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

  “Utterly.” Jennet pinned the ribbons to either side of her blue velvet domino. “I think I will embroider mine with some silks I have at home. I should go.”

  “You cannot leave yet. All our talk of Mr. Pickering made me forget the most important news.” Her friend removed the mask and set it aside as she gave her a sly look. “It seems our old friend William Gerard has come back to Renwick. Do you think he will attend the masquerade?”

  “I cannot tell you,” Jennet said, keeping her expression bland. “Why would it matter?”

  “You have not heard.” Catherine’s voice dropped to a confidential murmur. “William’s father died last year from lung fever, poor gentleman, so he is Baron Greystone now.” She sighed. “Every scheming mama with an unattached daughter will be calling at Gerard Lodge. Still, Papa said he arrived only yesterday, so I think he will be too busy settling in to make an appearance.”

  “I expect he will.” Jennet knew nothing would hinder the competition for Greystone’s attention; marriageable men of suitable fortune did not often take up residence in Renwick. What he had done before inheriting the barony mattered little.

  Her friend peered at her. “I had expected you would have much to say on the matter.”

  Jennet’s hand shook, driving the sharp end of her needle into her fingertip. The pain provided the immediate return of her customary clarity. “Was that your motive for telling me of his lordship’s return?”

  “I truly meant only to tease you,” her friend said, grimacing. “I should have thought better of it. When the Duke of Bedford refused to dance with me during my first season, I thought it should break my heart. Papa so wished for me to become engaged to him.”

  Although she had received innumerable offers, Catherine remained unmarried, which had always puzzled Jennet. “Surely there have been others who might please your father.”

  “Those who have satisfied him were gentlemen I found very disagreeable, and those I have favored he disdained.” She shrugged. “Truly, I rather like my situation. I am invited to all the balls and gatherings. I can travel where I like, and see my friends whenever I choose. I will inherit all this someday. Why marry at all?”

  Jennet tucked her needle into the velvet, and rubbed her throbbing finger against her palm. “You do not yearn for love, or children?”

  “I know too much about men to fall in love,” Catherine said. “Child-bearing seems a vastly dreary business.” Her nose wrinkled. “I consider myself blessed whenever I see Bedford now. The years since have stolen most of His Grace’s hair, and bestowed on him the look of a petulant dormouse.”

  “Yet he would have made you a Duchess, my dear,” Eleanor Tindall said as she came into the library. As petite as her daughter, the lady wore a sumptuous gown of dark blue velvet with gleaming insets of golden brocade. “Good afternoon, dear Jennet. I hope you will stay for luncheon.”

  “Thank you, ma’am, but I think I must go home.” Jennet tucked her mask into her reticule. “Thank you for helping me to avert all possible disaster, Catherine. I will call for you on the night of the masquerade at dusk.”

  “I will have the gown sent to Reed Park tomorrow,” her friend said as she walked with her to the front entry. When Jennet murmured her thanks and kissed her cheek Catherine took hold of her hands. “Do not permit the specter of the past to spoil our fun. What is in the past is dead. He is nothing to you now.”

  “You are quite right.” She forced a smile and then went to the rig.

  On the drive back to Reed Park Jennet reined in the horse at a crossing, and then turned onto another, seldom-used road that led in the opposite direction. Soon she crossed fresh wheel ruts left by the recent passage of heavily-laden carts, and passed a meadow of withering grasses glinting with drops of melting frost.

  The afternoon sun felt hot on the back of her neck as she approached another turn, this one onto a drive leading up to an imposing country manor. The house, clad in dark stone and roofed in charcoal slate, had double-hung sash windows and a fan panel over the front door, in which had been placed panes of black and white glass cut and fitted to resemble a crescent moon in a star-studded night sky. White stone and severely-trimmed evergreens hemmed the outer walls, and flanked the stone carriage house to one side.

  He had hated the house, Jennet recalled, and yet it remained unchanged.

