Her fingers brushed against the key in the lock as she turned the doorknob. She hesitated at the touch of the cold iron, seeing again the bloody key on the floor in her dream.
She pushed aside the vision, drew a deep breath, and hurried out the door into the hall. She descended the stairs with only a couple of squeaks and made her way to the darkened kitchens. Setting the candle down on a table, she began her quest.
She felt his presence in the doorway behind her just as she located the remains of an apple pie. Startled, she dropped the pie plate on the table and whirled around.
Artemas stood in the shadowy opening, his hands thrust deep in the pockets of a black silk dressing gown. His dark hair was mussed in a most interesting manner.
“Is there enough for two?” he asked.
It was clear that he had just risen from his bed. There was a warm, lazy gleam in his eyes that told her he was making precisely the same observation about her. Memories of the passionate interlude in his library flooded through her. This man knew her as no other man did. The sensual intimacy of the moment threatened to freeze her in place.
She cleared her throat. “Yes, of course.” She had to summon an inordinate amount of willpower in order to pick up the knife.
“Were you unable to sleep because of our venture into Pitney’s maze?” he asked casually as he sat down at the table.
“No. I was awakened by a dream. One I have had many times since—” She broke off. “One I have frequently.”
He studied her intently as she cut two slices of pie and positioned them on plates. “Your aunt felt it necessary to corner me in my library this afternoon.”
“Good heavens.” She scowled as she sat down on the other side of the table and handed him a fork. “Why on earth would she do such a thing?”
Artemas plunged the tines of the fork into a plump chunk of apple. “She made it clear that she is aware of the fact that I have preyed upon your innocence.”
Madeline gasped for air and promptly choked on the mouthful of pie she had just taken.
“Preyed on my innocence?” she wheezed.
“Yes. I pointed out to her that you were of the opinion that nothing had changed. Gave her your logic concerning your status as the Wicked Widow, et cetera, et cetera. But she did not seem to be inclined to go along with that line of reasoning.”
“Good heavens.” Madeline coughed again, breathed deeply, and then stared at Artemas, unable to think of anything intelligent or clever to say. “Good heavens.”
“She is naturally concerned that I took advantage of you.”
“You did no such thing, sir.” She stabbed her fork into the pie. “It is not as though I am some green girl fresh out of the schoolroom. In the eyes of the world, nothing—”
He stopped her by holding up one hand, palm out. “I would be greatly obliged if you would not say it. I have heard the words too many times already today.”
“But it is nothing less than the truth, as you and I are both well aware. Nothing has changed.”
His eyes glittered enigmatically. “You may speak for yourself, madam. But do not presume to speak for me.”
She glared at him. “You are teasing me, sir.”
“No, Madeline, I am not teasing you.” He took another bite of his pie. “Things have changed for me.”
“Dear heaven.” Her eyes widened. “This is about your being wracked with guilt, is it not? You feel honor-bound to make amends because you discovered that I was a virgin. I assure you, sir, you need not concern yourself.”
“It is not your place to dictate the fine points of my honor.”
“Bloody hell, sir, if you are thinking of doing something so outlandish as to propose marriage simply because of that … that incident on the settee, you can forget it.” She was horrified to hear her voice rising to the shrill pitch of a fishwife’s, but she could not seem to stop it. “I was married once because a man thought to use me for his own ends. I will most certainly not be married a second time for a similar reason.”
Very slowly he put down his fork. He looked at her with dangerously enigmatic eyes. “You think that marriage to me would bear a striking resemblance to your first marriage? One Vanza husband would be very much like another? Is that what you believe?”
She would have given anything to simply disappear. Instead she flushed furiously as she realized how he had misinterpreted her words. “Good Lord, no, of course not. There is no resemblance between you and Renwick Deveridge. I did not mean to imply as much and I think you know that quite well.”
“Then what precisely did you mean, madam?”
She clamped her hand around the handle of her fork and attacked the pie again. “I meant that I do not intend to be wed so that you can satisfy some ridiculous point of honor.”
“You do not consider honor an adequate reason for marriage?”
“Under certain circumstances it is indeed a sufficient reason,” she said brusquely “But not in our case. At the risk of repeating myself, nothing has—”
“If you say it, I will not be responsible for my actions.”
She glowered at him.
His gaze softened. “Perhaps we had best change the subject. Tell me about your dream, the one that awakened you tonight.”
A chill went through her. The last thing she wanted to discuss was the recurring nightmare. On the other hand, it was an alternative to the even more unnerving topic of marriage.
“I tried once or twice to describe it to Bernice, but I discovered that talking about it somehow makes it all the more vivid,” she said slowly.
“How long have you suffered from these dreams?”
She hesitated and then decided there was no great harm in telling him part of the truth. “Since shortly after my father died.”
“I see. Is your father in your dream?”
The question took her by surprise. She looked up quickly. “No, it is my …”
“Your husband,” he concluded for her.
“Yes.”
“You say that you have had this dream frequently during the past year. Has it grown any less vivid with the passing of time?”
