Beauty and the Wolf (21 page)

B
y late afternoon the following day, the post chaise from London deposited Isabella and Gwyneth in front of Thorncliff Towers’ double doors.

Isabella had cried over the news of her father’s death during the entire journey. Gwyneth had tried to comfort her, but halfway through the trip, the girl gave up and left her to her sorrow.

Now the abigail lifted the ornate knocker and let it crash forward. As Isabella waited for entry, she practically burst with the knowledge she wanted to relay to Draven.

Mrs. Eaton greeted them with a look of surprise. Isabella, who had no desire to explain why she had come back, rushed across the threshold and glanced around in a sort of frenzy. “Where might I find Draven and LadyWinthrop?”

“Master Draven ’asn’t left ’is quarters for hours and ’er ladyship is keepin’ to ’er room as well.” The housekeeper crooked a finger toward Isabella, drawing her closer. “I’m glad ye’re ’ere, m’lady. And if ye ask me, the two o’ them seemed unusually distraught today. Between them there’s a silence and a tension the likes of I’ve never seen before.”

While Isabella was aware of the reason for that tension, she was not about to discuss it with a servant. “Thank you, Mrs. Eaton. Kindly have Rogers bring my belongings back up to my suite.”

The gray-haired woman nodded. “Yes, m’lady.”

As Isabella ascended the staircase, dread over her ensuing confrontation with Helena escalated with her every step.

When she reached the second-floor landing, Isabella turned toward Helena’s chambers which were located in the farthest wing of the house. After treading over the paisley-patterned carpet, she stood outside the countess’s door. She raised her fist to knock. Footsteps sounded behind her. Before she could whirl around, a heavy object struck the back of her neck.

Blinding pain encompassed Isabella’s skull and her vision went black.

 

Isabella awoke slowly, her eyes struggling to focus on her surroundings.

As her grogginess began to lift, she realized she was lying on her stomach with her hands bound tightly behind her back. Her mouth was gagged.

Trying to ignore the throbbing pain at the back of her head, she stared into an unforgiving darkness. Panic gripped her as she forced herself to a sitting position despite the tangle of her skirts.

She could only guess that Morton had come back to Thorncliff Towers and had attacked her. She also assumed that from the familiar smell of mildew that surrounded her, he’d locked her inside the secret passageway.

Grunting, Isabella looked about. There wasn’t a source of light anywhere. How could she possibly fumble around in the darkness without hurting herself? And how was she to sever the ropes that incapacitated her hands and mouth?

Because she had no idea what time it was, horror flooded her emotions. She must escape before the full moon reached its nighttime ascension.

Heaving her back against the damp stone wall, Isabella used all of her strength to stand. In an effort to gather her bearings, she ran her fingertips along the stones behind her and shuffled her feet to the right. Perhaps she could recognize some configurations of the passageway from its curves and corners. Following a few, futile attempts however, she stopped. Every inch of the stone passageway felt the same.

Biting her lip, she tried to calm her nerves. It was her best bet if she hoped to get to the grave of Draven’s mother. She searched feverishly for something sharp enough to cut through the ropes. But only the dark abyss was there to terrify her out of her mind.

Reversing her direction, she crept along, taking tiny steps, keeping her body close to the cold wall.
I need a candle to illuminate the way.

That’s it!
Isabella thought. The day she was trapped in this same corridor, she had dropped her candle branch before Draven rescued her.

Was it still inside the barriers of the passageway?

She could only hope. If she managed to locate the object in the dark, it would give her a point of reference as well as provide her with something to cut the ropes.

She had dropped the branch near the entrance to her bedchamber, but where was she now? With aching arms, she moved in the opposite direction. There were no other passageways, so it shouldn’t be difficult to locate the candle branch. Feeling with the tips of her toes, she waved her foot back and forth in front of her, hoping to touch anything hard in the foreboding blackness.

Perspiration dripped from her brow while frustration replaced her panic. She retraced her steps over and over, becoming completely disoriented. Being without sight was horribly debilitating, but blindness did heighten one’s other senses. The pungent aroma of mildew swirled heavily in the air. She listened for any sound indicating help was nearby as she searched about for several more minutes. Suddenly, the stillness was interrupted by the high pitch of a voice.

Gwyneth was calling her name. Where was she?

Desperate to notify the abigail of her location, Isabella shuffled around with greater speed. Then her foot tapped something heavy and hard. It was the candle branch!

