Lord of Fire (5 page)

She exchanged a taut look with her frightened maid, Nellie, but neither spoke aloud what both women were thinking:
We should have stayed the night in
Bath.

Alice was beginning to wonder if the
maitre d’
at the elegant Pump Room, where they had stopped for tea, had deliberately lied to her when he had said that Revell Court was only fifteen miles to the southwest. Perhaps it had only been her imagination, but she thought she had detected a faint, disapproving sneer in his countenance when she’d asked for directions to the place. Given the urgency of their quest, and confident that they could cover the distance within two hours, Nellie, Mitchell, and she had unanimously agreed to press on in spite of the fact that the October sun had already set.

Now, with the night growing blacker by the minute, she realized uneasily that if they ever succeeded in finding

Revell Court

, they were going to have to spend the night there, accepting Lucien Knight’s hospitality—provided, of course, that he offered it. Who could say for certain what to expect from a man who seduced his brother’s chosen lady? She only prayed he was not heathen enough to turn travelers away in the dead of night, for she and her servants were ravenous, bone-tired, and full of aches and pains from being battered and bounced over the coaching roads of
England all day.

Looking back over the day’s journey, she shook her head. There had been the queerest traffic on the roads since they had left
Bath. Nearly twenty carriages—some flashy, some gaudy, some elegant—had passed them at breakneck speeds, but the passengers had all seemed either mad or intoxicated. Adults—male and female—had actually pulled faces at them like rotten children as the carriages went careening by, sticking out their tongues, yelling taunting abuses. She shook her head to herself, still puzzled.

Gazing out the window as the road descended into the gloom of another hidden valley, she studied the trees raking the indigo sky with their stark, brushy silhouettes. Moonlight polished the eerie, majestic limestone outcrops until they gleamed bone-white, while the road floated precariously above the forest, a sheer, high pass that hugged the mountain on one side. On the other yawned a gulf of empty darkness. She moved to the edge of her seat and stared down over the dizzying drop into the wooded ravine. You could throw a stone and it would fall forever, she thought. As her gaze pierced the deepest recesses of the black abysmal forest, suddenly she saw it—a distant flicker of fire.

“There’s a light! Nellie, do you see it? There, in the valley!” She pointed in excitement. “There!”

“Yes, I see it!” her maid cried, clapping her hands. “Oh, Miss Alice, at last, it’s

Revell Court

! It must be!”

Suddenly animated, both women called to Mitchell, the coachman, who was slumped down in dejection on the driver’s box. He let out a cheer when he, too, saw the bonfire burning like a beacon in the valley.

“By Jove, we’ll be there in ten minutes!” he boomed.

Even the horses picked up their pace, perhaps smelling the distant stable.
Alice felt new life rushing into her veins. She hastily dug in her reticule for her combs and began trying to put her hair into presentable order. “Oh, how I long for a warm bed,” she said ardently. “I could sleep until
noon
!”

“Bed, pshaw! I’ve had to use the w.c. for the past two hours,” her maid retorted in a whisper as she buttoned up her pelisse over her plump bosom.

Alice
chuckled. As they came down to the bottom of the valley, the carriage clattered across a stout wooden bridge that straddled a small, lively river. She was taken aback to notice how the cascade spurted straight out of the living rock. Falling in rills and milk-white spume, the little river glistened in the moonlight, churning and eddying in countless miniature gullies beneath the bridge.

“There’s the house,” Nellie exclaimed suddenly, pointing out the other window.

Alice
peered out eagerly. In the foreground loomed tall wrought-iron gates whose formidable pillars were topped with rearing stone horses. Beyond them, the courtyard bustled with activity as servants in maroon-and-buff livery hurried about, tending to the dozen or so carriages lined up there. It seemed their host was entertaining,
Alice thought uneasily, half certain that she recognized some of those carriages from on the road today. The house was an ivy-covered, red-brick Tudor mansion built in a U shape around the courtyard, with two large gabled wings that jutted forward symmetrically from the sides, their banks of mullioned windows reflecting the glint of the great iron torch stand that towered in the center of the cobblestone courtyard.

This was the wheel of fire that had beckoned to them from the distance, she realized, and as she gazed at the dancing flames, writhing and reaching for the black velvet sky, she was filled with the strangest intuition that the unknown object that her heart had yearned for in secret was very near. Then her bemusement turned to dread as half a dozen armed guards—big, menacing men in long black coats—materialized out of the shadows and began marching toward her carriage, each with a rifle under his arm. They yelled roughly at her driver to halt.

Mitchell had not expected armed guards any more than she had, but when Lord Lucien’s men continued shouting at him, telling him he must turn the coach around and leave,
Alice’s fury soon overtook her fear. She jumped out of the carriage without warning, her long, fur-trimmed cloak swinging around her as she angrily marched over, going to her driver’s defense. She was too incensed, hungry, and irritable from the day’s exertions to accept this sort of insolent trifling from servants. Ignoring their requests—veiled orders—for her to get back in the coach, she stood arguing with them in the cold for a quarter hour. It seemed there was a written guest list, and her name, of course, was not on it. But that was only the beginning. When they told her she must give the password if she wanted to go in, she scoffed outright.

