The Trelayne Inheritance Page 2

  Shelly bent and examined the fang marks.

  Sure enough, one mark was slightly twisted, as if the fang that made it was crooked.

  The Beefsteak Killer did this.

  Shelly looked at the stamp on the crate: Britton and sons.

  Since her suspicion that the killer was of the nobility had been increasingly borne out by the facts, Shelly had made it her business to discreetly inquire about the more suspicious members of the ton. Few were as scandalous as Maximillian Britton. He was the sole surviving heir of this import export company.

  He was, by all accounts, a merry fellow, quick with a laugh, yet though he had many acquaintances, Shelly got the impression he had few friends. He slept with many women, but loved none. He traveled frequently and seemed to have a curious fixation on cemeteries, where he was often found.

  He was obscenely wealthy, obscenely handsome, and obscenely tempting to women. The perfect lure to the lovely but penurious.

  His estate was just outside Oxford.

  Leaving the body exactly as she found it, Shelly left the warehouse and walked rapidly toward Scotland Yard. As usual, they wouldn’t be glad to see her. But as usual, they’d listen, for she’d long since proved her investigative skills to them.

  Then it was time to check the train schedules for Oxford. She’d been hankering to visit Oxford’s renowned Bodleian library anyway.

  As she stared, transfixed, at the gorgeous male striding toward her, Angel was torn between the need to flee and the need to run her hands over those perfect features to assure herself they were real. She had never, in her entire life, seen such a good-looking man.

  He glimmered with gold, from his hair, to his golden skin, to the gold studs in his ruffled shirt and cuffs, the huge, old-fashioned pocket watch and fob chained securely in his pocket, right down to the gold buckles on his shoes. In fact, his dress, too, was a blatant defiance of propriety, for he wore a crimson damask vest and form fitting pantaloons in style some years back, not the severe black tie and fitted suit of a Victorian gentleman.

  His chin was strong, dented with God’s loving fingertip, his cheekbones high, almost Slavic. His nose was bold, a bit too long, his mouth so perfectly shaped and lush with sensuality that, masked, he could have been a girl. But he was far too tall and powerfully built to be female.

  Angel was tall herself. Still, he towered over her. Most telling of all, no one looking into those clear green eyes could call this man anything but a male on the prowl.

  He was fixated on her, unblinking, consuming, hungry. Even as her temperature climbed and her loose clothes felt too tight, she knew she’d have felt less threatened if he’d suddenly flashed a tail and claws.

  Then, when he smiled with the alert, hooded gaze of a predator, his gaze falling to the rapid pulse in her throat, for an instant, she thought she saw fangs….Gasping, she backed up until her hip knocked into her mother’s headstone.

  The tangible reminder of why she’d traveled so far gave her strength enough to snap, “Do all English gentlemen unclothe women with their eyes on first acquaintance?” She went red at her own boldness, but something about this man made her skin crawl. Her very nerve endings were alive with affront.

  Was it affront?

  A slight smile curled at that lush, sensual mouth. He removed a clean kerchief from his pocket and dampened it with his tongue. Heat curled through her at the sight, but then…

  …the kerchief was still warm with his wetness when he used it to wipe the dirt from her face. “No, I usually wait until second acquaintance, but you, my dear girl, are a Blythe. The only rule with Blythe women is that there are none.”

  She backed a step, further embarrassed as she saw the kerchief come away stained brown. “How do you know I’m a Blythe?” She scrubbed at her cheek with the heel of her hand. Why did her flesh burn there where his essence touched her?

  “You look exactly like your mother. You stand over her grave. And I heard you were coming.” He gave her a charming bow. “Maximillian Britton, at your service.”

  His name meant nothing to her, but the air with which he said it spoke volumes. He was a lord.

  And lord, was he trouble. Exactly the sort Angel had become adept at avoiding.

  She turned to leave, but paused despite herself. She’d probably never see him again. Curiosity. It was both her best trait and her worst failing. “Why were you standing on that mausoleum?”

  “Ascertaining its construction. I’m considering using the same freemason for my own crypt. One never knows when one’s end draws near.”

