"You don't understand? Even now?"

"I understand that the sooner you get yourself clear of them, the better off you will be."

Tears trickled down her cheeks again. "I don't want your pity."

"You may not want what I have to offer, but you need it now."

Choking back a sob, Bea dragged the door open and fled.

CHAPTER TWENTY.

Bea hid in her bedchamber until her tears subsided and the puffiness receded from her face. With heavy limbs, she dragged herself to the great-aunts' chambers, avoiding the area of the castle in which her parents had taken substantial residence.

Lady Marstowe ushered her in. Her maid, Peg, sat in a chair by the bed. The curtains were still drawn.

"You look as though you have been crying, Beatrice," the dowager stated with her customary bluntness. "Have you allowed your mother's inanities to depress you?"

"I am well enough, Aunt Grace. How is Aunt Julia?"

"She has not yet awakened and I am terribly concerned. I don't know where Dibin could be with that physician."

"Milord has ridden off to hurry them along, ma'am," Peg spoke up.

"Perhaps we will see someone before sundown, then." Lady Marstowe gestured to the maid. "You may go for a time, Peg."

Peg nodded and left the chamber. Lady Marstowe closed the door behind her, locked it, and fixed Bea with a hard stare.

"Is it Iversly, Beatrice?"

"Aunt Julia's illness?"

Lady Marstowe nodded her silvery head.

"Honestly, Aunt Grace, I don't know. He has not spoken to me today. Perhaps he is doing this. But I don't believe so."

"My thanks for your confidence, my dear." The deep voice echoed peculiarly hollow in the close space.

"Iversly, what are you doing to my sister?" the dowager demanded.

"Not a thing, madam. I am a mere spectator to this unfortunate event."

"Are you telling the truth?"

"Almost always."

"Lord Iversly," Bea said, staring at her folded hands. Speaking with him without being able to see the dark loneliness in his eyes or the harsh slash of his mouth seemed wrong. "Does Aunt Julia's illness have anything to do with the curse?"

"I do not know. We must all await the conclusion of this trouble together. But . . ."

"But what, man?" Lady Marstowe's voice was clipped. "Tell us at once."

The chamber remained silent.

"Please, my lord," Bea said gently. "I know you wish to help us, despite the facade you affect."

"I wished to help you alone, my dear. But as you seem fond of your kin, I will do what I can to assist you in this matter as well."

"What can we do?" Bea pressed.

"Nothing, I suspect. But I will seek answers where I may."

"What do you mean? In the library? I know you can manipulate objects, as you did with my garments. Can you read books in that manner?"

He scoffed. "What good would books do you? We are in need of counsel."

"Counsel? Whose?"

"The warlock who began this whole game, mayhap," he said, his tone like a rumbling threat of storm. "Mayhap another of similar powers. I know it not. I must be off, however, if I am to do any good in this matter."

"How are you able to speak to them now, after four hundred years?"

Silence met Bea's question.

"He has departed, it seems," Lady Marstowe said.

"It was much less disconcerting when I could see him come and go."

"But then you were in danger from him."

"I never really felt it. At least not very seriously. I do not think he intends to hurt people."

"He hurt that idiot woman Minturn. Though no doubt she deserved it, as he said."

"Well, I don't know if I agree with that," Bea mumbled. "No one deserves shabby treatment."

"Especially not my dear Beatrice." Aunt Julia's wispy voice came from within the draped bed.

Bea leapt toward the bed and drew back the curtain.

"Oh, Aunt Julia." She breathed a sigh of relief. "You slept for so long. Did you hear Iversly?"

"Was the dear fellow here?" Her normally twinkling eyes shone dull, her cheeks two round spots of crimson.

"For a bit," the dowager said. "Do you feel feverish, Julia?"

"Yes, dear."

"Will you take some water?" Bea moved behind her aunt and propped her slight form off the pillow. The dowager held a cup to Julia's mouth and water dribbled out the corners of her slack lips as she sipped. Bea came away damp from her great-aunt's perspiration. "We should change you into a dry nightrail, Aunt Julia."

"I will ring for Peg."

Once they had changed Aunt Julia's clothing and sheets, she lapsed into sleep again.

"See to your mother now, gel," Lady Marstowe said. "And do not allow her to come near here. She is useless in the sickroom."

Bea went to her bedchamber to change her gown. As she pulled off the mussed one, her gaze strayed to the bed she had made up two mornings ago and had not slept in since. An eternity ago, it seemed.

She walked to it, lay down upon the musty mattress, and for the first time since her childhood, slept through the afternoon.

Bea dressed for dinner in her most becoming gown and arranged her hair in a fashion she had once seen Sylvia adopt. Her straight brown tresses did not take to the style as did her eldest sister's golden curls, but it looked well enough. She pinched her cheeks and fastened a pearl-drop pendant on a filigree gold chain about her neck. When she looked in the mirror, a pretty girl with sad eyes stared back at her.

