Jayne Krentz: Late For The Wedding

“What is wrong?” he asked, somewhat more gently this time.

She sighed. “I did not come here to spend a few days rusticating in the country. As of last night, I had no intention whatsoever of accepting the invitation to Beaumont’s house party. Indeed, I sent my regrets some weeks ago. But things changed. I am here now because I followed you, sir.”

He glanced at his pocket watch lying on the dressing table and saw that it was nearly one o’clock in the morning. The house had settled down for the night. In a few minutes Lavinia would knock on his door. He very much wanted to get rid of Aspasia before that happened.

“Why the devil did you chase all this way after me?” he asked. “It’s a six-hour drive from Town.”

“I had no choice. This morning I went straight to your address in Slate Street, but you had already departed. Your man informed me that you had left for Beaumont Castle and would be gone for several days. Fortunately, I remembered that the invitation mentioned the costume ball. I managed to find this wig and a mask at the last minute.”

“You received an invitation to this affair?” he asked, curiosity stirring.

“Yes, of course.” Aspasia brushed that aside. “Lady Beaumont sends invitations to everyone in Society. She delights in entertaining. It has been her passion for years, and Lord Beaumont is only too happy to indulge her.”

Everyone in Society certainly did not include Lavinia or himself, he reflected. They managed to hang around on the fringes of the polite world thanks to connections with some wealthy, powerful former clients such as Vale and Mrs. Dove, but that association did not automatically qualify them to be placed on any hostess’s regular guest list.

Aspasia’s pedigree, on the other hand, was impeccable. She was the last of her line, and she controlled a substantial inheritance that she had received from her father. At seventeen she had been briefly married to a man some forty years her senior. His death six months after the nuptials had left her with an additional income. Tobias calculated that she was now twenty-eight. The combination of beauty, breeding, and money made her an extremely attractive addition to any guest list. It was not at all surprising that she had received an invitation to Beaumont Castle.

“I’m surprised the housekeeper was able to find a bed chamber for you on such short notice,” he said. “I thought the castle was filled to the rafters.”

“It is quite crowded. But when I arrived and made it plain that there had been a mistake with the invitations,” the butler and housekeeper consulted together. They managed to find a very pleasant room for me just down the hall. I suspect that they arranged to move someone of lesser consequence to a less desirable location.”

“Tell me what this is about, Aspasia.”

She began to pace back and forth in front of the hearth. “I’m not sure where to start. I returned from Paris last month and took a house in Town. Naturally I had intended to call upon you in due course after I was settled.”

He watched her face very closely and decided that he did not entirely believe that last statement. He was quite certain that, if she’d had a choice in the matter, she would have been content to avoid him indefinitely. He understood. She would always associate him with the tragic events of three years past.

“What changed your mind?” he asked.

Her expression did not alter, but her elegant bare shoulders stiffened with tension. It would, he reflected, take a great deal to rattle Aspasia’s nerves.

“Something happened this morning,” she said, gazing into the fire. “Something quite unsettling. I could not think of anything else to do but to consult with you immediately, Tobias.”

“I suggest you come straight to the point,” he said.

“Very well, but I fear you will not credit what I have to say if I do not show you what was left on my front step early this morning.”

She opened a tiny, beaded reticule and removed a small object wrapped in a linen handkerchief. She offered it to him on the palm of her hand.

He plucked the small parcel from her fingers and carried it across the room to examine it in the light of the candle. There he untied the handkerchief and let the cloth fall away.

He looked at the ring that had been revealed and felt the hair lift on the back of his neck.

“Hell’s teeth,” he whispered.

Aspasia said nothing. She folded her arms beneath her breasts and waited, eyes shadowed.

He studied the ring more closely. The band was set with black stones. The darkly glittering gems framed a small gold coffin. He used the tip of one finger to raise the lid. A tiny, exquisitely detailed white skull grinned up at him from inside the miniature sarcophagus.

He angled the ring to read the Latin inscription on the inside of the lid, translating the ancient warning silently to himself. Death comes.

He met Aspasia’s eyes. “It is an old memento-mori ring.”

“Yes.” She hugged herself more tightly.

“You said it was left on your doorstep?”

“My housekeeper found it. The ring was inside a small box covered in black velvet.”

“Was there a note? A message of some kind?”

“No. Just that damned ring.” She shuddered, no longer bothering to conceal her disquiet. “You see now why I went to such lengths to find you tonight?”

“It is impossible,” he said flatly. “Zachary Elland is dead, Aspasia. We both saw the body.”

She closed her eyes briefly in pain and then looked at him very steadily. “You do not need to remind me.”

The old guilt slammed through him. “Of course not. My apologies.”

“Afterward,” she said slowly, “you told me you’d heard rumors of another man who once made a profession of murder, just as Zachary had done, a killer who used the same ghastly signature.”

“Calm yourself, Aspasia.”

“I recall you told me that he was never caught and that there was never any proof of murder in the first place because the deaths always appeared accidental or natural.”

“Aspasia”

“Maybe he’s still out there, Tobias. Maybe-”

“Listen closely,” he said in a tone that finally succeeded in silencing her. “The original Memento-Mori Man, if he ever actually existed, would be quite elderly by now. Dead, most likely. Those rumors dated from decades back. Crackenburne and some of his companions heard them years ago when they themselves were young men.”

“Yes, I know.”

“They eventually concluded that the tale of a professional killer for hire was never anything other than just that, a grisly legend. It was fed by rumors among servants who gossiped in the taverns and told tall tales to their friends. Zachary no doubt took pleasure in invoking the old stories because it suited his sense of melodrama.

“You know how he thrived on excitement.”

“Yes, of course.” The room was warm, but she rubbed her arms as though she felt a chill. “He craved thrills and drama the way some are addicted to opium.” She hesitated. “He no doubt enjoyed re-creating the legend of the Memento-Mori Man. Now it would appear that someone else has the same taste for melodrama.”

“Perhaps.”

“Tobias, I do not mind telling you that I am quite frightened.”

“Obviously someone else knows about Zachary Elland and his connection to you.” He contemplated the miniature skull in the gold coffin. “Are you sure there was no note?”

“I am positive.” She stared bleakly at the ring. “He left that death’s-head on my step to terrify me.”

“Why would he do that?”

“I do not know! A visible shiver went through her. “I’ve been thinking about that question all day. Indeed, I’ve thought of little else.”