“You listen here,” she scolded sharply, hands on her hips, “I have no truck with such things as passwords and secret handshakes. For heaven’s sake, I am here to fetch Lady Glenwood for the urgent reason that her child is seriously ill. Allow me to be very blunt—Lady Glenwood is Lord Lucien’s mistress. If you do not allow me in to collect her—if you turn me away—she is going to be furious. She will blame your master, and Lord Lucien, in turn, will blame you. Is that what you want? I’ve heard he is a man not to be crossed.”

“Aye, ma’am, that is our worry exactly. Come ’ere, lads,” the leader mumbled to the others. Grumbling in disgust, the gatekeepers walked away to confer on the matter.

Alice
could feel Mitchell and Nellie staring anxiously at her, but all her attention was focused on the men as she attempted to eavesdrop on their argument. She was not leaving here without Caro, she thought, her firm chin stubbornly set.

“Wee spunky thing, ain’t she?” the first gatekeeper muttered.

“She ain’t one of ’em. I never seen her ’ere before,” another said.

“Course you ’aven’t. Look at her. She’s harmless,” muttered one big fellow with a scar on his face. “I say we let her in.”

“He’ll kill us if we let ’er in without knowin’ the password!” another whispered harshly.

“But she says she’s related to his mistress! He’ll kill us for embarrassment if we turn the lass away.”

“That devil,” the scarred one muttered. “We’re damned if we do and damned if we don’t, with ’im.”

Clearly, Lord Lucien’s men held their master in awe, but it was their terror of getting him into trouble with his mistress that finally persuaded them to allow Alice and her servants through the gates. She was displeased when Nellie and Mitchell were separated from her and hurried off to the servants’ quarters, but she dared not complain for fear of being turned away again. The big, scarred gatekeeper showed her into the manor house and entrusted her to the care of the austere, gray-haired butler, Mr. Godfrey.

While the guard gave the butler some instructions pertaining to her in a low, secretive tone, she glanced into the dark, empty rooms adjoining the richly carved entrance hall and promptly found herself more puzzled still.

Where were all the guests?
The first floor was eerily silent, and barely a candle burned in the cavernous rooms.
Something very strange was going on here,
she mused. She had seen the carriages and the army of servants, and had personally run up against the exclusive guest list, so she
knew
that Lord Lucien was having a party tonight; but there was no sign of life in the house. Then she overheard a bit of the conversation between the butler and the guard that piqued her curiosity even more keenly.

“See that she stays in ’er room. She is not to go down to the Grotto.”

“I understand. We will inform His Lordship of the young lady’s presence in the morning.”

Alice
looked over quickly, glancing from one man to the other. As though noticing her furtive study, Mr. Godfrey bowed to her.

“This way, Miss Montague,” he said cordially. “I will show you to your room.” Lifting a candle branch from the wall holder, he picked up her satchel and led her up the dark oaken stairs, which had wood-carved statues of knights and saints serving as stair posts. A large portrait of a nobleman in sixteenth-century doublet and ruff peered down haughtily from the landing where the stairs turned. He had piercing, steel-gray eyes, a pointed black beard, and a sly smirk of a smile. He seemed to watch her as she passed.

“Who is that?” she asked, eyeing the portrait in trepidation.

“That is the first marquess of Carnarthen, ma’am. He built this house as his hunting lodge.” Mr. Godfrey gave a heavy, troubled sigh, but offered nothing more.

Peering everywhere around her into the shadows,
Alice followed him up the creaking stairs and down a dim corridor. They ascended another, more modest flight of stairs to the third floor and wove through a labyrinth of turns, finally stopping in the hallway, whereupon Mr. Godfrey took out his massive keyring, unlocked a door, and opened it for her.

“Your quarters, ma’am. Would you care for supper?”

“Oh, yes, thank you. I’m famished.”

The chamber had a thick Persian carpet, a canopied bed, and a fine Renaissance plastered ceiling. A low fire already burned in the hearth as though someone had been expecting her. As Mr. Godfrey moved about the chamber lighting the candles for her, a hulking Elizabethan wardrobe emerged from the gloom. She glanced at it, then looked at the butler again, unable to resist her curiosity.

“Mr. Godfrey, has Lady Glenwood gone to the Grotto?” she asked innocently.

Lighting the pair of spidery candelabra over the mantel, he glanced over his shoulder at her in wary surprise. “Why, yes, miss, some time ago.”

“Is she with Lord Lucien there?”

“I imagine so.”

She gave him a winning smile. “May I go there, too?”

“My humblest apologies, miss, but I’m afraid it is not possible.”

She dropped her gaze, unsurprised by his refusal, but she had always been a persistent creature. “Why not?” she asked brightly.

“It would displease the master. The, er, guest list is highly exclusive.”

“I see. Then will you send for Lady Glenwood to come to me?”

“I will try, but his lordship’s guests generally do not wish to be disturbed in the Grotto.”

“Why is that?”

“I do not know,” he said blandly.

Alice
gave him a wry smile, for he really was the best sort of butler, discreet and loyal to his master. “Thank you, Mr. Godfrey.”

Relief darted over his lined face. “Very good, miss. One of the staff shall return shortly with your supper and wine. Here is the bellpull if you require anything else in the meantime. Good evening.” He bowed out, pulling the door shut.