The Mark of the Midnight Manzanilla A Pink Carnation Novel (30 page)

The craftsman who had carved it long ago had not stinted on the blood.

The motto running across the scroll on the bottom read, “Bludde wyll owt.”

“Yes, it’s one of them.”

Sally walked over to the dais, trailed her blue velvet skirts behind her, and squinted into the gloom beneath the bed curtains. The mattress creaked as she rested one hand against the foot of the bed, craning her neck for a better view. “It’s quite . . . sanguinary.”

“Sanguinary,” Lucien echoed, as the mattress creaked again. “I suppose so.”

It belatedly occurred to Lucien that this was, perhaps, not the most orthodox of interviews. Admittedly, Sally’s robe was of a heavy, opaque fabric, but all it would take would be one tug—not that he was thinking of doing the tugging—on that sash to reveal what looked like a very thin nightdress below.

And there
was
that very large bed, conveniently placed right behind them.

Sally looked back at Lucien over her shoulder, her golden hair a bright spot in the dark room. “Have you considered a nice heraldic beast? A lion perhaps? Or a gryphon?”

“Or a fluffy bunny?” Lucien said blandly. He stepped forward to offer her a hand. “It’s not quite as gruesome as it seems.”

“Not quite?” Sally looped up her trailing flounces in one hand, resting her other hand lightly in his. Ungloved, her fingers were long and slender, and very white against his sun-darkened skin. “Blood will out?”

It took Lucien a moment to remember what they were talking about. “One of my ancestors backed Henry Tudor on Bosworth Field. The story goes that he was run through three times. Each time he staggered to his feet and resumed fighting. When the new king thanked him, he is said to have replied, ‘I regret that I have but three drops of my heart’s blood to give for my sovereign.’ Then he promptly collapsed.”

“I see.” Sally perched on the edge of a red velvet settee, her blue velvet skirts fanning out around her. “How very distressing for him.”

“Not very.” Reminiscent amusement creased Lucien’s lips. His father might not have been terribly invested in the day-to-day running of the estate, but he had been a limitless repository of family stories, particularly of the saltier variety. “He was nursed back to health by the daughter of the local baron, who bore a very blond child nine months later.”

Sally raised her brows. “In
deed
.”

Lucien caught himself up short. “I really shouldn’t have told you that, should I? In fact”—he looked down at Sally, who had made herself quite comfortable on the settee and showed every intention of staying for some time—“you really shouldn’t be here.”

Sally dismissed that with a wave of her hand. “Such things do go on.” She leaned back, tilting her head up at him. “Was this child your ancestor?”

Lucien coughed. “I’m afraid not. As a token of the king’s gratitude, he was offered a royal ward who came with several nice castles and a number of serfs.”

“That’s appalling,” said Sally indignantly.

Lucien held up his hands. “One doesn’t acquire a dukedom by being nice.”

His betrothed looked at him narrowly. “One doesn’t hold on to one by being nice, either.”

Lucien tensed. “What does that mean? You can hardly be advising me to go out and exercise my droit du seigneur. I mean—” Damn.

“Don’t be silly,” Sally said sternly.

Did she have no idea what a tempting picture she made, halfway reclining on the settee, with her hair loose around her shoulders?

Lucien shoved his hands in the pockets of his dressing gown. “You should be going back to your room,” he said gruffly.

Sally rose, her robe gaping distractingly. “Because you don’t want to hear what I have to say?”

“Because I— Did you hear that?” Lucien spun on one heel.

Sally tagged along after him. “You can’t avoid me that easily.” From the recesses of the wall came a thud, followed by a low moan. “Oh.
That
.”

Lucien strode to the tapestry and lifted one corner. “It came from the passage.”

“Maybe it’s the wind,” said Sally pointedly.

That didn’t sound like the wind; it was a low muttering. Almost like . . . an incantation. Lucien looked at his betrothed over his shoulder. “That wasn’t the wind.”

Sally didn’t waste time on “I told you so.” “I’ll get the candle,” she said briskly. “Would you like to go first?”

“Like” wasn’t exactly the operative term. Lucien opened his mouth to suggest that she stay behind, then thought better of it. Some lost causes were noble; others were just lost. “That case, on the table. There are two pistols. Hand one to me.”

