Beguiled (9 page)

“Father, I have agreed I will marry her.”

“Very soon,” Joseph said. “Unless you are blind, you must realize it will be no hardship.”

Mark looked down. A hardship? Never. His encounter with the young woman in question had stayed with him all day. She hadn't been in any way what he had expected. She was strong, not a wife he would simply take and protect. She was opinionated. She was smart and sharp and…

He didn't see her accepting such a marriage easily.

A rueful smile curved his lips. “Father, why have you never remarried?” he asked softly.

“Why?” Joseph repeated with a frown. As usual, Mark saw his father's eyes grow soft at the mere memory of his mother. “I love her still, son. No other woman will ever be my wife.”

“It would have been nice to be allowed that emotion myself,” Mark said simply. “Meanwhile, we are in a very grim situation here.”

“All the more reason this must happen quickly,” Joseph said. “I'm sorry, son. The situation is far too dire to allow emotions to rule. My prayer is only for this to happen quickly and that Miss Grayson be safe. You are going to be an earl one day, yet you decided you must sign on in secrecy with the queen's private guard, must play detective, must risk your life….”

Joseph turned away. Mark stiffened. “Father, you served in the military.”

“Yes, and I survived, praise God. If you're going to continue to risk your neck, I'd like to at least have a grandchild!”

“Well, that's rather straightforward,” Mark murmured. “I will make sure that I…that I see Miss Grayson, that…she's kept safe. But don't you see, Father? The faster we solve these terrible crimes, the sooner everyone will be safe. Tomorrow morning, the news of Giles Brandon's death will be told in grisly detail in the papers, and the last article he wrote will run, as well. Would to God there was someone out there with the power of the pen who would suggest it is the anti-monarchists themselves who are behind these heinous murders.”

“Would to God,” Joseph said wearily. He started for the stairs, then turned back. “Mark, forgive me. I am proud of you. I raised you to know your own mind. I…couldn't bear to lose you, that is all.”

“You won't lose me, Father,” Mark assured him.

Joseph went on up the stairs.

The clock over the fireplace began to chime.

It was already morning.

Jeeter came into the room. “Sir…I have acquired a first edition of the paper.”

“Thank you, Jeeter.”

Mark hurried across the room and accepted the paper. He could still smell the scent of the fresh ink.

As he had expected, the headline blazed with the murder of Giles Brandon. Halfway down, on the right-hand side, was Giles Brandon's last article.

But halfway down, on the left-hand side was another article. Its opening words seemed to blaze loudly, too.

Is the monarchy guilty? Or is a zealot at work, an anti-monarchist willing to commit the murders of his own friends and comrades just to topple the monarchy and enact a change in government?

Mark's mouth gaped open. Luckily he was near a chair, for he was able to sit instead of winding up on the floor.

Good God! He had just been saying they needed such a writer, and here…

He read the article. It was excellent, pointing out all the reasons why it was most unlikely that either the queen or some other member of the monarchy could be involved. The writer listed all the reasons why a deranged and passionate zealot might well be responsible. It was excellent. Of course, it had been written before anyone had known about the murder of Giles Brandon, but even based only on the two previous murders, it still made perfect sense, the words cleverly arranged, the arguments entirely persuasive.

He looked quickly for a byline.
A. Anonymous.

He folded the newspaper, rose and set it thoughtfully on the table by the newel post.

A. Anonymous.

Thank God for the pseudonym.

If the writer's real name ever became known, A. Anonymous would become a prime target for a grisly murder.

“I'
M JUST GOING FOR A WALK
in the woods with my sketch pad, as I've done at least a thousand times over the years,” Ally said, looking from one dear but alarmed face to another.

She smiled, shaking her head. “What on earth is the matter with you darlings this morning?” she demanded.

Violet, tall and very slim, clasped her hands together. “Ally, all those other times were
before
you were waylaid by the highwayman.” Violet gazed at Merry, Merry gazed at Edith, and then they all gazed at her.

Ally realized suddenly that in the days since the ball, they had kept her extremely busy. Sunday there had been church, and then they'd asked the rector back to the house for dinner. Monday Violet had needed help with a gown. Tuesday Merry had needed assistance in the garden. Edith had asked her to help in the kitchen on Wednesday, and so on. There had been something that needed doing every day. And now it was Saturday again.

A week since the ball and her engagement to a man she had yet to see.

A week to remember her encounter with the highwayman. A week…and no real chance to have a conversation with any of her guardians.

A week in which she'd at least had a bit of time to write.

“The highwayman…please! Is that why you've kept me so busy? To keep me from going out? He is long gone.”

“And after that, dear Ally became engaged,” Merry said, smiling dreamily, as she had so often since Ally had come home from the party. “I still dream of the way you looked coming home. You could have been such a princess!”

