John Manning - The Killing Room

“Please, Mr. Young,” Carolyn begged. “You want this terrible curse to end. I know you do.”

Douglas had moved over to confront his uncle again. “No more deaths, Uncle Howie. How many more can you tolerate? My father, and indirectly my mother…and just today, Dean and Philip and Chelsea. And now Ryan is out there begging for his life! Please, Uncle Howie! Tell us what you know.”

The old man’s watery eyes looked at each of them in turn.

“All right,” he said brokenly. “I will tell you everything.”

Howard Young was not yet eighteen, but already he was a big, strapping fellow, a solid six feet, the tallest and handsomest of the five Young brothers. Of course, Jacob and Timothy were still just sixteen and thirteen, respectively. They might eventually pass Howard in height. But everyone agreed that none of the boys quite matched Howard in looks. His fair hair, wavy and thick, crowned a perfectly symmetrical face, defined by crystal blue eyes, high cheekbones, and a square jaw with a cleft chin.

Howard understood his appeal. He had seen the look in Beatrice’s eyes the first day she came to work for them. She had paused, looking up at him from under her long dark lashes. It was a look Howard had returned. Beatrice Swan was exquisite. A year older than Howard, she had mysterious dark eyes and luxurious black hair. Her breasts were full and round, and her smile hinted at pleasures to come. It wasn’t long before Howard discovered just what those pleasures were.

Slipping upstairs after the household was asleep, Howard knew she’d be waiting for him. The little alcove in the attic with the bay window had become their secret meeting place. It was here that Beatrice had given herself to him-the first time Howard had known the full joy of making love to a woman. His heart quickened as he climbed the steep steps to the attic.

She turned to him as he entered, her smile bright, her eyes glowing, her arms outstretched. He fell into them, reveling in her sweet fragrance. He kissed her neck, her hair, her lips. His hands moved up her body, cupping her soft breasts.

“Oh, Howard, I do love you so,” Beatrice whispered, her lips on his ear.

Did he love her in return? Howard thought perhaps he did, though he had never been in love before, so he had no idea what it might feel like. Certainly he loved the way she felt, and the secret things she did to his body.

“You will be the greatest of all your father’s sons,” she said. “I know this. I can see things in my mind. It is a gift. My mother had it, too. You will surpass all of them.”

Beatrice knew of the rivalry among Howard and his brothers. He had confided in her, telling her how they had always competed, ever since they were children. Whether it be in polo or foxhunting or swimming or lacrosse, the five Young brothers were always trying to one-up each other. It was his eldest brother Douglas whom Howard envied the most. Douglas would inherit this house someday; he would be master here. Douglas stood to take the biggest share of their father’s fortune. He had already married, to a woman who was an heiress herself, and produced four grandchildren for their father, the latest being a baby girl, Cynthia. All four could now lay claim to the family wealth, dividing up what might otherwise have been left over for Howard. Many were the times that he rued being born the third son.

“Yes,” Beatrice was murmuring, “I see you as the greatest Young of them all. This house will be yours, Howard. I see it.”

“There are too many others ahead of me in line,” he told her, kissing her neck.

“It will be yours,” she promised.

She was unbuttoning his shirt now, slipping her hands inside to caress his chest. Howard leaned his head back and moaned in pleasure. Beatrice was very good at taking the lead in their lovemaking. She pressed his hand to her lips and sucked each finger into her mouth.

“Someday will you marry me?” Beatrice asked, her black eyes locked on his. “Make me mistress of this house?”

“Of course, of course,” Howard promised, feeling the hardness swelling in his pants, the urge to have her, possess her.

She kissed him then. Deep and full. He pressed himself down on top of her, unbuckling his belt and lifting her long skirt in nearly the same motion.

“Make love to me, Howard,” Beatrice purred.

But suddenly there was a scraping of wood. The door behind them was opening.

“So this is what has been going on,” a deep voice echoed through the alcove.

Howard spun around. His father stood there glaring over them in his nightshirt.

“Papa,” Howard uttered, standing awkwardly, his loose belt dangling in front of him. Beatrice let out a little shriek.

“Go to your room,” Desmond Young commanded the servant girl. She quickly pulled her dress back down and scampered out of the alcove. Her frantic footsteps rushing down the stairs echoed through the house.

Meanwhile, his father’s eyes never left Howard’s face. Even with his own eyes averted, the young man could feel them burning holes in his skin.

“This is not how I raise my sons,’ Desmond Young finally intoned. “No son of mine takes up with a scullery maid.”

“I’m sorry, Papa.”

“Meet me in the study,” the older man said, turning and heading back down the stairs.

Howard sighed. He fastened his belt, buttoned his shirt. He had thought he’d been so smooth, so quiet, sneaking up here to meet Beatrice several nights a week. But clearly his father had noticed something. Desmond Young was a very shrewd man. Very little got past him. Howard had been a fool to try.

Trudging into the study, he faced the somber patriarch sitting at his desk.

“She is pretty,” Papa said. “I will grant you that. But those French girls…they are all witches. They will cling onto you, and expect much in return for their kisses.”

“I won’t see her again, Papa.”

“That is for certain. I know her kind, Howard. She will trick you. She will use you. She will try to get her grubby hands on our money. That is what she is after, son. Your bank account. Not your heart.”

Howard knew that wasn’t true. Beatrice loved him. He was certain of that. But to dispute his father was futile.

“And if I find you with her again, Howard,” the older man added, “I will cut your allowance by half, and the trust that is waiting for you will be reduced. I will take a third and give it to your brother Douglas. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So I have your word?”

“Yes, sir,” Howard said.

“Go to your room then.”

He didn’t sleep. In the morning, he came down to breakfast with dark circles under his eyes. Beatrice, carrying the plates out from the kitchen, noticed, and cast him a look from under her dark lashes. After the meal, she passed him in the hallway.

“I need to speak with you,” she whispered.

“It’s not possible,” he said quickly. “My father will be watching with an eagle eye. We cannot see each other anymore.”

“But you must talk to me!” Beatrice insisted, her voice rising. “You must! What I have to say can’t wait!”

“All right,” Howard said, anxious to keep her quiet. “Twenty minutes. In the barn.”

She nodded, scurrying away.

Howard stewed as he wrapped a scarf around his neck and slipped into his coat. Winter was coming on fast this year. Already they’d had their first frost. Heading outside, he could see his breath fog up in front of his face. What was so urgent that Beatrice needed to tell him? He began to wonder if his father had been right, if she would do everything she could to cling to him.

In the barn, Clem was feeding the horses, pitching clumps of hay into their stalls with his pitchfork. Howard told him to run along, that he wished to be alone. But when Beatrice came in after him, Clem cast a suspicious eye over his shoulder.