Blood Autumn Read online

  "Quite understand." Montchalmers heaved a gusty sigh. "I'm sorry, old fellow, that you had to be the bearer of bad news. Damned unlucky for you, though it could have been any one of the three of us. I was planning to drop by this evening to see Tommy."

  And his young attractive wife, Lyttleton thought, then pushed the unworthy thought away.

  After a few minutes more, Lyttleton left. Outside the club he paused and breathed deeply. There had been too much smoke in the hot rooms of the club, and out on the street it felt much cooler, although he knew the temperature couldn't have dropped much since he went in. Still, it did feel good.

  He started walking, and once more his thoughts turned to the unusual events of the day.

  Behind him a shadow slipped out of a doorway and began following him.

  Why had Tommy sent the note to him? Or had it just been chance? Surely, it could have been Henry or Wyndy who had received the note. No, for Lyttleton remembered that August had said her husband had called for him the night before. For him. He frowned. None of this made sense.

  It was close to midnight now, and the streets were less crowded than earlier. Lyttleton was nearly halfway home when he realized he was being followed. He glanced behind him quickly, but he saw no one and nothing out of the ordinary, and yet the sense persisted that he was not alone. The hairs along his neck prickled, and he cleared his throat noisily. It could have been a cat or a dog ... or a pickpocket. Or worse.

  He listened; still nothing. He began walking again, faster this time, and a chill of fear ran down his spine. A cat or dog would have made noise; this was too silent, too intent. His pace quickened, and he sensed the thing behind him matching his speed.

  There was something back there, something that was following him and wanted him, something that was terrible.

  He looked around for a cab but didn't see one, and that's when he broke into a run. He wanted to get home as quickly as possible.

  It was drawing closer, Lyttleton sensed, closer, until he thought he felt its breath on his back, chill and deadly. Odd, he thought, that he should think of his pursuer as an "it." It could be anyone . . . anything. Gradually he drew away from the pursuer, and as he turned a corner he could see the familiar lines of his house. He breathed deeply with relief, and behind him, ever so faintly, he thought he heard laughter.

  The wind, he told himself, even though the wind was still. He ran across the street, finishing with a final burst of speed that brought him right up to the door. Lyttleton fumbled for his key, found it, and unlocked the door. He slipped inside, closed the door, and leaned against it, feeling relief that he had made it to his house. And he was safe here. He knew that. He sighed with relief.

  "Sir?"

  It was Edgar, his usual aplomb shaken by his employer's rather hasty entrance. He looked at his employer expectantly.

  Lyttleton nodded pleasantly, realizing how odd it must look to his servant. "Good evening, Edgar. I'm home for the evening now." His voice was calm. "I'm retiring to the study and don't wish to be disturbed."

  He had caught his breath and started toward the study. Once he was there, he sank down in his favorite chair. The shelves filled with familiar books on three sides of the room made him feel comfortable. Already the fear he had experienced on his way home tonight was fading.

  Lyttleton closed his eyes and leaned back. Too much had happened lately, and all of it was more than a little strange.

  Here he'd met up with Tommy again, and then a few days later the man dies. There had been the disastrous dinner, the devastation of seeing the wreck that was their friend, the mysterious note, and then Tommy's sudden death.

  And August.

  He could not neglect adding her to the list of oddities. He well remembered the half-smile playing across her lips earlier. Almost as if she had been mocking him. Almost.

  But none of this made sense. Or did it? No, he told himself firmly, and so he would wait before saying anything to the others. That was a prudent course. But how long would he wait? What could he say, after all? He had only suspicions, and as for that, he didn't know why he was suspicious.

  Lyttleton sighed and closed his eyes. He tried to keep the painful memories of his friend away and found success only when he finally drifted off to sleep.

  Outside the house in Eaton Square the shadow waited and watched.

  The lights in the house went out one by one until it stood dark like the other houses on the street. And still the shadow watched.

