Wicked (26 page)

“Camille.”

“I’m here. How do you feel?”

“Stronger,” he said. He hesitated and tried to sit.

She caught his shoulders, easing him back. “You were bitten by a cobra, Alex. You must take is slowly.”

“Camille,” he said again, and it was as if the effort to speak cost him a great deal.

“I’m here.”

He shook his head. “We…we have to leave. All of us. You, me, Tristan, his man, Ralph. I…can’t stay. Can’t be here.”

“Alex, you must get better.”

He shook his head. “He’ll try to kill me again.”

“Who?”

“The Earl of Carlyle.”

His voice was so hoarse and rasping that it sent a chill through her limbs.

“Alex, Brian didn’t try to kill you. You were bitten by a cobra.”

“He…he let it loose.”

“Alex, I came to the museum with Brian. He wasn’t there before me.”

“He was there. I know that he’s been there.” His voice was weak, then he suddenly gripped her hand tightly. “Camille, that’s it, don’t you see? He blames us all. His parents died and he blames us. All of us who were there. And he intends to have us all die, as well, one by one, in ways that can’t be traced, can’t be proven—like his parents.”

“Alex, that’s madness!”

“Yes, it’s madness.”

“Alex, listen. Brian hasn’t been at the museum!”

“He’s been there. I know he’s been there. And he means to find ways for all of us to die. Because they died, and we didn’t.”

“Alex—”

“We’ve got to leave here, Camille.”

She sighed. “Alex, we can’t leave. You’re still too weak, and I was the one who insisted on bringing you here.”

“He’ll never really marry you, you know,” Alex said distractedly.

I know!
she cried inwardly.

“He has a way about him, he always did. He is the Earl of Carlyle now, of course. But people always believed him, believed in him. He is seducing you to madness, Camille. You’ve got to see this, realize it.”

“Alex! Please—” She broke off, hearing a tapping at the door. She rose and opened it.

Evelyn Prior stood there. “So, dear, you have returned.”

“Yes.”

“And are tending to Alex.”

“Yes, and I will do so myself through the night, Mrs. Prior.”

“Certainly. I can tend to him while you go to Mass tomorrow.”

“Mass?”

“Dear child, I know that you will naturally be eager to go to Mass. All those hours of confession today…I had not realized you were quite so religious. The earl, of course, is Anglican. Our beliefs are a bit different from yours.”

“With all the hours I spent in church today, Mrs. Prior, I believe God will forgive me when I don’t attend tomorrow. Alex is my friend. I will look after him.”

“Or have Tristan do so,” she said.

“It’s my responsibility,” Camille told her.

“I see. Shall I have supper sent for you here, then?”

“That would be very kind,” Camille said, and hesitated. “Has Lord Stirling returned to the castle yet?”

“I have not seen him.”

“Well, thank you.”

“Your supper will arrive shortly,” Mrs. Prior said, and giving Camille a long assessing look, she turned and left at last.

Camille went back to sit by the bed. Alex, however, had slipped into a fitful doze. She drew up one of the heavy armchairs, leaned against it. Despite the insanity of the thoughts rushing through her mind, it was only minutes before she fell asleep herself.

S
IR
J
OHN WAS EXPECTING
the knock at his door. He rubbed the knot on the back of his head, hesitated and fingered the little pistol in front of him on his drawing room desk.

The knock sounded again. Hard.

He slipped the pistol into his drawer, on top of his papers—where he could reach it easily.

“Come in,” he said, “the door is not locked.”

His visitor entered. The door closed. Minutes later, the muted sound of gunfire could have been heard on the street—had anyone been about to hear it.

S
HELBY SHOOK HIS HEAD
at Brian Stirling. He had served with the man in India, seen him under the harshest conditions, watched him cast his own life into danger before ever asking that sacrifice of another man. He had followed him to Cairo, and sat with him through the anguish, the rages and the loss. He had served him not because he had needed the work so much as because Brian Stirling had never asked a man to think less of himself as a human being based on the class he had been born into.

But at the moment, Shelby was wondering at Brian’s sanity.

“It’s an impossible task.”

“Impossible? Nothing is impossible,” Brian said.

