Leo realized that he was grinning for no good reason.
0 ap ler 6
The figure beckoned with its transparent hand.
"Come. This way. Follow me into the darkness."
FRom CHAPTER Six oF The Ruin BY MRs. AmELiA YORK
._#,eatrice, they are here." Arabella swept through the doorway of the study. "The bound copies of your new book have arrived at last. I do believe that the binder did a rather nice job this time. Very dignified, don't you think?"
Beatrice looked up from the carefully folded note that she had received moments earlier. In spite of the excitement the contents of the message had induced, she was briefly distracted by the sight of her cousin.
With her bright blue eyes, lustrous dark hair, and fineboned features, Arabella was lovely by any standards. The fact that she was also a kind-hearted, extremely charming, and even-tempered young lady was icing on the cake.
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Under Winifred's guidance, Arabella had created a small but distinct sensation in the more modest circles of the ton. Pearson Burnby, Lord Hazelthorpe's heir, had been obliged to stand in line with a number of other eager gentlemen in order to ask for a dance. Invitations had not exactly flooded Beatrice's town house, but a pleasant trickle kept Winifred and Arabella agreeably occupied. The pair was often out until dawn.
Beatrice glanced at the volume in Arabella's hand. "Yes, the binder did an excellent job. Do you know, with all that has happened lately, I very nearly forgot about The Castle of Shadows."
"I do not see how you could forget it." The primrosecolored skirts of Arabella's new muslin gown fluttered around her ankles as she walked to the desk. "I vow, it is quite your most thrilling story. The scene with the ghost in the crypt sent chills down my spine."
"Excellent. Let us hope everyone else who purchases the book gets the same reaction. My readers seem to have an unending need for chills down the spine."
"They will adore your hero." Arabella set the novel on the desk. "He is so deliciously exciting. One almost believes that in the end he actually will turn out to be the villain after all. However do you manage to conceive of such exciting gentlemen?"
Beatrice glanced at the leather-bound copy of The Castle of Shadows. "I have no notion. It is as if my heroes have minds of their own. They insist upon being difficult." Not unlike Leo, she thought.
Arabella laughed. "Pray, do not trouble to change them. I saw the long line of people waiting in front of your publisher's bookshop the day he offered The Castle of Shadows for sale. Your readers prefer your heroes just the way they are."
Beatrice smiled. "It is a pity the critics do not agree with them. But, then, as Uncle Reggie once said, an author must
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decide early on whether to write for the readers or the critics, because there is generally no way to please both." "Poor Uncle Reggie. He was so much fun."
"He was also my favorite sort of reader. He loved everything I wrote."
He had also been her most loyal champion, Beatrice thought. He had never failed to fire off scathing letters to the critics who attacked her novels. Once he'd told her, "It is their own stunted powers of imagination which make it impossible for them to appreciate your exciting books, my dear. Pay them no heed."
She glanced at the bundle wrapped in brown paper and string that sat on a high shelf in the bookcase. A familiar twinge of wistfulness went through her. "I really do miss him."
Inside the package was a copy of the manuscript that had eventually become The Castle of Shadows. She had given it to her uncle to read in advance, as was her custom, although the title had not yet been fixed. She had hoped to get Reggie's opinion on the one she had tentatively selected. He'd had a knack for good titles.
As fate would have it, Reggie had finished the manuscript and arranged to have it sent back to her the afternoon of the day he died. There had been no opportunity to talk to him about the title. She had received the manuscript and the news of his death simultaneously the following morning.
Saddened, she had put the bundle on the shelf and taken her publisher's advice on the title. Mr. Whittle was very fond of titles with the word castle in them.
Winifred bustled into the doorway. "There you are, Arabella. I have been searching everywhere for you. It is nearly three o'clock. Mr. Burnby will be calling at any moment. You know how punctual he is."
Small, silver-haired, and bright-eyed, Winifred had more energy and enthusiasm at seventy than many people half her age. Launching Arabella into the Polite World was a
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task perfectly suited to her spirits. She had gloried in every minute of the business, from the selection of gowns and gloves to the Machiavellian scheming required to secure invitations.
