Czytaj książkę: «Wicked»

CHAPTER ONE

“GOOD LORD, what has he done now?” Camille asked with dismay, looking at Ralph, Tristan’s valet, man’s man and—unfortunately, most often—his cohort in crime.

“Nothing!” Ralph said indignantly.

“Nothing? I am left to wonder why you are standing in front of me, breathless, looking as if I’m about to be called to once again come to the aid of my guardian and rescue him from some jail cell, brothel or other place of ill repute!”

She knew that she sounded indignant and angry. Tristan was incapable of staying out of trouble. She also sounded as if she would let him stew in his pot of problems, which she would not. Ralph knew it, and she knew it.

Tristan Montgomery was not much of a respectable figure as far as guardians went, despite the fact that fate had provided him with a certain status, this being a time when a man’s title meant far more than his true situation or character.

But twelve years ago he had rescued her from a workhouse or a worse fate. She shivered, thinking of other penniless orphans who had been left to fend for themselves. Tristan’s means of support had never been what one would call acceptable, but from the day he had first seen her, alone with her mother’s still-warm body, he had given his heart and his means—whatever they might be—to her. And she would never give him less.

However, she had been striving valiantly for several years now to give him more—stability! An honest place in society. A home. A far more decent life….

Luckily, Ralph had met her discreetly at the corner, rather than coming into the British Museum, where his disheveled appearance and anxious whispers might have cost her the job she had at long last acquired. She knew more about ancient Egypt than most of the men who had been on excavations, but even Sir John Matthews had hemmed and hawed about the idea of bringing in a woman. And with Sir Hunter MacDonald in on the decision, it had certainly not been an easy road. Hunter actually liked her very much, but the fact that he admired her might well have worked against her. He thought himself something of a seasoned explorer and adventurer—one who apparently gave no credence to the new breed of women suffragettes and sincerely thought that the fairer breed belonged at home. At least Alex Mittleman, Aubrey Sizemore and even Lord Wimbly seemed to accept her presence without much ado. Thankfully, Lord Wimbly and Sir John mattered the most.

Yet the trials and tribulations of her work could not be of much import at this moment. Tristan was in trouble. But on Monday evening! Just at the start of the workweek.

“I swear, Tristan did nothing.” Ralph flushed. He was a little man, no more than five feet five inches, but he was spry. He could move with the speed of a lynx, and just as supplely and secretively, as well.

Camille was aware that although Tristan might not have done anything, he had certainly been planning something illegal when he arrived in whatever his current—and dire—situation might be.

Camille turned, looking back. The scholarly curators of the museum were now exiting the grand and beautiful building, and might stumble upon her at any second. Suddenly Alex Mittleman, Sir John’s next in command, appeared. If he saw her, he’d want to talk, to escort her to the trains. She had to move, and fast.

She caught Ralph’s elbow, hurrying him down the street. As she did so, the wind expelled a mighty breath, making the nip in the air more like a true bite of ice. Maybe it wasn’t just the wind. Perhaps it was a premonition of fear that snaked so cruelly along her spine.

“Come along, speak to me and speak quickly!” Camille warned. She was already worried, very worried. Tristan was smart, incredibly well-read, with a street education to match that he had procured at the hands of a multitude of tutors when a young man. He had taught her so very much—language, reading, art, history, theater…And also the fact that perception was nine tenths of the law—the social law. If she spoke like an impoverished but genteel lady, and dressed as such, that is what people would believe her to be.

He could be so amazingly perceptive regarding so much around him. And yet, at times, it seemed as if he had no common sense whatsoever!

“Dougray’s is ahead,” Ralph said, referring to a pub.

“You do not need a quota of gin!” Camille remonstrated.

“Aye, but I do!” the little man moaned softly.

She sighed. Dougray’s was known as a working class establishment and was of a better repute than many a place both Ralph and Tristan had frequented. The pub was also not averse to serving women, particularly the growing sisterhood within the clerical office force in the country.

Camille always dressed carefully to maintain her station as assistant to Sir John Matthews, associate curator for the burgeoning department of Egyptian Antiquities. Her skirt was a somber gray with a small bustle, and her blouse, with an attractive, tailored look that primly ringed her neck, was in a similar but lighter color. Her cloak was of good quality and appropriate. Once it had belonged to a lady of class who had presumably let it go to the Salvation Army when she had acquired one of more recent style. Skeins of rich sable-brown hair—which Camille considered to be her one beauty—were dutifully pinned atop her head. She wore no jewelry or ornamentation other than the plain gold band that Tristan had found on her mother’s person, and which she had worn ever since—on a chain when she was a child, and now upon her finger.

She didn’t think they were particularly noticed when they entered the pub.

