“And you shall have none from me.”
“An interesting bargain, is it not?” she said wryly. “A pact of honesty between a woman said to have murdered her husband in cold blood and a gentleman who conceals the truth about himself from the world.”
“I am satisfied with it.” He looked at her. “Now that we have made that bargain, perhaps you had better tell me what it is you require of me, Mrs. Deveridge.”
“No need to be alarmed, sir. I want nothing more of you than what any reasonable person might expect from a madwoman.” She continued to stare fixedly at the castle. “I wish you to help me find a ghost, sir.”
He absorbed the implications of that statement for a long while. Then he exhaled slowly. “I cannot imagine that a lady of your intellect and education actually believes in phantoms.”
Her jaw tightened. “I can almost believe in this particular specter.”
“Does this ghost have a name?”
“Oh yes,” she said softly. “He has a name. Renwick Deveridge.”
Perhaps the rumors were right after all. Perhaps she truly was crazed, a candidate for Bedlam. Artemas was suddenly aware of the chill in the air. The fog was rising from the Thames to shroud the gardens.
“Do you actually believe that your dead husband has returned from the grave to haunt you?” he asked carefully.
“Shortly before he … died in that fire, my husband vowed to kill everyone in my family.”
“Good God.”
“He succeeded in murdering my father.”
Artemas watched her intently. “Winton Reed is said to have died of a heart attack.”
“It was poison, Mr. Hunt.” She glanced at him and then looked away. “My aunt tried to save him but my father was quite elderly and his heart was weak. He died a few hours after the fire.”
“I see.” He kept his voice neutral. “I don’t suppose you have any proof?”
“None whatsoever.”
“Mmm.”
“You don’t believe me, do you, sir?” She swept out a hand. “I can’t say that I blame you. Those who think I murdered my husband would no doubt claim that the guilt I must feel has driven me to seeing his ghost.”
“Have you seen his ghost?”
“No.” She hesitated. “But I know someone who has.”
Mad as a March hare? he wondered. Or a clever murderess trying to use him in some dark scheme? Whatever it was, this conversation was certainly not turning out to be dull.
“What do you think is occurring, Mrs. Deveridge?”
“I know this sounds crazed but lately I have begun to wonder if it is possible that my husband did not die in the fire that night.”
“I understood that Deveridge’s body was found in the ashes.”
“Yes. The doctor identified him. But what if…?”
“What if the doctor was wrong? Is that what you are trying to say?”
“Yes. I was told that the body was burned but not beyond recognition. Nevertheless, a mistake could have been made.” She turned suddenly to face him, her eyes stark in the glare of the lantern. “One way or another, I must discover the truth and I must do so quickly. If my husband is still alive, I can only assume that he has returned to carry out his vengeance against my family. I must take action to protect my aunt and myself.”
He eyed her for a long moment. “And if it transpires that you are indeed a victim of a fevered imagination, Mrs. Deveridge? What then?”
“Prove to me that I am wrong to believe that Renwick has come back from the grave. Show me that I am mad. I promise you, sir, I would welcome the knowledge that I have succumbed to a nervous affliction.” Her mouth curved grimly. “At the very least, I can begin the cure. My aunt is very skilled at preparing tonics for that sort of thing.”
He flexed his hand slowly. “Perhaps you should consult Bow Street, Mrs. Deveridge. Someone there may be able to help you.”
“Even if I could convince a Bow Street runner that I was not mad, he would not stand a chance against an expert in the arts of Vanza.”
“Deveridge was an expert?”
“Yes. He was not a master, though he longed to become one, but he was quite skilled. I must tell you, sir, that after going through my father’s notes on the members of the Society, I have concluded that there is only one person other than yourself whom I might consult. Unfortunately, he is not available.”
For some reason it irritated him to realize that she had actually considered employing someone else. “Who was the other man you deemed suitable for this task?”
“Mr. Edison Stokes.”
“He’s not even in England at the moment,” Artemas muttered. “Got married a short while back. Took his bride on a tour of Roman ruins, I believe.”
“Yes. Which leaves me with very little choice.”
“Always gratifying to know that one is at the top of the list, even if one got there by default.”
She met his eyes. “Well, sir? Will you assist me in my inquiries in exchange for my father’s journal?”
He looked into her eyes and saw no madness there, only a fierce determination and a hint of true desperation. If he did not aid her, she would take on the task alone or perhaps seek the help of one of the many crackpot members of the Vanzagarian Society. Either way, she would put herself at great risk if her fears proved true.
If they proved true.
There were a thousand reasons not to get involved with this woman, he thought. But he could not seem to think of any of them at the moment.
“I will make some inquiries,” he heard himself say cautiously. He saw her lips part. He raised his hand to silence her. “If they confirm your concerns, we will discuss the matter further. But I make no promises beyond that.”
She gave him an unexpected smile, one that made the lantern light seem pale in comparison. “Thank you, sir. I assure you that when this is finished, you shall have my father’s journal to do with as you like.”
“Yes,” he said. “I will.” One way or another.