  Watched, and made a sound, a sound almost like a low laugh.

  *

  Funerals are so damned depressing, Lyttleton thought as he stood in the cemetery near the freshly dug grave and listened to the minister's words. He found the Anglican service somehow less reassuring than the Roman Catholic one, and realized that today he felt worse than he had since he'd seen Tommy again.

  It was just two days before that Tommy had died. Such a short time, Lyttleton thought, and yet somehow it seemed longer. The day after his visit to August Hamilton he had received a note from her about the funeral.

  Montchalmers and Terris had attended with him, and they stood to one side, their heads bowed as they listened to the service. The widow had been so overcome by grief that her physician recommended she stay home and rest rather than face this further strain.

  Lyttleton glanced at the faces of the mourners. He knew some of them, not all, and all wore expressions of sorrow. He looked back at the coffin, its polished wood gleaming in the sunshine. It wasn't right for the sun to shine today.

  It should have been overcast, damp, raining, but instead blue sky showed above them and the birds sang in the trees towering over the graves, and it looked like a bright spring day.

  Not a day for death. There had been much of that in his family and among his friends. Both his parents were dead, as well as a brother in his infancy. A fiancee had died only weeks before a wedding; friends had died in service of their country or from some damnable disease. Or as Tommy had. From whatever had killed him.

  For some reason Lyttleton thought about his mother. He could recall neither her face nor her voice, for he had been only four years old, and his sister a mere infant, when his mother had left their house one night. She had never returned. The next day his father had announced that their mother was dead. Lyttleton frowned now as he realized that he could only remember a faint echo of her laughter, and he thought she had dark hair, but he couldn't be sure.

  His father had destroyed all existing portraits of her so that the children grew up without a concrete image of her. Too, the elder Lyttleton refused to talk about their mother after her death, and shortly after the funeral he had begun drinking. In the months after, he grew increasingly morose, neglected himself and the children, and died within two years.

  The brother and sister had gone to live with their father's younger brother, and there they had learned about their mother from their grandmother. The old woman was Irish, and Roman Catholic, although her husband had been a nonpractitioner. She had remained faithful all her life, retaining her rosary, liturgy, and saints to pray to.

  She had talked to the children about their mother; though she'd never liked the woman much, she hadn't wished her dead, but what was done was done. And she had talked of her religion, too. Lyttleton's uncle had found no objection as long as his mother didn't try to raise the boy as a Catholic.

  His grandmother died when he was fifteen, leaving him her rosary, its finely carved beads and cross of rosewood, and a crucifix that had hung in her room above her bed. For years he had treasured them, for he had greatly loved his grandmother, and even now he kept them in his bedroom. The minister finished the service, and the three men turned to leave. As they walked away from the grave they kept their silence, none of them feeling like talking. Once they were outside the high walls of the cemetery, they paused to chat.

  "Are you planning to go by and see Mrs. Hamilton?" Montchalmers asked Lyttleton.

  "Not today, Henry. I'll give her a day
and then drop in."

  "Well, old man, I think I'll go later." Montchalmers' expression looked slightly furtive; it puzzled Lyttleton.

  "I think I will, too," Terris said, his tone faintly challenging, and for a moment he and Montchalmers glared at each other.

  Lyttleton said good-bye and left, returning home. His low spirits continued, and he found he could not visit August Hamilton the next day. He was still a little uneasy from the last time he had seen her. Perhaps, if given time, the feeling would ease somewhat.

  Montchalmers and Terris, though, proved extremely diligent, for they found time to call upon the widow several times together, as well as separately, after the funeral. Lyttleton said nothing, although he thought the frequency of their visits was rather extreme. And not quite proper, either. If he thought they were simply going to console her, that would be quite all right, but remembering how they had looked at her, he doubted that consolation was their reason for being there.

  A few days later the three friends met up at the club. Lyttleton had not yet been to see the widow, although he had sent a bouquet of flowers to her. No doubt Montchalmers and Terris had more than made up for his absence, he thought wryly.