She stopped at the great-aunts' chambers before going downstairs. Aunt Julia's temperature was still high, and she was mostly sleeping, but the doctor had come and examined her, leaving fever powders and various instructions. The dowager looked exhausted, and Bea promised she would sit up with Julia tonight to allow Aunt Grace and Peg the opportunity to rest.

She went to the kitchen and ordered dinner for Lady Marstowe and her maid to be taken up, including a bowl of broth for Aunt Julia if she should wake.

Upon entering the parlor she saw Thomas first. He stood ramrod straight against the backdrop of the tapestry in front of which she had first noticed Iversly. He glanced across the chamber to her, then his brow crushed into lines and he looked to the floor.

"Beatrice, you are finally here." Her mother yawned. "You have made us all wait an additional quarter hour for dinner, and I was famished at least twenty minutes before that. Why didn't you assist me in unpacking this afternoon? Whatever were you doing?"

"Sleeping, Mama."

"Good heavens, you have developed shockingly slatternly habits in so few days away from me, haven't you?" Lady Harriet chided.

Bea's father stood at the opposite side of the chamber. Lady Bronwyn perched uncomfortably upon a settle across from Lady Harriet, her entire lovely person silently screaming unease. The sparkle was gone from her blue eyes and her cherry lips were a thin line. Tip was nowhere to be seen.

Bea went to Bronwyn's side. "I have just been in to see Miss Dews. She is sleeping, and Lady Marstowe will take dinner in their chambers."

"I hope we do not all catch Julia's horrid fever. How wretched it would be to come to Wales only to take sick and die," Lady Harriet exclaimed.

Bronwyn's eyes went wide. Bea grasped her fingers and drew her up.

"Let us go in to dinner then, shall we?" she said, tucking Bronwyn's arm into hers. The girl looked momentarily grateful, then a glint lightened her gaze.

"Do we not wait for Lord Cheriot?" she asked, an unmistakable note of hope in her voice.

Bea glanced at Thomas, but he continued staring at his toes.

"Papa?" she asked.

"Cheriot brought the physician along hours ago, then rode out to Porthmadog to take care of business. He expects to return late tomorrow."

Bea's hands went cold. She drew her shawl more tightly about her shoulders and led Lady Bronwyn toward the door.

Dinner was a strained affair. Lady Bronwyn attempted conversation, but Bea was the only person to respond and soon she grew too distracted to offer the girl much solace. Thomas provided no assistance whatsoever. When they rose from the table, Bea escaped tea in the parlor by claiming her duty in the sickroom. Lady Bronwyn said her good nights and hurried after her.

"Oh, Beatrice," she grasped Bea's arm, her eyes full of emotion. "I feel absolutely wretched for having left you alone here last night. However did you make it through to midnight? It must have been horrible waiting to discover if that horrid Lord Iversly would go through with his threat or not."

"I never thought he would." Bea started up the stairs. "How is Miss Minturn today? Better than during her visit here, I hope."

"Oh, Minnie is well enough," the girl said rather blithely. "I never imagined she had led such a dramatic life."

To Bea, the governess's life did not sound dramatic at all. Merely pathetic, like her own until a few days earlier.

"Yes, well, she seems to have felt very deeply."

"Oh, and she still does. She speaks unceasingly of him, crying and bemoaning her unhappy fate." Lady Bronwyn's clear face grew pensive. "Do you think that true love never dies?"

Yes. "No. My parents once believed they were in love, and now they can barely speak to each other when they are in the same room. You may have noticed that."

"Oh. Yes. I see." The girl was silent to the top of the stairs. "Beatrice." She laid a light hand on Bea's arm again. "I know you must think I am a flighty thing, and a person of loose morals."

Bea simply could not find words to reply.

"Oh, but you see," Bronwyn assured, "I was very frightened."

"Of course you were."

"I did not know Iversly was merely bluffing."

So, Thomas had not told her the truth. It was a somewhat surprising show of discretion on her brother's part, but welcome.

"I would never have-" Lady Bronwyn continued. "Oh, you know. But I would not have done it if not for Iversly's threat."

"Of course not."

"Your brother has asked for my hand." Her brow puckered. "He told me he will await my response before announcing it to everyone."

"You are considering refusing him?"

Lady Bronwyn's lashes quivered and she seemed to study her interlaced fingers. "I like him very much, but-but-" She stammered prettily.

"But what, Bronwyn?"

Her gentian eyes came up. "I have not yet had my first season in London. I understand that there are a great many gentlemen there who pay calls on ladies, and bring them posies and poetry and ask them to dance ever so many times."

Bea held her mouth shut with effort. Her brother was as handsome as could stare-a striking male version of their stunning eldest sister-with easy charm, a more than comfortable allowance, and an excellent competence to anticipate when he inherited from their father someday. To Bea's knowledge, young ladies in town hung all over him when he deigned to pay attention to them, and he was beset by invitations the minute he set foot in the countryside. Bea had never yet heard of a girl turning up her nose at Thomas Sinclaire.

Perhaps Lady Bronwyn was somewhat naive?

"Also," Bronwyn said, more softly now, "I have been thinking. Or, rather, looking." Her eyes seemed to glow peculiarly bright.

"Looking at what?"