One Touch of Magic (25 page)

She pressed her hand to her throbbing temple. How her mind was racing, and all because of an open door! She ought to walk right over there and investigate, but her feet felt frozen to the earth. All the euphoria of only a moment before had vanished, replaced by nerves that screamed out of danger and caution.

She looked at Miles, who stood stiff and straight beside her. His blue eyes no longer shone with laughter. They were narrowed speculatively as he watched her house. “Would one of your servants have left it open?”

Sarah shook her head. “The only one home today is Rose, Mary Ann’s maid. It is my own maid’s day off, and Cook went to do the marketing. Rose is very protective of Mary Ann; she would never have done such a thing. She knows we must be vigilant right now.”

“And Mr. O’Riley would never have allowed such carelessness.” Miles put down the basket he carried, and reached out to briefly squeeze her hand. “Stay here, Sarah, and I will go and see what is happening.”

“No!” Sarah said. Her cowardly side urged her with all its might to stay where she was, but she knew she could not. “It is my sister, my home. I will come with you.”

“I would rather you did not, my dear. There might be—something there that you would not want to see.”

Sarah swallowed hard, a sudden horrifying vision flashing in her mind of Mary Ann’s lifeless body.

She pushed it away. Surely she would feel it in her heart if her sister was dead. But she could be hurt, she could need her. “I want to go. I will not get in your way, I promise, but I must—must know.”

Miles studied her closely for a long moment before he nodded. “Very well. I have learned enough of you to know that I cannot stop you, Sarah. But stay close to me.”

“I will.”

From the basket he took a sharp obsidian object, probably once used to grind grain, but now might have to serve a more sinister purpose, and walked toward the house. Sarah followed closely, her gaze scanning the windows for any sign of movement. She saw nothing at all.

And heard nothing when they stepped into the tiny foyer. The house was so silent it echoed. One of the doors opening off the foyer, the one to the dining room, was closed, but the drawing room door was ajar.

Holding his chunk of obsidian like a dagger in his hand, Miles nudged the door open farther with the toe of his boot.

“Blast!” he cursed.

“What?” Sarah crowded in next to him, and gasped.

Her drawing room was in a shambles. A tea tray sat on the low table, its silver pot overturned and spilling amber-colored liquid onto the sandwiches and cakes. A chair lay on its side, as if kicked there, and the box of Viking blades was askew. The three kittens huddled in little black-and-white fur balls beneath the settee, one of them licking its left paw in frantic, obsessive motions.

Worst of all, a smear of drying blood stained one of the walls.

Sarah pressed her hand to her mouth, and pushed past Miles into the room. The basket Mary Ann had taken from the village was on the floor, but there were no other signs of her sister. Unless the blood was hers.

Sarah sat down hard on the carpet, momentarily overwhelmed by that terrible possibility. The room spun about her dizzily.

One of the kittens clambered onto her lap, and when she reached down absently to touch it, she saw that there was some blood there, tiny specks of dried-red crust on its white paw.

“What could have happened here?” she whispered.

Miles stared at the overturned chair. “What ever it is, I think it’s safe to say they are all gone now. But where is your sister and Mr. O’Riley?”

They stared at each other in silence for a long moment, a moment broken only when they heard footsteps and rustling in the foyer. Miles lifted up his obsidian.

“Oh, my lady, the rain is starting to come down ever so hard!” Rose said, stepping into the drawing room doorway. She shook off her damp cloak while balancing a white box in her other hand. “You will be wanting—” She broke off with a puzzled look when she saw Sarah sitting on the floor. “My lady, whyever are you there on the floor?”

Then she saw Miles with his “weapon,” and screamed. The box fell from her hand, breaking open to spill cream cakes all over the carpet. The kittens sprang on them.

“Rose!” Sarah scrambled to her feet and caught the maid before she could swoon. “Rose, it is only Lord Ransome. It is quite all right.”

“Lord Ransome?” Rose murmured, daring to peek over at him. “But why does he have that rock thing?” Her eyes widened as she took in the full extent of the wreck of the drawing room. “And what has happened here?”

“Now, Rose, I do not want you to swoon, but I fear someone has broken in here. And Mary Ann is gone.” Sarah found that having to keep someone else steady helped to calm her own nerves. She felt an icy clarity clear her mind, leaving only one thought—to find her sister.

