She paused. It was almost as if Swan did not want anyone to see him, she thought. Which brought up the obvious question of why he was attempting to conceal himself in the very house where he was employed.
Swan was part of the mystery that surrounded Miranda. Emma knew it with a certainty that defied logic. His secretive behavior tonight aroused her intuition. It would not hurt to follow him and see what he was about.
She hesitated a moment longer and then made her decision. Turning, she went quietly down the hall. When she reached the servants’ staircase, she peered into the gloom. There was no sign of Swan. He had disappeared into a well of dense shadows.
She gripped the banister firmly and went cautiously down the narrow, twisting steps. When one tread groaned softly beneath her foot, she froze.
But Swan did not loom up out of the darkness to confront her.
After a moment she continued downward, past the ballroom floor, all the way down to the ground floor. She used the toe of her dancing slippers to, feel for the edge of each step. It would be extremely embarrassing to tumble headfirst down the servants’ stairs here in Miranda’s house, she thought. Edison would no doubt be annoyed.
A short time later she emerged in the back hall. There was a door that opened onto the large garden. She could see the dark shapes of the hedges through sidelight windows.
She paused again in the shadows and listened intently. The ballroom was now above her. She could still hear the music, muffled though it was by the ceiling. The voices of arriving and departing guests echoed from the front hall. They sounded very far away.
There was enough moonlight filtering through the windows to allow her to see the door directly across from her. The library, perhaps. Or a study. Just the sort of room where one might hide a valuable book.
She wondered why Edison had not thought to search the house during the ball. Now that the notion had struck her, it seemed an obvious course of action.
There was no reason she could not carry out the task herself. How hard could it be to search a library for an ancient manuscript?
Before she could lose her nerve, she crossed the hall and twisted the doorknob. If there was anyone inside to take exception to her entrance, she could always claim to have gotten lost looking for the ladies’ withdrawing room.
She opened the door and slipped inside. Shafts of moonlight poured through a bank of high Palladian windows, creating geometric shapes on the carpet. The walls were lost in dense shadows, but the large globe, the decorative classical busts, and the broad desk told her that she was, indeed, in a library.
There were very few books on the shelves that lined the walls, she noticed. Miranda obviously followed the current fashion, which held that books were not a terribly important component of the properly decorated library.
She decided to start her search with the desk. It stood squarely in a patch of silvery moonlight, and it seemed a likely place to hide a stolen volume.
She hurried across the room. Her kid dancing slippers made no sound on the soft carpet. She circled the desk and opened the first drawer. Disappointment struck immediately when she saw only an array of quills and extra bottles of ink inside.
The next two drawers revealed nothing more mysterious than a stack of foolscap and a scattering of calling cards and invitations.
The last drawer, the one on the bottom, was locked.
Excitement bubbled up inside her. There was something important in the bottom drawer. Why else would Miranda have taken the trouble to lock it?
She reached up to her elegantly dressed hair and cautiously removed one of the green silk leaves. The pin the hairdresser had used to secure the decoration might work on the lock.
It would not be the first time that she had used a hairpin to unlock a desk drawer, she reflected. In the last few months of her long life, Granny Greyson had grown increasingly befuddled and forgetful. She had developed the unshakable conviction that the local vicar was determined to steal her few valuables. Whenever he came to visit, Granny locked her cameos, wedding ring, and the pearls her mother had given her in the drawer of her writing desk. Inevitably she had misplaced the key. She had been fretful and anxious until Emma had picked the lock and retrieved the items.
Emma slid the hairpin into the lock of Miranda’s desk.
And went very still at the sound of a footstep in the hall.
Someone was standing on the other side of the library door.
“It’s about time you got back, Swan.” Miranda’s voice was low and tight with anger. “What on earth took you so long.?”
There was an unintelligible rumble of response. Although the words were indistinct, there was no mistaking the rasping growl of Swan’s voice.
A terrible chill shot through Emma. It was a bit too late to get a premonition of danger, she thought. She was already in serious trouble. That was the problem with her intuition. It never seemed to work properly when she needed it.
She straightened quickly. Miranda and Swan were about to enter the library. If one of them lit a taper, they would see her immediately.
Frantically she searched the shadows for a hiding place. There was barely enough moonlight to make out the heavy drapes. They were her only hope. She hurried to the last window and stepped behind a waterfall of dark velvet. Instantly she was enveloped in a stifling, Stygian darkness.
She heard the door open even before the fringe on the drapes stopped swaying.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
What do you mean, you found nothing?” Miranda’s words were shards of glass. “You had ample time to search Stokes’s study. There must have been something there that would tell me why he has taken such an interest in Miss Greyson.”
“I did as you instructed, madam.” Swan’s harsh voice was a river of grinding stones. “I found only books and papers relating to his scholarly pursuits.”
“You have failed me, Swan.”
“I did as you commanded.” Swan sounded pathetically desperate. “You cannot blame me for the fact that there was nothing of interest in Stokes’s study.”