  Claptrap. Angel didn’t say it aloud, but she didn’t have to. His smile only widened. His gaze raked her again, telling her what other charming lies they could say to one another. She turned to stalk off.

  He stopped her, his hand gentle on her arm, no teasing about him now. His impossibly handsome fallen angel face was serious, almost severe. “Tell the coachman to take you to London. Book the first passage you can find back to America. For your own safety.”

  “From you?” Again, the words were out before she could stop herself.

  This time, he didn’t take the bait. But his green eyes darkened as he looked at the full breasts even her severe garments couldn’t totally disguise.

  Angel drew away and ran the remaining distance to the impatient coachman. He looked behind her, alarmed when he saw the lord. He pointed the blunderbuss at that haughty, naughty face.

  Max stared him in the eye. The coachman cowered back, the gun sagging.

  Flinging open the carriage door, Max ordered, “Take her back to London.”

  “Take me to the Blythe estate!” Angel contradicted, slamming her own door.

  Through the carriage window, their gazes met and held.

  Green and brown. Life and earth. Bound, the one giving life to the other.

  Angel blinked, breaking the power of that immobilizing gaze. “Why do you wish to get rid of me?”

  “Oxford isn’t safe for the likes of you.”

  Likes of you? What in the devil did he mean? Then the carriage jolted into motion. Max stepped back, one unusually large hand uplifted in a wave.

  We’ll meet again, stubborn girl. He didn’t say it, but Angel heard it nonetheless.

  And even as she told herself she didn’t care, a chill feathered down her spine.

  Fear? Or anticipation?

  Both. She was already in trouble. And she hadn’t even met her uncle yet.

  Lady Sarina Blythe paced her salon. “Why is it taking so long?”

  Sir Alexander, as usual, pored over the results of his latest experiment. He pushed his spectacles to the top of his thick head of black hair. He looked somewhat like a studious Lord Byron, but Sarina hadn’t married him for his looks.

  He said for the third time that afternoon, “The train schedules have been sporadic of late because of new construction. I declare, one would think she were your relative instead of mine.”

  Sarina bristled. “Who found her, might I ask, and suggested her visit?”

  “I did write the letter inviting her.”

  “Under my instruction.”

  He slapped his spectacles down on his papers. “I put my own trousers on quite well before you came into my life!”

  Sarina immediately went to him to knead his broad shoulders. At the first touch of her fingers, the tension in his muscles eased away. Really, men were such babies.

  All the affront had left his tone when he said drowsily, “Don’t worry, my dear. She’ll be along soon enough, I make no doubt.”

  The clatter of carriage wheels punctuated his statement. Sarina flew to the window. “She’s here!” She ran out the salon door and down the stairs, her footsteps so light with joy they scarcely clattered on the wooden steps.

  Sir Alexander followed more sedately.

  Waving the butler aside, Sarina flung the door open herself. She extended both hands to the shy, lovely young woman who stood there. “Welcome to Blythe Hall, Angelina.”

 
The girl’s fingertips just brushed hers. Sarina ignored her hesitance and swept her into a soft, perfumed hug. “I’ve been on pins and needles awaiting you!” She drew her inside the door. “I’m Sarina, dear child. Alexander’s hussy of a wife.”

  When the girl blinked in shock at this plain talk, Sarina added with a gurgle of a laugh, “But hussies are so much more interesting than prim and proper ladies, do you not agree?”

  “All the men around Oxford certainly think so,” Alexander said, walking forward, one hand properly extended. As Angel took his hand, he bowed over it even more properly, a thick lock of hair flopping over one eye. That same eye dropped a sly wink as he arose again. “Making me, the bookish Oxford don they used to scorn, the envy of them all. A situation quite to my liking, for it’s me she comes home to after breaking all those arrogant hearts.”

  Looking between the couple who now stood, arms affectionately linked, Angel laughed. “The English must be more romantic than reported if all married couples are so open and honest with one another.”

  “No, it’s something far more prosaic,” Sir Alexander said without missing a beat, “The weather’s so often disagreeable that it behooves one to find someone amiable to cuddle with.” Sarina whacked his arm.

