Beguiled (14 page)

“I'd be delighted,” Ally said.

He smiled, rose and pulled back her chair. “If you will all excuse us…?”

“Certainly,” Camille murmured.

And so Ally rose, draped her cloak over her arm and allowed the stranger to whom she had been affianced to escort her out of the room.

He waved to several people, and said a word here or there to others, as they wended their way between the tables. Leaving the room, they were blinded by a flash.

The photographer hard at work, Ally thought dryly.

Thane Grier was there, as well, writing away. He offered Ally his usual rueful smile.

“Mark!” someone called, and Mark paused. Ally was surprised to see Arthur Conan Doyle heading for them, grinning broadly. “And dear Ally.” The man's mustache teased her cheek as he gave her a kiss. “I have been greatly pleased by all I've heard, Mark. I tell you, some of those fellows, they don't see the truth when it stares them in the eye.”

“Arthur, you're a brilliant man,” Mark said, and Ally decided she liked him a little bit, simply because his words seemed sincere and she so adored the man herself. “Actually, I'd like to probe your mind on a few subjects. Have you time this week?”

“Indeed, we will make arrangements.”

“It will be my pleasure.”

“Congratulations to the both of you,” the author said; then, with a quick wave, he walked on.

“You know him well?” Ally asked.

“No better than you do, it appears,” he said dryly.

“I think he's wonderful.”

“Is he your favorite author?”

She hesitated. “Yes. I also admit to be in awe of the American, Poe.”

“Indeed? He has a bit of a gruesome touch.”

“I find him compelling.”

“Actually, so do I. And such a sad life he led.”

They had reached the stairs. Ally knew that others could have heard their words, and she was glad they had been so casual. As they reached the level where the new exhibit was being shown, she paused and looked back.

They had not been followed by either the journalist or the photographer.

She disentangled her arm. “May I speak frankly?” she asked.

“Please.”

“You do not have to go through with this.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I understand, sir, that you are, shall we say, the very top of the pyramid,” Ally murmured. Those eyes of his! It was absurd, bizarre. They gave her a sense of déjà vu. As did his touch. She realized at that moment what she had been thinking: that his eyes were incredibly like the highwayman's. Ridiculous, she told herself. She had only seen the bandit in a mask. Still…these were his eyes.

The two men were of the same height and powerful build. And the voice…

No, it was impossible.

“I don't understand what is going on. In fact, I daresay there's not a soul in England who does. Apparently your father and Lord Stirling—whom I adore, please don't misunderstand—have entered into some kind of a medieval agreement. But you mustn't feel obliged. I am not a poor and defenseless orphan. I am quite capable of taking care of myself.”

“Are you refusing to marry me?” he demanded.

“No, not actually refus—”

“Good. Come, then. Let us see the exhibit.”

He started forward, but she didn't follow. She felt suddenly afraid. He turned, taking her arm and drawing her forward with him. “You must be well versed in Egyptology.”

“I can't help but know something,” she told him, swallowing both her fear and her impossible conclusions. “I have spent many nights at the castle, and its decoration is purely Egyptian. And of course, I've spent time at Kat's studios and—did you understand what I was saying at all?”

“That I don't have to marry you.”

“Right.”

“And I asked you if you were refusing.”

“Refusing isn't my point.”

“Good. Then the wedding plans shall proceed.”

Once again he was off. He paused next to a large stone carved with hieroglyphs. “Can you read this?” he asked.

“‘He who treads here threatens the wrath of Isis,'” she read quickly. “You know nothing about me,” she told him.

He laughed suddenly. “I know all about you. Let's see…‘She has hair like spun gold, eyes that rival the sun, and her voice is a lark's.' Straight from the lips of Lord Stirling, and I can see that he hasn't lied.”

“Thank you, that is quite charming, but, still, you don't really
know
me. And I don't know you at all.”

“I am the only child of Lord Joseph Farrow, Earl of Warren. Is there more that you need to know?”

