The Sedgwick Curse

She whirled around, her gaze staring into the darkness of the garden. Someone was watching her, staring from the safety of some hidden place. She gasped for air as if all the oxygen had been taken away from her.

“Who’s there? Who…?” The words came out as a whisper then they died in her mouth. Her heart pounded in her chest and the sound roared in her ears. A wall of fear surrounded her. She forced her feet to move, to carry her toward the house. Her plodding steps turned into a run as she headed for the light at the kitchen door.

“Where have you been?” The words came at her from the darkness. A jolt of adrenaline raced through her body before she identified the voice as Donovan’s. Then he grabbed hold of her arm and pulled her toward him….

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The Sedgwick Curse

Shawna Delacorte

MILLS & BOON

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Although award-winning author Shawna Delacorte has lived most of her life in Los Angeles and has a background working in television production, she is currently living in Wichita, Kansas. Among her writing accomplishments she is honored to include her placement on the USA TODAY bestseller list. In addition to writing full-time, she teaches a fiction writing class in the Division of Continuing Education at Wichita State University. Shawna enjoys hearing from her readers and can be reached at 6505 E. Central, Box #300, Wichita, KS 67206. You may also visit her at her author page at the Harlequin Web site—www.eHarlequin.com.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Lord Donovan Sedgwick—He inherited the title upon the death of his father, James Sedgwick, though he hasn’t come to grips with his father’s sudden death.

Taylor MacKenzie—She presented herself at Sedgwick Manor as a writer doing research on British country festivals, a ploy to cover her real reason for traveling from Kansas to the English countryside, and specifically to the Sedgwick estate.

George Bradley—Head of staff for the Sedgwick estate, as other members of the Bradley family have been for one hundred and fifty years. There are no secrets in the Sedgwick family history or hidden places on the estate that members of the Bradley family haven’t known about throughout the ages.

Michael Edgeware—The police inspector in charge of investigating the murders has known the Sedgwick family for years. Donovan’s father was responsible for him being passed over for a promotion. Does he carry his resentment over to Donovan?

Jeremy Edwards—Owner of the village inn that has been in the Edwards’ family for generations. Does he know something through his family history about the original murders that was never in the newspapers or part of a police report?

Alexander Sedgwick—Donovan’s cousin, a playboy with a penchant for the gaming tables of London. Donovan has paid off several of Alex’s gambling debts in the past.

Constance Smythe—She has her eye on Donovan as a marriage prospect and covets the status of Lady of the Manor. Could she be the rumored descendent of the illegitimate son William Sedgwick fathered over one hundred years ago and have a legal claim against the Sedgwick estate?

Byron Treadwell—Head of the village newspaper that has been in the family for generations. The Treadwells and Sedgwicks have been adversaries since the original murders committed by William Sedgwick one hundred years ago. Byron has a personal grudge against Donovan Sedgwick.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter One

“What the hell—” Lord Donovan Sedgwick angrily slammed the local village newspaper on the breakfast table in disgust, brushing aside the more imposing London Times.

“Look at this, Bradley, right here on the front page. The explosion at the crypt happened at midnight last night, so how did Byron Treadwell get his hands on the story in time to make the morning edition of this scurrilous rag he calls a newspaper? No one asked my permission, no one interviewed me to find out what I had to say. And I know for a fact that Inspector Edgeware did not make a statement to the press. Byron had no right to take what happened last night at the family cemetery on the private grounds of the estate and sensationalize it all over the front page with his lurid speculations. And he’s done it again—splashed his fictionalized version of the family curse all over the front page.”

Donovan took another sip of his morning coffee as he tried to calm his anger. The Treadwells and the Sedgwicks had been at odds for a little over one hundred years, starting with the night Donovan’s great-grandfather, Lord William Sedgwick, had murdered two people in a fit of complete madness.

The Treadwell newspaper had sensationalized the crime, the trial, the execution and the sealing of Lord William Sedgwick’s body inside the specially built crypt. Then the newspaper had turned its attention to the resulting curse that had been placed on the Sedgwick family, and the story of the curse continued to appear in the newspaper for several months following the interment of Lord William’s body. The curse had been uttered exactly one hundred years to the day before the midnight explosion at the crypt.

