“Did you want something?” Sally asked ungraciously. She really wasn’t in the mood for Sir Matthew at the moment. She wasn’t in the mood for anyone, including herself.
In love. With Lucien. How had that happened?
More importantly, how did she make it stop? Was there a cure? Cold tea? Hot baths? Eye of newt and toe of stoat?
“A word.” Sir Matthew pushed the cowl back from his jowls. “In private.”
“This really isn’t a good time.” Really, it was too annoying to be interrupted in the middle of an epiphany. It was her betrothal ball and she could brood if she wanted to. “Perhaps later?”
“Oh, no,” said Sir Matthew. The torchlight glinted off his pale eyes, making them glow an uncanny red. “This is precisely the time.”
Chapter Twenty-five
“Have you seen Sally?” Lucien caught up with Turnip Fitzhugh just in front of the refreshment table.
Sally wasn’t in the gallery, she wasn’t in the music room, and, as far as he could tell, she wasn’t in the ballroom.
Lucien felt a chill that cut right through the velvet of his tunic. He should never have let her leave that conservatory by herself.
He tried to take comfort in the fact that Sally was the very opposite of a wilting violet. And she was armed, in a fashion.
But even Sally could be taken by surprise.
Lucien’s imagination presented him with a hundred horrible possibilities. A hand, reaching out of the darkness, grabbing Sally’s golden curls, bending her head back, setting a knife against her neck.
Leaving her pale and cold on a bench in the garden.
“I say, don’t want to ruffle the petals, don’t you know,” said Turnip, and Lucien realized that he was clutching the front of the other man’s costume with both hands.
Lucien abruptly let go. “Sally? Have you seen her?”
“Thought she was with you,” said Mr. Fitzhugh, with, Lucien decided, a criminal lack of concern. “Busy being betrothed and all that sort of thing.”
“She’s not.” Bile rose in the back of Lucien’s throat. “I was hoping she might be with you.”
“Misplaced her, have you?” said Mr. Fitzhugh genially.
“Something like that.” Why hadn’t he shoved Sherry out of the room and wrapped her in his arms and held her tight? Yes, a French spy would still be out there, but he and Sally would be together.
If he found her—no, when he found her—he wasn’t going to make that mistake again.
“Your grace?”
It was one of the footmen, clad like all the others in the Belliston livery of crimson and gold. But all Lucien saw was the silver tray in his hands.
A silver tray bearing a single sheet of cream-colored paper.
Inside, there was only one line, written in a bold, black hand:
Miss Fitzhugh awaits you in the Folly.
“Is this entirely necessary?” Sally demanded, as Sir Matthew led her into the mirrored gallery through which Lucien had taken her two days before.
Then, the mirrors had sparkled with late-afternoon sunlight. Tonight, theirs was a chill brilliance, lit by sparse clusters of candles in branched holders. The only furniture in the long, narrow room was backless benches set at intervals along the walls, upholstered in a pale blue that seemed tinged with frost.
Sally could see her own form, tall and pale in her spangled gown, reflected back at her again and again from the tall mirrors.
Lady Florence stuck her narrow head up, favoring Sir Matthew with a distinctly inimical stare.
“This is only necessary because you have made it so.” Sir Matthew closed the door behind them with a distinct click.
The sound seemed to reverberate down the corridor, like a coin dropped into a deep well.
Sir Matthew stalked forward, the folds of his robe hissing against the parquet floor. “When you gave your evidence to me, you neglected to mention that you were affianced to the Duke of Belliston.”
Sally flicked a long curl back behind her shoulder. “I wasn’t. Not then.”
“Is this the way the duke repays you for your perjury?” Despite herself, Sally felt a frisson of unease. In his dark robes, there was something decidedly sinister about the magistrate. “Is a coronet sufficient to pervert the course of justice?”
“Justice?” That was rich. Lady Florence bared her teeth. Sally patted her stoat on the head. “Is it just to hound an innocent man? Is it just to condemn someone based on mere rumor and speculation? I don’t call that justice. I call it laziness.”
