Serpent's Gate Page 20

  Chapter 15

  Forcing down a shiver, Stephen slipped out of Roark’s room and softly closed the door behind him. He stepped into the hall and immediately found himself face to face with a glowering Roark.

  “Why were you in my room?”

  Stephen improvised. “I was looking for you, of course. I suppose you heard what happened at the gate.”

  Roark’s eyes remained cold. “No.”

  “Justin crashed his car. The gate slammed on us somehow. We both could have been killed.”

  “What?” Roark’s mouth dropped open. Stephen didn’t think he could have manufactured that shocked expression, but he’d underestimated Roark’s acting abilities before. “Where is Justin now? Is he all right?”

  “He said he was fine—at least, I think he did. I was a little out of it. He told me to wait for him, but I came back to the house by myself.”

  Roark looked nervous. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

  “The gate was open. Justin hit the gas. Then it started to close, and we skidded on the wet gravel and crashed right into the bars. I thought Leo was holding it for us, but he claims he didn’t get there until later. I know I saw someone in front of the gate. Afterward I wondered if it might have been you.”

  “Me? I haven’t been down to the gate. I’ve been inside the house all morning.” Roark narrowed his eyes. “And Justin simply walked away from the wreck?”

  “I assumed he came back to the house for help. He must have.”

  “If so, I haven’t seen him.”

  It occurred to Stephen that Justin had deliberately stayed out of his brother’s line of vision. He could see the sense in that and thought it might be best to divert Roark’s attention. “I don’t see why I should believe anything you say. You lie so easily—like you did at my uncle’s shop the day we met.”

  “I told you before. I didn’t lie. I just didn’t tell you who I was.”

  “That’s not the point.” Stephen paused. Technically, Roark was right, and in any case he had no desire to wade into that pool of quicksand again. “Well, anyhow, you can’t deny you were being sneaky.”

  “I can see why it might seem that way. But try to look at it from my perspective. I needed to know who I was dealing with. I couldn’t trust our collection to just anyone. There are some unique items in there, as we both know all too well.”

  “You mean the missing book?” The mention of the Coleridge volume jogged Stephen’s memory, and a few more things fell into place. “Is that what you were talking about back in my uncle’s store—when you asked me what I would do if I ever saw an evil book? You knew it was in the library, didn’t you?”

  “No. That is, not exactly. I’d heard rumors about it from Uncle Malcolm, and from bits and pieces of family history I’ve picked up over the years. I’d hoped those were all just stories, and that book and all the others like it were destroyed.”

  “In your great-grandfather Bartholomew’s bonfire?”

  “Yes. People said he’d gone mad. That wasn’t the truth. He tried to save the family once he leaned what had been going on behind closed doors.”

  “Like what, exactly?” Stephen was afraid to ask, and he was afraid he had already guessed the answer. But he had to know for sure.

  “Terrible things. Demon worship. Murder. Sacrifice. I’m ashamed to say those words out loud. My ancestors weren’t the quiet, respectable Victorians they appeared to be. You’ll have figured that out by now, I suppose.”

  “I saw a news clipping. Missing servants. My uncle said they probably ran away.”

  “If they knew what was good for them, they did. I tend to doubt it, though. I suspect they met a much less pleasant fate.”

  “Your ancestor Silas…?”

  “Killed them both, most likely. There’s no need to sugar-coat it. I’ve had to come to terms with the knowledge of what my family was, and did. It’s the only way I can go on. My father wasn’t so lucky.”

  “You said he spent his last days rummaging through the library. Was he looking at that book, too?”

  “I assume so. And he went mad. Most likely he hid it there, behind the other books, when he knew Malcolm and I were suspicious.”

  “But why? Why not just destroy it, if he knew what it was?”

  “I can’t answer that. He didn’t, or maybe couldn’t, tell me.”

  Stephen nodded, struggling to make sense of it all. He thought he understood when Owen Fairbourne hadn’t simply thrown the book into the fireplace or the trash, though. He’d wanted to see it again—to examine it, decipher it. Stephen had felt that same pull himself when he had flipped through the pages. He still felt it now, if he was being truthful with himself. Another question occurred to him. “Did Justin know about the book’s existence, too?”

