Lord of Shadows (16 page)

Lord Kilronan wasn’t in town. He was expected, but no, he couldn’t say when. Mrs. Norris, the earl’s lady-aunt, was not at home to visitors. No, Mr. MacLir was not welcome to leave a note.

The strange little dwarf had been firm. As well as extremely unpleasant.

Unable to pass on his warning, Daigh departed before his frustration turned ugly. Already rage uncoiled from that dark pit in his mind where the presence waited. It fired along his taut nerves. Called to the blackest parts of his soul. Filled his vision with its cold, yellow eyes.

“Really, Sabrina. Lord Kilronan can’t be a complete fiend.”

A punch to the gut. A spear to the brain. Both served to kick him loose of the presence’s mounting spiral of violence. He ground to a stop. Spun around to see two women emerging from a coach drawn up to Kilronan’s door.

Rigidly erect. Face marble white beneath the brim of
her bonnet, Lady Sabrina Douglas gazed upon the town house’s brick façade with obvious dread.

Ignoring the grumble of passersby as they elbowed their way past him, he watched her ascend the steps. Stared at the closed front door for long minutes after as if willing her to come back and explain herself.

Damn it all to hell. What was she doing here? She was supposed to be in Glenlorgan. Closeted away behind a phalanx of High
Danu bandraoi
. Protected. Safe. Out of harm’s way.

Out of his way.

“Darling. You don’t know how glad I am to see you.”

Aunt Delia sailed down the wide marble stairs, enveloping Sabrina in a lavender-scented hug that left her gasping for breath, but steadied the uncertain whirl in her head she’d experienced climbing the front steps.

“We expected you days ago. I was certain you met with some terrible accident upon the road with no one but that odd little dwarf to act as your protector. Come along, and let’s sit for a nice chat. I’ve canceled all my calls this afternoon, so we have hours to catch up.”

She took her hand, dragging an overwhelmed Sabrina into a downstairs salon. Jane waving her ahead while she lagged behind.

“I don’t know what your brother was thinking in hiring such a county fair freak, but there you are. He doesn’t consult me. I’m only his aunt. Hardly family at all. And if it’s a choice between me and that woman . . .” She flitted a quick glance at Sabrina, who’d gone stiff at hearing her own unkind thoughts repeated by her aunt. “Ah, well”—she waved a heavily ringed hand—“if Kilronan wants to enter
self-imposed exile by marrying a social pariah, who am I to stop him?”

The salon—like the woman—exuded over-the-top femininity. Cherubs erupted from every tabletop, side by side with statuary of nude, muscle-bound gods. Hothouse flowers scented the already perfumed air, and even the fire glowed with magically enhanced pink and purple flames.

Rendered speechless by the results of Aunt Delia’s idea of decor, Sabrina mumbled, “I’m sure Aidan doesn’t mean to slight you.”

Though now she was here, she could see why her brother might choose to consult with their aunt as infrequently as possible.

Again the droopy wave of a hand. “It’s not for me to complain. I merely do as I’m ordered. ‘Hire me a town house, Aunt Delia. Furnish and staff it, Aunt Delia.’ If it weren’t for Kilronan House being little more than a pile of rubble, I probably wouldn’t have heard from him at all.”

Sabrina cast another shocked glance at Aunt Delia’s nightmare idea of style. What on earth would Aidan say when he saw the results of his requests? “You’ve done . . . wonders,” she prevaricated. “The place is truly incredible.”

“Thank you, darling. You always were a sweet thing. Biddable. Not at all like your brothers. But that’s neither here nor there. Look how you’ve grown. The last time I saw you, you were sadly lacking in polish. But now”—she leaned back, taking Sabrina in with one long critical gaze—“you’re almost pretty.”

Sabrina had forgotten Aunt Delia’s fondness for hiding poison amid her praise. She smiled through gritted teeth.

“Yes, you’re quite improved in looks. I’m surprised. I
would have thought the
bandraoi
would have dressed you in sackcloth and ashes with rope sandals on your feet.”

“Lady Kilronan was kind enough to send me these things.”

Her aunt raised a pair of painted-on brows. “Was she? I’ll give the woman credit. She’s got a certain subdued style some might call tasteful.”

