The Vanishing Viscountess

Again in her dream, Marlena rose from her bed and walked to the door. She turned the key and opened it.

A man who looked as if he were dressed in women’s clothes grappled with someone, something in his hand, trying to strike with it. Marlena ran and grabbed his arm. The weapon was a large pair of scissors and the person with whom he struggled was the new maid. He swung around to Marlena, slashing the weapon towards her.

“No!” the girl cried, trying to pull him off Marlena.

He flung the girl away.

Marlena fought him, both her hands grasping his arm, holding off the lethal scissors. She finally saw the man’s face.

In her dream the face loomed very large and menacing.

It was Wexin. Her cousin.

“Wexin, my God,” she cried. The dream turned him into the image of a demon. He drove her towards the bed and she fell against it, losing her grip on his arm. He brought the scissors down, but Marlena twisted away.

She collided with her husband, her face almost ramming into his. Corland’s eyes were open and lifeless, blood spattered his face, pooling at the wound in his neck.

Before she could scream, Wexin called out, “Help! Someone, help!” He tore off the woman’s robe and threw it at Marlena. He thrust the scissors into her hand.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway.

Wexin swung around to the maid. “I’ll see you dead, girl, if you speak a word of this. There will be nowhere you can hide. Your lady here has killed her husband. Do you understand?”

Marlena threw aside the robe—her robe, she realised. The scissors in her hand was sticky with blood. Her nightdress was stained with it. Wexin pulled off his gloves and stuffed them in a pocket. He was clean while she was bloody.

The maid glanced from Marlena to Wexin and back again. With a cry, she ran, scampering through the hidden door that led from Corland’s room to the servants’ staircase.

Wexin laughed at the girl’s escape. “There goes your witness, cousin,” he sneered. “You have killed Corland and there is no one to say you have not.”

Marlena jolted awake, her heart pounding.

The nightmare had not ended, however. A man leaned over the bed and slammed his hand over her mouth.

Tanner woke with a start.

A man, no more than a black figure, had his hands on Miss Brown. Tanner grabbed for the man’s coat, knocking him off balance.

The man released Miss Brown and pulled out of Tanner’s grip. Tanner sprang from the bed and lunged at him before he could reach her again. They both fell to the floor, rolling and grappling, until slamming against the mantel, the coals on the hearth hot on Tanner’s back. They illuminated the man’s face.

Davies, the son come back to finish what he’d started on the beach.

“No!” Miss Brown ran towards them, pulling the back of Davies’s collar.

“Stay back!” Tanner yelled, although he was perilously close to having his nightshirt catch fire.

Davies released him and scrambled to his feet. Miss Brown backed away from him, but he came at her, clamping one big beefy hand around her neck. Tanner stood and advanced on him.

“Keep away or I’ll kill her,” Davies warned, squeezing her throat for emphasis, and dragging her towards the door.

“Leave her,” Tanner commanded. “The purse you want is in the bed.”

The man glanced to the bed, but shook his head, squeezing Miss Brown’s neck tighter. “She’ll be worth more, I’ll wager.” The man swallowed. “I saw your ring. Only a rich man wears a ring with pictures on it. You’ll pay me more than what’s in that purse for her.”