The Thirteenth Earl (10 page)

He fumbled for her hand. He could hear her shallow breathing, too fast, panicked. The key clicked into position, and the lock opened.

“I told you,” Spencer’s voice boomed. “They would not be so
idiotic
, Eliza. I am sure Thaxton and Miss Seton have gone to bed.”

Thaxton could tell that Spencer knew they were there. His tone bore both smile and reprimand.

Eliza’s heels clicked across the room; he could hear her run a hand over the drapery. “I highly doubt that. But they are not here.”

“Then they are clever enough to evade us—leave them alone.”

“Percival,” Eliza said, perilously close to the dumbwaiter, “I have half a mind to think you are encouraging them.”

“I am not encouraging her—Thaxton is notoriously hard to deal with; he is not a good catch. But him, yes. Miss Seton is quite literally the best he could do for himself.”

The temperature in the dumbwaiter had risen with the door closed. It would not have bothered Thaxton under normal circumstances, but Cassandra’s hand softened under his, and she smelled enchanting. The space might have fit one person, but with two it was cramped. Yet being this close to Cassandra was in no way uncomfortable. When he warned her that he was going to kiss her again, he hadn’t meant for it to be so soon. He had wanted to drag it out, make her wonder, make her a bit crazy.

But he was doing it nonetheless, quite before he could stop himself.

She gasped when his mouth found hers in the darkness, a little sound that dissolved into him and fueled his ardor. He caressed her cheek, but he could not see it. She tensed for a moment, her fingers sliding under the lapel of his jacket. The way her lips moved, he could tell she wanted to speak. He kissed her nose, her temple, her eyes. Eliza was speaking, farther away from them.

“I cannot argue with that. Either way, we must get back to the ball before we are missed. I imagine the dowager countess . . .”

Her voice receded, and the door clicked shut. Thaxton had his nose pressed on Cassandra’s cheek, unmoving.

“They were talking about us,” he said.

“And no wonder, Jonathan. Are you going to move?”

He shook his head against her face.

“No.”

Unbelievable. Thaxton’s nose nuzzled her once more before he pulled her closer to him, continuing the kiss. His arm belted her waist; his other hand braced against the floor behind her. These kisses had no urgency; his pace spoke of time to explore without fear of discovery. They wandered down her neck, perilously close to her décolletage. She inhaled, her chest rising, and arched into him. Her hand found the back of his head, fingers weaving into the freshly shorn hair.

Her gown billowed out behind him, seeming to engulf him in taffeta. Her eyes could not adjust to the enclosed space, so she could not anticipate where he would touch her next. He pulled her closer, returning to her mouth. He traced her lips with the tip of his tongue.

“Oh,” she heard a voice say. Hers? Yes, hers.

“Mmm.” And that was Thaxton’s.

First his tongue, then his teeth, grazing her bottom lip, turning the kiss from something conventional to something wild. Her hands nudged under his jacket, tracing his waistcoat, feeling his chest underneath. He made a noise, a growl of assent, and deepened the kiss again, coaxing her tongue out.

Then he broke the embrace abruptly. His hand rested on her breast, but it had stopped moving. Until that moment, she had not realized just how far they had gone over acceptable lines. Her flesh felt somehow lighter in his hand, and her nipple had gone harder than it did on very cold days.

“Jonathan?” she asked into the darkness. “Is something wrong?”

As soon as she voiced it, Cassandra realized that something was very wrong. In the course of their embrace, they had wedged into the corner of the dumbwaiter. He had virtually crawled on top of her. She was pinned, unable to move the wall of Thaxton.

“Yes. No,” he said. She felt him shake his head, and his hand dropped to her lap. “I am not sure.” He rested his chin on her shoulder and inhaled slowly. “Do you smell that?”

“My perfume?” she said, not sure if she should be offended. From his tone, it sounded as if he didn’t like what was in his nostrils. “Me?”

“No, darling. Not you. I know what you smell like—I would never mistake it.” He shifted, turning her around so they were both facing the wall. “That—does not smell like you. It smells cloying and sickly sweet. It is not you, it is not me, so . . .”

“Someone was in here,” she said, catching the scent. “Recently.” Her hand searched in the darkness until she hit on something—a scrap of fabric, smelling strongly of whatever perfumes the wearer had doused herself in. It had been caught on a protruding nail; it was a lucky thing that neither of them had hurt themselves.

“Scientific enough for you?” he teased, placing one more kiss on her neck before sliding over to the door. He opened the elevator slowly, the luminosity of the candles expanding into the darkness. The light felt raw.

