Amanda Quick Read online

  When it arrived, Marcus accepted a cup, picked it up, and paced to the window beside Iphiginia’s desk. He studied the sunny street scene.

  “A fine day for an outing.” Marcus surreptitiously tilted his cup and casually spilled tea on a copy of the Morning Post which was lying on the end of the desk.

  “Oh, dear,” Amelia gasped.

  “Damnation. How very clumsy of me.”

  Amelia started to her feet. “It will mar the wood.”

  “Fetch your housekeeper,” Marcus ordered in the tone of voice he reserved for those occasions when he wanted instant obedience. It always seemed to work and he had grown to expect the results he invariably got. Except with Iphiginia, he reflected wryly. She was not very good at following orders.

  “I’ll call Mrs. Shaw.” Amelia hurried toward the door.

  Marcus yanked a large handkerchief out of his pocket and began blotting up the tea. “I do not believe there will be any great harm done if you hurry.”

  “I hope not.” Amelia threw him a disapproving look over her shoulder. “Iphiginia is very fond of that desk. Her father designed it.” She opened the door. “Mrs. Shaw? Please come quickly. Some tea has been spilled.”

  Marcus casually lifted the edge of the pattern book and glanced at the top sheet of foolscap. He realized that he was looking at what appeared to be an architectural elevation for a row of town houses. The words “Bright Place” were inscribed beneath the picture.

  He lowered the pattern book back into place just as Amelia turned around.

  “Mrs. Shaw is on her way,” Amelia said.

  “I believe I have blotted up most of the tea. The newspaper has absorbed the rest.” Marcus folded his tea-stained handkerchief.

  Mrs. Shaw bustled into the room. She carried a cloth in one hand. “Here, now, where’s the tea spill?”

  “Over here.” Marcus stepped back from the desk. “My fault entirely, I fear. I think I got most of it, however.”

  Iphiginia appeared in the doorway. She was wearing a white pelisse over her white muslin gown. She carried a white straw bonnet in one hand and a large apron in the other.

  She frowned in concern at the commotion in the library. “What happened?”

  Marcus stared at her for a few brief seconds. She looked as pure and chaste as new-fallen snow. What a pity that there was nothing so deceiving as innocence.

  He quickly recovered himself. “A small disaster. I spilled some tea. There is no damage to your desk.”

  “I’m relieved to hear that.” Iphiginia put on her bonnet and tied the strings. She smiled cheerfully. “Well, then, shall we be off, my lord? I am eager to see the museum’s collection of Greek vases.”

  “By all means,” Marcus said. He glanced at the apron she carried. “What is that for?”

  Iphiginia grimaced. “White is a very effective color for some purposes, but it has its disadvantages.”

  Half an hour later Marcus stood with Iphiginia in the gloom of a vast tomblike museum hall.

  The high-ceilinged chamber was crammed with broken statuary, chunks of stone, and assorted bits and pieces taken from old ruins. Dust motes danced in the shafts of sunlight filtering through the upper windows. The hush of antiquity blanketed the scene.

  Iphiginia, clad in her apron, moved through the sepulchral atmosphere with cheerful disregard for her oppressive surroundings. Her enthusiasm was contagious, Marcus realized.

  Although he had once made a superficial study of the more intriguing construction details of the classical style, antiquities had never been a subject of particular interest for him. He was a man of the modern age. Generally speaking, he preferred to devote his attention to such things as astronomy and steam engines.

  Today, however, he found himself consumed by a rare fascination with archaeological matters.

  He watched as Iphiginia studied the designs on a row of ancient vases. She was beautiful when she was absorbed in intellectual contemplation, he realized. Almost as beautiful as she had been the other night when she had found her release in his arms in Lartmore’s statuary hall.

  If he had not known better, he would have thought it was the first time she had ever been brought to such a sensual peak by a man.

  Without any warning, desire, hot, sweet, and urgent, whipped through him. It left him shaken and half-aroused. And ruefully annoyed.

  These abrupt, fiery rushes of passion were coming upon him with increasing frequency of late. Each time they crashed through him, they seemed stronger. This morning he had awakened at dawn to discover himself as hard as any marble statue.

