Seduction & Scandal (12 page)

“What is in Miss Fairmont's past that makes her so jittery, then?”

The duke's question pulled Black out of his reverie and the memories of that night, the sound of the waves crashing violently against the shore and the rocks. The howl of the wind, and the stinging of the sea mist on his face. The frigid waters surrounding him.

“She is not a fan of the dark,” he answered, “or the speculative nonsense our Miss Fox was so successful at conjuring up.”

“You certainly timed your entrance perfectly. How did you know where to find her? I myself just happened
upon them leaving Stonebrook, with nothing but Lucy's maid for a chaperone, if you can believe it. Reckless, silly girl,” Sussex snarled. “She has no bloody notion of what could happen to her.”

“So you accompanied them?”

Sussex glared at him, his gray eyes the most turbulent he had ever seen them. “Of course. What would you have me do? Let them travel to Highgate alone? And then what? There was no telling what might have happened to them out there. They may have been robbed, or…worse.”

“No, you needed to be there. I beg your pardon, but it seems I am not myself tonight, either.”

Sussex blew out a ragged breath as he let his head fall back against the chair. He was looking up at the ceiling as he said Lucy's name aloud. “If this is what love feels like, then it's no damn wonder most rational men fear the state.” He glanced at him, his eyes troubled. “Damn me, Black, what the devil is the chit about? This is not some fashionable passing interest that Lucy is dabbling in. This…
obsession
with the dead and conjuring spirits is damn unsettling. I can't fathom why it has attracted her so.”

“Why don't you have a look at this.”

Leaning forward, Black pressed a folded news clipping into his hand. “What's this?”

Sipping his whiskey, Black gazed into the fire. “Something of interest, I believe.”

He waited in the silence as Sussex read the clipping. It was eight months old, and he'd found it hidden away beneath Lucy Ashton's mattress.

“A man found dead in a burned-out house in Bloomsbury. What of it?”

“This was hidden inside the paper.”

Fishing in his pocket, Black handed him a gold coin, an identical one to the coin that Sussex had found in Lucy's
reticule—not to mention a calling card, with the image of the House of Orpheus embossed on it. Sussex sucked in a breath, and at last met Black's gaze. “Miss Fairmont?”

Black shook his head, suddenly unable to look at the man who had been his friend for years. “Miss Ashton.”

“Like hell,” Sussex snarled. He jumped up, his glass tumbling to the carpet, the golden liquid spilling onto the hardwood floor. “You bastard! You were nosing about Lucy's room.”

“And Isabella's,” he drawled. “And if you must know, I find myself feeling quite dirty for it, but there it is. Isabella dozed off on the chaise longue and I set about searching the house, not only because you had showed me the coin that was in Lucy's reticule, but because I received this during dinner.”

Snatching the missive out of his hand, Sussex noted the familiar seal, the same image that was imprinted on the coin and the calling card. After he read the letter, he slunk back into his chair.

“Damn it, what has she gotten herself into?”

“I don't know, but I'd wager the reason she keeps trying to summon the dead at séances is because that dead man had a connection to her. A rather personal one, I believe.”

Sussex's face went molten, and in a most uncharacteristic moment of utter loss of control, picked up the glass and threw it against the mantel, smashing the delicate pieces into tiny diamonds that littered the floor.

“Goddamn it!” he swore, and Black held his tongue, letting the unsettling information sink in. If it had been in Isabella's room, Black couldn't fathom what he'd do.

“She loved him—must still love him,” Sussex muttered as he wiped his hands over his face. “That is why she is so damn reckless. So damn persistent in going to séances. She actually believes she might conjure his ghost!”

Sussex's question needed no answer. They both knew why Lucy was suddenly so ardently pursuing the supernatural.

“And that's why she can't see me,” Sussex murmured. “Christ, I'm competing with a ghost.”

What could he say? There were no words to comfort his friend. The woman he loved did not love him—she loved another.

Sussex paced a path before the hearth. He was lost in the turmoil of Black's discovery and Black said nothing, only watched as the wheels of Sussex's mind turned. Finally he stopped and leveled him with a clear stare.

“And what has this dead man to do with the House of Orpheus? What does he or Lucy have to do with this letter that was sent to you? Is there any correlation to the Templar artifacts?” he asked, one question after another falling out of his mouth, as Sussex tried to make sense of it all.

