Band Sinister Read online

  Band Sinister

  KJ Charles

  Published by KJC Books, 2018.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Author’s Note and Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Hist! There! Look!” Sebastian whispered, and pointed down into Darkdown Hall’s extensive gardens. Araminta knelt by him to peer out through the leaded windows, fearful of discovery yet aflame with the realisation that at last she would learn the secret of Darkdown Hall and its sinister guardians.

  Lord Darkdown stood at the centre of a stone circle lit by flaming brands, his handsome face twisted in terrible pride. Around him stood the men whom Araminta feared more greatly than any others: Sir Peter Falconwood, whose ungodly knowledge had trapped her in this nest of devils, and Darkdown’s nameless, cruel-eyed brute of a henchman. The torchlight danced and flickered over these three evildoers, like the hellfire they invoked in the very name of their blasphemous society, and over one thing more. A young lady clad in nothing more than a thin close-fitting white shift, her heaving bosom the sole sign of life, lay deadly still on a stone slab at the centre of the circle.

  Araminta’s heart stopped as Darkdown took a step forward and raised a knife—

  Guy read on frantically, page after close-scribbled page, reached The End in a rush of adjectives and relief, and yelped, “Amanda!”

  He didn’t have to shout. His sister was on the chair opposite, pretending to sew while carefully not looking at him. Nevertheless, shouting seemed appropriate.

  “What?” Amanda enquired, raising her head with an innocent look that fooled nobody.

  “This—this—!” Guy gestured at the manuscript he held, for lack of words.

  “It’s quite long, dearest. Which part do you mean?”

  “Which part do you think? What about the part where the hellfire club descends on a virgin in that—that lascivious manner!”

  “It’s all perfectly decent,” Amanda said. “Or at least, if it isn’t, the indecent parts are only hinted at, which means they’re in your head. I can’t be held responsible for your thoughts going awry.”

  “Oh yes you can,” Guy said with feeling. “You are publishing under a pseudonym, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.” Amanda spoke with understandable annoyance, since Guy had asked her that before. He’d asked when she’d announced she was going to send her long-laboured-over Gothic novel to a publisher, he’d asked again when it had been accepted for publication, and the closer they came to publication, the more he fretted. He’d have worried a great deal more if he’d known the incendiary content before this moment, which was probably why Amanda hadn’t let him read it until now. “It’s just By A Lady, and it’s not as if I, or we, have any reputation left to lose so I don’t see why you’re making such a fuss.”

  “I am not making a fuss!”

  “You are so.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “You’re about to.”

  Guy opened his mouth to deny it and realised she was right. He was about to.

  “Well, other people certainly will! The implications are frankly outrageous, and as for the atmosphere, I don’t know where you got all those extraordinary goings-on from—”

  “My own shocking exploits, where else?” Amanda said, with some sarcasm.

  Guy didn’t rise to that bait. “It’s all very Gothic-romance, I suppose, and that may be what people are reading, but really—” He could hear himself sounding sententious and disapproving, and he felt a stab of guilt as Amanda’s mouth tightened. She didn’t cry these days, but he knew his sister. “It’s not my kind of thing, Manda, you know that. And I’m not saying I didn’t like it. It’s very good.”

  “You needn’t pretend.”

  “It is. It gallops along marvellously and you can tell a story.” She could, though it was a ridiculous story, full of all kinds of disturbing situations that Guy would strongly prefer he hadn’t read. He had a feeling they might stick in his mind, which would be bad enough even if his sister hadn’t come up with them. “I’m sure plenty of people will love it, and I really am awfully proud of you, but—”

  “But you don’t think it’s respectable.”

  “Of course it’s not respectable!” Guy said. “You didn’t intend it to be respectable. Don’t tell me you wrote all those bosoms and unlawful rites and handsome villains chaining people up and leering in their faces in order to be respectable.”