She lowered herself by sliding her backside down to the ground level. Entirely by feel, she could tell that the large branch, with its ornate iron leaves, rested in a corner of the passageway on its side. Without wasting another minute, she started to rake her wrists back and forth against the leaves. Her pulse quickened as she tried to prevent piercing a vein or an artery. After a few minutes, the sharp ironwork had sliced through the rope.

She was free, but it was too early to celebrate. She was confined inside this passageway and Gwyneth’s voice was gradually fading. Isabella dragged the rag away that restrained her mouth and started screaming at the top of her lungs. She hollered again and again. With tears pricking her eyes, she groped in the dark for the handle that would trigger her bedchamber wall to open.

Shoving her hand into the pocket of her dress, she felt for the bracelet of Amenhotep. Despair seized her when she discovered it was gone.

Had Draven been able to convince someone to shoot him with a silver bullet?
Where was he?

Several minutes passed and Gwyneth’s voice disappeared completely. Isabella’s fingertips began to bleed from the rough surface of the stone. If no one knew she was in here, what would become of her? And what would become of Draven?

She groped for the panel’s handle once more. As if the motion were cast down by God himself, she located it and the wall slid away. Isabella slumped into the fresh air of her bedchamber with a thud. Gwyneth hastened into the room.

“M’lady!”

Isabella’s throat was parched. “It was my father,” she croaked. “He is not who he says he is.”

“He put ye in the passageway?”

She nodded weakly.

“But I never thought—”

“Never mind that, Gwyneth. I must get to Draven. He’s in the woods by the pond.”

“Yes, yer ladyship.” Placing a hand beneath her arm, the abigail helped her stand.

Isabella’s breath rasped and her head ached.

The girl frowned. “Do ye want me to go with ye?”

“No. I must do this alone.”

In one sweeping motion, Isabella ripped the bottom ruffle from the expensive, silk frock Draven had made for her and threw it aside. She also removed the dress’s paneled jacket for the last thing she needed was cumbersome clothing getting in her way. Faster than she’d ever moved before, she streamed down the grand staircase and out the front door.

R
ushing to saddle a horse and reach the pond before it was too late, Isabella scrambled down the embankment toward the stables.

Ignoring the frigid wind, she ducked inside the structure. It only took a moment for her to see that Draven’s stallion, Lucifer, was missing. Thankfully, her old friend, Dante, was lounging against a dark corner.

“Come here, Dante!”

The titanic animal stood and she moved closer to stroke its brow. “This is no time to be difficult. We were beginning to grow fond of one another during our first meeting, right?”

The horse threw its head back in response.

She readied the animal in haste and led it into the crisp, night air. After swinging herself into the saddle, she streamed toward the dim light of dusk.

Straining her memory, Isabella tried to retrace the path she and Draven had taken into the woods. “You may have to remember for me, boy.”

In response, the stallion moved like a shooting star through the thick maze of trees. To her relief, the sunset seemed to be holding out. She wouldn’t be able to make the same journey in the dark.

Tree branches scratched her chest and legs and her wounded head throbbed heavily. Commanding the horse onward, the thought of what would happen if she was too late to save Draven’s life stabbed her heart.

Dante was galloping along at record speed, but it seemed like an eternity until horse and rider reached the edge of Dunwich. Isabella stroked the panting animal in gratitude.

“I know the way from here,” she reassured the horse. Slowing its pace to a trot, she led the creature to the open field where she had followed Draven. The murky pond bordering his mother’s final resting place wasn’t far now.

She decided to walk from this point so she wouldn’t be heard. Taking Dante’s reins in her hand, she dismounted quietly and hurried toward a clearing at the south end of the pond.

Moving in closer, Isabella heard voices arguing in the otherwise silent forest.

After tying Dante’s reins to a tree trunk, she swept a branch aside and peered at the chilling scene.

Draven stood in an empty grave beside a substantial mound of freshly dug earth. Rogers was visible at perhaps ten or eleven feet in front of him. Looking as though he had seen a hundred ghosts, the manservant was pointing a pistol at Draven’s heart.

“I cannot believe ye talked me into this, m’lord.” Rogers’s voice shook. “Tis complete insanity!”

“Nevertheless, we will go through with it,” Draven said with authority.

Isabella craned her neck and caught a glimpse of her husband’s grim face. She prayed that Rogers would reconsider his participation in this madness at the last minute.

“On the count of three,” Draven instructed. “One, two—”

“Wait,” Isabella cried from the shadows. “Don’t do this!” She bolted from the brush and positioned herself between Draven and his manservant.

“Isabella,” Draven growled. “What the hell are you doing here?”

