Chapter Five
OLIVIA JERKED AWAKE, her eyes flying open. For a moment she stared blindly in front of her. Then, slowly, she sat up, gazing around her at the room. A dream. She had been asleep and dreaming.
She rubbed her hands over her face. She felt fuzzy and odd. What a peculiar dream! It had seemed so real, as if she had been watching a play, or real people. It had been, she thought, exceedingly odd for a dream. Usually she knew the people in her dreams—even if they did not look like themselves, she was aware of who they were. And she was usually the main participant in her dreams. She was late or running from some horror or doing some task, but it was always herself. But in this dream she had seen an unknown room and people who were strangers to her. She herself had not been in the dream except as an unseen watcher.
The man and woman had been dressed like people from the Middle Ages. She paused, thinking about the woman’s dress. The early Middle Ages, she thought, around the time of King Henry II, for the woman’s dress made her think of Eleanor of Aquitaine. And though they had spoken English, their accents had been odd, the words stilted, and she had had trouble understanding what they said. She had once or twice dreamed about a different time or place, but on those occasions she had been reading about that time or place, or studying it in school, or Theo had written her about it. But she had read nothing about the time of Henry II in the recent past.
Unbidden, the thought of an old Norman keep came into her mind—the castle she had thought she glimpsed as the carriage approached Blackhope. A shiver ran through her.
She stood up, rubbing her arms to warm herself. What was the matter with her? She could not remember ever having seen something that didn’t exist, even for an instant. That, she told herself, was even odder than the dream. If she told anyone about it, they would think her as peculiar as her grandmother.
There was a knock on the door, and Joan entered to help her dress for the evening. Olivia forced a smile onto her lips and determinedly put both the imagined castle and the dream out of her mind.
* * *
THAT NIGHT AT SUPPER, much to Olivia’s surprise, Lady Pamela spoke to her. “I hear that you rode out with Stephen this afternoon, Lady Olivia. I hope you enjoyed your tour of our place.”
Olivia noted that the woman made it sound as if the estate still somehow belonged to her. She smiled politely and said, “Yes, very much. Lord St. Leger told me a bit about his life in the United States, as well, which was quite interesting.”
“Really?” Pamela arched one thin elegant brow as she looked at Stephen. “I am surprised you have never told us about it, Stephen.”
“I doubted you would find it interesting, my lady,” he replied in a cool, formal voice.
Pamela smiled at him. “I imagine you would be surprised what interests me. You must try me someday.”
Stephen said nothing, merely picked up his wineglass and took a sip. Pamela turned her attention back to Olivia. “We are very glad that you came to visit, my lady. We have heard so much about your family.”
There was a faint thread of amusement running through her voice that made it quite clear what she had heard about the Morelands.
“Indeed?” Olivia said mildly.
“Oh, yes,” Pamela continued, a cold light in her blue eyes. “The duchess is quite famous in society.”
“My mother is well-known for her many good causes, if that is what you mean,” Olivia said pleasantly, gazing back at Pamela with equally hard eyes.
“She is very...forward thinking, is she not?”
“Yes, she is.”
“Pamela...” Lady St. Leger said, casting an anxious glance at Olivia.
“What do you mean?” Belinda asked curiously.
Lady St. Leger looked as if she had swallowed a bug. Pamela’s smile was like cut glass.
“She means,” said Olivia coolly, “that my mother believes in such things as education for poor children and better treatment of workers in factories and women having the right to vote.”
“Really?” Belinda’s eyes widened. “But isn’t that a good thing? That poor children get educated and that people are treated well?”
“Yes, of course.” Olivia smiled and nodded. “My mother has a great deal of compassion, a trait that, I am afraid, is all too often missing in some women of the nobility.” She turned her eyes significantly back to Pamela.
Stephen let out a short bark of laughter. “Pamela, if you persist in trying to engage Lady Olivia in a battle of wits, you are bound to lose, you know.”
Fire flared in Pamela’s eyes, though she quickly hid it by lowering her eyes. “Why, Stephen, I am hurt that you should think I meant anything bad,” she said, and when she raised her cornflower-blue eyes again, they were swimming in tears. “I was merely interested in Lady Olivia’s family.”
“Of course,” Olivia said briskly. “I am quite proud of my mother, so I never mind talking about her.”
A small silence fell on the table after that. Olivia glanced at Lady St. Leger, who still looked a trifle uncomfortable. In an effort to assure Stephen’s mother that she had not been offended by Pamela’s remarks, Olivia said, “You have a lovely home, Lady St. Leger.”