Donovan allowed a frown to wrinkle across his forehead as he recalled the movement in the bushes at the cemetery following the explosion. A wave of disgust surged through him. It would be just the kind of thing Byron Treadwell would do—stage a sensational incident such as blowing open the crypt himself on the hundredth anniversary of Lord William’s burial so he could sell more newspapers and publicly embarrass the Sedgwick family in the bargain, especially with the annual festival held on the grounds of the Sedgwick estate only two weeks away.

“This telegram arrived for you an hour ago, sir.” Bradley handed it to him, then waited to see if there would be a response he would need to deal with. The tall, dark-haired man of forty-five maintained his normal, stoic manner. He showed no outward reaction to yet another of the moody outbursts Donovan had displayed following the untimely death of his father, Lord James Sedgwick, two months ago.

“Damn! It’s that writer—Taylor MacKenzie. I completely forgot about him. He’s from the United States. He corresponded with my father for about a month. He’s researching some kind of book on British country festivals and is interested in our annual event—how it originally came about, the changes through the years…that kind of thing. Dad told him he could stay here for the two weeks prior to the festival. According to this telegram he flies into London late this afternoon and plans to drive straight away from the airport to the Cotswolds. He should arrive here sometime this evening.”

Donovan’s jaw tightened into a hard line of determination. He didn’t have time for this and he certainly didn’t have the desire to deal with some stranger in the house. “Put him in the second-floor corner room of the old wing. That should give him a feel for the history of the place.” He mumbled under his breath, the words not really meant for Bradley’s ears, “It’ll also keep him out of my hair. I’m in no mood to put up with some nosy writer from the States.”

He glanced out the window toward the family cemetery. The yellow crime-scene tape marked off the area of investigation around the crypt. Several police constables combed the grounds for any clue as to exactly what had happened. A little tremor of apprehension darted through his body. “Not with whatever it is that’s going on out there.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll see that the room is prepared.”

As Bradley turned to leave, Donovan stopped him. “I talked to Alex yesterday. He’ll be here sometime this afternoon. For the past five months Constance has been doing her usual efficient job of organizing this year’s festival, but Alex volunteered to give me a hand with the last-minute details and I’m happy to let him do it.”

Donovan had been pleased when his first cousin, Alexander Sedgwick, had phoned. He and Alex were very close despite the vast differences in their lifestyles and the six-year gap in their ages, Alex’s twenty-seven years compared with Donovan’s thirty-three years. When they were children, Donovan had been annoyed at the way his young cousin would tag along, and it seemed as if Alex and his family were at the manor house every weekend. But as they grew older, the two men had developed a much closer bond.

He looked forward to Alex’s visit and help with the festival if for no other reason than to distance himself from working so closely with Constance. Constance Smythe was a tireless worker, but she always made him uneasy. She was too willing to take on any chore, too quick to volunteer for any committee or project the village was involved with…much too anxious to find excuses to be at the manor house.

THE MOOD WAS RELAXED, a far cry from the stress that had been pushing at Donovan all day. After dinner he and Alex had gone to the snooker room where the two evenly matched players resumed their ongoing personal tournament, a contest that had started almost ten years ago. They played for two hours before Donovan returned his cue stick to the rack. He glanced at his watch. It was only nine o’clock even though it felt much later.

Donovan stifled a yawn. “I didn’t get much sleep last night. I think I’ll retire for the evening. Apparently that writer fellow isn’t going to arrive tonight.”

Alex returned his cue to the rack, then picked up the bottle of ale from the table and handed it to Donovan. “Here, you still have a swallow left.” A sly grin turned the corners of his mouth. “I hate to see anything go to waste, especially good ale.”

“Thanks.” Donovan finished the last drink, then returned the empty bottle to the table.

Alex’s manner became serious as he stared at Donovan for a moment, then spoke in carefully measured words. “Since you haven’t said anything, I guess I’ll just have to be brash and ask. I saw the local newspaper headlines and the police barricade at the cemetery. What’s going on?”