“Come now,” he said, scooting out and offering his hand to her. “It is a bit . . . overheated in there.”

She landed in his arms, both of them covered in a thin layer of dust. His hair was slightly frosted over with it. Cassandra fought the urge to make him define what had just happened, what the devil was going on between them.

“Signs point to an accomplice,” she said instead. “Though we have no conclusive proof.”

“I am having trouble thinking,” he answered, running a hand through her hair, his fingers brushing her scalp. The way he looked at her, eyes squinted and intense, made her feel vastly uneasy.

She wanted to say,
Why are you acting like this? What are we doing? What does this mean?

Instead she said, “We can theorize that someone was in the dumbwaiter. It merits further investigation.”

“Oh, indeed,” he said, arching a brow. His hands were on her waist, both familiar and encroaching at the same time. “Exhaustive reconnaissance. Proper spying.”

“The music has stopped,” she said, bereft of any wit.

“The ball is probably over,” he said. “We can sneak back to our rooms soon. But not quite yet.”

Inconvenient, because she had the mighty urge to flee. He had not released her, though it was far past time to do so. She shifted, and he tightened his arms.

“Stop that,” he said.

“What?”

“Do not feel badly about that kiss.”

Every reply to that statement created something she could not voice. She was seized with a terror that he would kiss her again—and they could not go on like that. It would be too easy for her to fall for him . . . he made her sensibilities take leave entirely. What had started out as a harmless flirtation had become a dodgy tryst.

“All right, then,” he said. He let go of her, seeming to sense the change in her demeanor. He sank into one of the chairs, lounging indolently. “Since this is your investigation, what is the next step?”

“Oh. I had not thought of it.”

“I think we need to inspect Lucy’s chambers. See if there is any evidence of foul play.”

“One might think you are beginning to disbelieve her powers.” She smiled.

“It does not matter, Cassandra,” he said, “but it is diverting for now. Even if Lucy is a complete put-on, my family is cursed, and I am”—he gestured theatrically in the candlelight, mocking himself—“the ill-fated thirteenth earl.”

“Hogwash.”

He folded his hands and straightened his back, turned a bit steely. His lips, previously so mobile in their kiss, drew into a grim line.

“As you say. It is a simple fact of my life, no matter what you believe.”

“It is not a fact, my lord, it is an assumption. Now, you said we should search Lucy’s room.” Cassandra tapped her foot, thinking. She needed to keep Thaxton on track or he would grow maudlin—she was beginning to get the ebb and tide of his moods. If one could engage him, he would not slip back into the wild fantasies of the nightmare his father had imposed on him.

“I imagine we will need a key,” he said.

“I know where Eliza keeps the master key for the guest chambers.”

“Stealing. You minx.”

“Borrowing. I will beg sickness at dinner tomorrow,” she said, the plan solidifying in her head, “and you will make sure that Lucy stays entertained.”

“I cannot promise entertainment, but I can find some way to hold her attention. Even if it means annoying her to her very last nerve.”

“Good. Stall as long as you can.”

“And you will rifle through her drawers?”

“I suppose. Do you have a better idea?”

“Sod the whole thing and kiss me again?”

“Jonathan, honestly.”

Her attempt at exasperation was no match for his charm, creating a space devoid of words. It pulsed until he spoke again.

“You should go,” he said, consulting his pocket watch with an exaggerated casualness. “Now that we have a plan for tomorrow, you should be safe in your room in case that rat Miles sniffs around to say good night.”

“Heaven forfend.”

“I shudder to think of it.” He stood, kissing her cheek as if it were merely chaste affection. “Send word tomorrow after you complete the mission. Good night, Miss Seton.”

She managed a curtsy that felt strange once she did it, mumbled a good-bye, and made haste from the room. She did not let out a breath until she began to ascend the stairs. She was having second thoughts about having engaged in this game at all (third, fourth, fifth thoughts, were she honest). Thaxton was a man who needed plenty of help, but she was not the one to give it to him. She could not make it a cause to fix his life. As it stood, she was already nearly half in love with him.

One of the maids must have lit the hearth in her room; it glowed cozy and orange. No sign of Miles. A note from Eliza lay on the desk:

I stopped to see if you were feeling better. I was here at 11. Curious that you were not.

—E.

Cassandra was going to have a lot of explaining to do the next day. It was time to tell Eliza that—tell her what, exactly? That Thaxton had kissed her, repeatedly, many different places, that he had rumpled her gown and absolutely destroyed her coif? That he was not forthcoming about his intentions, that he seemed comfortable letting this situation progress unhindered? That he claimed he could never marry but acted as if he was pursuing her?