The older woman brightened and smiled at her gratefully. “Thank you, my lady. I am glad you think so. The house has been here for many, many years, of course, but I did do some redecorating. There were some places that were a trifle chilly—both literally and figuratively.”
“I fear that is often so with stone houses,” Olivia commiserated.
“Is a sad house.” Madame Valenskaya spoke up suddenly, and everyone’s eyes turned toward her. “Full of lost souls. I know. I hear dem crying out to me. Soon as I arrifed, I knew.”
It was the first time Madame Valenskaya had spoken that evening, having been applying herself with some diligence to her food. But now she looked around the table at the rest of them, nodding her head for emphasis.
Olivia glanced at the others. Stephen’s face was carefully blank; he was not going to get pulled into the same sort of mistake he had made the night before. Pamela looked cynical and faintly amused. Belinda was leaning forward, her eyes wide, clearly enjoying the drama of the moment. Lady St. Leger, however, was clasping her hands together at her breast, her expression worried, obviously hanging on to Madame Valenskaya’s every word.
“I don’t know,” Olivia said calmly, keeping her face innocent. “It does not seem a sinister house to me at all. I find it quite spacious and lovely.”
“Oh, Madame always knows,” Mr. Babington said earnestly, putting down his fork and leaning forward to look at Olivia. “She is very attuned to the spirit world. Whenever we enter a house, she knows if there are lost souls within it. There have been one or two she could not even bear to enter.”
“Yes. Terrible places,” the medium agreed in her guttural voice. “Here is not bad. But I hear lost souls wailing.” She gave a dramatic shiver, adding, “Even de name oozes evil—Blackhope Hall.”
“It has been named that forever,” Pamela commented. “It comes from some ancient time. I am sure it meant something innocuous at the time.”
“I know about the name!” Belinda said, her eyes lighting. “My tutor told me last year. He had me research the history of the house as an exercise, you see. A long time ago, long before the St. Legers even owned it, the house was owned by some nobleman who shut himself up in his castle and spent all his time brooding over his dead wife. The book I read said that is how the house got its name.”
“You see?” Madame Valenskaya exclaimed, eager to prove her point. “Another lost soul. There are many.”
Olivia noticed that, in her excitement, the medium’s accent slipped a bit, her s’s losing their sibilance and her th’s clearly pronounced. Madame Valenskaya seemed to realize it, as well, for she added, “Is not good place. De spirits wail with pain.”
“Madame, please tell us that you will conduct another séance tonight,” Lady St. Leger urged, her brow drawn into a frown. “You could help those spirits, perhaps.”
“No. Not tonight. Is too soon.” Madame Valenskaya put a hand to her forehead dramatically. “I cannot try again. Is too painful.”
“Mama suffers terribly sometimes,” Irina put in quietly. “Especially when the spirits are restless and tormented.”
Watching the pain on Lady St. Leger’s face, Olivia had to press her lips together firmly to keep from saying anything. One glance at Lord St. Leger told her that he was having difficulty being quiet, also.
“Perhaps tomorrow night,” Olivia said pacifically, hoping to forestall any words from Stephen, as well as ease his mother’s distress.
“Yes, tomorrow night,” Lady St. Leger said, her words a plea.
Madame Valenskaya nodded, her face that of a martyr. “I try.”
“Thank you. You are so good.”
After watching the medium’s manipulation of Lady St. Leger, Olivia found she had little appetite left. She was glad when the last course was brought in a moment later and they were able to finish the meal.
* * *
LITTLE HAPPENED THE next day. There were country things to do, such as croquet on the front lawn or games in the drawing room, or piano playing and singing in the music room, and Olivia participated, but with a sense of passing time until the main event of the day, the next séance, could take place. Stephen spent most of the day in his office, working on estate matters, so Olivia saw him only at luncheon. She could not help but wonder if he was perhaps avoiding her because of the kiss between them the afternoon before. He had apologized, which was the gentlemanly thing to do. But now she began to wonder if perhaps he had meant his regrets, if he wished that it had not happened. Feeling a trifle blue, she picked out a book from the library late in the afternoon and went upstairs. After taking off her dress, she slipped on her dressing gown over her undergarments and settled down in a comfortable chair to read until time for supper.