“Now then,” she said crisply, “I expect you have some questions.”
“I have a great many questions.”
“I realize that what I have to tell you will sound somewhat bizarre, to say the least.”
“No doubt.”
“But I assure you, I have good reasons for my concerns.”
“Speaking of the truth, madam …”
She gave him an inquiring look. “Yes?”
“Since we have agreed that we will be honest with each other, you had best know here and now that I find you very attractive, Madeline.”
There was a heavy silence.
“Oh dear,” she said eventually. “That is most unfortunate.”
“No doubt, but there you have it.”
“I had rather hoped we could avoid that particular complication.”
“That makes two of us, madam.”
“Nevertheless,” she said briskly, “I expect you have an advantage over the other gentlemen who are similarly afflicted.”
“Afflicted.” He thought about that. “Yes, the word does appear to apply to the problem.”
She frowned. “You are certainly not the first man to suffer this peculiar interest in me.”
“I should no doubt be relieved to learn that I am not alone.”
She sighed. “There is no comprehending it, but in truth, I have received any number of notes and bouquets from gentlemen during the past year. All of them seeking a romantical connection, if you can believe it.”
“I see.”
“It is really quite odd, but Aunt Bernice has explained to me that a certain sort of gentleman is attracted to widows. That sort is apparently under the impression that a lady in my position has had some experience of the world and therefore a man need not concern himself with her, uh, lack of experience, shall we say” Artemas nodded wisely. “In other words, he need not be held back by a gentlemanly regard for her innocence.”
“Precisely. As Aunt Bernice says, there i
s, apparently, something about a widow.”
“Mmm.”
“Mind you, I can understand the appeal of experience to a man who is bent on conducting an affair with a lady.”
“Mmm.”
She shook her head slightly. “But one would think that the rumors surrounding the manner in which I achieved my widowhood would be somewhat off-putting to gentlemen.”
“Indeed.”
“Experience is all very well as far as it goes, but I confess I cannot comprehend the appeal of a lady who is said to have murdered her husband in cold blood.”
“There is no accounting for taste.” He decided not to mention the standing wager in the club betting books. The guarantee of a thousand pounds to any man who succeeded in spending a night with her was quite sufficient to explain the bouquets and invitations she had received. But she might not appreciate that fact.
She gave him an admonishing look. “My advice, sir, is to call upon your Vanza training to fortify yourself against any interest you may have in forming a romantical connection with me.”
He framed her face with his hands. “I am sorry to tell you that even my status as a master does not seem to be proof against a desire to form a connection with you, Madeline.”
Her eyes widened. “Truly?”
“Truly.”
She swallowed visibly. “How very odd.”
“Yes, isn’t it. But as you are forever reminding me, the gentlemen of Vanza are nothing if not odd.”
He bent his head and covered her mouth with his own before she could say another word.
He sensed her surprise and confusion but she did not attempt to push herself away. He pulled her into his arms, folding her tightly against his chest. She was closer now, much closer than she had been when they had danced the waltz. He could feel the warmth of her body. He knew that he was growing very hard against the soft curve of her hip. Her subtle scent filled his head.
She gave a small gasp. Then, abruptly, her mouth softened under his. The folds of her domino brushed against his boots.
He slipped his hands inside her domino and fitted his palms around her, just below the bodice of her gown. The gentle weight of her breasts rested tantalizingly on the edge of his hands. Urgency coursed through him. He felt his blood heat swiftly.
Perhaps there was something about a widow, he thought.
He drank hungrily from her mouth. Her response was enthusiastic enough, but strangely awkward. He reminded himself that she had not been a wife for a year now and that her marriage had apparently been unsatisfying.
The fierce demands of his body took him by surprise. His training had taught him control in all things, including his relations with women. In addition, he was no longer in the first flush of lustful youth.
But at the moment he felt very lustful indeed.
He slid his mouth to the sweet, vulnerable skin of her throat and tightened his hands around her slender body Her fingers clenched in his hair. She shivered in his arms.
There was definitely something about a widow, he decided. At least there was something about this widow.
“Artemas.” It was as though a dam had been breached somewhere inside her.
Her response sent passion rolling through him in a great wave. It had been years since he had been at the mercy of such a driving thirst. The fact that it threatened to outstrip the control he had spent so much time and effort acquiring should have shaken him to the core. Instead he ached to surrender to its snare.
“I was wrong,” he said against her mouth. “You are even more dangerous than the rumors would have one believe.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps it is no more than this peculiar affliction I mentioned a moment ago,” she said breathlessly.
“Perhaps. But I must tell you that I do not give a bloody damn.”
He tried to think while he deepened the kiss. It was not easy. But one fact hammered at him. He could not take her here on the damp grass.
He picked her up and started toward the steps of the Haunted Mansion. The folds of her cloak cascaded over his arms.
“Dear God.” Madeline tore her mouth from his and simultaneously went rigid against him. In the shadows her eyes were huge, but not with passion. “The window.”
