Midnight at Mallyncourt by Jennifer Wilde Page B

concealed by their heavy lids. Locks of raven hair fell in a fringe over his forehead, giving him the appearance of an evil monk. Even here, enclosed by darkness, I could sense the bull-like strength, the vitality. He was watching me, his mouth half curled in a mocking smile.
    â€œYou resent me,” I said. “I know that. I know why, too.”
    â€œResent you? No, Mrs. Baker, I pity you. You’ve no idea what you’ve let yourself in for.”
    â€œNo?”
    â€œWhen you first arrived, I thought perhaps you knew nothing of the situation existing at Mallyncourt. I thought perhaps you might be innocent of any complicity in Edward’s plan. I see now that he must have told you everything. You couldn’t have married him for love. Edward’s incapable of love, and you quite plainly despise him.”
    â€œI’ve never heard anything so—”
    â€œSurprised? I may be just a crude farmer, Mrs. Baker, but I’m not quite as dense as you may think. I observe things. When I saw the two of you together tonight, I knew it wasn’t a love match on your part either. There was only one other explanation for your marrying him.”
    â€œHow dare you say—”
    Lyman Robb took a long drag on the cigar, then hurled it over the balustrade. It made a wide orange streak in the darkness, exploding on the ground in a shower of sparks.
    â€œI’ll say one more thing, Mrs. Baker, and I’d advise you to listen very carefully. I’ve worked all my adult life for my uncle’s estate—it’s been my life—and I don’t intend to stand by and let it fall into Edward’s hands. I’ll crush anyone who stands in my way.”
    â€œIs—is that a threat, Mr. Robb?”
    â€œYou might say so—yes, you might say that. If you had any sense at all, you’d turn around and take the first coach back to London, but you won’t, I fear. That being the case, I’d advise you to stay out of my way. You’re much too attractive to be hurt.”
    â€œDo me a favor, Mr. Robb,” I said quietly.
    â€œYes? What’s that?”
    â€œGo to Hades!”
    He looked stunned, startled, and then he threw his head back and burst into gales of laughter. It rose and fell. It rumbled, loud, unrestrained, welling up from his chest with splendid richness. I stood there trembling with fury as he gave vent to that boisterous sound. He cut if off abruptly. He took a deep breath. When he spoke, his rough voice was strongly laced with mocking amusement.
    â€œAh, Jenny,” he said, “it appears you’re not quite the grand, dignified lady I took you to be. No indeed. There’s a bit of the fishwife in you, luv.”
    â€œI—I ought to slap your face!”
    â€œI shouldn’t,” he said. “You see, I don’t even pretend to be a gentleman. I’d slap you back, promptly, Probably hurl you over the balustrade as well.”
    â€œYou—you—”
    â€œRun along, luv. Get back in the house. It’s much too chilly for you to be out here in that preposterous gown. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if you caught your death of cold.”
    Although I was seething with rage, I moved down the veranda with cool, haughty dignity, followed by the sound of Lyman Robb’s hearty chuckle. Once inside, I walked quickly down the long hall with its patched and faded tapestries and up the wide stone steps built for the horses. In the vast, shadowy gallery, I paused, taking a few moments to compose myself before going on to the west wing apartment.
    Most of the candles had been extinguished in my bedroom, one burning in a silver holder beside the bed, another on the dressing table. The bedcovers had been turned back, the fire banked down, a mere heap of glowing red-orange coals. As I entered, I was momentarily dismayed to see a diminutive creature in black dress and white organdy apron climb up out of the large chair