ROMANTIC VENTURE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Lydia sat on a low bench with her back against the stone wall in the withdrawing room. Her eyes glittered with enmity, as Dominic paced the room. The crackling fire was the only sound.

The silence was broken as Terrence Warbrooke entered the room on the arm of Lady Violet. His walk was tentative as though he carried a heavy burden. With Lady Violet's aid, he lowered himself into the chair nearest the fire.

"I have not been warm in two years," he said softly.

Lady Violet tucked a shawl round his shoulders. "I shall leave you, Terrence," she said gently. "This is between you and your children." She turned, and with a glance at the family crest and another at Lydia, she left the chamber.

"This was my favorite room," said Terrence Warbrooke into the silence that followed. "'Tis good to be back." He looked toward Lydia. No emotion showed in either countenance.

"I suppose you wish me to say something in my own defense," she stated after several moments.

"Would there was a defense," Dominic burst out.

"I shall not beg you for mercy," Lydia continued as though she had not heard her brother. "I tell you this. I never hated you, Father. Nor did I hate you, Dominic," she said matter-of-factly. "What I did was for my cause. Mary Stuart was the rightful heir to the throne of England, surely you both can see that. She was, in truth, the Only true claimant. As the great-granddaughter of Henry VII, hers was the right of succession to the English throne."

"And what of our good Queen Elizabeth?" asked Dominic. "What of her claim to the right of succession?"

Lydia snorted. "She is the bastard daughter of the French whore, Anne Boleyn-nothing more."

"Elizabeth is daughter to Henry VIII," stated Terrence Warbrooke.

"And Mary is dead," Dominic added gently, "and her cause with her."

Lydia's eyes hardened. She looked directly at her brother. Her keen silver gaze was as venomous as that of the ugly bird of prey on the armorial plate over the hearth. "Think again, Dominic Warbrooke, if you think to diminish the splendor that was and is Mary, Queen of Scots."

Dominic lowered his eyes. His sister's voice continued without emotion.

"You are both fools. You have allowed yourselves to be deceived by your little queen. Had Mary Stuart been successful in her attempt to dethrone Elizabeth, the Spanish would have no need to attack us. As it stands, gentlemen, your queen's flaunting of the law has led to her imminent downfall. You cannot stop the Spanish. That is Mary's triumph." Her smile was contemptuous.

"What led you to this treacherous thinking, Lydia?" asked Terrence Warbrooke, pain clear in his tone.

"I see you as the traitor, Father," she said archly, "and you, Dominic. When I married lord Hamilton and accompanied him to Scotland to live, I realized with his guidance that, by accepting Elizabeth as queen, you were supporting her bastardy. When I returned to Ravenshead, after my husband had given his life for the Catholic cause, I continued to fight for the same cause. I allowed the keep here to be used as concealment for Mary supporters who came to our shores." She shrugged one large shoulder. "Naturally, finances were needed to support this effort."

"And so you raised the rents of our unsuspecting tenants," Dominic said flatly.

Lydia smiled barbarously. "Yes. The fools never knew of their contribution to the Mary cause."

"Poor little Alys Grimes contributed her life, did she not, Lydia?" said Dominic.

"She discovered our secret. She threatened to go to you, Father, and tell you of our clandestine activities. So we killed her. Actually, it was I who killed her," Lydia said with a certain chilling pride. "But that increased the danger of your discovering our secret, Father. Had 'poor little Alys Grimes' been more circumspect, she could have transmitted her knowledge of our activities to you. You also had to be removed, and so Lucius and I staged your 'suicide.' As I had set up the idea of your mental infirmity, it came as little surprise to anyone that you had ended your own life."

"Then Rod's story was true," said Dominic, horrified to remember the blood-chilling torture the man had endured.

Lydia laughed. "It was, brother. The little man was tortured and nearly killed for telling the truth. But," she added, her eyes narrowed, "it did accomplish one thing. He came to realize that he could not fight me. I took his Precious daughter into my power, and he knew another word from him would end in her death as well as his own. With Kitty as... enticement, we forced the dwarf to mark the channel at the northern edge of the estate to allow ships to enter and dispatch defenders of the Catholic cause. Now that cove will be used by the Spanish reconnaissance. I have invited them to use this bastion of support for Elizabeth as a base for their attack on England's northern shores." She laughed derisively. "'Tis the ultimate irony, do you not agree, gentlemen?"