  The lodge is a nightmare to the eye. When my father dies I will paint it apricot and scarlet, and have the gardeners fill the lawns with daisies and dandelions. Then you may make a wish each time you walk outside, while I fashion flower crowns for you to wear every day.

  How many such fanciful notions had they shared during their engagement? For a moment Jennet felt the pain of her loss again, as if the man she had adored had died rather than deserted her. This was to have been her home, their home, which he had promised they would fill with laughter and children. Margaret would have come often to visit her grandchildren. They would have had their friends over for dinners and parties and holiday gatherings, and watched their sons and daughters grow, and lived the life of anyone’s dreams.

  “You fool,” Jennet whispered as she stared at Gerard Lodge. Whether she addressed its master or herself, she could not say.

  As she tugged on the reins to turn the rig around, Jennet felt hollow yet resolute. Should Baron Greystone choose to attend the masquerade, like the other guests he would be in costume. That would likely avert any possibility of an unhappy encounter. She could enjoy the evening with Catherine and their friends without worry.

  And if Greystone dared to remove his mask, why then, she would simply punch her former fiancé in the face.

  Chapter 2

  Outside the parsonage, Jeffrey Branwen surveyed the flower garden with the resignation of a man who had witnessed many such disappointments. His shadow, shorter and rounder than himself, stretched out before him like a puddle of a mourning gown—or a gigantic black thumb. Out of habit he rubbed the back of his neck as he tried to fathom where he had gone wrong with this effort.

  In every way, he thought, for his garden had withered entirely. One would find more flowers blooming in a graveyard.

  The roses he had tried to coax into bloom had all died during the late summer without offering so much as a single bud. The violets, so adored by his wife Deidre, had accompanied them into the great garden beyond. So had the lavender, the morning glories, and the poppies. A few weeds had poked up when he had admitted defeat at the beginning of fall, but they, too, now browned and drooped. He also suspected the young elm sapling he had installed by Deidre’s bench to provide shade had grown diseased.

  He would not think about the vegetable patch, which had fallen victim to slugs so voracious they had all but cleared the ground for him.

  “What are you doing out here in all this wind, sir?” a sweet voice called.

  Jeffrey turned his head to see his wife coming from the house with his cloak in her arms. “Mourning the departed, my love. I am sorry to say that the last of the roses has sought eternal rest.”

  “Ah, well, they will be in good company.” Deidre pulled the heavy wool over his shoulders before she regarded the dead plants. “I am sure they were sorry to leave us. They always are, you know.”

  “I am happy it amuses you.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “Really, I am an Englishman. We are a nation of gardeners. Why can I grow nothing more than sticks?”

  “Perhaps you were meant to be a cane weaver.” She tucked her arms around his waist. “Or a school master.”

  Jeffrey narrowed his eyes. “Stop laughing at me.” He glanced down and saw a note in her hand. “Has someone need of their vicar? For I cannot recommend myself as a gardener.”

  “It is an invitation.” The smile fled from her pretty face. “We are invited to a masquerade at Dredthorne Hall. There is no signature, but Lady Hardiwick mentioned to me that Mr. Arthur Pickering has leased the property.” She held out the folded paper.

  Jeffrey’s first instinct was to tear up the invi
tation and toss the pieces into the compost barrel. Instead he took it and tucked it into his jacket. “Is there some tea left from breakfast? I am in need of a cup.”

  Deidre nodded, and accompanied him into the parsonage, where she prepared a tray and brought it to their sitting room.

  Jeffrey inspected the large pile of biscuits she had brought with the pot and their cups. “Ginger nuts?”

  “The Sisters Brexley sent a tin for you. They are very good for the digestion,” his wife said as she poured and handed him his tea. “Especially as I did not bake them. That invitation is not going to set well, so do have some. It is too early in the day for brandy.”

  “We never drink spirits,” he reminded her.

  “If I am to go to that abominable house in a costume and dance, I may begin.” Deidre saw his expression and sighed. “Oh, dearest, must we go?”