  This afternoon he was growing heavy with arousal just watching Iphiginia in a museum. It would have been ludicrous if it were not so bloody uncomfortable.

  The anticipation growing within him was almost unbearable in its intensity. Soon, he thought. Very soon he would have to make love to her.

  It had to be soon or he would become a candidate for Bedlam.

  He forced himself to contemplate the large vase that had caught her attention. “Etruscan, do you think?”

  “No. Definitely Grecian.” Iphiginia glanced up at another row of dust-laden vases. “Quite spectacular, are they not? The forms are so perfect, so exquisitely right. There is such an impressive combination of intellect and art in the designs.”

  “Most impressive,” Marcus agreed, his gaze riveted to the gentle curves of her breasts.

  She turned her head and saw him studying her bosom. Her face grew very pink. “Have you learned anything useful yet, my lord?”

  “About Greek vases?”

  “Of course. That is what we are discussing, is it not?”

  Marcus lounged against a rubble of old stones, folded his arms across his chest, and contemplated a vase. “I have learned a great deal, my dear Mrs. Bright, but not nearly enough.”

  She smiled with glowing approval, as though he were a precocious student. “It is your nature to constantly thirst for more, my lord. The passions of the intellect are difficult to satisfy, are they not?”

  “Indeed. Fortunately not all passions are impossible to assuage, Iphiginia. Some merely require the proper time and place.”

  Barclay, Marcus’s stout, bespectacled man of affairs, hurried into his employer’s library shortly before four o’clock that afternoon. He was out of breath. Sweat beaded his balding head.

  “You sent for me, sir?”

  “I did.” Marcus looked up from the notes he had been making. “Thank you for coming so quickly.”

  “Not at all, m’lord.” Barclay sat down gratefully, pulled out a handkerchief, and mopped his brow. “You know that I am always pleased to assist you. What do you wish me to do for you?”

  “Two things. First, I want you to make inquiries about a property called Bright Place. I do not know much about it, but I believe that it may be a new speculation venture.”

  “This is a property here in London?”

  “I’m not certain. I suppose it could be in Bath.” Marcus recalled the elevations he had seen on Iphiginia’s desk. “One of the two places, most likely, although I suppose the property could be located in some other large town. The drawings I saw were of buildings that were clearly designed for a city, if you know what I mean.”

  “I see.” Barclay stifled a small sigh, adjusted his spectacles, and made a note.

  “Second, I want you to discover whatever information you can about a certain Mr. Bright.”

  Barclay raised suddenly wary eyes. He cleared his throat cautiously. “Ah, would that be the late Mr. Bright?”

  “It would.”

  “The deceased husband of a certain Mrs. Iphiginia Bright of Morning Rose Square?”

  Marcus smiled coolly. “One of the things that makes you so invaluable to me, Barclay, is that you are always possessed of the latest gossip and rumor.”

  Barclay ignored that. He scowled. “You wish me to discover whatever I can about a dead man, m’lord?”

  “Precisely.” Marcus leaned back in his chair. He p
icked up his newly modified hydraulic reservoir pen and examined the steel nib with care. There was ho sign of a leak. “You will be discreet, naturally.”

  “Naturally.” Barclay mopped his forehead with his handkerchief once again. “Where would you suggest that I start looking for information on the late Mr. Bright?”

  “I believe that you will want to begin your quest in Devon.”

  “Devon is a rather large place, m’lord. Have you any notion of precisely where in Devon I should look?”

  “You might try a little town called Deepford.”

  EIGHT

  IPHIGINIA SWEPT INTO ZOE’S DRAWING ROOM AT TEN MINUTES after three the following afternoon. Amelia was right behind her.

  “We came as quickly as we could.” Iphiginia glanced first at her aunt, who was ensconced on her new red velvet Roman sofa. Then she looked across the room at Lord Otis, who was helping himself to a glass of brandy.

  “Thank God you’re here,” Zoe said in a voice that held elements of a Greek tragedy.

  Otis, a short, stocky, kindly faced man with thinning gray hair and bushy brows, gave Iphiginia and Amelia a look of grim despair. “Disaster has struck again.”

