I Adored a Lord (18 page)

The mayor's back stiffened. “But of course, mademoiselle. I have considered all.” He frowned at Lord Vitor. “Monseigneur, you must not allow a woman to imagine for herself the notions of rationality which are beyond the nature of her sex. It is unlawful. Furthermore, it is immoral.” He pivoted upon his heel and returned to the others at the tea table.

Ravenna bit her lip.

“Miss Caulfield, do you imagine for yourself notions of rationality beyond the nature of your sex?” Lord Vitor said.

“Yes.”

He smiled. “Excellent.”

R
A
VENNA AWOKE TO
the pale sunlight of early morning. Turning onto her side, she remembered the evening and her pleasure in it, and she ached with the delicious fullness that happiness always gave her, the giddy delight that ran through her from toes to fingertips. She hadn't known such happiness in months. Until last night.

Dragging the bolster to her, she wrapped her arms around it and pressed her face into the linen. For the briefest moment she allowed herself to imagine it was Vitor Courtenay.

The shock of heat that went through her tore a gasp from her mouth.

She thrust away the bolster, sat up, and pushed hair from her face. Her heartbeats pounded, as though she had raced with Beast across the breadth of the south field. Staring at the bolster, she set her fingertips upon her cheeks, then recoiled from the heat there. She could not quite breathe. If she were medically examining herself, she would diagnose a spastic fever.

She climbed from the bed and dressed, but she could not shake off the hot agitation. Still light-­headed, she left her bedchamber and from an open door along the corridor heard a banshee's scream.

 

Chapter 13

The Rationality of Female Nature

W
hat in the hell was the purpose of retiring at midnight when a man was to be awoken at two o'clock, three o'clock, five o'clock, and dawn? Vitor pressed his palms into the mattress, forced his shoulders off the bed, and craned his neck to peer at the mongrel perched on its haunches a foot away from his face.

It whined again.

Vitor scrubbed a palm over his face and stared into its plaintive eyes. “You cannot possibly require another outing.”

The whine redoubled.

Vitor dropped his brow to the mattress and groaned. A man had servants for this sort of thing, for God's sake. Damn his valet for agreeing to remain in the village.

A thought jarred him. Men did have servants for this sort of thing. Sir Beverley Clark did, certainly. In an instant, with no effort whatsoever, Vitor imagined Ravenna entering his bedchamber haloed in morning sunlight, removing the dog from his bed and magically placating it, then taking its place beside him.

He buried his face in his hands, and his groan of frustration halted the dog's whine.

Elsewhere in the castle, a woman screamed.

Vitor was out his bedchamber door before he entirely pulled on breeches and shirt. His only need was haste, his only thought Ravenna. Bolting down the gallery, he snatched a sword from the wall and scaled the stairs to the ladies' bedchambers.

Standing in gray light, wearing nightclothes, a cluster of women peered through an open door. Miss Abraccia turned her head toward him and her eyes went wide.

He moved through the women into the chamber. Miss Feathers lay prone upon her bed, her eyes wide and glassy, a tangle of white fabric soaked in red about her. Ravenna sat at the end of the bed, her hand on Miss Feathers's ankle.

“It is wine,” she said. “No one is harmed.”

Miss Feathers's eyes closed and a great convulsive sob shook her.

Vitor lowered the sword.

“Thank you for coming to our aid,” Ravenna said. Her gaze slipped over his open collar, then skittered away. “What an impressive weapon that is.” Dusky rose crept into her cheeks.

He set down the rapier and moved forward. “It was the first thing that came to hand.”

“A pot of bleach would be more welcome.” She avoided looking at him now.

“What has happened?”

Miss Feathers sobbed quietly. “I beg your pardon for screaming.” Another sob. “It is nothing.”

Nothing
had his heartbeats slowing from their frantic pace. The night before, after he'd poured a bottle of brandy down Sepic's throat, the mayor had finally produced the page of writing samples. At least five bore some resemblance to Walsh's note. He'd spent considerable time in the monastery's scriptorium, and he could analyze this evidence well enough; the lightness of stroke and curvature of the letters pointed to a female scribe.

The scream from the ladies' wing of the castle had turned his blood to ice. But she was safe. He could now breathe again.

She took Miss Feathers's hand. “Come now, Ann. Sit up, wipe the tears from your face, and tell us how this gown came to be covered in wine and why it is so tragic an accident.”