  “I never told him, and I don’t think Uncle Malcolm did either. It was one of those eldest-son type things. A family secret. But he must suspect.”

  “So this is all about occult practices. I thought you didn’t believe in that kind of thing, Roark. Isn’t that what you keep insisting?”

  “Believe in the supernatural? Of course I don’t. But my ancestors did—some of them, at least. Maybe a lot of them. And they acted accordingly. They didn’t care who they hurt…or killed. It was all about their sick fantasy. It was real to them, and the consequences were all too real to their victims. That was all that mattered.”

  “Your hypocrisy is almost too much to bear, Roark.” Angry now, Stephen gestured toward the door to Roark’s room. “If you ask me, you’re dying to get hold of that book. Maybe you were desperate enough to hurt my uncle to get your hands around it.”

  “Absolutely not!” Roark’s voice caught in his throat. “Stephen, I would never hurt you—or anyone close to you.”

  “Why should I believe you don’t have it hidden in here somewhere? Did Ivy bring it to you last night? No doubt she grabbed it for you while you were attacking my uncle. Or maybe you’re telling the truth and she took care of everything on your behalf. That way you could say you didn’t have it and you’d technically be telling the truth.”

  Roark appeared thunderstruck. “You think I have the book? Or Ivy?”

  “She brought it to you last night, didn’t she? And you rewarded her amply. I saw it with my own eyes—or as much as I could bear to look at, anyway.”

  “Last night? What are you talking about? Stephen, I think there’s been a serious misunderstanding here.”

  “I don’t think so. I made a logical guess. Not that it’s any of my concern. It’s your book. You can do whatever you please with it…or with Ivy, for that matter. It’s the game-playing I object to, Roark. But I suppose at some level you can’t help it. It’s your nature.”

  “My…?” He drew back and shook his head as though Stephen had slapped him. Belatedly, it occurred to Stephen that he might be poking a hornet’s nest by forcing this confrontation. From what Justin had said, and from what he’d observed, Roark could be vindictive and dangerous. Courting retaliation wasn’t wise. At the moment, though, he didn’t seem angry—just bewildered and even hurt.

  All part of his strategy, no doubt.

  “Well, you’ve officially rendered me speechless,” Roark finally said, raking a hand through his hair. “We’ll have to talk about this later. Right now I need to go downstairs and check on Justin. I do have one question for you, though—are you in love with my brother?”

  This time it was Stephen’s turn to blink in surprise. Roark knew Justin had visited the guest room more than once. What did he think had happened in there? That was probably why he had hooked up with Ivy—as always, he was trying to one-up Justin. What caught Stephen off guard, though, was his own inability to answer Roark’s question. He hadn’t known how to answer Justin when he had pressed the issue, either.

  Luckily, a few days at Fairbourne House had taught him many different ways to avoid giving a direct response to any question. Who needed law school? Life here was like a graduate course in subterfuge. “W
hy would I tell you if I were?”

  “So that’s how it is.” Roark’s mouth tightened. “I hope he takes care of you the way you deserve. I promise I’ll be watching him to make sure he does.”

  “I don’t need your help.”

  “You say that now. Later on, we’ll see.” Sighing, Roark stepped past Stephen and opened his bedroom door. Stephen saw him scan his desk, probably checking to make sure Stephen hadn’t stolen anything. Then he did something Stephen hadn’t expected. He picked up the Coleridge book and smoothed his palm over the cover. “I do want to tell you one thing, though. I’m glad I bought this book from your uncle’s store. Whenever I read it, I think about you.”

  “How nice for you.”

  “Yes. How nice.” Roark cleared his throat. “All right, I’m going out to look for my brother. Hopefully you’re correct in thinking he’s okay and simply doesn’t want to be found.”

  “I want to come with you,” Stephen said.

  “No. You stay here in case he comes back. I assume he’d look for you in your room. Besides, you need to rest. You’ll feel the impact later. Maybe I should call for medical treatment?”

