CHAPTER SEVEN
At last they reached the house. The footman hurried ahead to open the door. Lettice marched inside without another word.
She’d had enough of Lord Hadrian’s poking and prodding and downright taunting. If he knew what she was, why didn’t he just leave her alone? He should be appalled and disgusted, and yet his curiosity seemed to grow more rampant by the minute. She would leave immediately if she weren’t obliged to wait for the inconvenient Mr. Pilgrim to arrive.
Fortunately, he came that very evening and was ushered into the drawing room, where everyone had gathered for tea. In spite of his disguise—plain, serviceable clothing, spectacles, and a substantial (and certainly false) beard—she recognized him straightaway. She had an advantage in that there were only so many English incubi to choose from. No one else recognized him, although he was a well-known figure in London society.
He was also an excellent actor. He assumed the mantle of the consummate sycophant, treating Lord Staves almost as one would a king. He bowed low, stammering about his lordship’s kindness and his own unworthiness until Lettice had to bite her own hand to keep from laughing out loud. If Lord Staves discovered Mr. Pilgrim’s true identity… Good God, the scene was unimaginable.
If Lord Hadrian realized Pilgrim’s identity, it might cause him to lose interest in Lettice. Perhaps he already had. He had left her alone the rest of the day.
“What a magnificent toadeater,” Lord Hadrian said in her ear.
She started; he had sneaked up behind her. She said nothing, as it seemed the safest approach. If she could keep her mouth shut, she might not say anything she shouldn’t.
“He plays the lickspittle astonishingly well,” Lord Hadrian went on.
This was true, but she wished with all her heart that the ever-curious Lord Hadrian didn’t know that Mr. Pilgrim was an imposter.
“I’m sure I’ve met him before,” Lord Hadrian said. With an air of pondering, he whispered, “Who can he be?”
“Stop it!” she hissed, but she knew he wouldn’t.
Hard on Mr. Pilgrim’s heels, the second guest arrived, a middle-aged man with a penetrating voice and a bulbous nose.
“Tatlow, old fellow,” Lord Staves said, greeting him with a handshake and a clap on the shoulder. “So glad you could get here a couple of days early.”
“Damn him,” Lord Hadrian snarled under his breath. In a very few minutes Lettice knew why. Mr. Tatlow had a roving eye. He had been invited to come ahead of the rest for a very specific reason. With a glance and a grin at Lord Staves, he descended on Lettice.
“I’ve heard of you, Miss Raleigh.” He leered. “At last we meet! I can’t believe my luck.”
“Luck?” muttered Lord Hadrian. “I don’t think so.”
“You young fellows don’t know good fortune when you see it,” Mr. Tatlow said. “Lord Staves tells me Miss Raleigh has been here for a while, and you’ve neglected her. We older men have a feel for a situation, don’t we?”
Inspiration visited Lettice, and reluctantly she gave in to it. Lord Staves, the horrid plotter, would be disappointed. She could handle this sort of fool without the slightest trouble and drive Lord Hadrian away at the same time.
“Older men have a feel for many things,” she cooed. She sensed Lord Hadrian’s reaction next to her. She felt his dismay and mourned the loss of his regard—but what choice did she have? Perhaps seeing a succubus in action would revolt him. She had to fob him off in whichever way presented itself.
The rest of the evening was pure torment, like being back in the espionage game, encouraging the advances of a man she found revolting. Lord Hadrian pointedly ignored her and left the drawing room before anyone else. She encouraged Mr. Tatlow to drink too much brandy in the hope that he would be incapable before he had a chance to accost her.
She kept her eye open for a signal from Mr. Pilgrim, but he spent the evening on the sofa with his hostess, drinking tea and discussing the latest fashions in furniture.
Eventually Mr. Tatlow became somnolent, just as she’d hoped. She signaled to Mr. Pilgrim, thankful in one regard that Lord Hadrian had gone. He was so perceptive that he might even notice a secret signal, which would never do. She went up to bed, dismissed the maid as soon as possible, left her bedchamber door unlocked, and waited for Mr. Pilgrim to arrive.
Soon he sidled in. “There is a jealous fellow,” he said, “watching only a few feet down the passage.”
“That horrid Mr. Tatlow? I thought he would be in a drunken stupor by now.”
“Not Tatlow. Lord Hadrian.”
A flush rose and spread across her entire being. How absurd. “He’s not jealous. He’s nosy.” Dismay swamped her. Now Hadrian would believe her a wanton for certain—and what a foolish thought, as he already had every reason to believe that.
“If you say so,” Mr. Pilgrim said, locking the door behind him.
