“All that,” she said, and kissed him again and again, her hands roaming over his back now.
He kissed her hair, pulled her close, closed his eyes and rubbed his cheek in her hair. “Jordan is now sleeping through the night, a blessing, I say. Your eyes are all bright again.” Then he gave her a dazzling smile. “You know, dearest, Jordan is quite perfect, even his yells sound inspired, at least according to the vicar, who paused in the midst of his sermon on Sunday to listen. I was thinking that perhaps he is in need of a brother or sister. What do you think, Helen?” He kissed her mouth, and added, his breath warm against her flesh, “No, not right away. Even if you beg me for another babe immediately, I won’t let you have your way. We will wait at least two years, all right? Now, how many babes would you like to have?”
She kissed him back, loving the feel of him, the taste of him. She loved him more today, this very morning, than she had even the day before. It was amazing. “More babes, Spenser? I don’t know. My father wants a half dozen, he told me. What do you think? Can we attempt that many?”
He actually shuddered, and she knew he was remembering that very long night he had spent while she’d tried to birth Jordan. He said finally, “I don’t know if I can survive that many more births, Helen. I had an awful time of it. So many long hours I suffered through. Perhaps my memories will fade a bit and I won’t dread the birthing so very much. Yes, we will decide one babe at a time. I want a girl this next time, just like you. Well, perhaps she will have my brain, and that will make everything perfect, don’t you think? Ah, I just felt a raindrop land on my cheek, dearest.”
“The rain—it’s wonderfully warm. But you’re right. The storm is almost on us. In a few minutes it won’t be so delightful.”
He thought a moment, then grinned. “Let’s go into your cave and wait it out. Just perhaps I can convince you to make the smile on my face even bigger. Let me tie the horses beneath those trees to wait out the storm.”
It was the cave where they had found both the iron cask and the lamp itself. They hadn’t been here since Lord Beecham had pulled it out of the cave wall.
They stood in the entrance of the cave, watching the storm finally strike land. Thick sheets of rain came straight down, forming a gray veil between them and the world outside. They could hear the roiling water smashing against the rocks. There were no more birds screeching and wheeling about. All was quiet, save for the crashing of the waves, so rhythmic, steady, predictable.
“Are you cold?”
Helen held her arms over her chest. “No, not really.”
“Thank you for Jordan. He looks exactly like me.”
“Not much fairness there,” she said, “but since I think you are the most handsome man in all of East Anglia, it is all right.”
She turned in his arms and smiled right into his beautiful eyes. “I wasn’t ill for a single day with Jordan. Mrs. Toop told me it was because I somehow managed to make you sick for me, only you were too proud to admit it. She said it was a charming discipline that, as far as she knows, no one else has yet discovered.”
“That’s it exactly. I retched up my innards while you blissfully fattened up and ran my life. Now, I heard yesterday that you had to go all the way to a Level Six punishment with Geordie.”
“Yes, the idiot got drunk and grabbed one of the guest’s maids. He tried to maul her.”
“Did she want to be mauled or not?”
“I asked her most particularly about that. She told me that she is still considering her feelings in the matter.”
“Ah, if she deems him a clod, will you let her inflict some of his punishment?”
“Oh, indeed. Her eyes sparkle when she even thinks about it. I fear she will deem him a clod simply because she wants to conduct the discipline. She wants to punish him herself, and, I imagine, she also wants to examine what he was mauling her with more closely.”
“A bunch of hollyhocks? Will you strip poor Geordie down to his skin?”
“Oh, yes. All the village will come and participate. I believe that the squire and his wife wish to make it into a party. The vicar loves lobster patties, and he has announced that he will provide them to everyone who comes. Of course, only the women will be allowed to whip Geordie. They do it with so much more finesse than men. They tease and stroke ever so delicately, and poor Geordie will moan and groan, much more than last time.”
Lord Beecham rolled his eyes. Lobster patties at a discipline party presided over by the vicar, whose wife would probably be wielding a bundle of hollyhocks. He had never realized how exciting living in the country could be.