“And the other?” said Sally, proffering the case.

Lucien offered it to her, butt first. “Try not to shoot me in the back.”

Together, they ducked behind the tapestry and through the gap in the paneling. There was a mechanism that controlled it—Lucien remembered that much—but someone appeared to have forced the lock so it wouldn’t catch. The door easily swung open.

He hadn’t remembered the passageways being quite so grim. Or so cold.

The skirt of Sally’s robe brushed against his ankles. He could feel her breath against his ear. “Do you see anything?”

There was another thud, followed by muttering.

Lucien paused, pistol cocked. “If that’s a French spy,” he murmured, “it’s a remarkably clumsy one.”

He could feel Sally’s fingers on the belt of his dressing gown. “Miss Gwen did say that he was hideously maimed,” she whispered.

A misshapen shadow lurched into view, moving with a shambling, uneven gait.

Lucien leveled his pistol. “Drop your arms and show yourself,” he commanded.

“Drop my—” The voice was young, English, and more than a little bit slurred. The shadow resolved itself into a man in a caped greatcoat. Hal Caldicott tripped over the hem of his cloak. “Lucien?”

Sally let out a gusty breath. “So much for spies.”

Lucien lowered his pistol. “Hal? I thought you were in town?”

“I am— I mean, I was. I mean . . .” Hal floundered in the folds of his cape.

Lucien leaned down and gave his cousin a hand up. As he did, Hal’s eyes focused hazily on Sally.

“Miss Fitzhugh? What are you doing— Oh.” A look of drunken comprehension spread across his face. It stopped somewhere just short of a leer. “Oh.”

Sally reflexively tightened the belt of her dressing gown. Lucien resisted the urge to wipe the leer off his cousin’s face.

“It’s not what you think,” Lucien said grimly.

Hal held up his hands. “Not thinking anything at all. None of my business what you do with your own—”

“Betrothed?” supplied Lucien repressively.

“Just so.” Hal looked owlishly at Sally around Lucien’s arm. “Nuptials coming up and all that . . . No one . . . blame you for anticipatin’ . . .”

Sally leaned forward and glowered at Hal. “I am not here,” she said succinctly. “Do you understand me, Mr. Caldicott? I am not here. I was not here. I have never been here.”

A foolish grin spread across Hal’s face. He made an attempt to stand, and would have stumbled, but for Lucien’s supporting arm. “Oh, I understand.”

“No, you don’t,” said Lucien wearily.

Sally took matters into her own hands. “I am a figment of your imagination. Do you hear me? A figment.”

Hal winced as the candle flame danced across his dilated pupils. “Awfully loud for a figment,” he complained.

“He’s foxed,” said Lucien under his voice. “He won’t remember anything once he sleeps it off.”

“Heard that!” said Hal indignantly. “I’m not—that is—maybe I’m a little—hic!—indish—indish—under the influe-whatsis.”

“A little?” said Sally.

Lucien looked to Sally. “You should go.”

“You’ll be all right?”

“I’ve put drunks to bed before.” His cousins in New Orleans were no strangers to overindulgence.

“I’m not—”

“I know,” said Lucien. “I know. You’re only a trifle indisposed. Let’s get you to your room.” Lucien hefted his cousin up, looping a limp arm around his shoulders. “What the devil have you been drinking?”

“Bl-blue ruin.” Hal shook off Lucien’s supporting arm, catching himself against the wall. “I’m ruined. Ruined with blue ruin.” He looked at his cousin with sudden alarm. “Won’t tell my father?”

“Your secret is safe with me.” Lucien made a flapping gesture at Sally behind Hal’s back.

“Here.” Sally darted forward to lift the edge of the tapestry for him. “You can’t manage both him and the door.”

Hal’s arm slid from the wall. He sprawled inelegantly on the stone floor. “God! If I could make it all just go away!”

“I rather expect it might, at that,” said Lucien prosaically. Giving up all attempt to shoo Sally out of the way, he said, “There should be a basin to the right of the bed.”

Hal caught at the hem of Sally’s robe. He looked up with glittering eyes. “I need more gin.”