She thrust thoughts of Lord Hadrian away. She had chosen the best course and would stick to it. “Colwyn, he knows you’re an imposter.” What a relief to speak to someone she knew, someone with whom she was safe.
Sir Colwyn North took off his spectacles and smiled ruefully through the false beard. “That was obvious when he so blithely brought up Whiffy Bainbridge and his execrable father. I must say, he surprised me. He’s not a bad fellow, but he doesn’t approve of my sort.”
Meaning scoundrels and rakes. “He doesn’t know who you are, at least not yet. He is the most inquisitive man I have ever met. He’s even worse than my Aunt Lydia, and she was known as the worst Prying Jennie in the entire beau monde.”
“Dear me.” Colwyn chuckled.
“It’s not funny,” Lettice said. “It’s my fault, I admit; I forgot to destroy a letter from the Mistress of the Succubi. He saw it–he was snooping in my desk–and the symbol reminded him of something he’d seen in the archives years ago. What must he do but stay up all night digging through correspondence until he found symbols pertaining to both incubi and succubi.”
He shrugged. “The tendency runs in families, and we know that’s so of his.”
“There was a letter from Sir Walter Raleigh to the Lady Staves of the time—how fascinating to know that he was an incubus, by the way. As if that wasn’t bad enough, he found a scrap of paper on which Lady Staves experimented with phallic signatures of her own.”
Colwyn grinned. “Presented with such evidence, Lord Hadrian couldn’t fail to make connections.”
“I think he knows Val is an incubus. He made a couple of very pointed remarks about dreams.”
“And you believe he suspects you of having similar abilities.”
“I know he does,” she said. “I sent him some erotic dreams, but it was to distract him from prying, not to encourage it.”
“He’s not much interested in women,” Colwyn said, “but you must have had some effect, judging by the black look he gave me in the passageway.”
Much as she wished she could dwell on the topic of Lord Hadrian, it was her turn to shrug. “He’s a stickler for propriety, but that’s irrelevant just now. Such documents are supposed to be destroyed. I feel it to be my duty to do so, but I would have to stay up all night to search for them, and chances are he would find me. Anyway, he seems to treasure old documents, so I…I don’t know what to do.”
He cocked his head to one side, watching her. “Those letters were written at least two hundred years ago. Nobody will care.”
She frowned. “What if there are other, more recent ones?”
“They’re not your responsibility, Lettice, nor mine.”
“I thought maybe that was why you were sent here—to destroy that and any others you might find.” She paused, suddenly unnerved. “Why, then? Is—oh, good heavens, is Lord Staves a traitor?”
“Not that I know of,” he said. “A pity, since it would give me great pleasure to do away with him and set his oppressed family free. I should think you must feel the same after weeks in his house.”
She flapped an irritated hand. “He’s an idiotic old bore, and I want to go home to London. I would have left by now if the mistress hadn’t written asking me to assist you. What do you wish me to do?”
“She asked you to assist me?”
“Why…yes.”
“How fascinating,” Colwyn said. “The master asked me to assist you.”
“With what?”
“He didn’t specify,” Colwyn said. “Maybe by getting the documents off your overly-strict conscience. You were always far too inclined to obey the rules.”
She couldn’t deny that. “He wouldn’t send you here for something so trivial. What is your true mission?”
“It’s a pity you asked,” he said, “because I can’t tell you.”
“How can I possibly be of assistance, if I don’t know what you’re planning to do?”
“If I told you, you might refuse to help me,” he said. “In fact, I’m certain you would.”
She frowned. She stood and paced. “Do you mean to—to harm someone?” She hated the violent aspects of espionage.
Colwyn grimaced. “Not if I can avoid it.”
She whirled, fists curled. “It’s not Lord Hadrian, is it?”
“Why would I harm him? I quite like him—and so, I gather, do you.”
Misery overwhelmed her. She slumped.
“I see,” Colwyn said softly. “At last, your gentle heart has been touched by a man, and you have no idea what to do about it.”
“I can do nothing about it,” she said, “except leave.”
~ * ~
After leaving the others, Hadrian went to the muniment room to study a plan of the secret passages with which Staves Court was riddled. He and his brothers had played in them as children, and he was sure there was still access to one behind Lettice’s chamber.
He knew with certainty that his father meant to leave nothing to chance. Lettice Raleigh could easily fend off Mr. Tatlow when in company with a number of other people. When he entered her bedchamber at night and accosted her, she wouldn’t find it quite so easy.
Whether or not Tatlow would be permitted to rape her—Hadrian had no idea what bargain his father had struck with the old lecher–she would be discovered in a compromising situation and summarily sent away. Salacious gossip would be spread far and wide and her utter ruin secured.
