank. Two of the workmen broke off to help him, while the third took a gesticulating Julia when Philip shoved her at him.

The second the replacement plank was down, Leo was across it, Dagmar right behind him. They bolted down the length of the room, and when they arrived breathless at the fallen woman, Julia gave a glad cry and tried to throw herself on Dagmar, but the workman held her back. She flung out her hands in entreaty, crying as she did so, “Princess, oh my most beloved princess, this is madness! Sheer madness! I couldn't! I just couldn't! What Mr. Dalton says is simply impossible! It is like a nightmare come to pass!”

“Yes, it is a nightmare come to pass,” Philip said grimly, striding forward to face Dagmar's companion. “It is my sister's nightmare that you have brought to fruition. Someone fetch a constable! I wish this woman, this murderess, taken into custody!”

“Nooo!” Julia cried, falling to her knees.

“How can this be?” Dagmar asked, looking at the covered body. “I just don't understand how this can be. Julia would never harm Louisa. Never.”

“And yet you heard my sister accuse her killer with her own words! Did you not hear her? Did you not hear the damning words issued with her last breath?”

“Yes, we heard, but—”

“Her cries of anguish will live with me until my dying day.” Philip Dalton's face was as cold as the marble arch next to him, his eyes blazing with a light that boded ill for the woman keening at his feet. “And I will see to it that justice is done.”

“Are you sure she's dead? Perhaps she was only wounded but appears to be no more.” Dagmar moved toward the body but was distracted when Julia, with a strangled sound, suddenly leaped to her feet and would have run for the stairs had she not been caught by two of the workmen.

Dalton leaned close to Leo, saying swiftly, “March, take your lady out of here. This is no place for her, and you are better suited to fetching a reliable doctor than one of these ruffians.”

Leo frowned, not wishing to leave the scene. “One of the clergymen could bring a doctor, surely.”

Dalton glanced toward Dagmar. “It is not solely for that reason that I urge you to take the princess away. It is bound to get unpleasant when the constable comes to take the woman into charge.”

There was truth in that, but he well knew that Dagmar would not leave her companion for anything but the most dire of needs.

“My dear,” he said, taking Dagmar and leading her past where Julia was struggling against the two workmen, alternating between begging and pleading with them, and protesting her innocence. “We must fetch a doctor immediately, in case Mrs. Hayes is not dead but instead gravely injured.”

Dagmar, who was about to protest his method of escorting her from the room, stopped dragging her heels. “You're right, of course you are. I hadn't thought—Philip seemed to be quite certain—but yes, we must find a doctor immediately and have him examine her.” She lifted her voice and called to her companion, who had slumped down on a bit of fallen rock, her face in her hands and shoulders heaving, “Julia, my dear, we will be away a few minutes only, then we will return to straighten this out. Do not distress yourself any more than necessary, and have faith. We will clear up this terrible confusion and make it all right.”

Her companion's loud sobs followed them up the stairs.

Young ladies do not run away to sea to become sailors, no matter how boring they believe their lives to be or how strict and intractable they consider their parents. Princesses never use the words “pus-filled donkey heads” when referring to their parents and will, indeed, write three hundred times the phrase “An ungrateful child is sharper than an adder's beak.”

—Princess Christian of Sonderburg-Beck's Guide for Her Daughter's Illumination and Betterment

Dagmar presented her case as succinctly as she could. “Our host's sister has been killed, my companion is suspected of murdering her and has been taken by the constable to a prison, and Leo and I can't possibly stay in Philip's house. I know you don't wish us to stay here, but truly, we do not need much space. Just a spare sofa or two and a few blankets would do for us, and I promise we won't leave the ground floor.”

Plum stared openmouthed at her, then turned to Thom for verification.

Thom nodded her head vigorously. “Poor Dagmar was in a horrible situation there, Aunt Plum, so rather than going to look at houses, as we had originally planned, I told her to pack her things and come here. I know you don't want visitors while the twins are still down with chicken pox, but really, you can't expect her to stay where she was.”

“No, of course not.” Plum put a hand to her brow. “I just don't…your hostess was murdered? By Mrs. Deworthy? I think we need some tea for this.”

“I think we need something stronger,” Thom said, and Dagmar had to agree with her.

“You're absolutely right. Juan!”

“Chyes, my lady Plump?”

The butler appeared seemingly out of nowhere, leered at Thom, ogled Dagmar, then smacked a couple of big wet kisses on the back of Plum's hand while covertly peering down her cleavage. Plum didn't seem to notice his actions as she waved the others into the sitting room. “We need whiskey, Juan.”

“Whiskey? Does Harry know you wish to drink his so valuable whiskey?”

“Never mind Harry,” Plum said, giving him a push toward the library. “Just go fetch the bottle and three glasses. Dagmar looks like she's about to drop, and I suspect that by the time she's done telling us what happened, we're all going to need a stiff tot.”