“There must have been something in that bastard’s house that could have explained his actions at Ware Castle,” Miranda snapped. “It is inconceivable that he has engaged himself to Miss Greyson simply because he wishes to marry her.”
“Perhaps he is in love with her,” Swan suggested softly.
Hah, Emma thought. Not bloody likely.
“Hah,” Miranda said aloud. “Not bloody likely. With his wealth and power he could look infinitely higher for a wife. You must have missed something. Go back and take another look. There is still time. He will not return home until dawn.”
“Madam, please, it is not easy to get into the house unnoticed. I barely escaped discovery as it was.”
“You will go back. Now. Tonight.”
“Madam, if I am caught I will be taken up on charges of burglary.”
“Then you must be very cautious,” Miranda said without any indication of sympathy. “Try his bedchamber this time. Look for anything that will tell me what game he is playing. Letters. A journal, perhaps. Anything.”
“His bedchamber. I could never get up the stairs unnoticed. Madam, I beg you, do not send me to that house again. The risk is too great.”
“Are you refusing to carry out your instructions?”
“Please, don’t ask this of me, madam.”
“Do you refuse?”
“Yes, yes, I must. Don’t you see? It is wrong. I could be hung or transported if I am caught. Please, madam, I have done everything you have asked of me until this. It is not fair for you to demand such a task of me.”
“Very well, you may consider yourself dismissed from my service.”
“Miranda.”
The single word was a cry of anguish. Emma felt a stab of pity.
“Collect your things and leave this house at once. I shall find someone else to take your place. A servant who is willing to follow instructions.”
The door closed beh
ind her.
For a long moment there was only silence in the room. Then Emma heard a strange, burbling sound. She did not recognize it immediately but after a few seconds she realized that Swan was crying.
The horrible, heart-wrenching sobs shook her to the core. It was all she could do not to rush out from behind the curtain and throw her arms around the man.
When she thought she could bear it no longer, the sobs ceased.
“Damn you, damn you, damn you.” Swan’s anguish had transmuted itself into rage. “Whore. You sleep with all of them but it’s me you come back to when you want your satisfaction. You always come back to Swan, don’t you? I’m the only one who knows what you need, you bloody witch.”
There was a heavy thud. Emma flinched. She realized that Swan had knocked something large to the floor. A classical bust or perhaps the globe, she thought.
There were more crashes and thumps as other objects struck the carpet. Some bounced. Some shattered. Emma held her breath, listening as Swan worked his way methodically around the room.
“They ought to hang you the way they used to hang witches,” Swan bellowed softly.
There was a series of muffled thumps. They sounded as though they came from the vicinity of the desk. A boot striking wood?
“Witch. Whore. Witch. Whore.” Something crunched loudly. “I’ll teach you to treat Swan as though he were your slave. I’ll teach you a lesson.”
Emma heard papers rustle. Then she heard the sharp, crisp sound of a match being struck. A frisson of panic shot through her. Dear God, was he going to try to burn the house down? Visions of the crowded ballroom engulfed in smoke and flame danced before her eyes.
She could not delay any longer. She had to act.
“Burn, witch, burn in hell. I will never do your bidding again. Do you hear me, witch? Never again. I will break your spell if it is the last thing I do on this earth.”
Emma took a deep breath and pushed aside the curtain. She saw flames, but to her great relief, they were safely confined to the fireplace. Swan had only lit a fire on the hearth.
He stood for a while, head bowed and watched the blaze. His broad shoulders and sturdy frame were outlined against the fiery glow. After a time, he turned and stalked toward the door. He moved through a moonlit rectangle and then into shadow.
The door opened and closed behind him.
Emma waited a heartbeat, afraid that he might return. But his heavy footsteps receded down the hall.
She breathed a sigh of relief. She ought to get out of here, she thought. The only sensible thing to do was leave the library as quickly as possible. But she could not resist going to the fireplace to see what it was that Swan had burned in his fury. She hurried across the carpet.
On her way past the desk, she saw that the bottom drawer, the one she had planned to unlock with a hairpin, had been kicked into splinters. Whatever had been inside was now in the flames.
“Oh my God.” Emma picked up her skirts and ran to the fireplace.
Two halves of a large leather box lay on the carpet in front of the hearth. The pile of papers that had evidently been stored inside the box were heaped on the flames.
The fire had taken a firm hold but Emma could make out some of the printing on several of the swiftly crisping pages.
Miss Fanny Clifton as Juliet …
… appear Monday, June 9 and the following
week will in Othello
A brilliant performance.
A divine beauty who makes additional lights
unnecessary on the stage …
Playbills, Emma thought. And reviews. All swiftly going up in smoke.
She took a step, reaching for the poker. Perhaps she could salvage something from the flames. Something crackled under her slipper. She glanced down and saw that some of the papers had fluttered to the carpet when Swan had emptied the contents of the box into the fireplace.
Abandoning the poker, she scooped up the handful of papers. She rolled them up very tightly and stuffed them into her beaded reticule.
Whirling, she started toward the door.
