Stephen kept telescopes in all four of the castle’s corner turrets. Those bells specifically signaled that a vehicle had arrived on the northern side facing the street.
It wasn’t a delivery. The most recent shipment had come in yesterday, and the next wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow.
A cross breeze flowed through the large rectangular openings on all sides of the cylindrical turret. He hurried to the stone windows and dropped to his knees. Ducking to ensure he could not be seen, Stephen pressed one eye to the telescope.
A humble pony cart trudged into view.
It was an ordinary country gig. Simple. Mud-splattered. The pony lumbering up the private road was just as unassuming. Brown, short of stature, a general air of boredom with its task.
Inside the gig was a long, thin crate, and a woman whose visagewas hidden beneath an enormous wide-brimmed bonnet. He could not guess her age without a glimpse of her face, but one daintily gloved hand clutched the handle of a stout wooden cane.
The beast drew to a stop. The woman climbed out of the gig with obvious gingerliness, as though the ride up the hill had been exactly as arduous an experience as the pony cart’s appearance implied.
The wind whipped her dress against her body, revealing plump curves. Stephen changed his mind about being able to guess her age. The morning gown was of fine quality and tailored to flatter the woman’s voluptuous shape. This was a young lady, walking like an old woman. Fashionable, but unchaperoned. Moneyed, but riding in an absolute turnip of a pony cart.
Stephen was certain of his conclusions. Yet they did not sum up to anything he could compute. The more he watched the woman, the less he understood. Was she here to sell him something? She’d left her crate in the gig—and the gig untethered.
The pony, for its part, seemed content to gnaw at the tall green grass, of which there was plenty. The grounds were covered in flowers and greenery.
Another gust of wind rose from the west, sending the brim of the woman’s bonnet flying up away from her face. Just for a second. It was enough.
Stephen swallowed hard. He had no idea who this woman was, but she was extraordinarily beautiful. A missionary, perhaps. Here to chastise the earl for failing to attend church on Sunday. Again. Perhaps the crate was full of Bibles. He tilted his telescope to keep her in sight.
The woman glanced around the door for the knocker. Stephen had removed it months ago to make the entrance less welcoming.
She leaned on her cane, made a fist with her free gloved hand, and banged on the door.
He would never have heard it, were it not for another system he’d installed to carry sound up through narrow tunnels he’d bored into reinforced stone walls—surely Densmore wouldn’t mind—in order to eavesdrop on any enemies who might approach. Stephen called it a whispering wall because it transmitted the slightest sound.
The visitor banged again, louder.
Stephen did not respond to her call. Neither did the servants. Before the earl abandoned his castle and its occupants, Densmore had instructed his staff just as firmly as he’d lectured Stephen: Let no one in.
Undaunted, the woman lifted her cane and used that to rap against the castle’s thick oak door.Thiscould be heard with or without the aid of any listening contraptions.
Its racket also went unanswered.
“I know you’re in there!” she called up. “I can see smoke from your kitchen!”
Stephen fought the urge to yell back,Your logic is unsound. Smoke from the kitchen meanssomeoneis at home, but it doesn’t mean thatIam.
For one, this rejoinder would give away his position. For two, perhaps shewashere to visit one of the scullery maids. He was 0.3523 certain this visitor wasn’t here for the Earl of Densmore.
No man with half a brain would leave a woman this beautiful behind.
She rapped again with the heavy cane.
“Please,” she pleaded. “I’ve come from so far. Take pity on a weary traveler, I beg you.”
Stephen could not help but feel sorry for her predicament. She seemed harmless and nice enough. But rules were rules for a reason. If he let her in just because she was pretty and carried a cane, who knew what would be next? An army of missionaries with five carts’ worth of Bibles?
She rapped one last time, then heaved a breath.
Silence stretched around the castle. Even the wind stilled and the birds silenced. The tree leaves ceased to rustle. No one was answering her plea. Not even nature itself stirred.
“Have it your way,” she muttered. Stephen heard the words as clearly as if the fetching visitor were whispering against the back of his neck. “Beth the Berserker it is.”
He blinked. Perhaps he hadnotheard her clearly. It had sounded as though she’d said—