“I don't know. But one thing vexes me, however, and that is the purpose of the letter. If their intent was to harm either Isabella or Lucy, then why give me notice? Surely they would know I would follow, if nothing more than to see that they were unharmed.”

“Perhaps,” Sussex snarled, “someone has reasoned out you have developed a tendre for Miss Fairmont and therefore hoped that you would set out for Highgate and wring her neck for being so damn reckless, and thereby save them the trouble of doing her in themselves.”

“You've thought this through, Sussex. May I ask if you've thought of wringing lovely Lucy's neck?”

“All damn night and now more than ever after discovering this clipping. Where did you find it by the way?”

“Under the mattress.”

He snorted. “Damn women, they're all the same.
The mattress.
Most predicable place to hide something.”

Shrugging, Black took another sip of his whiskey. “It saved me time, Sussex. In the end, it was all I found. There was nothing in Isabella's room, save a journal.”

“Did you read it?”

Black paused, and allowed himself a moment to formulate his answer. “Yes,” he lied. “There was nothing in it.”

He had found the key for the journal; it was hanging from a bracelet of jet. He'd opened the lock and stared blankly down at the pages. It was such an invasion of Isabella's privacy. It was a book with her most sacred of thoughts. Her story. He had been so tempted, so very much wanted to read it, to know her as intimately as she knew herself. What he had read that night at Stonebrook's ball was naught but a tease. He had desperately wanted more—still did. But in the end, he had shut the book, allowing her to keep her secrets.

If he thought that Isabella had anything to do with this, with the House of Orpheus, which may even be connected to the missing Templar artifacts, he would have bared her secrets. But he didn't. All evidence pointed to Lucy, and the mysterious man in the newspaper clipping.

“So it seems it's Lucy then,” Sussex murmured, and Black heard the pain in his voice. “There is no denying that she has some sort of connection to the club. At the very least she knows of it.”

“I would not have brought this to you if I thought there was another way.”

“No,” Sussex mumbled as he picked up the clipping and studied it. “You were right to. We have a task to do, and that is to find and protect the chalice and the pendant.”

“I'll be having Stonebrook, as well as Lucy and Isabella, to dine with me tomorrow. I thought you might come along, make it feel as though it was just a dinner
party. I was hoping…” He coughed discreetly. “I was hoping that perhaps you might find time to privately speak to Lucy. See what she knows.”

“Oh, I will be there, and you may be assured that I will corner the little baggage as soon as may be.” Sussex glanced up as Black rose from the chair. “You might consider inviting Wendell Knighton. My gut says that there is something with him. I know we've no evidence of it, but it's best to have him close, observe his behavior and such. As there is a lodge meeting tomorrow night, we can make the dinner appear more of a celebratory fete for his initiation. No one will be the wiser. I especially do not wish to arouse Stonebrook's suspicions. He's old, but not senile. He'll catch on if he suspects anything.”

“Agreed.” Sussex's gray eyes pierced him. “There is still the matter of the letter. It's strange, how did the writer know that Isabella would be scared witless by your entrance? All that talk of death, it scared the devil out of the poor girl.”

“I have no idea,” he murmured. “But I intend to find out.”

“How much does Isabella know of your past?”

Black's heart dropped like a stone, plummeting to his feet. “I don't know. I had hoped nothing.”

“I think that's it, Black. Either you have gotten too close to Miss Fairmont, or she has become too close to you. Either way, someone wants you separated from each other. Why? It can only be speculated upon at this point, but I think it's safe to say that someone is illuminating your past for Miss Fairmont's edification. Someone doesn't want you getting close to her.”

“Then we must find this person before he or she can ruin me in Isabella's eyes.”

“I'll begin with Lucy. I suggest you commence investigating that letter.”

“I believe I will—tonight. Hopefully Miss Fox will still be awake and eagerly expecting another specter from the grave.”

“W
AIT HERE,
I won't be long.”

Black left his coachman and carriage parked outside the massive iron gates of Highgate Cemetery and made his way across the gravel paths to where the small cottage stood amongst the barren trees. A soft light beckoned, and he realized that the lamp was on in the room where Miss Fox had created her spectacle just a few hours before.

Determined to ferret out this business of the letter, he walked toward the cottage, his boots crunching the gravel beneath his resolute footsteps. He was not in a good mood, and certainly in no mood to indulge an eccentric such as Miss Alice Fox.

