Читать книгу Betraying Mercy - Amber Lin - Страница 8

Chapter One

England, 1780

Drenched through, William banged the knocker. The heavy door creaked open under his hand. Unease slid through him. Where was everyone? Even old and cantankerous, the butler usually kept his post when William came home. He spared a glance for the flashing sky and then stepped into his home.

Flames flickered in their sconces, throwing shadows on red walls. The door shut behind him with a thud, throwing the hall into eerie silence.

Where was that damn butler? “Gerald?”

Memories rose to the surface, unbidden, of him as a younger man—a boy, really—returning home on a night like this. A very bad night. The similarities meant nothing. England was perpetually damp, and only seemed to get wetter north of Epping Forest. His family seat hadn’t changed in the ten years since his parents’ death, either. Of course everything was the same. But still, wariness unfurled within him.

He lifted his chin like an animal scenting danger.

The heel of William’s boots clacked through the thin rug. “Mr. Beck?”

His annoyance had leveled into a burning resentment in his gut during the rattling coach ride from Cambridge, but it flared again, brighter now. Of all people, his steward should have greeted him. He had no excuse after sending what could only be described as a summons. A very strange, very unwelcome summons.

A legacy of riches. Beware the ghosts and witches.

Though cryptic, he knew what it meant: come home. A message only someone raised in the village would understand. Even though he’d been raised in the manor, set apart, he understood.

He crumpled the note in his fist. Ridiculous. The ghosts had never been real. Just an old, poorly maintained abbey on an even older, more poorly maintained estate. It was a child’s rhyme. William couldn’t even remember the rest.

He preferred to forget.

Forgetting was easy enough to do in London. For years he had worked toward this goal, pooling the earldom’s dwindling resources into a shipping venture that would depart next week. If the investments weren’t successful, if he wasn’t on that ship, the unentailed land surrounding the manor would be lost.

So he had almost ignored the missive. In fact, he might have—but for the use of that child’s rhyme. Someone had sent for him. Someone who knew him. It called to some long-dormant sense of responsibility. He must return home, to this almost abandoned house, and settle any trouble. Despite his lack of tact, he must soothe any concerns. He smiled faintly. If nothing else, it would be practice for his time on the ship.

His years scrambling and gambling and fighting for enough cash to keep his family’s land intact hadn’t imbued him with any diplomacy. He wasn’t always proud of what he’d done, but his father had cared about the title. His grandfather had cared about the people who lived on it. The least he could do was keep them from penury.

Silence shrouded the house, the unnatural stillness a wan version of his memories. His mother could always be heard in one of her spells. Ever ineffectual, his father would beg and plead for her to stop. He’d always seemed so helpless in front of his wife. He’d never been helpless locked in his office with William, taking out his anger with his fists or a belt.

It had always been loud in the house, drowning any preternatural creatures that were said to inhabit the area. Now a strange current ran through the damp air, causing gooseflesh to rise on his frozen skin.

The butler probably thought it was a great joke to allow William to wander around the house. Gerald was stalwart and staid, as old retainers were wont to be, but he always took a secret glee in tormenting William. For his part, William had fought back with frogs and other boyhood pranks. A pretense of independence as they had both been trapped under the pious thumb of his father.

The implacable tick of the hall clock grew louder in the stillness. Worry sparked inside him, but he refused to let it breathe. Floorboards above him creaked, and he lifted his gaze. Shadows lay heavy across the landing. For a moment, William reached for the pistol he kept in his coat when he traveled.

He frowned. “Who’s there?”

A man emerged from the darkness, and the unsteady light drew his face in sharp relief. Beck, his steward. William distantly recalled their last meeting. Beck had seemed deferential at the time, though now his posture seemed almost like a challenge.

“Lord William.” Beck’s voice held surprise, and possibly…fear?

The surprised was uncalled for, considering he’d written the note to bring William home. And Beck should not be on the upper levels. He had no business there. Anger broke free of the concern that gripped him, a welcome distraction.

William climbed the stairs. “What the devil are you about?”

Beck moved to intercept. “My lord, perhaps you should wait—”

“I think not.”

William brushed past him, feeling chills down his spine as old memories merged with the present. He was halfway down the hallway when a woman’s soft sobs floated to him from his mother’s bedroom. There. There was the proof that everything was as it should be. Not that he wanted his mother to cry, but after years of consoling her, there was a constancy to her tears.

Except his mother had died ten years ago.

Firelight flickered through the slim opening of the door. He pushed inside.

Deep red spray marred a snowy white counterpane. A maid knelt on the floor, sobbing quietly. He went to her.

“Are you hurt? What happened?”

Her eyes widened as he approached. She backed up. Helplessly he turned back.

Beck stood in the doorway. He shook his head. “It’s not hers. Not anyone’s.”

The unspoken words rang in the silence. The ghosts. Ridiculous. He’d thought Beck a more rational man than that. Although the vision before him was chilling. And familiar.

The view before him swayed, as if he were underwater, looking up. It was exactly like one of his mother’s visions of her death. He clung to that thought: this was a dream, not reality. Maybe her condition was contagious and now William had it, and that was why he saw such a false thing as blood where it shouldn’t be. With no body nearby.

