On a Wicked Dawn

Chapter 22

The day flew. No one stopped for luncheon; Higgs set out a cold collation in the dining room and people helped themselves when they could. Restrained pandemonium reigned, yet when six o'clock struck and the first of the guests arrived in the forecourt, everything was in place. Higgs, beaming, hurried to the kitchens while Cottsloe strode proudly to the door.

Amelia rose from the chaise on which she'd only just sat. She'd been on her feet the entire day, yet the excitement in the air, which had laid hold of the whole household — the look in Luc's midnight blue eyes as she took up her stance by his side before the fireplace — were more than worth the effort, quite aside from trapping the thief.

The guests rolled in, guided through the front hall and into the drawing room to greet Luc and herself, and then be introduced to the rest of the family, both immediate and extended, standing and sitting about the huge room. Minerva, Emily, and Anne were primed to take over the introductions so Amelia and Luc could concentrate on welcoming the steady stream of their neighbors and tenants. Phyllida stood near Emily, ready to lend assistance should the younger girl encounter any difficulties, while Amanda did likewise with Anne, shy but determined to carry her role.

In the midst of them all, Helena sat beside Minerva on the chaise, her pearl-and-emerald necklace resplendent, displayed to advantage against a deep green silk gown. With her dark hair streaked with silver, her pale green eyes and her inherent presence, Helena drew everyone's gaze. No one was the least surprised to learn she was the Dowager Duchess of St. Ives.

Watching her aunt exchange nods with Lady Fenton, a haughty local matron, and then make some remark, very much in the grande dame style, instantly reducing Lady Fenton to dithering nervousness, Amelia had to look quickly away. Smiling widely, she turned to greet the next of their guests.

Portia, Penelope, and Simon patrolled before the long windows, open to the terrace, efficiently herding those with all introductions complete out into the gardens where the first act of the revelries would take place. Within an hour, a goodly crowd had gathered, eagerly sampling the delicious morsels provided by Higgs, washing them down with ale and wines.

When the incoming tide slowed, the front doors were shut; a stablelad sat on the portico steps to direct any latecomers around the house, and thus to the festivities. Together, Luc and Amelia led their assembled families out onto the lawns to mingle with their guests.

The sun was slanting through the trees, just gilding the tops of the shrubbery hedges as they went down the terrace steps. The air held the warmth of a summer's day; the breeze was a caress wafting the scents of grass and greenery, of stocks, jasmine, and the multitude of roses blooming throughout the gardens.

Luc caught Amelia's eye, lifted her hand to his lips briefly, then released her. They parted, each strolling into the crowd, exchanging greetings with their tenants and the villagers, the majority of whom had walked to the Chase, bringing their families as suggested to join in the fun.

While he chatted, Luc kept Helena in sight. She was easy to pick out in her gown, the solid hue distinctive. Amid the lighter, pastel colors, she was a dramatic highlight; as intended, she was the cynosure of all eyes.

She carried off her role with shameless abandon; no one watching her would suspect her primary aim was to display her necklace rather than boost her haughty self-importance. The fact there were always two of their ladies flanking her, like acolytes attending a master, only emphasized the image of commanding arrogance she projected.

As he tacked through the crowd, he saw the others — Martin, Lucifer, Simon — like him, scanning the throng. On the outskirts, Cottsloe kept watch from the terrace, while Sugden stood in the shadow of the shrubbery, keeping an eye on Patsy and Morry, and on everything else.

The dogs were greeting countless children. Luc headed that way, intent on asking Sugden if he could identify a number of men he himself could not. Nothing immediately worrying about that — all invited had been told to bring any houseguests. It was summer, and many country families had friends or family from London or elsewhere staying.

Moving through the crowd, Luc saw General Ffolliot standing to one side watching the fiddlers play. He changed course and joined him, nodding genially.

"Just watching our two." The General indicated Fiona and Anne, arm in arm, watching the dancers.

Luc smiled. "I'd meant to thank you for allowing Fiona to spend so much time with us in London. Her confidence is a boon to Anne."

"Oh, aye — she's confident enough, is Fiona." After a moment, the General cleared his throat, and somewhat diffidently asked, "Actually, I'd meant to have a word myself, but that business of the thimble distracted me." He shot Luc a glance from under his shaggy brows. "You haven't heard anything about Fiona having dealings with any man, have you?"