  That had been one of the worst parts: the youthful hero Sebastian in a dungeon, bound and helpless at the mercy of the dastardly rake Sir Peter Falconwood with his “strange cruelties and velvet tortures” for several chapters before Araminta rescued him. It wasn’t entirely clear what the book had meant by “velvet tortures”, since the whole sequence was a mass of allusion and implication. That had been both a relief and—in a way Guy had no intention of considering further—a disappointment.

  He coughed. “The point isn’t the respectability. It’s a Gothic romance and I dare say it’s a very good one, and if it’s By A Lady then it can be as—as unrespectable as you like. But Manda, Sir Peter Falconwood?”

  “What about him?”

  “The libertine Sir Peter Falconwood, who is fair-haired, scientifically minded, and in a hellfire club with the notorious rake Lord Darkdown?”

  “I know he is. I wrote it. What about him?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Guy said, with tenuous patience. “Do you think our neighbour Sir Philip Rookwood, who is a fair-haired, scientifically minded libertine in a hellfire club with the notorious rake Lord Corvin, might possibly object to his caricature as a murdering devil-worshipper? Manda, he could sue us!”

  “Oh, nonsense,” Amanda said, far too airily. “He won’t read it, and if you go around belonging to a hellfire club called ‘the Murder’ and having orgies, you can’t complain if people wonder about you. And my publisher assured me they would protect my anonymity. And it’s not even meant to be him anyway.”

  “When you say all that in court, put the last part first.”

  “Well, it’s too late now. The book’s about to be published. And probably nobody will buy it anyway, so you’re worrying about nothing.”

  Guy was reasonably sure he was worrying about a glaring case of libel, unless Sir Philip Rookwood had a very well-developed sense of humour. He had no idea about that, since he had never in his life spoken to their neighbour. No Frisby would speak to a Rookwood. He would have cut the man dead if he’d ever met him, although the matter had never arisen since Guy and Amanda lived in seclusion and Sir Philip treated Yarlcote society with a disinterest bordering on contempt.

  Sir Philip Rookwood, with his shocking manners and worse reputation and utterly appalling set, was the most thrillingly dreadful thing to happen in Yarlcote since the death of his brother Sir James. Nobody spoke of that business to Guy and Amanda, but their friends and neighbours kept the Frisbys fully informed of Sir Philip’s goings-on. In fairness, Guy could see why his sister had been inspired to write a Gothic romance about the man; it would be hard not to.

  Sir Philip had peculiar ideas and never attended church on his infrequent visits to Rookwood Hall. When he did come, he brought with him a retinue of foreigners and philosophers and people generally agreed to be of ill repute, attended by their own servants with Yarlcote people firmly excluded. Most of all, he was the closest friend of Viscount Cor
vin, and everyone had heard of Corvin. The Devil’s Lord, they called him: rich, rakish, deadly. He’d killed a man in a duel, or two men, or ten. He ruined reputations; he’d conducted an open affair with an unmarried lady, causing the end of her engagement to marry, then refused to wed her himself. He tampered with forbidden knowledge, and dabbled in strange exotic ways, and when he and Rookwood descended on quiet, respectable Yarlcote, good society would have turned its collective back on them both, if only it had been given the opportunity to do so.

  It was not. Sir Philip never hosted balls, or dinners, or made any effort to meet his peers or cultivate his tenants. Upsettingly for the narrative, he was an excellent if eccentric landlord, possessed of a superbly efficient steward. This was deeply resented by landowners who had more moral character but were less prompt in carrying out repairs. Still, they could at least point to his offensive lack of personal interest in his tenants, or his staff, or his neighbours. Sir Philip came to Rookwood Hall for one reason only: to host the Murder, as he and Corvin called their club, or at least that was what everyone said they called it. The Murder. One couldn’t belong to a club called that—a hellfire club, no less—and then object to a young lady’s Gothic flight of fancy. Could one?

  “You’re fretting,” Amanda said. “I wish you wouldn’t. Oh, Guy, please. This is the only interesting thing that’s happened to me in five years and if you’re all worried and unhappy and hating every minute it will spoil everything. Please don’t disapprove.”

