Diana expected a chuckle at this point, if not an outright laugh, but she got no response at all from her audience. Determined to inject a little more verve into her storytelling, although she was already gesturing with both hands while she spoke, she cleared her throat and continued.

"Grace Church is opposite the St. Denis." She glanced at Ben, remembering that she'd followed him to services there. "It boasts an iron fence. When the camel left the express wagon, it bolted across the street. A woman pa.s.sing by on the sidewalk saw it coming, screamed, and tried to run, but one foot slipped on an icy cake and down she fell, plump in the camel's path. It was a critical moment, but just as those watching braced themselves to witness a terrible collision, the camel sprang over her prostrate form like a hurdle racer and fetched up against the iron fence of the church. He struck it with such violence that the concussion knocked him flat."

Mrs. Northcote made a tsking noise.

Ben chuckled. "A knock-down blow."

"But not sufficient to lay Mr. Camel low for long. Even as the woman scrambled to her feet and fled, the, er, hunchback terror started off for another stretch down Broadway."

She thought that a rather good turn of phrase, but neither of her listeners seemed impressed.

"The camel seemed to sense that his stable was somewhere in that direction and he was bent on getting there at a pneumatic clip, but as he approached the Sinclair House, another hotel, a private carriage containing a gentleman, his wife, and their baby, wheeled into view going up Broadway. The driver's eyes went wide and his horses had an attack of St. Vitus dance as they realized that the camel was making a bee-line for the carriage. His bowed head was in close proximity to one of the gla.s.s doors when, at the last possible minute, two men sprang to the rescue. They seized the camel by the nostrils, one on each side, kicked him in the forelegs, and threw the beast, holding him firmly until help arrived."

"The approved technique for subduing a camel," Ben told his mother, sotto voce.

"In a little while," Diana finished, "the keeper appeared on the scene and that was the end of Mr. Camel's adventure."

"How did those two men know what to do?" Mrs. Northcote asked.

Ben grinned. Since he'd heard the story before, he answered before Diana could. "They told reporters on the scene that they'd both had previous experience wrangling camels."

"Coincidence," Mrs. Northcote scoffed. "It never works well in fiction."

"But this is all true," Diana protested.

"Do you think people will believe preposterous things just because they really happened?" Mrs. Northcote asked. "On the other hand, with a little work, this might make a good story."

"I thought it was a good story." Diana felt more confused than ever.

"I mean if it were written down. As fiction. Not just as you told it, of course. It wants tinkering. You must turn the basic chase into something more. Explain away the two men who just happened to know what to do. Perhaps the entire incident was a sinister plot to ruin the Kirafly Brothers. Arranged by a theatrical rival."

"More likely a publicity stunt," Diana muttered, disconcerted by Mrs. Northcote's comments. In New York, Ben had told her the tale was humorous, and suggested that she might write that sort of thing instead of gossip columns.

"That could work," Mrs. Northcote said in a thoughtful voice. "Keep asking yourself 'what if?' until you've found exactly the right combination of details. Then slap a snappy t.i.tle on the whole and you've got yourself a nice little package to sell to a magazine."

"Is that how you do it?" Diana -- her pique forgotten -- asked because she was genuinely curious to know.

"Most of the time." Mrs. Northcote waited, plainly expecting more questions.

Diana did not want to disappoint her. "Why did you choose a male pseudonym?"

Damon Bathory's alter ego blinked solemnly at her. "Because some people have an irrational prejudice against women in any occupation men dominate. Aside from Mary Sh.e.l.ley, I know of no other woman who has ever written stories like mine. Oh, a few females pen novels containing dark secrets, mysterious villains, ghosts and ghouls and things that go b.u.mp in the night, with virginal heroines, of course, but those tales do not come close to exposing the evil underbelly of human depravity, or the torments of the misaligned mind."

"Do you risk censure, then, by revealing all at this juncture?" Diana could well believe it. She'd not considered that aspect of the situation before and the thought sobered her.

"I always wanted to be honest with my readers." Mrs. Northcote's expression was deadly serious. "My editor dissuaded me. First he insisted no one would believe that a respectable matron could write so convincingly about murder and mayhem. Then he said they'd be horrified if they did believe it."

Diana thought of Horatio Foxe and was forced to agree. Men could be very small-minded.

"A company in Boston publishes my books," Mrs. Northcote continued. "They were the ones who insisted I pretend to be a man. Six months ago, they suggested that I find someone to impersonate me and embark on a lecture tour. I persuaded Ben to do it. Knowing he had his own reasons for wanting to visit several of the cities on the proposed route, I seized upon what seemed an admirable compromise."

He'd wanted to visit insane asylums. Remembering that, Diana sent a questioning glance his way. His expression enigmatic, he ignored it.

"Since his return, he has persuaded me that subterfuge is unnecessary, that my sales figures are high enough to overcome any qualms on the part of my publisher. Since he will not stand in for me again, I am inclined to do as he wishes. I do not know what the result will be." She heaved a theatrical sigh. "They may decline to accept any more stories from me. My writing will come to an ignominious end."