  Angel laughed again, the last of her shy look easing.

  “You look exactly like your mother, my dear. I used to adore watching her laugh,” Alexander remarked..

  Abruptly, Angel’s smile faded. A ripple of something passed over the girl’s perfect porcelain face that Sarina warranted neither freckled nor tanned. But the girl disguised it quickly. Good. She didn’t carry her feelings on her feathered cap, like so many young girls. Sarina’s estimation of her character went up a notch.

  Alexander noted the response too, for he quickly added, “But based on the document you sent me on the experiments you helped conduct at the American university, you are much more than a pretty face.”

  The girl’s unease faded into an expression of pure pleasure. Ah, here lay her weakness. She wanted to be admired for her mind, not her looks. How quaint, Sarina thought. But it was also somewhat endearing and bespoke an independent spirit Sarina couldn’t help but admire.

  Sending her husband a look of gratitude, Sarina drew a soft breath of relief. It was important that their dear guest feel at ease. Sarina was renowned throughout England for her abilities as a hostess, and Angel, the sweet lovely young thing, could only add to the acclaim. Sarina already plotted whom to seat her next to at the party the following weekend.

  “You must be exhausted, my dear Angelina,” Sarina said.

  “Angel, please,” she corrected.

  “Angel, please forgive us for keeping you standing in the hall. Let me show you to your room.”

  Alexander looked at the small bag at Angel’s feet. “Are you having the rest of your luggage sent on?”

  Angel went beet red. An uncomfortable silence ensued, but Sarina filled it skillfully.

  “When one travels abroad, one does so lightly, Alexander. This will only give us an excuse to go shopping.”

  Alexander covered a snort with his hand. “As though you need an excuse for that.”

  “Go back to your experiments, Alexander,” Sarina suggested sweetly. “We’ll be down directly.”

  But this time it was Angel who balked at being led up the stairs. “When will I get to see your laboratory, sir?”

  Alexander glanced at his wife before he said blandly, “In due time. There’s no rush. You’re with us for the summer, are you not?”

  “I wouldn’t want to wear out my welcome, but if the position of lab assistant should be offered, I’d consider staying indefinitely. There’s nothing for me back in New York.” Then, as if she’d said more than she intended, she turned and hurried up the steps.

  Sarina followed.

  Angel stood in the door of the ‘room,’ trying not to let her mouth sag open. To a girl who grew up in an orphanage, her privacy consisting of a bed in a long row of them, this was a suite of dreams, not a room. A plush fainting couch covered in a fur rug stood before the fireplace. A small fire crackled a welcome, taking the early May chill out of the air. The carpet was green, the walls burgundy silk wallpaper, giving the suite a pleasing array of jewel tones that brightened the spirits.

  The fourposter was covered in plush navy velvet hangings embroidered with golden thistles. The heavy burgundy drapes were tied back with gold tassels that matched the tassels decorating the tops of the bedposts. The lamps were stained glass, the rugs Aubusson, the figurines genuine Dresden.

  It was a room Angel had once dreamed of.

  But that dream had died, too, along with her hopes for a home and a family. Angel bolstered her faltering willpower.

  Dreams were as futile as the need for love. They hurt rather than healed. But tasks…those were far more easily accomplished.

  Smiling brightly into Sarina’s questioning eyes, Angel reminded herself that she had two tasks here, and two tasks only. One, find out why her mother killed herself. Two, bury herself and what remained of her dreams in the only work that had meaning to her.

  Scientific work. Where emotion held no purpose.

  “It’s not to your liking?” Sarina asked, watching her closely with those enormous blue eyes so long lashed and huge they reminded Angel of a doll’s eyes.

  Feeling guilty, for this woman had certainly done all she could to make her feel welcome, Angel smiled even more brightly. “It’s the loveliest suite of rooms I’ve ever seen.” That, certainly, was true.

  Sarina relaxed slightly. “Excellent. I’ll send my maid along directly to assist you in your unpacking. If you wish to bathe, I’ll see that water is brought up.”

