The poet gave him a brief glance that held unutterable boredom. “A gaggle of whey-faced milkmaids, I presume.”
Oswynn shrugged. “And a milk boy or two, no doubt.” He chuckled richly at his clever play on words. “Mrs. Bird prides herself on catering to a variety of tastes.”
The poet came to a halt on the pavement. A golden brow rose in amused derision. “I’m surprised that a man of your experience would be so easily satisfied with such offerings. What sport is there in bedding a dull-witted farmer’s daughter who has been rendered nearly unconscious by a dose of laudanum?”
“Well…”
“And as for the boys, I know for a fact that Mrs. Bird gets them out of the stews, where they have been well trained to pick your pocket while you’re recovering from your exercise.”
His new companion’s condescending attitude was irksome, but Oswynn acknowledged that the poet was a gentleman of infinitely refined sensibilities. Everyone knew that his sort indulged themselves in the most exquisite excesses. Something to do with being an author, he supposed. The rumors of Byron’s escapades in the stews were legendary.
Oswynn found himself struggling to defend his own particular enthusiasms. “Thing is, I prefer the young ones, and Mrs. Bird generally has the most tender morsels.”
“Personally, I prefer my morsels awake and well schooled.”
Oswynn blinked again, trying to clear his vision. “Schooled?”
The poet went down the steps. “I assure you, there is an amazing difference between a girl who has been properly instructed in the erotic arts and your typical milkmaid who arrived in town in the back of a vegetable cart.”
Oswynn watched his fair-haired companion walk toward the waiting hackney. “Instructed, you say.”
“Indeed. I generally choose one who has been trained in the Chinese methods. But occasionally, when I am in the mood for a variation, I select a girl who has been taught the Egyptian techniques.”
Oswynn hurried down the steps. “These girls you mention. They are all suitably young?”
“Of course.” The poet opened the carriage door and smiled an invitation to enter. “For a price, one can purchase a lively, entertaining lass who is not only well versed in the most exotic arts but also guaranteed to be virgin. In my considered opinion, there is nothing like a well-schooled innocent.”
Deeply intrigued now, Oswynn put one hand on the edge of the carriage door. “They train virgins in these foreign practices?”
The poet’s eyes gleamed in the amber light of the vehicle’s lamps. “Do not tell me that you have never sampled the delights of the Temple of Eros?”
“Can’t say that I have.”
“You are welcome to join me tonight.” The poet vaulted lightly up into the carriage and sat down on the midnight blue squabs. “I shall be happy to introduce you to the proprietor. She accepts new clients only upon the recommendation of those who already patronize her establishment.”
“Very kind of you, sir.” Oswynn clambered awkwardly into the carriage and sat down too suddenly. For a few seconds the interior of the carriage whirled gently around him.
The poet watched him from the opposite seat. “Are you feeling ill, man?”
“No, no.” Oswynn rubbed his forehead. “Must have drunk a bit more than I usually do. Just need some fresh air and I’ll be as good as new.”
“Excellent. I would not want you to miss out on the very special entertainment I plan to show you this evening. So few men have the ability to appreciate the exotic and the rare.”
“I’ve always had a taste for those things.”
“Indeed?” The poet sounded politely doubtful.
Oswynn leaned his head back against the cushion and closed his eyes to shut out the spinning carriage. He tried to think of some escapade in his past that might impress the poet, but it was difficult to concentrate. Though the night was young, he was very tired for some reason. “A few years back some associates and I founded a club dedicated to experiencing the most unusual erotic pleasures.”
“I have heard rumors of such a club. In addition to yourself, the members included Glenthorpe and Flood, did they not? You called yourselves the Three Horsemen, I believe.”
A whisper of dread roused Oswynn briefly. He managed to get his eyes open. “How d’ye come to hear of the Horsemen?” He heard himself slur the s in the last word.
“One picks up these little tidbits of gossip here and there.” The poet smiled. “Why did you disband your club?”