Dagmar tottered over to a sofa and collapsed on it, feeling boneless and beaten. “I shouldn't be here. Poor Julia is suffering who knows what ghastly torments in prison—prison! My mother would roll in her grave if she knew!—and here I sit in comfort with spirits and friends around me. You are my friends, aren't you?”

The last was plaintively spoken, and Dagmar was vaguely embarrassed by the needy note in her voice, but she suddenly quite desperately felt the need for a friend.

“Of course we're your friends,” Thom said quickly, sitting next to her and patting her leg in the age-old manner of one who wishes to provide comfort but is ill equipped to do so by physical means.

“We are indeed, and don't worry about sleeping on the sofas. We'll simply tighten the quarantine on the children and affected servants, and put you and Leo at the farthest possible bedchamber. Where is Leo, speaking of him?”

“He's gone off to see Julia,” Dagmar said forlornly. “He wouldn't let me go with him. He said the prison is having an epidemic of gaol fever, and it wasn't safe for me. Although why it would be safe for him is beyond me.”

“Men like to think they're invincible,” Plum said complacently. “Now, I want to hear the full story of what happened, every last little bit.”

“All right, but it's a long story, and really, I should be focusing my brain on what to do for Julia.”

“Don't worry. We'll help you figure it all out,” Thom told her. “Aunt Plum is a wizard when it comes to making plans of a devious nature, and I bet we could talk that bastard Nick into helping, as well.”

“Thom!” Plum said, shock evident on her face.

“Oh, I didn't mean bastard literally, even though he is.”

Dagmar, distracted by the turn the conversation had taken, stopped feeling sorry for herself and looked with interest at the younger woman. “That nice man who I thought was Leo's servant is a bastard? But you—” She stopped herself, not knowing how to continue that thought in speech in a way that wouldn't offend.

Thom nodded, evidently not in the least bit bothered. “I want to live with him, yes. It's quite all right, he doesn't mind people knowing he's baseborn. His father, Noble, is the Earl of Weston, and he's always recognized Nick and given him a home and a name, and all of that. Nick dotes on Gillian, his stepmother, and all his younger brothers and sisters revere him. It's quite sickening, really, the way they idolize him. Nick the wonderful, Nick who can do no wrong.” Her lips twisted. “Little do they know that he's a coward through and through.”

“Oh, Thom, I thought we discussed that,” Plum said, giving her niece a squeeze on the shoulder. “Harry explained to you how Nick had agreed to do some work abroad and didn't feel it fair to bind you to him when he might not return.”

“Bull droppings! That was just an excuse to run away and not have to deal with the fact that I wanted to become his mistress.”

A little smile flitted across Plum's lips but was gone immediately. Her voice, when she spoke, was level and carefully devoid of emotion. “Yes, well, that is an entirely different subject, and not one suited to this moment in time. Poor Dagmar needs our attention now. We must do what we can to help her companion.”

“As I said, Aunt Plum is a genius when it comes to making intricate plans.” Thom's expression was back to pleasant interest. “Just tell her all, and then sit back and let her craft a plan so cunning that even a fox would be devastated by its brilliance.”

Plum looked modest. Dagmar had her doubts that anyone but she and Leo could get Julia out of the bind she was in, but she tried to keep an open mind. “Very well, but I warn you again that it is a long story if I am to start at the beginning. It goes all the way back to Copenhagen.”

“How very fascinating. Start there and we'll see what help we can give. Wait, we'd better have the whiskey first, just to brace ourselves. Why hasn't Juan brought it by now? Drat the man. If he's drunk it all, I will have several severe and cutting things to say to him…”

Plum marched to the door and was about to throw it open when the doorknob jerked in her hand, causing her to step back in surprise.

“Plum!” the woman who opened the door said, a smile lighting up her face.

“Gillian!” Plum responded, likewise with an expression of surprised joy, and the two women embraced.

“Oh this is excellent,” Thom commented, giving Dagmar one last awkward pat before getting to her feet. “You'll have the very best assistance humanly possible with Gillian giving Aunt Plum help with her plans. She's almost as devious, although I must admit, not quite as inventive in scope. Hello, Gillian. Have you come to see your bastard of a stepson?”

The woman named Gillian, who had bright red hair and pronounced freckles, stopped hugging Plum and turned to Thom with raised eyebrows. “Thom, how delightful to see you again. You are looking well. Bastard? Really? Is it like that?”

“He's a coward,” Thom told her simply.

Gillian thought about that for a minute then nodded. “He is. I told him at the time that he should explain to you what he was doing before he left, but he listened to Noble, not me, and we all know the sort of advice men give to each other when it comes to women.”

“Incorrect,” Plum said, twining her arm through Gillian's and escorting her over to Dagmar.

“Bad,” Gillian agreed.

“Stupid to the point of being ignorant,” Thom said with more than a touch of acid.

Dagmar pondered for a moment, then added, “
Misguided
is, I believe, a better word for it. Although I suppose that sometimes
stupid
fits too.”

