Mistress of Sins (Dredthorne Hall Book 3): A Gothic Romance Read online

  Mistress of Sins

  Dredthorne Hall Book 3

  Hazel Hunter

  Contents

  HH ONLINE

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Copyright

  HH ONLINE

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  Chapter 1

  A familiar shriek from outside the sitting room made Jennet Reed set down her tea cup and watch the door, resigned to the knowledge that it would soon fling open. Outside the window providing pale sunlight for her morning tea, curls of dying leaves drifted past on a brisk October breeze. All around Reed Park the gardeners would spend the day clearing out the last of the sparse garden beds and gather bulbs for winter storage. Since rising early usually allowed Jennet to enjoy her cozy spot alone for the first hours of the day, she felt rather annoyed.

  Rapid footsteps followed the cry, and then Margaret Reed entered with the speed of a woman being hounded by an angry mob. Short, plump and swaddled in a pink velvet dressing gown, she clutched a crumpled paper, which she waved like a flag of frantic surrender.

  “Oh, Jennet, oh my dear.” Her mother’s loose silver-blonde ringlets bobbed wildly around her pale face as she hurried over to the settee, enveloping it with her violet scent. “I found the most detestable missive in amongst the notes and cards that came yesterday. We will be cursed.”

  “Again?” Jennet drew Margaret down beside her and took the note from her trembling hands. She read over the brief, unsigned message before she looked into her mother’s terrified pale blue eyes. “Mama, this is an invitation. Someone wishes me to attend an All Hallows’ Eve masquerade at Dredthorne Hall.”

  “It says that a curse will be cast over us.” Her mother stabbed a finger at the paper. “Unless you go to that monstrous place on that evil night, where I am sure you will be murdered, and I left to die in my old age, bereft and alone.”

  “Nonsense.” That pronouncement caused Margaret to burst into tears. Jennet sighed and searched for her handkerchief.

  Allowing her mother to weep for a few moments seemed judicious; Margaret had always been highly-strung and easily distressed, and after an uneventful month likely needed the respite. Once Jennet heard the first hiccup of abating sobs she gently mopped up her mother’s tears and made her a cup of too-sweet tea. Then she tackled the contents of the note.

  “No one wishes us ill, Mama,” she assured Margaret. “Curses are not real, you know this. Mr. Branwen explained that to you in great detail when we broached the subject with him.”

  “What could a vicar know of the misery that haunts our name?” her mother demanded, wringing the now-damp handkerchief. “Has all of his family died while still young? Did he lose his dear Papa even before he was born? Was he abandoned at the altar on his wedding day?”

  And there, Jennet thought, was the story of her life in just three questions. Aside from her and her widowed mother, all of their family had died, most of them in their prime. Margaret never cared to be reminded of the reckless, stubborn streak every Reed possessed along with the family’s auburn tresses and green eyes. That tempestuous flaw had contributed to those early demises, including her father’s. He’d gone off to die fighting the French only a few months after marrying and impregnating Margaret.

  Eighteen years later…

  No. Jennet would not think about the most ridiculous chapter in her own rather dull saga. She had sworn never to waste another moment thinking about that bounder, that scoundrel, that deceitful, heartless beast of a man.

  “Mama,” she said, using a firm tone she usually reserved for cheeky footmen and over-curious villagers, “We are not being cursed. I daresay it is a joke in poor taste, nothing more.”

  “Who would do such a monstrous thing?” Margaret demanded.

  “Someone who wishes me to attend so that I might amuse their guests.” Jennet already suspected just who that might be. “I imagine they wished to make the invitation seem appropriate to the occasion.”

  “By cursing us?” her mother shrieked, and then pressed her hand to her brow. “Oh, this will end me now, surely. My head pounds with such violence. Where is Debny? She must send for Dr. Mallory before it is too late.”

  Since they had reached the second act in Margaret’s hysterics, Jennet eyed the door again. Her mother’s lady’s maid came in a moment later, as Debny knew to wait in the hall until she heard her name uttered. With the skill of much practice she coaxed Margaret upstairs to her bed chamber. Her assurances of a soothing tisane, a headache powder and a summons for the village doctor did much more than Jennet could to calm her mistress. Their housekeeper then came in to apologize for leaving the post unattended; she had been in the kitchen going over the week’s menus with their cook.

  “Do not blame yourself, Mrs. Holloway,” Jennet said as she folded the invitation and tucked it in her reticule. “Mama hasn’t been distressed for at least a fortnight, so she sought an excuse. Do ask Cook to prepare some light broth for her luncheon, and keep the herbals brewing until the doctor arrives.”

  The housekeeper nodded as she handed over the rest of the post. “I beg your pardon, Miss, but the butcher’s lad mentioned that the Tindalls returned from London yesterday.”

  “That is welcome news.” And a chance to escape her mother’s latest bout of agitation, Jennet thought as she rose from the settee. “Please have Barton ready the rig.”