Since Aunt Delia wore a patterned purple and yellow gown straining against her huge expanse of bosom and hip, Sabrina could only thank her lucky stars her sister-in-law had supplied her with a suitable wardrobe. Had she relied on her aunt for help, she’d end looking like a cross between a flower garden and a circus tent.

“Are my brother and his wife here?”

Please, say they’re here.
She didn’t know how much longer she could endure this inquisition.

“No, darling. I received a letter this morning. They’ve been unavoidably detained, but will do everything in their power to arrive as soon as possible. I should hope so. I’ve already had to postpone my travel to Bray. I refuse to alter my plans again.”

Sabrina’s heart sank. She was to be trapped with only her aunt’s company for who knew how long? And here she’d worried she’d be stuck with the new Lady Kilronan. Bad enough in its own way. But this was shaping up to be far worse.

“Speaking of family, let me tell you the latest scandal.” Aunt Delia nestled in like a hen upon her nest. “Miss Rollins-Smith has vowed she’ll die a spinster rather than marry anyone but your cousin Jack.”

“But he’s dead.”

“Well, of course he is. And didn’t the famed O’Gara
luck fail on that sorry occasion? Always knew he’d come to a sticky end. Unstable, he was. Rackety.”

Her aunt’s face shone with gruesome delight. Not even an attempt at a few crocodile tears for her sister’s son. Sabrina could only imagine Aunt Delia’s reaction to Aidan’s recent brush with mortality. Probably took bets on his recovery.

“The silly girl is just being dramatic,” she simpered. “Always was one for the grand gesture. She’s been wearing black since spring. Makes her look horribly sallow. And it’s not even as if your cousin and she were ever properly betrothed. A wish of his parents, but hardly a fait accompli. Anyway, after word came that Jack had been killed the girl suddenly went high tragedy on us. Acted as if they’d loved passionately from the cradle.” She leaned in, dropping her voice to a stage whisper. “Personally, I don’t think Jack O’Gara was capable of loving anything more than he did the bottle and his cards.”

She spoke as if imparting a long-suppressed family secret, ignoring the fact she’d been skewering the dearly departed for the last five minutes.

Sabrina hadn’t known Jack well. He’d been of an age with Aidan and Brendan and on his occasional visits to Belfoyle had ignored his shy younger girl-cousin. Not hard to do. She’d always been a little afraid of the tall, handsome boy with the clever tongue and a devil’s penchant for trouble. In response, she’d retreated to pale silence. Disappeared as soon as he entered a room. It was probable Jack hadn’t even remembered Aidan and Brendan had a sister.

But Aidan and he had been close. And her brother had taken Jack’s death hard. His letters over the summer had been full of self-recrimination and guilt. Though why he
should feel responsible for Jack’s coach being attacked by highwaymen, she couldn’t fathom.

“Are you heeding me, Sabrina?”

She jerked back to attention. “I’m sorry, Aunt Delia. I suppose the journey has taken its toll.” She tried to look suitably fatigued.

Aunt Delia clucked her disapproval. “You always did have your poor mother’s constitution. It’s no wonder she wasted away after your father died. No spirit.” She heaved a bosom-jiggling sigh. “Well, if you’re fagged, I’ll ring a maid to show you to your room. And your companion—she’s properly behaved, I hope.”

“Miss Fletcher is a perfectly respectable barrister’s daughter, Aunt Delia.”

“Oh well, I suppose that’s all right then. Not exactly suitable company for the daughter of an earl, but no doubt you’re used to consorting with all sorts of rabble in that order of yours.”

She couldn’t wait to tell Jane she was rabble.

“I should have traveled myself to retrieve you, but I did have the house to complete, staff to hire, supplies to lay in, and there was a political dinner at Dublin Castle I simply had to attend. I was sure you’d understand.”

“I was quite well taken care of by Mr. Dixon.”

“Hmph. That dwarf. Another whim laid at the foot of that woman. I don’t know what Kilronan could have been thinking. The stories I’ve heard . . .” And on the same complaint that had begun this conversation, Sabrina departed in search of Jane.