Which meant Hadrian had to take a hand whether she liked it or not. He was sure she didn’t mean to bed Tatlow; the only reason for that would be something to do with Pilgrim and possibly espionage, which was absurd. Tatlow was too old and foolish for treason, and besides that, the war was over. She had almost certainly encouraged Tatlow to avoid Hadrian’s questions, but the more she tried to avoid him, the more questions he had, and the more he thought about it, the more certain he was that she had abilities like Val’s. This explanation made complete sense of her history and of the dignity that seemed at odds with her wanton past. Why was she so reluctant to admit that she was a succubus and had sent him those dreams?
The dreams raised even more questions. She’d hit him with the second one whilst he slept at his desk just before dawn. He’d never before experienced such longing, such a torment of arousal—and yet she’d cut him off at the last moment, and he’d wakened with a strange combination of emotions—frustration, despair and…and fear?
Of what? And whose fear? Not his, and although he was somewhat frustrated, he wasn’t in despair. Those feelings were hers.
He found a convenient entrance by way of a broom closet to the secret passage that wound its way down the left wing. He set up a pallet in the narrow space behind Lettice’s bedchamber. If Tatlow attempted to reach her room, he would find Hadrian waiting.
Maybe she didn’t need his help, he thought bitterly. Maybe even now she was in bed with Pilgrim, whoever he was. When Hadrian had emerged from the broom closet to fetch some blankets, he’d seen the imposter entering Lettice’s chamber. It had taken all his control to watch the man but do nothing about it.
Now, it took even more control not to creep back into the passage and eavesdrop. He waited and waited, but the fellow didn’t emerge. Hadrian racked his brain, trying to remember what was familiar about Pilgrim. He thought the beard might be false, and for all he knew the spectacles were, too. What was the fellow really doing here at Staves? Hadrian supposed it was his duty to find out, but in this instance his habitual curiosity seemed to have been ousted by jealousy.
Which was ridiculous, and yet he hovered by the broom closet, sulking like a child. Tatlow and the marquis came upstairs and lumbered away to the opposite wing. Lettice probably thought Tatlow too drunk to be dangerous tonight—not so. He had a hard head and a determined libido.
Hadrian gave up on waiting, removed his boots, and crept into the passage in stocking feet. As he neared Lettice’s bedchamber, he paused. Waited. Heard nothing. He set the boots down, followed by the blankets. He crept a step closer…closer…ah, low voices.
And a clear, sad cry from Lettice Raleigh.
“I can’t,” she said. “I’m too afraid.”
~ * ~
“You’ll have to do it sometime,” Colwyn said. “It’s not surprising you’ve developed a distaste for physical love, considering all the blackguards you had to cope with, but Lord Hadrian isn’t like them. He’s not only attractive, but likeable, too.”
Indeed he was. Likeable men were a rarity in Lettice’s experience…but so what? “I don’t have to do it at all. Many women are content to live out their lives as maidens. By what I’ve heard, doing it is nowhere near as interesting to women as to it is to men.”
“That may well be, but you’ll never know if you don’t give it a try. You might even get with child. Wouldn’t you like to have children?” He put up a hand. “Don’t object that you would be ruined. You already are ruined for all intents and purposes, so why not enjoy the freedom it gives you? You have friends who accept you as you are.”
“Yes, but–”
“Come now. Gird your loins to the sticking-place.”
“You’re mixing your metaphors,” she said, “and I am not contemplating murder.”
“You’re giving it as much thought, possibly more. Which reminds me, sleep with a knife under your pillow and a pistol close by.”
“I shall,” she said ruefully, thankful that he had changed the subject. He would never understand.
“If that jackass gets in and you kill him, come and get me. I know just the place to dispose of the corpse.”
“Darling Colwyn,” she said with a tiny laugh. He was a dreadful man and a wonderful friend. “You’d better go.”
He left. Lettice locked the door behind him, set a chair in the way just in case, and finished preparing for bed.
She couldn’t sleep. Most likely, Lord Hadrian wouldn’t make love to her even if she begged him to; she’d done a fair job of disgusting him tonight. And yet, she did have seductive powers–but he had unusual self-control. Would he succumb, or would he mortify her by refusing?
Oh, none of this mattered. What mattered was that desire had broken free from wherever she had buried it, and she didn’t know what to do with it. She completely lost her courage when she considered going to bed with a man. No, she had used up all her courage avoiding it. Colwyn had more than once offered to take care of it for her—and she trusted him more than anyone—but she simply couldn’t do it.
Other questions hounded her as well. What if she steeled herself to get it over with and found the experience unpleasant? What if Hadrian—er, the man in question—therefore lost interest? Worse, what if she became emotionally attached to the man in question—oh, damn! Why was she fooling herself? It was Lord Hadrian or no one.
