CHAPTER FIVE
“Knew a ghost once who was a prime gabster. On and on, he went, nattering all day and night till I nearly went insane.”
Mrs Tadlow. Widow, mother and ten-year resident of Ingleford Lodge.
Breath caught in his throat. Why was everything so red? Was the room on fire? No. No heat, no burning, and Lucas willed his eyes to focus.
It looked like he was caught in a devil’s paradise and quite frankly, after the tangled dreams he’d experienced, he couldn’t call himself a saint. The sun had obviously risen and it was shining brightly through the crimson-red drapes of the enormous bed.
In the early days of his recovery, he’d often dreamed of fire and slept fitfully. Now, he just accepted it, stoically, as part of his life. So when a dream had begun with this oak four-poster engulfed in flames, he hadn’t flinched.
Except, when the blaze had died down, Miss Trewent had been there, straw struggling to cover her naked body and slender legs, glowing auburn hair trailing carelessly over the pillow like licks of flame, unbound and wild.
He shook his head hard, and then wished he hadn’t. Too many drams of fine whisky had been consumed last night, and this morning, he felt every one of them. He’d passed a pleasant evening in Stone’s welcoming study, watched over by the luckless stag. A proper wood fire had roared in the grate, none of that newfangled mucky coal; the leather chairs had felt like well-worn saddles; the peaty drink had been exceptional; and some of the information had been vaguely useful. There was only one problem.
Stone was lying.
Or, at the very least, withholding information. He couldn’t quite ascertain which it was or, indeed, if it was even related to the murders, but something wasn’t quite right.
Often, Stone brushed over Miss Trewent’s past despite Lucas’s subtle prodding, and he was no more forthcoming about Mrs Mereworth. He’d been scathing about the local magistrate and yet did not consider helping the man with the investigation. Indeed, he mentioned that he hadn’t even visited Sir Hector’s house for three years.
Lucas’s scars tightened as he crawled to the edge of the bed and stretched. They always bloody hurt in the morning. The doctor had given him a salve which helped but it smelled like manure. He liked horses, but not that much.
Blinking, he realised he’d slept exceptionally well. Last night, he’d felt…normal for once: a chap talking to a pretty woman – not some broken husk, but a normal man. He remembered Miss Trewent’s improper conversation, the curve of her lip, the glint in her eye, and smiled. She’d made him feel like his old self.
She was obviously no young innocent miss, and he wasn’t going to fool himself that she was interested in him – after all, he need only look in the mirror.
But she made him feel ordinary. So many people wished they were more – prettier, smarter or wittier. He just wanted to be ordinary and last night, in that company, he had been.
Purposely, he stretched hard, letting the nasty, painful tightening of skin erase any more thoughts of Miss Trewent.
Splashing cold water over his face and peering into the mirror, a shabby rip gazed back at him.
Abruptly, he groaned and closed his eyes, blotting his ragged face from sight, as he recalled Stone’s parting words last night. He’d said he was unavailable to accompany Lucas today – couldn’t remember the exact reason, but it had pertained to a horse stomach complaint. He’d stopped listening when Stone had begun talking of purges.
Therefore, Miss Trewent was suggested in his place. She knew everybody as well as Stone did, if not better, and could introduce him.
“Billy,” he yelled, “fetch my razor blade.”
Eyeing Lucas over her coffee cup, Rosalind noticed he was looking slightly worse for wear this morning as he gingerly lowered himself into the delicate chair and poured tea.
Benedict had not looked any better. He’d headed to the stables early, carrying a bundle of kindling: either he was heating his horses or was up to something.
Now with the daylight, she could still see the child in Lucas. It was in the smoky-grey eyes and broad mouth.
Everything else had changed.
His hair was much darker and too long, held in a queue by a black cord. No longer was he pale, but instead held a faint tan to his face – caught, she surmised, in the Iberian sun and now tattooed by its heat. The delicate pink skin of the burns on his left cheek continued down, under his cravat.
Thin as a child, he’d certainly filled out, but without an ounce of fat on him – it was all muscle and sinew.
The waistcoat, for a change, was in a deep moss green, and memories of a painting that her mother had showed her as a child came flooding back. It was calledThe Green Man. Indeed, the local inn was named after him, and a sign outside portrayed this same mystical figure. A tall, broad man dressed in the leaves and plants of nature swung restlessly in the wind, beckoning thirsty travellers.
“I believe you are going to accompany me today. Introductions and so forth.”
The brisk tone cut through her musing. “Yes, indeed. I have the carriage readied.” Honestly, she thought, the man was making her buffle-headed, comparing him to some pagan being.
“Carriage? I thought we would take the horses?”