“We’re hiding?” Ralph whispered.

“Please, let’s just move to the back.”

“If you’re trying to be nondescript, Camie, you should be aware that every fellow in this place has turned to look at you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“It’s your eyes,” he told her.

“They are an ordinary brown,” she said impatiently.

“No, lass, they’re gold, pure gold. And sometimes they have a touch of the old Emerald Isle. Quite remarkable. I’m afraid that men do watch you, the proper ones—and them that aren’t so proper!” he said, looking around with a flash of anger.

“I’m not under attack, Ralph. Please, move!”

She quickly urged Ralph into the smoky rear of the establishment, ordering him a gin and herself a cup of tea. “Now,” she commanded, “talk!”

So he did.

“Tristan loves you dearly, child. You know that,” Ralph began.

“As I love him. And I am hardly a child any longer, thank the good Lord!” Camille retorted. “Now tell me, immediately, what mess I must rescue him from this time!”

Ralph muttered into his glass of gin.

“Ralph!” she remonstrated, showing backbone and temper.

“He’s in the hands of the Earl of Carlyle.”

Camille gasped. Of all the things she might have expected, it was not this. And though she didn’t have the story as yet, already she was dismayed.

The Earl of Carlyle was known to be a monster. Not just in his dealings with workmen, servants and society, but in truth. His parents, wealthy beyond comprehension through dual inheritances, had considered themselves scholars, great antiquarians and archeologists. The fervor regarding anything from ancient Egypt had taken root in their hearts, and they had lived their adult lives in Cairo. Their only child had been sent back to England for a proper education and university, but he had joined them immediately after.

Then, according to newspaper reports, the family had fallen victim to a deadly curse. They had discovered the tomb of an ancient priest, filled with precious artifacts. Among those artifacts was a canopic jar containing the heart of the priest’s most beloved concubine. The concubine was supposedly a witch. Naturally, stealing away the canopic jar cast a serious curse upon the family. It was reported that one of the Egyptian diggers began to rant, pointing to the heavens, declaring that the selfishness and cruelty in stealing the heart of another would bring about disaster. The earl and his countess merely laughed at the man, which was a serious mistake, apparently, as they died themselves quite mysteriously—and horrendously—within days.

Their son, the present earl, had been with Her Majesty’s troops, putting down insurrectionists in India at the time. Upon hearing the news, he had gone quite insane in battle and turned the tide in a skirmish in which Her Majesty’s troops had been seriously outnumbered. He had prevailed, but not without injuries so serious that he was hideously scarred. And embittered. And saddled with a family curse, as well, one so dire that, despite the fortune he had inherited, it kept him from seeking a wife during any season in London.

According to rumor, the man was beyond vile. Hideous in face and form, he was as gnarled, blackened and evil as the heart that had come to Carlyle Castle in the canopic jar.

It was said that the relic had then disappeared, and many believed that the heart had become one with that of the now evil Lord of the Castle. He simply hated everyone. A hermit living at his overgrown and massive estate, he prosecuted any trespassers—at least, those he did not shoot—to the utmost degree of the law.

This much, Camille knew. If she hadn’t read about it in the papers, she would have heard the story anyway—embellished she was certain—as it was always a subject of discussion in the Egyptian Antiquities section of the museum.

Ralph didn’t need to say another word for her heart to be filled with dread.

She remained impassive and forced her voice to an even level as she asked Ralph, “Just how did Tristan manage to run afoul of the Earl of Carlyle?”

Ralph finished his gin with a shudder, sat back and looked at Camille. “He had it in him to…well, to waylay a carriage from the north.”

Camille sucked in air, staring at him with dismay. “He meant to rob someone, like an ordinary highwayman? He might have gotten himself shot—or hanged!”

Ralph squirmed uncomfortably. “Well, you see, that wouldn’t have happened. We never got that far.”

Hurt, as well as dismay, suddenly filled her. She had a job now! A perfectly respectable job. Work that filled her with fascination and paid quite decently. She could support the two of them—and Ralph—decently, if not in the lap of luxury, without his resorting to any criminal trickery.

“Pray, tell me, what prevented the two of you from getting your fool selves killed?” she demanded.

He squirmed in the badly upholstered seat once again. “Carlyle Castle,” he said, his eyes downcast.

“Do go on!” she said.

His lashes flickered and he said defensively, “It’s because Tristan does dote on you so, Camie, that he seeks another way to set you up properly in society.”

Camille stared at him, anger growing in her heart, then dissipating. There was simply no way to explain to Ralph that she would never be a part of “society.” Perhaps her father had been a nobleman; perhaps the fellow had even married her mother in some secret ceremony. The ring she had worn had been testament to a man regarding her mother with at least enough affection to invest in a fine piece of jewelry.

