Midnight at Mallyncourt Read online

  “Not in the least,” I said coldly.

  “I’ve hardly been a model husband, true. That’s going to change now. Now I’m going to smother you with attention.”

  “I think I would prefer your indifference.”

  “Indifference? But I’ve never been indifferent to you, Jenny. Auditing the books simply took precedence. Now I intend to make amends. I plan to be a proper husband.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I thought I made myself quite clear.”

  “I don’t want ‘a proper huband.’ We made a bargain, and—”

  “My uncle has been bedridden these past weeks. He’s been too ill, too confined to pay much attention to what was going on around him. Now he appears to be improving at a shocking rate. He’s getting up and about, taking an interest in things. I think the front we present should be—uh—a bit more unified.”

  “I see.”

  “You’ve performed your role adequately. I’ve been lax in mine. What the others think doesn’t matter, but now that my uncle is improving so rapidly he’s bound to observe the two of us together. It’s important that he believe we—”

  “I understand,” I said.

  The light was almost gone now, the recess gray with only the faintest haze of light, the gallery beyond in darkness. Edward stood in front of me, arms still folded over his chest. There was a thoughtful look in his eyes now, and the thin smile lingered on his lips. I was extremely uncomfortable, wishing he would go, wishing he wouldn’t look at me that way.

  “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about us,” he remarked idly.

  “Have you?”

  “I find myself in a rather awkward position. When I brought you here, I thought my uncle was a dying man, and I hoped your presence would influence him to draw up his will in my favor. As I say, you’ve performed your role adequately—more than adequately. You’ve won the old man over. He actually depends on you. Were he a dying man, there’d be no problem. You might have to extend your—uh—engagement for a few weeks, but in the end everything would work out just as I planned. However, he isn’t going to die. The doctors tell me he’s going to make a complete recovery.”

  “And?”

  “That alters things considerably. Were you to leave, everything would be lost. I can’t let you leave Mallyncourt, Jenny. You realize that.”

  “I agreed to stay for six weeks. They’ll soon be up.”

  “I’m aware of that. It looks as if we’re going to have to make other arrangements. It looks as if I’m going to have to take you back to London and marry you.”

  I didn’t say anything. I stared at him with a cool, level gaze, not trusting myself to speak. The thin smile flickered on his lips. His eyes were filled with a wry amusement as he watched me, waiting for my reaction to his words. Cynical, superior, blond and lordly and incredibly handsome in those tight gray breeches and the flowing white silk shirt, he thought he was offering me a great opportunity, one any woman would eagerly seize. It never entered his mind that I might refuse. I hated him at that moment more than I ever had before. No, I didn’t hate him. I despised him. I despised him for thinking I could be as venal and calculating as he. Yet even as those vivid blue eyes regarded me, I knew that he had every reason to think that. After all, I had willingly agreed to this deception. Coldly, and with my eyes wide open, I had come to Mallyncourt in order to deceive a rich old man. What else should he think? At the moment I didn’t have too much respect for myself either.

  “You hardly seem overjoyed,” he remarked.

  “I made a bargain with you, Edward,” I said. “I agreed to pretend to be your wife for six weeks. For the remainder of that time I’ll perform my role to the best of my ability, just as I agreed.”

  “And then?”

  “And then I intend to leave.”

  He didn’t seem at all disturbed. The smile still flickered at the corners of his mouth. The wry amusement was still in his eyes. He didn’t believe I could turn down the opportunity to be mistress of Mallyncourt, turn down the riches, the security that position entailed. And there was more. Spoiled over the years by countless women who had undoubtedly found him irresistible, his male ego wouldn’t allow him to believe I could turn down the opportunity to be his wife in the true sense of the word.

  “It looks as if I’ll have to use some—persuasion,” he said.

  “Persuasion?”

  “I think you might enjoy it.”

  “You’d be wasting your time, Edward.”

  “I think not,” he said huskily.