“Quite. I don't know you, do I? I've a horrible memory for faces.” Gillian smiled, and Dagmar was reminded of a warm, sunny summer day spent lolling around in the hayloft, eating apples and perusing the groom's smutty periodicals.

“You don't know her. Gillian, Lady Weston, may I introduce Her Serene Highness, Princess Dagmar of Sonderburg-Beck, who is also Lady March.”

“March?” Bright green eyes examined Dagmar with interest. “I wasn't aware Leo had marr—God's toenails! Princess? A real princess? Leo married a
princess
princess?”

“Are there any other kind?” Dagmar asked.

“Yes, there are.” Gillian smiled again. “And because I know Thom will ask, I'm referring to the sort of woman who has lower morals than she probably should and who calls herself a princess but really isn't entitled to do so.”

“What a very odd country this is,” Dagmar mused as she took her seat again. “In Denmark, prostitutes don't try to pass themselves off as nobility. They are content to service men and enjoy their sinful lifestyle to the fullest.”

“It's a bit different here in England, that's very true. The women of ill repute in this country are far less content, but that is not a subject for the moment. We'll simply agree that the English are very definitely characters.”

“You are not English yourself?”

“I'm only half-English.”

“As am I!” Dagmar said, feeling quite at home with the older woman. There were a few threads of silver in her red hair, but her
joie
de
vivre
gave her a sense of timelessness that Dagmar couldn't help but envy. After the drama of the last few days, she was feeling old, ragged, and definitely hag worn.

“Gillian, I'm delighted you've come, but I hope you've opened up your town house, because you simply cannot stay here.”

“Chicken pox,” Gillian said, nodding. “We got a letter from Nick last night, and he mentioned it. That's why we're in town. We had no idea he was back in the country, and since the boys are at school, we thought we'd come to town for a few weeks, just the two of us, as sort of a holiday from the girls.”

“You need a holiday from your daughters?” Dagmar couldn't help but ask.

Gillian sighed. “We have two daughters, one fifteen and one thirteen. They both believe they're in love with the drawing master, who I will admit is a handsome man and Italian to boot. He has the most delicious accent, so I quite understand the attraction. However, the daily drama of living with two love-struck girls is beyond belief. If they're not trying to sneak out of the house to follow the poor man around the little town near where we live, they're arguing about which one of them will marry him first—they're determined that they can both wed him—and in their spare time, they write the most horrible love poems that they will insist on setting to music and singing to us every evening. Noble threatened to wall them up in a tower until they were eighteen, but it does no good. They're determined to drive us both into an early grave.”

Plum laughed, and Dagmar joined in politely, although she felt sorry for the two girls. Something in her expression must have shown because Gillian, glancing at her, added, “Truly, they make their own woes. Noble tries desperately to bring order to the chaos that follows them, but you know how it is with girls that age—everything is a life-or-death situation. It's all black and white with no shades of gray; either they're bouncing around the house on a cloud of ecstasy because Signor Cosmo praised their painting, or dragging their moping selves with dire warnings of their imminent deaths due to disappointment and crushed spirits when he failed to notice while they were trailing him about the market.”

“They sound like lively girls,” Dagmar offered, not sure what else to say that wouldn't betray her own rather spotted romantic past with her father's groom, two drawing masters, and a traveling vendor who had the greenest eyes she'd ever seen. Then again, she would never have revealed the objects of her passions to her mother, since that lady, while being an estimable woman in general, had an annoying propensity to deliver notes regarding Dagmar's behavior found lacking.

Had Mama ever found out that Dagmar hid in the hayloft in order to watch the groom while he bathed his upper parts, or that she had tried to convince the green-eyed tinker to elope with her (she was all of ten at the time, but quite smitten with him), Dagmar knew she would never have been allowed to leave Yellow House without a full score of maids and footmen to watch her every move.

“Oh, that they are. Plum, I've been on the road since dawn. Would such a thing as several large cups of tea be possible?”

“Yes, of course, what a shameful hostess I am.” Plum bustled over to the bellpull and gave it a tug. “I've asked Juan to bring some whiskey, but if you'd prefer tea—”

“Whiskey? At this hour?”

“We need it,” Thom said, perching on the arm of a chair and swinging her leg. “We have troubles.”

“Nick?” Gillian shook her head. “I can't say that I blame you, the way he's behaved, but you know he's devoted to you. He always has been. He's just…a little overly sensitive because of the circumstances of his birth and the fact that he's always felt he was a burden on us, which is just ridiculous because Noble has enough money for all our children. And heaven knows Nick does so much work for my foundation that he's certainly due the money that Noble settled on him, but he won't touch it. He says he should be able to make his own way and not be dependent on us.”

“Gillian has her own foundation,” Thom told Dagmar in an undertone. “She redeems harlots.”

“They are so often unhappy,” Gillian said with a little shrug. “And frequently fall into bad situations where they aren't even allowed the money they earn. We take the ones who wish for a better life and teach them a trade skill. Thus far, we've trained and placed into good employment thirty-seven women who were formerly street bound.”