Luc raised his brows, genuinely surprised. "No. Nothing." He hesitated, then asked, "Have you reason to suspect she has?"

"No, no!" The General sighed. "It's just that she's… well, changed since she's returned home. I can't put my finger on it…"

After a moment, Luc said, "If you like, I could mention your concern to my wife. She's close to both Emily and Anne. If Fiona has mentioned anything…"

The General studied his daughter, then gruffly said, "If you would, that would be most kind."

Luc inclined his head. A moment later, he parted from the General, and continued to where Sugden stood, Patsy's and Morry's leashes in one hand.

The hounds leapt and whined when they saw him, then sat, front feet dancing, ears back, tails wagging furiously. Smiling, he ran his hand over their heads, stroked Patsy's ears, sending her into a state bordering on ecstasy. "These two have proved popular."

"Aye — the kiddies love 'em, and the gents can't resist admiring them."

Luc patted Morry. "How could they not?" His tone altered. "Have you seen anything amiss?"

"Not amiss, but there's a few here I can't place."

Between them, they put names to all they could.

"That still leaves five men we don't know." Impassive, Sugden had his eye on one.

Luc looked down at the dogs. "We have four ladies we can't place, either, and there're still people arriving."

"And from what you said, we've no idea when or from where this bounder will arrive anyway. He might not come via the front door."

"True." Luc focused on a small procession heading their way. Amelia and Portia were in the lead, holding hands with two children; a small tribe followed at their heels. "What's this?"

It appeared Amelia had intended to head straight for the kennels; noticing them watching, she veered their way. With a wave, she indicated her entourage. "We're taking the children to see Galahad."

Luc recognized the children from the cottages by the river. "I see."

The older children stopped to pat Patsy and Morry; the younger ones followed, as did Portia and her charge. The girl with Amelia slipped away to join the group. Sugden talked about the pack; Luc drew Amelia aside.

She turned to him. "I'll just take them in to see the puppies, Galahad in particular — I promised."

He hadn't considered Amelia — or Portia — being anywhere but among the guests on the lawns — in full view. He couldn't, in all conscience, desert his watch on Helena to escort them to the kennels. Still, realistically, what harm could befall them in his kennels? He nodded, inwardly grim, but hiding it, or so he thought. "Very well — but don't dally, and come straight back."

She met his eyes, then smiled, stretched up, and kissed his cheek. "Don't worry. We won't be long."

The children were ready to move on; hands were retaken, the procession re-formed and headed on toward the kennels.

Luc watched them go, then turned to Sugden, who was also watching the group heading into his domain — unsupervised. "Give me the leashes — I'll take Patsy and Morry. You go and watch that lot." As a sop to his pride, he added, "You may as well check around the kennels while you're there."

Sugden nodded, unwrapped the leashes from his fist, then hurried off to catch up with the children.

Luc settled the leashes about one hand, then looked down at his favorite hounds. "I'm the host — I can't stand here like a post. So we're going to wander through the crowd. Try and keep your noses to yourselves."

With that probably useless admonition, he resumed his perambulation about the lawns.

Amelia wasn't surprised when Sugden caught up with them in time to swing the kennel doors open. She turned to the children. "Now we need to be quiet and not excite the pack. We have to go right to the end to see the puppies. All right?"

They all nodded. "It's the firs' time we seen the whole lot, all together," the little spokeswoman whispered. She clutched Amelia's hand tighter; Sugden waved them in and the procession stepped out, marching two by two down the central aisle.

Amelia heard soft "Oohs" and "Aahs"; she glanced back and saw many of the older children studying the hounds with rapt attention. The oldest boy, at the rear, turned and spoke to Sugden, following them. Sugden shook his head. "Nay — best not to pat these. If you do, they'll expect to be taken out, and then they'll be right grumpy when we leave without 'em."

The boy accepted the prohibition with a nod, yet his gaze went back to the older dogs, many coming to the front of the pens to watch them pass, ears lifting, heads cocking with curiosity. Facing forward, Amelia wondered how many lads Sugden used in the kennels. Perhaps he could use one more?

