“You don’t seem to comprehend the situation,” Lucas said. “The lady is my tenant and therefore under my protection.”
Hobson snorted. “I’m doing you a favor taking her off your hands. The way I heard it, she’s a lying little bitch.”
“Someone hired you to kill her?” Lucas asked.
Hobson was starting to appear uncertain. Matters were evidently not proceeding the way they usually did when he went about his business.
“I’m not wasting any more time talking to you.” Hobson leaped toward Lucas, knife ready to slash. “Yer a dead man.”
“Not quite,” Lucas said.
Energy, dark and terrifying, flashed in the atmosphere. Evangeline had just time enough time to realize that Lucas was somehow generating it and then Hobson was shrieking with raw, mindless panic.
“No, get away from me,” he shouted. He dropped the knife and clawed at something only he could see. “Get away.”
He whirled and fled blindly into the gardens.
“Damn it to hell,” Lucas said quietly. “Stone?”
A second figure glided out of the shadows. “Here, sir.”
The voice sounded as though it emanated from the depths of a vast underground cavern and, like Sharpy Hobson’s voice, it carried the accents of the London streets.
In the strange light provided by the subtly glowing foliage Evangeline could see that Stone suited his name. He was constructed like some ancient granite monolith and looked as if he would be just as impervious to the elements. The moonlight gleamed on his shaved head. The shadows and the eerie luminescence around them made it difficult to estimate his age but he appeared to be in his early twenties.
“See if you can grab Hobson before he blunders into the maze,” Lucas said. “Whatever you do, don’t try to follow him if he gets that far.”
“Yes, sir.”
Stone broke into a run, moving with a surprising lack of noise for such a large man.
Lucas turned back to Evangeline. “Are you all right, Miss Ames?”
“Yes, I think so.” She was still trying to calm her rattled senses and rapid pulse. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
A high-pitched, keening scream echoed from somewhere deep in the gardens. The unearthly cry iced Evangeline’s nerves. She stilled, unable to breathe.
It ended with horrifying suddenness. Evangeline was shivering so violently it was all she could do to remain on her feet.
“Sharpy Hobson,” she whispered.
“Evidently Stone did not get to him in time to prevent him from entering the maze,” Lucas said.
“Is he—?” She swallowed and tried again. “Is he dead?”
“Hobson? Probably or he soon will be. It’s unfortunate.”
“Unfortunate?” she managed. “That’s all you can say about the man’s death?”
“I would like to have questioned him. But as that does not seem likely to happen, you and I will talk, instead.”
She tried to compose herself. “Mr. Sebastian, I’m not at all sure what to say.”
“There will be nothing complicated about our conversation, Miss Ames. You will come inside with me now. I will pour you a glass of medicinal brandy for your nerves and you will tell me what you are doing here in my gardens at this hour of the night and why a man with a knife was trying to murder you.”
“But that’s what I’m trying to tell you. I have no idea why Hobson attacked me.”
“Then we must reason it out together.”
He shrugged off his coat and draped it around her shoulders before she could summon up further protest. When his fingers brushed the nape of her neck a thrill of awareness stirred her senses. The heavy wool garment was still warm from the heat of his body. She caught a trace of his masculine scent. It caused her senses to flare in a way that she had never before experienced.
Stone appeared. “Sorry, sir. He saw the open gate and ran straight inside. Probably assumed it was a way out of the gardens.”
“I’ll deal with the body later,” Lucas said. “I wish to speak to Miss Ames first and then I will escort her back to the cottage.”
“Yes, sir. Will you be needing anything else?”
“Not at the moment.”
“Yes, sir.”
Stone moved into the shadows. Evangeline watched him disappear. She was starting to wonder if she was caught up in some bizarre dream. Perhaps she was hallucinating. It was not beyond the realm of possibility, she thought. Her employers and her friends were convinced that her nerves had been badly strained by the attack two weeks earlier. Perhaps they were right.
Lucas’s powerful hand closed around her arm. The shock of the physical contact made her flinch. Her talent was still flaring wildly and it was linked to her sense of touch. She could perceive Lucas’s aura now quite clearly. The fierce bands of ice-and-fire energy took her breath.
“Relax, Miss Ames,” he said. “I will not hurt you.”
There was nothing in his aura to indicate that he was lying. She was safe enough, she decided, at least for the moment. She pulled herself together and lowered her psychical senses.
“This way, Miss Ames.” He steered her around a large bush. “Watch your step. There are a number of hazards on the grounds, including those roses.”
The power she had glimpsed in Lucas’s aura warned her that he was probably a good deal more dangerous than anything in his strange gardens.
Sharpy Hobson had stopped screaming, but she knew that she would hear the echoes of his last, horrified cries in her nightmares for a long time to come.
Two
Evangeline perched tensely on the edge of one of the well-worn chairs in the library; the lapels of Lucas’s coat clutched at her throat. She watched him pour two glasses of brandy.
The glary gaslight from the wall sconces revealed a massive mahogany desk, two large reading chairs and two end tables. The furnishings, along with the frayed and faded carpet and the heavy draperies that covered the windows, had gone out of fashion decades earlier. The shelves were crammed with leather-bound volumes. A variety of scientific instruments including a microscope and a telescope were scattered about the room.