Sir Matthew fingered the jangling chain hanging around his waist. “You aren’t going to make this easy, are you?”
“If by easy, you mean am I going to tell you what you want to hear, then no.” If Sir Matthew thought she was that easily intimidated, he had another think coming. Sally lifted her chin, her nostrils flaring. “If you had bothered to do your job, you would know that the woman in question was the paramour of Mr. Caldicott. But are you hounding him? No. Instead, you let yourself be distracted by a ridiculous rumor about vampires.”
If Sir Matthew was taken aback by the news about Hal, he recovered himself quickly. “There’s no need to continue your act with me, Miss Fitzhugh.”
“It’s not an act,” Sally said shortly. “The duke is the best and the kindest of men and I would count myself fortunate to be his bride under any circumstances. I would count myself fortunate if Hullingden were a hovel and the duke were a tenant on his own estate. I would count myself fortunate if he were one of those annoying dancers with the bells and the little bits of cloth. I would—”
“Yes, yes.” Sir Matthew hastily held up a hand to ward off further examples, which was a good thing, since Sally was rapidly running out of odd occupations. “You are determined, aren’t you?”
Sally bared her teeth at him. “You have no idea.”
“I am aware”—Sir Matthew’s robe whispered against the floor—“that many ladies view a coronet as something to which to aspire, but, in the interest of your own safety, I implore you to reconsider your decision.”
She hadn’t felt unsafe until now.
Sally’s hand snuck back towards her quiver, where she had stowed, in addition to Lady Florence, a few ornamental arrows. Her little golden bow was primarily for show, but it was strung, and the arrows did have pointy tips. They probably wouldn’t do more than scratch, but the surprise of it might give her time to bolt.
“You are very kind to take an interest in my matrimonial matters, Sir Matthew,” Sally said coolly, “but, as this is my betrothal ball, I really ought to be getting back. Before I’m missed. Because this is my betrothal ball. Where people will be looking for me.”
“A betrothal to a villain? To a murderer?” Sir Matthew’s eyes burned like the fires of a dozen autos-da-fé. “You are playing with fire, Miss Fitzhugh. And those who play with fire—”
“Generally get burned. I know.” The oddity of it was that Sir Matthew appeared entirely sincere.
Much in the way that Tomás de Torquemada had been sincere. Sincerity and torture weren’t necessarily mutually exclusive.
“No. You don’t know.” The metal tips of Sir Matthew’s belt jangled as he stalked forward. “What would you say if I told you that madness ran in the duke’s blood? What would you say if I told you that the man was a danger to himself and to society?”
“I would tell you,” said Sally smartly, “that you ought to look in a mirror.”
Sir Matthew stopped short, his expression one of outrage. “You think I— You believe that I am—”
“Deranged,” Sally provided helpfully. “Delusional. Consumed by your own dark fancies.”
Sir Matthew was between Sally and the door, but there was the other door, the one that led out into the gardens. If she could just back along that way . . .
“There is nothing f
anciful about that woman’s death.” Sir Matthew’s hands clenched into fists. “Miss Fitzhugh, the duke believes himself to be a doomed creature of the night. He lurks in shadows. He lusts for blood. He has fallen prey to his own fancies. Can you still defend him after you have seen, with your own eyes, the destruction of which he is capable?”
“The destruction of which you think he is capable,” Sally hedged.
When it came to falling prey to fancies, she began to wonder if Sir Matthew hadn’t tumbled into his.
Was the magistrate mad enough to have murdered Fanny Logan to provide his own proof of Lucien’s guilt?
It had an insane sort of logic.
Sir Matthew stalked forward. “The late duchess killed her husband in cold blood. Her son inherited her taste for blood. You can see it in his eyes.”
All Sally saw in Lucien’s eyes were eyes. They were very nice eyes. She was very fond of them. But eyes were eyes.
It would have been funny if it weren’t so awful. Sally’s urge to laugh faded. “The duke’s mother was murdered. Which you would know if you had bothered to do any investigating.”
