Again, My Lord: A Twist Series Novel (12 page)

Tacitus had never
before considered Lady Calista Chance odd.

Immature, yes.

Too blithe at times, certainly.

Fond of teasing, to be sure.

Irrepressibly high-spirited and tenderly affectionate at once …
He had fallen in love with that
.

But never odd.

Lady Calista Holland, however, was odd. What lady of birth, when stranded by a flood in a small village several miles off the highway, became fast friends with the local dressmaker and then purchased several bolts of wool from the shop as well as a bundle of washed fleece from a local farmer?

Provided with this information by a woman Lady Calista had apparently been to school with, Mrs. Harriet Tinkerson, Tacitus chewed on the news as he sipped ale in the taproom and tried not to lose another hand of cards to Mr. Alan Smythe.

“Lady Holland, you say?” Smythe said with an appreciative perusal of Mrs. Tinkerson’s impressive hat. “How charming. I wonder what she’ll do with it all.”

“Make dresses, one supposes,” Mrs. Tinkerson said. “Oh! Mrs. Whittle!” She hurried across the room to the innkeeper. “I’ve finished that chip straw hat you admire so. Do come by to try it on. I think it will look positively delightful on you. I’ve even added a green ribbon to match your church gown.”

“Oh, dear me, Mrs. Tinkerson,” the innkeeper said, collecting empty plates from the tables. “I’m terrible busy today without Mr. Whittle. I’m afraid I won’t—”

The foyer door crashed open and Lady Holland entered, her arms full of bolts of cloth.

“Calista!” Mrs. Tinkerson said, rushing forward. “It’s such a pleasure to see you again after only an hour’s absence. Lady Holland,” she said to anyone who was listening, “honored me with a visit to my shop this afternoon.” She dimpled. “Whatever will you do with all of this cloth?”

“A project.” She set down the bolts. “Mrs. Whittle, may I leave these here until later?”

“Of course, milady.”

“Excellent.” Turning about, she exited the inn with empty arms.

Through the window, Tacitus watched her walk up the high street, lifting her skirts to avoid muddying them, her dark hair without hat or bonnet shining in the sunlight that now lit the entire sodden village into sparkles.

“I don’t blame you, my lord,” Smythe said quietly.

He yanked his gaze away from the window. “Blame me?”

“She’s a beautiful woman. And by the way she was looking at you this morning after breakfast, she clearly thinks you’re not so shabby either.” He nodded knowingly and shuffled the cards. “Stranded at an inn overnight … If I were you, and I hadn’t already got my eye on another sweet lady right here in this village, I would seize the opportunity.”

Tacitus clamped down on the quick anger that arose in him. He stood up.

“I believe I’ve had enough of cards. Good afternoon, Smythe.” He went to the stable and inquired of the ostler if there were a pub in the village. Then he headed in that direction.

He needed a drink, but not with Mr. blasted Alan Smythe.

Got his eye on? Seize the opportunity?
What sort of scoundrel spoke with a stranger that way about a lady, however odd she was?

Discovering the pub to be a pleasant place, with comfortable chairs, clean tables, and a good-natured host, he commanded a glass of ale, pulled his book out of his pocket, and settled in to read.

When night fell, he stayed for dinner. He did not fancy returning to the Jolly Cockerel and watching Mr. Smythe flirt with Lady Holland during dinner, as Smythe had tried to do earlier in the day. She had been pleasant to him, but she hadn’t taken up the flirtation. Nevertheless, Smythe had persisted until she asked him to go to the dress shop and invite the dressmaker to pay a call on her at the inn. He’d left the inn like he was a knight heading out to do battle for his lady.

Some men had no honor.

But Tacitus realized he wasn’t being entirely honest. He did not want to return to the inn just yet because
he did not trust himself
.

Smythe was right. That morning she
had
looked at him warmly. Too warmly. Briefly, thank God. But even that brief glance, coming suddenly as it had after her sharp words the night before, had rocked him to the soles of his boots. It was best if he stayed as far from Calista Holland as possible while stranded in this village.