  “No. I’m fine.” With Roark’s body no longer blocking his path, Stephen made a direct line for his own room. To his relief, Roark didn’t follow. He half-hoped to find Justin hiding in the guest room, but found himself disappointed once again.

  Wait for me, Justin had said. Or had Stephen only dreamed that? He didn’t think so. But then his head started spinning again.

  Come to think of it, where was Ivy? Stephen hadn’t seen any sign of her since she’d visited Roark in his room the night before. That little scene still disgusted him when he thought about it. Roark was a good actor, though. Stephen had to grant him that.

  The pain in his wrenched back and shoulders came flooding back a moment later. Taking a deep breath, Stephen locked the guest room door and used his cell phone to call his uncle at the hospital, offering a story about Justin having car trouble. That wasn’t exactly a lie, after all. Uncle Vernon seemed cheerful enough as he assured him he didn’t have to visit him that day.

  “Best to keep my foot up and rest for a bit. I have been sampling some of the channels on the television in my room. It’s astonishing how many are available nowadays. I found one that runs nothing but British murder mysteries. It seems most promising. Perhaps I’ll look into ordering it for myself when I get home.”

  “I’ll come tomorrow,” Stephen promised him.

  “Please don’t go to any trouble. They should be releasing me in a day or two, the nurse says. You know how it is these days. No malingering in these places, let me tell you. They turn you out into the street before the painkillers even wear off.”

  “I’m so glad to hear that, Uncle Vernon. As soon as you’re better, we’ll have you home where you belong.”

  “I certainly look forward to that.” Uncle Vernon sighed, and Stephen worried that he was about to start stressing out about the store being closed for too long. He decided to cut short the conversation before things went off their current positive track.

  “I’ve got to go now, Uncle Vernon. Talk to you soon. In person, I hope.”

  He hung up with mixed feelings about the whole sorry situation. He didn’t want to leave Uncle Vernon alone in the hospital for days on end, and he might be right that the store’s business would take a significant hit while it remained closed. Yet driving Uncle Vernon home would mean an end to his time here—and, maybe worse, leaving Justin exposed to Roark’s vengeance with no one to stand by him. If Justin had correctly gauged the extent of Roark’s jealousy, that could be a matter of life and death. The incident at the gate proved that much. Stephen couldn’t do that to Justin, however undecided he might be about making a more serious commitment to their relationship.

  No choice but to stick things out a few more days. He’d have to reassess the situation when Uncle Vernon got ready to leave the hospital. Hopefully things would be clear to him then.

  A few minutes later, his cell rang again. To his surprise, he saw Geoffrey’s number flashing on the screen. He sounded almost giddy with relief when he heard Stephen’s voice.

  “Thank goodness you answered. When I got the message about your uncle, and knowing you were still in that house, well, I didn’t know what to think. You are all right, Stephen? Really all right?”

  “Yes, of course I am,” Stephen said, though it unnerved him a little that Geoffrey’s premonitions of doom had turned out more or less accurate. “And Uncle Vernon is going to be all right, too. He’s resting comfortably in the hospital. Are you going to see him?”

  “I haven’t decided yet,” Geoffrey admitted. “I’m not sure he’d welcome a visit from me.”

  “Of course he would. I told you—he just needs time. Those things he said to you at the store—I won’t say he didn’t mean them, because he probably did at the time, but I’m sure he regrets them now.”

  “Never mind that. My tender ego isn’t the issue here. The issue is getting you and Vernon out of that house, and away from the Fairbournes, as speedily and as efficiently as possible without tipping them off. I’ve decided to drive there today and talk some sense into that mule-headed uncle of yours. I assume his car is still around there somewhere.”

  “Yes, I think so. I mean, I haven’t actually seen it lately, but I assume their handyman has parked it somewhere on the grounds.”

  “Ha! You can’t assume anything where that lot is concerned. I was hoping you could get away from the house and meet me in the village somewhere. If you can’t find the car I suppose I’ll have to pick you up. We’ll have a better chance of convincing Vernon to come with us if we present a unified front.”

