Sherry Thomas: His At Night

This day, however, he didn’t want emotions, but quiet companionship. So they walked together, on a path he’d only trod alone in real life. By the time the carriage passed the gates of Woodley Manor, Lady Kingsley’s leased estate, he was standing beside her in the ruins of King Arthur’s castle, his hand on the small of her back, looking down at the churning foam caps far below.

And there he might have remained a long time—he was quite good at saying his good-byes and hellos while remaining in his reverie—were it not for the sight of his brother before the house waving at him.

That brought him abruptly back to reality.

He bounded out of the carriage, tripping over his walking stick. Freddie caught him.

“Careful, Penny.”

Vere had been Viscount Belgrave from the moment he took his first breath. He became the Marquess of Vere at sixteen, upon his father’s death. Except for his late mother, a few very old friends, and Freddie, no one ever referred to him by his nickname, a diminutive of Spencer, his given name.

He embraced Freddie. “What are you doing here, old chap?”

Vere rarely thought of himself as heading into danger: His investigations did not require weapons drawn and his public persona offered him protection from undue suspicions. But he’d never had Freddie nearby going into a case.

Freddie was the one single thing that had gone right in Vere’s life. The anxious boy Vere had once fretted over had grown up to be a fine young man of twenty-eight: the finest man of Vere’s acquaintance.

The finest man of anyone’s acquaintance, he thought with absurd pride.

Two weeks in the country had reddened Freddie’s fair complexion and bleached his sandy curls several shades lighter. He picked up the walking stick Vere had dropped and unobtrusively straightened Vere’s necktie, otherwise always set thirty degrees askew.

“Kingsley asked me if I wanted to come visit his aunt. I said yes, once he told me you’d been invited too.”

“I didn’t know the Wrenworths had Kingsley to their place.”

“Well, I wasn’t at the Wrenworths’. I left their place last Thursday and went to the Beauchamps’.”

And there he should have stayed. The substantial lack of bodily harm in his line of work notwithstanding, Vere would have been better pleased had Freddie not come.

“Thought you always liked it at the Wrenworths’. Why’d you leave so soon this time?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Freddie unrolled Vere’s sleeves, which Vere not infrequently kept rolled at uneven lengths. “I was in the mood for a different place.”

This gave Vere pause. Restlessness was not a trait he usually associated with Freddie—unless Freddie was unsettled about something.

A virgin-meeting-dragon’s-teeth scream shattered the bucolic quiet.

“Good gracious, what was that?” Vere exclaimed with very believable surprise in his voice.

The question was answered by more screams. Miss Kingsley, Lady Kingsley’s niece, rushed out of the house shrieking at the top of her lungs. And barreled directly into Vere—he had a terrific talent for stepping into people’s way.

He caught her. “What’s the matter, Miss Kingsley?”

Miss Kingsley struggled in his grip. She stopped screaming momentarily, but it was only to gather another lungful of air. And then she opened her mouth wide and emitted the most demonic screech Vere had ever heard.

“Slap her,” he begged Freddie.

Freddie was aghast. “I can’t slap a woman!”

So Vere did. Miss Kingsley ceased her shrieking and went limp. Gasping and blinking, she stared at Vere with unfocused eyes.

“Miss Kingsley, are you all right?” Freddie asked.

“I’m—I’m—Dear God , the rats, the rats…”

She began to sob.

“Hold her.” Vere thrust her into Freddie’s kinder, more compassionate arms.

He ran into the house and came to a dead halt in the middle of the entry hall. A dozen or two rats, he’d said to Holbrook. But there were hundreds of them, flowing like streams along walls and corridors, sprinting up banisters and down curtains, knocking over a porcelain vase with a loud crack even as Vere stood stock-still, at once revolted and mesmerized by the sight.

“Out of my way!”

Kingsley, Lady Kingsley’s nephew, came running, a rifle in hand. At the precise moment he crossed the center of the hall, a small rat jumped down from the chandelier.

“Kingsley, above you!” Vere cried.

Too late. The rat landed on Kingsley’s head. Kingsley screamed. Vere flung himself to the floor as Kingsley’s rifle went off.

Kingsley screamed again. “Bloody hell, it’s inside my coat!”

“I’m not coming anywhere near you if you don’t put down your rifle first! And don’t throw it, it could go off again.”

“Ahhh!” Kingsley’s rifle fell with a heavy thud. “Help me!”

He jerked wildly, a madman’s marionette. Vere dashed to his side and yanked off Kingsley’s day coat.

“I think it’s inside my waistcoat. God almighty, don’t let it get inside my trousers.”

Vere ripped apart Kingsley’s waistcoat. And there the little vermin was, stuck under Kingsley’s brace. Vere grabbed it by the tail and tossed it aside before it could twist around and bite him.

Kingsley sprinted out of the front door in his shirtsleeves. Vere shook his head. More screams came from a room to his left. He hurried toward it and opened the door—and had to immediately grab on to the top of the door and get his feet off the floor as a torrent of rats rushed out.

Lady Kingsley, three young ladies, two gentlemen, plus one footman stood on the furniture above a sea of rats, two out of the three young ladies screaming away, Mr. Conrad joining them with equal gusto and volume. Lady Kingsley, atop the piano, used the music stand to grimly whack away at any rats that dared to climb up to her island of safety. The footman, a poker in his hand, defended the young ladies.

When enough rats had stormed out of the drawing room, Vere helped Lady Kingsley’s besieged guests down from their high places. Miss Beauchamp trembled so much that he had to carry her outside.

He found Lady Kingsley standing with one hand against a wall, her other hand on her abdomen, her jaw clenched tight.

“Are you all right, ma’am?”

“I don’t think I will need to try very hard to look stricken when I call upon Miss Edgerton,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “And Holbrook is a dead man.”

“‘On the highest point of the plateau is the small chapel of Santa Maria del Soccorso, where a so-called hermit keeps a visitor’s book, and sells wine. The view from this headland is singularly attractive and imposing, the precipice being absolutely vertical, and the coastline in every direction full of beauty…’”

Elissande saw it clearly: the Isle of Capri, rising sirenlike from the Mediterranean. Herself, walking along its abrupt cliffs, her hair flying in the breeze, a bouquet of wild carnations in her hand. No sound but the sea and the seagulls, no one but the fishermen repairing their nets far below, and no sensation but the clarity and serenity of utter, absolute freedom.

She barely caught her aunt as the latter toppled from her seat in the water closet.

It had been more than forty-eight hours since Aunt Rachel last eliminated—the effect of an invalid existence. Elissande had wheedled Aunt Rachel to sit for a quarter hour after lunch, with herself reading aloud from a travel guide to Southern Italy to help pass the time. But thanks either to her less than stimulating reading, or the laudanum from which she could not wean her aunt, Aunt Rachel had fallen asleep instead—with the receptacle beneath her still worryingly empty.