Another trickle of unease went through Oswynn. He already regretted mentioning the damned club. After the events of that night five years ago, they had all solemnly vowed never again to speak of it. The actress’s death had thrown a scare into them.
He had thought himself free of the memory of the woman’s vow that her lover would someday return to destroy them. It was true that for a year following the incident, he had been troubled by sudden attacks of fear in the middle of the night that had left him soaked with sweat. But his nerves had eventually quieted.
He had assured himself that he was safe. But three months ago he had received a letter with an all too familiar gold seal inside. The nightly attacks of fear had returned. For weeks he had looked over his shoulder constantly.
But nothing had happened and he had concluded that the message with the seal inside had been a bizarre joke perpetrated by Flood or Glenthorpe. It defied common sense to believe that the mysterious lover had come for his revenge. She had been an actress, after all, a low creature with no family. The lover, if indeed he ever existed, had no doubt been a careless rakehell who had probably long since forgotten her name. No gentleman would waste a second thought on a foolish little lightskirt who had come to a bad end.
“The Three Horsemen Club became a dead bore.” Oswynn tried to make a gesture of casual dismissal with his hand, but he couldn’t seem to get his fingers to move properly. “I went on to more interesting pursuits. You know how it is.”
“I do indeed.” The poet smiled. “It is the curse of those of us who possess the heightened sensibilities required to savor the rare and the exotic. We must forever seek out fresh stimulation.”
“Yeth … I mean, yes.” It was becoming increasingly difficult to collect his thoughts, Oswynn realized. The sway of the carriage seemed to have a mesmerizing effect on him. He just wanted to go to sleep. He gazed at the poet through shuttered lids. “Where did you thay … say we were headed?”
The poet seemed to find the question vastly amusing. His laugh echoed in the night. The fiery light of the carriage lamp turned his hair to gold.
“Why, to another hell, of course,” he said.
The audience held its collective breath when the tall, thin, silver-haired man on stage addressed the young lady seated in the chair.
“When will you awaken, Lucinda?” he said in authoritative tones.
“When the bell rings.” Lucinda spoke in a curiously flat voice.
Standing at the back of the room, one shoulder propped against the wall, Zachary leaned close to Beth and whispered in her ear. “This is the best part. Watch what happens now.”
Beth was riveted by the performance but she flashed Zachary a coy smile.
Onstage the mesmerist moved his hands in a weaving motion in front of the blank-faced Lucinda. “Will you remember that you quoted the speech from Hamlet while you were in a state of trance?”
“No.”
The mesmerist picked up a small bell. He rang it gently. Lucinda gave a start and opened her eyes. She looked around with an air of bemusement.
“What am I doing on this stage?” she asked. She appeared genuinely surprised to find herself facing the audience in which she herself had been sitting a short while earlier.
The audience gasped in amazement and clapped loudly.
Lucinda blushed and looked helplessly at the mesmerist.
The mesmerist smiled reassuringly. “Tell us, Lucinda, do you read a great deal of Shakespeare?”
“No,
sir, not now that I’m out of the schoolroom. I prefer Lord Byron’s poetry.”
The audience laughed appreciatively. A girl after his own heart, Zachary thought. He was halfway through the copy of The Corsair that Mr. Hunt had given him. It was just the sort of thing he liked, plenty of exciting action and daring adventure.
“Have you ever memorized any of the speeches from Hamlet, Lucinda?” the mesmerist asked.
“My governness made me learn some passages, but that was a long time ago. I don’t remember any of them.”
Murmurs and exclamations rippled across the audience.
“That is very interesting, because you have just given us an excellent recitation of a passage from the first scene of the second act of that particular play” the mesmerist announced.
Lucinda’s eyes widened. “Never say so. That’s impossible. I don’t recall a word of it, I swear.”
The audience erupted in applause and exclamations of amazement. The mesmerist took a deep bow.