“Miss Mary Ann gone! But how could that be?” Rose covered her eyes with her hands. “I left her here not an hour ago. Miss Mary Ann was not here yet, but Mrs. Hamilton said she would wait for her.”

Sarah was puzzled. “Mrs. Hamilton?”

“Yes, my lady. She called here to see Miss Mary Ann. She sent me into the village to fetch some cream cakes for tea.” Rose let out a wail. “While I was fetching cakes, someone stole my lamb! My poor Miss Mary Ann. And Mrs. Hamilton, too.”

Sarah exchanged a look with Miles. She remembered the last time she had seen Mrs. Hamilton, remembered how ill and frantic the woman had looked. She had thought it was because of a quarrel with her husband, but could it have been something more? An insane jealousy, perhaps, festering in her heart?

It was almost impossible to imagine Mrs. Hamilton, with her ruffles and her giggles, as an insane criminal. But Sarah knew it could be possible; anything was possible.

She saw that Miles was probably thinking the same thing. He slowly shook his head. “Mrs. Hamilton?”

“It
could
be,” Sarah said.

“But where is her husband? He was not at the site today; he could be a part of this, whatever it is.” Miles slapped his hand against the wall, causing Rose and the kittens to jump. “And, blast it, where is Mr. O’Riley? He was meant to be looking after the girl!”

“I—I saw Mr. O’Riley,” Rose dared to peep. “When I was walking back here with the cakes, I saw him going toward Ransome Hall. He said he had left Miss Mary Ann here in the company of the Hamiltons, but he would be back later.”

“I suppose he did not wish to encounter the Hamiltons’ rudeness again,” Miles muttered. “The fool. We were all fools.”

And she was the greatest one of all, Sarah thought, to have left her sister alone for even a moment. “Where could they have gone?”

Miles frowned. “The inn where the Hamiltons are staying?”

Sarah shook her head. “Far too public. Whatever Mrs. Hamilton is planning, I am sure she does not want witnesses.”

She and Miles looked at each other, and said at the same time, “The village.”

“Of course,” said Miles. “That is it.”

Sarah turned to the sobbing maid. “Rose, I know it is terrible to ask you to go back out into the rain, but could you go to Ransome Hall? Find Mr. O’Riley, tell him what has happened, and that he should meet us at the Viking village. And then see if Mr. Hamilton is at the inn.”

“Yes, my lady.” Rose wiped at her eyes with her sleeve. “I will do anything that could help Miss Mary Ann!”

After the maid dashed off, Sarah closed her own eyes tightly, and pressed her hand to her belly to quell the sour panic lodged there.

She felt Miles’s warm hand on her shoulder. She covered it with her hand, holding on to it tightly.

“We will find her,” he said quietly. “And she will be safe.”

“Yes,” Sarah answered. “Oh, yes. She must be.” She tried to press her rising panic back down, but it would not be quashed. It still choked her, hard and cold and immutable.

Mary Ann huddled in the corner of the stable where the artifacts had once been stored, and pulled her cloak tighter about her shaking shoulders. The rain could not get into the stable, but she heard it pattering on the roof, felt the chill breeze that seeped through cracks in the boards. Thunder clapped overhead.

Her shivering did not come from these things, though. It came from the fear churning deep inside of her.

Across from her, Mrs. Hamilton sat on one of the low wooden stools, her skirts spread about her prettily, as if she was at a tea party in someone’s drawing room. She hummed a soft little tune beneath her breath, and occasionally gave Mary Ann a little smile, or waved her knife about like a fan.

Mary Ann watched her warily. She understood social ambitions; her mother had followed them all of Mary Ann’s life, pulling her children from one town to another. And she had always seen that same ambition in Mrs. Hamilton. But she could not understand the depths of desperation it must take for someone to threaten another person in order to achieve their ends. There had to be something more than a need for society at work in Mrs. Hamilton’s disordered mind.

Mary Ann prayed that her sister would find her—and soon.

“There is a light in the stable,” Sarah said, crowding close to Miles. The storm had gathered momentum during their short journey to the village site, and she had to almost shout at him to be heard over the thunder. Her cloak was soaked with rain, hanging about her in sodden folds, and she could hardly see through the thick mist of the shower. She brushed at her eyes with the back of her hand, and could not tell if she brushed away rain or tears. “Is it them?”