  I remembered that prolonged kiss in the bedroom, and I remembered my own physical response to it. I could tell that he was thinking about that, too. He stood with legs spread wide apart, black boots gleaming with a high gloss, tight gray breeches moulding calf and thigh. The white silk shirt billowed softly. His heavy eyelids drooped, half concealing his eyes, and he exuded a potent sensuality. I felt cold, terribly cold, and afraid. Edward moved toward me. He stopped. The noisy footsteps startled both of us. Whistling to himself, unaware of our presence, the footman began to light the candles. Golden blossoms bloomed in the long gallery. I took a deep breath, relieved. Or disappointed? Edward scowled, all sensuality vanishing abruptly.

  “We’ll continue this discussion later,” he said coldly. “Now I suggest we dress for dinner. It’s growing late.”

  What would have happened if the footman hadn’t arrived when he did? I didn’t know. I didn’t want to think about it. Later, as he stood waiting in the hall to accompany me downstairs, Edward was as cool and remote as he had ever been. I was completely composed, all icy dignity as we joined the others in the drawing room. Dinner was an ordeal. Vanessa chattered brightly about the ball, telling us about the musicians who had been hired, describing the gown she intended to wear, gossiping about various guests who would attend. Lyman was surly, paying no attention to her. Edward was rigidly polite. I was relieved when it was finally over with and I could escape back to my room.

  I went to bed shortly after ten, but I was unable to sleep. Restless, I tossed and turned, watching the velvety blackness melt into gray-black as my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. Out of the shadows furniture began to take on shape and substance, and shadows dissolved until I could see my reflection in the mirror across the room. Edward hadn’t come upstairs yet. I found myself listening for his footsteps. The door between my bedroom and the sitting room adjoining it was locked. Would he try it? Would he attempt to pick up where he had left off in the recess?

  Time passed, slowly, so slowly, the ormolu clock over the mantle marking each minute with a barely audible metallic click, ten thirty, eleven, eleven fifteen, and still sleep evaded me. I thought about Edward, about Lord Mallyn, about Lettice and her parents, about the weeks I had spent here at Mallyncourt, and it all seemed terribly confused and unreal. What was I doing here? What was Jenny Randall, cool, sensible Jenny Randall doing in this house, a prey to conflicting emotions, inextricably involved with all these people? And what was going on? Although I had been distracted by Lord Mallyn’s demands, by my involvement with Lettice, I had never lost sight of that mystery that seemed to shroud the walls, that crackling tension that filled the air.

  Sleep was impossible. I realized that. The clock made another short, muted click. It was ten minutes till twelve, almost midnight, and still I was wide awake. I pushed the covers back and got out of bed. It was foolish to try and sleep when my mind was abuzz with so many questions, so many doubts. I might as well read for a while. Reading always soothed me. I had left the book on Roman ruins in the window recess. I would fetch it. Perhaps the descriptions of early garrisons and altars to Mithras crumbling in the middle of deserted fields would act as a sedative, sooth me into drowsiness. I didn’t bother to light a candle. If I was going to prowl about in the middle of the night, I certainly didn’t want anyone to see me. Moving quietly across the room in my bare feet, wearing only my thin cambric petticoat, I opened the bedroom door and stepped into the dark
ness of the hall outside.

  My eyes were completely accustomed to the dark, and the hallways held no terror for me. A candle would only have intensified the darkness, and, besides, I was just going to fetch the book and come straight back to my room. Bare feet padding on the floor, my full, ruffled petticoat billowing, I moved confidently down the hall and turned into the shorter one that led into the long gallery. The house was full of rustling, flapping, creaking noises, soft groans, muted rattles, displaying a personality it didn’t have during the day, as though now, now that its human inhabitants were asleep, it could assert its own force. It was a curiously exhilarating sensation to know I was the only one awake, the sole possessor of this world of shadow and sound. Shadows, black, gray-black and deep blue-black cascaded down the walls as I moved toward the gallery, and everything was brushed softly with silver, a dazzle of silver ahead as moonlight streamed through the many panes of the gallery recesses.