The afternoon sun was slipping below the horizon and dusk was falling outside when Joan came into the room, carrying Olivia’s freshly pressed evening gown. It was one of Kyria’s dresses that Joan had resewn for Olivia, a peacock-blue satin pulled tight across the front and gathered in a bustle at the back, with a spill of lace adorning the skirt from the bottom of the bustle down to the floor.
Olivia went to look at the dress as Joan spread it out on the bed. She could not help but feel a prickle of excitement at the thought of wearing it in front of Stephen. Would his eyes light with pleasure as she had seen men’s eyes do when Kyria entered a room? She could not quite imagine it; she was not the sort of woman who lit a fire in men. Still, she could not forget that kiss.
Joan picked up Olivia’s brush and comb, and Olivia sat down in front of the vanity mirror. Joan pulled the pins from Olivia’s hair and set about brushing it out in preparation for the more intricate style into which she intended to arrange it this evening. Suddenly a loud bang sounded from outside the windows, and Joan jumped, inadvertently hitting Olivia’s head with the brush.
“I’m so sorry, my lady,” she began, but Olivia was already on her feet and crossing to the window, curious about the sound. The maid followed on her heels. When she reached the window and looked down into the garden Olivia came to a dead stop and stared at the tableau below. Joan, coming up beside her, sucked in her breath in a loud gasp.
Olivia leaned forward, closer to the glass of the window. In the garden, a figure walked along a path in the closing twilight. There was still enough light to see that the person pacing slowly wore not any common sort of attire but a long black, hooded robe of the sort worn by monks. His hands were crossed at his waist, the long sleeves covering them, and the cowl of his robe stood out from his face, concealing it.
As Olivia watched, her skin prickling, the figure reached the end of the path, where it went down a series of steps to the lower garden. He turned and looked straight up at the windows of the house. Reaching up with one white hand, he pushed back the hood a little to reveal the stark white bony face of a skull.
Joan made a sharp noise, clapping her hand over her mouth, and from down the hall there was a woman’s shriek. Olivia whirled and ran across the room, stopping to tell Joan, “Call Tom Quick!” before she bolted through the door. She ran down the hall to the stairs, heedless of the fact that she was wearing only a dressing gown and soft slippers and her hair was flowing loose down her back. All down the hall, other doors were opening and people emerging, exclaiming.
Stephen was out of his door and to the head of the stairs a step ahead of Olivia, and they pounded down the stairs together. Aware that he was more knowledgeable about the house and gardens, she followed his lead, bunching up the long skirts of her dressing gown to give her legs better room to run.
He tore through the downstairs hall and out the rear door to the garden, Olivia on his heels. Taking the steps down to the garden two at a time, he headed toward the path the cowled figure had walked. Olivia hastened after him along the flagstones, wincing when she stepped on the edge of a slab of rock in her thin house slippers. But she did not stop, only hurried doggedly after him as he reached the path leading down to the lower garden, where the “monk” had paced.
There was, not surprisingly, no sign of the robed figure. Dusk had fallen fast, the poor light in which they had witnessed the “monk” now having turned to almost complete darkness. They walked quickly along the path to where they had last seen the figure and stopped at the top of the stairs leading down into the lower garden.
“Bloody hell!” Stephen exclaimed. “We’ll never catch him in this light. He could have gone anywhere.”
He turned and really looked at Olivia for the first time, taking in her disheveled state. Olivia realized that her sash had slipped loose during her mad dash, so that the sides of her dressing gown hung loosely, a gap down the center at the top exposing the white lace of her chemise. She straightened, raising her chin, and belted the robe more tightly.
“I was about to dress for dinner,” she explained with all the dignity she could muster and pushed back her hair with her hands.
Stephen’s eyes went to her hair, tumbling down to her hips, thick and brown, and it was a moment before he said, tight-lipped, “Yes, of course.”
“Miss Olivia!” They turned, startled, and saw Tom Quick trotting toward them, holding a lantern in each hand.
“Tom!” Olivia said gratefully. “Thank heavens you thought to bring a light.”
“It were lookin’ that dark, I thought,” he agreed, handing one of the lanterns to St. Leger.
“Good,” Stephen said. “Let’s see if we can catch some sign of him.”
They went down the shallow steps into the lower garden. Tom, holding his lantern up to cast as much light as possible, turned to the right. Stephen and Olivia went the other way. Olivia, holding the long skirts of her dressing gown up to her ankles to keep them from brushing the ground, peered carefully to each side of her for any glimpse of their visitor. They wound through the west half of the garden, taking every path they found. Now and again they ran into Tom, searching from his side of the garden, and at last they came together at the very bottom of the garden, at the end of the path. Beyond lay only dark trees and, after that, a meadow. Not surprisingly, they had found no sign of their quarry.