  After looking in on her mother, Jennet changed from her morning muslin to a dark green walking dress, and donned a brown hooded wool cloak. While not as fashionable as a spencer jacket, the cloak would keep her warm on the chilly drive over to Tindall House.

  She did not care to brood over her appearance greatly. With such prominent cheekbones, full lips and a faintly cleft chin she would always be called handsome rather than pretty, but she preferred that. Youthful beauty faded; a good bone structure lasted forever.

  Her hair she braided and coiled to keep it tidy during the drive. The thick mass of it had grown quite long over the summer, and soon she would have to trim it to a more manageable length. Thus far she had not found any gray hairs to pluck away, but she suspected she would go the way of the Reed side of the family. Legend had it that their dark red hair never silvered, but only paled to coppery-gold with age—if any of them had truly lived so long.

  Such vanity, Jennet thought as she turned away from the looking glass. Who will care what color your hair turns?

  Margaret would scold her for dressing as well as driving herself, but Jennet preferred self-reliance over playing the genteel lady. Besides being cursed and jilted at the altar, she had now reached a definite spinster’s age of seven and twenty. Certain privileges did come along with the disadvantages.

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nbsp; Barton, who managed the stables as well as the deliveries, waited outside the house with the prepared rig.

  “Morning, Miss.” He tugged at the brim of his hat before he helped Jennet up into the driver’s seat and handed her the reins. “Mrs. H. said we’re to expect Dr. Mallory?”

  “Yes, for Mama.” She exchanged a knowing look with him; all of the servants were well-acquainted with Margaret’s frequent panics. “Nothing serious, but please do watch for him. I will return by luncheon.”

  Barton nodded. “Very good, Miss.”

  Going to the Tindall estate gave Jennet time to enjoy the palette of autumn, which had painted most of Renwick in myriad fiery colors. The fields remained green, and patches of white and purple heather daubed the hillsides, but the trees had gone crimson, gold and apricot. Some of the largest oaks and ashes looked as if countless tiny flames blazed from their branches. Despite the damp chill of the morning air, Jennet preferred this time of year to any other in the countryside. Summer’s bounty had been harvested, and the snows had yet to arrive. It seemed the perfect season.

  That was why you chose to marry in October, so the church could be adorned in autumnal splendor, to match your garnet hair and witch’s eyes.

  “I did not marry,” Jennet told the errant thought as she guided the horse up the winding drive to her friend’s home. “I am not a witch.”

  You bewitch me, a deep voice chided from her memory.

  Once more Jennet saw herself in her wedding gown, standing in the church while a younger Mr. Branwen comforted a noisily weeping Margaret, and hundreds of guests whispered and stared at her. She had been like a pillar of salt, frozen for all eternity halfway to an empty altar where her marriage would not be taking place. Later she would feel the humiliation, the despair, and the deep and abiding hatred of the man who had so thoroughly ruined her. In that moment, however, all she could think was how even with her gift she had never anticipated this, not once. She believed she had been loved as much as she had loved.

  Never again.

  Although it was a little early for a morning call, the Tindalls’ butler welcomed Jennet with a smile. “Miss Catherine is in the library, Miss Reed.”

  As she made her way through the house Jennet noted the finest of the latest décor fashions had accompanied the family from London, including new opulent gold-trimmed draperies and exotic-looking chairs with curved legs and inlays of brass. The Tindall family had no qualms about displaying their taste for the modern, or the affluence that allowed them to indulge it.

  In the library she found Catherine dozing on an ebonized chaise of green damask, her lemon silk morning gown making her appear as if wrapped in a beam of early sunlight. Artful curls of brown escaped her sophisticated, golden-laced Greco-Roman hairstyle to frame her rose-cheeked face. Against her breast lay an open volume of Shakespeare’s sonnets, adding a romantic note to the tableau.

  “What do I look like?” Catherine asked without opening her eyes. “A pretty demure miss, or an enchanting, provocative coquette?”

  “You are everything without artifice,” Jennet assured her drily. “Except for the Shakespeare. Everyone knows how you hate to read.”

  “Sadly, true.” Her friend wrinkled her nose, tossed the book aside and sat up to grin at her. “So, you must amuse me now that I am whisked from the diversions of London. I have news, but you must first tell me that you have an intrigue to share. I dare not hope for a scandal in Renwick.”

  Extracting the bedraggled note from her reticule, she offered it to Catherine. “An All Hallows’ Eve masquerade at Dredthorne may suffice.”

  “Egad. I received one of these, too. A masked ball at the most haunted mansion in the county seems rather ghastly. I can hardly contain my excitement.” Her friend read the invitation and chuckled. “I imagine you know why you were singled out.”