  Once settled with drinks and lit cigars, Montchalmers and Terris reported that August Hamilton was observing complete mourning, but they declared she was too young to shut herself completely away, and so they had finally persuaded her to attend a quiet soiree that night.

  "You mean Lady Brightstone's?" Lyttleton asked, raising one eyebrow.

  "The very same," Montchalmers replied lightly. He had already downed two glasses of brandy, although he hadn't been there above half an hour, and was now making some headway on a third. His face was red, as though he'd run a great distance or drunk a great deal. Lyttleton would have wagered on the latter.

  "It's all right," Terris said. "I expect it'll be quiet enough, if not downright sedate. Those sorts of things always are. Probably it'll be jolly boring, if you want to know the truth."

  Lyttleton frowned slightly. "Tommy died scarcely five days ago. Don't you think you're both being precipitate? Shouldn't she stay secluded for somewhat longer?"

  "No," Terris said shortly.

  Montchalmers didn't answer, but as Lyttleton studied his face he saw that the other man felt the same. Certainly Lyttleton didn't want to see the young woman buried alive, as it were, by the convention of formal mourning, and God knew, he didn't observe all the rules all the time, but it seemed downright indecent for Montchalmers and Terris to rush her out of her extremely short bereavement.

  Perhaps he was mistaken, though. It would be a quiet evening with good conversation, and no dancing or music. Surely no harm would come of his two friends inviting her to lady Brightstone's soiree. After all, they were simply thinking of her. Or perhaps, one cynical part of him pointed out, Montchalmers and Terris acted out of their own selfishness. It would be most improper if they continued to call frequently upon the young widow. It would be an altogether different matter if they met her at various social functions.

  If only they had waited a little longer, a month or so, he would have felt more comfortable.

  "Good God, man," said Montchalmers, finishing another glass of brandy, "I can't see her shutting herself away for all her life, y'know."

  "A few weeks would hardly have been a lifetime," Lyttleton said quietly.

  "It is if you're young and beautiful like Aug — Mrs. Hamilton."

  "You might remember that she is in mourning and isn't to be courted," Lyttleton pointed out more sharply than he had intended.

  Terris said nothing. Montchalmers applied himself to his brandy.

  Now was the time to mention the note, Lyttleton thought. Both men should know that Tommy had wanted to see him alone that day — when his wife was not present. He should tell them because for some reason Tommy must not have trusted August. That had to be it, he told himself, and he remembered the look of fear on Tommy's face that night at dinner as he looked at August. Instead, he remained silent, and the moment passed.

  He wondered what he would find at Lady Brightstone's.

  In the few days since the funeral August Hamilton had grown even more beautiful than she had been. It seemed to Lyttleton that her skin glowed more luminously, that her eyes were lovelier and her smile more captivating. He grew aware of his body's response, and blushing a little, he half turned away from her. It would never do to be seen lusting for the widow of one's friend, particularly when he had been condemning the others for it.

  "How are you, Mrs. Hamilton?" He had just arrived at Lady Brightstone's soiree and had found that the others — Montchalmers, Terris and August Hamilton — had all preceded him. Somehow, he hadn't been surprised.

  "I am fine, thank you, Mr. Lyttleton," she murmured. "I haven't seen you in a while."

  "I've been busy."

  "Oh."

  She made it sound as if he'd deliberately stayed away from her, and of course, he hadn't. Or had he? "I wasn't sure you desired company. Some wish to grieve alone." His words and tone sounded formal and stiff, almost priggish, and he sensed that she was amused with him.

  "Be assured that I am not one of those."

  "Well," he said heartily, "then I know."

  Good God, how lame he sounded. His face darkening, Lyttleton glanced across the room to see Montchalmers and Terris headed toward them. Perhaps they would rescue him from this terrible predicament.

  "Mrs. Hamilton," Montchalmers said breathlessly once he had joined them, "you are looking absolutely stunning tonight."