“It’s hopeless,” Stephen said with some bitterness. “Chasing someone dressed in black through the darkness...”
“Especially given the fact that he had all that time to get away while we were running down the stairs and out to the garden,” Olivia added.
“I know.” Stephen sighed. “We might as well return to the house. We can search tomorrow in the daylight. Perhaps we’ll find some trace of him.”
They returned to the house to find the rest of the occupants in turmoil. Lady St. Leger, Pamela, Belinda and their guests were all milling about at the foot of the stairs, waiting for them.
“Stephen!” Lady St. Leger pounced on him. “What was it? Did you see him again?”
“I’ve never been so scared in my life!” Belinda exclaimed, grabbing her brother’s arm. Her white face attested to her words, though there was also the irrepressible excitement of a nineteen-year-old shining in her gray eyes. “What was it?”
“I imagine it was someone dressed up in a robe,” Stephen replied flatly. “But he was gone by the time we got there.”
Lady St. Leger was also still in her dressing gown, but Belinda and Pamela were dressed for dinner. Pamela, icily beautiful, as always, in gray silk and lace, cast a disparaging eye over Olivia’s attire. Olivia glanced down at her dressing gown, seeing that she had not managed to keep the hem of it entirely from the dirt; she had also, she realized, stepped on one of the ruffles of her petticoat and pulled it loose, so that it dragged on the ground, dangling and dirty.
“Was there really someone outside in the garden, Stephen?” Pamela asked, her tone faintly derisive. “My chamber is on the wrong side, so I was not able to see this ‘ghost.’”
“He was there!” Belinda snapped, whirling toward Lady Pamela fiercely. “Just because you didn’t see—”
“It’s all right, Belinda.” Stephen laid a calming hand on her shoulder. He looked at Pamela. “Yes, I saw him, too. There was someone cavorting about in the garden, though I am sure it—”
“Cavorting!” Lady St. Leger exclaimed. “How can you be so lighthearted about it? It was a horrible, hideous monk, with the face of a skeleton, and he was walking with such a slow, ponderous tread—a walk like doom. Like death!”
Olivia went quickly over to the older woman and put her arm around her comfortingly. “It’s all right, Lady St. Leger. I’m sure. Please don’t distress yourself. Tomorrow, when it is light, we will make a better search. No doubt it will turn out to be something not very ominous.”
Madame Valenskaya spoke up, saying portentously, “Spirits leaf no traces. Can you not see? It was a lost soul. It cried out to me. To you!” She pointed dramatically at Stephen. “How can you ignore it?”
“Bloody hell!” Stephen burst out. “It was nothing but a man dressed up in a fake monk’s robe! But I am sure you already know—”
“Lord St. Leger,” Olivia stuck in quickly, “your mother is very distressed. Perhaps you should take her up to her room.”
“Yes. Of course.” He shot Olivia a grateful look and took his mother’s arm. “Let us go upstairs. You should lie down and rest. You will feel better.”
“I won’t,” Lady St. Leger protested. “I’m much too frightened to close my eyes, let alone sleep. I have heard people talk about ghosts, but I never actually saw one before. It was ghastly.”
“I’m sure you still have not seen one,” Stephen growled.
“It was ghastly,” Olivia agreed. “Whatever it was.”
“When it turned its face up, and I saw that skull—” Belinda shivered “—it nearly frightened me out of my wits.”
“You were right to say that this place was full of lost souls, Madame.” Mr. Babington spoke up, his quiet voice firmer than normal. “Obviously that was one of the poor shades Lady St. Leger’s son spoke about.”
“Yes. Of course. Is true.” Madame Valenskaya spoke slowly, nodding and looking downcast. “I am sorry, my lady. Blackhope is a dark place, full of unhappy souls.”
“Madame, will you sit again tonight?” Lady St. Leger asked, leaving her son’s side and going over to the medium and looking hopefully into her face. “Please? I am sure it would be of great help in this matter.”
The medium inclined her head regally. “Of course, my lady. I must help you. I will call on de spirits tonight.”
Olivia cast a glance at Stephen, who gave her an ironic look in return but said nothing. She felt sure that he realized, as she did, that the only way they could discover Valenskaya’s scheme was to let the woman play out her act tonight.
