Page 25 of Burying Venus

‘Indeed,’ Robert said. Certainly he knew how best to puppeteer them. He strolled to the door and, seeing them coming, said, ‘My brother will not be joining us. He is easily frightened, I’m afraid, and prone to hysteria.’

Never would a nobleman like Robert say such a thing to guests were he in his right mind. Even the youngest son was due respect in public. Tristan already showed himself to be a drunken lecher, but Robert was teasing men who’d sent people to be hanged. Were it not for their titles, certainly each Stanley brother would have gone to the gaol.

‘Dear me,’ Weston said.

Dermot followed close behind. The three of them wore black as if leading a funeral procession. His eyes could scarcely be kept from Thorne’s backside, pert as it was. He would, it seemed, be subjected to the witchfinder torturing his countrymen, and he was assiduous in calming himself.

‘I have a thought,’ Thorne said. ‘Due to the length of our journey, I had to forgo the female employees we keep for the purpose of interrogating women. Perhaps you have a servant in mind for this task?’

‘No,’ Weston said immediately. ‘That isn’t necessary. Why, with Lord Robert’s permission, the two of us might handle the matter ourselves.’

‘Granted,’ Robert said, not delaying them for a moment in his rush to the dungeon. His cloak billowed in the gale; all Dermot saw from where he stood was a demon, dark hair and preposterous outfit blotting out the earth. Dermot had the ridiculous notion to protect Thorne, a man who had kicked the stool from under dozens of people.

‘I have never heard the like,’ Thorne said. ‘Lord have mercy, am I to be expected to lay my hands on a woman?’

Dermot snorted. This light exhale, scarcely a breath, made Thorne turn from halfway down the stairs so those golden eyes were again on him.

Dermot flung his back to the rail, unable to make his chest rise and give breath. He was set on calling to Robert for aid, for fear made the mind do ridiculous things. It was only when Weston ran down himself and Thorne’s attention was captured that his lungs moved once again. Dermot near collapsed.

‘How can we ask a maid with no experience to assist? Come, I like to watch you work,’ Weston said. His strong hands latched onto Thorne’s wrists. ‘No one can do it better.’

‘No,’ Thorne said, though he did not flinch away. ‘We are professionals, not scoundrels. We must have a woman come down. The boy I can interrogate, yes, but you cannot expect this of me.’

‘My, to witness such a quarrel between you two. I think I have a better idea as to you both,’ Robert said. ‘Get a woman, if you insist. I’m sure Dermot can procure one.’ He laughed at this, shooing him away. ‘Now. I will not be kept waiting in the dungeon.’

Hearing Robert speak so brusquely, Dermot was shaken from his trance. Jolting upright like a man whipped, he nodded and ran back to the castle. He already had a girl in mind.

Chapter Seven

The walk to Mrs Aisling’s quarters was not particularly strenuous. The crone contrived for it to be so, wanting to be closest to the Stanleys. Frivolous ambition too often took hold of women, who were left to grasp at monotonies. So long as one woman could lord over the other, no one remained unscathed.

Though he’d be penalised if seen, Dermot went by way of the masters’ staircase. The Stanley portraits were positioned just a few inches above him as he climbed, always to sneer at the man who dared stand beneath. Each one depicted a man black of hair with fair skin, his dark eyes piercing and levelled at the observer. He glimpsed each one, thinking on how many great men languished in their graves while these lords etched themselves into everyone’s nightmares.

Stomping down the stairs, Dermot walked with as much conviction in that moment as Lord Robert in any. The degradation of the walls grated on him, some stones growing green. It was said the lords of their isle were the poorest in the kingdom, and it was they who experienced it firsthand in the servants’ quarters. Making his way to Mrs Aisling’s door, he stood peaceably as he waited. Not even she could cast a shadow on the devils he’d just left.

‘Ma’am, someone knocked,’ a feminine voice called, and such was the thinness of the walls that Dermot heard her plain.

There was an immediate bang from inside, the beating of a hand against wood. ‘Stupid girl. Do you think me deaf? See who it is!’

Immediately the door opened to reveal a slight, blonde girl who Dermot knew as one of Will’s companions. Her curls wentalmost to her midriff, striking in a way only a man disinterested in the female form could appreciate. Hazel eyes were cast down and shrouded by thick lashes, leaving no doubt as to the purpose behind Will’s pursuits.

‘Sir,’ the girl said, barely audible.

Mrs Aisling stood. She removed her spectacles and placed them on a piece of fabric to her side. Then, to Dermot’s astonishment, she procured another pair and fit them on her nose. As she adjusted them, she said, ‘Do you think him a proper young man like our Lord Robert? Sir! Never have I heard the like. He is your equal.’ She came closer, squinting despite the enhancement. ‘These blasted girls do work me up. Whatever do you want at such an hour, dear?’

Dermot hesitated. Such a request would not be made by a sane man, though he supposed he’d long given up that pretence. Noelle was the woman he was looking for. She, at least, seemed the least flighty.

‘It’s just that…’ Dermot began, unsure.

‘Do mind yourself. Coming to my office at such an hour! Whatever can be the matter? Do hurry up, else I’ll have to report this to Mr Béchard. You mustn’t think me unaware of you manservants skulking around my girls,’ Mrs Aisling said, incomprehensible to everyone but herself. It was this impotent rage that made him weary of women. A man in power might commit great evils but it was woman who doused the world in misery.

‘It is the witchfinder,’ Dermot said, delighting in the way Mrs Aisling shivered. ‘He says he can’t examine the female prisoner without a woman. He wants one of the maids.’

Mrs Aisling near dropped, steadying herself only at the last minute with a chair reserved for one of the maids. The housekeeper’s underlings, Dermot realised, had to contend with seats fit to break the back for their needlework.

‘Did I hear you correctly?’ Mrs Aisling said. ‘Why, shouldn’t I go?’

Beset as he was by lunatics, Dermot shook his head. ‘I don’t think you would like it in the dungeon, Mrs Aisling.’