Stopping, he stared up at the dilapidated cottage, deciding which was the best way to enter it. Certainly nothing as benign as a knock on the door would do. Not at this hour. No, something far more supernatural should be employed.

Trying the back window, he found it locked. Smashing it seemed beneath him, and crawling through the shattered glass with his rather large body a bit too daunting, so he made his way to the back, to the door that he had carried Isabella out of. Lifting the latch, he tried it, smiling triumphantly when the lever raised and the door squeaked opened.

He could hear voices inside, a female and a male. A laugh, followed by a cackle. Miss Fox, it seemed, was entertaining and seemed to be in rather high spirits.

Slamming the door, he waited for the response.

“Who's there?”

He did not answer, but reached for the window and rattled the glass until he heard the scraping of chairs against the hardwood.

“Damn me, Alice, it's one of your ghosts,” her male companion squeaked. “I knew it were bad to wake the dead.”

“Oh, shut up, Albert,” Alice hissed. “There's no bloody such thing as ghosts. 'Ow many times do I have t' tell ye that?”

For added effect, Black rattled the window once more and dragged the chain of his pocket watch along the glass, giving the effect that Miss Fox had found herself a visitor who came rather encumbered.

“Is that chains I hear?” Albert crowed. “God save us, Alice, nofing but criminals owr buried in chains.”

“I told you, there ain't no such thing as ghosts rising from the grave.”

Black saw Alice through the dim light. She'd taken hold of a broom and was gripping the handle tightly in her fists. Albert, a thin little scarecrow of a man, huddled behind her.

“Get the lamp,” Alice ordered, “and me pistol out the drawer.”

“Whot's a pistol going to do, the intruder's already dead?”

If Black were in a more sporting mood, he would have made a low moan and rattled his pocket watch once more, but he was done with this farce. He wanted answers and he wanted them now.

Stepping out of the shadows, he heard them both squeak as they saw him. Albert, the fool, made the sign of the cross and Alice, the more sturdy of the pair, lunged at his vitals with the broom handle.

“Mistress Fox,” he drawled as he pulled the broom
from her hands and snapped the handle in two before tossing the splintered wood aside. “We have some unfinished business.”

Albert's eyes were large as saucers. What he saw in the shadows, Black could not tell, but Albert crossed himself again and ran for the cottage door, leaving Alice all alone and quite at his mercy.

“You,” she spat through narrowed eyes as he emerged from the shadows and into the light.

“Yes, me. You didn't think you'd seen the last of me, did you?”

“Whot do you want?”

“Answers.”

Black walked into the small parlor where Alice had held her séance. On the table where the planchette had once rested was a bottle of gin and a bag of coins. On the table the coins were spread out, and a deck of cards lay in disarray.

“Your evening has been profitable I see,” he commented as he took a chair and seated himself.

“Why 'ave you come back 'ere?” she asked suspiciously.

“Nothing too terribly difficult. I merely want the truth. Who put you up to this tonight?”

“Put me up to whot? I fleece the fancy with my séances all the time. Tonight was nofing special.”

“Forgive me if I disagree. You put on a phenomenal show, so lifelike that one poor visitor was rather alarmed that you had, indeed, magically produced Death.”

She chuckled. “Those fancy ladies always are so bleedin' soft and easily discomposed.”

“You intentionally frightened my companion, Miss Fox, and I am not disposed to believe that you are that clever. Nor do I believe that you were successful in conjuring up Death.” He fixed her with a cold glare. “I want to know how you planned it, and who put you up to it.”

“I don't have to answer ye,” she snapped. She reached for her money, and Black held her by the wrist. The pressure of his gloved hand was sufficient enough to send alarm to Alice's eyes.

“You may not have to answer me, Miss Fox, but I assure you Scotland Yard might be interested in your shenanigans. Fleecing aristocrats is a felony.”

“Bah,” she grumbled. “It's not.”

“When you are very well acquainted with the chief of police, anything can be a felony. Am I making myself clear, Miss Fox?”

“Why…yer blackmailin' me.”

“Call it strenuously persuading you. It sounds so much more polite.”

“Told me you were a tricky bastard, they did. Said you would catch on if I wasna careful.”

“Did they? I'm flattered they remarked on my mental prowess.”

“Said ye were as sly and devious as the devil, they did.”

“I grow tired of this game, Miss Fox,” he growled. “Who told you?”

