Mistress - Amanda Quick [56]
ELIZABETH EATON, B. 1771, D. 1817
ILL-TREATED IN LIFE, MAY SHE REST IN PEACE
Iphiginia hesitated on the brink of the monument’s threshold. The lantern illuminated only the first few feet of the stone passageway.
A cold, damp draft seemed to emanate from the depths of the sepulchral grotto.
Iphiginia’s pulse raced so swiftly that it made her feel light-headed. Her stomach churned. The urge to turn and flee back to the waiting hackney nearly overwhelmed her.
She clutched the bag of banknotes tightly, took a deep breath, and walked a few paces into the grotto.
It was as though she were walking into a cave.
The darkness was so deep that even the lantern light appeared to weaken in the face of it. Iphiginia could see that whoever had built and dedicated the monument had spared no expense. The stone walls were heavily carved. The design was a strange combination of twisting vines and open books.
Iphiginia raised the lantern to read the words that had been engraved on one of the stone books:
The path of vengeance takes many twists and turns hut it is sure and certain.
The terrible groan of iron hinges sounded from the open mouth of the grotto.
Iphiginia spun around, a scream on her lips.
“No.”
She dropped the sack of money and ran for the entrance.
She was too late. A cloaked figure appeared briefly in the mist. The iron gates slammed shut. The ominous rasp of a key in a lock echoed down the passageway.
Iphiginia fought back terror as she raced toward the gate. “Wait. Please, wait. I’m in here.”
She reached the sealed gates just in time to see the cloaked figure disappear into the fog. She gripped the iron bars of the gates and shoved with all her strength. They did not budge.
She was trapped in the sepulchral grotto.
She opened her mouth to call for help. Surely the coachman who had brought her here would be able to hear her. But even as the thought occurred, she heard the receding clatter of carriage wheels and steel horseshoes on the pavement.
The hackney was leaving.
“Help me,” Iphiginia shouted into the dark mist. “I’m here, in the grotto. Please come back.”
There was no sound from the graveyard. The mist seemed to thicken at the gates of the grotto as though preparing to invade the interior.
A rush of anger overcame Iphiginia’s panic. “Bloody hell.”
Then she noticed the small piece of paper lying at her feet. She bent down and picked up the note. The lantern light revealed that the missive was sealed with black wax.
You have been warned. The next time you interfere, the penalty will be far more serious.
“Bloody hell.” Iphiginia glanced at the lantern. She wondered how much longer it would continue to burn.
And then she wondered what Marcus was doing and whether or not he had noticed that she had not turned up at the Sheltenhams’ ball.
Marcus stopped pacing the length of Iphiginia’s library when he heard the door open. He swung around to confront Amelia. She was wearing a nightcap and a chintz wrapper. Her face was pale and strained.
“Where the devil is she, Miss Farley? And before you answer, you had better know that I am in no mood for lies. Iphiginia was to meet me at one o’clock at the Sheltenhams’. It is now nearly two.”
“My lord, I will not claim to be your greatest supporter, but I do believe I am rather glad to see you tonight.” Amelia closed the door and walked into the room. She glanced at the tall clock. “I have been growing increasingly anxious since midnight.”
“Anxious about what?” Marcus clenched his fingers around the edge of the marble mantel. The disturbing sensation he had begun to experience sometime during the past hour was riding him hard now. Something was wrong.
“It is Iphiginia, my lord. I am very worried.”
“What is she about this time? If you tell me that she has taken it into her head to explore some other man’s study in search of black wax and a phoenix seal, I vow I will not be responsible for my actions. I have had enough of her reckless ways.”
Amelia clutched the lapels of her prim wrapper and regarded Marcus with somber eyes.