"Do not concern yourself, Aunt." Arabella smiled. "I am ready to receive Mr. Burnby. Beatrice and I were just admiring a bound copy of her new book."
"The Castle of Shadows?" Winifred cast a distracted glance at the volume. "Oh, yes. I am told that everyone is reading it. I vow, Beatrice, if we do not manage to recover the funds Reggie threw away on those silly artifacts, you, may have to teach Arabella to make her living as an authoress."
Beatrice carefully refolded the note in her hand. "I doubt that will be necessary, Aunt Winifred. I feel certain that we are well on our way to discovering the Rings."
"I can only pray that you are correct." Winifred sighed. "I do not know how much longer we can maintain appearances. Thank heavens we have your friend Lucy to design Arabella's gowns. We would not be able to afford any other modiste."
Beatrice raised her brows. "Lucy Harbyjust happens to be one of the most fashionable modistes in Town." Arabella giggled. "You mean Madame D'Arbois, not Mrs. Harby, do you not?"
Beatrice smiled. "Quite."
Arabella's amusement faded. "It does not seem fair, does it? It is obVious that Lucy has a great talent for designing beautiful gowns. But if you had not hit upon the notion of giving her a French name, she might never have become one of the- most exclusive and expensive dressmakers in all ofLondon.-
Beatrice shrugged. "When it comes to matters of fashion, one must never forget the importance of a French accent."
"It is the way of the world," Winifred said airily. "Now, then, Arabella, do not forget that you are to wear your new
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blue gown tonight. It looks as if it cost a fortune. We must not allow anyone to guess for an instant that Reggie's money has disappeared."
Arabella made a face. "You fret too much about the matter of money, Aunt."
Winifred rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. "NaYve child. It is impossible to fret too much about money when one does not have any. I vow, I live in utter terror that the news of our financial ruin will become common gossip among the ton. If that occurs, we are lost. Hazelthorpe's heir will vanish in an instant."
An unusual expression, that of irritation, flashed in Arabella's eyes. "That is most unkind. I assure you, Pearson's affection for me will not be altered if he discovers that I no longer possess a respectable inheritance."
Beatrice and Winifred exchanged speaking glances. Beatrice shook her head slightly, warning Winifred not to argue the point. Arabella was still very young. It would be a pity to destroy her sweet, trusting nature any sooner than necessary.
Like so many other things, Beatrice thought, innocence, once lost, could never be regained.
Mrs. Cheslyn, the dour, whipcord-tough woman of indeterminate years who served as Beatrice's housekeeper, came to a halt in the doorway.
"Beggin' yer pardon, ma'am," she said in a very loud voice. "Mr. Burnby is here."
"Oh, dear." Winifred looked at the clock. "A bit early. Show him to the parlor, Mrs. Cheslyn."
"He's five minutes early, to be precise." Mrs. Cheslyn scowled. "I was told he was expected at three." '
"Yes, I know, Mrs. Cheslyn,' Winifred said in a placating voice. "But his eagerness is a good sign."
"See here, I cannot be expected to run this household properly without a reliable schedule." Mrs. Cheslyn turned away and stalked back down the hall.
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Arabella started toward the door, a glowing smile on her face. "Pearson spent the weekend rusticating at the Marsbecks' country house. He has promised to tell me all about it."
"Run along," Winifred said. "But remember, not a word to Mr. Burnby about this business of the missing artifacts. If even the smallest hint of our impending disaster gets out, the creditors will be knee-deep on our doorstep."
"I promise." Arabella paused in the doorway. "Not a single word. But I do think you are overly concerned about the matter.'
Winifred waited until she was gone. Then she sank down onto a chair and fixed Beatrice with a grim look. "I am so afraid that she will confide all in Mr. Burnby. She has such boundless faith in his affections. I cannot convince her that gentlemen of his rank never marry for love unless it happens to go hand in hand with money."
"She claims Mr. Burnby is different."
