Shannon Drake - Beguiled

“Oh,” Camille said, standing by Molly and surveying Ally. “It is perfect. I am so angry at the aunties. They should be here this evening. But I have to commend Maggie the minute she arrives—she chose the color and the fabric. Ally, your eyes look golden and your hair, just a shade darker. My dear girl, you have grown up.”

“Thank you,” Ally said. “Camille, is this a birthday celebration? Or is there something more going on tonight? I thank God that I am important in your eyes, but—”

The older woman was silent for a moment, then said, “Brian has returned and is downstairs already. He’s in quite a state. He and Shelby retraced the carriage route, and he tried a dozen forest trails but was unable to find any sign of that wretched highwayman. Still, we must get on with the evening. And Theodore is feeding the inspector from the Metropolitan Police in the kitchen. We must speak with him at some point. And Angus Cunningham will be here later, so he must be informed about this new development.”

“One last touch,” Molly said, setting a studded pin into place in Ally’s hair. She stepped back and clasped her hands. “Like a princess!” she exclaimed.

Ally kissed Molly’s cheeks. “Not a princess, a commoner, Molly, and one who loves you and thanks you.”

Molly sniffed suddenly and reached into her pocket for a handkerchief.

“Molly, stop that,” Ally said. “I’ll stay up here with you, shall I?”

“Nonsense, you’re going downstairs,” Camille said, laughing. “Come along, lass.”

There it was again. That word. Lass. She would probably remain a lass in the eyes of those who had helped raise her until she dropped dead of old age.

“There’s something I must speak to you about this evening, as well,” Ally told the duchess.

“Is there?”

“Yes. I should tell you all at once, I suppose,” Ally said. “Because you’ll all be here tonight, all of you who have been so kind, taking me in almost as your own child. Sir Hunter and Lady Kat, Lord James and Lady Maggie, and you and Lord Stirling.”

“Let us hope,” Camille said, glancing at the delicate gold watch pendant she wore around her neck, “we will have a few minutes together before the castle begins to fill, but first, to the kitchen. Inspector Turner is waiting.”

“MARK, YOU’RE JUST COMING IN?”

Joseph Farrow was standing by the fire. He was a tall, dignified man, and, Mark thought proudly, he still appeared handsomely fit.

Mark was an only child. His mother had died of fever when he had been but a boy, and though he remembered her gentle smile, the feeling of love with which she had enveloped him, and the scent of her perfume, it was his father who had guided his life.

It was because Joseph was so fine a man that Mark had always allowed this bargain. He would break his father’s heart if he were to be the cause of Joseph Farrow breaking his word. Still…

“Father, I cannot attend tonight,” Mark said.

He saw the frown that instantly began to furrow his father’s brow.

“Mark, this event has been planned for years—”

“I know.”

“There was good reason for me to give my word.”

“I have no intention of doing any less than promised, Father. But—”

The phone began to ring. Though theirs had been one of the first townhomes in London to have a phone, it seemed that Joseph Farrow still could not accustom himself to the sound of it. He winced at the shrill clang.

Jeeter, Joseph’s valet and butler, hurried into the drawing room to lift the receiver off the cradle. He answered with complete dignity, announcing that the caller had reached the home of Lord Farrow. Then he was silent as he held the receiver and looked toward Joseph.

“Detective Douglas,” he said quietly.

Joseph looked at his son as he walked over to speak. “Lord Farrow here.”

He listened, his eyes still upon Mark.

“Indeed,” he said at last.

Jeeter took the receiver from Joseph to return it to the hook.

“Well, son,” he said softly, “it will be awkward to express your regrets, but…Giles Brandon, dash it all,” he said sadly. “Jeeter, please see that my coach is ready.”

When Jeeter had left the room, Joseph looked at his son.

“Go, then. There is a dead man calling your name.”

THE KITCHEN REMAINED ALIVE with movement. Theodore called out directions, and at least two dozen workers and servers were scurrying about.

All movement stopped when Camille first walked in, Ally in tow. Heads bowed in acknowledgment to the lady of the castle.

“Please,” Camille murmured, a tinge of color in her cheeks. “Don’t let me disturb your hard work.” She steered Ally quickly toward a large butcher-block table, where Inspector Turner was waiting.

He’d been well fed. Theodore would have seen to that.

He stood as the women approached. “I’m sorry to be a nuisance on such an evening,” he apologized.

He had the look of a sad old basset hound, Ally thought. He had dark eyes that had seen too much, and a heavily lined face. But his bearing was tall and dignified, and he spoke softly. She believed he took his work to heart.

“How do you do,” she murmured.

“Inspector, my ward, Alexandra Grayson.”

“Miss Grayson…I have spoken to Lord Stirling, but you are the one who can really help me. I need a description of this man, the highwayman.”

“I wish that I could help you more, Inspector,” Ally said. “But as to a description…it’s quite difficult.”

“All right, let me ask you questions, then. Was he tall or short?”

“Tall.”

“And his build?” the inspector queried.

She hesitated.

“Certainly not a skinny chap? Though it’s true that a gun can make a small man seem more powerful than he really is,” he said.

“No, not skinny,” she said. They were both staring at her. She had to give them more than this. “He was built something like Lord Stirling, I suppose….”

“Rides well?” the inspector asked.

“Very.”

“Perhaps someone who has served with the queen’s forces,” the inspector said, more to himself than to Ally or Camille. “Now, what about his face? His coloring?”

She frowned. “Inspector, I wish that I could be more helpful. All of them wore masks, hats and cloaks.”

“But according to Lord Stirling’s man, Shelby, the highwayman himself took off with you.”

She shook her head. “He wanted only to know my name, and I was perhaps being a bit stubborn. He took nothing from me.”

“And…he did not hurt you in any way?”

If she weren’t feeling so uncomfortable herself, she would have felt sorry for the inspector. He was trying to ask the question so delicately.

“I was not harmed in any way at all,” she assured him quickly, wondering if she was flushing.

“And nothing was stolen?”

“Nothing.” Ally hesitated. “Perhaps it occurred to him that he had stopped a carriage belonging to Lord Stirling, and that Lord Stirling is a man who would come after him himself, and with a vengeance.”

“Perhaps,” the inspector mused.

He stared at her hard again, and Ally felt even more acutely uncomfortable. This was a man whose job was to question people. It was as if he read her every movement and nuance as he listened to her words.

“So…you can’t tell me his eye color?”

“I wish I could. They were dark, I believe, though the mask caused shadows, you know.”

“And you must have been very frightened,” Camille murmured, loading another layer of guilt upon Ally’s shoulders.

“Surely you’ve had other descriptions,” Ally murmured.

“Always the same,” Inspector Turner said with a sigh. “Even in broad daylight. People remember the mask, and a cape or a cloak…riding boots. Who in England does not possess a pair of riding boots? But don’t fear, Miss Grayson. We will apprehend this culprit.”