Lord Beecham removed his jacket and they sat on the floor of the cave, kissing, talking, worrying a bit about the horses, when Helen said, “Something is different, Spenser.”
“Different? What?”
“I just noticed that there is wax here on the cave floor. Why would there be wax?”
“Why don’t you stay right here and think of new disciplines for me? I will just walk back into the cave and see if perhaps someone has been sleeping here.”
He heard her muttering as he walked toward the back of the cave. Then he stopped cold. He couldn’t see a foot in front of him. He had no candle. He began to laugh as he walked back to his wife.
He stopped abruptly and stared at Reverend Titus Older, who was standing over Helen.
Water was dripping off him, but he looked triumphant, joyous. What was going on here?
“Reverend Older,” Lord Beecham said as he carefully stepped toward him. “It is raining. Is it not strange for you to be out strolling in this inclement weather? You wished to see us that badly? This is an odd visit, surely. Perhaps you would like to tell us why you are here, in this cave?”
Reverend Older pulled a gun from his capacious coat pocket. He aimed it directly at Helen.
“Lord Beecham, such a pleasure, my boy. Come and join your lovely Amazon. Yes, that’s right, just sit right there beside her. I wasn’t sure that I should come in on you. I feared that you would be in an intimate way, if you know what I mean. Not that there is anything wrong with that, don’t misunderstand me.”
Helen eyed that gun he held, then focussed on his face as she said, “What are you doing here, Reverend Older? You haven’t, by any chance, been sleeping in this cave, have you?”
“Well, yes, my dear, for the past three days. You see, my once-sweet wife-to-be, Lilac, has kicked me out of her bedchamber. She doesn’t want me anymore. She has even told all her friends that she doesn’t wish to marry me, and thus I was forced to come here, to Shugborough, where I heard you were still in residence.”
He paused a moment, looked around at the grim walls of the cave, and sighed. “This is not a comfortable place. Even with six blankets I could not get completely warm at night, you know? There is just something about the insides of caves, even small ones like this, that freezes the bones. But I came here because I heard this was where you found the magic lamp. I hoped that perhaps I would find another lamp, perhaps a sister lamp. What do you think?”
Lord Beecham and his wife just stared at Reverend Older.
“Not again,” Helen said.
“I didn’t find anything, of course. Now, why are you in residence here, my boy, and not back in London?”
“We both like it here. I see no reason for Helen and me to go to my country estate in Devon just yet. Lord Prith likes to have us staying here with him. Why did Lady Chomley not wish to marry you, sir?”
Reverend Older sighed deeply and rubbed his fingers across his forehead. “The sweet lady discovered I had, er, temporarily removed one of her brooches from her overflowing jewelry box. I had lost a wager, you see, and as a gentleman, I had to pay it. Actually, she had postponed our wedding several times over the past months. Perhaps she distrusted me.” He sighed.
“Very unreasonable of her to rid herself of you,” said Helen, and Lord Beecham saw the calculating gleam in her eye. He knew that gleam well. She would tackle the good reverend in the next two
minutes. He was terrified and pleased. But he couldn’t let her have her fun. No, he couldn’t take the chance of her possibly being hurt. It curdled his belly. She was his wife and Jordan’s mother.
“What do you want with us, sir?”
“I want the lamp, my lord. Nothing more, just the lamp you and your wife found here. Oh, yes, this bloody cave is becoming quite famous. I know that others have tried to steal the lamp from Shugborough Hall. I am smarter than that. I waited until I got the two of you alone. Now I will hold one of you here whilst the other returns to the hall and fetches the lamp back to me.”
Lord Beecham said, “Yes, we do have the lamp. However, it is simply a very old lamp. It does nothing at all. It just sits where you place it. There is no magic to it.”
“I am a man of God. The lamp was meant for a man like me, not for common Philistines like you. I have the spiritual depth and the incredible insights of a true churchman. The lamp will guide me to further greatness. The lamp will perform for me.”
Lord Beecham said slowly, “I don’t know what you mean. Did you say ‘further greatness’?”