She frowned. The question was sharp—and annoying. Did he think his title made him such an incredible catch that nothing else would matter to her?

He was wrong. She had met him now, and she was sorry she had. She had admired him when he had spoken that morning. She had assumed him a thinking man, one who would want to hear what she had to say. But now…

“Actually, I have seen this exhibit already,” she lied. “It has been a tremendous pleasure. I am so glad we've gotten to know each other,” she continued, piling one falsehood upon another.

She didn't know why she was so ridiculously angry.

Maybe because he had seemed so like her highwayman, only to prove himself an elitist ass.

She started walking away from him, not caring where she was heading. In seconds, she had escaped him. At the moment, that was all that mattered.

 

“M
ISS
G
RAYSON
!”

She didn't hear him.

No, she had heard him. She had simply chosen not to listen. Mark winced. He'd been a fool. He'd tried to change the tone of his voice just a shade. He'd worn his hair free. His clothing had been chosen for its tailoring—the farthest cry he could find from riding breeches, high boots and an unbleached shirt.

He'd wanted to be a different man. Apparently he had managed quite well. She liked the highwayman. She didn't like him.

He frowned. As she disappeared, something fell from the cloak still draped over her arm. He hurried forward and picked it up.

It was an envelope addressed to Olivia Cottage, at a nearby post office. He knew he should find her quickly and return it. He even started after her, intending to do exactly that. Then he stopped.

She had chosen to walk away from him. So be it. He tapped the envelope, pensive. Olivia Cottage? Perhaps it wasn't even her envelope. She had perhaps swept it up accidentally along with her cloak.

He opened the envelope and saw that it held a check written from the offices of the daily paper to Olivia Cottage. He shook his head, frowning. He'd never heard the name before, and he thought he'd known all the city's reporters. He started across the floor, irritated that he'd rushed so insanely from Giles Brandon's town house to the museum, just to be instantly spurned.

He came to a dead standstill.

A. Anonymous.

Olivia Cottage must be the real name of A. Anonymous, which meant that the person was in the museum somewhere.

And if the wrong person had found the check…

He shook his head wearily. The murders had to be stopped. But he was very afraid that before the killer could be caught, he would strike again.

And A. Anonymous, or Olivia Cottage, was a prime target for such a ruthless zealot, who surely must despise the person for making such cogent arguments as to the killer's own motives and identity.

The room suddenly felt frigidly cold.

What if Ally
hadn't
swept up the envelope by mistake?

What if
she
was A. Anonymous?

 

T
HANE
G
RIER
,
LOOKING WORN
and sad, was seated on the steps when Ally dashed out.

He looked up, and for a moment, his eyes were naked, a sense of dejection visible on his face.

She was certain he could see the wild look and disillusionment on hers, as well.

They both started laughing.

He patted the stone step. “I know I'm a lowly journalist, but pray, join me. I'm sure you've found me annoying at times, but you appear in need of an escape. I promise I'll not grill you.”

She hesitated, then shrugged. Someone might come out and see her in such an unladylike situation, but she didn't care. She joined him.

“What happened to your fiancé?” he asked, then lifted a hand and added quickly, “Sorry. I promised not to ask questions.”

“Why do you look so depressed?” she asked.

He shook his head, then looked at her. “A. Anonymous,” he said.

“Pardon?” she said, stunned.

“I'm supposed to be a journalist of note, but I was bounced to the second page by an anonymous essayist. And not just once but twice. And here I am today, reporting for the society page.”

She smiled and assured him, “You're a journalist dealing in facts with a keen and objective eye. The editors had to be fair. Whatever their own political leanings, they had to print an opposing view to the piece by Giles Brandon, especially with news of his murder blaring from the front page. Maybe someone with wisdom decided it was a way to prevent an out-and-out civil war.”

“We'll never have another civil war here,” he said indignantly.