“No, my darling, not a princess,” Ally protested, but Merry was already waltzing about the room with an imaginary partner. Ally had to smile. She loved them all so much. Violet, the sternest of the three; Merry, ever-young at heart; and Edith, who held the scales between the two, sometimes as cheerful as Merry and sometimes stalwart in supporting Violet's far stricter tendencies. They had been waiting for her outside the front door when she had returned and flitted about like a threesome of oversize fairies, demanding to know every last detail. She had thanked them over and over again for the dress. They had insisted it was all Maggie's doing, but she could see the pleasure in their eyes when she told them how many compliments she had received on the gown.

She had described the castle, the dinner, the dancing—and the announcement that had so taken her by surprise, an announcement that had been no surprise to them. She had left out the part about Giles Brandon's wife coming in, screaming hysterically and cursing her. When they had pressed for more details, she had obliged at first, then told them, “No, not another word. It was a lovely party—except for one thing.”

“And that was?” Violet asked, puzzled.

“You three were not there. And I determined last night I will never go to another party or event—no matter how kind my godparents are—unless you are there, as well.”

“Oh, but, dear!” Violet protested.

“We're…we're…we're not…party types,” Merry managed.

“Oh, no, no, no,” Edith said.

“Then I am not, either,” Ally said. “I never should have let you get away with it this time,” she said sternly.

“Oh, but…we're not…” Violet tried again.

“If you dare say that you're not
society
and I
am,
I will refuse to go to the castle ever again! I'm an orphan. You raised me. You are my parents. Do you understand?”

Merry giggled. “We're all old women, dear.”

“You are my family. I adore my godparents. They are wonderful people, and I am incredibly lucky to have them in my life. But
you
are my family. Are we understood?”

They looked at one another. “Of course, dear,” they said in unison.

Her mind returning to the present, Ally said, “Please, I'm just going for a walk in the woods.”

“You really mustn't,” Violet argued.

“You're engaged now,” Merry told her.

She stiffened. If she told them she didn't feel at all engaged and wasn't at all sure about going through with the marriage, they would simply stand there arguing until doomsday.

“Engaged,” she murmured. The ring sat heavily upon her finger. “But not married,” she said brightly.

“Oh, dear, what does that mean?” Merry asked Violet.

“Well, she's going through with the wedding,” Violet said, then looked at Ally. “You
are
going through with the wedding, aren't you?”

“Oh! She must go through with the wedding!” Edith exclaimed, and looked worriedly at the others.

“Ally, dear,” Violet said, “what did you mean—that you're not married yet?”

“It means I'm going for a walk in the woods,” Ally said, grinning. “I love you all so much,” she added, giving each of them a hug. Then, before anyone could stop her again, she slipped her cloak off the peg by the door and hurried out.

She nearly ran down the path from the house, pausing only when she was a good hundred feet away, then looking back with deep affection.

The cottage was storybook perfect, with a thatched roof and a chimney that always seemed to trail a puff of smoke to somehow indicate the warmth to be found inside. Merry was an avid lover of flowers, so there were beautiful beds and little stone planters all around the entry. The aunts were quite elderly now, but still spry and cheerful and girlish in so many ways. Cocoa cured all ills, and if cocoa failed, there was tea and scones, everything fresh brewed and fresh baked. She had learned from her many tutors, but she had learned from the women, as well. They never sat still, or if they did, it was only to read or do needlework. They had taught her about industry, keeping busy, respecting the land, the virtues to be found in sweeping, and, most of all, they had taught her about unconditional love. She smiled, again thinking herself very lucky. Then her smile faded and her brow puckered, and she couldn't help but wonder
why?

With a shake of her head, she turned again. Winding through stands of beautiful and ancient oaks, she followed her own well-worn path down to the stream that bubbled through the forest. There was an old layer of rock there that she had worn smooth over the years. It was situated next to the massive trunk of one of the old oaks that stood just at the water's edge. There she could doff shoes and stockings, dangle her feet and draw—or write.

She wondered what the newspaper had featured that day, but the aunts didn't get their papers until late in the afternoon, so it would be some time before she would be able to see it. She held her sketchbook on her lap as she crawled onto the rock and went through her ritual, slipping off the offending shoes and hose, testing the chill of the water with a toe, then leaning back against the oak, her pad clutched in her arms.

She closed her eyes, summoning the images she wanted to convey.

First…the village. That scene was the most important.

Unfortunately, thoughts of the engagement and her absent fiancé kept intruding.

The village…

The people gathered in the square. The cries…

Down with the monarchy!

Images passed quickly through her mind. Thane Grier, his pose casual as he watched what was going on.

Then Sir Angus Cunningham, trying to calm the crowd, and the woman…the veiled woman in black, crying out. Lord Wittburg at Sir Angus's side, and last, Sir Andrew Harrington. The crowd at last beginning to listen, starting to break up as Shelby began to drive the horses forward.

And then…

The highwayman.

“Dreaming of me?”

The question—suddenly spoken in a deep and amused masculine voice in the middle of the forest, where the only sounds should have been the bubbling of the water and the sweet song of the birds—was so startling that she jerked up and nearly lost her balance on the rock. As it was, her sketchbook flew out of her arms and her pencil came perilously close to being lost forever in the stream.