  “What on earth is wrong?” Iphiginia untied the strings of her ruffled, high-crowned white bonnet. “Your note said something dreadful had occurred, Aunt Zoe.”

  “I have received another blackmail demand,” Zoe said. She picked up a folded sheet of foolscap and handed it to Iphiginia. “See for yourself.”

  Iphiginia took the note. She glanced at the broken black wax seal with its all-too-familiar phoenix emblem and then read the contents aloud.

  Madam:

  If you wish for continued silence on a certain very personal matter you must bring five thousand pounds to the new sepulchral monument constructed for Mrs. Eaton at Reeding Cemetery. Come on the stroke of midnight tonight. The money must be placed on the stone in the center of the monument.

  Come alone, madam, or the price will double the next time.

  Yrs.

  The Phoenix

  Amelia sat down heavily on a chair. “So we were right. The first one was only the beginning.”

  “I told you this would happen,” Otis muttered darkly. He went across the room to where Zoe sat and put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Blackmailers always come back for more. It’s the nature of the beast.”

  “What am I going to do?” Zoe wailed. “I could handle the first payment and I suppose that I can handle a second. This blackmailer seems to be shrewd enough to keep his demands within reason. But I cannot continue to pay blackmail for the rest of my life. Sooner or later he will surely bleed me dry.”

  “We’ll find the bastard,” Otis vowed. “And when we do, I’ll personally wring his neck.”

  Zoe lifted one hand to touch Otis’s fingers in a grateful gesture. She looked at Iphiginia. “Have you discovered anything at all?”

  Iphiginia sank down slowly onto a claw-footed chair. “I believe I have eliminated three of the men who played cards regularly with Guthrie eighteen years ago and who also move in Masters’s circle.”

  “Which ones?” Otis demanded.

  “Lartmore, Judson, and Darrow. I have managed to get into all of their studies or libraries and examine their wax jacks and seals. None of them appear to use black wax. Nor did I discover any seals engraved with a phoenix.”

  “They may have hidden both the seals and the wax,” Amelia pointed out.

  “Yes, I know,” Iphiginia said. “Masters remarked upon that possibility also. But I searched their desks very carefully. In any event, we have no choice but to continue along this line of inquiry. The black wax and the phoenix seal are the only clues that we have.”

  “They have got us nowhere thus far.” Zoe slumped back against the curve of the sofa and heaved a theatrical sigh. “I am lost. What are we going to do?”

  “There, there, do not take on so, m’dear.” Otis patted her shoulder. “We’ll find a way out of this.”

  Iphiginia refolded the note and contemplated the seal. “I wonder if Masters’s friend has also received a second blackmail note.”

  Amelia frowned. “An excellent question.”

  “I know nothing of the demands his acquaintance may have received,” Zoe muttered. “But I can tell you that I must act immediately. The note said that the money is to be delivered to the appointed place at precisely midnight tonight.”

  “A cemetery at midnight,” Iphiginia mused. “How very melodramatic. It would seem our blackmailer has been reading some of Mrs. Radcliffe’s gothic novels.”

  “Either that or he enjoys amusing himself in this strange manner,” Zoe muttered.

  “Yes.” Iphiginia made her decision. “I shall deliver the money this time.”

  Zoe, Amelia, and Otis stared at her in amazement.

  “Absolutely not,” Zoe said. “Otis will handle it, just as he did last time.”

  “You cannot possibly undertake such a dangerous task, Iphiginia,” Amelia said.

  “Quite right,” Otis announced. “I’ll deal with it.”

  Iphiginia raised a hand for silence. “The note specifically instructs Zoe to bring the money. That means the villain will no doubt be watching from the shadows to see that his orders are carried out. He will expect to see a woman. If he does not, he may very well ask for ten thousand pounds next time.”

  “Ten thousand pounds” Zoe looked as though she were about to faint.

  Otis produced her vinaigrette. “Here, m’dear.”

  “Thank you.” Zoe took a gentle whiff of the smelling salts.

  Otis scowled at Iphiginia. “You cannot make the delivery. Someone is bound to recognize that little white carriage of yours and wonder what you are about visiting a cemetery at midnight.”