A prank. It must be.

The sickly sweet smell of his mother’s lavender perfume still permeated the air, not tainted with the tang of copper. A wave of nausea swept over him. On leaden feat, he pressed forward to the side of the bed. He touched the fabric. Dry but not hardened, not black. How long ago had the blood been spilled? And from what source? A poor animal, most likely.

“Who is allowed in here?” The words came out hollow, like his insides.

“Any of us, milord.” The maid’s voice quavered. “The house maids or a manservant. We don’t keep it locked.”

“Well, keep it locked,” he said too sharply.

With a nod and indistinct mumble, she fled the room.

He sighed. So much for diplomacy.

Beck stood in the door frame, solemn, watchful.

“Is this why you sent for me?” William asked.

Beck shook his head slowly, his eyes haunted. “No, my lord. I did not. Though it’s good you’ve come. There’s trouble.”

William frowned. If Beck didn’t write the note, then who did? He couldn’t worry about that now—more important, what the hell else had gone wrong?

“Trouble?” he prompted. “At the abbey?”

Beck raised an eyebrow. “No, but nearby.”

William blinked. “There’s nothing nearby.” Except the manor. And…

“The crypt,” Beck confirmed grimly.

A curious calm descended over William. “What’s happened?”

“It’s your mother. The seal was broken, so the gardener went inside. Her coffin was missing.”

“Missing?”

Beck swallowed audibly. “Indeed.”

A chill ran over his skin. The blood he could dismiss as a prank. His mother’s body missing? No, the entire coffin. He couldn’t quite believe it. He had to see for himself.

“We’ll go there. Now. Tonight.”

William pushed past Beck into the hall. He thudded down the stairs, almost barreling into the butler. Gerald always had a scold or a criticism at the ready. William arrived so late. William tracked rainwater into the house. That was years ago, a lifetime and a childhood ago, but the past had caught up to him now, bleeding into the present. He’d thought he’d escaped.

“I am sorry, my lord,” Gerald said, his eyes pitying.

Hell. He must look worse off than he thought. “A misunderstanding, I’m sure,” he said. Even though he wasn’t sure of that, unless he was the one misunderstanding. Everything was mixed up. Everyone was sorry. And all he wanted to do was leave.

Leave Essex, leave England. Leave behind the past of failure and tragedy. His father had died when he turned fourteen. His mother, a year later, a year poorer. William had inherited the title, all right, just not the legal stature to control the purse. The appointed solicitors had drained the already small accounts dry with poor investments. William suspected they were guilty of more than incompetence. Theft. But he’d never be able to prove it. All he could do was try to fix their error, far too late.

Gerald put a hand on William’s shoulder. Gerald, who had chased him away from the cupboards with a cane. Gerald, who had finked on him at every opportunity, earning William a whipping from his father. Once his nemesis and erstwhile caretaker, now he looked at William with solemn understanding.

For a brief moment, the veil of servant-to-master fell from between them. Their shared grief connected them, exposed them. The butler was just an old man, and William just a boy.

The awkward touch of comfort burned into his skin. His eyes burned, too, and he pushed away from the butler and his unearned caring. Footsteps sounded from deep inside the house, and William flashed back in time, expecting to see the tall, lean form of his father.

A large, robed figure emerged from the study. It was Vicar Charles. Not his father.

Of course not. The long ride must be affecting him. Or maybe the long absence. He was torn between the idea that he should have come home more often—or not at all.

The vicar frowned, his jowls quivering. “Suicide is a grievous sin and as such—”

“No.” William clenched his fists and moderated his voice, speaking evenly. “No, goddamn you. She didn’t kill herself. And that has nothing to do with what’s happening now.”

At the time, the vicar had been sure his mother had killed herself. William had silently wondered, doubted, as well. Too much laudanum could be an accident. Or a grievous sin. But even as an underage, newly appointed earl, he’d had clout, and he’d demanded his mother be buried in the family crypt regardless. He wouldn’t let the vicar denigrate his mother. She had died grief-stricken and practically bankrupt. He hadn’t been able to do anything about that. But in death, she sure as hell would not be shamed, not then or now.

The vicar muttered his sermon to the ground. “A willful act against God…”

William unclenched his jaw and turned to Beck. “Take me to them.”

Beck left to ready the horses while the vicar continued muttering supposed holy words, those damnable holy words. Everyone falling down around him, dying, bleeding, but the vicar remained standing. Thriving, judging by his bulk and the embroidered trim on his robe. Favored by God, then? It was almost enough to make William believe. Just not enough to make him care.

William leashed his old sorrow, his ever present guilt, and strode out to meet Beck at the stables. He took a fresh horse and rode into the sheets of rain toward the cemetery, leaving Beck behind to cart the vicar.

The water in his face and the jolt of the horse’s stride tried to ground William, to make this real. None of it could touch him now, nothing could. He had only his memories to warm him, and little they did. His mother had cried when he left for school last time. He’d promised he’d see her again soon. Lies. Self-disgust roiled within him, but there was nothing left to expel.