She flopped onto the bed, engulfed in pillows, and her corset tugged at her ribs. It was far too late to wake anyone for help, so she was going to have to undress herself, not a savory prospect. A half hour of bending, tilting, and shimmying later, she was wrested from the architecture of the dress. Her nightgown had never felt so freeing, and she had never felt so exhausted.

Fate was merciful, and she slept through the night.

Fate did not hold up, however, because Lady Dorset requested her presence early in the morning. Cassandra waited in the little sitting room of her stepmother’s suite, fidgeting. She could only guess at what the marchioness might have to say, but it was certainly nothing good. All she could think about was Thaxton and their plan.

She stood when the door opened, held for Lady Dorset.

“Good morning, Cassandra. I trust sleep has knocked the silly notions out of your head.”

“Respectfully, my lady, I have done nothing wrong.”

Her stepmother’s chin rose. “Excusing yourself after dinner last night, after that wicked waltz. Hardly befitting a lady of your stature or complimentary to dear Mr. Markwick.”

“I do not want to marry Miles.”

It was out before she could stop it, but there it was.

“You know your marriage contract was signed well before I became marchioness. Your father needs those coalfields. And he was wise to arrange it—your unmarried life is carried by the money he made. Cassandra, I shall be straightforward. I merely want you out of my way.”

“Miles does not want to marry me either,” Cassandra said, wishing it wasn’t a plea. “He only needs my dowry to save his estate, since the loss of those same coalfields bankrupted his family. If they would have kept them, I would not be in this position.”

“It is useless for you to wish things had been different. However, if you continue to consort with Thaxton, I will not hesitate to write to your father.”

“Lady Dorset, please. I promise I will concentrate on Miles. Just do not write to my father—please let me sort this out myself.”

Lady Dorset studied her for a long moment, with no indication of what she was thinking and not a trace of sympathy to her cause.

“I would rather not leave,” she said finally. “I am enjoying the company, and this Lucy Macallister is a most interesting addition to the party. But understand that if you step another toe out of line, I will not even write Lord Dorset. I will intervene and take both you and Miles back to our estate.”

“I understand,” Cassandra said, grateful, allowing it to show in her voice. “My thanks to you.”

“Go,” Lady Dorset snapped.

Cassandra dropped a rushed curtsy and fled.

Chapter Six

“Things have gone too far,” Thaxton told Spencer, having convinced him that an afternoon of solitude in the library would be just the thing. It had not taken much persuading: Spencer’s pride and joy, the billiards table, also resided in the library.

“I suspected as much,” he said, crouching to line up a shot, his eye following the trajectory.

The whole thing called for a glass of scotch, a very hard-earned single drink. Thaxton leaned on his cue like a walking stick, his other hand on the glass. He was eating more regularly, and his veins did not feel like they were drying up, absorbing the alcohol and withering. He had become off-balance, he was realizing. What he had been doing to himself had made everything worse.

It was his turn, and there was not a shot on the table. He looked it over; he had nothing, no options. Like every day of his life, spread out before him.

“All infernal angles.” Spencer shook his head. “Sorry, chap.”

Thaxton hit the cue ball, not aiming.

“She cannot marry him,” he said, without qualifying the pronouns.

“She can,” Spencer said, picking up the shot that Thaxton had unwittingly set up for him. “She could, I mean.”

“It would be a tragedy. A waste. There must be someone else. What do you know of Amberson? Baronet, pleasant enough? If not him, there must be a stray American businessman around here.”

“Your solution is to play matchmaker? Why not marry her yourself? Ah, but I forgot your obsession with superstitious drivel.” Spencer gestured with his billiard stick. “Take your shot.”

There was one this time—an easy line into a side pocket. The click of the billiard balls, the heavy thud into the pocket, the smooth baize of the table: it was all somewhat reassuring. Physics worked, gravity prevailed. Miss Seton’s existence changed things, but the world still worked according to natural law.

Thaxton lost two games to Spencer before they parted to change for dinner. He did not feel bad about the defeat; he was far too unfocused for that. He was mainly ruminating on the institution of marriage, something that he had not given much thought to before. He could see the advantages. Spencer’s own relationship was a model of an equal match. He and the countess supported each other and seemed to make the other better.

Thaxton had never considered himself anything but alone.