Lucas Sebastian was a mystery not only to her, but also to the people of Little Dixby. He had arrived to take up residence at Crystal Gardens three days ago and he had immediately become the source of speculation and gossip.
She had met him for the first time yesterday in Chadwick Books, the only bookshop in town. Lucas had entered the premises shortly after she had gone through the door. He had introduced himself to her and to the proprietor, Irene Witton.
Irene was new to the bookselling business, having purchased the shop from the widow of the previous owner a few months earlier. But she was ambitious and it was clear that she was delighted to have Lucas as a customer. There was nothing better for business than having word get around that the owner of the largest country house in the district shopped at her establishment.
Evangeline, however, had not been able to sort out her own reactions to Lucas so neatly. Her senses had flared briefly when he walked into the shop. It had been an instinctive, intuitive response. Although he had not touched her she had sensed what she knew was a strong psychical talent. Indeed, it had been impossible to ignore the subtle shift of energy in the atmosphere. The knowledge had lifted the hair on the back of her neck. A strange mix of excitement and wariness had twisted through her.
“It appears I am your tenant, Mr. Sebastian,” she said.
“So you are, Miss Ames.” He smiled. “My uncle’s man of business informed me that you had rented Fern Gate Cottage for the month. He was very pleased. Evidently he has not been able to attract a tenant to the property in the past two years. I trust you are enjoying your stay here in Little Dixby?”
It had been on the tip of her tongue to tell him that, aside from the occasional highly illicit thrill of trespassing on the grounds of the old abbey, she had never been more bored in her life. In that moment, however, she discovered t
hat was no longer true. But she could hardly say that her perception of the pleasures of country life had done a complete about-face when he had walked through the door of Chadwick Books.
“I find the countryside quite … invigorating,” she said instead.
His dark brows rose a little. Something that might have been amusement glittered in his gem-green eyes. “Excellent. You will send word to the Gardens if you need anything in the way of repairs at the cottage?”
“Yes, thank you, but I’m sure that won’t be necessary.”
“One never knows,” Lucas said.
He had selected some old maps and a guidebook to the local ruins, paid for his purchases and made his farewells. Evangeline and Irene had watched him walk out onto the street and disappear into the crowds of visitors that thronged Little Dixby in the summer. The town was within a three-hour train trip from London and had long been an attraction due to the remarkably well-preserved Roman antiquities in the vicinity.
Irene had folded her arms on the glass counter with a speculative air. She was a spinster in her late thirties. Evangeline was sure that Irene’s failure to marry had nothing to do with her looks. She was an attractive, well-educated woman with an excellent figure, dark hair, blue eyes and a fine sense of style. The fashionable silver spectacles chatelaine she wore at her waist to hold her eyeglasses was decorated with delicately engraved butterflies and lovely turquoise stones.
Irene would have been nothing short of ravishing at the marriageable age of eighteen or nineteen, Evangeline thought. But looks and intelligence were not always sufficient when it came to the business of marriage, because marriage was a business transaction and everyone knew it. Social status and money mattered far more than true love and the metaphysical connection between lovers that the sensation novelists celebrated in their stories.
“So that’s the new owner of the Gardens,” Irene said. “Not quite what everyone expected. At least he did not appear to be mad like his uncle.”
Evangeline blinked. “What on earth do you mean?”
“You’re new around here,” Irene said. “But surely you’ve heard some of the tales and legends about the Gardens?”
“Yes, but I wasn’t aware that the former owner was mad,” Evangeline said. She hesitated. “Well, I must admit that my daily maid did say that Chester Sebastian was notoriously eccentric.”
Irene chuckled. “A polite word for mad as a hatter. Chester Sebastian was, however, a brilliant botanist and I, for one, will sorely miss him.”
“Why is that?”
“He was a very good customer. I was able to locate several rare volumes and prints of botanical subjects for him. Price was no object. However, not everyone here in Little Dixby took such a charitable view of Chester Sebastian. I have been assured by no less an authority than Arabella Higgenthorp, the director of the local gardening club, that Sebastian conducted all sorts of what she calls unnatural horticultural experiments in the Gardens.”
Evangeline thought about the strange energy she had sensed on the grounds of the abbey. “What do you think Mrs. Higgenthorp meant by unnatural?”
“People claim that Sebastian mixed the occult arts and the science of botany with disastrous results.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. What nonsense.”
“Don’t be so certain of that.” Irene widened her eyes in a mockingly melodramatic manner and lowered her voice to a stage whisper. “The locals are convinced that Chester Sebastian’s death was caused by some of the dark supernatural forces that he unleashed in his gardens.”
“Ridiculous,” Evangeline said. But she had sensed some dangerous currents of power on the grounds of Crystal Gardens. It was not beyond the realm of possibility that Chester Sebastian had been done in by one of his psychical botanical experiments.
Irene smiled. “Of course it’s all nonsense but the story fits in nicely with other local legends. Visitors love that sort of thing.”
Evangeline was amused. “And they tend to purchase guidebooks and maps that feature those thrilling local legends?”