“That was astonishing,” Beth whispered to Zachary
He grinned, pleased with her reaction. “If you liked that, I’ve got something even more amazing to show you.” He took her arm and guided her out of the Silver Pavilion.
The night was cool and the hour was late. The crowds that had filled the pleasure gardens all evening had begun to drift toward the gates. It was nearing closing time.
“I suppose you must walk me home,” Beth said. “It’s been such a lovely evening.”
“Would you like to see the Haunted Mansion before we leave?”
Beth peeked at him from beneath the brim of her clever little hat. “I thought you said that particular attraction is not yet opened to the public.”
Zachary chuckled. “I’ve got connections here. I can arrange for us to go inside.” He paused meaningfully “But I better warn ye that ye might see some very strange and terrifying sights.”
Beth’s eyes widened. “Is the mansion truly haunted?”
“No need to be afraid,” he assured her. “I’ll take care of ye.”
She giggled. Zachary held her arm a little more tightly. He liked it when she giggled. Her perky straw hat made a nice frame for her blue eyes, he thought. Beth always seemed to have the prettiest hats and caps. A side benefit of her job in a milliner’s shop, no doubt.
He knew she liked him. This was the third time he had invited her out for an evening in the Dream Pavilions and she had accepted quite readily. One of the benefits of his job was that he could get his friends into the gardens at no cost.
He was feeling optimistic tonight. With a bit of luck and some careful planning, he hoped to surprise Beth into a kiss. His scheme depended on the effectiveness of the ghost he had arranged in the Haunted Mansion that afternoon. If the plan worked properly, Beth would scream very nicely and throw herself into his arms.
“I quite enjoyed the demonstration of mesmerism,” Beth said as she watched him open the gate that blocked access to the closed section of the gardens. “Would you volunteer to let him put you into a trance?”
“No mesmerist could put me into a trance.” Zachary released her arm for a moment to close the gate and light a lantern. “My mind is too strong.”
“Too strong? Really?”
“Aye.” He held the lantern aloft to light the gloomy path. “I am studying a secret philosophy that gives a man’s mind great powers of concentration.”
“A secret philosophy. How exciting.”
He was gratified by her response. “There’s physical exercises, too. I’m learning all sorts of clever tricks to protect myself and you from footpads and villains.”
“That is all very interesting and I’m sure you’re much too strong-minded to be put into a trance. Nevertheless, you must admit that the demonstration tonight was most impressive. Just imagine reciting an entire speech from a play and not remembering that you did so afterward.”
“It was amazing,” he agreed. In his opinion, the mesmerist had very likely paid Lucinda a handsome sum to memorize the passage from Hamlet But far be it from him to question the authenticity of the trance. No one admired a clever scheme more than himself, and he knew that Mr. Hunt was quite pleased with the crowds that flocked to the pleasure gardens to see the demonstrations of mesmerism.
He guided Beth around a corner and brought her to a halt. He raised the lantern so that she could get the full effect of the Haunted Mansion looming in the fog.
Her eyes widened with excited dread. “My, it is a terrifying place. Looks just like the castle in Mrs. York’s new book.”
“The Ruin?”
“Yes. It’s a wonderful story. Have you read it?”
“I prefer Byron myself.”
He urged her up the steps and stopped to open the heavy door. There was a suitably eerie groan from the hinges. The opening enlarged gradually, revealing the interior with ominous slowness.
Beth hesitated on the threshold, peering into the thick darkness. “Are you sure it’s safe to go inside?”
“There’s nothing to worry about.” He angled the lantern so that it cast a thin wedge of light into the room. “I’m with you.”
“Thank goodness.” Beth stepped daintily into the room.
Zachary readied himself for her shrieks. He would be right behind her, ready to catch her in his arms when she saw the ghost.
Beth came to a halt. Her mouth fell open in shock. But she did not give a ladylike shriek; she screamed bloody murder. The high, shrill screech of terror reverberated through the mansion. Zachary set down the lantern and covered his ears.