  Being the vicar of Renwick was more than Jeffrey’s position or calling; he had a spiritual obligation to his parish. As the representative of the church, he regarded his duty as more than simply holding services on Sunday or visiting the sick and elderly. By attending the various gatherings and assemblies he provided a wholesome presence. Often just the sight of him would calm the over-boisterous and discourage the sinful.

  The fact that they had been invited to a masquerade did not trouble him; the location did.

  Dredthorne Hall had changed hands several times over the last years. Built more than a century past by an affluent merchant name Emerson Thorne, who admired all things French, it had been designed to imitate one of the great chateaus in that country. Enormous, imposing and surrounded by a large estate, the hall had once been regarded as one of the most impressive buildings in England. Then terrible events began to take their toll on Thorne; his wife had suddenly died and he had become a recluse. His descendants had fared little better, and rumors of a family curse began to circulate widely. Soon no one wanted to go near the great house or have anything to do with the Thornes.

  Jeffrey did not believe in curses, but he knew from tragic personal experience that Dredthorne Hall seemed to attract evil as surely as a tavern drew drunkards.

  At present the house was owned by a property concern that owned many estates north of London, which had been leasing it for hunting parties and private events. The rates, considered cheap by city standards, often lured bachelors to bring their friends to Dredthorne for hunting and shooting. Arthur Pickering’s choice to hold a costume ball there should not have seemed odd, but it did.

  “Mr. Pickering seems a very mannerly gentleman,” Deidre said, in the way she had when Jeffrey had gone silent for too long. “I quite liked making his acquaintance when he came to church. I am sure he would not mind if we refused his invitation. A ball held on All Hallows’ Eve is not in keeping with the church’s views.”

  He took a nibble from a ginger nut. “You believe we should refuse him.”

  “I believe I should trust your judgment, as ever I do.” She put down the biscuit. “There will be no reminders of what your sister endured there. It was so long ago that everyone but you and I have forgotten.”

  Jeffrey would never forget learning that his sister Lucetta had been shot by a madman in Dredthorne Hall’s front foyer, or that she had come close to bleeding to death and dying there. He hated the reminder of how hopeless and helpless he had felt as he had waited to learn from the doctor if she would survive. He recalled every day she had spent with him and Deidre at the parsonage, slowly recovering from the savage wound. The ending to that story could only be called joyful, but he would never feel the same about the ordeal.

  Many of his young parishioners would go to the ball. Someone had to look out for them.

  “I think we must attend,” he told his wife. “We need not stay very long, but I wish to make an appearance.”

  Deidre didn’t look happy, but she nodded and held out a ginger nut for him. “We will want costumes to wear, unless you wanted to play the vicar and his wife.”

  He thought for a moment. “Perhaps we might employ some metaphor in that.”

  Chapter 3

  The next day Jennet made sure her mother was sleeping before she set out for the village from Reed Park. Dr. Mallory had stopped in and prescribed rest and an herbal soother for Margaret, and checked with the housekeeper to insure they had some laudanum on hand if her panic escalated.

  “I should think she will recover in a day or so, Miss Reed,” the doctor advised her before leaving to attend his next patient. “Until she does, keep her indoors and well-wrapped against chill, and avoid provoking excitement.”

  Debny promised to sit with Margaret while Jennet attended to her errands, which included a stop at the haberdasher’s shop. She hoped to find embroidery threads to match the old gown Catherine had lent her, but as soon as she entered the establishment she saw a clutch of young ladies giggling over the fine laces.

  The proprietor greeted her with a ready smile. “Good afternoon, Miss Reed. May I be of service?”

  “I think I will browse, sir,” she told him, and went over to the threads cabinet, where she pulled out the drawer for shades of blue. She had clipped a tiny piece of the gown’s silk from an inner seam, and took it from her reticule to compare it to the available stock.

  “I hear he is very tall, and dark, and has the broadest shoulders,” one of the girls at the laces counter said, cooing the words. “Perhaps he will dress as Wellington, and carry a sword.”

