The Viscount's Wicked Ways Read online

  Surprisingly, John expressed interest in retiring early as well, so Lady Caroline suggested playing whist another night, leaving Patience, Caroline, and Blackfield to their own pursuits.

  As Patience readied for bed she was still thinking about dinner. She wasn’t sure she was up to playing the viscount’s games. For all her muddled reputation, she truly had no clue as to the games men and women played.

  Not that she had never been curious, of course. And not that her curiosity wasn’t being directly piqued by the viscount and his dark, teasing demeanor.

  But all she needed was for another rumor to start. It would be the final nail in her coffin, and it would only be a matter of time before her soiled reputation affected her father’s.

  The shadows once again embraced the castle. A low, keening cry echoed in the air. Slipping out from beneath her covers, she padded to the window. Lights flickered in one of the four buildings near the woods.

  Another cry, as if a banshee were wailing her distress, disturbed the air, causing the hairs on her arms to stand at full alert. Nothing more sounded, and the lights stopped flickering. Patience returned to bed and as she lay under the covers, she couldn’t help but recall the maids’ earlier conversation about monsters.

  Visions of vampires and restless dreams about the viscount calling forth his monster army plagued her sleep. Blackfield, with his long cape and piercing eyes, stood on top of a ridge surrounded by fiends. His eyes sought hers, and he beckoned her forth. “Join me,” his voice whispered to her, caressing her even through the noisy throng of his followers. She broke from his gaze and found herself back in the castle outside of her door.

  A figure turned a corner, just out of her reach. She wanted—no, needed—to get to the figure, the dark being who would wipe away her worries and shield her from broken dreams. As she turned the corner she saw the figure looking out an alcove window. Lightning flashed, but his back was to her. She approached, needing something. Abruptly the phantom turned toward her, lightning again flashed, this time illuminating his features. She froze, fear and something else clawing at her insides. Her fear smelled like peaches. Peaches? The phantom started to dissolve and she reached forward to hold him there.

  The phantom reached for her, and glass shattered.

  Chapter 4

  Patience shot upright. Groping for her wiry spectacles, she clutched her chest with one hand, gasping for breath, then gagging as she drank in the overwhelming scent of peaches.

  “Tilly!”

  “Mon Dieu! My apologies, ma petite! I was preparing your clothing and toilette for when you awoke. I lost my grip again.”

  Patience tried to still her racing heart as she focused on the salt-and-pepper head of her maid, who was trying to clean up the mess created by the shattered perfume bottle. “It’s not a disaster, Tilly. Here, let me help.”

  “Oh, ma petite, I’m so sorry. Be careful not to cut your feet.”

  Patience scooted off the bed and stooped to pick up the pieces. Tilly fussed, trying to prevent her from helping, but Patience ignored her attempts.

  Patience dearly loved Tilly, a wise and gentle woman who had been her mother’s maid. Although Tilly was getting on in years and despite the increasing mishaps, Patience would not discuss pensions until Tilly was ready to retire.

  The mess was cleaned up, although the peach smell would probably remain in the room for the duration of their stay. Patience sighed as she dressed. Well, at least she wouldn’t require perfume today.

  Patience walked slowly to the dining room, and just as she had feared, Blackfield was its only occupant. She had no idea why she was suddenly feeling nervous.

  She traded a cursory greeting with him and put scones and jam, along with slices of fruit, on her plate. She shuddered at the eggs. After the dreams of watching monsters hatch, she decided it was better to avoid her favorite morning food today. One of the footmen held out her chair, and she smiled gratefully to him as she was seated. She wondered how anyone could become accustomed to so many servants.

  Patience glanced up as a hapless servant rushed to the viscount’s side, knocking a full teacup right into his lap.

  The viscount jumped from his seat. “What the devil?!”

  The servant stuttered an apology and reached forward to blot up the spilled tea from his master’s trousers.