  As I entered the gallery, the mat of woven rushes crackled underfoot. The room seemed larger than ever, like some great, vast cavern, long rays of pale silver light slanting through the windows, wavering, gilding the floor, magnifying the shadows beyond. The room was icy cold, and there was a chilly draft that caused the long velvet draperies to stir. Had someone left one of the windows open? I shivered. The bodice of my petticoat was formfitting, cut extremely low, leaving half my bosom exposed. I should have put on a wrap, I thought, moving on toward the recess. The book was where I had left it on the window seat. I picked it up, stood for a moment peering out at the dark, silvered lawn, then stepped out of the recess and started back across the room. The two marble fireplaces were large, yawning holes, and the portraits, barely visible in the faint light, seemed to look down at me with stern disapproval. The cold air stroked my naked arms and shoulders. A sudden draft of cold air made my skirt bell out, ruffles trembling. I moved quickly across the floor.

  I stopped, abruptly, paralyzed.

  The laughter was muted, coming from the distance, but it shattered the silence with explosive force. Muted as it was, it seemed to fill the whole house, harsh, demonic, reverberating in the air, and I didn’t know if I was hearing the laughter itself or some distorted echo. My blood seemed to freeze, my flesh crawled, and I was a victim of sheer, stark terror, unable to move, unable to think. The laughter rose, splintered, died away as suddenly as it had appeared, and the silence that followed was somehow even more alarming. I stared across the room, beyond the wide steps, and I saw the door to the east wing, the door Edward had locked behind him.

  It stood open. The laughter had come from the east wing.

  I tried not to think of the tales Susie had told me, but, naturally, I remembered every word she had told me, vividly. The servants heard noises at night. They refused to go in the east wing. They believed it was haunted. The maid Betty had seen something white and misty moving down the hall toward her. I remembered the bizarre room with the red walls, remembered Edward’s alarm when he had discovered me there. Standing perfectly still, my heart pounding, shadows spreading thickly all around, I stared at that opened door, waiting. For what? I didn’t know. Tapestries flapped against the walls. Floorboards groaned. There were soft, scratching noises behind the panels. Long moments passed, each like an eternity, and nothing happened, nothing at all.

  You’re not Jane Eyre, I told myself. Mad Mrs. Rochester isn’t going to come rushing out to set the place on fire. There is absolutely no reason to be alarmed. It sounded like laughter, yes, but it could just as easily have been the wind sweeping down a chimney. Gradually, by slow degrees, calm returned. I took a deep breath, convinced now that the noise had been caused by the wind, a freak distortion, nothing more. Edward had locked the door, true, but the lock was old, probably not at all secure. There was a strong draught coming down the hall in the east wing. It had undoubtedly blown the door open. I sighed, sensible once more, and walked across the room to shut the door.

  Fright forgotten, I was almost amused at myself now. Susie and the other servants might babble of ghosts and such, but I had far too much good sense. My hand on the doorknob, I peered down the long hall leading into the east wing. No misty white figure moved toward me. The shadows fell in thick clusters, dense, not stirring. I started to close the door … and then I saw him.

  I felt as though some piercing shaft had been driven through me. The shock was so great, so intense, that it immobilized me. He was leaning against the wall, just inside the hall, concealed by the shadows, just his forehead and those dark, hypnotic eyes visible. A split second passed, and I could feel the scream forming in my throat. Quickly, before I knew what was happening, he seized my wrist, pulled me against him with brutal force and clamped a large hand over my mouth. I didn’t struggle. I was stunned, too stunned to do anything but pray this was a nightmare, pray it wasn’t really happening to me. Holding me in front of him, one arm wrapped around my waist, that hand crushing my lips, he moved out of the hall and across the gallery, past the wide steps, forcing me ahead of him, finally stopping in front of one of the fireplaces, far away from that open door.

  It was a nightmare, it had to be. I would awaken, I would be in my bedroom, this would dissolve, disappear, shredding like a mist and going the way of all nightmares, vaguely remembered, unreal, but it wasn’t a nightmare, no, that arm held me tightly against a large, solid body, and that brutal hand was clamped savagely over my mouth, forcing my head back, and I closed my eyes, willing it to dissolve, disappear, knowing even as the hysteria swept over me in shattering waves that he was a madman and I was going to die, here, in the gallery, black brushed with silver, in front of the fireplace. My head whirled, mind spinning crazily, and then his lips were almost touching my ear.