“No, you don’t,” said Sally, giving her dressing gown a good, hard yank. “Gin is the last thing you need.”

The basin, on the other hand, was looking increasingly necessary.

Lucien grabbed Hal beneath the arm, making an attempt to hoist him up, away from Sally. Hal’s eyes rolled back in his head, showing an alarming amount of white.

“I keep seeing her—keep seeing—” A blast of gin hit Lucien full in the face. “I saw Sir Matthew Egerton at the Cockeyed Crow.”

Lucien froze, letting his cousin’s arm drop. “Here?”

Hal slid down along the wall. “He followed you. All the way from London.”

“That’s hardly a feat of tracking,” said Sally acidly. “Following the Duke of Belliston all the way to his ancestral home.”

Both men ignored her. Lucien turned to Hal. “Did he say anything to you?”

Pressing his hands against the rough stones of the wall, Hal clawed his way upright. “He thinks you did it.” His words were slurred, but his intent was clear. “He thinks you killed Fanny.”

“Of all the—,” Sally began indignantly.

“Wait.” Lucien’s voice was too loud for the small landing. He could hear it echoing in his ears. He forced himself to focus on his cousin’s face, the familiar Caldicott features, the fair hair dark with damp. So familiar, and yet so alien. “How did you know that?”

Hal’s eyes shifted. “Shaw—I mean, saw—him in the Cockeyed Crow. Told you that. Jusht now.”

“No.” Behind him, Lucien could hear Sally’s sudden sharp intake of breath. He forced himself to go on, to ask his cousin the one question he didn’t want to ask. “How did you know who she was?”

Chapter Nineteen

It felt suddenly cold in the passageway. Hideously, bone-jarringly cold. Sally felt a sick jolt in the pit of her stomach.

The cunning of the extremely drunk spread across Hal’s face. “Saw her in the play, of course,” he mumbled. “Who didn’t know Fanny?”

Lucien’s cousin was a remarkably poor liar.

“It was you,” Lucien said. It was a statement, not a question. He stepped back, away. “You were her protector.”

“That was you?” Sally gave up any effort to hide either her presence or her disgust. “You wrote those letters?”

Hal’s head whipped around, his cheek scraping against the stone. “I—you—you’ve read them?”

“Every last, excruciating line.” She hadn’t, but Hal didn’t need to know that. The two she had perused had been more than enough. Sally drew herself up to her full height, an avenging angel in an embroidered nightdress. “You, sir, have some explaining to do.”

Hal looked from one to the other, and evidently decided Lucien was the less alarming of the two. He grasped at Lucien’s brocaded sleeve, his damp fingers scrabbling against the cloth. “I didn’t do it. I didn’t have anything to do with Fanny’s death. You have to believe me, Lucien. I didn’t do it!”

The duke’s expression was carefully expressionless. Something about it made Sally ache. “Why didn’t you come forward at the time?”

“Why—” Hal laughed wildly. “Do you think I’m mad? They would have blamed it on me! They would have thought—”

“Instead you let them blame it on Lucien.” Sally’s voice was sharp as a lash. “How terribly noble of you.”

Hal looked again from one to the other, like a caged beast. “It wasn’t like that! You don’t understand.” He made an effort to draw himself up. “Couldn’t do that to old Clarissa, not at her ball. Couldn’t let them think I—”

“Oh, but it was better to let suspicion be thrown on her brother?” Sally stalked forward. “That would enliven her party no end, having her brother hauled away in chains for murder. Not that you would care, would you?”

“I didn’t mean—” Hal stumbled back as Sally advanced, her skirts rustling purposefully against the stone floor.

“How terribly fortunate for you, to have such a convenient scapegoat on hand to take the blame for your crime.” Sally held the candle high, letting the light shine full in Hal’s face. “Did you kill her, Mr. Caldicott? Did you paint those fang marks on her neck?”

“Did I—fang marks—no! No!”

Lucien gently moved the candle out of the way. “Why should we believe you? What cause have you given us to trust you?”

“Because I wouldn’t!” Hal looked desperately from Lucien to Sally and back again. He slumped down on the stairs, like a marionette with the strings cut. His voice was muffled as he said, “God knows I thought about it. That woman—you don’t know how it was.”