Dominic and his father stared at Lydia in awed disbelief. Her obsession had poisoned her beyond their comprehension.

" You have given Ravenshead to the Spanish?" Dominic asked, incredulously.

Lydia's face became a mask of hatred. "I have," she said. "They will be here before the month is out." Both men stiffened as Lydia drew a dagger from the folds of cloth of her dress. She stood and pointed the glinting dirk at her own bosom. "Did you imagine that I would allow the two of you to decide my fate? Mary Stuart died a martyr. My son died a martyr. So, too, shall I die a martyr."

"Put down the knife, Lydia," said Dominic as he moved to cross to her.

"Stay where you are, Dominic," she grated. "I shall not put the dagger down, but you could easily be victim to its razor sting."

Dominic stood fast, never taking his eyes from his sister.

"Did you think I would allow myself to be imprisoned?"

"You allowed my imprisonment, Lydia," stated their father.

"Yes," Lydia countered, "even my conscience would not allow your death at my hand."

"There were times," said Terrence sadly, "when death would have been preferable to that loathsome cell."

"'Tis why I had you drugged, Father," Lydia said as though she were explaining something to a child. "'Tis why I had Henry and Gwynn procure the laudanum that kept you incognizant of your surroundings. I believed 'twould be the kinder thing to do."

"And Maurette?" inquired Dominic. "Why did you not drug her as well?" He moved imperceptibly toward his sister.

"Because I hated her," stated Lydia flatly. "She thought to seize my power here. Her influence in this house grew daily, and I came to realize that you might consider completing your precontract with the chit. If that came to pass, she would be chatelaine of Ravenshead, and I would become powerless.

"I did not want to hurt you, Dominic, but the moment you came here, you began to interfere. I wanted the estate for myself, to become a base for Spanish ships, they need it, to guard the defeated English shores. Spanish occupancy would have ensured the overthrown Of Elizabeth and the power of the papacy forever."

Dominic, moving slowly, had reached his sister's side. "Do not attempt to take my knife," she said, realizing his proximity and thus his intent. She dodged past him and scuttled across the room, the knife held firmly to her breast.

Dominic held out his hand, palm up. "Give me the weapon, Lydia," he said, his tone commanding. "Father and I will not allow you to kill yourself."

"Will you not?" said Lydia. Her voice was icy calm.

"In the name of all that we have shared, Lydia, continued Dominic, "in the name of our sibling love, give the knife to me."

Terrence stood, disregarding the effort that it took him to do so. "According to your religion, Lydia, you will suffer for all eternity if you do this thing."

"So I shall," said Lydia, and she smiled as, very neatly, she plunged the sharp dirk into her chest.

Dominic was at her side instantly and held her body as it descended to the floor. She had uttered her last words.

Father and son watched the life trickle from her, and neither man could stop the tears that flowed for the misspent life of Lydia Warbrooke Hamilton.

Very late, after the household had retired, Dominic escorted Maurette to her chamber. He left her there but assured her that he would return later.

He moved slowly along the darkened gallery, down the stairs to the great hall, and into the withdrawing chamber. One torch lit the room. The light of its dull flame danced on the glistening surface of the Ravenshead coat of arms. The ravening power that it projected had guided Dominic for most of his life, but now, in the aftermath of the deaths of Lydia and her son, the features of the once proud image took on a different aspect. Shimmering before him in the golden shadows, it became the embodiment of all the evil present in his house. The silver-eyed visage leered down at him in spectral defiance. In the wavering torchlight it flashed a lust-filled challenge.

Suddenly, Dominic reached up over the mantel stone and ripped the thing from the wall. His teeth bared, he dashed the plate to the floor, and falling to his knees, he twisted it into an unrecognizable mass - pounding and pulverizing it until he was exhausted.

"There will always be a Ravenshead," he rasped harshly, "But it shall exist without you" For long moments, he remained kneeling, his head bowed, in the center of the chamber. His broad chest expanded and contracted as he breathed deeply of the newly cleansed air.

At last he raised himself. When the Spanish came, he would be forced to abandon this place, but he would ensure an English victory, and one day he would return. The house of Warbrooke would forever call Ravenshead home.