  “Surely not, for I have seen the Iron Duke, and he is nothing at all,” another claimed. “He is very short and slight, and has a hooked nose.” She drew an outline of the latter over her own.

  “I think he should dress as Mr. Brummel, for I daresay he is just as elegant, and a hundred times as rich,” a third girl put in, making all of them giggle at her shocking remark. “And I will dress as the Queen of France, so he will not be able to resist asking me to dance.”

  “Rose Abernathy, you are utterly shameless,” the first girl accused.

  “Why? Because I wish to make the acquaintance of a rich, unattached gentleman with a title, who may desire a wife?” Rose made a contemptuous sound. “It is not as if he is engaged to any of you.”

  One of the other girls whispered something, and the group turned to stare at Jennet.

  She ignored their wide-eyed gawking as she selected her thread packet, and brought it up to the front counter. “I will have this, and some long-eyed needles, please.”

  The shop keeper smiled uneasily. “Yes, Miss Reed.”

  “Jennet Reed, is that you?” Rose Abernathy came to join her at the counter. “I thought so. Were you eavesdropping on us? I do not blame you if you were. It is not as if a spinster has anything better to do.”

  As her friends gasped, she regarded the smirking girl, but said nothing.

  “I will dance with him, you know,” Rose assured her, leaning closer. “He is not yours any longer. He has not been for these seven years.”

  “His lordship is an excellent dancer, so I hope you do,” Jennet said, and handed the coins for her purchase to the proprietor. “I would advise you not try to marry him, however. He cannot seem to find the church.” To the shopkeeper she said, “Thank you, sir.”

  Walking out of the shop, Jennet heard Rose sputtering and her friends giggling. It had not been her best retort, she admitted to herself, but she had felt out of sorts ever since learning William Gerard had returned to Renwick. Until he left, there would probably be more of the same, as it seemed no one had forgotten her disastrous engagement.

  Of course, they have not. That will be who you are to them for the rest of your days. The spinster, the pariah, the poor girl that William Gerard left at the altar.

  The next shop she visited was the dry goods, where she paid for an order Mrs. Holloway had made, and then decided to treat herself with a stop at the bakery. There she selected some queen cakes, of which she was particularly fond, and a slice of lemon cake with raspberries that her mother loved.

  “Mis
s Reed?” a hesitant voice said.

  Jennet turned and saw one of Rose Abernathy’s friends hovering behind her. “Excuse me.”

  When she tried to go around her the girl stepped in her path. “Forgive me,” she said quickly. “I know we have not been introduced, but I only wished to apologize.”

  Jennet nodded and waited.

  “My name is Charlotte Fletcher.” She bobbed quickly. “We should not have laughed when Rose spoke so rudely to you. I did not know that you had once been engaged to the baron.” She ducked her head. “It was very wrong of me.”

  Despite her contriteness, she seemed on the verge of laughing again.

  “Rose sent you to discover if I was crying, I take it?” Jennet asked. As the girl gave her an astonished look, she added, “She also wished you to learn if I had renewed my acquaintance with Baron Greystone, I imagine. I will make your task simple: do assure her I was not, I have not, and I will not.”

  Charlotte followed her out of the bakery. “How could you know those things?”

  Jennet turned on her. “Do you imagine this is the first time I have been ridiculed for what that gentleman did to me? Or no one else has found amusement at my expense? Try, for a moment, to imagine it happened to you. How would you wish to be treated? As cruelly as I have been just now?”

  Charlotte looked genuinely ashamed now. “We are not malicious, Miss Reed.”

  “No, for that would require some effort on your part,” she told her. “You are indifferent to the feelings of others. Just as Baron Greystone is. Perhaps you should dance with him.”

  Jennet left her standing and gaping at her, and took her parcels to the rig, stowing them before she climbed up to drive home. She could feel the heat of her anger flushing her face, and willed herself to calm. It served no purpose to become agitated over the things she could never change, like her reputation.

  That night after dinner she made up a tray to take the lemon cake to Margaret’s room, where she found her mother standing by the window and frowning at something outside.