The world believed that Camille was the child of a distant relative of Tristan’s, a man knighted for his gallantry in Her Majesty’s Service in the Sudan. But it wasn’t the truth. And there would never be such a thing as a socially prominent marriage, or a season or anything resembling the like. And if she pushed too hard, the truth would be discovered.

The truth was not attractive in the least. Her mother had been a prostitute; she had died in Whitechapel. Once upon a time, she had surely had dreams of a different life. But she had fallen in love and been discarded in London’s East End, disinherited and penniless. Whoever Camille’s father was, he had long disappeared by the time she was nine years old. And Tess Jardinelle died in the same streets she had worked. If Tristan hadn’t come along that day…

“Ralph,” she said with a heavy sigh, “please, just explain.”

“The gates were ajar,” he said simply.

“They were ajar?” she demanded.

“All right…they were locked. But there is a break in the wall, and it seemed quite tempting to an adventurer such as Tristan.”

“Adventurer!”

Ralph flushed but did not revise his adjective. “There were no dogs about. It was early evening. There are stories about the wolves that prowl the forest, but you know Tristan. He thought that we should just venture in.”

“I see. Just to enjoy the grounds and the moonlight?”

Ralph shrugged uncomfortably. “All right. Tristan believed there might be some trinket…just to be found on the ground, which might fetch a fortune if sold to the right people, in the right places. That’s all. It was nothing heinous or evil. He believed he might find something that wouldn’t even be missed by one so great as the Earl of Carlyle, and that might still bring about a great deal of money when sold—properly.”

“Black market!”

“He wants the best for you. And there is that young man at the museum who has shown such an interest!”

Camille could not help but roll her eyes. He was referring to Sir Hunter MacDonald, a “consultant” to Lord David Wimbly and the titular head of the Antiquities section, due to his experience at Egyptian digs and, no doubt, the vast amounts of money he had contributed to the museum.

Hunter was attractive. He was quite dashing, really. And he’d earned his knighthood in the service, as well. Tall, charming, well-spoken and broad shouldered. Yet, though she did enjoy his company, she was careful. Despite his allure, his continued flattery and attempts at something closer, she never forgot the circumstances of her birth. Many times she had imagined her mother, alone and beautiful, trusting in just such a man, her heart outweighing and denying all logic and reality.

She knew Hunter was interested in her, but there was no future there. No matter what his compliments and kind words, she was certain that she was not the type such a man would bring home to his mama.

In her life, she would accept no less than a real commitment. There could be no such thing as falling head over heels in love, or letting passion rule her mind. And Camille meant to keep her pride, dignity—and position—at all costs. The thought of losing her employment at the museum was one she refused to entertain, and it was why she was determined to be so careful now.

“I want no young man, Ralph, who is not interested in me for myself.”

“That’s well and good, Camille. But we are living in a society that seeks pedigrees and riches.”

She nearly groaned aloud. “A record of arrest and time served, or a guardian with an address such as Newgate, would not give me riches or a pedigree, Ralph.”

“Oh, come. Please, Camille, we intended nothing really evil! Outlaws and highwaymen have become quite famous and revered in legend for stealing from the rich and giving to the poor. We just happen to be the poor.”

“And outlaws and highwaymen have dangled from ropes far too many times!” she reminded him, eyes flashing. “I have been trying, with the patience of a saint, one might say, to explain to you both that stealing is not just considered to be evil, it’s illegal!”

“Ah, Camie girl!” Ralph said miserably. His eyes fell to the table again. “Might I have another gin?”

“Certainly not!” Camille said. “You’ve got to keep your wits about you, and finish this story so that I know what can be done! Where is Tristan now? Has he been taken before a magistrate? What on earth will I ever be able to do? And if Tristan was caught…?”

“He pushed me back behind the trees and allowed himself to be taken,” Ralph said.

“So he has been arrested?” she said.

Ralph shook his head. He bit his lip and told her, “He’s at Carlyle Castle. At least, I think he’s still there. I came as quickly as I could.”

“Oh, dear God! They’ve surely had him taken to some jail by now!” she exclaimed.

To her surprise, he shook his head once again. “No, you see, I heard the beast.”

“Pardon?”

“He was there. The Earl of Carlyle was there, riding this massive, black, very evil-looking steed! Huge, it were! And he was shouting to his men, telling them that the trespasser must be held, and that…”

“And that what?”

“He could never be allowed to say what he had seen.”

She stared at him, confused, the cold that had once trickled at her neck now an icicle driving brutally into her flesh.

“What did you see?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Nothing! Honestly, nothing. But there were men with Carlyle. And they dragged Tristan to the castle with them.”

“How did you know that it was Carlyle—the beast?” she asked.