“You!” she gasped, stunned. Should she scream? Jump up? Run?

It was indeed him. He was dressed as he had been when he had held up the carriage: black breeches, unbleached poet's shirt, knee-high riding boots—and black silk mask. One foot was planted on the rock, his elbow upon his knee, and she had to wonder just how long he had been standing there, watching her.

“Yes, me,” he said.

He rescued the pencil and set it and the sketchbook safely aside, then took a seat next to her on the rock.

She realized he was alone. And that he intended no harm. Apparently he had come to find her. She couldn't help but wonder if he had done so before during the past week.

“Is this a private rock?” he inquired.

“Actually, yes.”

“Is it your land, then?” he asked.

“No. It belongs to Lord Stirling.”

“Then we are both trespassing.”

“Don't be ridiculous—I'm welcome on his land. You, however…”

He laughed, perfectly comfortable as he leaned against the oak. “Actually,” he informed her, “this land does not belong to Lord Stirling.”

“Indeed?”

He pointed to the trail. “Up to there…it is his. But where we sit right now…if I'm not mistaken, we are on land that belongs to Lord Farrow, Earl of Warren.”

She stared back at him as coolly as she could, considering the fact that her heart was pounding too quickly, her blood flowing with a shimmering heat.

“Well, I believe Lord Farrow would welcome me and allow me this position, while he would certainly send you packing. Or rather, have you arrested.”

He shrugged. “Quite possibly.” He stared at her, still deeply amused. She noted his eyes. Blue-gray, they had the ability to be light, to be dark, to appear cloaked in shadow. Mercurial, they changed within seconds, as swiftly as his moods.

“You are a fool, and what you're doing here is beyond me. You'll notice I'm carrying nothing more valuable than a sketchbook. Shouldn't you be out on the road somewhere, assaulting more innocents?”

“Dear Miss Grayson, please don't ever fool yourself that I assault only innocents,” he said. “Actually, I rather like it here. And a hardworking highwayman does deserve a rest now and then.”

“Not on my rock.”

“We've established the fact that it's neither your rock nor mine,” he said lazily.

She knew she should simply get up and walk away. He seemed to be carrying no weapons, and his horse was nowhere in sight.

He gazed her way, stretching out more comfortably, one hand behind his head. “I understand congratulations are in order.”

“How do you know that?” she demanded sharply.

“I read.”

“How commendable. You could certainly find real employment, then.”

He shrugged, looking back to the water. “There was a whole page about you, Miss Grayson, second page of the paper. You came after news of a murder, an article that all but skewers the queen and another that defends her. An excellent article, really,” he mused. His smile deepened. “The news of your engagement took precedence over the news that you were held up by the highwayman. Sad, but true.”

“I told you that you were no more than petty riffraff,” she informed him, and yet her mind was reeling.

An excellent article, really.

That? From a highwayman?

“So you will soon be Lady Farrow.”

She didn't reply.

“Aren't you eager to become a countess?” he demanded dryly.

She stared at him. To her own surprise she said, “Did the article mention that the groom-to-be was not in attendance?”

“Yes, it did. Churlish of him, don't you think?”

She looked away, shaking her head. “To tell you the truth, it doesn't matter in the least.”

“You were not hurt by him?”

“How on earth could I be hurt by someone I don't know? Indeed, I knew nothing about the engagement until it was announced.”

“Brian…Camille…never told you?” he demanded, seeming quite startled.

“Brian? Camille? You're dreadfully familiar, you know,” she told him.

“I beg your pardon. Allow me to rephrase. Neither Lord nor Lady Stirling ever told you what was to be your fate?”

She burst out laughing. “My fate?”

“Well, it
is
your fate, isn't it?”

She looked out at the water, determined not to share her personal feelings with an outlaw, no matter how charming.

“Fate is what we make of it, isn't it?” she murmured.

“They never told you,” he said, dropping down beside her on the rock.

“Is this really any of your business?” she demanded.

He smiled, shrugged. She realized that their shoulders were touching as they sat side by side, and though she knew she should have sounded an alarm or at least run away the moment she saw him, she was actually quite pleased to be sitting as she was. Content. No, not content, actually. Exhilarated. She enjoyed arguing with him, and she didn't mind his proximity at all. For an outlaw, he had a rather seductive scent. Apparently his line of work did not prevent him from bathing or keeping his clothing clean.

“I am a student of human nature, and quite curious,” he told her.

“It was simply one of those nights,” she murmured. “They would have told me—if it hadn't been for you,” she charged him, angry enough to jab his upper arm with her fist.

“I wasn't even there!” he protested, rubbing the spot where she had punched him.

“When we reached the castle, Shelby was in a state, and therefore Brian was in a state, so he rode out—and you are extremely lucky he didn't catch you, but mark my words, you had best be careful, he may still do so.”

“Believe me,” he said softly, but smiling still, “I never underestimate the Earl of Carlyle.”

“Be sure that you don't.”

“I am warned. So…still, no one told you?”