  A snort of laughter escaped her as Blackfield slapped the servant’s hand away before it reached his lap and glared at the poor man. Blackfield’s dark gaze then met hers, and she attempted to hide her smile by lowering her head and examining her fruit. He swore again and tried unsuccessfully to mop up the moisture from his trousers.

  The flustered servant thrust an odd-looking note toward the viscount, and Patience had to take a second glance to confirm what her eyes had seen. The parchment was, well, it was pink. If he were one of the ton dandies she might think it was a love note or a poem composed by a female admirer, but Blackfield hardly seemed the type to exchange love notes. He seemed more suited to seduction than to courtship. The way that he held himself, the complete control hidden behind his languid air…

  On second thought, she supposed that notes to and from a lover might be a form of seduction. Really, wasn’t courtship just seduction wrapped in multiple layers of frill and chaste greetings?

  Still, there wasn’t much frilly or chaste about Blackfield, even if he were on a mission of courtship. And something told her that he would be successful at anything he tried. That he wouldn’t allow himself to fail.

  At the moment his mission seemed to be setting the paper afire merely by using his blazing eyes. He scowled at the feminine-colored paper, then motioned for one of the servants to bring a pen. He furiously scribbled something and handed the messenger the deeply creased note.

  “You, out,” he ordered the tea-spilling servant rooted to the spot. “Go, deliver that.”

  The man bobbed his head and raced off as if the hounds of hell were at his heels. Perhaps they were.

  “Please, Miss Harrington, don’t stop laughing on my account. Is there any other scalding-hot liquid you’d like to see splashed across my lap?”

  Released from propriety, Patience broke into peals of laughter.

  “Bloody woman,” he muttered, but there was a slight smile quirking his lips as he stood.

  A gasp from the entryway announced Mrs. Tecking’s presence. Her posture indicated she was insulted by such vulgar language and was a breath away from fainting. Blackfield cocked a brow at Patience, grabbed a couple of scones, and swept from the room in dramatic fashion.

  Patience had to admire the way the man made entrances and exits. The image would be perfect if only he had a cape to snap behind him.

  Mrs. Tecking made an indignant sound but loaded her plate with food and sat as far away from Patience as the table allowed.

  Patience sighed. It was going to be a long day.

  She was proven right a few hours later as she prepared to ride to the local village. Mrs. Tecking popped into the room.

  “I’ll ride along with you. I need to pick up a few things in the village as well. Wait right there.”

  Patience groaned as Mrs. Tecking disappeared. Her sunny afternoon trip had just taken a turn for the worse.

  “Bad luck, old girl.” John looked up sympathetically from his position on the floor, where he was examining a collection of scimitars.

  “John, why don’t you join me instead?”

  His eyes were disbelieving. “And how are you going to tell her that she’s not going? She’s been itching to get away from dear Freddie since we arrived.”

  “Just say we were planning on going somewhere, doing something, anything! You know what she’s like. I’ll be completely at her mercy in that carriage. She’ll couch some lecture about manners and propriety in pointed terms, never saying directly what she wants to, but insulting me nevertheless. And it’s not like there’s anything I can do or say at this point that will change her mind about me. I’m forever a fallen woman in her e
yes.”

  “Patience—”

  Mrs. Tecking strode back in. “I’m ready. Are you ready to go?”

  Patience sighed. “Was there anything you needed, cousin?”

  “No,” John said cheerfully. “You two have a grand time.”

  Patience shot him a look filled with painful promises but trudged outside with Mrs. Tecking.

  The trip to the village was interminable, just as she knew it would be. Mrs. Tecking wouldn’t shut up about “a smart debutante’s guide to manners” and how “the shelf” creeps up on a woman if she doesn’t mind those manners. She also extolled the virtues of a good name, a good reputation (with a pointed look in Patience’s direction), and femininity in general.