She faced him, wide-eyed. “I followed you to the Gypsy camp yesterday and I listened at the foot of the caravan while you spoke with that woman. That’s why I came back.”

“You can’t be here,” he said. “Rogers, quickly take her ladyship back to the house. Then return so we can finish what we started.”

“I won’t go,” she insisted. “Please listen, Draven. I had the bracelet of Amenhotep. But someone attacked me inside the house and took it.”

“You had the bracelet?” His tone rang with surprise. “How did you get it?”

“There’s no time to explain now, but if you help me find it, it can end all of this madness.”

“Who attacked you?”

“I did.” Morton Farrington stepped into the triangle that connected the trio. Before anyone could move, he snatched the pistol out of Rogers’s hands and turned it on them. Isabella backed away swiftly, into Draven’s arms. She could feel his heart beating like a wild animal’s.

This may be the end for her and Rogers, but did Morton know he couldn’t kill Draven?

“Sir Harris,” Draven thundered. “What is the meaning of this?”

“He isn’t who he says he is,” Isabella cried. “He’s Morton Farrington, my father’s twin brother!”

“Silence, my prying niece. So you escaped from the passageway, did you?” Morton asked slowly. “I would have thanked Gwyneth for telling me where you’d gone, but sadly I killed her before I could get the words out.”

“You’re despicable,” Isabella said.

“Be quiet, you impertinent brat!”

“Let her go, you bastard,” Draven roared. “I knew there was something suspicious about you. You tried to poison my mother.”

“You’re right.” The admission poured from Morton’s mouth like a malevolent toxin.

The swatch of fabric I found in the cellar.
Isabella’s mind raced.
Morton was trying to find the still room
.

“I slipped strychnine into Helena’s empty teacup before I left the house. Fortunately for me, it’s a clear, powdered poison that went unnoticed.”

“It could have killed her,” Draven barked.

“That was the idea.”

“So it is true,” Draven said. “You’ve been impersonating Harris Farrington.”

“At this very moment, my father’s remains are being shipped from Egypt to London.” Isabella spoke through her tears. “My uncle killed his own twin so that he could assume his brother’s identity. What’s more, he knocked me unconscious and left me to rot in the hidden passageway. Tell them everything, Uncle Morton. It’s time to admit as much.”

“Be quiet, you horrid girl.”

“Tell them!”

“I
will
since I plan on killing all of you anyhow,” Morton said. “Yes, I’ve been pretending to be my brother. His life was far superior to mine. We looked exactly alike, but Harris was the golden child. He did better in school and when we grew, he achieved notoriety and created a beautiful family. I, on the other hand, became a criminal and sank into despair over my intense jealousy.”

Morton’s chartreuse eyes formed catlike slits as he continued. “After I did away with my brother, I made that landslide happen in Egypt—to grant myself a new start.”

Isabella’s knees shook as the last sliver of daylight dropped below the horizon.

“You won’t see a penny of Winthrop money!” Draven’s warning sliced the tense air.

“Oh, but I will. I’ll be the last remaining beneficiary.” Greed glazed Morton’s voice. “Too bad the villagers of Dunwich didn’t destroy you sooner, Draven.”

“Did you send the Gypsies off my property, posing as my messenger?” Draven asked sharply.

“Of course I did. It was all part of my plan to make everyone despise you.”

Isabella gulped. She looked over her shoulder and saw that Draven’s eyes glowed with fury.

Morton didn’t seem to notice. His mouth curved into a wicked grin. “I have the bracelet of Amenhotep and now I need that amulet. Where is it, Isabella?”

She searched her pockets for it. “It’s gone!”

“You’re lying,” Morton seethed.

“No. I had it inside a secret pouch of my dress while I was riding through the woods just now. It must have fallen out.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll find it after you’re dead.”

The glow of dusk deepened into night. Draven reached for Isabella’s hand and she could feel the start of a tremor in it. He would be transformed into a savage beast in less than a minute. Was this the last time he would ever be human? Would she end up killing him in self-defense, fulfilling the Egyptian prophecy?

“No more talk,” Morton demanded. “Rogers, you stand over there. Isabella and Draven, get into the grave.” He held his cane in one hand while he prompted them into the shallow hole with the loaded pistol thrust forward in the other.

“The curse accompanying Tousret’s amulet fits into my scheme perfectly,” he explained. “Isabella, you will shoot your husband and then turn the gun on yourself. Your fingerprints will be on the pistol. After you and Draven are dead, I’ll shoot Rogers, bury him along with the pistol, and return to the house to kill Helena. When her body is found in the woods, it will appear as if she was ravaged by the werewolf that roams this countryside.”