Miles stared at the wooden structure with a grim expression on his face. “It must be. Who else would be out here in such weather?”

Sarah took a rushing step. He grabbed her arm, pulling her back. “My sister is in danger!” she cried, trying to draw away.

“And you will do her no good if you put
yourself
in danger, as well!” He wrapped his arms around her waist, holding her close as she trembled from the anger and the fear.

“She is my baby sister,” Sarah sobbed, falling back against him. “She trusts me to protect her.”

“I know,” he said. “Yet she would not want you to be hurt. We can only do her good if we wait for O’Riley and Hamilton. We are obviously facing a madwoman, and we must be cautious. Everything seems quiet there for now.”

Sarah stared out at the stable. Aside from the faint ray of light that flickered between the chinks in the wood, it
was
quiet. Too quiet?

“You do not think that is because—”

“No!” Miles’s clasp tightened. “No, my dear.”

“But she killed that farmer, did she not?”

He was silent for a long moment, so long that Sarah thought he was not going to reply. Then she felt his nod against her head. “Very probably.”

She could do the same to Mary Ann, then, Sarah thought. Her very soul grew numb at the unthinkable thought. Her hands reached for Miles’s arm, and clung with fierce tenacity.

They stood in silent watchfulness for what seemed like a day, but what was truly only moments, when Mr. O’Riley and Mr. Hamilton rode up together. Obviously, they must have met on the road, and Mr. O’Riley had apprised Mr. Hamilton of all that had happened. He looked pale and frantic, completely unmindful of the rain that poured down on his bare head.

Sarah could not help but pity him as she looked into his shocked and opaque eyes, but concern for her sister still flowed hot in her veins. She pulled away from Miles and ran up to Mr. Hamilton, catching him as he dismounted from his horse.

“Your wife is a madwoman!” she cried. “She has seized Mary Ann, and may do her a grave harm.”

“Lady Iverson.” He stared down at her, yet did not seem to truly see her at all. “How could this be? Emmeline snatching Miss Bellweather away from her home? Mr. O’Riley said as much, but it cannot be.”

Miles came up beside Sarah, taking her arm. “I fear it
is
true. It is obvious that your wife is not well.”

“I knew that she was—unhappy,” Mr. Hamilton went on, in that same distracted voice. It was as if he, like Sarah, felt himself caught in some terrible dreamworld he could not escape. “But I do not understand why she would do something like this.”

“You must go and speak with her,” Miles said, in a firm, brook-no-nonsense tone that Sarah thought must have worked wonders on soldiers in Spain. “You are the one who is most likely to be able to get through to her.”

Mr. Hamilton’s jaw tightened, and he turned toward the stable. His coat flared open, and Sarah saw the pistol tucked there. She almost cried out, envisioning a stray ball catching her sister.

“For God’s sake, be gentle, man,” Mr. O’Riley said, his brogue thick. “If you go rushing in there, your wife is liable to do anything to Miss Bellweather. It is you she is angry with—don’t make her even more angry.”

Mr. Hamilton turned to look at him in astonishment. “She is angry with
me
? How would
you
know that?”

“Who else could it be?” Mr. O’Riley answered reasonably. “It obviously can’t be Miss Bellweather herself. What could an innocent girl do to inspire such insanity? You must have treated your wife very poorly indeed.”

Mr. Hamilton’s face turned plum red, and he took a step toward Mr. O’Riley. “I don’t need some Irishman telling me how to treat my wife—”

“Enough!” Miles shouted. “This is no time for petty quarrels. Miss Bellweather is in danger. Mr. Hamilton, go and speak to your wife, and, as Mr. O’Riley said, go gently. We will wait outside for a sign from you before we come in.”

Mr. Hamilton seemed to deflate at this reminder of what was truly happening around them. His shoulders slumped, and he nodded. “Of course. Yes.” He took one hesitant step, then another, more resolute.

They watched him until he reached the barn door, barely visible in the driving rain. He glanced back at them before slipping inside.

Sarah pressed her hand to her pounding heart, certain it must be beating louder than the thunder.

“It is my fault,” Mr. O’Riley said. “I never should have let Miss Bellweather go into the house alone, just because I was too cowardly to speak to the Hamiltons again. I should have stayed with her every moment.”