Crystal Gardens, Page 3

  “I went out through the bedroom window. Hobson tried to follow but he did not fit. He had to use the kitchen door. That gave me a decent head start.”

  “You ran here to Crystal Gardens.”

  “It’s not as if I had a great deal of choice. You are my nearest neighbor, sir.”

  He nodded once, just slightly, acknowledging that fact, and sipped his brandy in a thoughtful silence.

  “I would have knocked on your front door to ask for help but there was no time to run to the front of the house,” she added. “Hobson was gaining on me. That is why I made for the gardens.”

  Lucas regarded her very steadily. “You knew how to get through the wall.”

  She sighed. “I admit that I engaged in some exploration before you arrived to take up residence, sir.”

  “Trespassing,” he corrected. He did not sound annoyed, though.

  “Well, it is not as if there was anyone living here at the time. I could hardly ask permission to view the gardens.”

  “Those gardens are extremely dangerous. You saw that for yourself tonight.”

  “Yes.” She shuddered and downed some of the brandy. “But I did not know just how dangerous until now. I had heard the local legends and stories but I did not believe them.”

  “They made you curious, though, didn’t they?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Tell me, Miss Ames, do you always indulge your curiosity?”

  She hesitated, sensing a trap. “Not always. But there seemed to be no harm in this case.”

  “You were drawn into the gardens not simply because of the legends but because you sensed the paranormal energy here.”

  It was not a question. Her uneasiness with the direction of his questions was growing stronger. There was always some risk in claiming psychical talent but she could not see the harm in doing so tonight with this man. She was very certain that Lucas also possessed paranormal abilities.

  “Yes,” she said. “The energy of this place is compelling.”

  He smiled a little. “I was quite certain that you possessed a strong psychical nature yesterday when we met in the bookshop. Your ability makes me very curious about you, Evangeline Ames. But, then, I have been interested in you since my uncle’s man of affairs informed me that the new tenant at Fern Gate Cottage made her living as a paid companion.”

  Her uneasiness grew stronger. She was now certain that she was sailing into dangerous waters but she could not see any way to avoid the rapids.

  “Why did that fact make you curious?” she asked, very cautious now.

  “Granted, the rent on the cottage is quite cheap. That said, I have never encountered a professional companion who was able to afford a monthlong holiday in the countryside, even with a bargain lease thrown in.”

  “My employers are very generous,” she said coolly. She was on firmer ground now. It was, after all, extremely rude to question a person’s financial situation to his or her face. It was simply not done. “Those of us who are fortunate enough to be associated with the firm of Flint and Marsh enjoy very satisfactory commissions for our services.”

  “I see. That explains the expensive gown and attractive hat that you were wearing yesterday when I met you in the bookshop, as well as your ability to afford the rent on the cottage.”

  She could see that he was not satisfied with the answer she had given him. She braced herself for his next query.

  “There are a number of other things about you that I find intriguing, Miss Ames.”

  “Indeed, sir? How very odd. We are scarcely acquainted.”

  He smiled his cold smile. “The events of this night have given us a much closer connection, don’t you agree? Indeed, one could almost call it an intimate connection.”

  She was suddenly intensely aware that she was in her nightclothes. She glanced toward the door. The urge to flee was instinctive but she knew it would be useless to try to escape.

  “As I was saying, there are several things about you that I find riveting,” Lucas continued. He gave no indication that he had noticed her growing anxiety. “But the one that comes to mind tonight is the fact that in your last post you were employed as a companion to Lady Rutherford.”

  Evangeline discovered she was holding her breath. She gulped some brandy. The shock of the fiery liquor made her gasp. At least she was inhaling again, she thought. Breathing was important.

  “What of it?” she managed.

  “Nothing, really. It is just that it strikes me as rather odd that within days after you left your position in the Rutherford household, a gentleman who had recently made an offer for the hand of Lady Rutherford’s granddaughter—an offer that was turned down, I might add—was found dead at the foot of a staircase. As it happens the staircase was located in a vacant building situated in a shabby street near the docks.”

  Shock slammed through Evangeline. “You know about that?”

  “Mason’s death and the location of the incident were in the papers,” Lucas said. He sounded almost apologetic at having to remind her of such a simple fact. “As was the gossip that his suit had recently been rejected out of hand by the young lady’s father.”

  “Yes, of course.” She pulled herself together and assumed what she hoped was an air of polite bewilderment tempered with a hint of impatience. “Forgive me, sir, it’s just that I’m rather surprised to hear that you pay attention to that sort of social gossip.”

  “Ah, but I do, Miss Ames, especially when I discover that my new tenant had some connection to the Rutherford household and that she was let go from her post the day after Mason was shown the door.”

  “It was understood from the start that the post was temporary.” She looked at the tall clock and affected a small start of surprise. “Good heavens, just look at the time. I really must return to the cottage.”

  “By all means, but not before you finish your nerve tonic.”

  She looked down at the glass in her hand and saw that there was some brandy left. She raised the glass and downed the remaining liquor in a single swallow, a very large swallow as it turned out.