A quick jab of anger surged through Donovan. The thought of Byron Treadwell and his sensationalist journalism still rankled. “It’s very strange. At midnight last night a loud explosion woke everyone for miles around. When I went to see what happened, I found the door of Great-Grandfather William’s crypt blasted off its hinges, but the sarcophagus inside appeared to be undamaged.” Then a shiver of apprehension revealed his inner fears. “I don’t know how or why it happened. I insisted that Inspector Edgeware take personal charge of the case, but Mike doesn’t know any more about what happened than I do…at least nothing that he’s conveying to me.”

“So that’s why you asked me to stop in the village and pick up your order at the chemist shop. You didn’t want to make an appearance and be inundated with questions.”

“Hopefully the furor over this will die down in a couple of days.” Donovan paused for a moment to collect his thoughts as he stole a quick glance out the window. A jolt of anxiety set his nerves on edge and left his stomach tied in knots. “I’m worried, Alex. I have a terrible premonition that whatever is going on out there is far from over.”

Alex tried to suppress a chuckle without much success. “You’re not talking about that stupid curse thing, are you? How did that go? To rise from the ruins—what is born of the fires of hell cannot die. Some demented old man who was supposed to have mystical powers utters some ambiguous words as Great-Grandfather’s body is being sealed in the crypt and says the curse would come to fruition in one hundred years. I could understand some ignorant and superstitious villagers in the eighteenth century buying into all this curse stuff, but not a mere hundred years ago when all this happened. And now in the twenty-first century everyone is suddenly jumping at every shadow because of some coincidental explosion that probably has some very logical explanation.”

Donovan snapped out his irritation. “That’s not funny, Alex.” He stared out the window into the blackness of the night. Another tremor of apprehension rippled through his body, leaving him very unsettled. “Something extremely bizarre is going on and I don’t have any rational explanation for it.” And that included the blinding headaches that had attacked him several times in the past two months since the death of his father, like steel bands tightening around his head. They left him confused, disoriented and with memory lapses—and frightened about what it meant and what the future held.

The two men talked for a few more minutes, then Alex went to the room he had been occupying on his visits to the estate since he was a little boy. Donovan remained downstairs in the entry hall staring out a window, trying to force his eyes to see whatever it was he sensed lurking in the darkness.

The police had left a light at the site of the crypt explosion. He watched as fingers of fog crept across the ground, edging their way around the tombstones belonging to generations of the Sedgwick family—generations too numerous to count and, according to many, better left forgotten. The ground fog blanketed everything in a damp shroud just as it had that night a century ago. The light electrified the mist with an eerie spectral glow. A shudder swept through Donovan’s body, causing him to hunch his shoulders as if warding off a cold wind.

“Do you require anything else, sir, before I secure the house for the night?” Bradley’s last duty of the day before retiring to his quarters was to see that all the doors and windows were locked and most of the lights turned out.

“No, nothing. You go on, I’ll see to the front door.”

“Very well, sir. Good night.”

Donovan continued to stare out the window, lost in his own thoughts and unspoken fears. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed before the sound of the doorbell startled him back into reality. He opened the door to the late-night visitor.

The low, throaty voice floated toward him through the night air. “Hello. I’m Taylor MacKenzie.”

“You…you’re Taylor MacKenzie?” Donovan stared in disbelief at the beautiful woman standing at the front door, bathed in the soft glow of the porch light. He felt the tightening in his chest as a quick surge of heated energy darted through his reality. Something about her looked so familiar, as if he should know her, but that was impossible. No man with a spark of life in him could ever forget having met this vision who jolted his senses and nearly took his breath away. But still…he couldn’t shake the strange, almost overwhelming sensation of déjà vu.

The tightening in his chest moved lower in his body as his breathing quickened. His gaze dropped to the swell of her breast, the lacy pattern of her bra faintly visible through the soft material of her shirt. Well-worn jeans encased long legs and hugged the curve of her hips without appearing too tight. He took a steadying breath in an attempt to bring his rapidly escalating yet totally inappropriate desires under control.