“Very well, I was speaking prematurely. The lamp will guide me to beginning greatness. Greatness has eluded me until now. But with the lamp I shall find my way. I shall perform feats not even dreamed about.”
Helen yawned, then cocked her head to one side. “I cannot imagine any greatness springing from you, sir. You are a villain, nothing more, and a thief—just ask Lady Chomley. Did we nearly catch you in your hidey hole?”
“I was watching you on the promontory. When you came here to escape the storm, I followed. As I said, I have great insight. I knew that the storm was meant for me, that it would force you here, that you would then give up the lamp to me, its rightful possessor.”
Helen yawned again. “It is nasty weather, is it not, Reverend? And you are an elderly man. It is likely you will catch an inflammation of the lung. Let us go now. You will return to London. You may not have the lamp. Go away.”
Reverend Older frowned. “I don’t like this,” he said slowly, looking from Helen to Lord Beecham. “I had not expected you to be so very rude to me. Now, my lord, you will return to Shugborough Hall and fetch the lamp. I will keep Lady Beecham here with me. I will not harm her if you are quick to bring me back the lamp.”
Both of them just looked at him.
“I must have the lamp, else I will be in dire straits.”
“Dire straits happen, sir,” Lord Beecham said. “That is a pity, but you may not have the lamp. Go away.”
“You force me to violence, something I abhor.” He raised the gun and aimed it directly at Helen.
“I say, what the devil is going on here? Who is this old fellow who has the gall to aim a gun at my dearest daughter?”
Lord Beecham wanted to cheer at his father-in-law’s unexpected arrival. He did smile. He took Helen’s hand in a firm grip and held her still. “Good day, sir. This fellow is Reverend Older. He has come from London to try to steal our lamp.”
“You mean the lamp that a good dozen people have tried to filch over the past few months? That old dented lamp that probably isn’t worth the filching?”
“Yes, Father, that’s the lamp. We have told him that he cannot have it, that the lamp has no magic, that it has nothing at all. We have been truthful with him.”
“It is you, Lord Prith?” Reverend Older said, turning slowly. “How do you come here? You are wet to your marrow, sir. I want the lamp. It will perform miracles for me. Now get in here, stand beside your daughter and Lord Beecham.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Lord Prith said. He called over his shoulder, “Flock, you were right. We have come across yet another villain who is up to no good. He has a gun and he is pointing it at my beloved and beautiful daughter. What do you want to do?”
“Kill the blighter,” said Flock, peering around Lord Prith’s shoulder.
“This is enough.” Lord Beecham walked right up to Reverend Older.
“Stay back, my lord.”
“Listen to me, sir. You cannot kill four people. It would not be good form, particularly for a man of the cloth. You have claimed to be a man of the church, a man with profound insights. Well, prove your greatness. We have told you the truth. There is no cursed magic in the lamp. Now you need to go away.”
Reverend Older looked as if he would burst into tears. “It isn’t fair. It is so very difficult to be a good man, a godly man, a man to be respected through the ages. Ah, it was just one silly brooch and the old cow rained abuse on my poor head. And then there was Reverend Mathers. He refused to have anything to do with my very nicely devised scheme. I had no choice. Oh, I am undone.”
Lord Beecham felt his blood run cold. So many months had passed, and no one had learned anything about who had murdered Reverend Mathers. Lord Hobbs had given up. Reverend Older had done it?
Helen just stared at him in amazement, unwilling to believe what he had said. “You are the one who stuck that stiletto in poor Reverend Mathers’s back? You are the one who murdered him?”
But Reverend Older didn’t answer immediately. He was staring down at his wet shoes and shaking his head. Then he said, just above a whisper, “I liked Reverend Mathers. He and I were friends once, a very long time ago. But he wouldn’t tell me anything. What was I to do?”
33
THERE WAS DEAD SILENCE. Lord Prith simply closed his hands around Reverend Older’s neck and lifted him off the ground. “You pathetic little man. And you are, you know. Very little, too little, and just look what you have done. You are a sniveling cretin. Flock, what shall I do with this murdering nitwit?”