“The ones whot hired me to do the séance,” she replied flippantly. “I don't know the names. I didn't ask. I got paid by envelope this mornin', and that was all right by me. Names 'ave no place in me business. Only cold hard coin.”

“Let us start at the beginning, shall we?” he said, growing impatient. “Who came to you?”

“No one did. There was a note, taped ta me door there—” she pointed to the front of the cottage “—'bout three days ago, it was. I was to perform a séance for a fashionable lady and her companion. I was to make it look as though Death were come for the lady. But then, yesterday, I received another note saying a gent would be arriving, and I was to make Death 'imself appear with his arrival—I suppose you were the gent?”

He nodded and motioned for her to finish the tale.

“The lady, the note said, had to believe it was Death in the room. And that's the truth of it. I know nofing else about it.”

“Do you have the letter still?”

“I burnt them when the fashionable lady and her maid left. The deal was done and I don't make it a habit ta leave incriminatin' evidence laying about.”

“Damn it,” he thundered. Striking the table in frustration, the coins that had been lying atop the scarred wood bounced and scattered on the floor.

“'Ere now,” Alice cried, “there's no reason for that. I earned that money fair and square.” Alice dropped to her knees and began picking up the coins. Black heard her breath catch, then saw her eyes go wide as she looked up at him from the edge of the table.

“That cuff of yours,” she said as she motioned to his white shirt sleeve that had edged out from beneath his jacket. “Let me see it.”

Black glanced at his gold cuff link. “What do you want it for?”

“Let me see it.”

Placating her, he pulled the link from the buttonhole of his shirt sleeve and passed it to her.

“Yes,” she muttered as her fingers skated over the raised etching of a compass and square. “Your cuff link 'as the same symbols as the letter that was taped ta me door. I thought 'em odd, then. There's somefing rather strange about 'em.”

“The Masonic symbols, you mean?”

“Aye, and the same numbers, too, 128.”

His lodge number was 128. Every Masonic lodge had its own chapter number. Damn it, someone from within his own lodge had sent that letter, or, he thought, someone who had access to the official lodge letterhead could have written the note. Only three people did.
Lucy
…Stonebrook
was high enough up in the lodge to have official letterhead. As a third degree, or Master Mason, Stonebrook might very well keep Masonic stationery at home, in his study.

“Thank you, Miss Fox, your information has been invaluable.”

She handed him his link back and he pulled a few quid from his pocket and placed it with the other coins she had picked up. She glanced at him, her head cocked to the side.

“The letter says that Death 'as a habit of following you.”

“Did it indeed?”

“It said it wouldna be too 'ard for the young lady to believe you was Death.”

“That's preposterous, Miss Fox, because if I were Death, I would have taken your soul on the spot for causing such trauma to Miss Fairmont.”

“Yer a dark one,” she whispered as she backed away. “No one needs ta be a soothsayer ta know that.”

“That is quite enough, Miss Fox. I've had my fill of you and your caterwauling about the supernatural tonight.”

“Does the lady know ye killed yer brother, and yer own mother?”

“That is more than enough,” he snarled through clenched teeth, alarmed that this person might know of his less than stellar family history.

“I'd wager that pretty piece wouldna allowed ye to carry 'er out of 'ere like a knight in shinin' armor if she knew it was ye that drove yer fiancée to her death.”

“You've learned much about me, Miss Fox. I'm impressed. But possessing certain information can be dangerous. You do understand, don't you?”

“I understand yer a blackguard and someone who is playin' dark-and-dangerous games. No doubt that young woman will be yer next victim.”

“You will hold your tongue and keep your piece if you wish to continue with this charade of yours, Miss Fox. If I hear that you have spoken of me, or my visit here tonight, I will not hesitate to exact revenge.”

And strangely, she nodded and backed away, all the while crossing herself. He smiled, and she reached for the cross she wore around her neck.

“I wouldn't put your faith in such trinkets, Miss Fox. Death, I'm quite certain, is impervious to such things. He's heard every prayer known to man, and seen many tears. I doubt seeing your cross would prevent him from taking what is owed him. Good night, madam.”

As he strolled out of the parlor and opened the door of the cottage, he heard Alice Fox's voice, shaking with fear.

“Devil!” she hissed, and he laughed while closing the door.

Alice Fox would keep her tongue quite firmly in her mouth, with her lips shut tightly. He would make certain of that.