When the fiddler had wrapped up his playing, and the tolls of the God-awfully-loud bell in the church tower on the other end of the village struck twelve, he shrugged into his greatcoat and headed back to the Jolly Cockerel. She was certain to be abed now; there was no danger of accidentally encountering her. And tomorrow when he left Swinly he could relegate this chance meeting to the realm of unfortunate episodes he hoped to never, ever repeat.

Unless she was indeed odd and at this moment was lugging four huge bolts of fabric and a bag of wool into the church.

Go to the inn.

What in God’s name was she doing, entering the church at midnight with all of that cloth?

Go to the inn.

Go to the—

He reached the closed church door in time to hear a thumping clunk on the other side. The sound was like a heavy bolt sliding into place. But if it weren’t … If burdened by all that cloth she had tripped … If she had fallen …

If someone had been lying in wait for her…

Like many medieval churches, the door had no handle on the outside. He pounded on it.

“Lady Holland,” he shouted at the thick wood. “Lady Holland!”

The thunking sound came again and the door cracked open.

“Shh!” She opened it only a crack. “Do you want to wake everyone in the village?”

“I— I—”

“Well, what is it?”

“I saw you enter— I was afraid that you …” He sounded like a perfect idiot.

“You were afraid that I what?” She looked directly into his eyes and he lost all thought.

“What are you doing?” he mumbled.

“Nothing that concerns you.” She pushed the door closed. “Good night, Lord—”

He stuck his boot in the crack. “Let me enter.”

“No. Go away.”

“I think you might be doing something clandestine, and I cannot allow that.”

“I am definitely doing something clandestine, but it still doesn’t concern you.”

His anger from earlier boiled anew. “Is Smythe in there?”

Her brow screwed up. “Mr. Smythe from the inn? Why would he be in—
Oh
.” Her eyes seemed to dim a bit, and then her lips hardened. “You really do have a low opinion of me, don’t you? Well, my lord, come right in and join the orgy, why don’t you?” She opened the door wide and made a sweeping welcome gesture. “Someone or other in here was just asking after you, in fact, but I was too engaged in flagrant disregard for my marriage vows to notice who at the time.”

He stepped inside and allowed her to close the door. Then he turned to her.

“I beg your pardon,” he said.

“I know.” She bolted the door. “You beg it all the time. But I’m still not really convinced you’ve yet meant it.” Hefting two of the bolts of cloth, she started toward the opposite corner lit only by the single lamp at the door at which he still stood. “Bring that cloth, will you? It will save me a trip,” she called over her shoulder.

“I don’t—”

“No questions,” echoed back to him. “If you insist on being here, you must promise not to speak.”

“I will make no such promise.” He took up the bolts of cloth and the bundle of wool and followed her.

“Suit yourself. But if you object to my project, do not expect me to obey your demands this time.” She stopped at a wooden door, lodged the bolt in her right arm against the wall, and opened the panel.

He followed her into a narrow tower that was entirely black. She started up the tightly winding stairs.

“Would you like me to bring the lantern from the—”

“No. I know my way. At the top, the stars provide sufficient light.”

He went cautiously behind her. Despite the heavy cloth in her arms, she climbed swiftly. He listened to her in the darkness and felt carefully for each step until the rhythm of their height and depth became familiar.

“What exactly is your project?”

“You’ll see. If you wish, you can assist me.”

“Does the vicar of this church by chance know what you’re up to?”

“Of course not. He would not understand.”

“What a surprise.”

“If you don’t want to help, go back to the front door. But don’t leave. I need that door to remain locked until after seven o’clock tomorrow morning.”

She was mad. And yet, at the top of the stairs, as the starlight shining in through the belfry apertures settled on her lovely features, he could not look away from her. Her eyes were not the eyes of a madwoman. Instead they were crystal clear, as always, and thoughtful. And his heart was a miserable betrayer; it thumped far too hard. He could put it off to the climb up dozens of steps. Or he could admit the truth to himself.

No. He would blame the steps and leave it at that.

She set down the bolts and fisted her hands on her hips as she walked confidently onto the catwalk, studying the bell. “I think the wool first, then the cloth. Yes. That should do it.”

He remained in the doorway. “Do what?”