  “I’ll let you go, but you mustn’t scream. Do you understand? Do you promise not to scream?”

  I managed to nod. He released me. I turned around to face him. My knees were weak. I almost fell. He caught my shoulders, supporting me. I was still holding the book in my hand, clutching it as though it were a spar and I drowning in tumultuous waves. A great shudder went through me. I closed my eyes again, whirling, and when I opened them I looked up at him and tried to speak. I couldn’t. Although we stood in the shadows, he was perfectly visible, wearing a robe of dark, gleaming satin over trousers and shirt. His handsome, rugged face was a mask of anger, mouth stretched tight over his teeth, eyes dark with fury, raven locks spilling untidily over his forehead. His hands gripped my shoulders savagely, and he looked as though he wished they were gripping my throat.

  Downstairs, a clock struck the hour. The sound spiraled up the stairwell. There were twelve brassy, muted bongs, and as the last one died away I found it impossible to believe that only ten minutes had passed since I left my bedroom. It seemed a lifetime ago.

  “What the hell are you doing here!” His voice was low, but it seethed with rage.

  “I—I came to fetch a book—”

  “In the middle of the night! Without a candle!”

  “I had left it in the window recess, you see, and I couldn’t sleep and I remembered the book and I thought—I was only going to be gone a minute and I’m not afraid of the dark and—”

  My voice broke. I couldn’t go on. The shock hadn’t all worn off yet. Seeing the book in my hand, Lyman knew I had been telling the truth. He let go of my shoulders, scowled, jammed his hands into the pockets of his robe. In the misty light his face seemed hewn from granite, sternly chiseled. I felt the last vestiges of shock leaving me, and some semblance of calm returned. I shivered, but from the cold now. My shoulders ached where he had gripped them. Brows lowered, Lyman stared at me, and there was a moment of prolonged silence. I was painfully aware of my scanty attire, the frail cloth barely concealing my bosom. I folded my arms around my waist, shivering. A gentleman would have offered me his robe, but then Lyman was no gentleman.

  “I’m sorry if I frightened you,” he muttered sullenly.

  “I’m quite all right now.”

  “You ha
d no business traipsing through the night like that, without a candle.”

  “At least I had a reason to be traipsing through the night. What were you doing there?”

  Lyman looked at me sharply. He didn’t answer my question.

  “I heard something coming from the east wing,” I said. “It sounded like laughter.”

  “You must have imagined it.”

  “I didn’t imagine it. What were you doing there?”

  “Don’t ask questions, Mrs. Baker.”

  “There’s something wrong—the east wing. The servants claim they hear peculiar noises. They say it’s haunted. That’s absurd. There’s—it has something to do with that room with the red walls.”

  “What do you know about that room?” he demanded, tense.

  “I—nothing. I merely saw it. It wasn’t like the others. There were no dust sheets, no cobwebs. Edward found me there. He—he was very angry with me. He told me never to—”

  “It’s just a room,” he said tersely. “Forget about it!”

  “But—”

  “Come along. I’ll take you back to your bedroom.”

  “You haven’t answered my question. You—”

  Seizing my wrist, he marched toward the hall, dragging me along behind him. I cried out in protest, but Lyman Robb paid no heed, moving briskly down the hall with long, angry strides, the skirt of his robe swinging with a loud silken rustle, his hand gripping my wrist firmly, tugging me along. I tottered, stumbled, my petticoat billowing in a flutter of ruffles. He turned the corner, briskly. I almost crashed against the wall. He didn’t even notice. When we finally reached the door to my bedroom, he came to an abrupt halt. The door was closed. Grabbing my shoulders, he thrust me back against it. I gasped. He spread his palms against the door on either side of my shoulders, holding me there, his arms making a prison. I looked up at him, amazed, outraged, horrified. It was much darker here. I could barely make out his face: broad, flat cheekbones white, eyes dark and glowing, forehead half-concealed by the thick fringe of hair.