Part 42 (2/2)

”All guests arrive at this hour,” a deep voice countered. ”It's midnight.”

Before Susan had a chance to pa.r.s.e that inexplicable response, the door swung fully open and a fairytale giant filled the entirety of the frame.

Her shoulders reached his hips. His His shoulders reached the sides of the doorframe and very nearly the top as well. His broad back hunched to allow his dark head to pa.s.s beneath the edge. Small black eyes glittered in an overlarge square face, his mouth hidden behind a beard the color of fresh tar. Arms that could crush tree trunks flexed at his sides. He did not offer his hand. shoulders reached the sides of the doorframe and very nearly the top as well. His broad back hunched to allow his dark head to pa.s.s beneath the edge. Small black eyes glittered in an overlarge square face, his mouth hidden behind a beard the color of fresh tar. Arms that could crush tree trunks flexed at his sides. He did not offer his hand.

”Miss Stanton.”

Although her name was more a statement than a question, Susan's well-trained spine dipped in an automatic curtsy as her mouth managed to stammer a simple, ”Yes.”

He did not bow in kind. Nor was it remotely possible he was a child of Lady Beaune. He was easily five-and-thirty. Had Papa's fourth cousin thrice removed remarried in the unknown years since Mother had last spoken to this distant limb of the Stanton family tree? Did Mother comprehend comprehend where exactly she'd condemned her daughter to? Or care? where exactly she'd condemned her daughter to? Or care?

”Move out of the way, oaf,” came the cultured voice from before. ”I must see this creature that travels alone and in dark of night to visit the likes of you.”

Rather than move aside, the giant stepped forward, crowding Susan backward. Her shoulders sc.r.a.ped the wall opposite. Her hands clenched at her sides.

A new figure filled the doorframe. Tall, but not impossibly so. Well-muscled, but not frighteningly so. As smartly tailored as any London dandy, but with an air of barely contained danger more suitable to the meanest streets where even footpads feared to tread. Alarmingly attractive despite the too-long chestnut hair and day's growth of dark stubble shadowing the line of his jaw.

”Mmm, I see.” An amused grin toyed with his lips. ”My pleasure.”

He performed as perfect a bow as any Susan had ever encountered in a Town ballroom. Before her trembling legs could force an answering curtsy, the giant moved back into place, blocking the...gentleman?...from her view.

The giant's thick arms crossed over his barrel chest. ”Carriage?”

”Gone,” rasped the scarecrow.

Susan jumped. She'd forgotten his silent presence.

”Driver?”

The scarecrow's terrifying smile returned. ”Taken care of.”

Satisfaction glinted in the giant's eyes. Susan was positive panic was the only thing glinting in hers. Would she be ”taken care of” next?

”Take her to the bone chamber.”

Susan's heart stuttered to a stop until she realized the giant had said Beaune Beaune chamber, not chamber, not bone bone chamber. Beaune, like Lady Beaune, her father's fourth cousin thrice removed, with whom her family clearly should have kept a much more detailed correspondence. Yet even with this correction firmly in mind, Susan couldn't help but doubt the Beaune chamber would remotely resemble the sumptuous Buckingham-quality guest quarters she'd hoped to find. chamber. Beaune, like Lady Beaune, her father's fourth cousin thrice removed, with whom her family clearly should have kept a much more detailed correspondence. Yet even with this correction firmly in mind, Susan couldn't help but doubt the Beaune chamber would remotely resemble the sumptuous Buckingham-quality guest quarters she'd hoped to find.

The scarecrow turned and headed down the hall without bothering to verify that Susan followed. He was wise not to worry. She had no intention of standing around under the giant's calculating gaze any longer than necessary.

Susan scrambled after the scarecrow without a single word of parting for her host-not that the giant seemed particularly concerned about adhering to social niceties-and rounded a corner just in time to see the scarecrow ascend a pale marble staircase she swore hadn't existed when they'd traveled this exact sequence of corridors moments before.

She hurried to his side before she got lost for good. ”That...wasn't Lord Beaune.”

A dry laugh crackled from his throat, accompanied by a sly glance from his dark glittering eyes. ”He seem French? Or dead? That's the new master of Moonseed Manor. It's to him you owe the roof over yer head tonight.”

Dead. Her ears buzzed at the news. The news that Lady Beaune had been widowed and remarried was surprising. But the idea that Susan owed anything to anyone-much less her cousin's new husband-was intolerable. She had once been Society's princess! And would be again. Just as soon as she got back to London.

The wiry manservant led her through another complicated series of interconnected pa.s.sageways. A lit sconce protruded from the middle of an otherwise unadorned pa.s.sageway, as bleached and unremarkable as all the rest. Orange candlelight spilled from an open doorway, chasing their shadows behind them. Susan wished she could flee as easily.

”Your room,” came the scarecrow's scratchy voice.

Susan nodded and stepped across the threshold. When she turned to ask him directions to the dining areas and drawing rooms (and when she might hope to see the lady of the house) he was already gone.

She faced the cavernous chamber once more, doing her best to ignore the uneasy sensation of walking into a crypt. Although the room was as cold as any catacomb would be, a large canopied bed, not a casket, stood in the center. The shadowy figure next to the unlit fireplace had to be a maid provided to ensure Susan's comfort. Thank G.o.d. At least there was some some hint of London sensibilities. hint of London sensibilities.

Susan stepped forward just as the cloaked figure swiveled without seeming to move her feet. Long white braids flanked a narrow face hollowed with hunger and despair. Age spots mottled her clawed hands and pale neck. An ornate crucifix hung from a long gold chain. Trembling fingers clutched the intricate charm to her thin chest. She did not appear to be starting a fire in the grate. She did not appear to be a maid at all.

”M-may I help you?” Susan asked.

The old woman did not answer.

Were there more sundry guests in this pharaoh's tomb of a manor? Was this one lost, confused, afraid? So was Susan, on all counts, but the least she could do was help this poor woman find her correct bedchamber.

Before she could so much as offer her hand, however, a sharp breeze rippled through the chamber. She s.h.i.+vered before she realized she could no longer feel the phantom breeze-although it continued to flutter the old woman's dark red cloak and unravel the braids from her hair.

In fact...the breeze began to unravel the old woman herself, ripping thread by red thread from her cloak like drops of blood disappearing in a pool of water. The wind tore long curling strands of white hair from her bowed head, then strips of flesh from her bones, until the only thing standing before Susan was the empty fire pit. The glittering crucifix fell onto the hardwood floor and disappeared from sight.

The chamber door slammed shut behind her with foundation-shaking force. Susan didn't have to try the handle to know she was trapped inside.

She wondered what else was locked inside with her.

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