Page 23 of Mistress of Sins

Jennet allowed her stiffened shoulders to relax, and made a show of yawning and stretching. As she did so her gaze wandered around the chamber, but once more there seemed to be nothing to indicate any presence other than her own. She heard nothing but a distant creaking sound, likely from the wind against the old shutters. What she did see was the narrow door to the balcony standing a little ajar. Rising as silently as she could, she tiptoed over to it, took hold of the knob, and yanked it open.

The balcony stood empty.

“You are being a ninny,” Jennet told herself as she stepped out onto the veranda. The wind had grown lighter but colder, and beneath her she could see Prudence Hardiwick and two other young ladies climbing into a carriage. The rig in front of them held two gentlemen who were laughing and calling back to the ladies something about being the last to go. They looked as if they had imbibed just as much as Catherine.

Catherine.

Jennet called out and waved to them in hopes of stopping them. By that time both parties were driving off, however, and the clatter of horse hooves on the drive drowned out her voice. Hoping to catch them, she hurried out of the chamber and down the stairs, but by the time she reached the front entry the drive stood empty. As she turned she saw the footmen had also gone, likely to clean up after the guests. She went directly to the ballroom, which stood empty.

“Hello?” Jennet felt slightly alarmed now. “Is anyone here?”

A low moaning sound came in from the adjoining room, but when she stepped out to see who made it, she found herself facing the black cat that had earlier darted across the drive. The feline regarded her with its yellow-green eyes for a moment before it padded over to rub itself against her skirts.

“This is the second time you have crossed my path tonight,” Jennet told it sternly, and then sighed and crouched down to pet it. “Never mind me. I do not believe you leave bad luck behind in your travels. If Mama would not break out in a rash the moment she beheld you, I would take you home with me.”

The cat purred loudly and pushed its head against her fingers, and then went oddly still. It swung its head toward a painting hanging above the mantel across from them, and then just as suddenly scampered out.

Jennet regarded the portrait, which showed an older man sitting on a wooden bench surrounded by a patch of roses. He appeared to be staring off at something with great affection, judging by the smile on his mouth. She walked over, and to her astonishment she realized that his face matched that of the man from her dream.

The etched brass plate at the bottom of the frame read Emerson Thorne at Dredthorne, 1714.

Slowly she backed away from the portrait, but she couldn’t look away from the eyes, which seemed now to be watching her.

“I must have seen it when I came into the ballroom earlier,” Jennet muttered, although all she could recall was feeling furious and foolish at the same time. “I do not believe in ghosts. There is no curse, either.”

As if Thorne had heard her, he spoke from her memory. You must be the one to break it.

A low yowl made Jennet flinch, and she looked over to see the black cat again, this time standing with its back arched in front of an open door. Hurrying over to it, she looked in and let out a sigh of relief as she saw it was a study. Arthur Pickering sat behind the desk by the window, his head resting against the cushions, his eyes closed.

He looked as exhausted as she felt.

“Mr. Pickering, I am so happy to find you.” Jennet stood in the doorway, and waited for his reply. He didn’t stir, so she kept talking as she entered the study. “I fell asleep in one of the chambers upstairs, and now I seem to be stranded. I was hoping to return home with one of my neighbors. Perhaps I could prevail on you to call for your carriage?”

Pickering said nothing, and would not look at her.

“I am very sorry to wake you, but I cannot spend the whole night here. Mr. Pickering?” She reached to touch his shoulder, and then froze as he slumped forward against the desk. The hilt of a dagger protruded from the back of his blood-soaked jacket, assuring her that he would never again answer her or anyone.

* * *

Greystone watched from the stables as the last carriages left Dredthorne Hall. He’d felt it prudent to remain away from the house until everyone had left, and Jennet with them. Now he could go about his work without complication or distraction. She would hate him the more now for taking advantage of her before he left again. He would have preferred to have more than one wild embrace in the wildflowers to remember on cold, lonely nights.

All was as it should be.

As he approached the door to the staircase tower that led into the kitchens, Greystone caught the faintest trace of a particular, alarming odor coming from the firewood bin. He knew the stench too well to mistake it, but went to carefully lift the lid and look inside.

Foray lay among the splits, his eyes wide as he stared sightlessly at him. Blood from a deep gash across his throat covered the front of him.

Greystone closed his eyes, and lowered the lid carefully to avoid making any more sound. He then turned to scan the immediate area. More blood stained the ground where he suspected the valet had been ambushed; from the scuffling marks in the dirt he had tried to fight free before his throat had been cut. From there his body had been dragged to the bin. Two sets of boot prints, one small and one large, led into the house. When he bent down to peer closely at them he saw traces of Foray’s blood, which they both had stepped in.

Greystone recognized their method. One had approached to distract Foray long enough for the other to come from behind to attack. He straightened and listened for any sound of movement around him. The assassins had killed Foray to enter the house and move against Pickering and the two guards he had brought with him from London.

When they didn’t get what they wanted, they would kill them all.

He reached down to take the dagger from his boot, and walked silently around to the back of the hall. Lights still flickered in most of the windows, giving him a partial view of each room beyond them. All of the footmen had vanished from their posts, and he saw no sign of any of his colleagues, either. One of the garden doors to the reception room had been left open, and through that he heard two low voices arguing in French.

“Oú est-il?” Where is he?

“Je le retrouverai. Emporte la fille.” I will find him. Grab the girl.