Lady Avely's Guide to Guile and Peril, page 12
part #3 of Matronly Misadventures Series
He left the glass standing on the table, biding for time, smoking the cigar and talking to Drumpellier, and demanding to know more about the war and Napoleon.
“Napoleon?” interrupted Marigold. “Why would he mention that? It would reveal that he recalled something!”
Yvette shook her head. “Drumpellier has been telling him all the latest news from the front.”
“Why?” Marigold sat down on the shingle, with a heavy feeling. “I suppose it must be some ploy to gain his sympathy.” She looked up. “Never mind that. What happened next?”
“Wooten was hiding under the table, clinging to the leg. When Drumpellier turned away to trim a candle wick, Wooten grabbed the chance. He flew out and tipped half the cup’s contents down his throat, almost knocking the glass over. The duke grabbed it, Wooten hid, and when Drumpellier turned around, it looked like his grace had drunk of the potion.”
“And then?”
“The duke drank the rest. To save his companion, I think, from drinking any more. Though Wooten rapidly became in no state to carry out any more heroic consumption. He collapsed into an unresponsive heap on the floor, and the duke hid him with his foot. Fortunately, Drumpellier left soon afterwards, after his grace finished the wine.”
“Steaming sunlight,” muttered Marigold, her heart wrenching for Wooten. “What a disaster. And the duke? Did he become stupid again?”
“Fear not, his grace thew up the wine straight away,” continued Yvette. “Under my instruction. He vomited into a pillowcase, and I took it away and dumped it behind the barracks.”
“That was good of you,” admitted Marigold, for it would have been an unpleasant task. “I have this for him.” She stuck her leg out, bending to untie the letter. “It is from Lady Avely, explaining things.”
Yvette watched with interest. “An interesting use of such a neatly turned ankle. I am not sure that I approve.”
Marigold hid her blush. “I don’t need your approval. And your ankle is going to have to bear the same burden.”
“Will you tie it on for me, please?” Yvette sat down beside Marigold, stretching out a long leg from under her cape. Her ankle, Marigold noted, was very elegant indeed. In fact, she didn’t know if she’d seen such a fascinating ankle in the whole of her existence.
“I shall not!”
Yvette fluttered her long lashes. “Miss Cultor, I wish to know that you trust me with this task. And that I trust you. Tie it on, please, as a demonstration of our alliance.”
Marigold gulped. Then she reasoned to herself that this way she could assure Judith that the precious letter had been tightly secured. She bent and wound the string around Yvette’s ankle, her fingers brushing against skin. Yvette was pale but warm, and Marigold felt her whole body flush with the intimacy of it.
“Still feeding on cows, are you?” she demanded, to hide her reaction.
Yvette suddenly looked away. “Ah, not exactly.”
“What do you mean?” Marigold tied a complicated knot to stay bound, but not too tight. She wouldn’t want Miss Frenchy to have her circulation restricted.
There was a pause. “I fed from the duke before I left.”
Marigold started back, glaring with accusation. “Are you trying to steal him from Wooten?”
There was a flash of hurt in Yvette’s eyes. “No. I was trying to help his grace. If the duke is to use his Gift again, he must guard against Bemusement.” She paused. “And I needed strength for the flight.”
Marigold folded her arms, wishing again that she had brought a cape. It was more difficult to deliver a scolding when one was stark naked. “The duke could continue to feed Wooten.”
“He has. But we cannot be sure that the bond will still provide its usual benefits, when Wooten’s mind is so addled. And the last thing his grace needs now is more addlement.”
Marigold paced along the shingle of the roof, away from the infuriating creature. “Has Wooten regained consciousness?”
“For a little while. He was like a child, completely confused.” Yvette shivered. “He was courageous to make such a sacrifice.”
Marigold shuddered also. It had been a brave act, certainly. And foolish. She wondered if she could have done the same for Judith. She thought not—but she had only been Judith’s companion for a short while, unlike Wooten, who had been with the duke for years. The Musor bond seemed to have unfortunate side effects. The longer it lasted, the more likely a vampiri would do idiotic things for their companion.
