Betrayal at Blackcrest Read Online Free PDF Page A

Lane,” I said, as though that explained everything.
    He arched an eyebrow and continued to regard me with that disdainful expression.
    â€œYes?” he repeated.
    â€œI’ve come to see Mrs. Hawke,” I explained.
    â€œMrs. Hawke does not receive visitors at this hour,” he said.
    I drew myself up with what I hoped was an imperious manner. I might be calling at an inconvenient hour, but I was not about to be snubbed by a mere servant. I glared at him with eyes as icy as his own. When I spoke, my voice would have done justice to any peeress extant.
    â€œI’m quite sure she will see me,” I informed him.
    â€œI’m afraid I can’t allow that,” he replied.
    â€œBut—I’m her cousin,” I protested, losing my nerve.
    The man shook his head slowly, his icy blue eyes never leaving my own. I gnawed my lower lip nervously, finding it hard to keep tears of frustration out of my eyes.
    â€œMrs. Hawke has no cousin,” he said.
    â€œBut she does,” I exclaimed. “I haven’t heard from her in over a month, and I’ve come all this way—”
    â€œWhat is it, Morris?”
    The voice came from somewhere beyond the door, and it was a husky, guttural voice. The servant turned around, but not before I saw the expression of alarm on his face. His regal manner vanished, and he looked nervous. His fingers flew to his jacket, fastening it properly. He was quite obviously terrified of his employer.
    â€œA young lady, sir,” he said, speaking to someone I could not see. He darted a quick look at me, as though wishing I would vanish, and then he drew himself up as his employer approached.
    â€œShow her in, Morris,” the man said firmly.
    â€œThis way, miss,” Morris said, holding the door for me.
    I stepped inside, gripping my shabby leather suitcase. I found myself in an immense hall with brown and maroon wallpaper over dark mahogany wainscoting. At one end of it a spiral staircase curved up into the shadows, and directly over my head a chandelier with tarnished crystal pendants poured feeble light over the worn maroon carpet.
    â€œThat will be all, Morris,” the stranger said.
    The old servant shuffled away down the hall. I was alone with the master of Blackcrest. I set down my suitcase and sighed with relief. I smiled at Derek Hawke, but there was no welcoming smile in return. He stood with his hands in the pockets of his robe, looking at me with obvious mistrust. He looked as though he expected me to pull a gun and demand the family silver.
    â€œYou must be Derek,” I said with a charming lilt.
    â€œI am Derek Hawke, yes.”
    â€œI’m Deborah Lane. Delia must have told you all about me.”
    He made no reply. He still regarded me with wary eyes. I felt that Delia had done well for herself. Derek Hawke was quite clearly a man of affluence, and though by no means handsome, he emanated an animal magnetism that was overwhelming.
    He was extremely tall, over six feet, and lean, with a sharp, lanky body that had all the grace and power of a panther’s. His features were strong and angular, the cheekbones high and bony, the nose twisted a little to one side, the lips large and wide, out of proportion with the rest of the face. His eyes were brown, so dark that they looked black, glowering beneath heavy, hooded lids. Dark black brows arched over the lids, and thick waves of raven-black hair spilled untidily over his tan forehead.
    He stood with his broad, bony shoulders hunched forward, his hands hidden in the pockets of a black brocade robe embroidered with thread of darker black silk. He must have been in his middle thirties, a formidable man who would understandably strike terror in the hearts of simpleminded people like the waitress. I could visualize him wearing the robes of the Inquisition, or in pirate boots and saber, but I could certainly not see him in a parlor in Mayfair.
    â€œWhere is Delia?” I asked,