  “I don’t disapprove,” Guy said untruthfully. “I think it’s marvellous that you wrote a book and it’s been published, and they even paid you. Ten pounds!” It was a lot of money, although considering how much scribbling and crossing-out and rewriting Amanda had done, not to mention the eye-watering cost of paper for the fair copy, Guy couldn’t consider it a generous hourly wage. But it was money that Amanda had earned fair and square, money for which they weren’t dependent on anyone else’s goodwill, and far more than that, it was an occupation that had given her pleasure for months. Guy was probably making a mountain out of a molehill with his fears of exposure and public shame, and the least he could do for his sister was keep his endless worries to himself. “I think you’re wonderful, and I dare say Rookwood won’t read it anyway. Which is his loss,” he added hastily. “Only, if you’re going to write another one, please don’t libel anybody else?”

  “I’m sure it isn’t libel if I just happen to use a name that sounds a bit like someone else’s name,” Amanda said, sounding not nearly sure enough. “And I’ve started writing the next one, actually.”

  Oh God. “Really? Another Gothic romance? What about?”

  “I’m not quite sure. I’m a bit stuck on the plot. Guy?”

  “Mmm?”

  “What do you think Rookwood gets up to at his orgies?”

  Guy choked. “Firstly, they are house parties. Please don’t go around saying orgies, people will be appalled, and it’s probably not true. Secondly, I’ve no idea.”

  “Oh, you must. Aren’t all those classics you read full of all sorts of shocking things?”

  “They’re in Latin,” Guy objected feebly.

  “You could tell me what they say.”

  Guy’s mind flicked guiltily to his special shelf: a handful of unexpurgated editions painstakingly obtained over several years. “No, really, Manda. Honestly, I’ve no idea what Rookwood and his friends do. I’m sure it’s just drinking and...and suchlike.”

  “Yes, but what suchlike?”

  “There might be, uh, female companionship?” Guy hazarded. “Of the lowest kind. Not at all the thing. I really don’t know and I’m quite sure you shouldn’t try to find out, and if you put it in a book I dare say they couldn’t publish it.”

  “No.” Amanda fiddled with her sewing needle. “Guy?”

  Guy balanced the pile of pages on his lap and picked up his half-glass of port. He suspected from her wheedling tone that he might need it for whatever was coming. “Yes?”

  “We couldn’t pay a call, could we?”

  “On whom?” He took a sip of port.

  “Rookwood.”

  Guy coughed a fine crimson spray across his legs, the manuscript, and Amanda’s sewing. “What? No!”

  “He is our neighbour, and what happened really wasn’t his fault any more than it was ours. Don’t you think—”

  “No, I do not! We are not going to pay a call on Sir Philip Rookwood, not ever, and particularly not when he has a houseful of— Amanda Frisby.” He did his best to sound authoritative while wiping port off his chin. “If you’re hoping to spy on Lord Corvin or Sir Philip’s orgi—his house party, just to get ideas for a book—”

  “But it’s such a chance,” Amanda said. “A hellfire club on our doorstep! You can’t tell me not to be interested. And it is absurd we shouldn’t speak to our neighbour because of what his brother did twenty years ago.”

  “What his—” Guy groped for words. “His brother ruined everything. You can’t possibly forgive that!”

  “That was his brother,” Amanda said obstinately. “We could extend the hand of friendship to Sir Philip—”

  “Who’s bosom friends with the Devil’s Lord and in a hellfire club and has orgies!”

  “Ha! I knew it was orgies.”

  Guy spluttered, without port this time. “Absolutely not. He is not a fit acquaintance for you, even without the—the unfortunate history between our families. He is a disgrace to the neighbourhood and to his old family name, and we are not going to extend any sort of recognition to Sir Philip Rookwood, not ever. That is my final word.”

  TWO DAYS LATER, AMANDA didn’t come back home.