Winifred waved that aside. "Even if that is true, we may be certain that his parents are fashioned of the usual material. The least hint of Arabella's inheritance being in jeopardy, and they will insist Pearson look elsewhere for a wife.'
"I have no more illusions on that subject than you do, Aunt Winifred."
"Lady Hazelthorpe is playing her cards very close to that oversized bosom of hers. She has given me to understand that she is not entirely satisfied with her son's interest in Arabella. Implies he has other prospects."
"A ploy, I'm sure. She's trying to force us to sweeten Arabella's dowry."
"Indeed." A steely determination gleamed in Winifred's sharp eyes. "She plays the game well, but I am no novice at this sort of thing. I got my niece Carolyn married off two years ago, and I vow I shall be successful with Arabella too."
"I have absolute faith in your abilities in this sort of thing."
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"But we must keep our financial situation a secret or, better yet, recover Arabell 'a's inheritance. Accomplish that, and I'll have an offer out of young Burnby within the month."
"Concentrate your skills on managing Arabella's social life, and I will focus my attentions on recovering her inheritance. Between the two of us, I have every hope of success."
Winifred frowned thoughtfully. "Speaking of your end of the business, are you quite certain that it was a good notion to involve the Mad Monk in this affair?"
"You have asked me that question a hundred times since I returned from Devon. And I have given you the same answer each and every time. I believe that he will be most useful in this venture."
"But his reputation, my dear. It is so exceedingly odd." "We are dealing with a very odd situation. The thing is, he is an expert in antiquities and legends. We require the services of an authority in the field."
"Nevertheless, I cannot help thinking that it would have been better not to bring such a noted eccentric into the affair." Winifred brightened. "On the other hand, he is an earl. His association with our family will not go unnoticed."
Beatrice grinned. "I knew you would find a way to turn the situation to advantage."
"It was really very kind of him to offer to assist us in this matter. And we know he will be extremely discreet."
"I'm absolutely certain we can count on his discretion." After all, Beatrice thought, Leo wanted to recover the Forbidden Rings as badly as she and her relatives did. He would do nothing to jeopardize the investigation.
Her reverie was interrupted by Pearson Burnby's pleasant, well-modulated voice echoing in the hall. Arabella's light, lilting laughter followed.
Winifred glanced toward the doorway. Then she looked at Beatrice. "I fear that she really does love him, you know." Beatrice was startled by the fleeting wistfulness in her
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aunt's usually serious gaze. "Yes, I know. We must hope that she will not be disappointed."
"Unfortunately, she has taken you as her model." "I am aware of that.'
"I have explained to her that few women enjoy the luxury of the sort of marriage you had. It is so rare to contract an alliance based on a perfect harmony of the physical and metaphysical. But her optimism is quite unquenchable."
A perfect harmony of the physical and metaphysical. From out of nowhere, the memory of Leo's kiss crashed through Beatrice. It had been five days since the night he had taken her into his arms, but she still experienced a strangely exhilarating thrill every time she recalled it'-'
The sensation was dangerous. She reminded herself again that he had not been impelled by passion or romance the night he had crushed her mouth beneath his. He had, in fact, been in a temper. Also, he had drunk a great quantity of brandy to subdue the pain in his shoulder. She knew only too well that gentlemen sometimes relied upon strong spirits to arouse desire where there was none.
It was also true that there had been no more kisses on the trip back to London. Leo had been all that was proper on the journey. She suspected that he regretted what had happened between them that night in his library.
No, she must not read too much into that one embrace. What worried her the most was that during those scorching moments in his arms, she had been caught up in a maelstrom of overheated sensation that overshadowed anything any of her heroines had ever experienced.
When she had assured Leo that his kiss had been nothing less than inspiring, she had been telling him the literal truth. There would be no more polite, tepid descriptions of affection in her next novel. In the future when one of her heroines kissed one of her heroes, sparks would shoot straight off the page. That was one of the great things about being an authoress-no experience was wasted.
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The critics who accused her of writing overwrought and overheated prose had not seen anything yet, she thought. The reviews of her next book would no doubt prove quite interesting.