"Not likely," Ben muttered. "The publicity will undoubtedly cause sales to soar. Your publisher will profit and so will you."

Diana had more questions, but Ben deftly deflected them. The rest of the evening pa.s.sed without further discussion of his mother's unorthodox career or the news story Diana was to write about it.

Not until she was in her room once more, trying to ignore the storm raging outside her windows as she prepared to go to bed, did Diana realize how easily Ben had distracted her. All he'd had to do was smile.

She resolved to be more sensible in the future. She'd focus on getting answers to her questions. And she would not let her imagination run away with her. If the wind had not howled just then, producing an involuntary shiver, she might have had more faith in her ability to keep that second vow.

Hurriedly, without help, she undressed and put on her nightgown. In the morning, she'd insist on interviewing Mrs. Northcote. Then she'd write her article. After that....

At this point, Diana's optimism failed her once more. She still felt Ben was keeping something from her. Worse, he had given her no real indication of what he had planned for them. Did they have a future together?

You are not some impressionable young virgin, she lectured herself. She'd married Evan without enough forethought. She hoped she had sense enough not to repeat that particular mistake.

Not that Ben had asked her to marry him.

All he'd said was that he had intended to keep his promise to return to New York. He'd intended to tell her the truth about Damon Bathory.

She climbed into the huge bed, snuffed the candle, and tried not to think about the bugs carved into the headboard. She'd be fit for one of Ben's madhouses if she didn't get a good night's sleep.

Resolutely, she closed her eyes. Everything, she told herself firmly, would sort itself out in the morning.

Chapter Thirteen.

"He's already left for the day," Ben's mother told Diana when she came downstairs the next morning. The older woman was dressed in a frothy concoction of laces and bows that Diana took to be some sort of night wear. It was eccentric, but in a charming way.

"He has a separate house in town for his office," she continued as Diana helped herself to a selection of foodstuffs from a well-stocked sideboard in the breakfast room. "When he bought out another doctor's practice, he took over both the patients and the building."

"I understand he has a laboratory here."

"Oh, yes. In the cellar. Would you like to see it? I'm fairly certain there are no cadavers there, though."

Diana choked on a bite of toast. "Cadavers?"

"Oh, yes. Ben did a lovely dissection just before he left on tour."

Forcing herself to chew and swallow, Diana digested this information. "Is Ben, by chance, the local coroner?"

"How clever you are." Mrs. Northcote calmly b.u.t.tered a roll. "A hunter found the body in the woods near here. Ben did an autopsy in the hope of discovering what killed him. And when. There wasn't much to work with by then."

Apparently relishing every word, Mrs. Northcote provided far more detail than Diana ever wanted to hear again. When she could stand no more, she abruptly stood. "I believe I will go into town."

"In this downpour?" Mrs. Northcote gestured towards the windows. As it had all through the night, rain fell in sheets, obscuring the view. "As your hostess, I must insist you stay close to the house today."

Had the gates been locked behind Ben after he left? To keep her in? Or to confine someone else?

Diana told herself she was being fanciful. Mrs. Northcote was ... unusual, but certainly not that fictional stereotype, the madwoman in the attic.

"Do I make you nervous?" Ben's mother asked.

"No, of course not," Diana lied.

"Then you will not mind meeting me in the parlor in an hour. I've a yen for your ... company."

When Mrs. Northcote had gone back to her room to dress, Diana finished her breakfast, then amused herself by wandering through the other rooms on the first floor of the house. She found stairs leading to the bas.e.m.e.nt but did not go down. Neither did she venture into the kitchen.

"He's a queer duck and no mistake," said a woman's voice just as Diana was about to open that door.

It belonged to one of the other female servants Annie had mentioned, or so Diana a.s.sumed. Eudora or Cora Belle. Diana had not yet decided to make her presence known when the unseen woman spoke again.

"Half the time he seems to be lost in his own little world, not noticing anyone around him. Then, so sudden it makes a body gasp, he's paying more attention than is proper, staring at places on a woman that a well-brought-up gentleman ain't supposed to let on he notices. You stay away from him, Annie. And if he asks to paint you, you say no."

"I'm a good girl," the maid protested. "And I know the sort of woman he has pose for him."

"Scandalous, that's what I say."

Diana turned away, reluctant to thrust herself into the middle of what was obviously a private conversation. Remembering the painting she'd seen in New York, she could understand why Annie was being warned off. The women in the seascape had not been wearing much. Diana thought they were intended to be mermaids.

At the appointed time, Diana ventured into the parlor. Ben's mother was already there, once again all in black. She posed by the piano, waiting.

"Virgins are so difficult to come by these days," she said as she ran idle fingers over the keys. The sound was jarring, since the instrument was badly out of tune.

"Why do you need one?" Diana asked.

She beckoned Diana closer. "Look at my face. How old do you think I am? I have the skin of a woman fifteen years my junior. Do you know why? I keep my youthful appearance by bathing in the blood of virgins. It is an old family tradition."

"I see. Then you must be related to the Bathorys." Diana hoped she sounded nonchalant. The excessive glee in the other woman's voice seemed more than just eccentricity.