There was no telltale footstep to warn her. She had her hand on the knob when she felt it move beneath her fingers. She sucked in her breath and jerked backward as the door opened very quietly. There was no time to hide behind the curtains again.
Edison glided silently into the room and closed the door behind him. “I wondered where you had disappeared to, Emma.”
She was so light-headed with relief, she wondered she didn’t collapse. “If you ever startle me in such a manner again, sir, I vow, I shall faint.”
“Somehow I cannot envision you fainting.” He glanced at the dying fire. “What the devil are you doing here, anyway?”
There was something wrong with his voice, she thought. It lacked all inflection. She told herself she would worry about that matter later.
“It is a very long story,” she said. “And I do not think it would be a good notion to tell it here.”
“You may be right.” Edison put his ear to the door. “There is someone coming down the hall.”
“Oh, no, not again.”
“Hush.” He took her arm and propelled her swiftly toward the windows.
“If you think to hide, I can recommend the curtains at the far end of the room,” Emma whispered. “They are quite voluminous.”
He glanced at her. The icy glow of the moon turned his features into a cold mask. Belatedly Emma realized that he was furious.
“Forget the curtains,” he said. “We are leaving at once.”
Edison brought her to a halt and released her to unlatch one of the windows. He bundled her through the opening without ceremony and then followed quickly.
Emma winced as her delicate slippers sank into damp grass. “Now what do you propose to do?”
“We’ll make our way around the side of the house to the terrace and back into the ballroom. If we encounter any of the other guests, they will assume that we are merely returning from a stroll in the gardens.”
“Then what?”
“Then,” Edison said in that same too-even voice, “I shall summon my carriage and take you home.”
“But I came with Lady Mayfield in her coach. She intends to stay out until dawn.”
“Letty can do as she pleases. You are going home with me. Immediately.”
Emma bristled. “There is no need to take that tone with me, sir. I was only trying to assist you in your inquiries.”
“Assist me?” He gave her a sharp, raking glance. “I bloody well did not tell you to go into that library.”
“I pride myself on being the sort of employee who shows initiative.”
“Is that what you call it? I can think of a variety of other terms—” Edison broke off abruptly. “Damnation.”
He shoved her away from him and then whipped around.
“What in the world?” Emma stumbled back against a hedge and threw out a hand to catch herself.
She sensed movement at the corner of her eye. She turned quickly. At first she could see nothing at all. And then she noticed the ghostly shadow flowing around a large, bird-shaped topiary. There was a predatory grace evident in the way the figure advanced on its intended prey.
Prey. The full impact of the word seared through Emma. She suddenly knew with a terrible certainty that this was no ordinary house burglar or footpad. The creature was hunting Edison.
She whirled, her mouth open to scream a warning.
The cry died in her throat. It was clear that Edison was fully aware of the danger.
His whole attention was locked on the shadow coming toward him. There was an impossibly calm, waiting quality about him that made no sense under the circumstances.
She thought about shouting for help but she feared that no one would hear her above the noise of the ballroom. She watched in horror as the two men closed in on each other.
It was then that she finally noticed that Edison was moving with the same singularly liquid grace as his o
pponent. There was a ghostly aspect about him now, just as there was in his opponent. She could not keep track of him. He appeared to exert little effort yet he shifted position in the blink of an eye.
The two men came together in a deadly parody of a dance. The villain made the first move. His leg swept out in a short arc. Edison slipped to the side, evading the blow.
The villain gave a soft, hoarse cry, leaped high into the air, and lashed out with his foot a second time. Edison was too close to avoid it completely. He twisted, taking the blow on the side of his ribs rather than the center of his chest, but it was enough to make him spin backward.
He fell to the ground. In a blur of bizarre, twisting leaps, the dark ghost moved in for the kill.
“No. Don’t hurt him.” Emma picked up her skirts and made to rush forward. She had no notion of what she could do to stop the attacker. She only knew that she had to do something before he murdered Edison.
“Stay back, Emma”
Edison’s command halted her in her tracks. She stared in amazement as he lashed out with his leg and caught his opponent on the side of his thigh.
The dark ghost reeled backward. Edison rose fluidly to his feet. His expression was stark in the cold light of the moon. There was a dangerous aura about him that she had never seen. She knew in that moment that he was wholly capable of killing. The knowledge shocked her.
The villain apparently recognized the same deadly quality and concluded that the tide of battle had turned against him. He spun away, leaped over a waist-high clump of manicured foliage, and vanished into the night.
Edison shifted slightly. Emma was afraid that he intended to pursue the ghost.
“Edison, no.”
He had already stopped and turned back. “You are right. It is too late. I fear he is a good deal younger than I am and would no doubt win a foot race.”
“Are you all right?” she asked anxiously.
“Yes.”
She watched as he ran his fingers through his hair, made a few adjustments to his snowy white cravat, and straightened his coat. When he was finished he looked as elegant as he had before the fight. There were advantages to wearing so much black, Emma thought. The color was extremely well suited to concealing grass stains.