“Yes, indeed. The tale of the lost treasure of Crystal Gardens in particular has been especially good for business.”
“What treasure is that?”
“A hoard of Roman gold is said to be buried somewhere on the grounds of the old abbey.” Irene wrinkled her nose. “But if you want my opinion, it was most likely discovered years ago, if it ever existed.”
“No doubt.” Evangeline looked out the window again but Lucas was nowhere in sight.
Irene followed her gaze. She stopped smiling. “In all seriousness, they do say there is a strain of madness in the family.”
“Indeed?”
“According to the local gossip Chester Sebastian claimed to have paranormal talents.” Irene made a dismissive movement with one hand. “One would have to be either delusional or a complete fraud to make such a claim, don’t you agree?”
Evangeline chose her words carefully. “It certainly makes one wonder.”
But she could not believe that Lucas was mad—exciting and perhaps dangerous, yes, but not insane.
Inspired, she had rushed back to Fern Gate Cottage to make detailed notes about the hero of her new book. She was on chapter four and John Reynolds was about to make his appearance. His features and demeanor had eluded her but she now knew precisely how he looked: Exactly like Lucas Sebastian—dark-haired and green-eyed with a hard face and an aura of raw power. In short, the type of man who would break society’s rules when it pleased him to do so.
The problem was that until that moment she had intended John Reynolds to be the villain of her story.
“TRY THIS.” Lucas handed her one of the glasses of brandy. “It’s good for the nerves.”
“Thank you.” She took a cautious swallow. The stuff burned a little on the way down but the heat felt good, fortifying. She thought about Sharpy Hobson’s dying scream and the glass trembled in her hand. “Shouldn’t we send for the police?”
Lucas carried his brandy to the chair across from hers and sat down. “I’m sure the local police are reasonably discreet, but under the circumstances I doubt that the gossip could be contained, not in a town as small as Little Dixby. Among other things, there is the matter of your reputation to consider.”
She felt the heat rise in her face. This time the warmth was generated by the politely veiled expression in his eyes, not the brandy. She gripped the lapels of his coat more securely.
“Yes, of course,” she whispered.
“If it gets out that you were found in the Gardens dressed in your nightclothes at two-thirty in the morning, it will be assumed that you came here for an intimate rendezvous with me.”
“But that man with the knife—”
“The fact that we were interrupted by a knife-wielding intruder will only add to the sensation elements of the story. The news will be all over Little Dixby by morning. I estimate that it will appear in the London papers within twenty-four hours. The publishers of the penny dreadfuls will be hawking their version of events shortly after that.” Lucas swallowed some brandy and lowered his glass. “The extra time will be required for an artist to create an appropriately lurid illustration, you see.”
“Good grief.”
But he was right, she thought. The press would go to great lengths to enhance the titillating aspects of the story, even though none existed. It was all very predictable and it explained why so many women chose not to report crimes against their person to the police. In her case the notoriety could easily destroy her budding career as a novelist. The first chapter of Winterscar Hall was set to appear this next week in six of Mr. Guthrie’s newspapers, including the Little Dixby Herald. If it got out that the author had been involved in a crime involving attempted murder and an illicit rendezvous with a wealthy gentleman, Guthrie would no doubt cancel the contract. She recalled a rather vague morals clause.
Under the circumstances, Lucas Sebastian’s gallantry was surprising; stunning, actually. She made he
r living as a professional paid companion. She had no family or social connections. Like other women in her situation she clung to respectability by her fingernails. It would take very little to cause her to lose her grip. In her experience men of Sebastian’s rank and wealth rarely concerned themselves with the reputations of females in her position.
She reminded herself that Lucas might have his own reasons for not wanting the police on the grounds of Crystal Gardens, starting with the dead man in the maze.
“I comprehend your reasoning, Mr. Sebastian,” she said, “and I sincerely appreciate your thoughtfulness. But we can hardly pretend that nothing occurred here tonight.”
“I disagree, Miss Ames.” Lucas smiled a slow, cold smile. “You would be amazed by how simple it is to do precisely that. Even if you are willing to sacrifice yourself on the altar of local gossip, I am not.”
“Sorry?”
“Come now, Miss Ames, use your head. You are not the only one in this little drama who would become the object of much speculation if this story appears in the press. I am involved, as well.”
So much for assuming that he was concerned for her reputation, she thought. Whatever had she been thinking? Her romantic imagination had temporarily gotten the better of her common sense. Lucas was protecting himself, not her. No gentleman wanted his name dragged through the gutter press.
“Of course,” she said briskly. “I quite understand. Forgive me, I didn’t consider your position.”
“As it happens, I require privacy while I am in residence here in Little Dixby. I would prefer not to become entangled in a police inquiry, to say nothing of having to deal with the so-called gentlemen of the press.”
“You have made your point, sir,” she said. “There is no need to elaborate.”
She could hardly argue with his decision, she thought. She had made the same decision two weeks ago. She and Lucas both had secrets to conceal.
“You will understand that I must ask you some questions, Miss Ames. While I am committed to avoiding both the police and the press, I would like to know what I have become involved in tonight.”