Then they reached Galahad; from that moment on, none of the children had eyes for much else. They were captivated; the pup took their attention and worship in his stride, wuffling about their feet, sniffing hands, licking this one, then that. Fifteen minutes passed in a blink; noticing Sugden shifting, Amelia reclaimed Galahad, tickled his tummy, then sent him back to his mama. Then she firmly reversed her entourage, and they filed, satisfied, whispering and exclaiming among themselves, out of the kennels, back into the deepening twilight.

The children streamed on, down the short path leading back to the lawns. With pretty thanks and bobbed curtsies, the two girls who had clung to Amelia's and Portia's hands made their adieus and scampered after their elders.

Sugden nodded to Amelia and Portia as he swung the doors shut. "I'll just be checking 'round about. Make sure all's tight."

Amelia met his glance, nodded. "We're going straight back."

She turned, noting Portia's quick frown. Linking her arm in Portia's, she steered them both down the path in the children's wake. She was about to make some inconsequential remark to distract Portia from Sugden's sudden attention to security when Portia stiffened.

Looking up, Amelia saw a gentleman standing by the side of the path just ahead. They were nearly upon him yet until then, she hadn't noticed him, large though he was; he'd been standing so still in the shadows of a large bush, he'd been all but invisible.

Portia slowed, uncertain.

Amelia called up her hostessly armor, put on her lady-of-the-manor smile, and halted. "Good evening. I'm Lady Calverton. Can I help you?"

A flash of teeth was followed by a neat bow. "No, no — I merely thought I heard dogs and wondered…"

A London accent, cultured enough, yet… "My husband's kennels are extensive."

"So I see." Another flash of teeth; the gentleman bowed. "My compliments on the evening, Lady Calverton. If you'll excuse me?"

He barely waited for any nod before strolling off, back onto the lawns, into the crowd. Amelia watched him go. "Who is he — do you know?"

She and Portia walked on more slowly in the same direction.

Portia shook her head. "He's not from about here."

Amelia couldn't recall being introduced to him. The man was as tall as Luc, but much more heavily built; not the sort of figure one forgot. From what she'd seen in the shadows and fading light, he'd been reasonably well dressed, but his coat hadn't come from a tailor patronized by the ton, nor had his boots — she was quite sure of that.

Portia shrugged. "I daresay he's come with the Farrells, or the Tibertsons. They have relatives from all over staying every summer."

"Doubtless that's it."

She and Portia merged with the crowd, increasingly festive. Amelia glanced at the sky, but it was still too early for the fireworks; at this time of year, the twilights stretched for hours.

They drifted to the area where dancers twirled to the music of three fiddlers. Others ringed the dancers, clapping and smiling, laughing and joking. Despite being created to serve an entirely different purpose, the evening looked set to be a resounding success on the social front — everyone was having a thoroughly good time.

The dance ended; exhausted, dancers sagged. The fiddlers lowered their bows, but only to agree on their next piece. Then they set to again. Laughing, some dancers staggered off while others took their place, twirling and whirling through a sprightly gig.

Cool fingers slid around Amelia's hand.

She looked up to find Luc beside her.

He met her gaze. "Come — let's join in."

She hesitated; on her other side, Portia drew her hand from her arm and gave her a nudge. "Yes. Do. You're supposed to lead the way."

Glancing at her, Amelia caught the glare Portia directed at Luc. She swung to him, but he merely raised a brow, drew her to him, and swept her into the dance.

"What was that about?"

"That was Portia being her usual opinionated self." He added, "You'll get used to it."

The resignation in his voice made her laugh. He raised his brows, whirled her through the steps; she'd danced such country measures often, but never before with him.

When the fiddlers finally consented to release them from their spell, she was breathless. And not all of her affliction was due to the dance. Luc steadied her, held her — far too close but then who was watching? — while she supposedly regained her breath and whirling wits. She read the truth of his motives in his eyes, pretended a haughty frown. "It's not considered wise to render your hostess witless and incapable."

His long lips quirked as he released her; his expression suggested he didn't agree. He glanced at the crowd, at the sky. "Not long now."

She drew in a breath, refocused her mind on their plan. They strolled the crowd; the instant the sky was a deep enough blue, they climbed to the terrace. Luc gave Cottsloe the order to proceed with the fireworks; Cottsloe signaled the gardeners, who hurried to set up the displays.

