With This Ring (23 page)

Control yourself, Beatrice. Your imagination is running wild.

It occurred to her that she might have written one too many novels of horror and mystery.

Leo went through Beatrice's desk with swift, methodical precision. The first drawer opened without protest. He fished quickly through the contents: a neat stack of blank foolscap, a pair of scissors, and two old pen nibs.

He slammed the drawer shut and opened the next one. There was another stack of paper inside, but these pages were not empty. Each was filled with several rows of crisp, elegant handwriting. Without thinking, he automatically read the first few lines on the top sheet.

The dreadful vapor rose from the surface of the seething pool to fill the sepulchral chamber. A ghastly figure formed in the heart of the strangely glowing mist. It took shape slowly, revealing first a gaping cavern of a mouth and then two great eyes that burned with hellish flames....

"I see you have kept some secrets from your lover, my sweet.' Leo closed the drawer and glanced thoughtfully at the three leather-bound volumes on a nearby bookshelf. The name of the author was inscribed in gilt on each one. York.

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"So much for my powers of observation."

He yanked hard on the next drawer. It did not budge. Next time I w4l] remember to bring mypicklocks along when I visit, my dear.

He did not pause to search for a key. He simply braced one booted heel against the edge of the desk and jerked, hard, on the handle.

The tiny lock gave way with barely -a' squeak of protest. The drawer opened. Leo glanced inside and saw pencils, inkwells, a ruler, and a neatly fold 'ote.

He removed the lettef-'and read it quickly. Then he glanced at the V signature.

"Hell's teeth. Mrs. Cheslyn."

The housekeeper appeared in the doorway. Her hands twisted in her apron. "Yes, m'lord? Is something wrong, m'lord?"

"Yes. Something is very wrong. Your bloody-minded mistress has gone off alone to Trull's Museum." He crumpled the note and tossed it aside. "I am going to fetch her."

"I see, sir." Mrs. Cheslyn faced him with an air of resignation. "Will there be any other alterations to the schedule?" "Yes. Have a bottle of brandy open and ready when I

return with Mrs. Poole. Something tells me I shall need it."

"I vow, you are an inspiration to me, Mrs. Poole." Saltmarsh clambered awkwardly into the wide stone conduit that had been revealed behind the grate. "I have never met a woman of such extraordinary courage and determination. You are the living image of one of your own heroines."

"Thank you, Mr. Saltmarsh, but I assure you, it did not take any great degree of fortitude for me to choose this route of escape over the prospect of spending the night in that dreadful chamber."

Beatrice got to her feet and held the candle aloft. The ancient passageway was surprisingly large. A corridor rather than, a conduit for air, she thought.

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"I certainly understand your concerns. The results of our being discovered together in the morning do not bear thinking about." Saltmarsh stood and gave a violent sneeze. "I beg your pardon." He yanked a large white handkerchief out of his pocket. "The dust."

"Yes, it is quite thick, is it not?" Beatrice glanced down at the undisturbed layer of dirt and debris that had collected on the floor. "I do not think anyone has come this way in a very long time."

Saltmarsh studied their surroundings with an expression of wonder. "A hidden passageway. Most likely built centuries ago and then sealed off and forgotten. It is just like something out of one of your novels. Do you remember that scene in The Ghost of Mallory Hall? The one where the heroine opens a secret door and finds herself in a concealed passage?"

"Of course I remember it. I wrote it." Beatrice started along the corridor. "Come, Mr. Saltmarsh. Let's not dawdle." "I suppose we must expect to encounter a few rats," he said unhappily.

"I hope not. I never use rats in my novels. In my opinion, they do not add anything of interest to the atmosphere."

Leo arrived at Trull's Museum to find it locked for the night. In hopes of rousing a porter, he went up the steps and pounded heavily on the front door. There was no response.

He considered his next move. An unpleasant flicker of dread stirred the hair on the back of his neck. The fog was closing in quickly, banishing what little light remained in the day.

It was possible that Beatrice was already safely on her way home via a different route than the one he had used to get there. He had a vision of himself racing back to her town house only to find her sitting comfortably in front of a fire with a cup of tea in her hand.

But what if she were not at home?