  Guy hadn’t expected her for luncheon. It was a beautiful day and she’d gone up to Mr. Welland’s to borrow his hack. She loved riding. Guy tried not to repine about their financial situation—it couldn’t be helped, and Aunt Beatrice was really very generous, considering—but if things had been different Amanda would have had a horse of her own. Of course, if things had been different she could be married by now. They were well born enough, they’d been plump in the pocket once, and Aunt Beatrice had married the second son of a marquess, so they’d had the connections for a good marriage. If it hadn’t been for Sir James Rookwood, and then the thrice-damned Mr. Peyton—

  But there was nothing to be done about any of that, and no point regretting the past. Guy spent the morning in the garden, staking out peas and beans. He had bread and cheese for luncheon rather than put Mrs. Harbottle to any trouble, and settled down with the Anacreontea and a Greek dictionary afterwards, with the glow of a day’s work done. He didn’t even look at the time as the afternoon progressed, reflecting only that Amanda was doubtless enjoying the early summer air, roaming far abroad. In that alternative past where Sir James Rookwood hadn’t ruined them, Miss Frisby would never have stirred abroad without a groom, or at least her brother’s escort, but as it was, she rode alone. Guy didn’t give it a thought until Mr. Welland burst in.

  Mr. Welland was a near neighbour, his house no more than a mile away, a retired merchant with a successful career in corn. He’d handed over the business to his son and retired to the country with his wife, and he was a friendly, respectable sort of man although mercantile in his conversation. Now he was red-faced, and his habitual smile notably absent.

  “Mr. Frisby!” His voice was hoarse.

  Guy found himself on his feet, panic rocketing through him. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Miss Frisby. The hack I lent her, Bluebell, has just come back, exhausted. My man says she’s been galloping hard. And Miss Frisby wasn’t with her.”

  “What?” Guy said stupidly. “How can Amanda not have been with the horse?”

  “She wasn’t ridden. I’m afraid Miss Frisby must have fallen. And she went out at ten, and goodness knows how long the horse has been wandering. I hoped you’d say Miss Frisby had come back here.”

  Guy shook his head dumbly. Mr. Welland’s face tightened. �
�Do you know where she intended to ride?”

  “I didn’t ask. She always rides by herself.” Guy heard his own culpable carelessness in every word. “We have to look for her. It’s—oh, heavens, it’s already five o’clock!”

  “It won’t be dark for a few hours yet,” Mr. Welland said. “I’ve sent my man out to raise the alarm.”

  “May I borrow a horse?”

  “I rode Daffodil over here for that very purpose. I’ll walk back. An absurd name but a reliable beast. You’ll find Miss Frisby, I’m sure of that. She’s probably walking home now, or found a cart to cadge a ride. She’s a resourceful young lady.”

  “Thank you,” Guy said, covering the horse, the reassurance, and the lack of rebuke in two heartfelt words. “Thank you, Mr. Welland. I must put on something to ride in— Is that the door?”

  It was the door, and Mrs. Harbottle was exchanging words with someone. “News?” Guy asked aloud, and hurried down to the hall, Mr. Welland at his heels. A man in plain black livery stood there. He saw Guy and gave a bow of terrifyingly precise respect.

  “Master Guy!” Mrs. Harbottle said. She was wide-eyed. “Master Guy, this man—gentleman—person...he’s from the Hall.”

  “From Rookwood Hall?”

  “Yes, Mr. Frisby,” the man said. He spoke with a smooth, bland tone, just like one of the sinister servants in Amanda’s book. “I carry an urgent message from Sir Philip Rookwood.”

  “Sir Philip?” Guy yelped. “You work for—”

  “I have the honour to serve Lord Corvin,” the man said with just a fraction of reproach. “The letter, sir, if you will forgive my informality.” He bowed again and handed Guy a note.

  Guy unfolded it with trembling fingers. It was brief, evidently dashed off in haste.

  To: Frisby, Drysdale House

  Sir

  I regret to inform you that Miss Amanda Frisby has been injured in a fall while trespassing on my land. She has broken her leg and is receiving urgent medical attention at Rookwood Hall. Kindly send suitable attendance for her to Rookwood Hall immediately, and honour me with your presence at the earliest possible opportunity.