So, after the evening meal, which had been delayed almost to the point of ruination by the “ghostly appearance” and the subsequent turmoil, the household gathered once again around the table in the smaller dining room. They sat as they had before, with the medium at one end of the table, her cohorts on either side and Lord St. Leger as far from her as he could be placed. Once again Olivia sat between Lady St. Leger and Stephen, and even though she was prepared tonight for the sensation that ran through her when his hand folded around hers, the power of it was no less intense. She could not help but wonder what he felt when he took her hand and whether it shook him as much as it did her. Olivia thought of the kiss he had given her the day before; she hoped he could not read on her face where her thoughts lay.
The lamps were turned out, and minutes passed silently as they waited for something to happen. At last Madame groaned quietly, and a moment later, the high tinkling sounds of music began to play on the air. It took Olivia a few moments to recognize it as “Für Elise.”
Apparently Lady St. Leger recognized it, too, for she clutched Olivia’s hand more tightly and gasped, “That song! That was one of Roddy’s favorites. Wasn’t it, Pamela?”
From across the table, Pamela said in a hollow voice, “Yes. Yes, it was.”
Stephen’s grip tightened around Olivia’s hand, and she knew that he was struggling to keep from once again interrupting the séance with a loud oath. She squeezed his hand in silent communication, and he returned the gesture, letting her know that he was in control of his emotions.
The music stopped as suddenly as it had begun. There was silence, and then Madame Valenskaya spoke, her voice low and hoarse, speaking slowly, almost as if unused to it. “Mama?”
“Roddy?” Lady St. Leger said eagerly, tears clogging her throat. “Roddy, is that you?”
“Yes, Mama, it is I.”
“Oh, darling!” Lady St. Leger stopped on a sob.
“Why are you here?” It was Pamela who spoke up this time, her voice brittle as glass. “What are you seeking?”
“Peace,” the voice replied, then let out a ponderous sigh. “I cannot rest. None of us here can rest.”
“What can we do?” Lady St. Leger cried. “Can we help you?”
“None can rest in this house until the Martyrs rest,” the voice replied in its eerie, measured tones.
“The Martyrs!” Belinda exclaimed.
Olivia had no idea what they were talking about, but she could sense in the tensions around her that at least some of the others did.
“But, Roddy, what do you mean?” Lady St. Leger asked, her voice troubled and confused.
“We cannot be at peace. They cannot be at peace because of the way they were mistreated—put to death, everything stolen.”
“No! Roddy!” Lady St. Leger sounded heartsick. “But we had nothing to do with—”
“No peace...” the voice said on a sigh, fading away.
“Roddy?” Lady St. Leger asked, her voice stark with pain. “Roddy? No, don’t go. Oh, please—come back!”
There was only silence after her words, broken by the sound of Lady St. Leger weeping. At the end of the table, Madame Valenskaya stirred and groaned.
“What—what happen?” she asked groggily, rustling in her chair.
Irina lit one of the lamps on the table and turned it up a little. It cast only a low light, leaving the rest of the room in darkness and illuminating the forms around the table in an eerie play of light and shadow. Olivia glanced at the others. Madame Valenskaya was putting on a great show of waking from a trance. Her daughter and Mr. Babington, on either side of her, looked puzzled. Lady St. Leger was crying softly into her handkerchief, and Stephen looked thunderous. Lady Pamela and Belinda looked surprised.
Madame Valenskaya asked again what had transpired during her trance, and her daughter quietly related to her what “Roddy” had told them.
“I’m sorry,” Mr. Babington spoke up after Irina finished, his voice diffident. “But I didn’t understand—do you know what he meant? Who are the Martyrs?”
“Yes.” Madame Valenskaya nodded her head ponderously. “I wish to know, too.”
“They were the family who used to live here,” Belinda said. “A long, long time ago. King Henry VIII cut off their heads.”
Madame Valenskaya let out a dramatic gasp.
“They died for their faith. That’s why they’re called the Martyrs,” Belinda continued. “I don’t remember their names.”
“Their name was Scorhill,” Stephen said. “They owned Blackhope and had for generations. I don’t know how far back. But during King Henry’s reign, they refused to switch their religion.”
“Like Sir Thomas More,” Olivia said.
“Yes, just less well-known. The Crown confiscated their lands and executed them for treason.”
“A whole family?” Olivia felt sick, thinking of it.