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He went slowly down the museum steps. He did not like the feel of the situation. The next stop was the House of the Rod. It was time to pay a call on the person who had sent the note to Beatrice.

He started across the street. It would be faster to walk to Madame Virtue's establishment than to take a hackney, which would inevitably be slowed by the fog.

He quickened his steps. Last night Ginwilly Jack had made it clear that he'd had no interest in Beatrice. Whoever had paid him for the kidnapping had not wanted her. Leo had assumed that she was relatively safe. But this business of the Rings got more convoluted with every passing day. Nothing could be taken for granted, especially not Beatrice's safety.

Dammit to hell. He'd had enough of her insistence on equality and independence. In every partnership, someone had to be the senior partner.

The first figure emerged out of the swirling fog no more than three paces ahead. Leo instinctively put his hand into the pocket of his greatcoat, his fingers closing around the pistol there. Then he saw the second figure. It was a woman in a veil.

"Beatrice?" "Leo. I mean, my lord. Whatever are you doing here?" "Bloody hell." He glanced at her companion. "Saltmarsh?"

"Monkcrest." Saltmarsh slapped the sleeve of his elegantly cut coat and then promptly sneezed. "Beg your pardon. The dust."

Leo ignored him to grasp Beatrice's arm in a grip of iron. "What in God's name is going on here?"

"It is a very long story, Leo. Let us all go back to my town house before I tell it. Mr. Saltmarsh and I are both desperately in need of a cup of tea." She paused. "With perhaps a tot of brandy to go in it."

Saltmarsh, slapped dust off his other sleeve. "If you

don't mind, I think I'll go back to my own lodgings. I require an immediate bath."

"You are not going anywhere, Saltmarsh," Leo said softly, "until I get some answers."

"Do not growl so, Monkcrest," Beatrice said. "Mr. Saltmarsh and I have had quite enough for one day. Come, gentlemen, let us be off. I for one have no desire to hang about in this fog."

"I'm sure you won't need me to help you explain our little adventure, Mrs. Poole." Saltmarsh eyed Leo warily. "Perhaps not." Beatrice gave him a speculative look.

"But there are some other explanations I want from you, sir. I intend to have them."

He jerked sharply, then blinked rapidly and peered at her through the lenses of his spectacles. "I beg your pardon?"

"I'm afraid so." Beatrice's voice gentled, but her tone remained firm. "We were both so occupied with the business of getting out of that dreadful storage chamber that we did not have time to discuss the matter. But now I think we must talk about it."

Leo watched the other man. "What, precisely, is it you wish to discuss with him, Beatrice?"

"I wish to discover just how much he knows about the Forbidden Rings, of course." She fixed Saltmarsh with a direct look. "Surely you do not expect me to believe that your presence in Trull's Museum this afternoon was a coincidence, Mr. Saltmarsh?"

He heaved a deep sigh. "That would be too much to expect from a woman of your intellect and insight, Mrs. Poole. You are quite right. I owe you, of all people, an explanation.'

0 ap le r 13

"What dark fate has brought you here

to this haunted place?"

FRom CHAPTER THiRTEEN oF The Ruin BY MRs. AmELLA YoRK

he rumors struck the small circle of serious collectors here in London a few months ago." Saltmarsh huddled over the glass of brandy Beatrice had given him. "Most dismissed them out of hand. But I admit I was intrigued. I set out to see what I could discover about the Forbidden Rings."

"And your researches led you to Lord Glassonby?" Leo, one shoulder propped against the mantel, took a swallow from his own glass.

His anger and the fear that crawled just beneath it were under control now. But the unpleasant premonitions that had gripped him for the past hour had not vanished. He was increasingly aware that not all of those dark visions were

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inspired by the potential danger of the business of the Forbidden Rings. Some of them had taken a decidedly nasty and disturbingly personal twist.

En route back to the town house it had become obvious to him that Graham Saltmarsh was enthralled with Beatrice.

"Yes." Saltmarsh's mouth curved in a wryly apologetic smile. "Forgive me, Mrs. Poole. I could not resist the quest. Everything I told you about myself is true. I am a great admirer of your work and I am in the process of writing my own novel of horror and mystery."