She eyed Yvette thoughtfully. Perhaps she also had been coerced into villainy.
“Was Wooten unfairly driven by his blood bond?” she asked abruptly. “Were you, with your companion?”
Yvette regarded her steadily. “I am afraid not, Miss Cultor. Both Wooten and I were acting of our own volition and in defence of someone we loved.” She paused. “My companion rescued me after I left France, years ago. I was grateful. I was not seeing clearly, not because of the bond, but because I wished to keep my friend.”
Marigold found she had nothing to say to that, so she hunched her shoulder away. After a moment, she muttered, “Is there any other news that I must report to Judith?”
“Yes,” said Yvette. “I’m afraid that they have moved his grace to a different cell, looking onto a training courtyard. I can draw a map for you.”
“But why have they moved him?” Marigold suspected that Judith would not like this news.
“He is being tested now; his strength and fighting skill pitted against soldiers. They say it is to give him an outlet for his aggression, but to me it looks very much like they are training him.”
“Training him?” Marigold repeated. “For what?”
“I think they are planning to put him to use,” said Yvette coolly. “For what, I do not know. But it is for some sort of violence, that is clear.”
In which the sea quietens
The dark magnifies our fears.
— from Lady Avely’s Guide to Guile and Peril
After Marigold left on her journey to Penrose Hill, Judith went to find Robert.
Trebellow had put him in a large room furnished in cream and brown, with spectacular views of the moon rising over Lanyon Bay. Robert was marvelling at the window when she came in.
He turned impetuously. “I wish I could paint it.”
“Why don’t you?” she replied. “How do you feel?”
“I had a long sleep this afternoon, so I am full of vitality.” He sat down on the windowsill. “Now, please, tell me how the duke fares. I have been in a fever of impatience to know his plight.”
She took a high-backed chair and told him all the grimmer details, those she had left out before Miss Onslow: Dacian’s loss of memory, Drumpellier’s ultimatum, and the conversations she had conducted with those at Castle Lanyon.
Robert listened attentively and made astute observations, the last of which was, “You seem to be reluctant to suspect Mrs Ulrich, even now. Why is that?”
Judith sighed. “No, I agree she is our most likely culprit. I suppose I want some proof first, that she went as far as murder.” She paused. “The truth is that I feel some sympathy for her. I am a widow too, after all, and I was greatly shaken by your father’s death when he passed—before I discovered how he had lied to me. I know what it is like to feel overpowering sorrow.”
Robert looked uncomfortable. “But then your sorrow turned to anger.”
“That is quite expected, I believe. Anger feels preferable, somehow. So, I can understand that Mrs Ulrich wanted to find a vent for her feelings, and a distraction. That does not mean, however, that she killed a man for it.” She paused. “And you must know that I am no longer angry with your father. I am glad to have met you, and that you have consented to be part of the family, however distantly.”
“It is only a provisional measure,” he said awkwardly, “while we sort this mess out. Then I’ll be off.”
Judith tried not to show her hurt. She knew that Robert felt a strong loyalty towards his dead mother, who had not liked Judith. Therefore, his own feelings towards Judith were very conflicted: sometimes amenable and friendly, then sometimes withdrawing into aloofness. She let the matter pass for now, hoping that their common quest would bring them closer together. “Well, I have a strong suspicion that the twins are hiding something. There is more going on in this castle than meets the eye.” She considered Robert, noting that his cheeks had more colour. “Perhaps you can accompany me tonight. Now that the haunted cellar has been cleared out, I’m curious to see if it provokes any response. Perhaps we can gain the evidence we need to indict Mrs Ulrich.”
“Ghost hunting? You must be good at that by now,” he observed, leaning back in his chair, clearly glad of the change of subject. “Are you sure it is safe? I suspect the duke would not approve.”