“Father and mother and two grown sons. If anyone was left, I have no idea what happened to them.”
“How awful.”
He nodded. “The land stayed with the Crown, of course. Then, during Queen Elizabeth’s reign, it was given to our ancestor, along with the title—the first Earl St. Leger. He was one of the Queen’s seafaring raiders, and he brought the Queen a good bit of Spanish gold. Blackhope was his reward from her.”
“So we had nothing to do with it,” Lady St. Leger said, her voice still tremulous with tears. She dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. “How can they make Roderick suffer? He did nothing wrong.”
Olivia took Lady St. Leger’s hand in sympathy. “I am sure he didn’t, my lady.”
“It’s so cruel,” Lady St. Leger protested.
“Yes.” Olivia glanced at Madame Valenskaya, her expression hardening. “It is cruel. But it will end. I promise.”
* * *
“IT’S CRUEL,” OLIVIA repeated sometime later, pacing the floor of Stephen’s study. They had gone there after the séance had broken up and the others had gone on to their rooms. “It’s heartless. I cannot believe they would use Lady St. Leger so callously. What do they hope to accomplish, anyway, with all this talk of martyrs?”
“Money,” Stephen replied flatly. He, also, was still on his feet, too restless after the evening’s events to sit down. “Perhaps they will offer to exorcise all those restless spirits for a fee. Or maybe they are hoping I will simply pay them off to get them away from my mother. God knows, I might just do it if they put her through many more nights like this. Much as I despise giving in to extortion, I cannot stand by and watch her suffer.”
“We will stop them,” Olivia said flatly. “Let’s consider. First, how did they find out about this family that used to live here? The Martyrs. I would not think that is common knowledge. I have never heard of them, certainly.”
“They were not terribly important historically,” Stephen agreed. “But it’s something of a local legend. You know how that is—tales of some ghostly woman who is seen at midnight, and people say she was one of the martyred family. It makes a good story. There is a family history of the St. Legers, and I believe the martyred Scorhills are mentioned there. They might be included in a comprehensive account of King Henry’s reign. But, more likely, they picked it up from something Mother or Belinda or Pamela said.”
“The same way they learned your brother’s favorite songs.”
“Yes. But how did they bring off that ruse?” Stephen asked. “I mean, we all heard ‘Für Elise.’”
“First they would have found out what songs he particularly liked, probably easier to bring out in casual conversation than one would imagine. Then they just had to find a small music box that played one of the tunes that were his favorites. They wind the music box up so that it will play, then Madame Valenskaya conceals it in another of her pockets or maybe even inside the skirt. She runs a thin wire inside her dress from the switch on the music box to her hand, and when she tugs on the wire, the lever on the music box is pulled, releasing the mechanism, and it plays, fading out soon enough.”
He shook his head. “They are clever.”
“What of the monk tonight?” Olivia asked. “Is that another local legend? Monks, headless and otherwise, frequently are.”
Stephen shrugged. “Not that I can recall. Although, as you said, they often appear in ghostly stories. And a monk would fit with the idea of the Martyrs, since they were killed for not renouncing Catholicism. The Dissolution of the Abbeys was at the same time as the Scorhills’ troubles.”
Olivia looked thoughtful. “I think they made a mistake with that ‘ghost’ tonight. However badly it may have frightened Lady St. Leger and softened her up for tonight’s séance, it also carries the seeds of their destruction. If we could just find that robe in one of their rooms, it would prove they were behind the little show in the garden.”
“I presume it was Babington,” Stephen mused.
“I would think so. The monk was certainly not wide and short enough to be Madame Valenskaya, and though it was hard to judge height looking down on it like that, I think it was probably taller than Irina, also. So, unless they have a cohort outside this house working with them, it would have to be Mr. Babington.”
“He hardly seems the sort to have the nerve for it,” Stephen commented.
“Perhaps that quiet, reticent demeanor of his is another disguise.” Olivia shrugged. “Tom can get into his room tomorrow. He offered to take on the job of polishing Mr. Babington’s shoes and cleaning his clothes from one of the other footman, so it won’t be remarked if he goes in there tomorrow morning. He can search for the robe.”
“Yes, if Babington has not already destroyed it. That would be the first thing I would do if I were he—toss it into the fire as soon as I got back and let it burn while everyone is downstairs talking about the incident.”
“Not if you intended to use it again,” Olivia pointed out. “How could you be certain that you might not have to trot out the ghost for another fright? I wouldn’t imagine they think you are going to give in easily.”