She reached for a great coil of rope on the narrow catwalk. “Mute it sufficiently.”

“Sufficiently for what?”

“So that I won’t hear it in the morning.”

He watched her pull the wool out of the sack and unwrap the rope.

“You are muffling the bell so it won’t ring in the morning?”

“Yes. Don’t just stand there. Help me with this.”

He did. He could not do otherwise. “This reminds me of the sorts of stories your sister and brother told me.”

“I’ll wager it does,” she said, stretching to toss the rope over a beam and pulling the fabric of her gown so that it revealed her sweetly rounded behind. “Those stories shocked you.”

“No.” He grabbed the end of the rope she tossed to him across the bell and tied it off.

“Don’t bother trying to be gallant.”

“They didn’t shock me. They made me jealous.”

She stopped wrapping cloth around the bell and peered at him. “Jealous of what?”

“Of your companionship.”

She blinked rapidly several times. “My companionship?”

“The three of you, together,” he said, tamping down his discomfort. “I have no siblings. I had only my parents growing up, and that was more than sufficient for me. But seeing you and Lady Evelina and Gregory together … I wished that I’d had that.”

“I see,” she said quietly. “You know, in truth, we plagued each other more than we cared for each other.”

“I doubt that,” he said.

She reached for the last bolt of cloth. “Take this. You are tall enough to run that end over the top.”

He did as she requested and they cinched the final length of rope about the whole. She folded her arms and looked upon their work in obvious satisfaction.

“I wish we could wrap the clapper,” she said. “But I think this should do it.”

“This is the oddest evening I have spent in some time.”

“What? Don’t you and Lord Mallory climb church towers every Saturday night to wrap the bells in cloth?” She offered him a smile and Tacitus’s heart fell into his shoes.

“Not lately,” he murmured. “Are you mad?”

“No. Rather, perhaps. I’m not certain. But nothing else has worked yet, so I thought I would try this.” She gestured to the bell.

“This, what?”

“Wrapping it in cloth to mute it. I tried destroying it, but that didn’t work. The local carpenter required more than a single day to block up the windows, no matter how much gold I promised him. And though I plied him with drink, I could not manage to get Mr. Pimly disguised enough so that he was unable to ring it. For a small man he has a remarkably strong constitution when it comes to spirits. I even suggested to Reverend Abbot that he give Mr. Pimly a holiday from ringing, on account of the flood. But he said Mr. Pimly has not missed a single hour in forty-eight years. Can you imagine that sort of loyalty—loyalty that does not waver no matter what happens?”

“Yes,” he said, his chest too tight for more air to make words.

She looked at him. “Thank you for your help. Would you like me to let you out of the church now?”

“Are you intending to stay? Locked inside all night?”

“I must. I cannot let Mr. Pimly enter with time to unwrap it before seven o’clock.”

“Really?”

“I’m not mad,” she said more subdued now. “Not in the usual way, that is.”

“Then perhaps … explain this?”

The smile she offered him now was small and oddly resigned. “I cannot. You can either trust me, that I must do this, or go tell everyone I’m mad.”

“What if I only tell the vicar?”

“As you wish. I cannot stop you from it. But I hope you won’t. I would like to know if this kinder, gentler method of silencing this dratted bell will please the gods or whoever it is that must be pleased. God, perhaps. I don’t know. I just know that I hope you will not reveal me.”

He shook his head. “Perhaps you aren’t mad.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You sound just like you did that morning.”

“What morning?”

“The morning you asked me to help you run away.”

Her eyes shone in the starlight. “Do I?”

He nodded.

For a long moment he heard only the whistling of the cold wind in the belfry rafters and his own tight inhalations.

“Do you intend to remain on this frigid catwalk until dawn?” he said when she did not speak. “Because I noticed that the pews below look quite comfortable. A man might even sleep on one if he likes.”

Her face broke into delight. “You intend to stay? Until dawn? Because you think I am mad or because you think I will fall asleep and then you can betray me to Reverend Abbot without my notice? I won’t sleep, you know. I will remain awake until dawn.”

He turned toward the stairs. “I will not betray you. But it’s getting colder up here each minute.” He gestured to invite her to descend before him.