“Is that what he told you?” Sir Matthew looked at her with something very like pity. “Lies, Miss Fitzhugh. All lies. The truth is that madness runs in that line, madness, and a bloodlust so strong, so dangerous, that the duke’s own family has found it necessary, for the past decade, to keep him in restraints in his own castle. Only shackles, Miss Fitzhugh, have kept the duke from enacting his dread fancies.”
Sir Matthew uttered the words with such conviction that Sally stopped sidling backwards long enough to stare at him.
“He hasn’t been in shackles; he’s been in the colonies.” Which some people might regard as the same thing, but that was another matter.
“Are you so sure, Miss Fitzhugh? I have it on the most reliable authority that the duke has spent the past decade in strict confinement.”
“Reliable authority?” Sally repeated incredulously. “What reliable authority?”
Sir Matthew’s eyes shifted. “That is a matter of strictest confidence.”
“It isn’t strictest confidence—it’s slander. Next you’re going to tell me Lucien has been sacrificing chickens,” said Sally in disgust. “Not that they wouldn’t deserve it, nasty, clucking things.”
Sir Matthew fixed her with a stern gaze. “Do you dare to joke of this matter?”
Sally met him eye to eye. She wasn’t afraid anymore. She was too angry to be afraid. “I never joke about chickens.”
“Do you think this is pleasant for me?” Sir Matthew appeared to be at the end of his patience. “Do you think I enjoy arguing with an impudent chit of a girl who doesn’t know what is good for her? It would be your own just deserts if I left you to that monster!”
“Yes,” said Sally, edging away towards the door. “You do that.”
Sir Matthew thrust his hands into his sleeves. “If you are harmed, it will be, in some respect, on my own head. If I had spoken, all those years ago, instead of keeping the matter silent, as the duke’s family wished . . . then the unfortunate who was murdered on that balcony might yet live.”
Sally stopped edging away and stared at the magistrate. He didn’t sound mad. He sounded exhausted. And entirely sincere. “You really believe it. Good heavens, you really believe it.”
“I believe it because it is true,” said Sir Matthew simply.
There was such a world of wrong in that statement that Sally didn’t even know where to begin. Other than, possibly, informing the Prime Minister, Lord Grenville, that there was something terribly wrong with the state of law enforcement in England.
Really, someone ought to do something to fix that. But, first, she needed to set Sir Matthew straight.
“I don’t know who has been giving you this information—this misinformation—but there isn’t a word of truth in any of it. The duke wouldn’t hurt”—Lady Florence provided Sally with inspiration—“he wouldn’t hurt a stoat! And that isn’t to say he hasn’t been provoked. As for his mother,” Sally continued sternly, “what about the Black Tulip?”
“The black what?”
“The Black Tulip. The spy. Good heavens, didn’t you do anything all those years ago? The spy to whom the duchess was passing information.”
“A spy,” repeated Sir Matthew.
“Yes,” said Sally, in fine form. “The duchess’s contact. The deadliest spy in all of France. Why didn’t you bother to do anything about him?”
“We aren’t in France,” Sir Matthew pointed out.
Sally rolled her eyes. “The deadliest spy from France. They do move around, you know. It wouldn’t make much sense for a French spy to be in France, now, would it? There’s much more dastardly work for them to do over here. As in the case of the duke’s parents,” she finished triumphantly.
Sir Matthew sat down heavily on one of the narrow ice blue benches. “Miss Fitzhugh, if the duke spun you such a tale—”
Sally folded her arms across her chest. “What makes you think it’s a tale?”
“—that can only be further proof of his instability of mind. I investigated his parents’ murders. There were no . . . spies.”
Sally pressed her lips together. “Maybe you just didn’t look hard enough.”
“My dear girl, I assure you, if there had been”—Sir Matthew seemed to choke on the word—“spies, I am sure they would not have escaped my notice.”
“Spies, by their very nature, are designed to escape notice.” Sir Matthew did not appear impressed by that argument, so Sally tried another tack. “Ask Lord Henry Caldicott. He’ll tell you.”
