The Mark of the Midnight Manzanilla A Pink Carnation Novel Read Online Free PDF Page A

considering the urns that lined the roof of the house. “I think it’s a crow.”
    “Did you know what a group of crows is called?” Agnes’s voice dropped to a hushed whisper. “The collective term for a group of crows is—”
    “Oh, no,” said Sally.
    “—a murder,” Agnes finished earnestly.
    As an academic appellation it was just a little too atmospheric, especially with the moon silhouetted against the chimney pots, casting strange shadows through the abandoned garden. Sally felt a chill shiver its way down her spine, beneath the thin fabric of her gown and chemise.
    Catching Lizzy’s too-knowing eye, she hastily looked away, wishing she hadn’t parted with her shawl.
    There was no call for Lizzy to look at her that way. Chills were simply what one got when one stood on a balcony in a scoop-necked ball gown in the middle of October. It had nothing at all to do with the black bird flapping about the chimney pots.
    Somewhere in the depths of the garden, an owl voiced its mournful cry.
    “That”—Sally cast about for a suitably dampening adjective—“is absurd.”
    “No, truly,” said Agnes. “It’s a murder of crows and an unkindness of ravens.”
    That last, at least, was appropriate. Sally cast a glance back over her shoulder at the ballroom. “I’d say it’s more an affectation of imbeciles.”
    Lizzy grinned at her. “You sound like my stepmother.” Before Sally could decide whether that was an insult or not, Lizzy turned her attention back to the dark shell of Belliston House. Leaning her elbows on the balustrade, she said with relish, “They say he sucks the blood of unwary maidens.”
    Agnes considered this. “I imagine they’re less trouble than wary ones.”
    “Utter rubbish,” said Sally crisply. Before Agnes could argue with her, she added quickly, “Just because the man scorns society doesn’t mean that he’s an unholy creature of the night.”
    In fact, at the moment she would say it was rather a sign of his good sense.
    “No one has seen him for seven years,” Lizzy pointed out. “Or was it ten? That’s rather a long time for societal scorning unless he had some other motive in mind.”
    “Such as draining the blood of wary or unwary maidens?” Sally gave a delicate sniff. “I think not.”
    Agnes’s face took on the distant look it acquired when she was parsing a difficult academic question. “Seven is a mystical number. . . .”
    “So is three,” said Sally. “Or five hundred and thirty-two.” She had no idea about five hundred and thirty-two, but someone had to show a bit of sense. Sally pushed away from the balcony, her gauze overskirt catching on the carved edge of an acanthus leaf. “Whatever the Duke of Belliston is, he’s just a man.”
    Lizzy’s eyes glinted with mischief. “Prove it,” she said.
    Agnes looked in alarm from Lizzy to Sally and back again. “You don’t mean—”
    Lizzy nodded decisively. “Someone ought to go over there. In the interest of truth, of course.” Her face was a picture of guileless innocence as she added delicately, “Unless, of course, you don’t care to go.”
    They had played this game so many times before, in the safety of Miss Climpson’s Select Seminary. Sally had never yet turned down a challenge, and Lizzy knew it.
    “Why shouldn’t I?” Sally made a show of indifference, even though she could feel the thrum of the blood through her veins, sending her pulse racing, making colors crisper and sounds clearer. “What could be more invigorating on a cool evening than a walk across a garden?”
    Agnes looked at her in alarm. “Sally, you wouldn’t. . . .”
    Oh, wouldn’t she? Sally caught Lizzy’s grin and knew she understood, even if Agnes didn’t.
    “Don’t worry,” Sally said to Agnes. “I shan’t do anything foolish. Anything else foolish,” she amended. “I’ll just peer through the window and report back. That’s all.”
    Before Agnes could protest, Sally pushed her cameo