  She did more than gasp for air this time. She choked and sputtered in a thoroughly embarrassing manner.

  “Are you all right, Miss Ames?” Lucas sounded genuinely concerned.

  “Yes, yes, I’m fine.” She set the glass down hard on the nearby table and made a weak, fluttery motion with her hand, as if trying to fan herself. “But I fear you are right to be worried about the state of my nerves, sir. Indeed, I believe they have been quite shattered. I need my bed and my vinaigrette.”

  “Something tells me that you have never used a vinaigrette in your life.”

  “First time for everything.” She got to her feet. “Forgive me, Mr. Sebastian. I am very grateful for all that you did for me tonight but I must return to the cottage now.”

  “Very well, I will see you home.” Lucas set his own glass aside and stood. “We shall continue this conversation tomorrow.”

  “Terribly sorry, I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” she said smoothly. “I’m expecting friends from London tomorrow. They will be staying with me for two days.”

  “I see.”

  She thought quickly. The last thing she wanted to do was find herself alone in the cottage when Lucas came around to continue the conversation.

  “Probably much longer,” she said. “A fortnight no doubt. We plan to explore the local ruins. Very scenic, you know.”

  “So I have been told.”

  He took her arm and guided her out of the library and down a long hall. Her curiosity was aroused once more.

  “My daily maid mentioned that you have not hired any staff,” she ventured.

  “Stone is all I need.”

  “This is a very large house for one person to keep in order.”

  “Stone and I are the only ones in residence and I intend for matters to remain that way. We will not be staying long. All we require are the kitchen, the library and a couple of bedrooms. Th
e rest of the house is closed up—has been for years. When Uncle Chester was alive he and his housekeeper, Mrs. Buckley, kept only a few rooms open.”

  “I see. You are here to settle your uncle’s affairs, then?”

  “I am here to do a bit more than that, Miss Ames. I intend to find out who murdered him.”

  Three

  Evangeline was shocked into what Lucas was certain would be a very temporary silence. While she grappled with the ramifications of his announcement, he eased her out the front door and into the night. They started down the moonlit lane toward the cottage.

  “I was under the impression that your uncle died of a heart attack,” Evangeline said at last.

  “So I’m told.”

  “You don’t believe that?”

  “No, Miss Ames, I don’t. What is more, I think there is a possibility that Mrs. Buckley, the housekeeper, was also murdered.”

  “Good heavens.” She glanced at him very quickly and then turned her attention back to the lane. “May I ask if you have some reason for believing that his death was due to foul play?”

  “At the moment all I have is suspicion.”

  There was another short silence from Evangeline.

  “I see.”

  He knew then that she had already heard the rumors of madness in the Sebastian family line. It was only to be expected, he reminded himself. The gossip was rampant around Little Dixby. Chester had lived at Crystal Gardens for nearly thirty years, certainly long enough to impress the locals with his odd behavior.

  I should have expected that she would think me delusional, Lucas thought. Even though she possessed considerable talent herself, it did not follow that she would ignore the gossip.

  Having learned at an early age that his own paranormal talent made others uneasy and often fearful, he had gone to great lengths to conceal his true nature. But it had been impossible to hide his abilities from his relatives. He was well aware that some of the whispers of madness in the Sebastian bloodline came from the very heart of his family.

  “No, Miss Ames, I am not delusional,” he said evenly. “And for all his eccentricities, neither was Uncle Chester.”

  “I see,” she said again. She fell silent.

  He realized that under other circumstances he would have savored the moonlight walk to the cottage. Even the knowledge that she was not altogether certain what to make of him could not detract from the intense thrill of being so close to her. He sensed that she was aware of the energy between them, as well. But he suspected that she was telling herself that the edgy, overstimulated sensation had been caused by the recent excitement.

  A short time ago in the library he had taken pleasure in watching the way the gaslight turned her hazel eyes to gold and the soft waves of her hair to a rich, dark shade of amber. Taken individually her features lacked conventional beauty but they melded together into a striking face animated by intelligence and strong character. Any man who sought to seduce her would first have to win her trust and respect. Afterward he would very likely discover that he was the one who had been seduced.

  Logic and common sense suggested that he focus on the questions that surrounded Evangeline Ames, not his attraction to her. And there were a great many mysteries linked to her.

  It could not be sheer coincidence that a lady who just happened to possess some strong psychical talent had chosen to rent a cottage that no one had wanted to rent in years—a cottage located a short distance from ancient ruins that reeked of dark paranormal energy. Her remarkably well-paid career as a professional companion raised more questions. Then there was the matter of her connection to the Rutherford household, which was, in turn, linked to a man who had died under mysterious circumstances. Last but not least, it was asking too much to believe that it was mere happenstance that a knife-wielding killer had tried to slit her throat tonight.

  Whatever Evangeline Ames was involved in, coincidence had nothing to do with it. But the mysteries swirling around her only made her all the more intriguing.