  “Do not concern yourself. I shall be perfectly safe.” Iphiginia frowned in thought. “I’ll use a hackney coach and I shall pay the coachman to wait for me. I shall dress anonymously and wear a cloak with a hood that will conceal my features. If the villain sees me, he will assume it is Zoe.”

  “But Iphiginia”—Zoe looked horrified—“it’s a cemetery, for goodness’ sake. At midnight, no less.”

  “After a year traipsing about the ruins of Italy, I am quite accustomed to sepulchral ruins.”

  “This is hardly the same thing as a visit to Pompeii,” Amelia muttered. “Zoe is right. It is much too dangerous.”

  “Cannot allow it,” Otis said authoritatively.

  “Nonsense,” Iphiginia said. “There is no danger. The blackmailer is hardly likely to murder the person who leaves the money. That would be rather like killing the goose that laid the golden eggs.”

  Zoe looked aghast. “Murder. Dear heaven. I thought we’d at least established that the villain is not a murderer.”

  “A poor choice of words,” Iphiginia said quickly. “What I meant to say was that there is no reason the blackmailer would want to hurt me.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Amelia said.

  Otis’s brows jiggled up and down. “So will I.”

  “I must come, too,” Zoe said.

  “No, no, no.” Iphiginia shook her head impatiently. “Impossible. The blackmailer might see the three of you and decide to make good on his threat to increase the demands. No, we must obey his instructions to the letter.”

  Amelia frowned. “Why are you so determined to make the delivery this time, Iphiginia?”

  “I am hoping to learn something useful,” Iphiginia admitted.

  Zoe’s eyes widened. “Never tell me that you are going to try to observe the blackmailer as he picks up the money. I cannot possibly allow you to take such a risk.”

  “No, of course not,” Iphiginia said. “I would not do anything so rash.”

  But that was precisely what she intended.

  Tonight’s visit to Reeding Cemetery might well be an opportunity to discover a useful clue to the villain’s identity.

  At ten minutes to midnight the hackney carriage clatter
ed to a halt at the fog-shrouded gates of Reeding Cemetery.

  Iphiginia, dressed in an old nondescript gray gown and a long gray cloak, peered out into the darkness.

  Tendrils of cold mist coiled around the tombstones and monuments that dotted the small cemetery. The pale glow from the hackney’s lamps penetrated only a snort distance into the fog. Iphiginia shivered as she collected the canvas bag full of banknotes and a lantern and prepared to descend from the carriage.

  The blackmailer could not have chosen a more unnerving setting than this, she thought as she opened the door. It had clearly been a deliberate ploy to frighten his victim. She wondered if he had even been clever enough to predict the fog.

  She stepped down from the carriage, hoisted the lantern, and looked up at the coachman.

  “I shall return very shortly.”

  The coachman’s face was heavily shadowed by the broad brim of his hat. “Ye certain ye want to pay yer respects to the dear departed at this unholy hour, ma’am?”

  “I promised,” Iphiginia said. “It meant a great deal to the poor woman to know that I would carry out her last request.”

  “She’s long past knowin’ if ye fulfill her bloody stupid request, if ye ask me. Well, go on, then. I’ll wait ‘ere for ye.”

  “Thank you.”

  Iphiginia walked to the gates of the cemetery. She was not certain what she would do if they were locked.

  But the heavy iron gates swung slowly inward when she pushed against them.

  Iphiginia stepped into the graveyard. She held the lantern aloft and tried to peer through the mist. The light illuminated the first row of tombstones.

  Iphiginia pressed on deeper into the cemetery. She read the names on the stones as she went past.

  JOHN GEORGE BRINDLE, AGED THREE YEARS, ONE MONTH.

  MARY ALICE HARVEY, BELOVED WIFE AND MOTHER.

  EDWARD SHIPLEY, B. 1785, D. 1815. A BRAVE SOLDIER.

  A GOOD FRIEND.

  An oppressive weight settled on Iphiginia. It sent an icy shudder through her soul.

  Amelia had been right. This was a considerably different experience than a tour of the ruins of Pompeii.