“What the bloody hell?” He winced. “It’s not a real ghost.”
Beth was not listening. She whirled around. In the dim light he saw the stark fear in her eyes. She did not throw herself into his arms as he had imagined she would. She shoved him quite forcibly out of her path and hurled herself toward the door. He seized her arm to restrain her.
“Beth, wait! It’s just an old sheet.”
“Get out of my way!”
“It can’t hurt you.” He tried to hold her still as she clawed at him.
“It’s horrible! How could you do this? Let me out of here!” She struggled desperately to free herself. “Let me out!”
Not knowing what else to do, Zachary released her. “Beth, for God’s sake, there’s no need to carry on like this. I swear, it really is just a sheet.”
But Beth was already outside, plunging down the steps toward the path. She vanished around a curve of the dark walk that led back toward the main grounds of the Dream Pavilions.
So much for his grand scheme, Zachary thought glumly. He wondered if it would pay to consult with Mr. Hunt on the subject of women. He was obviously in need of advice, and during the past three years he had come to respect Mr. Hunt’s opinion on a variety of important matters.
He turned around to see why his ghost had failed to have the proper effect. That was when he finally saw what Beth had seen a moment earlier.
The ghost he had rigged from the rafters fluttered eerily enough in the draft from the doorway But it was not the empty eyeholes cut into the old sheet that stared sightlessly back at him from the alcove in the stone staircase. The blood was a very effective touch. But he certainly had not thought to soak his fake specter in the stuff.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The glow of the flames in the rear hall was brighter now. A terrible crackling and snapping accompanied the approach of the fire, the sounds of a great beast feasting on its fresh kill. She had almost no time left. She picked up the bloody key and fumbled it into the lock of the bedchamber door.
She saw the glint of gold. She glanced toward it and noticed that Renwick’s walking stick lay on the carpet beside his body. She forced herself to concentrate on getting the blood-slick key into the lock.
To her horror it slipped from her shaking fingers. She thought she heard Renwick laugh at her as she bent down to retrieve it, but when she looked at him he was still dead. She seized the key and once again trie
d to insert it into the lock.
It fell from her grasp a second time. She stared down at it, aware of an overpowering sense of terror and frustration. She had to open the locked door. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Renwick’s hand move. As she watched in horror his dead fingers reached for the key….
Madeline came awake as she always did after she’d had the dream, very suddenly and in a cold sweat. The familiar sense of disorientation enveloped her. She shoved aside the covers, lit a candle, and looked at the clock. It was a quarter past one in the morning. For the second time since moving into Artemas’s house, she had actually slept for two whole hours before the dream had exploded in her mind. If nothing else, she was catching up on some badly needed rest here.
But she knew herself well enough to realize that there was no point in trying to go back to sleep. She would likely stay awake until dawn. Her gaze fell on the little book on her escritoire as she reached for her wrapper. Frustration flickered through her. She had shown it to Eaton Pitney just to ease her mind. He had examined it with considerable interest, but he had professed himself mystified.
He had, however, reassured her concerning a nagging question that had begun to trouble her.
“I know you will be amused by my conjecture, sir,” she had said, “but you are an expert on the scholarly aspects of Vanza, so I must ask your opinion. Is there any possibility that this little book is the Book of Secrets? The volume that is rumored to have been stolen and destroyed in a fire several months ago?”
“None whatsoever,” he had answered her with absolute conviction. “The Book of Secrets, assuming it ever existed, is said to have been written entirely in the ancient language of Vanzagara, not some mishmash of Greek and Egyptian hieroglyphs as this book is. And rumor has it that it was a sizable tome, not a small volume such as this one.”
She had been greatly relieved to hear Pitney is verdict, but for some reason it had not completely satisfied her.
She slid her feet into a pair of slippers, picked up the candle, and turned resolutely toward the door. If she was going to be awake for some time, she might as well fetch a bite to eat from the kitchens. A bit of cheese or some leftover muffins might help dispel the images left behind by the dream.