Judith scoffed. “Currently, his grace is not in a position to concern himself with our conduct. If you are worried, come with me—though you must promise not to leap in front of any bullets again.”
“Only if you promise not to incite bullets.” He grinned reluctantly, and it reminded her suddenly of her son, Peregrine. There was a resemblance there, sometimes, in the way the two boys smiled, similar to their father.
She wondered if she should remark upon it. But she did not want to undo the returning ease between them, so instead she asked, “Can you be quiet, with your stick?”
Robert nodded, and barely winced as he stood, leaning on the walking cane.
They crept out of the room, and Judith did her best to lead the way down to the kitchen. Without Marigold’s nose to guide her, she made a few wrong turns but eventually found the doors.
The kitchen was as empty and tidy as before, with no sign of Ghastagon or the young cook. Judith led the way through the larder and down the first steps, holding her candle aloft. It was different this time, without Marigold. One would assume she’d feel safer accompanied by a young man with a hefty stick, but Judith was oddly more worried for his safety, and she missed having Marigold’s eyes and ears in the dark.
She paused midway down the second stairs, hearing Robert gasp at the size of the vast underground cellar. It was now luxuriously carpeted in glowing reds and golds, with exotic patterns swirling beneath their feet. The wheelbarrow and spade were no longer in evidence, but the kegs still stood in the far corner. Treading down, she gestured to her right.
“That’s where we saw the Crimson Lady,” she murmured, “on the far wall.”
They both stared hard at the stone. Nothing flickered there, not even a rat’s tail. The high ceiling stretched away above them, with the sound of waves pounding in the distance. Judith could smell the scent of brandy drifting on the air again and made her way towards the ratafia kegs.
As before, the door behind them was hidden in shadows, but the Dread Spell was now absent. A faint trace of it lingered, perhaps: a distant sense of sorrow, like homesickness, but the onslaught was gone. Briefly, she wondered where Mrs Ulrich had put the cork that held the charm and devoutly hoped that it wouldn’t find its way into a wine bottle.
She pushed through the door, carefully shielding her candle, and saw the passageway as before. It looked less mysterious and secretive now that the Cork of Doom no longer held sway over it. Cautiously, she went through the next arch and saw the little room that Marigold had described. Intriguingly, the table, chairs, and whisky were no longer to be seen: just a newly swept floor. Now it looked like a small dungeon, cold and bare. Judith thought of Dacian and was glad that he at least had rugs, pillows, and whisky.
The bare room posed another problem: there was nowhere to hide as they lay in wait for their quarry. She had a sudden thought. “If necessary, can you disguise me as a keg?” she asked, leading the way back to the little brewery. “If I sit on the ground next to the others?”
Robert’s lips quirked. “It’s below your dignity, of course. But if you’re willing, I can give it a try.”
“Nonsense. Ratafia is very ladylike.”
Judith settled herself on the cold stone, sitting with her legs pulled up, which was quite improper but necessary to bring them in line with the kegs. Robert spent a few minutes eyeing the other casks, then stared at her fixedly.
She felt the faint warmth of Illusion spring up around her, though she could not see it. Hastily, she blew out her candle so it wouldn’t ruin the effect.
Robert considered his handiwork with satisfaction. “It will do, I suppose.”
“And you? Can you camouflage yourself against the wall?”
Robert examined the stones next to the door. Then he put down his own candle, stepped up to the wall and proceeded to melt into it. Judith could, if she strained her imagination, make out his form, but anyone walking by would not look too closely.
“Very good,” she said with approval. “Drop it now; we don’t want you becoming Bemused.”
Robert’s tall form appeared again, but he was looking down, into the corner. “There’s something here.”
“Oh? A dead rat?” She grimaced. “Or a cork?”
“Neither.” He bent and pulled out a loosely rolled canvas from behind the kegs. “It’s not dusty.”
“Oh?” she said with more interest and stood to have a better look.
Slowly, he unrolled it, stretching it out so they could see. Oddly, the corners had been trimmed to make it into an oval shape, meaning that he had to hold the very top of the canvas. It was so large that Judith had to hold the other end, to stretch it out.
