"Someone is here," she exclaimed.

The sound, a sly, scuttling, ratlike scrabble, was repeated. Carlton leaped up and made a dash for a far comer of the room. A brief scuffle ensued; then Carlton pulled the wriggling form of the young Duke from behind the window draperies.

"How long have you been there?" he inquired in a conversational tone.

The calm voice had its effect on Henry; he stopped thrashing around and hung limp from Carlton's fist, which was clamped on his shoulder.

"All evening. You've been long enough about it, I must say."

"How many times have I told you…" The Duchess closed her mouth without finishing the sentence. She shook her head. "What a sad little snoop you are, Henry. Go to bed. Roger, call one of the servants – that wretched Victor – someone to take the boy away."

So Henry was handed over to a burly footman who promised to deliver him to his own room.

"You aren't faaaaair." His long howl echoed along the corridor.

They sat again. But there was no message, no mobility of the furniture – nothing – though they remained until the room grew cold and Marianne was nodding with fatigue.

The Duchess was disappointed but not distressed by their failure. She attributed it to the influence of a hostile mind. She referred, of course., to the vicar; but Marianne, catching Carlton's mocking eye, felt sure he radiated enough hostility to rout a regiment of friendly spirits, including that of David Holmes.

CHAPTER TEN

"I do not suppose," Carlton said, "that you are any sort of horsewoman, Miss Ransom."

"Why should you suppose that? I dote on riding."

They were sitting at the breakfast table, together with M. Victor, who remained resolutely in his chair nibbling on petrified toast, even though Carlton ignored him completely after the first curt greeting.

"Will you join me in a hearty gallop, then?" Carlton inquired.

Marianne gave him a sweet smile. "Unfortunately I am engaged. M. Victor has promised to show me the castle and tell me thrilling tales about the family."

M. Victor choked on a crumb and turned crimson in the face before he got his breath back. Finally he managed to gasp, "Honored… I had hoped, indeed," and a few other phrases indicative of pleasure – and surprise. Marianne did not mind. She wanted to make sure Carlton knew he was being snubbed.

To her annoyance he did not appear to be at all hurt.

"After luncheon, then. You cannot mean to spend the entire day roaming these dusty halls; a few hours of it will make you anxious for some fresh air, I assure you."

Marianne was forced to agree to the appointment. She knew the lawyer's sudden interest in her equestrian skills was only a device to get her alone so he could discuss the business he had mentioned. She assumed he had discovered, or believed he had discovered, something to her detriment, so she was not particularly anxious to hear it.

At Victor's suggestion she changed her fresh muslin gown for something more practical. The uninhabited parts of the castle were dusty and unheated.

At first Marianne rather enjoyed the tour. The Great Hall of the old keep, with its minstrels' gallery and ten-foot fireplaces, was thrillingly Gothic in character. It was in the Portrait Gallery, beyond the Hall, that she first noticed a change in Victor's behavior.

Most of the pictures were old, the newer portraits having been scattered through the other rooms. Some were so ancient that the features of the fifteenth- and sixteenth-century Devenbrooks could scarcely he made out. Victor had not exaggerated when he boasted of knowing the family legends. Many were tales of desperate deeds and desperate men, dark rumors of revenge, treachery, and murder.

They came to a full-length portrait of a woman, or rather a sort of Scottish Fury; a voluminous plaid draped her stately form, her dark hair writhed around her head as if blown by a gale, and in her upraised hand she held a trunkless head. Gouts of painted blood dripped from this ghastly trophy, whose eyes were fixed in a horrid stare.

"Good heavens," Marianne exclaimed. "How dreadful!"

"The fourth Duchess, nee Lady Flora MacMonihan," said Victor. "Known before her marriage as the Iron Maiden of Monihan. The reference is to an antique device of torture -"

"I have heard of it." Averting her eyes, Marianne would have moved on. Victor caught her arm.

"Don't you want to hear about the lady? The head is of her former lover, Angus MacGonigal, who had annoyed her by abandoning her for another. They say she had it sent to the home of his betrothed and served up to the girl at dinner. She went raving mad."

"No wonder." Marianne shuddered. Victor casually slipped an arm around her waist.

"Ah, they were barbaric times, to be sure. Not like -"

"Sir!" Marianne pulled away from him. "What are you doing?"

" 'Tis begging your pardon I am. The place is chilly and I thought -"

"You thought wrong. I have seen enough." She turned and started back the way they had come. With an agile leap Victor barred her path.

" 'Tis shorter by the way I'll be showing you. Ah, now, don't pout at me, that's a darling; I'll be behaving myself after this."

His manner left a great deal to be desired, but he did not try to touch her; and since Marianne was uncertain of the precise path they had taken, she decided to follow him.

They passed through the heavy oak door at the end of the Portrait Gallery. Victor shut it carefully behind them and proceeded along a stone-flagged corridor lighted only by narrow slits high in the wall.

" 'Twas the passage to the old kitchens and scullery. Indeed but the food must have been icy cold before it reached the Banqueting Hall."

He continued to chatter, interspersing bits of historical information with courteous warnings about broken flagstones and other impediments to walking. The darkness imperceptibly thickened as they went on, but Marianne was caught completely off guard when he suddenly turned and folded her in his arms, pressing her against the cold stone wall.

"Come, now, it's private we are, and no one to see us at all, at all. Give us a little kiss to start, me darling, and then we'll -"

Momentarily Marianne was paralyzed, not so much by what was happening but by her memory of what had happened in the past. However, the tutor's breath, though far from pleasant, was not heavy with wine fumes; his fumbling hands had not the maniacal strength of Bagshot's. Turning her head to avoid his wet lips, Marianne freed one hand, doubled it into a fist, and brought it down on Victor's cheek.

He let out a howl of pain and relaxed his hold. Marianne twisted away. Three quick steps brought her to the door which she could dimly see through the gloom. She threw her weight against it; after a moment's resistance it yielded, admitting a flood of light from the windows in the hall beyond. This she recognized as a portion of the more modern wing, not far from the main staircase. This path had indeed been the shortest way back; Victor had been truthful on that score., at least.

"Wait." The tutor's voice, close behind her, made her turn quickly. She was no longer afraid, for a hearty scream would undoubtedly fetch help. What a contemptible-looking creature he was, nursing his cheek with one hand, his shoulders bowed and his eyes narrowed.

"Stand back," she said. "I don't want you near me."

"And no doubt you'll be off to Her Grace and tell her what happened."

"No doubt."

Victor made a sudden move. Marianne opened her mouth, prepared to cry out for help. But he made no attempt to seize her. In a way, what he did was worse. He dropped to his knees and clasped his hands. Marianne saw, with a thrill of disgust, that his eyes were overflowing with tears. He burst into a tempestuous appeal, of which, between his brogue and his sobs, she understood only the gist. He groveled, he apologized abjectly, he assured her no such thing would ever happen again. It was her fault, because her beauty had driven him mad; but it was his fault since nothing could excuse such vile, unmanly conduct. He begged her not to have him dismissed from his position.