Solo,
unus
, solitary, however you wanted to phrase it, he thought as he dressed. He was an island. Or a dead end. He would not be continuing his family line, so no wife was required or expected of him. His father had put it thusly: “Do not bother falling in love, my son.”

Sound advice.

By the time Thaxton reached the parlor outside the dining room, it was full to bursting. He scanned the room for Miles and Lucy—in a corner—but he did not approach them immediately. He watched them for a while, engaged in conversation. They did not seem to be affected by Cassandra’s absence, though he was sure that Miles had been told of her “illness.” He did not look like a man concerned about his fiancée’s well-being. Thaxton felt a surge of envy mixed with resentment; had he been in Markwick’s position, he would have been at Cassandra’s bedside, not hovering over some other woman.

The dinner procession began. Miles and Lucy lined up behind him, which was inconvenient for the moment, as far as keeping an eye on them. But it meant that they would be directly across the table, so he could dominate Lucy’s attention with ceaseless questions about her work in Spiritualism.

Spencer and Eliza sat at the head of the table, forced by decorum and the dowager to bow to tradition. Thaxton should be attending them as well, but Spencer had been kind enough to honor his request for seating near Miles. He had not even asked for an explanation.

“Good evening, Thaxton,” Miles said as he sat down, the words forced from between his thin little lips. And his small teeth, Thaxton noted, his terribly small weasel teeth. It was not the first time he fantasized about knocking them out of his cousin’s face.

“And to you, Markwick. Where is your lovely fiancée?”

The question earned a glare.

“Cassandra is ill, unfortunately. She sends her regrets. We spent the afternoon together . . . she seems pale.” Miles’s smile curled in mockery. “If she does not recover soon, I think it best for me to take her back home to prepare for our wedding.”

Thaxton had a few answers spring to mind, first and foremost being
She doesn’t love you
. But Miles did not seem to care that this was the case; he seemed indifferent to Cassandra, which made Thaxton angrier. He opted not to answer at all, but to imagine grabbing the villain by the lapels and shaking him until his meager brain fell out of his skull.

“Have you set a date?” Lucy asked, with a forced nonchalance that gave her away.

“Three weeks from tomorrow,” Miles said with exactly the same passion one would give to a doctor’s visit. “Her parents have sent word that everything is well begun.”

Thaxton recognized his own expression in Lucy’s face. They both could not hide their revulsion at the thought of this union, the utter disbelief that the participants were going forward as planned. As if something were truly, deeply wrong with a universe in which this could happen. He felt a twinge of camaraderie, a decidedly atypical feeling to have about a woman who had told him to die.

“Miss Mac—pardon, Lucy,” he said, “what will you do after your holiday at Spencer House? Will you go back to Scotland?”

She appeared startled that he was being nice to her.

“I came here initially by invite of the London Spiritualist Society. You may have heard of them—the group has become popular among wealthy ladies, though I think they look upon us as a novelty. The aim of the society is to demonstrate and teach the healing power of Spiritualist practice.”

Thaxton held in his contempt. Healing? From what he had seen of Lucy’s mediumship, it did not convey healthfulness. The séance had made him feel more divided, farther away from the rest of his fellow humans. With the possible exception of Miss Seton.

He noticed Lucy frown slightly at his prolonged silence. Time for a pleasantry.

“How nice,” Thaxton said.

“It is,” Lucy said, smiling. “They have asked me to consider staying permanently.” Her eyes flicked to Miles. “I have not made a decision yet.”

“London has its advantages,” Thaxton said. As long as Lucy kept talking, there was no chance she was anywhere near her room. If he needed to spout nonsense to buy Cassandra time, he would. “But I imagine Scotland does as well. I have never been there myself. Your whole family is there, yes?”

“Oh, aye,” she said. “Miles can tell you. He spent a good deal of time with my father, learning to manage a small estate.”

“Really now?” Thaxton’s gaze drifted to Miles. “How industrious of you, Markwick. I thought you said you could not find an occupation.” Lady Beatrice, who was seated at their table, perked up. Thaxton realized there must have been an arch in his voice, the whiff of gossip, if it interested that lady.

“Not a proper one. But now that I have inherited my father’s estate—my future wife and I—it would behoove me to be prepared for that, Thaxton. The old manor needs significant repairs.”

“And, of course, Cassandra’s dowry will more than support the financial stability of such an endeavor.”
Good lord,
Thaxton thought as soon as he closed his mouth,
I sound angry.

“I would appreciate it if you did not refer to my fiancée in such a familiar manner,” Miles said evenly. “I am sure she did not give you permission to do so.”