“You've seen how ugly it can get,” she reminded him.

“Yes, I suppose. How do you know?”

“I watched you, the day Giles Brandon was killed and again this morning.”

“Did you see the piece about your engagement?” he asked.

She laughed softly. “Actually, no. I never got that deeply into the paper.”

“You see?” he demanded. “You were reading the essays.”

“Sorry, it's just because…I mean, usually I read the newspaper front to back.”

“I think you'd like the piece. I admit, I did comment on your fiancé's failure to appear at his own engagement party, but I did say it must have been a sad day for him, since I'd never seen a woman glow with such inner and outer beauty.”

“That's lovely. Thank you.”

He studied her, his lean, ascetic face at an angle, eyes curious. “I'm sorry—and this is off the record, I swear it—but why was such an engagement arranged?”

Ally sighed in exasperation. “I was not lying to you! If there's anything more than the fact that Lord Stirling and Lord Farrow are friends, I don't know what it is.”

“Aren't you curious?”

“I've…been worried about other matters.”

“Are you still unnerved after having been attacked by the highwayman?”

She smiled, shaking her head.

“Then…?”

“Life, I suppose.”

“Life? As if you'll have anything to worry about in life. Do you know what Lord Farrow is worth?”

“Am I Lord Farrow? No, I do not know, nor do I care.”

“But your fate is to marry his son.”

“My fate, you say? My fate should be more than marriage.”

He stared at her, then started to chuckle. “Are you going to become a suffragette?”

She frowned. “Women
should
have the vote. Consider that two of the longest-reigning monarchs, two who have had the most productive reigns, were women.”

“So you are going to turn him down? Somehow escape the marriage?”

“It's not a matter of turning him down,” she murmured uneasily.

“Ah…”

“What does that mean?”

“You're worried about Lord Stirling and what he will think. And do. You have spent your life residing on his property.”

“My aunts are hardly lacking in ability. Had they chosen, they might have made a fortune in any large city. They are the finest seamstresses—” She broke off because he was chuckling again.

“Whoa, Miss Grayson, please. You need not preach to me. I never saw anyone work as hard as my mother. She taught us, she read to us—she gave me my love for the written word. She also scrubbed and cleaned, washed and ironed and cooked. I have never seen anyone work harder or be more deserving of respect. She held educated political opinions.” He was silent for a moment. “And now she's gone. She did get to see my first article published, though.”

“I'm very glad.”

He smiled at her. “Do you know, whatever I wrote about you…it wasn't enough. You are truly lovely in every way.” He offered her a handshake. “If ever you find a struggling journalist can be of assistance to you, please, don't hesitate to ask.”

She shook his hand firmly. “Thank you,” she told him, then stood, trying to smooth the wrinkles from her dress. “And if you should need help, please feel free to call upon me.”

“If you happen to discover the identity of A. Anonymous, please…that would indeed help me.”

She shrugged. “I'm sorry, but if there's ever anything else…”

“Your guardian is at the door,” he said, and stood quickly.

She turned. Brian Stirling and Camille were exiting the museum, chatting with Maggie and Jamie, and Kat and Hunter. Brian was frowning, and Ally was certain he was looking for her. Maggie was the first to spot her. “Ah, there she is,” she said, and waved.

“Go…go,” Thane urged her.

She walked forward and asked smoothly, “Were you looking for me? I'm sorry. I felt the need for a bit of fresh air.”

“Of course, of course. Mark is looking for you, too, dear,” Maggie told her. “He's going to take his father's carriage and see you back to the cottage.”

“Wonderful,” Ally responded.

As she spoke, Mark Farrow appeared behind the others. “Ah, there you are, Ally.”

She smiled, longing to tell him that she was Alexandra, or Miss Grayson. She managed not to speak.

“Shall we? My driver is right down the street. Do you mind a slight walk, or shall I ask him to come closer?”

“I walk quite well,” she said coolly.