The crowd didn't need any orders; everyone recognized the preparations, glanced around, then moved toward the terrace and the steps. She and Luc shared a glance, then parted. Amelia went to find Helena. Five minutes later, when she guided her aunt to the balustrade to one side of the steps from where she would get the best view — and the crowd would have the best view of her — they were nearly ready to start.

She and Helena took up their position; an instant later, with a hum of anticipation rising from the crowd, Luc strolled nonchalantly out from the ballroom to join them. He nodded to Helena, his gaze coming to rest on her necklace.

He frowned, hesitated, then said, "I'd be much obliged, ma'am, if you would give your necklace to me at the end of the night. I'll sleep better knowing it's under lock and key."

Helena waved dismissively, haughtily patronizing. "You need not concern yourself, Calverton. I have had this piece for an age — no harm has ever befallen it."

Luc's lips thinned. "Nevertheless—

Helena spoke over his clipped protest, raising her voice to declare, "Indeed, / will not sleep well if it is not with me, in my room." With another dismissive wave, she turned to the gardens. "Do not concern yourself."

Luc had to accept her refusal; that he didn't do so happily was transparent. Amelia saw, from all around, glances thrown at Helena — at the necklace; countless heads came together in whispered confabulation. The rumors of the thief already circulating would ensure Luc's attempt to protect the fabulous necklace gained due notice.

A flash of fire at the bottom of the lawn drew all eyes, then the first rocket streaked upward. Amelia watched it, then glanced sideways at Helena's face, briefly lit. Nothing other than haughty disdain showed on her aunt's features, but then Amelia felt Helena's hand reach for hers, felt her squeeze briefly, triumphantly.

Smiling, Amelia returned her gaze to the fireworks, and, just for those moments, let herself relax.

None among the crowd on the terrace, all eyes trained on the fireworks, saw the gentleman Amelia and Portia had encountered close his fingers about a young lady's elbow. No one saw her turn, or the shock that filled her face. The man nodded silently at the other young lady who stood beside the first, oblivious, entranced by the spectacular display.

The man tugged; the young lady turned back to her companion, gently unwound their arms — caught by the beauty of a streaking rocket, the other barely noticed. The lady stood for a moment, then, with obvious reluctance, obeyed the man's unvoiced command and edged back. The crowd adjusted without truly looking; the man drew her to the rear, to where the wall of the house cast deep shadows.

The young lady glanced furtively left and right. "We can't talk here!" Her voice was a breathy squeak, tight with panic.

Kirby glanced at her face, his own hard, devoid of feeling, then he bent so she could hear his reply. "Perhaps not." His eyes caught hers as they flicked to his face, trapped by the menace in his tone. He let her hang for a moment on the sharp hook of fear, then murmured, "The instant the fireworks finish, we're going to walk, quickly and quietly, to the rose garden. To preserve your reputation, I'll let you lead; I'll be directly behind you. Don't think to attract any attention. Pray no one stops you."

He paused, searching her face, her eyes; what he saw satisfied. "No one will disturb us in the rose garden. There, we can talk."

He straightened; the lady shivered convulsively, but she remained, still as the grave, beside him.

Until the last rocket burst and the crowd softly sighed.

She slipped away through the crowd, quickly but unobtrusively using the moment of milling, of everyone deciding what to do next, to slide from the terrace, through the crowds gathered below it, and into the shadows shrouding the walk leading along the east wing to the walled rose garden.

Her face was chalk white when she reached the archway in the stone wall. One brief glance confirmed her tormentor was a man of his word; he was all but at her shoulder. Gulping in a breath, she hurried under the arch, keen to get away from all eyes.

All who might see and guess her terrible secret.

She stopped as Kirby joined her, swung to face him. "I told you — I can't steal anything more. I just can'tl" Her voice rose hysterically.

"Quiet, you little fool!" Kirby took her elbow in a merciless grip and propelled her down the central path, away from the entrance.

He stopped at the end of the garden. The roses were in full spate; they were surrounded by huge bushes, arching canes supporting fist-sized blooms bobbing in the light breeze.

They were alone; no one would see or happen upon them.

The young lady swallowed; dizzy, she felt ill, faint, panic choking her breathing, fear chilling her.

Releasing her, Kirby stared down at her, eyes narrowed.