  “Oh yes, please. And forgive me if I seem…distracted, but–“

  A slim white hand cut her off. “You’ve traveled far to a strange land to stay with people you’ve never met. You can spend as much time or as little with us as you like, until you are comfortable. I’ll see that you’re assigned a horse and groom if you’d rather ride about outside tomorrow than be sociable.”

  For such a beautiful woman, she certainly was understanding of human nature, Angel decided as Sarina walked toward the door. She was dressed all in white and looked very young, not much older than Angel, in fact. She’d been so kind that Angel felt comfortable broaching what could have been, with someone less warm, a touchy subject. But she had to know. Angel cleared her throat. “Might I ask you one question?”

  Sarina turned back immediately. “Certainly.”

  “Why is there no epitaph on my mother’s grave?”

  Shock appeared in those huge blue eyes, but it was quickly veiled by the long lashes. “You’ve already been to the cemetery?”

  “Yes, we passed it on the way here and I asked the coachman to stop. I hope I didn’t intrude.”

  “Of course not. I cannot answer your question, however. Your mother was buried there some years before I came. But I shall ask Alexander.”

  “And who is Maximillian Britton?”

  This time, Sarina’s shock was so great she couldn’t hide it. “You met him? In the cemetery?”

  “Yes.”

  Sarina swallowed, her swan-like neck looking as if it needed to regurgitate a ball of feathers. “He’s the local rake, I’m afraid. I’d take anything he said to you with a grain of salt.”

  “Not garlic?”

  Sarina smiled. “Ah, I see my coachman talked to you. He’s a primitive creature full of superstition. But myself, I don’t put much stock in tales of creatures who drink of blood and can’t be seen in mirrors.” Sarina brushed back her hair in the mirrored image above a bureau. “Surely if there were such an indomitable, ageless creature, it would be smart enough to find a way to make itself appear corporeal in mirrors, too.” She turned back to Angel. “And find a way not to fry in sunshine. How inconvenient and depressing to only be seen at night.”

  Angel nodded, but she felt a bit uncomfortable with the subject. Sarina seemed q
uite knowledgeable about the mythical vampire.

  Sarina finished briskly, “No, my dear, I’m afraid the danger Max poses to one of your tender years is of a rather more worldly kind. You may see him from time to time and I’d recommend you give him a wide berth. Now, enough unpleasantness…We shall see you at dinner. We eat promptly at eight.” With a last luminous smile that seemed brighter than the jewel-toned room, she added, “I am so glad you are here.” She left.

  Angel unpacked her own clothes, thinking about what she’d learned. Or rather what she hadn’t learned. Sarina had certainly been vague about this Max person, and genuinely shocked to hear he’d been in the Blythe cemetery.

  Angel couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d been there with an air of purpose. He’d so resembled that avenging angel on the mausoleum. And the way the coachman had reacted….. The lurid accounts of the deaths that had struck the Oxford countryside and London were whispered about even on the packet ship long before she arrived. Angel had been more intrigued than frightened.

  Once, Angel had even been foolish enough, on first hearing of the fantastical creatures of the night, to research them in one of the many libraries she haunted. She’d closed the tome in disgust. Clear, cold science, where things were empirically proven, could not account for such nonsense. And science had become Angel’s center.

  The only family she had lay in cold repose in that strangely compelling cemetery, remembered by not so much as a ‘dear sister.’ Angel hung the last of her meager garments in the armoire. When she was finished, she went to the roaring fire, chilled despite all her logical arguments with herself.

  She’d come here to face the truth, no matter how unpleasant, and lay the ghost of her mother to final rest. But here was a truth she had not expected, a peril even logic couldn’t explain.

  What else but a vampire could drain all the blood from a human being?

  “Bats. It must be bats.”

  Her voice was a still, small echo in the drafty room of her own doubts. But the memory of Maximillian, avenging angel, vampire, or human rake, as he stood there, more part of the sunlight than subject to it, warmed her more than the fire. No matter which being he was, he was the most enticing, fascinating man she’d ever met.