  Jennet sighed and nodded as she sat down on a chintz-covered chair across from Catherine. Since childhood she had possessed a natural talent for deciphering the feelings and intentions of others. Although she herself didn’t know how, she could always tell what most people were thinking by the changes in their reactions, expressions and stances during conversation. This gift allowed her to anticipate and avoid a great deal of that which she regarded as unpleasant, but it had also given her a reputation as a natural diviner.

  “In London the new fashion in fortune-telling is to gaze into a crystal ball while making predictions,” Catherine told her as she turned the note over. “Mine was also unsigned. Who do you think sent them?”

  “Mr. Pickering, I daresay.” Jennet tugged off her gloves. “He’s called three times since he came back from the city, and told Mama he has leased a property near Reed Park for a shooting party.”

  “Ah, the ever-determined Arthur. I quite forgot his fascination with you.” Her friend sighed. “He is not titled, handsome or particularly interesting, and I must say his dancing is entirely dreadful. Still, you could do worse.”

  “I thank you for your opinions.” Her enthusiasm for London society meant Catherine knew everything about everyone, which sometimes proved annoying. “As I have told Mr. Pickering many times, I have no intention of marrying.”

  “Even when the gentleman has a house in Grosvenor’s Square, and seven thousand a year?” Her friend grinned as she handed back the invitation. “I am certain that he has mentioned that on a dozen occasions.”

  “I am not concerned with Mr. Pickering,” Jennet told her crisply. “Mama found the invitation first, and you know how nonsensical she becomes about curses. I think I must attend, if only to prove to her that nothing dreadful will happen. Yet she will not allow me to go to Dredthorne Hall alone, for fear of the ghosts she believes haunts it.”

  “A frightful dilemma.” Catherine gave her a wry look. “You may tell dear Mrs. Reed that we will attend the masquerade together. I will play bodyguard and not for a moment leave your side.”

  “The ball will be held in three days,” she pointed out, “and we have no costumes.”

  “We can make our own masks.” Her friend rose from the chaise. “My grandmother’s trunks should contain something suitably decrepit to serve as our regalia. Come, we must raid the attics.”

  A short time later they came downstairs with two old but still-wearable ball gowns, which Catherine gave to her maid to clean and press. She then retrieved two lengths of velvet, matching ribbon and the sewing box from her room so they could fashion masks.

  “A domino style is simple to sew, and will provide adequate concealment,” Catherine said as they went back to the library. “Although to keep our identities entirely concealed we should powder our hair, or perhaps wear wigs.”

  “I should first shave my head bare,” Jennet said, only half in jest.

  Her friend laughed. “Now that would discourage Mr. Pickering.”

  As they sewed, Catherine chattered on about the many exciting parties and balls she had attended in London. Jennet felt a rare twinge of envy, for she had nothing similar to confide. Society in Renwick could only be regarded as staid and unvarying, with the occasional assembly or country dance, and she hardly bothered to attend half of those.

  She didn’t mind their neighbors, or the simple pleasures they enjoyed together. Their efforts to include her, however, came more from compassion than any desire for her company. Jennet in turn had a reputation for always leaving early, but not because she quickly wearied of Renwick society. At such events she often overheard murmured remarks that illustrated the general sympathy directed toward her.

  Luckless girl. I think she will never recover from being so meanly treated.

  As handsome as she ever was, but far too old now to attract another offer.

  At least she can be a comfort to her mother.

  To keep her temper in check in those moments Jennet would then have to claim fatigue to her host and leave. She quite despised being made forever the object of pity, especially when she felt quite the opposite. How fortunate she had been, to be spared mar
riage to a man so unfeeling he had not even bothered to call off their wedding. No, he had run off to London, the coward, without a word to anyone. His own parents had been so ashamed by his betrayal they had packed up and left Renwick at once, and since had only rarely visited their country house.

  Of what had happened immediately after she had been jilted Jennet remembered very little. She knew she must have come home with her mother, and walked upstairs to her chamber to change. When the room grew dark, she supposed she had slept; she had no recollection of any of it. Her first clear memory was standing over the torn ruin of her wedding gown, and then politely asking Mrs. Holloway to burn the shredded heap rather than use it as rags.

  “Only if you’ll eat something, Miss,” the housekeeper said firmly, nodding toward the untouched tray by her bed.

  “Of course.” Jennet wanted nothing but to crawl back into her bed, but starving herself to death for him seemed worse than being left at the altar. “Do forgive me.”

  Seven years had passed since her jilting, years that had bestowed on her the grace of acceptance. That she had never shed a single tear, nor allowed the disgrace to rule the rest of her life, provided Jennet with great solace. She remained as she ever had been, only perhaps a little wiser about men and matters of the heart.

  “Once my maid adds a bit of lace and beading, this should do,” Catherine said, drawing Jennet out of her thoughts. She tied on the black mask she had sewn, tucked a hand under her chin, and pursed her lips. “Do I appear mysterious?”