“What?” Jolted back to reality by the shock and fear in her voice, he set her quickly on her feet and looked up at the row of narrow, vaulted windows. “What is it?”
“There is someone in there.” She stared up at the panes of dark glass on the second level. “I saw him move, I swear it.”
Artemas groaned. “I believe you.”
“What?” She whirled to face him. “But who—?”
“My young friend Zachary or one of his Eyes and Ears, no doubt. I have warned them repeatedly to stay out of this attraction until it is finished. But the bloodthirsty little devils are very excited about it. Gave Henry all sorts of ideas for creating a proper ghostly effect.”
He started toward the steps.
“Artemas, wait—”
“Stay here.” He picked up the lantern and opened the front door. “This won’t take but a moment. Ill soon have the lads on their way.”
“I do not like this, Artemas.” She hugged herself and gazed uneasily at the door. “Please come away. Send one of your employees to deal with the matter.”
Her anxiety was beyond reason, he thought. On the other hand, this was a lady who feared the ghost of a murdered husband. He thought about the stout shutters and warning bells she had installed in her home. What diabolical fate had put him in the hands of this female? But he could not turn away from her, and it was not just her father’s journal that chained him now.
“Calm yourself,” he said in what he hoped were soothing tones. “I shall return in a moment.”
He entered the Haunted Mansion. The light from his lamp flared on the imitation stone hall, creating pockets of deep shadows beneath the twisting staircase.
“Damnation, how can you be so bloody stubborn?” Madeline picked up her skirts and rushed up the steps to follow him into the attraction. “I really did see someone in the window.”
“I told you that I do not doubt you.”
“Do not pretend to humor me, sir. You are now in my employ. If you insist on confronting the intruder, then it is my responsibility to accompany you.”
He briefly considered and rejected the notion of forcing her to go back outside. She was obviously overwrought by whatever it was she had glimpsed in the darkened window. She would only grow more anxious if he made her wait alone out on the path. It was unlikely that the intruder, if he actually existed, would present a serious threat.
“As you wish.” He started up the narrow staircase that led to the next floor of the castle. The light of the lantern danced eerily on the walls.
“No offense,” Madeline muttered behind him, “but I, for one, have no intention of ever paying good money to view this ghastly attraction.”
“It is rather effective, isn’t it?” He glanced at the bleached bones dangling in a stone recess. “What do you think of the skeleton?”
“Perfectly dreadful.”
“It was Short John’s contribution to the decor. When the attraction is completed, there will be several ghosts hanging from the ceiling and a rather nice display of a headless corpse. One of the other lads suggested some cowled figures for the top of the stairs.”
“Artemas, for God’s sake, this is no time to conduct a guided tour. There is an intruder up there somewhere. He may be waiting to pounce on us.”
“Highly unlikely. Zachary and his friends are well aware that I would take a dim view of that sort of thing.” A very dim view. When he got his hands on the urchin who had interrupted his passionate interlude with Madeline, he would let him know just how much he objected to such interference. “By and large, the Eyes and Ears are a good lot, but once in a while—”
He broke off abruptly, distracted by the shadowy movement at the top of the stairs. The l
amplight caught the edge of a cloak, but the figure was already moving away. The intruder vanished down a long hall on near-silent feet.
“Artemas,” Madeline breathed.
He ignored her, vaulted the last of the steps, and raced after the fleeing figure. He heard Madeline behind him. For the first time he questioned his decision to allow her to accompany him. He had caught only a glimpse of the intruder, but that was enough to tell him that the person he was chasing was a man, not an urchin.
At the end of the hall, a door slammed shut. Artemas came to a halt in front of it, set down the lantern, and twisted the handle. It turned but the door did not open.
“Bastard has wedged something heavy up against it,” he told Madeline.
He leaned his shoulder against the panels and shoved hard.
“Let me help.” Madeline moved into place behind him and planted both hands on the wood.
Artemas felt the door shift as the heavy object that had been placed in front of it scraped across the bare floor. He heard movement inside the room.
“What the bloody hell is he doing in there?” he muttered.
He gave one last shove against the door. It opened far enough to allow him to slip into the darkened chamber.
“Stay here,” he said to Madeline. This time he made it a clear command.
“For God’s sake, be careful,” she said in a voice that carried an edge of authority as sharp as his own.
Artemas lunged into the room, keeping his body low and angled to the side so as to present less of a target. Instinctively he fell back on his old training and sought the deepest shadows.
But he knew already that he was too late.
Cool night air wafted through the window that opened onto the miniature balcony. A net of artificial cobwebs danced on the currents of the light draft. The gossamer curtain billowed in an eerie fashion in the moonlight, silently taunting him.
Bloody idiot, Artemas thought. How did he expect to escape that way? Unless he chose to risk the long drop to the ground, the intruder was well and truly trapped.
Trapped creatures were often extremely dangerous, however.
He circled a recently painted canvas backdrop that featured a pair of specters hovering over a crypt. Easing aside the veil of cobwebs, he edged toward the window. He could see the length of the small balcony. It was empty.