Ralph shuddered. “The mask!” he said softly.

“He wears a mask?”

“Oh, yes. The man is a monster. Surely, you’ve heard.”

“He is crippled, bent over and wears a mask?”

“No, no, he is huge. Well, very tall in his saddle. And he wears a mask. In leather, I believe, but it has the visage of a beast. Part lion, perhaps. Or wolf. Or dragon. It is horrid, that’s all I can say. His voice is like thunder, deep…as if he is indeed cursed of the devil himself! But it was him. Aye, it was him!”

She stared at Ralph.

Ralph shook his head in misery. “Tristan would strangle me if he knew that he’d sacrificed himself just so that I would worry you, but…he can’t be left there. Even if the police suspect him of being a robber…”

Yes, that would be better. If only Tristan had been hauled back to London to face accusation and trial, she could somehow pay for his legal defense. She could go before the magistrate herself and plead that he was going mad, that age had been stealing his senses. She could have…God knew what she could have done.

But, according to Ralph, Tristan was still at Carlyle Castle, held prisoner by a man with a reputation for merciless brutality. She rose.

“What are you going to do?” Ralph demanded.

“What else?” she demanded with a weary sigh. “I am going to Carlyle Castle.”

Ralph shuddered. “I have done the wrong thing. Tristan would not want you throwing yourself into danger.”

She felt a great pang of sorrow for Ralph, yet, what had he expected?

“I will not be in danger,” she assured him, smiling wearily. “He did teach me something about being a con artist, Ralph. I will go in all innocence and naiveté, and they will return my guardian to me. You’ll see.”

He rose quickly. “You cannot go alone!”

“I don’t intend to,” she assured him dryly. “We must head home first, and I must change. And you, too, must change.”

“Me?”

“Indeed!”

“Change?”

“Perception is everything, Ralph,” she told him sagely. He looked puzzled. “Never mind. Come along. I think we need to hurry.” She froze suddenly, turning back on him. “Ralph, no one knows, right? No one knows that the Earl of Carlyle has Tristan?”

“No one but me. And you now, of course.”

She felt a cold clutch of bony fingers encircling her heart, reaching into her throat. Good God, no matter what kind of a beast he was considered to be, the Earl of Carlyle couldn’t simply…murder a man.

“Ralph, we must move, and quickly!” she said, catching his arm and dragging him along.

“THE GENTLEMAN is resting nicely,” Evelyn Prior said, coming into the den. She fell into one of the huge upholstered wingback chairs that sat before the fire. Beside her, the master of the house had taken a position in the matching chair, brooding as he stared into the flames and scratched the huge head of his Irish wolfhound, Ajax.

Brian Stirling, Earl of Carlyle, looked over at her, brows knitted, deep in thought. After a moment, he said, “How badly is he hurt?”

“Oh, not badly, I dare say. The physician said that he was merely shaken and sore, and he didn’t believe the man had broken any bones, though he did acquire some bruising from climbing the walls, then falling. But I think he’ll be fine in a few days’ time.”

“He will not be crawling about the house in the night?”

Evelyn smiled. “Good heavens, no. Corwin is on guard in the hallway. And as you know, we keep the crypts locked tight. Only you and I have keys to the gates below. Even if he were to wander, there would be nothing he could find. And he won’t wander. Since he was in some pain, he has been given a good dose of laudanum.”

“He won’t wander. Corwin will see to that,” Brian said with certainty. His staff at Carlyle Castle was small, far too small for the upkeep of such a property. Everyone here was not just in service, but considered a friend. And each man and woman was loyal to the core—far more than appearances would imply.

“You are right, of course. Corwin will be entirely diligent,” Evelyn agreed.

“What do you think possessed the man to do such a thing?” Brian asked. He turned his gaze from the flames to Evelyn once again. “The grounds themselves are so overgrown, a veritable jungle. It’s amazing he would risk a trek through them.”

“And the estate was so beautifully kept when your parents were alive!” she murmured.

“A year of English rain, my dear, can do wonders,” Brian said. “So we have a jungle and wildlife! What would make him risk it?”

“The promise of great riches to be stolen,” she said.

“You don’t believe that the man is working for someone, do you?” he asked sharply.

She lifted her hands helplessly. “Honestly? No, I believe he came to steal something of value, and nothing more. Yet, is it possible that he’s working for someone, seeking to find out what you have and what you know? Yes, it’s possible.”

“I’ll find out tomorrow,” Brian said. He knew the sound of his voice was chilling. He hadn’t meant for it to be so, but as far as Carlyle Castle and his current activities went, he did feel a certain ruthlessness. He was embittered, he admitted, feeling a strong right to be so. There was more than the problem of the past to be solved. There was the future.