Leo felt Beatrice's quick, searching glance as it slipped across his face. He kept his own expression deliberately unreadable. They would get to the matter of her career as an authoress later.

Beatrice turned back to the younger man. "I understand, Mr. Saltmarsh. You no doubt felt that the experience of searching for the Forbidden Rings would provide wonderful inspiration for your own novel."

"Precisely." He sipped his brandy. "It was a great game at first. I met with little success for weeks, but one afternoon my luck changed. I went to Trull's Museum. As I told you, I often visit the establishment when I wish to put myself in the mood to write."

Leo watched Saltmarsh, who was, in turn, looking at Beatrice with a sheepish expression that she appeared to find endearing.

"Go on, Mr. Saltmarsh." Beatrice smiled encouragingly. Her eyes were wide, limpid pools brimming with warm approval.

Leo's fingers tightened around his glass. She never used that angelic tone with him. She was always far more direct. Demanding would not be too strong a word for the manner in which she dealt with him, in fact. Furthermore, he was quite certain that she had never looked at him with just

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that degree of fascinated interest. Little wonder Saltmarsh practically wriggled at her feet as if he were a worshipful puppy pleading to be taken up into her lap.

Leo tried to shake off the flash of raw jealousy that squeezed his gut. He had to keep the affair in proper perspective. Both affairs, he corrected himself. The one involving the Rings as well as the one he had begun with Beatrice.

"On the day of that particular visit I saw Lord Glassonby in one of the rooms at Trull's," Saltmarsh said. "I had never noticed him there before, but I thought nothing of his presence until I heard him question the porter."

Leo forced his attention back to the matter at hand. "What sort of questions did he ask?"

Saltmarsh glanced at him briefly and then pointedly switched his attention back to Beatrice. "Your uncle did not see me. I believe he thought he was alone in the room with the porter. He asked if there were any statues of Aphrodite in Trull's collection."

"Good heavens." Beatrice flicked another glance at Leo, but her gaze did not linger. She turned immediately back to Saltmarsh. "You must have realized instantly that my uncle was also looking for the Rings."

He grimaced. "I admit his questions got my immediate attention."

"What was the porter's response?" Beatrice asked. "He claimed that to his knowledge there were no statues of the goddess in the collection." He shrugged. "A fact of which I was already aware, of course. Nevertheless, your uncle's inquiry made me very curious about his intentions. I could not help but wonder if he was any closer to finding the Rings than I was."

"Did you speak to him about the Rings?" Leo asked sharply.

Saltmarsh sighed. "I approached him as discreetly as possible and suggested that we might have a common

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interest in certain antiquities. It had occurred to me that we might combine our efforts."

"What did he say?" Beatrice asked.

"Your uncle became extremely angry." Saltmarsh peered into the depths of his brandy. "In truth, his rage made me uneasy. He turned purple. His eyes bulged. His breathing became unsteady. I feared he would have a fit of some sort."

Beatrice frowned. "A fit?"

"I confess I was not entirely surprised when I learned that he later died of a heart seizure."

Leo exchanged a glance with Beatrice. He relaxed slightly when he sensed her silent agreement. Neither of them would mention the possibility that Glassonby had been poisoned.

"I retreated at once, of course," Saltmarsh continued. "It was clear that Glassonby wanted no part of my help. I continued my investigations on my own, but I made no progress. Then, a fortnight later, I saw him on the street near Trull's and I realized that he had just come from the establishment."

"Did he learn anything there, do you think?" Beatrice asked.

Saltmarsh met her eyes. "We'll never know, Mrs. Poole. You see, he died later that night."

A short silence descended on the study.

Leo swirled the brandy in his glass. "And you decided that the only remaining clue to the Rings was the fact that Glassonby had visited Trull's once more before his death?"

Saltmarsh shrugged. "It was all I had, but it got me nowhere. Then you showed up in Town, Monkcrest. And it was obvious that you had a particular interest in Mrs. Poole and her family. I could hardly overlook the coincidence of your presence.-

"No." Beatrice pursed her lips in a thoughtful expres-

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sion. "One could hardly ignore his lordship's reputation as a scholar in the field of legends and antiquities."