“It’s been quite a day. I didn’t know whether to show myself or not when the culprit in the square turned out to be a police officer,” Shelby said. “Now, Lord Stirling! You’ve a real lead, a chance to discover what is going on. Can’t you rest for the night? Must we start this now?”

“Shelby, every night, someone is coming closer. The castle is riddled with doors and stairways. My father was convinced there was a tunnel, I feel the same. Yes, the expanse around the wall is monstrous. But there will be some sign that the area is disturbed.” He grinned, rubbing his
bearded chin, which was starting to give him quite a fit. “Haven’t you ever heard the story about the little squirrel in winter, Shelby?”

“Didn’t hear many stories growing up in a family of ten, Lord Stirling. My folks were working in one way or another most of the time,” Shelby said. He sighed. “You are going to tell me the story, though, eh?”

“Indeed, Shelby. When winter is coming, does a little squirrel try to take twenty acorns into his hole? No, he takes the acorns one by one. Tonight, we’ll take it from both ends. You’ll start by the gate and go each night, bit by bit, until the entire property has been circled. I’ll get rid of this wretched beard, we’ll get Corwin, and the two of you will start as soon as the moon is up. I’ll be taking it from the other end. First, however, to your apartments. If I remain as Arboc for another minute, I will be a monster indeed, clawing my own skin from my face!”

Shelby stared at Brian for a minute, then shook his head.

“What is it?” Brian asked.

“You’ve spent months looking in the crypts,” he said at last.

“Actually,” Brian said, “I’ve spent months in the office area, the old torture chamber. I’ve not been into the crypts at all yet.”

Shelby groaned softly. “You must do it at night?”

“If we’re to catch a thief and a killer, that’s when he works, Shelby.”

Shelby nodded. “Aye, then. We’ll start as you wish.”

C
AMILLE WOKE WITH A START,
and looked at Alex. He continued to sleep. She wondered what had awakened her. And then she knew.

The stonework of the ancient castle always made the
noise sound distant and muted, but still it came, a grating—sometimes sharp, sometimes like a groaning sound.

She glanced at Alex again, but he seemed to be sleeping like a lamb. She touched his forehead and found that it wasn’t hot. His pulse was strong.

She realized that the door had cracked open, and someone was looking in. Before she could move, the door closed. A feeling of ice trickling within her veins seized her, then she rose. She walked to the door, cracked it open again and looked into the hallway.

Evelyn Prior was in the hall, now retreating from Alex’s door, heading for the stairway. She was in her nightdress and robe, which were both white, and it almost seemed that she was floating along the floor. She carried no lamp. But, of course, Evelyn wouldn’t need one. She knew her way in the dark.

Camille longed to follow her. She looked back at Alex; he was still sleeping, yet she was afraid to leave him. And why? Because he was so afraid. And his fear was…contagious.

None of his fears could possibly be true. Still, Camille couldn’t shake the dread that if Alex was left alone, in his weakened state, someone would slip in and finish what the cobra had started.

She went to the chair by Alex and sat back down. And as she did so, she found herself longing for the night before, longing for a touch of the man, for a night in which she could forget everything except being held, tempted, teased and taken…in the darkness—where reality had no hold over desires.

Brian Stirling was probably below. In the crypts. Searching madly, as he always was, seeking answers in what had become his obsessed quest. If Evelyn came upon him…That was insane. Evelyn had been here with him,
forever. If she offered any danger to Brian Stirling, it would have come long ago. And Ajax was surely with his master.

Something inside her cried out suddenly,
Where had Brian been all day?
And more importantly, why hadn’t he come to see her, find her, coerce her back across the hall with him…?

O
PENING THE RUSTED GATES
produced a sound like a banshee’s wail. He might have tried to draw them open bit by bit, but decided instead that one rough and shrieking tug would be best. He damned himself for again putting off the idea of bringing workmen in.

The crypts, untouched for so many years, were surprisingly clear of dust. But then again, nothing had moved, nothing had been disturbed here. There were tombs set in a line down the length of the main aisle, and crypts within the wall. They’d been designed in a cross fashion, so a secondary hall sliced across the first about three-quarters of the way down. The oldest grave dated from 1310, and was that of one of his ancestors, born Count Morwyth Stirling, later to become the first Earl of Carlyle. In the late 1700s, one of his industrious great-great-great-aunts had set about a renovation of the crypts, so the stones were clearly etched where brass and copper had not been used for memorials, and there were no open crypts with ancestors aligned merely upon shelves, as did remain in some old family vaults. Here and there, there were spiderwebs, and crumbled stone. And as he walked along, he heard the squeal of a rat.