“Bloom has just ridden in, sir. He says he brings good news.”

“Bring him to me immediately.” Hiding his heart’s leap of excitement behind a heavy-lidded gaze, Máelodor closed the crumbling vellum pages illustrating Arthur’s last battle. The final moments of a king brought down by treachery and betrayal depicted in medieval monkish artistry. The
Other
’s golden age destroyed through one traitorous son’s fiendish plotting.

A story repeated in gory detail seven years ago. Brendan Douglas’s deceit ending in the murder of his father by the
Amhas-draoi,
the destruction of the Nine, and all they’d striven for with one diabolical action.

But soon all Douglas’s treachery would be for naught.

Lazarus had obtained the Kilronan diary. Its secrets revealed to one who could break the warding spells and translate the mysterious language.

And now Bloom arrived with the Rywlkoth Tapestry; the map to Arthur’s secret tomb.

Only the stone known as the Sh’vad Tual remained unaccounted for. The key to opening the tomb. Recovering the bones of the
Other
’s sacred king.

Secreted away by Brendan Douglas in the final weeks before the
Amhas-draoi
assault, the stone would only be found with his assistance—willing or unwilling.

And if all went as planned, soon he—like the diary and the tapestry—would be in Máelodor’s possession.

His body simmered with violent arousal as he pictured the breaking of Brendan Douglas. He hoped the man begged. Wept. Pleaded for mercy then death.

Despair fed Máelodor’s appetites as no woman ever had.

And it had been too long since he’d partaken of either pleasure.

He couldn’t wait.

A peremptory knock and his man entered. “Mr. Bloom, sir.” He motioned in a travel-spattered gentleman muffled in greatcoat and hat, and still muddy from days on the road. Closed the door silently on his way out.

Máelodor lifted a stern face and ceremonial hand to the newcomer. “I assume your return means you’ve been successful.”

“I have, Great One.” He dipped a hand into the lining of his coat. Withdrew a rolled piece of cloth. Handed it over, barely concealing the smug conceit of his success.

Máelodor took it. Untied the ribbon. Spread the tapestry out upon the table.

“It was just where you said it would be,” Bloom explained. “With the
bandraoi
at Glenlorgan.”

The fibers that had once been white now held the stains of centuries. Rust-brown in spots. Other places faded to dull yellow and gray splotches. One corner was damaged, the threads torn and frayed. But the images depicted remained vibrant and alive.

A scene rendered in beautiful shades of crimson, gold, royal blue, and emerald green. A litter borne by six attendants in heavy armor, their helmets raised, their heads bowed in grief. A line of veiled followers trailing behind, also bent with weeping. One had fallen to his knees. Another paused to give comfort. Ahead a tomb’s maw within a rock face. One of the same gray-veiled figures stood beside the open cave. Arms lifted high to where a star rendered in a deep blue shone down upon the litter.

Exquisite detail. Artistically brought to life by the ancient hands that had embroidered it. A priceless artifact of
Other
antiquity.

He closed his hand on the coarse linen. Threw the whole into the fire. And turned his full wrath on the man standing frozen and horrified. “You fool! You wormy son of a bastard’s whore. You’ve brought me the wrong tapestry!”

The cathedral brooded against the overcast sky, or perhaps it was merely sulking, surrounded as it was by the helter-skelter of dirty alleys and squalid tenements. A breeze tugged at Sabrina’s bonnet and twitched at her skirts as she crossed the muddy grounds to the entrance in company with the rest of Aunt Delia’s sightseeing party.

Up ahead, the Misses Trimble walked arm in arm with the gentlemen invited to make up the rest of the group. The trio of giggly sisters batted, sashayed, and simpered like seasoned campaigners. Generals knew less of strategy and tactics than these young women. The men didn’t stand a chance.

Aunt Delia shepherded her charges inside, a harried young man in moth-nibbled coat and much-darned stockings rushing to meet them.

“Mr. Munsy has kindly agreed to show us around,” Aunt Delia chirped. “Wasn’t that nice of him?”

The young curate bowed and smiled.

The sisters giggled.

Sabrina rolled her eyes and tried to pretend she didn’t know any of them.