Beguiled (16 page)

Then, slowly, he pulled back, his fingers still entwined with hers, his eyes a shimmering silver. She realized the carriage had stopped.

She had lost her mind, she decided.

“Regretfully, we're here,” he said huskily.

“Oh!” Self-consciously, she tried to smooth back the strands of her hair, tried to withdraw—not an easy task in the confines of the carriage. She touched her lips, which seemed different now. She was shaken. She was angry.

Angry that she had been so easily swept away by him.

“Then I must go in,” she said, a little sharply.

“Why are you angry?” he asked.

“I'm not angry. I'm home. May we alight?”

“I am ever more convinced of the rightness of this marriage,” he said softly.

“We shall see,” she murmured, thinking to skim past him.

But he caught her. The feel of his hands upon her was nearly unbearable, it was so sensual.

“I am enchanted,” he said, and she thought it sounded almost like a warning.

“And I am greatly uncomfortable remaining in this carriage,” she said. “If you don't mind…”

“It's quite all right. We are engaged. There's no need for you to be mad.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“You're not mad at me, you know. You're mad at yourself.”

“I'm not mad at anyone.”

He smiled, and the slow curving of his lips infuriated her. “Yes, you are. You didn't intend to respond to my kiss, but no matter how you try, you cannot find me repulsive.”

“Perhaps I shall have to try kissing every man I fail to find repulsive.”

His eyes narrowed. “We are engaged. The ring is on your finger.”

“I can take it off.” But in fact, she couldn't. It caught on her knuckle. “Oh, good heavens! May we get out of this carriage now?”

At last he moved, but she longed to slap him hard, for that cockiness was in his eyes, the same expression she had seen in the highwayman's gaze.

But he stepped down without further comment, turning not to assist her but to lift her to the ground.

“Thank you for the ride. I'm home and quite safe now.”

She thought that at last, she could make her escape, but the aunts chose that moment to step outside.

“Oh,” Edith cried, “it's Mark Farrow!”

Violet, nearly crashing into Edith in the doorway, was equally observant. “Mark! How lovely. You decided to see our Ally home.”

Merry, sweeping out alongside Violet, had the presence to suggest, “You must come in for a spot of tea before your ride home.”

“Oh, he's far too busy,” Ally said quickly.

“Not at all. I would love a cup of tea,” Mark said, and the glance he gave her was clear evidence of the delight he was feeling at her discomfort.

“But your coachman may be needed—”

“That gentleman might enjoy a spot of tea, as well,” Violet said.

“Arthur?” Mark called easily, and the coachman, a large, broad-shouldered fellow with slightly graying hair and a quick smile, stepped down from the driver's seat. “Arthur, would you care for a cup of tea?”

Arthur swept off his livery hat and bowed his head. “Tea would be most lovely, sir.” He turned to Violet. “If you don't mind, Mum.”

“We have only a humble abode,” Violet said, “but all visitors are welcome here.”

Merry clasped her hands together. “Tea it is.”

Ally barely suppressed a groan.

“Oh, this is lovely, lovely. Do come in.” Edith beckoned.

So, despite her discomfort, Ally again felt the support of Mark Farrow's arm as he led her into the cottage. There, at last, she managed to disentangle herself. “Darlings,” she said firmly to the aunts. “You three must sit down and chat. I will bring the tea.”

“Oh, no, dear. You must sit with your fiancé—” Merry began.

“We've already had the loveliest chat in the carriage. Now, you three must get to know him better.”

She disappeared into the kitchen before any protest could be lodged. Once there, she seethed for several minutes before remembering she needed to set the water to boiling.

As she stood there, she found herself touching her lips again, and remembering. She didn't hate him at all, she knew. He was simply accustomed to being the one who was in control, of himself and of the world around him…

Even as a highwayman.

And
she
was supposed to marry him.

She bit her lip, listening to the chatter from the parlor. He laughed easily. He complimented the aunts on little things in the house. He seemed to have nothing but the best rapport with his coachman. She felt the strangest tremor take hold of her. She was going to become his wife. She had thought to fight against such an arrangement, but though her life had been sheltered, she had met men before, and she had never had such a feeling of magic as when he touched her….