She wrung her hands. "I told you." Her voice broke on a sob. "I can't take anything more. You said one more thing, and I gave you the thimble. There's nothing more—"

"Stop sniveling." Kirby cut across her words, cut her like a whip. "There's patently more, but if you want free of me, I'll offer you a deal."

The young lady quivered, then drew in a small breath. Steeled herself. "What deal?"

"That necklace — the one the old Dowager's wearing." Kirby ignored the slumping of the lady's shoulders, the hopeless denial in her eyes. "I need a lot more, but I'll settle for that." He studied her, unmoved by the tears that welled in her eyes, ignored the shaking of her head. "I could milk you for years, but I'm willing to cut our association short if you get me that bauble. You heard the old dear — it'll be lying in her room tonight just waiting for you to pick it up."

"I won't." The lady straightened, tried to raise her head. "You lied before — you won't keep your word. You've kept drawing me along, first telling me it was all for Edward, later saying you'd go if I just got one thing more… and here you are, still, asking for that necklace. I won't steal it — I don't believe you!"

That last was uttered on a spurt of defiance. Kirby smiled. "The worm turns at last. I won't pretend you're wrong, given the situation, to distrust my assurances. However, you're overlooking one thing."

The lady tried to keep her lips shut, tried to deny the need to know. "What thing?"

"If you steal that necklace under my orders, because I've blackmailed you into it, and you give it to me, then I have to go away. Because if anything went wrong and you pointed the finger at me, then I'd be the one in trouble, not you. No one would worry about you in the least. I would be the obvious villain. You would be viewed as nothing more than the silly chit you are." He let his words sink in, then added, "Getting that necklace for me is the surest way to protect yourself from me for all time."

He let silence stretch while she fought an inner battle against a conscience that had risen far too late to save her. The story he'd so glibly spun had holes he could drive a coach and four through, but he doubted she'd see them, or the danger one hole in particular posed to her.

She hadn't been the sharpest apple in the basket to begin with; with fear and panic clouding her mind, she wouldn't be able to see her way clear. See her way to safety.

Eventually, as he'd expected, she clasped her hands even tighter, and looked up at him. "If I get you the necklace, you swear you'll go away? That once I hand it to you, I'll never see you again?"

He smiled, held up his right hand. "As God is my witness, once you bring me that necklace, you'll never set eyes on me again."

The fireworks were a wondrous success, a perfect moment bringing the first half of the entertainment to an end. When the last flare died into the now-midnight black sky, the entire gathering sighed. Then, slowly, collected itself.

As their neighbors filed back into the ballroom for the formal part of the evening, Luc and Amelia stood on the terrace steps and farewelled their happy and tired tenants, the villagers and other local attendees.

After expressing their delighted thanks for the evening, groups wended their way through the gardens, around the wings to the drive where some had left their gigs and farm carts; others headed on foot past the stables and the home farm, still others onto the path leading past the folly on the rise, carrying sleepy children home.

When the last had departed, with a contented sigh of her own, Amelia turned and let Luc lead her inside.

The rest of the evening went precisely as planned. The string quartet that earlier had entertained the older ladies not given to strolling the lawns now provided the company with waltzes and cotillions. Their neighbors laughed and danced, and the hours inexorably rolled by.

This, however, was the country. By eleven, all the guests had gathered their parties and departed; many had some way to drive to reach their beds. The family retired upstairs, as they normally would. Everyone smiled and wished all others a good night — everyone watched Luc's four sisters and Miss Pink disperse to their rooms before dropping their own masks.

But that was all they dropped. They couldn't be sure the villain wouldn't hide in the house; no matter that the ladies' skins crawled at the thought, they did not, by word or deed, allow any inkling of their plans to show.

Minerva and Amelia walked Helena to her room. With fond good nights, Minerva parted from the other two before Helena's door, and went on to her own room farther down the west wing. Amelia entered Helena's room with her; she sat and chatted idly about the events of the night while Helena's maid tended her mistress and prepared her for bed. The maid dismissed, Amelia came to the bed. She squeezed Helena's hand and leaned over to kiss her cheek. "Take care!" she whispered.

"Naturellement." Helena returned the kiss with her usual unwavering confidence. "But the necklace," she whispered back. She gestured to the round table in the center of the room. "Put it there so I can see it."

Amelia hesitated, but the necklace did have to be left out somewhere — the maid had as usual locked it away in Helena's jewel casket — leaving the key in the lock — and if she didn't put it where Helena wanted it, her aunt would only wait until she left the room, get out of bed, and do it herself.