Ha! That should do it. Lord Henry was, after all, the one who had told Lucien of his mother’s illicit activities. He was an unimpeachable witness, solid, respectable. Sir Matthew might believe that Lucien was mad and Sally was most likely stupid and quite definitely venal, but he would listen to Lord Henry.
Sir Matthew blinked at her. “Lord Henry?”
Sally couldn’t resist a bit of sarcasm. “A tall man with graying hair. He lives here at Hullingden. I believe you have met before.”
“We have.” Sir Matthew’s brows drew together. “It was Lord Henry who told me of his nephew’s dangerous delusions.”
Chapter Twenty-six
“Lord Henry,” Sally repeated. “Lord Henry told you that Lucien was mad?”
Sir Matthew eyed her warily. “It was quite painful for him,” he said repressively. “As you can imagine.”
“Oh, I’m sure it was.”
Who had told Lucien about the spies? Lord Henry. Who had access to the snuffbox and the manzanilla plant? Lord Henry.
Who benefited from Lucien’s death? Lord Henry, that was who.
“Didn’t you stop to ask anyone else?” demanded Sally in disgust. “Or were you willing to condemn the duke on one man’s word?”
Sir Matthew looked down his nose at her. “Lord Henry,” he said severely, “is a highly respected—”
“Yes, yes,” interrupted Sally impatiently. Really, Sir Matthew was entirely without imagination. It was all as plain as the muzzle on Lady Florence’s face. If Lucien were executed, Lord Henry would have not only Hullingden but the title as well. Lord Henry could play the bereaved uncle—he could even defend Lucien and claim that he would never have believed it of him—and everyone would say how noble he was and feel terribly sorry for him. It wasn’t Lord Henry’s fault that his nephew was a vampire.
Only it was. Sally wondered whether he had got the idea for the vampire rumor from The Convent of Orsino. The bit about Lucien being chained in the attic was a nice touch. She had assumed that charming bit of slander had come from the fertile imagination of Delia Cartwright, but apparently not. It was Lord Henry Caldicott who had spread the rumors, setting the scene.
Lord Henry was probably to blame for the sacrificial chickens as
well.
He also, Sally realized grimly, was the one with the strongest motive for doing away with Fanny Logan. A future duke couldn’t be embroiled in a breach-of-promise suit with an actress—not when his father was determined that he marry a duke’s daughter.
In one fell swoop, Lord Henry had removed his son’s inconvenient mistress and incriminated the man who stood between him and his title.
It really was incredibly clever, not to mention quite economical.
There was just one flaw. Lord Henry Caldicott had failed to reckon with Miss Sally Fitzhugh.
“Miss Fitzhugh.” Sally looked at Sir Matthew in surprise. She had nearly forgotten he was there. “Miss Fitzhugh, I implore you, have a care. Tonight of all nights . . .”
“Tonight? Oh.” Another piece of Lord Henry’s diabolical plan snapped into place. “All Hallows’ Eve.” The night ghosts walked.
Sally had thought it was an odd choice for a betrothal ball.
“Precisely,” said Sir Matthew, his face a map of worried wrinkles. He no longer looked sinister; he put Sally in mind of an ancient mastiff, chewing the wrong bone. “Given the nature of the duke’s delusions . . .”
It really was quite diabolical and rather brilliant. Everyone in costume, everyone flirting with the idea of being just a little bit afraid. None of them knew that there was a real monster roaming the grounds, and that his name was Lord Henry Caldicott.
What did he mean to do? Would there be another woman killed and Lucien framed? If another woman was found dead with fang marks on her neck, the hysteria alone might be enough to carry Lucien to the block.
Possibly. But, the first attempt having failed, Lord Henry might not be willing to trust that a second attempt would succeed. He had already seen Lucien slip through his net once—with, Sally thought smugly, more than a little help from her.
Sally’s smugness faded as the necessary corollary of that struck her. Indirect means having failed, Lord Henry might be moved to more direct measures. Her imagination supplied her with an image of Lucien, sprawled on the ground, a stake through the heart.