She put down her fork and met his eyes across the table. “No.”
“Then what do you have to risk by describing it to me?”
“Why do you want to hear the details of a particularly unpleasant nightmare?”
“Because we are trying to solve a mystery and your dream may contain some clues.”
She stared at him, astonished. “I do not see how that is possible.”
“Dreams can often convey messages,” he said calmly. “Perhaps there is something we can learn from yours. After all, we are searching for a man who may be posing as the ghost of Renwick Deveridge, and Deveridge, I gather, is featured in your dream. It may pay us to examine some of the details.”
She hesitated. “I am aware that Vanza teaches that dreams can be important, but in my opinion, the things that happen in dreams cannot be properly explained.”
He shrugged. “Do not try to explain anything. Just describe it. Walk me through your dream as it comes to you.”
She pushed aside the pie and folded her arms on the table in front of her. Were there any clues hidden in her nightmares? It was true that she had not explored them closely. Her only goal had been to forget them, not to recall the dreadful details.
“It always starts in the same place,” she said slowly. “I am crouched in front of the door of a bedchamber. I am aware that there is a fire in the house. I know I must get into the room, but the door is locked. I do not have the key, so I try to use a hairpin.”
“Go on,” he said softly.
She drew a deep breath. “I see Renwick’s body on the carpet. The key to the bedchamber lies beside him. I pick up the key and I try to open the door with it. But the key is wet. It slips from my fingers.”
“Why is the key wet?”
She looked at him. “It is covered in blood.”
He was silent for a moment but hi
s gaze did not waver. “Continue.”
“Every time I try to insert the key into the lock, I hear Renwick laugh.”
“Good God.”
“It is … very unsettling. The key falls from my hand. I turn to look at Renwick but he is still quite dead. I reach down, pick up the key, and go back to work trying to unlock the door.”
“Is that the end of it?”
“Yes. It is always the same.” It occurred to her that that was not quite true about the most recent version of the nightmare. Renwick’s dead fingers had reached for the key in that night’s dream. That was new.
“Tell me everything you can about what you see in the hallway.” Artemas moved his plate out of the way and reached across the table to take her hands in his. “Every detail.”
“I told you, I see Renwick’s body.”
“What is he wearing?”
She frowned. “I don’t … no, wait, I think I do remember some things. He has on a white shirt, which is stained with blood. Trousers. Boots. The shirt must be partially unbuttoned because I can see the Flower of Vanza tattoo on his chest.”
“What else do you see?”
She forced herself to examine the scenes of her dream. “His walking stick. It is lying on the floor beside him. I notice the gold handle.”
“Is he wearing a waistcoat or cravat?”
“No.”
“No coat or hat or cravat, yet he has his walking stick.”
“I told you, it was important to him because his father had given it to him.”
“Yes.” Artemas looked very thoughtful. “Do you see any furnishings in the hall?”
“Furnishings?”
“A table or chair or candleholder, perhaps? Wall sconces?”
Why on earth did he want that sort of detail? she wondered. “There is a side table with the pair of silver candlesticks on it that Bernice gave me on my wedding day.”
“Interesting. Do you see any—?”
He broke off abruptly at the sound of loud knocking on the kitchen door.
Madeline flinched at the unexpected noise. She turned her head very quickly toward the locked door.
“A milkmaid or a fishmonger,” Artemas said gently.
“It is too early,” she whispered. “It is nowhere near dawn.”
“An intruder or a thief who got past the guard and the dog would hardly bother to knock.” Artemas got to his feet and went to the door. He paused, his hand on the lock. “Who is there?”
“It’s Zachary sir.” The muffled voice was harsh with urgency. “Got a report for ye. Very important.”
Madeline watched Artemas unlock and unbolt the heavy wooden door. Zachary stood on the step, his face pale and grim.
“Thank God yer home, sir. I was afraid ye might be out at one o’ yer clubs and I’d be obliged to waste time tracking you down.”
“What’s wrong?” Artemas asked.
“There’s a body, sir. In the Haunted Mansion.”
“Zachary, if this is another one of your elaborate jests, I had better warn you that I am not in the mood.”
“This is no jest, sir.” Zachary wiped sweat off his brow with the back of his sleeve. “On me oath, sir, there’s a dead body in the mansion. And there’s something else.”
“What else?”
“A note sir. It’s addressed to you.”
The Dream Pavilions had closed shortly after midnight, the customary hour on weeknights when no special event or masquerade ball was scheduled. Artemas checked his watch as he walked through the darkened grounds toward the Haunted Mansion. In the light of the lantern that Zachary carried, he could see that it was now close to two in the morning.
“You’re certain the man is dead? Not drunk or ill?”
Zachary gave a visible shudder. “Believe me, sir, he’s dead right enough. Gave me a start, I can tell ye. Like to give up the ghost meself when I first saw him.”
“And the note? Where was it?”
“Pinned to his coat. I didn’t touch it.”