  Patience looked at the scenery as the open carriage emerged from the trees and the beautiful attached stone buildings spread before them. It was a gorgeous, bustling hamlet full of greenery, life, and noise as the sun’s full rays smiled overhead.

  She smiled, and her spirit lifted.

  “If a young lady really wants to make a good example, she will never speak until—”

  A bump in the road caused the rest of the sentence to lodge in the woman’s throat. Before Mrs. Tecking could recover, Patience motioned for the driver to stop. Dismounting quickly, she shouted a quick salutation to Mrs. Tecking, grabbed her supply bag, and stepped onto a footbridge at the entrance of the village. She had just broken four of Mrs. Tecking’s rules of deportment in less than three seconds, and she would most likely hear about it later.

  A proper lady didn’t shout. A proper lady certainly wouldn’t alight from a carriage without assistance. And a proper lady absolutely didn’t walk off on her own.

  Patience circled the livestock being sold at market, passed hawkers selling their wares, and crossed the footbridge, trying to keep ahead of her erstwhile companion. If she were lucky, perhaps Charon would deny Mrs. Tecking the crossing. She snorted. The ferryman of the mythic Greek underworld would probably be too busy plugging his ears as Mrs. Tecking lambasted him for delaying a lady.

  Feeling lighter and more carefree at her musings, Patience entered the village proper and headed straight for the smithy, which was prominently marked as the second shop in the cobblestone row.

  Whistling, she swung her basket and gave a jaunty little hop. The small village reminded her of their home in the Cotswolds. The yellow limestone facades were neat and beautiful. Row upon row of storefronts displayed a profusion of flowers on the cobblestone walk and flowers flowing from the second-level balconies. Plants and trailing ivy created a nice texture and color against the honey tones of the stone.

  Across the street, prosperous-looking houses overlooked a large park. Children played in the square, and mothers conversed with one another over low gates and fences.

  Rural life was what she missed. The camaraderie of friends and family. Life had been so much easier at home in the country before her father had taken the position at the British Museum and become involved in the politics and social whirl of London. Before Patience had been forced from the comforts of country living and into the dirty city that seemed to mock her at every step.

  WHAM.

  A loud crash caused the comfortable village bustling to momentarily cease, and an inhuman groan filled the air. The villagers looked about nervously, and a few sent wary, almost terrified glances her way. A minute later, the street was nearly deserted.

  Patience stared in shock at the complete change in the town. The atmosphere had gone from friendly and carefree to suspicious and withdrawn in less than two minutes. What had just happened?

  Whistle forgotten and feeling a bit uneasy, Patience entered the blacksmith’s shop and called out, “Hello?”

  A woman’s head poked around the back wall and locked eyes with her. Patience stared back. The woman blinked twice and disappeared.

  The day was only getting stranger.

  A man hustled into the room. “Hello, ma’am, what can I do for you?”

  Patience shrugged off the creepy feeling and pulled a broken tool from her bag. “I was wondering if you could fix this?”

  The blacksmith took the implement and examined the two pieces in his large hands. “Not a problem. I should have it finished by the end of the week.”

  “Excellent. I’m staying at the castle. Would you send someone up with it when it is finished?”

  His eyes were searching and shrewd. “The castle, eh? You one of the visiting folks?”

  “Yes.” Patience didn’t know what else to say or how to react to his dissecting gaze and direct question.

  He made a noncommittal noise and continued to turn the pieces in his hand in an absent fashion.

  “Is that a difficulty?”

  “No. Most people don’t last at the castle that long, but when the work is done, I’ll have it brought round to you.”

  The end of his sentence seemed to imply, “if you are still there.” A shiver passed over her.

  “Thank you.”

  Patience left as quickly as possible. Returning to the street did nothing to calm her. The gazes of the few villagers still in the streets seemed directed toward her. At the far edge of the village, a number of people were clustered around a building that vaguely resembled a mill. The earlier wary, frightened gazes had a sharpened edge, and Patience could still detect fear in the air. What was going on? Was it her imagination, or was something actually strange?