Miss Feathers pushed to a sitting position and accepted the linen Ravenna pressed into her fingers. She dabbed her nose and eyes. “I designed the gown.”

“You designed it?” Ravenna fingered the ruined white fabric. “How clever of you.”

“I studied the fashion journals and chose the fabrics and sewed the beads.” Miss Feathers sniffled. “It was . . . my princess gown,” she whispered.

Ravenna looked up at him and then at the doorway. He went across the room and with a nod to the eager audience, closed the panel.

She stroked Miss Feathers's hair. “Your princess gown?”

The girl's shoulders shook. “I had never had such a gown. Simple. Elegant.”
Sniff
. “Lovely.” She peeked up at Ravenna. “Mama likes . . .”

“Ruffles.”

“And tulle. And quantities of lace. She is ever so fond of flounces and, well, fabric.”

Ravenna nodded. “And you wished to have another sort of gown, a simpler gown. So you made it yourself.”

“Papa gave me the money, but I sewed it all. Mama and I receive few invitations, so I have a great deal of time to do what I wish.”

“You wished to feel like a princess.”

“Papa says we are rich enough that I might buy anything I like. But I heard Lady Penelope say that Papa bought his baronetcy from the king and it made me positively wretched. He is so happy to have a title, and he has worked so hard to deserve it.” She dabbed at her nose. “But your father is not a tradesman, Ravenna. Lord Vitor himself said the church is a noble profession. You are a real gentleman's daughter, so you will tell me the truth, won't you? Is it wrong? Should I not long for something to which I have not been born?”

Ravenna's hand stilled on the girl's hair. “No. For you, Ann, it is not wrong.”

“Yet I think it must be.” Miss Feathers grasped a fold of the wine-­soaked gown. “Or
this
would not have happened.” Fresh tears leaked from her round eyes. “Oh, why did I tell Mama about the gown! I never imagined she would speak of it. But then Prince Sebastiao chose me to play Juliet and I saw it in her eyes before she even spoke the words. Then she would have me describe it in detail to everybody, how I made it and how beautiful it was. I was so content and he seemed so interested, I did not think to hide it from them. I did not even object when Mama begged the duchess to borrow Lady Iona's maid to press it in preparation for the play today.”

Ravenna's hand had slipped away from Miss Feathers's hair. Her shoulders seemed to stiffen. “Ann, how did the gown come to be saturated in wine?”

“I found it in the laundry,” she said dully.

“Do you believe that Lady Iona's maid poured wine on it?”

Miss Feathers's lips tightened. She shook her head.

“Who,” Ravenna asked, “is ‘them'?”

Another tear sped down the girl's cheek. “Ladies Penelope and Grace,” she whispered. “I saw them take a carafe of wine from the drawing room when we all went to bed last night. It is my punishment . . . because he chose me for Juliet.”

Ravenna's throat worked. Beneath her gown, her breasts rose and fell in sharp breaths. She stood. “Then they must be punished for this in turn.” She marched toward him, threw open the door, and strode into the corridor.

He grabbed her arm and pulled her around to face him. “Do not now do whatever it is you are thinking you must do.”

“Unhand me.” Her brow was a storm of anger yet oddly wounded, as though the prank had hurt her as well. “I will do as I wish.”

“Murder has happened in this house.” He spoke steadily, wanting only to drag her to him and wipe the distress from her eyes. “You must not court the rancor of any here. Only four days ago your life was threatened by someone that we have not yet identified. Does that not give you pause?”

“It should, I know. But I cannot put my safety before injustice toward another.”

“Injustice?” He shook his head. “It is a gown.”

“It may be a gown, but it meant everything to her.
Everything
.”

“We do not know what the murderer might do if you displease him. Or her.”

She stared uncomprehending at him. “Do you think they murdered Mr. Walsh? Penelope and Grace?”

“I don't know who murdered him. But I will regret it beyond measure should you place yourself in danger by defending a friend from malicious teasing.”

“You do not understand.” She tried to pull away. He held fast.

“Ravenna, I have only your—­”

She wrenched free and whispered, “You do not see. She is the bird.” She was shaking now.

“The bird?”

She swallowed jerkily and the movement of her neck was both beautiful and painful to watch. “She cannot defend herself, so I must.” She whirled around and disappeared around a corner. Miss Anders and Miss Abraccia stood in the shadow at the other end of the corridor, silent, eyes wide. They flinched as Lady Margaret swept past them.