She couldn’t risk humiliating herself with Lord Hadrian, so it would have to be no one. At last she fell into a tormented sleep peopled with grunting, snarling men, panted curses and violent thuds.
She woke with a start. This was no dream. She thrust the bed curtains aside. In the darkness she detected no movement, yet the curses and thuds continued. She lit a candle and surveyed the room. No one.
She tiptoed toward the door. The sounds must be coming from the corridor…but they weren’t. She listened harder, prowled more. No, they came from elsewhere…from outside? She went to the casement and leaned out, but the sounds were even more muffled outdoors. Now they seemed to come from below her; next, after a series of bumps, they were behind the wall against which stood a massive old cupboard which she knew was empty but for some hats and cloaks. That wall abutted the steep, narrow servants’ staircase. What a dangerous place to fight; someone’s neck could be broken in a fall!
A massive thud shook the wall, followed by complete silence. No one had fallen down the stairs, thank God.
“Damn, that hurts.” It was Hadrian’s voice.
Heart pounding, she called softly, “Lord Hadrian? What is going on?”
“Nothing that matters,” he said. “Go back to bed.”
His voice came from behind the cupboard, which, come to think of it, seemed untidier now than when she’d first arrived at Staves. “Are you injured? Shall I call for help?”
Heavy, booted footsteps approached in the corridor outside her chamber.
“Damn,” he said again. “No, you must feign surprise.” He was almost whispering now. “Pretend to be half asleep.”
A battery of knocks sounded on her door, and someone tried the handle. “Open the door, Miss Raleigh!”
That was Lord Staves, whose bedchamber was in the opposite wing. Why would he wear boots in the middle of the night?
The horrid man must have set a trap to compromise her. “But you’re hurt!” she hissed to Lord Hadrian. “Did you kill him?”
“No,” he growled, “and I’m fine. Shut the cupboard and pretend you just woke.”
“Lettice, dear?” That was Lady Staves, her voice quavering. By the sound of it, someone was fitting a key into the lock from outside. Her own key fell out onto the floor.
“I’m coming,” Lettice called. Swiftly, she shut the cupboard, moved the chair out of the way and made herself yawn just as the door burst open. She held up her candle with one hand and politely covered her mouth with the other. “What’s wrong? Is the house on fire?”
Lord Staves stormed in, fully clothed and carrying a lantern. “Where is he?” His eyes darted to the closed cupboard. He flashed the lantern’s beam around the room.
Lettice blinked and yawned again. “Where is who?”
“Let me hold your candle while you put on your wrapper,” Lady Staves said. By the look of her, she had hastily pulled her own wrapper over her nightdress. Her husband must have dragged her out of bed to come to Lettice’s chamber.
Lord Staves stopped scowling at the empty room and focused his ire on Lettice. “It is all of a piece. No one but a wanton would open the door while dressed in nothing but nightclothes.”
“I didn’t open the door,” Lettice retorted. “You did.” She shoved her arms into the wrapper and closed it tightly.
Beside her husband, Lady Staves grimaced and mouthed, “Sorry.”
“Where did you hide him?” Lord Staves demanded. He opened the cupboard, glanced inside, and shut it again. He bent down to look under the bed.
Lettice wanted nothing more than to slap him, but she feigned incredulity instead. “Hide whom? I don’t know whom you expected to find in here with me, but as you can see there is no one.”
“Come, dearest.” Lady Staves patted her husband’s arm. “Let’s go to bed.”
Lord Staves ignored her. “Then what was all that noise? I heard thuds and moans fit to wake the dead.”
Moans? Lettice hadn’t heard a single one of those. “As well as the living in the opposite wing?” she asked sweetly. “I didn’t hear a thing until you almost battered my door down.” She gave him glare for glare. “Come now, Lord Staves. There’s no need to set a trap to compromise me. If you wish me to leave your house, why not just say so?”
“Oh, dear.” Lady Staves gaped at the marquis. “Darling, surely you didn’t.”
“What an absurd notion,” the marquis said. Even in the dim candlelight, the purple of rage showed in his cheeks. “Miss Raleigh, you are mad to suggest such a thing. You are my guest here for as long as you wish.”
“I’m so sorry we disturbed you, Lettice.” Lady Staves tugged on her husband’s arm. He shook her off and stomped away. She apologized again and hurried behind him.
Lettice took the key from the lock where Lord Staves had left it, closed the door, and locked it. She picked up her own key from the floor, wondering if his lordship had any more copies. She set a chair in front of the door again.
The marquis wouldn’t throw her out unless he had proven her a wanton. If she were inquisitive like Lord Hadrian, she would simply have to know why—but she truly didn’t care. All she wanted was to leave.