With a reluctant nod, she crossed to the casket, unlocked it, and retrieved the necklace. She left the matching bracelets and earrings where they were; if anything went wrong, something would remain of her grandfather Sebastian's gift. As she draped the fabulous strands of the necklace across the polished surface of the table, the value of the piece had never seemed so clear — so much more than material wealth; the magnitude of the risk Helena was so selflessly taking gripped her.

Fingers sliding from the necklace's iridescent strands, she looked across the room at Helena, propped high on the pillows in the shadow of the bed. She wanted to thank her, but this wasn't the time. With a last, shaky smile, she nodded. Helena imperiously waved her to the door.

She left, closing the door softly behind her.

Elsewhere in the huge house, the servants had cleared and cleaned, then, under Higgs's and Cottsloe's watchful eyes, they'd retired to their own quarters. Cottsloe did his rounds as usual; the house was locked, the lights doused in the usual pattern.

That done, Cottlsoe retired — to the kitchen, to keep watch. Higgs had already taken up her post at the top of the servants' stair, to guard against anyone hiding in the servants' quarters and sneaking into the house that way.

The family had retired to their rooms, but not to their beds. As the clocks around the house struck twelve, they all emerged, silently sliding through the shadows, nodding at each other as they passed on their way to their assigned positions.

Lurking in the shadows before the upstairs parlor door, Luc wondered as Portia's and Penelope's apparent lack of awareness. It appeared they hadn't realized anything was afoot. That seemed, to him, so utterly unlikely, yet they'd given not the slightest hint that either was even suspicious.

Easing his shoulders against the door, he mentally set his younger sisters to one side — they were in their rooms on the top floor — they couldn't easily get down without passing either him, Higgs, or Amelia; he had absolute faith that none of the three of them would let Portia and Penelope past them.

Perhaps his younger sisters truly were, even now, falling asleep?

Stifling a disbelieving snort, he listened… but all he heard was the sounds of the house settling into its usual nighttime repose. He knew every creaking board, every squeaky tread on every stair; if any creaked in any unusual way, he would know. Helena's room lay to his left, midway down the west wing. Simon was concealed just before the stairs at the wing's far end; if the thief came that way, Simon would let him pass and follow.

Luc would do the same if the felon chose the main stairs as his route to Helena's room. Amelia was the only other watcher in the corridors on this floor — she was to Luc's right, in the east wing, hovering just past Emily's and Anne's rooms. Anne's was the farthest. Although none of them believed she was involved… if by chance there was some connection, he and Amelia wanted to know of it first.

Not that they'd discussed it, or even said so much in words, however private — they'd simply exchanged a glance, then Amelia had claimed that position as hers.

His mind drifted to her — his wife and so much more — to all he wanted to say to her as soon as fate gave him a chance…

With an effort, he yanked his wits back, focused them on the game at hand, one too fraught with danger to risk distraction. Lucifer was prowling downstairs; Martin was hovering in the shadows of the shrubbery. Sugden was out somewhere near the kennels. From a room at the end of the west wing, Amanda was watching the valley and all approaches from beyond the home farm. Phyllida was in hers and Lucifer's room, which happened to command an excellent view of the rose garden and the gardens farther along, beyond the east wing.

Night fell like a shroud over the house.

Through the depths of the night, they waited for the thief to show his face.

Two o'clock came and went. At a quarter to three, Luc left his position briefly; moving soundlessly through the corridors, he alerted Simon to cover the whole of the west wing, then checked with everyone else, eventually returning to his watch. They were all wilting. No one had voiced it, yet every one of them was wondering if they'd misjudged, and the thief would not, for whatever reason, appear.

Time drifted on; staying awake became increasingly difficult.

Propped up in her bed, Helena had much less difficulty than any of her guards in keeping alert. Old age left her less inclined to sleep, more inclined to lie in peace and sift through her memories.

Tonight, she lay on her pillows and kept watch over her necklace, and remembered. All the good times that had followed the moment when she'd received it — the moment when she'd most unwillingly accepted it, outwitted by Sebastian, and fate.

All the wonders of life, and love.

She was far away, reliving the past, when the door of her wardrobe, directly across the room, swung slowly open.