“My lord? What are you doing by my daughter's bedchamber in such a state? And she weeping? Ann! Ann, my dearest!” She hurtled past him into the room.

“Oh, Mama,” came the watery reply.

Vitor took up the rapier and followed Ravenna.

T
HROWING OPE
N THE
door, Ravenna found them at their toilette. Lady Penelope sat at a gilded dressing table, Lady Grace standing behind her clasping a pearl necklace about her twin's ivory neck.

“Why did you do it?”

“Ah, Miss Caulfield.” Lady Penelope turned her head, her fingertips delicate upon the pearls. “How you do lack every trace of civility. It would be positively diverting to witness if I weren't being obliged to do so in my own bedchamber.”

“Why did you ruin her gown? Haven't you sufficient beautiful gowns and delicate noses and perfect lips and pale hair to satisfy you? Must you ruin another girl's single pretension toward beauty?”

“I haven't the slightest idea of what you speak.”

“Of course you do. The both of you—­you wicked, viperous cats.”

“Good day, Lord Vitor,” Penelope said to the place behind Ravenna. “Have you come to carry away the madwoman to the attic, I hope?” She stood smoothly and moved forward. “How kind of you.”

He did not bow to the viper, for which Ravenna was grateful. She would have preferred him to not appear quite so completely virile while in Lady Penelope's bedchamber, with his darkly shadowed jaw, triangle of hard male chest showing at his open collar, and a sword in his hand. But a hero was a hero regardless of guise, even if he had come to stop her rather than to save her—­which, she supposed, could be one in the same in this case.

Lady Grace remained by the dressing table.

“Admit that you did it,” Ravenna said to her. “If you do, and then go straight off and apologize to Ann, I will not order him to cut off both your heads with his sword.”

His laughter rumbled behind her. She wasn't quite certain she appreciated it.

Lady Penelope's crystal eyes oozed dismay. “Oh, dear. Perhaps you should fetch Sir Beverley or Mr. Pettigrew at once, my lord. I believe she has truly lost her mind.”

“I have,” Ravenna agreed. She looked over her shoulder at him. “Do make certain to keep the sword away from me so that I don't snatch it from you and do away with everyone in the house before breakfast.” She pinned Penelope with her stare. “Starting with you. Apologize to Miss Feathers or you will regret it in a manner you cannot imagine.”

“ 'Tis the right thing to do, lasses.” Lady Iona poked her head inside the door frame beside Lord Vitor. “We all ken ye did it. The prince'll ken by luncheon, an' he'll no' be happy wi' ye. Ye may as well make the best o' it while ye've still a chance wi' him.” She cut a glance at Lord Vitor, followed his legs clad in tight breeches all the way to his exposed collar and tousled hair, and offered him a saucy grin. “Guid mornin', my laird. Ye ought to come out before ye've dressed properly more often.”

“Thank you, my lady.”

Ravenna folded her arms. “Well?”

Lady Penelope's eyes narrowed. “All right. We will apologize to the mouse. Won't we, Grace?”

“Yes, Penny.”

Ravenna gestured for them to precede her into the corridor and Iona took the lead. Lord Vitor did not follow, the sword point stuck in the carpet and his hands resting upon the pommel as he watched them go. Ravenna returned to him and, edgy with her triumph, had some trouble meeting his eyes. The sight of his chest clad only in fine, thin linen tangled her wits.

“Thank you for allowing me to do that,” she said.

“I could not have stopped you had I tried.”

“You did try.”

“With very little effort.”

“You appeared so swiftly. I guess you heard her scream. Were you . . .”

“Was I what?”

Already in the ladies' wing of the castle. In another woman's bedchamber. If Lord Whitebarrow, who was married, practiced such pastimes, why wouldn't a young, unmarried man? Petti had told her enough of the ways of the licentious beau monde that she was not entirely naïve. “Nearby?”

He bent his head and peered at her. “I was damning that canine whelp of yours to perdition and preparing to take him outside for the fifth time since midnight.”

Relief slipped through her. “It must be easier to raise a puppy in a kennel than in a vast castle.”

“I am not raising a puppy. I am enduring it until you take responsibility for it or return it to the stable where it belongs.”

“I cannot. It is too late. He is yours. He will always be yours now.”

He looked at her very strangely then, and seemed to be on the verge of speech. But instead he drew an audible breath. “Go, see to your forced apology.” He turned away.