Isabella leaned against Draven. She craned her neck back in order to steal a look at the moon. Its eerie light began to glow from behind a veil of clouds. Panic clogged her throat.

“Take this gun, Isabella,” Morton said. He tossed the pistol Rogers was about to fire into her hands. At the same time, he extracted another, smaller pistol from his coat pocket and turned it on her to ensure that she would heed his commands. “It contains a round of silver bullets in case your husband is indeed a werewolf. Now shoot him or I will shoot you!”

The metal of the gun felt like ice in her hands. She wanted to fling it to the ground, but Morton left her no choice but to squeeze her hand around it.

“Shoot your husband!” her uncle urged.

Slowly, she turned around and met the pain in Draven’s eyes. Her heartbeat drummed at a frenetic pace while Draven inched backward, to the edge of the grave. She did everything she could to resist lifting the pistol in his direction, but the will of the amulet was too strong. It seemed that even though she wasn’t wearing the necklace, its otherworldly force was propelling her actions. Raising her hand to eye level, Isabella threaded her finger through the trigger. The way her arm shook made the pistol bounce.

Draven faced her aim with a heart-wrenching sense of loss.

As if an invisible hand were commanding her, Isabella targeted Draven’s heart. She managed to drag her eyes to the full moon. It was about to escape the cloud cover. Her arm continued to shake as she held the gun.

“It’s all right, Bella,” Draven whispered. “I deserve to die.”

Hot tears streaked her face.
I refuse to kill the only man I have ever loved.
She shook her head. As she summoned all of her strength, she resisted pulling the trigger.

Draven’s stare shifted to Morton. “Burn in hell!” he hissed.

“I’m sure I’ll see you there, but not today.” Morton closed his eyes and threw his head back in laughter.

Isabella seized her chance. She jumped out of the grave and leapt onto Morton’s back. He teetered off balance under her weight and dropped his gun. Still, with a violent spin, he managed to shake her off and she went slamming into a tree without the pistol he’d given her. Draven dove for Morton and they began to struggle. Using his cane as a weapon, Morton struck Draven in the head. Then, wearing a satanic grin, Morton yanked away the cane’s handle and out slid a sword attached to it. He was about to stab Draven when Rogers came from behind and brought the shovel he’d used to dig the grave down on the imposter’s head. Morton crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

Bright moonlight streamed through the clouds. When it settled on Draven, he sunk to the ground and began to convulse. Isabella wanted to go to him, but she knew she couldn’t be of help without the bracelet of Amenhotep.

“Rogers!” She heard Draven screech as she searched Morton’s pockets for it. “Shoot me, for God’s sake!”

She tried to block out Draven’s screams while she continued to look.
Where the devil was it?

She glanced at Draven again. He was still writhing in pain but he hadn’t changed into the wolf yet. Knowing that she had mere seconds to save her husband, Isabella dug her hand into the one place she hadn’t checked yet: the left pocket of Morton’s trousers. Her heart gave a surge as she located the bracelet and rushed to clamp it over Draven’s wrist. A moment later, he stopped convulsing.

Rogers and Isabella helped Draven to his feet. Draven shook away his grogginess as he pulled Isabella into his arms. “Thank God Morton didn’t hurt you,” he murmured into her hair.

“I’m so glad you’re alive.” She buried her face in his shoulder.

“Without you, I had nothing to live for,” he whispered.

“I couldn’t kill you,” she said. “I love you too much.”

He squeezed her tighter.

Rogers stepped in. “Let’s get both of ye back to the house.”

“Good idea, old boy.”

After Draven clasped the loyal servant’s arm, he put his hand out for Isabella to take. She reached for it and felt Morton stir beside her. His snake-green eyes flashed open and he flew to his feet, sword in hand.

“Draven!” Isabella cried.

But it was too late. Morton sliced Draven’s arm with the sharp blade. Then, with a vicious stab, he sunk the sword into Draven’s shoulder.

Draven clutched his wound while Isabella lunged for one of the discarded guns. She took dead aim at her uncle’s heart and fired. Morton shuddered and heaved his last breath as Draven pitched to his knees, bleeding profusely.

Distant voices penetrated the clearing. Isabella whirled around and saw an army of torches bobbing behind the trees.

It was more than she could take. Teetering toward a tree trunk, the forest turned an ominous shade of black and she abruptly lost consciousness.