The pleasure garden was another world after closing time. Without the sparkling lights of the hundreds of colorful lanterns that normally lit the paths, the grounds were steeped in shadows. The light fog added to the gloom tonight. The pavilions loomed, their windows dark and impenetrable.
Artemas paused at the barrier that had been erected to keep visitors away from the incomplete mansion. Zachary held the lantern higher so that he could see to unlatch the gate.
Once on the other side, they went swiftly down the winding path that led to the attraction. When they reached the door, Zachary hesitated.
“Give me the lantern.” Artemas took it from him. “There is no need for both of us to go inside.”
“I’m not scared of no dead man,” Zachary insisted. “I’ve already seen him.”
“I know, but I would rather you stay out here and keep watch.”
Zachary looked relieved. “Right ye are, sir. I’ll do that.”
Artemas paused. “What do you think Beth will say about this?”
“Beth got a great fright and she blames me for it, but she thinks it was all part of the new attraction. I didn’t tell her that the body was real.”
“Excellent.” Artemas opened the door and walked into the front hall. The veils of some artificial cobwebs drifted over his arm. The skull on the pedestal grinned.
He walked toward the alcove where Zachary had wanted to hang an imitation skeleton. He saw the body. It was sprawled on the floor, face turned toward the wall. The light revealed a pair of expensive-looking trousers and a dark coat.
There was a great deal of blood on the front of the white shirt but none on the floor. The man had not been shot here, Artemas thought. He had been murdered somewhere else but the killer had gone to a great deal of trouble to carry the body here.
He stood over the dead man and let the lantern light fall on the too white face.
Oswynn.
A cold rage swept through Artemas. His hand tightened into a fist around the lantern handle.
The bloodstained note was right where Zachary had said it would be, pinned to Oswynn’s coat. Lying next to it was a watch fob seal engraved with the head of a stallion.
Taking care to avoid touching the dried blood, Artemas picked up the note and opened it. He read the message quickly.
You may take this as both a favor and a warning, sir. Stay out of my affairs and I will stay out of yours. By the bye, be so kind as to give my regards to my wife.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The heard him come back into the house sometime before dawn. There was an unusual scurrying on the staircase. She caught the muted voices of two footmen and then silence fell.
She waited as long as she could stand the suspense before letting herself out into the hall. There she paused a moment, listening. The faint sounds of the usual early morning routine had not yet begun to drift up from the region of the kitchens. The servants were still abed, except for the two footmen who had disappeared below-stairs.
She went cautiously down the hall to the far end and knocked gently on Artemas’s door. There was no response. The man had a right to some sleep, she told herself. He must surely be exhausted.
Disappointed, she started to turn away. She would have to wait until morning to get her answers.
The door opened with no warning. Artemas stood there, his hair gleaming damply from a recent bath. He had changed out of the trousers and shirt that he had worn when he left the house with Zachary and was once again in his black dressing gown. She realized that the rushing about she had heard earlier had been footmen carrying hot water.
Artemas had been called out to deal with a dead man, she reminded herself. Under such circumstances she would have felt the need of a bath, too.
“I thought it might be you, Madeline.”
In spite of her overwhelming curiosity, she paused long enough to glance back along the hall. This was an unusual household but that did not mean the servants would not gossip if they were to see
her entering Artemas’s bedchamber.
Satisfied there was no one in the corridor, she slipped into the room. The tub he had recently used sat in front of the fire, partially concealed by a screen. Damp towels hung over the edge. A tray containing a pot of tea, a cup and saucer, and a plate of bread and cheese was on a table. None of the food appeared to have been touched.
She stopped short when she saw the single amber-colored taper burning on the low table. She recognized it immediately as a Vanza candle. The melting wax gave off a faint, complex, distinctive scent, the product of a unique blend of Vanzagarian herbs. Artemas was a full master of Vanza. Every master created his own personal blend of herbs that forever distinguished his candles from those of other masters.
She heard the door close behind her. She turned quickly The unease she had been feeling grew more unsettling.
Artemas’s face was shuttered and drawn, all hard angles and grim planes. She knew at once that the dead man, whoever he was, had not been a stranger to him. But there was no grief in his eyes, only a controlled fury.
She had never seen him look more dangerous than at that moment. She was forcibly reminded that in spite of the intimacy that had passed between them, there was a great deal she did not know about this man.
“I am sorry to disturb you at your meditations, sir.” She edged toward the door. “I will leave you in peace. We can talk later.”
“Stay.” It was a command. “Whether or not you wished to do so, you involved yourself in my affairs when we made our pact. There are things you must be told.”
“But your meditations—”
“A futile exercise, to say the least.”
He crossed the bedchamber to the low table, reached down, and snuffed out the taper.
She clasped her hands together and faced him. “Who was he, Artemas?”
“His name was Charles Oswynn.” Artemas contemplated the thin trail of smoky vapor that marked the death of the small flame. “He was one of three men who destroyed a woman named Catherine Jensen. They kidnapped her for a lark one night. They raped her. She fell to her death attempting to flee. Her body was found three days later by a farmer in search of some of his sheep.”