  “You’re certain that you have no idea why that man attacked you tonight?” he asked.

  “None.” Evangeline concentrated on keeping her footing in the badly rutted lane. “I suppose he must have discovered that I was a woman living alone in the cottage and concluded that I would be an easy victim.”

  “His accent is straight from the streets of London.”

  “Yes, I did notice that.”

  “In my experience, the members of the criminal class who ply their trade in the city rarely venture into the countryside.”

  Evangeline looked at him. He sensed her curiosity and smiled a little.

  “Why is that?” she asked.

  “It is an alien environment to them,” he explained. “They flourish in dark alleys, hidden lanes and abandoned buildings. They are urban rats. They don’t know how to survive outside their native habitat. What is more, they tend to stand out in the countryside.”

  “I see what you mean.” Evangeline sounded intrigued. “Their clothes and accents would mark them as outsiders.”

  “Yet Sharpy Hobson pursued you all the way to Little Dixby.”

  “Well, it isn’t as if he had to travel to the ends of the earth or even to Wales.”

  He smiled. “No. London is only a few hours away by train.”

  “True.” She exhaled a small sigh. “Although I must admit at times it feels as if Little Dixby is located on the far side of the world or perhaps in another dimension.”

  “Yesterday in the bookshop you gave me the impression that you were enjoying your stay in the countryside, at least until tonight.”

  “Let’s just say that, until tonight, it has been restful to the point of boredom.”

  “You are from London,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “Like Hobson.”

  “Are you implying that there is some connection between me and that villain?” she asked, her tone sharpening.

  “It seems a likely possibility.”

  “I understand your logic but I honestly cannot imagine what it would be. I told you, I have never before encountered Sharpy Hobson. Believe me, I would have recalled such a meeting.”

  “There are some mentally unbalanced men who sometimes develop unwholesome fixations on a certain woman. They follow their victims, at first trying to frighten and control them. Eventually they become violent.”

  “I am not naive, Mr. Sebastian, and I have not lived a sheltered life. I am aware that such men exist. But even if I did unwittingly manage to attract the attention of such a deranged individual, why didn’t he attack me in London? And why wait so long to follow me to Little Dixby? I have been living here for nearly two weeks.”

  She was truly bewildered, he concluded.

  “There is no way to fathom the thinking of a madman,” he said.

  “No,” she agreed. “But you will admit that Sharpy Hobson did not appear to be unbalanced tonight. He claimed that I was worth money to him.”

  “Hobson may not be the one who is deranged. The unbalanced person in this mystery is possibly the one who sent him here to find you.”

  Evangeline tightened her grip on the lapels of his coat. “Good heavens, yes, you are right. But that logic does not hold, either. I cannot think of anyone who might want to kill me, let alone pay someone to do the deed.”

  He listened to the dark murmurings and sighs of the dense woods on either side of the lane and considered what he knew of murder. There were those who believed that he knew far too much about the subject. They were right.

  “A discarded lover seeking revenge might hire a villain off the streets to kill the woman who had rejected him,” he offered.

  “‘A lover’?” The words were uttered on a half-choked squeak of pure disbelief. Evangeline hastily composed herself. “Good grief, sir, I assure you that is not the case.”

  Her response was interesting, he thought. It was as if she found the notion a complete impossibility. But he, in turn, found that difficult to swall
ow. Evangeline Ames was far too interesting, too compelling.

  “Perhaps the person who commissioned the murder is not a man. Is there a woman who might have cause to be jealous of you?”

  “Your imagination is certainly quite creative, sir. Do you write novels, by any chance?”

  “No, Miss Ames. Nor do I read them.”

  She shot him a cool look from the corner of her eye. “Do you have something against novels, Mr. Sebastian?”

  “I prefer to take a realistic view of the world, Miss Ames. Novels by their very nature are anything but realistic, with their scenes of overwrought emotions and the ridiculous happy endings.”

  She gave him a chilly smile. “They call it fiction for a reason, sir.”

  “Yes,” he said, “they do.”

  “Some people find that reading novels is very therapeutic precisely because it does allow one to view reality from an entirely different perspective.”

  “I will take your word for it. Let us return to our mystery.”

  “I told you, I don’t have any answers,” she said.

  “Then let us go back to the beginning.”

  “The beginning?”

  “Why do you remain here in Little Dixby? You have made it plain that you are not altogether charmed by country life.”

  She pondered the question for a few seconds. In the moonlight, he could not make out her expression but he sensed that she was deciding just how much of the truth to tell him.

  “As you know, I am a professional hired companion,” she said.

  “A very well-paid professional companion, judging by your clothes and the fact that you can afford to rent my cottage.”

  “I explained that I work for an exclusive firm.” Her voice was crisp with impatience now. “But as it happens, I have other aspirations. Do not mistake me, I take great satisfaction from my work with the Flint and Marsh Agency but I am determined to move on to another career.”

  “What other career?”

  She angled her chin. “One that I’m certain you will not approve of. I hope to be able to make my living as an author of sensation novels.”