  The delicious smell of baking bread and chocolate pastries intruded upon her musings, and she quickened her step, deciding to buy something to nibble on as she finished her tasks.

  Mrs. Tecking chose that moment to intercept her. For a second Patience detected a hint of relief on the older woman’s face. She wondered if Mrs. Tecking found the village as strange and unsettling as she did. Something in common with Mrs. Tecking? The oddness of the day just wouldn’t end.

  “There you are. I wondered where you had run off to.”

  Patience feigned an apologetic expression. “I finished my task and was going to stop in the bakery. Would you care to join me?”

  Mrs. Tecking accepted, and the odd moment of kinship was not lost on either of them.

  There were three women in the bakery—two customers and a woman chatting with them behind the counter. Their conversation abruptly stopped when they saw the newcomers.

  Patience smiled nervously, uncharacteristically cowed. “Good afternoon, ladies. I was drawn to your store by the heavenly scent, and hope to purchase the chocolate croissants exuding that wonderful aroma.”

  The woman behind the counter stared blankly at her.

  Patience’s smile slipped, but she forced it back into place. “Are you selling chocolate croissants?”

  No response.

  Patience exchanged a look with Mrs. Tecking, who looked equally baffled.

  Patience noticed a sign in French and repeated her question. “Vendez-vous des croissants de chocolat?”

  The flat looks on the women’s faces immediately changed to terror.

  Patience held out a hand in appeal and switched back to English. “Bread? Chocolate?”

  The women continued to stare in fright, and Patience erupted. “What the bloody hell is wrong with you people? And with this town?”

  The women leaned in and began whispering to each other. Patience caught the word “French” and “trouble” before she threw her arms in the air and stalked out. Mrs. Tecking followed on her heels, the expression on her face torn between outrage at the craziness and bad manners of the townsfolk and distaste at Patience’s language.

  The woman shot her a look as if it was all her fault that they had not been waited on and stomped off toward the waiting carriage. Well, their accord had lasted all of thirty seconds. A record, that.

  Patience sighed. The townspeople in the street continued to watch her. No more shopping. Not that it would do much good. Someone had obviously forgotten to mention that Bedlam had moved north.

  Dragging her feet, Patience gave in to a s
mall sulk. The day had not gone as planned.

  First Mrs. Tecking had insisted on joining her, and after the interminable carriage ride, the village had looked like a godsend. Then that awful noise, and…

  Patience paused. The villagers had acted completely normal until the terrible crash. And then the residents had practically fled in terror. Could there really be monsters lurking about?

  But why had the villagers gone silent around her? Were they being threatened, or were they in on the “monster” scheme and although scared, trying to hide their culpability?

  She shook her head and climbed into the carriage next to a huffing Mrs. Tecking. As the carriage neared the castle, Patience thought about the behavior of the castles’ servants and wondered if she wasn’t just going from one madhouse to another.

  Chapter 5

  Thomas strode through the corridors, ignoring the maids who scuttled to the side or the footmen who jumped out of his way. It had been a week since the antiquarians had arrived. A week full of nothing but problems with his work and a slowly dawning horror during the evenings as he realized his growing fascination with the outspoken, bespectacled cataloger.

  He could just imagine what Samuel, his business partner, would say when he returned today from his trip to London. Samuel had a caustic way of looking at a situation and would no doubt be overly amused to discover Thomas’s discomfort and interest.

  During the week, Thomas had created reasons for missing dinner or excusing himself from the after-dinner activities. He didn’t need the distraction of company, and he certainly didn’t need some fanciful female, however amusing, monopolizing his thoughts.

  He had work to do. Important work. Work that did not include gazing after centuries-old dust and dirt or the pert little nose of the one examining it. He pushed aside the mental image of that appealing nose wrinkled in concentration or frowning in thought at a table or portrait or statue, unaware he was watching.