  "How kind you are, Mr. Montchalmers."

  "Not at all." He beamed at her, while Terris simply stared at her.

  With growing certainty, Lyttleton realized he was jealous of his two friends and it was the first time he had ever regarded them with such an emotion. He didn't like it, but he couldn't seem to help it. It fact, the jealousy grew as he watched Montchalmers flirt with her and Terris moon over her. Lyttleton curled his lip derisively. Both were fools, and August Hamilton could scarcely be attracted to either one of the vacuous oafs. He glared, but neither man noticed.

  The three friends were not alone in their admiration of the widow. The men attending the soiree began drifting over to their small group to flirt with August. Inside Lyttleton the jealousy rose up, twisting his guts until he wanted to shriek at the men and fling himself at them, knocking them aside. His fists clenched at his sides, his teeth gritted, he stood still, refusing to give in to the unworthy feeling.

  As he watched her he realized she did nothing to encourage them. She listened to their stories and laughed at their jokes, and was as she was before. Damningly beautiful and tantalizing, and almost aloof. Perhaps, he thought, that made the men want her all the more.

  The hours passed interminably for the tense Lyttleton, and by the end of the evening he was prepared to kill each one of the men present, Montchalmers and Terris included. As he glowered at his rivals, he realized what he was thinking, and its violence horrified him, for he had always been a peaceful sort.

  Without explanation, Lyttleton turned on his heel and marched from the room. He returned straightaway to his old Georgian house. He told Edgar to bring him a bottle of brandy in the study. He poured a glassful and drank until he could think no more of the shameful feelings he had had toward the woman and toward his friends. And when he finally passed out, Edgar tiptoed in and put him to bed.

  Lyttleton slept the sleep of the drunk, and his slumber was disturbed only once toward dawn with warm, liquid dreams.

  Wyndham Terris lay wide awake, the darkness of his bedroom enveloping him, and waited. Waited for the dream that came every night, the dream of the woman, the woman who was —

  Shhh, one part of him insisted. That was right. He couldn't say her name aloud. Couldn't think it.

  Impatiently he waited. He knew she would come, for hadn't she told him the previous night that she would? She had never broken a promise to him yet. She would come . . . and when she did .
. .

  His sigh rasped loudly in the silence of the room, and he shivered in anticipation. He would lift his arms to welcome her, and they would kiss, long and deeply, and she would surrender to him, surrender as she had before, and he would give himself to her. As he had before.

  She would bite and scratch him, and he would call her his little hellion, and she would laugh, and then, and then she would give him what she had promised for so long and had as yet withheld.

  Terris groaned aloud as he anticipated what was to come, and in the darkness a husky laugh answered him.

  *

  The next two nights after the soiree Lyttleton's sleep was disturbed by an increasing number of unusual dreams, dreams in which Tommy's widow figured.

  All of the dreams possessed an erotic nature. In them August appeared in various poses, both dressed and disrobed; sometimes he was stripping off her clothes himself, his hands clumsy in his haste, and sometimes she was removing them herself, slowly, teasingly.

  Each time it was as though Lyttleton had never seen her before, and on each occasion he caught his breath when the last article of clothing fluttered to the floor and August stood before him, revealed completely in her nakedness, with her head thrown back, her eyes half closed, her hands resting lightly upon her hips. He would stare hungrily at the long white throat, at the swelling of the full bosom, the dark rose nipples tautening under his gaze. His eyes would travel down her flat stomach, past the rounded hips, to linger at the dark tangle of hair between her thighs.

  His body would ache and throb, and he could feel himself stiffening in response. He would go to her then, and he would find his clothes had been stripped from him without his remembering. He would embrace her, savoring the feel of the velvety hair pressing against his groin, the tips of her breasts brushing against his chest. He would press his fingertips into the small of her back, grinding himself against her small body, his rigid manhood seeking entrance, and she would lean back, beckon, spread her legs, and he would —