At first, it seemed like it was just a blank sheet, empty. Yet as they stared at it, something flickered into view.
It was a portrait of a woman in a red dress, her hair bound up, floating on a dark background: an oil painting, dim with age, the expression of the lady neutral and aristocratic.
The painting vanished again, leaving the canvas blank once more.
“Well!” said Judith, immensely pleased. “I think we found our ghost!”
“An Illusionary painting? Worn down?” Robert squinted at it. “She’s coming back.”
The woman appeared, rested her aloof gaze upon them, then disappeared again.
“It might have been framed once,” observed Judith, “until someone took it out and nailed it to that far wall.” She pointed to the rusty marks of nail piercings in the canvas. “Clever to soften the corners, so it looks like she was emerging from a dark pool.”
“I can imagine the effect was quite theatrical.”
“Yes, Marigold was rent speechless.”
Robert laughed. “That is hard to imagine.” He rolled it up again. “Should we keep it?”
“Best leave it and see if someone fetches it. Mrs Ulrich might have an accomplice.” Judith considered. “But now I think we should explore the next passageway, which Marigold could not. There’s a mysterious door, apparently.”
She admitted to herself that she was glad the sight of the Crimson Lady was now explained and pondered their discovery as she led the way through the first passageway into the little cell. It was clear that someone was either playing a prank or deliberately attempting to scare people away from this meeting place. Had it been Mrs Ulrich, with her smuggling friends, or had someone else sought to take advantage of her Dread Diplomacy?
Could this room be a place for Kade and Miss Isla to meet, far from the disapproving eyes of her uncle? Judith stared around. She rather doubted it was a suitable scene for romantic trysts: too damp and dark. A den for gambling, maybe? Or had Marigold missed something?
She lit her candle again from Robert’s, and with some trepidation searched for the passageway that Marigold had mentioned. There was an arch, set at right angles to the cell, tucked in the corner, and Judith gestured for Robert to follow.
One by one, they breached the arch. It led into a long, narrow passageway. The very narrowness of it hinted that it would not take them to another storage place under the castle, for it would be difficult to carry anything through, let alone two men carrying wide chests or barrels. The path curved round slowly, and Judith saw another low door, the one that had balked Marigold.
The lintel bore a heavy weight of stone, at the height of Judith’s shoulders. Old then, perhaps built by the monks. It was wooden and barred with iron.
Fearing it was locked, Judith bent and turned the handle with all her might. It swung open with a groaning creak. She ducked under the lintel, Robert at her heels, his stick lightly tapping behind her.
Fortunately, the ceiling rose again, so they could walk straight. But the roof was oddly curved, the passageway shaped like an oval, much like the painting had been. It was built of a different type of stone, too, lighter than the heavy grey rock of the cellars. Certainly, it must have been built by earlier inhabitants of the castle, centuries ago. Judith wondered if it had been a private passageway for the monks. The stone walls were close, the floor uneven. Her heart beat with excitement. Of course this castle had a secret underground passageway. How could she have doubted it? This was the secret that the Crimson Lady guarded.
Gradually, the path turned north, and she realised suddenly that the pounding of the waves had quietened. The truth dawned on her. They were now under the sea itself, past the reaches of the island: they could no longer hear the ceaseless thunder of breaking waves.
She cast a look back at Robert to see that his eyes were wide in the lamplight.
“Are we heading towards the shore?” he whispered.
“I suspect so.” It was hard to maintain a sense of direction underground, but it felt as if the passage was curving in a similar direction as the causeway. Could it even be under the causeway? Could this explain how Sgt Finlay had escaped the island after the tide came in?
Her excitement was abruptly interrupted, for the pale limestone suddenly flattened into a dead end. She stared at in consternation, then saw a yawning dark mouth before her feet. Holding her candle above it, she could see the space of another tunnel, lower down, with shallow steps cut into the plunging hole.