  “That might present a problem. There’s a…a big gate that keeps strangers out,” Stephen said. His voice wavered as a sudden realization struck him. “It also keeps the rest of us inside, if it comes to that.”

  “Typical. I suppose I could bring the police if I had to, but it might be better if you could sneak out somehow, with or without the car. Best to be discreet so the Fairbournes don’t twig to what we’re up to.”

  “Wait, Geoffrey. I don’t think that’s necessary. Of course I want Uncle Vernon to go home, and I think it would be an excellent idea for you to visit him. It’s just that…well, I’m not sure I’m ready to leave Fairbourne House just yet.”

  “What? Surely I misheard what you said just then. Not ready to leave the house? How can that be possible?”

  “I’m sorry, Geoffrey. Things have…have gotten a bit complicated. There’s sort of a…well, a situation here that I’m trying to deal with. I think someone inside the house is in danger, and I don’t want to leave him alone. He needs me here to watch over him.”

  “I certainly hope you’re not talking about one of the Fairbournes. Because trust me, Stephen, they neither want nor need your help. If they’ve led you to believe otherwise, I must caution you in the strongest possible terms to be on your guard.”

  “I have been, I promise you. And I understand now what you meant when you said the Fairbourne family has some serious skeletons in their closets.”

  “Literal skeletons, Stephen. I had hoped to make that clear.”

  “I know. And you were right. But all of that happened a long time ago, Geoffrey. The dynamics are different now. I need to…I mean, I think I ought to stay a little longer. I was working on an angle of my own, you see, and….” Stephen’s words trailed off as his head began to throb. The brandy Mrs. Mulgrave had put in his tea was having an effect on him, maybe. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant, almost like the peaceful lull that came over him when he was falling asleep after a long day filled with enjoyable activities. Not that he’d experienced a day like that in recent memory.

  He heard a horrified gasp on the other end of the line. “Stephen, please tell me you haven’t gotten involved with one of those Fairbourne brothers! I cannot stress enough how incredibly foolhardy and dangerous that would be, no matter what they’v
e said to mislead you.”

  “It’s nothing I can’t handle, Geoffrey. Please, I need to go now. I’m fine, really. Go and visit Uncle Vernon. I think it would be good for him. You two need to talk, and not just about the Fairbournes.”

  “You’re making a mistake, Stephen. Let me help you get out of there, for Vernon’s sake if not your own. He would never forgive himself if—”

  Stephen was almost relieved to hear a knock on his door. “I have to go now. Someone’s calling me.”

  Geoffrey’s voice became frantic. “Stephen, I beg you!” Muttering a quick apology, Stephen put down the phone. Maybe Uncle Vernon hadn’t been entirely wrong about his tendency to histrionics after all.

  It took him longer than it should have to drag himself over to the door. The brandy was working its magic, all right. He could barely keep his eyes open.

  Roark was back, standing in the hall with his fists clenched at his sides. “Is Justin in here with you?” he demanded.

  “Justin? No. Why would he be?” Belatedly he remembered that Roark assumed they were now lovers in every sense of the word. “I mean, no, he isn’t. I told you. Most likely he’s outside seeing to his car. It’s pretty badly damaged. He’ll probably have to call for a tow.”

  “He wouldn’t call an outsider for that. Leo has a truck with chains on it that could do the job perfectly well.”

  “So why are you asking me this?” Stephen grasped the edge of the door, tempted to close it in Roark’s face. He wanted nothing more than to curl up on his bed and fall asleep for a while. “That’s probably where he is, then. Go look for him outside.”

  “That’s exactly the point,” Roark said impatiently. “I did look, and I just talked to Leo. Justin’s nowhere to be found, either in the house or on the grounds. When was the last time you saw him after the accident?”

  “I didn’t see him. I must have blacked out for a minute when the airbag deployed. When I opened my eyes again, I was alone in the car. I’m sure I heard Justin telling me that he was okay, and to wait. The front end was wrecked and I didn’t see either Justin or Leo. I assumed they’d gone off together to take care of the car.”