He turned back at a moaning sound, then nearly laughed aloud at himself. Ajax was on the other side of the gate, moaning softly, as if warning Brian that he shouldn’t go in.

“They’re all just family, boy,” he told the dog softly. Frowning, Brian left the crypts and returned to the office
area, quietly walking to the foot of the stairs. He held very still, waiting.

“Someone is there, eh, boy?” he asked softly, and Ajax began to bark. Brian headed quickly up the stairs, but whoever had been there was gone. Was it Camille, making another trek into the night?

He hurried up to the second floor. All was silent; he hadn’t been quick enough. Yet once there, he felt his heart thudding. He walked to the door behind which Alex Mittleman lay recovering.

Camille was in the chair by his bed, eyes closed, her head resting on her hands on the chair arm. He longed to go to her. Was she only pretending? Had she tiptoed down the stairs to see what he was doing?

“Watch over them, Ajax,” he told the dog.

Then he turned and went back down to his task.

C
AMILLE WAS STARTLED
to hear many voices in the breakfast room when she approached it at last, late and feeling the aches and pains of sleeping in a chair that not even a long, hot bath had been able to ease. She was apparently the last in the household to arrive.

Brian Stirling was seated with his newspapers, as always. Evelyn Prior was across from him. Tristan and Ralph were in attendance, courteously complimenting Evelyn on her scones. Ralph, though he had been considered a family member in all the years he had lived with Tristan and Camille, looked a little awed to have been invited into such a grand place as the breakfast solarium. Even Alex, looking ashen and weak, had managed to bring himself into the room. And they also had another visitor—Lord Wimbly.

His plate was piled high with thick bacon and fluffy eggs, and though it appeared he had been talking all the while, he was also enjoying his breakfast.

“Good timing, I do say,” he said to Brian as Camille came in. “Mrs. Prior, you are an excellent cook!”

“Thank you, Lord Wimbly,” she said demurely, rising as she noted Camille coming in. “Coffee, dear? Or tea?”

“Coffee, please,” she said.

Brian looked up sharply from his paper. He didn’t look pleased as he assessed her. He rose, though, and pulled out a chair for her.

“Good morning, Camille.”

“My dear, dear child!” Lord Wimbly said.

“Camille!” Tristan looked at her with tremendous reproach. “You’re to be married!”

“I—” She glanced at Brian.

“Now, quite rightly, Lord Stirling has asked for my blessing. But you didn’t say a word to me about the announcement at the gala!” Tristan reproached her.

“Ah…well, Alex was near death!” she said.

Alex smiled weakly.

“But such a thing is still…monumental!” Tristan said proudly.

And it’s all a lie!
she wanted to shout.

“When will the wedding take place?” Lord Wimbly asked. “A grand affair, I imagine. Takes time, planning,” he said pragmatically.

Evelyn handed Camille a cup of coffee. “Indeed, it will take planning and discussion, since Lord Stirling is an Anglican and the bride-to-be is Roman Catholic.”

“We’re not Catholic,” Tristan said, frowning. “We belong to the Anglican Church.”

“Oh?” Evelyn said, looking pointedly at Camille.

She was definitely on the spot. “We have always attended the Anglican Church officially,” she said, “but I’m afraid that I’ve always been fond of the Roman Catholic
ritual, so…I follow many of their practices.” God, she decided, was really going to have to forgive her.

“Well, we are living in a world where tolerance is demanded. Still, you will be marrying the Earl of Carlyle,” Evelyn said.

“Kings have married Catholics,” Ralph put in.

“And a few of them have lost their heads,” Evelyn said sweetly.

“Only Charles I lost his head!” Tristan protested.

“Ah, but a great deal of royalty has gone to the scaffold!” Evelyn argued.

“This is nonsense! We are living in a great age, beneath one of the finest constitutional monarchies ever to exist,” Lord Wimbly said. “Honestly, at this meeting tonight, however grave, Brian, we must really celebrate your engagement to our dear Camille!”