“Ah, but he deserves all I can give in return,” she said into the empty room, and she laughed suddenly, plotting.

Because she was quite certain she would see the highwayman again. Very soon.

 

O
N
S
UNDAY
, M
ARK CHAFED
. The service in the small church outside the village seemed endless, and the sermon, during which the rector strongly urged people to behave with temperance, was the perfect cure for sleeplessness.

From where he sat by his father's side, he could see that Violet, Merry and Edith were in their pew, with Ally there, as well, beside Violet. His heart quickened as he decided that when the service was over, he would insist they come to his father's house for luncheon.

At some point during the service he found himself staring at Ally. Taken unaware, color rushed to her cheeks and she looked away as soon as she noticed his attention.

When he rose for the final hymn, it was with every intention of heading straight to her, but as he walked down the aisle, he felt a tap on his shoulder.

He turned and, to his surprise, saw Detective Ian Douglas. The situation must be dire if the man had left the city to find him.

“May I speak with you?” Ian asked.

Mark saw that his father had gone on; he was greeting the sisters and Ally. Ally noticed him, then turned away. It seemed she despised his real self, despite that kiss.

And yet…

It was impossible to forget touching her. The feel of her lips beneath his. The supple warmth of her body…

“Mark?”

“Yes, I'm sorry. What is it, Ian? Not another murder?”

“A problem.”

“With?”

“Lord Lionel Wittburg. Will you come with me?”

His father had turned. He saw Ian Douglas and rolled his eyes, but he nodded.

“Will you give me just a moment?” Mark asked Ian. At the other man's nod, he strode down the aisle and out the door, to where the others waited in the sun just beyond. With the eyes of the village upon him, he dared do no less than at least greet his bride-to-be.

She watched him approach with wary eyes.

“My dear,” he greeted her. As he knew that, with the aunts about and his father there, she would not protest, he caught her hands, kissed both her cheeks, and then, as he met her eyes, teased her lips with the brush of a kiss, as well. He could almost feel her stiffen, but as he had expected, she stood still, if defiant—and she didn't make a single move to strike him, though he was sure she longed to. He might have charmed the aunties with his visit for tea, but she was still not impressed.

She withdrew her hands from his and said, nodding toward the church, “I gather you have someone waiting.”

“I'm afraid I arranged a meeting with an old friend, though one look at you and I had quite forgotten.”

Merry giggled delightedly at his words. “This is so wonderful!”

“Quite,” Ally murmured dryly.

“Your father has just invited us to a lovely luncheon,” Violet informed him.

“I hope to return soon and join you,” Mark said.

“You are always so busy,” Edith said, shaking her head.

“Well, when they are married, Ally will have the dear boy all night every night, and they will not have to miss each other.”

“Merry!” Violet said, shocked.

“What?” Merry protested. “I merely said when they're married, they will…oh!” She blushed and fell silent.

“You'd best go. Your friend looks quite nervous,” Ally advised him. “He looks like a policeman. Is he?”

Mark was startled. Ian, who'd moved to stand at the top of the steps, was dressed in a simple suit.

“Yes, actually, he is a detective. How did you know?”

“His suit,” Ally told him. “Neat, but serviceable, not extravagant, and he has a weary look about him, yet one of a quiet dignity. And his shoes. They are firm leather, not fancy kid. They are made for walking.”

“Very observant,” Joseph said. Mark stared at her.

She shrugged. “I am a tremendous fan of Arthur Conan Doyle.”

“And of Poe,” Mark murmured.

“The one teases our fears while the other teaches us something of life,” Ally said. She smiled and walked past him, heading back toward the church—and Ian.

Mark followed.

Ally extended a hand. “I am Alexandra Grayson. It is a pleasure, Detective.”

Ian flushed a deep red but quickly took her hand. “Miss Grayson, the pleasure is mine.”

“I understand you and Mark are old friends.”