Mrs. Northcote fingered her brooch, looking disappointed that she'd failed to shock Diana. The same crest that had been on the ring Ben had worn in New York graced this piece of jewelry, confirming Diana's guess.

"I was born Magda Bathory," Mrs. Northcote admitted.

Diana swallowed hard. When Ben had said Bathory was a real name, he'd meant it. And if it wasn't his precisely, it did belong to his ancestors. Bathory blood ran in his mother's veins ... and in his.

"Elizabeth Bathory was a sixteenth-century Hungarian countess." Mrs. Northcote's expression softened into a fond smile. "She literally drained the blood of her victims, keeping it in great vats until she required it for her baths. Dear Elizabeth killed hundreds of young girls before she was finally caught and tried and sentenced to be sealed up forever in a room in her own castle."

An involuntary shudder wracked Diana's slender frame. It took all her fort.i.tude not to turn and flee. The horrible thought that Ben had been visiting insane asylums because his own mother was going mad had already occurred to her. Had all those troubling stories come, as she'd first suspected, from a disturbed mind?

"You should see the expression on your face, my dear. It is really quite gratifying."

"Mrs. Northcote -- "

"Maggie, dear. Call me Maggie."

And with that, "Maggie" began to chatter about everyday things, including her work schedule. When she'd explained that mornings were her most creative time, she excused herself to go off and write, but she paused in the frame of the pocket doors.

"Ben won't be home until late. Today's the quarterly meeting of the trustees of the Maine Insane Hospital." Before Diana could respond to that, Maggie surprised her yet again. "I don't want you to be bored. I know. I'll give you my new ma.n.u.script to read. You can tell me what you think of it over dinner."

She sent Old Ernest to deliver the pages to Diana's room. He had a face like a prune and a surly demeanor, seeming to resent the presence of someone in the house who was not a family member. When Diana tried to talk to him, he replied only in grunts. She soon abandoned the effort.

Maggie's work in progress, a novel, was the tale of a woman trapped in a castle complete with dungeon. The story quickly captured Diana's interest. If nothing else, she could relate to the heroine.

She was still reading when, late in the afternoon, a note arrived from Ben. "Mrs. Palermo is in labor," he wrote. "There are problems. I may not be home at all tonight." He added no personal message, but Diana consoled herself with the thought that he'd been pressed for time.

To Diana's relief, Maggie did not make any further attempts to frighten her. She did not want to discuss her ma.n.u.script either. Instead she chatted about Bangor, and the weather, and persuaded Diana to tell her about life in New York City. Ben's name was not mentioned -- nor was Aaron's.

The next morning, Ben had still not returned, although he had sent word that Mrs. Palermo had been safely delivered of healthy twin boys. Once again, Diana and Maggie had the breakfast room to themselves, but this time Maggie was already fully dressed in the black that seemed to be her uniform. She said little, but as Diana ate she could feel the other woman staring at her. Being watched that way was a singularly unnerving experience.

Diana glanced towards the window. No rain or snow. Only overcast.

"I believe I will go out for a breath of fresh air," she announced, abruptly abandoning the breakfast she'd barely touched.

"Watch your step," Maggie warned.

Pausing only long enough to don the coat Ben had bought for her in New Haven, Diana fled. Cautiously, she descended a set of broad stone steps that led to the dooryard. The way was treacherous underfoot. The previous day's rain had frozen in icy patches, but someone had sprinkled sand along the driveway and Diana was able to walk as far as the ornate gate at its foot without undue difficulty.

The gate was locked.

The gargoyles cleverly worked into the wrought iron leered at her, as if mocking her attempt at escape, and Diana's sense of being imprisoned increased when she peered through decorative but st.u.r.dy bars at the bleak and empty road beyond. She hadn't realized the terrain was so rugged and hilly or how far away the nearest neighbor was. There was no other house in sight, although she could make out the smoke from a chimney in the distance.

Trees obscured what must surely be a panoramic view of Bangor from the top of the next hill. She knew she could walk into the center of the city ... if she could only get past this locked gate.

She rattled the padlock, but it was secure. She could not open it without a key. If Ben Northcote's intention in bringing her home with him had been to keep her from contacting Horatio Foxe, or anyone else, he'd succeeded admirably.

It was an uncharitable thought, most likely untrue, but as long as she was locked in, she could not entirely dismiss it. With an ever deepening sense of foreboding, Diana turned to look back at the Northcote house. There was one way to find out. She could march right up to Old Ernest and demand to be taken into town.

Just as Diana reached the front door, Maggie emerged wearing a voluminous black cloak that reminded Diana of the one Ben had worn on stage. "Ah, there you are, Diana. Come along."

"I was just on my way into Bangor," Diana protested.

"You can visit Ben's office some other time. Right now I want you to meet the rest of the family."

With decidedly mixed feelings, Diana allowed Maggie to pull her towards the back of the mansion. She was curious about Aaron.

Maggie sailed right past the entrance to the studio above the carriage house. She had a tight grip on Diana's arm and almost dragged her along. Diana wondered what other relatives lived on the estate. This was the first time anyone had mentioned them to her.