“I’m not so sure that I would want to have to carry it back into the house, either,” Stephen said thoughtfully. “I mean, here I am—I run off into the lower garden. I know there is bound to be pursuit soon. So I strip off the robe and mask—presuming that the skull face is some sort of mask.”
Olivia nodded. “That would seem far easier than disguising one’s face with phosphorescent paint. After all, then you would have to take the time to wipe it all off before you slipped back into the house, and what if you missed some of it and ran into someone and they saw it? The game would be up.”
“That’s the crux of the problem—running into someone. The fellow has to get back into the house, and there are going to be people running around outside and in after something like that. One could hope to slip in a side door, and then, if someone comes upon you out in the garden, you can say that you, too, are looking for the ‘ghost.’ And once inside, you can just pretend to have been in another part of the house and have come to see what all the fuss is. But it would be a little difficult to explain why you are carrying a robe and mask with you.”
“True. The intelligent thing would be to take it off in the garden and leave it. Hide it, because you don’t want the thing found, for then it’s clear that it was a person, not an apparition.”
“Right.” Stephen grinned at her. “So you scout out a place to hide it before the event, then go there, put the thing away, and go back to retrieve it later.”
“The next day?”
He looked thoughtful. “I think tonight, don’t you?”
Olivia nodded. “Yes. He is bound to realize that you will start a massive hunt for it tomorrow. So he would not want to leave it. We are much more likely to find it in the daylight, so unless it is in an excellent hiding space, we might very well come upon it. I wouldn’t take the chance if I were he.”
“Then he will sneak outside tonight to retrieve his robe, if we are right in our assumptions.” Stephen’s eyes brightened. “What would you say to keeping a watch on our guest Mr. Babington? We might follow him to the hiding place and catch him red-handed.”
“I think it’s an excellent idea.” Olivia smiled back, excitement fizzing up inside her.
They left the study and climbed the stairs, going down the hall past Mr. Babington’s room, treading with extreme softness. Stephen stopped in front of the door across the hall and down one from Babington’s and silently turned the knob. He opened the door, and they slipped inside, leaving the door open a crack.
The room in which they stood was clearly unused, its furniture hidden under dustcovers, and it was a trifle chilly in the late August evening. Stephen looked around the room, lit only by the crack of light from the hall, then moved about, locating a stool in front of the vanity, which he brought back and set down for Olivia to sit on.
The minutes passed slowly. The house was quiet, no one stirring. Olivia began to wonder if they had thought of Babington’s going out to retrieve the robe too late. Or perhaps they had it all wrong, and it had not been Mr. Babington in the garden this evening at all. She shivered in the growing evening chill and wished she had thought to go to her room and get a shawl before coming here. Indeed, it would have been a good idea to change out of her evening dress altogether, for while its wide, open neckline might set off her chest and shoulders admirably, it did little to keep her warm.
Stephen removed his jacket and draped it around her shoulders, and Olivia looked up, surprised. The coat was still warm from the heat of his body, and she noticed that it smelled like him, a clean, crisp, indefinably masculine scent. She thought of yesterday when he had kissed her, and looking at his face, she was suddenly sure he was thinking of the same thing. Her breath came a little faster in her throat, and she rose slowly to her feet.
The soft click of a door closing in the hall broke in on her consciousness, and she turned back quickly to look through the crack of the door. Howard Babington was walking the hall, his steps careful and soft.
“He’s leaving,” she hissed, and Stephen opened the door a little wider so he could also see.
Their quarry started down the main staircase, and they left the room, following him with equal quietness. At the top of the stairs, they paused, watching as Babington crossed the large room below them and entered the hall leading to the conservatory and the back door. Stephen, more familiar with the house, went down the stairs first, with Olivia right behind him. The large, open area below them was lit dimly by a few of the wall sconces, their wicks turned so low that Stephen and Olivia were barely able to see their way. They reached the bottom of the stairs and started to tiptoe across the marbled floor in the direction Babington had taken.
At that moment a woman walked across the room. Olivia and Stephen came to a dead halt, staring at her.
She wore a long, narrow dress, belted with a chain of gold rings around her hips and falling straight down the front almost to her knees. Her hair was hidden under a veil that fell back from a low headdress. She did not turn her head to look at them as she moved across their path. It was as if she was the only person in the room. Nor did she pause as she neared the wall. Instead, she walked straight through it and disappeared.