Lucy laughed lightly. It looked as if she had prodded Miles in the ribs, but it was not a big enough movement for the table to notice.

“You English. So stuffy.”

As the first course was served, everyone’s attention turned to the ritual of eating. Soft murmurs surrounded them. Thaxton willed the minutes by, hoping Cassandra wasn’t dawdling.

Lady Beatrice Valentine talked about a great many things; she could always be counted on when no one else felt like talking. Lucy was trapped, as she would never dare leave when a lady was holding forth, so Thaxton’s job of distraction became easy. He watched the scene and felt mild annoyance at the way Miles chewed.

How long, conceivably, could it take to inspect a bedroom? Thaxton could hear his heart pounding with the endless ticking of the clock. The last plates were being cleared and people were adjourning either to the parlor or to chambers. The whole process had taken more than two hours, and Lucy was back to chatting with Miles before they parted ways.

Thaxton excused himself to Spencer and did not join the men for drinks. He got away with a fleeting look of wariness from the earl. Thaxton had an inkling he was going to be confronted about his intentions toward Miss Seton soon, and he had no idea what he would say. He did not even have an idea what the rest of the evening held.

He found his answer when he got to his room and found a note, unsigned, waiting on his desk.

Need to talk. Labyrinth L, R, R, L, L.

How to conduct an illicit search of a rival’s room was not something taught to young girls at Cheltenham Ladies’ College, so Cassandra had devised her own plan. She retrieved the master key from its case in the head butler’s room, after having him called to the ballroom on a wild-goose chase for a lady’s bonnet that did not exist. She crept up the stairs with the key in a secret pocket she had sewn into her skirt. Cheltenham had provided a few fortunate skills, at least.

Dinnertime meant that the hallways of the guests’ bedrooms were deserted. Lucy’s room sat at the end of the hall on the third floor, she having been a late addition with no rank to speak of. She was in a small wing with the only other rooms around her being storage space. Though all was quiet, Cassandra’s heart hammered as she turned the key. A little click and the door creaked open.

Lucy’s small hearth burned low, which meant that eventually someone would be along to check it, so time was limited. The room did not look too much different from the other guest rooms, but the woman’s occupation filled it with a unique air. Lucy’s séance kimono lay draped on the reading chair, managing to look more elegant and mysterious than any of Cassandra’s gowns.

A stack of pamphlets lay on the bedside table. She rifled through them carefully:
The Spiritualist
,
The Medium and Daybreak
,
A Treatise on Manifestations of Ectoplasmic Material in Controlled Séance Settings
. So, she was serious, then, at least about her studies. Spiritualism was not something she was playing at.

The vanity’s surface teemed with little tubes and pots that Cassandra did not recognize. She opened one—rouge or lip stain. Darker than the second marchioness would have ever allowed. She had the distinct urge to try it on, but there was no time for dress up.

She opened a drawer, feeling invasive. Surely this was not right, but after the events of the past few days, she did not see any way of learning more about the medium. The breakfast talk had been full of platitudes and designed to entertain the ladies, but it told Cassandra nothing of Lucy’s real feelings. If only she could have a plain conversation with Lucy, to find some common ground and settle the matter of Miles. Cassandra did not want him, and she was the reason Lucy and he could not pursue their obvious interest.

The drawer held a riot of stockings and undergarments: Lucy Macallister was not a neat woman. Nothing was folded, though some of the stockings stayed rolled into little balls. Cassandra gingerly began searching; she wanted to make sure it was not obvious that anything had been disturbed. There was a small box, wooden and thick, carved with the moon and stars. She fumbled around on the side of the heavy box, finding an expensive silver latch that easily popped open. Inside, lying on the golden silk lining, was a pack of elaborately drawn cards, esoteric. The Magician, a wizened man atop a globe, holding aloft a scepter that gleamed to the borders of the card. A knight with swords sticking in the ground around him, as if they hemmed him in, The Five of Swords. Temperance, an angel with feminine features, head down as in contemplation. They looked like they might be used for divination. Cassandra lost about five minutes before she remembered she was supposed to be investigating, not entranced by art.

She put the packet back where it had been.

Next to it, her fingers hit upon something hard. She slowly pulled the obstacle out—a pair of leather straps with small wooden blocks attached to each. The contraptions had buckles and looked as if they had been made out of whatever was at hand, not purchased. Experimentally, Cassandra knocked the blocks together. Voilà, rapping ghost.

Fraud.

Later, she wished she had stopped there. But she just had to open the lid of the jewelry box. She had to see what Lucy Macallister considered precious.