“Yes.”

“Are you here in pursuit of the highwayman?”

“No, but many fine officers
are
seeking that villain.”

“I see.”

“We are all going to lunch at Lord Farrow's lodge. Perhaps you'll accompany us.”

“I'm afraid that…”

“Ian and I are dining closer to the city, as he must be back by nightfall,” Mark said.

“Yes, yes, that's right.”

“I see,” Ally told him, and smiled. “Well, then, you must be going.”

“I'm afraid so,” Mark said.

“Then I mustn't detain you. It has been a pleasure.”

A moment later, their goodbyes said, she turned away.

“Forgive me, dearest, but I must have a final kiss,” Mark told her, and drew her back, brushing her lips with a kiss. Dear God, the scent of her. Clean and sweet and…

And strong. She was out of his arms in a heartbeat, her mouth tight. He was certain she longed to wipe his kiss from her lips.

“Detective, again, it was a pleasure. I look forward to getting to know you,” Ally said, and then she was gone.

Ian watched as she walked back to the others. He kept staring, not moving.

“Ian!” Mark said sharply.

“What? Oh, yes. The business at hand.”

They rode out to Lionel Wittburg's manor, west on the forest road toward London. As they traveled, Ian explained that he'd received a call from Lord Wittburg's valet. The man had been very upset as he explained that Lord Wittburg had not risen in days, had simply lain there raving that the queen had killed his friend Hudson Porter. He had become like a madman, even refusing to eat.

Mark had known the man and his valet, Keaton, since he himself was a child. Keaton greeted them eagerly, begging them to follow him to Lord Wittburg's chambers.

The room was vast, with a massive bed set apart on a dais, and the rest of the space set up for receiving.

Lionel was in the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

Mark rushed to the man's bedside.

He touched Wittburg's flesh, and it was cold and clammy. The man didn't seem to see them as he ranted. “It's happening again. There is a conspiracy. All men are blind. All men see what they want to see. I believe it happened. I believe…Dead women. So many, and now it is dead men. Dead men in a row. All lined up.”

“Lord Wittburg,” Mark said sharply. He glanced at Keaton. “Have you called a doctor?”

“He saw the doctor last week, and he prescribed pills. Lord Wittburg was having trouble sleeping.”

Mark looked at the drug vials and shook his head. “Opiates. Too strong. His pulse is weak. Ian, help me. Let's get him up.”

“Get him up?” Keaton said. “But…he is ill. Perhaps if he slept more…”

“If he sleeps more, he may not wake up. Do you have coffee?”

“Of course,” Keaton said, indignant at the suggestion that the household might lack such an important commodity.

“Make some. Ian, help me, please.”

Wittburg was a very large man. He was also dead weight. But with Ian on the opposite side, Mark managed to force him out of bed.

“Now what?” Ian asked, struggling beneath the weight of the man.

“Keep walking him.”

As they walked, Lord Lionel Wittburg continued to rave on in the same manner as before. “Sins of the fathers. Always sins of the fathers. History shows us. Cain and Abel. It's happening again. So many dead, and all life, they say, is precious. Some don't believe that. Some believe life is more precious for the highborn. What is one dead prostitute, eh? A prostitute will die of liver disease in time. The gin will kill her. Perhaps a knife is more merciful. The killings were sick…sick. But the knife was swift. Dear God! There must have been moments of such terror. Still, cut. Cut! A throat is slit. The blood rushes out. The prostitutes were slain so. The anti-monarchists were slain so. Ah, Hudson. How we debated. How you attacked, how I defended, and never once did we let debate ruin the foundation of our friendship. They said you were bitter, but I knew you were not. You did not expect consideration after sleeping with the lieutenant's wife! Slit, slit…throat cut. Prostitutes. Men with minds.”

“What on earth is he talking about?” Ian asked.

“He was, as you know, close friends with the first man killed, Hudson Porter. They served together in the war. Wittburg is a keenly intelligent man. Hudson Porter was a student and lover of history.”

“But he's talking about the Ripper murders, and those are long past.”