“I already told you, my lord. Kill the blighter.”
“No, Father, let me take his gun. Loosen your grip a bit, his face is turning quite blue, although as a discipline, it has produced an excellent result.” Helen removed the gun from Reverend Older’s limp hand.
“Flock,” Lord Prith said, “tie the fellow up.”
“What with, my lord?”
“Use your scrawny imagination, Flock.”
It was Lord Beecham who removed his cravat and tied Reverend Older’s hands behind his back. He looked down at the man and said, “What shall we do with you, sir?”
“I suppose I must meet the hangman, my lord.”
“You murdered an excellent man,” Helen said. “You stuck a stiletto in his back. You are a vile person.”
“Yes, ma’am. You are right. I now accept your judgment. I am a foul menace.”
“I say kill the blighter.”
“Well, I am the local magistrate,” Lord Prith said as he eased Reverend Older down onto the cave floor. “Stay there or I will kick you off the cliff.”
“I shan’t move. Actually, I do not believe that I can move.”
Lord Prith announced, “I will have him locked up in my cellars. We have no local gaol of any kind. Then we will decide what is best to do with him.”
And so it was that Flock gave Reverend Older three blankets, food, water, a large branch of candles, and a chamber pot, and locked him in the wine cellar, with the warning that if he drank more than one bottle of wine Lord Prith would hang him himself, without a trial.
“I shall deport the man to Botany Bay,” Lord Prith said later as he handed his newest champagne concoction to his daughter and to Flock. “I doubt he will survive there long, if he even survives the voyage. Come, won’t you give it just a small try, my boy?”
Lord Beecham stared at the strange color in the beautiful crystal champagne glass and actually shuddered. “No, sir, but I shall watch my wife give it an excellent test.”
Helen gave him a look that clearly said she wanted to boot him out the door. But she took the glass handed to her.
Lord Beecham watched her take a tentative sip. He watched her lick her lips, then take a longer drink. Then she smiled and held out her glass for more. He actually heard Flock moan with pleasure. Goodness, what had Lord Prith poured into the champagne?
??
?Oh, my, Father,” Helen said, once she had downed her entire glass. “This is wonderful. It is the best mixture you have ever discovered. What ever did you mix with the champagne?”
“Something I just hadn’t considered before, my dear. Even to me it sounded too dreadful. But it isn’t bad, is it?”
“It is ambrosia,” Flock said and poured everyone another glass.
“What did you mix with the champagne, sir?”
“Well, my boy, it is only orange juice, nothing more, nothing less. I am pleased that finally I have achieved greatness with the grape. Yes, orange juice and champagne. Now, what do you think we should call this wondrous new drink?”
Lord Beecham said, “Oranpagne?”
Helen said, “Chamorange?”
“No,” Lord Prith said, frowning as he shook his head. “We need a name that will tease the senses, sound soft and inviting, something not tied directly to the ingredients. Yes, a name that is altogether different.”
Flock was staring outside. “The trees are so very beautiful. Soon they will be full and green again, not a thing like the champagne, my lord, but yet, drinking it makes me feel at once mellow, pleased, and a bit droopy, just the same result as when I look at those trees yon that will be beautiful in but a couple of months. Why do we not name the drink after a tree?”
“You wish to call this drink an oak?” Lord Beecham said, raising an eyebrow.
“Or a pine?” Helen said.
“No,” Flock said, his voice dreamy now. “We must be more poetic. What is a poetic tree?”
“I know,” Lord Prith said. “Why don’t we call this drink a willow?”
Lord Beecham thought about that for at least three minutes before he slowly shook his head. “It is close, but still not there. Another tree, Flock.”
Flock looked off into the distant trees and meditated. “I’ve got the perfect name for this incredible drink, my lord. How about calling it a mimosa?”
“No,” Lord Prith said without hesitation. “That is not a name to stick.”
“We will use it only until a better name comes along,” Helen said and stuck out her glass. “Another mimosa if you please, Flock.”