It had never occurred to him that the writer his father had been corresponding with was a woman. He forced his gaze away from her and toward the sports car parked in the circular drive in front of the house. She had enough suitcases piled on the luggage rack and in the storage space behind the seat to be moving in permanently.

The mysterious explosion at the crypt made the presence of a stranger in the house unwelcome. He wished that he had written to her following his father’s death and withdrawn the invitation to stay at the manor house and use the family archives.

He did not have time in his life for this unexpected woman, or the desire that flooded his body, certainly not until he came to terms with his father’s premature death and resolved the problem of what had happened at the crypt. He was glad he had decided to put the writer in a bedroom far away from his own suite of rooms. Hopefully it would keep temptation at bay for the duration of her visit. And there was no doubt in his mind that she represented temptation of the most primal kind—temptation combined with some strange indefinable allure that left him puzzled and a bit rattled.

A touch of hesitation surrounded her words, matching the confused expression on her face. “And you’re Lord Sedgwick?” She extended her hand and offered a pleasant albeit businesslike smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I certainly appreciate your hospitality and cooperation in opening your home and the family archives. It will be a great help to me in my research. Although I must admit that I had pictured you as being older.”

The title had led her to make the assumption about his age. This man was much younger than she had anticipated, not that much older than her thirty years. His hair, a soft shade of brown, was thick and full. It was long enough to hang over his shirt collar in back and cover his ears. She had an almost irresistible impulse to run her fingers through it. The front dangled across his forehead in a disorganized manner that made him look little-boy innocent and very sexy at the same time—a dangerous combination, but one that she found very compelling. He appeared to be about six foot two—tall, even compared to her five-seven.

His piercing blue eyes held a haunted look as if they had witnessed all the horrors of a thousand centuries. He seemed to be staring right through her. He was a total stranger, yet somehow she sensed something about him, something very familiar and at the same time unsettling. Something that left her decidedly uneasy as it put her nerves on edge and her senses on alert.

Something she didn’t understand.

Donovan made no effort to respond to the woman’s outstretched hand. He simply stood there staring. Her short, windblown hair framed her face in a wild profusion of bright copper. Her large emerald eyes were wide with innocence while still holding a wisdom far beyond her years. A distinct chill stabbed at his spine, a disturbing chill that somehow managed to become entwined with the very real heat of excitement that still nestled low in his body. Confusion clouded her face as she lowered her hand.

“This is the Sedgwick estate, isn’t it? I’ll admit that driving on your country roads was a little confusing for me, especially at night. I thought I’d taken all the correct turns. I realize it’s late, but my telegram did say I’d be arriving tonight.”

Her eyes widened as if a sudden thought had just occurred to her. A sense of urgency crept into her voice. “You did receive my telegram, didn’t you?”

“Uh…yes, your telegram. Of course.” Donovan shook the fuzziness from his brain and extended his hand toward her as he forced a smile. “I apologize for my rudeness. You took me by surprise. I’m Donovan Sedgwick. It was my father, James Sedgwick, who you had been corresponding with. Please, come in.” He stepped aside as she entered the house.

A tinge of red flushed across her cheeks indicating her embarrassment. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I should have realized that Lord Sedgwick wouldn’t be answering his own door.”

“The household staff have retired for the night. I happened to be in the entry hall when you rang the doorbell.” A whiff of her perfume tickled his senses, drawing them even more taut. “I was expecting a man. The name Taylor led me to believe…well, I didn’t realize my father had been corresponding with a woman.” He noticed the hint of surprise that had quickly darted across her face. He felt it, too, the moment their hands clasped. It was an indefinable sensation—a combination of destiny, fate and desire that he found intriguing yet at the same time disturbing.

“I hope my gender won’t present you with a problem.” Taylor was thankful to have the sensually sparked physical contact broken. She surveyed the cavernous entry hall as she stepped into the room. A large crystal chandelier hung all the way from the top of the three-story cathedral ceiling. Richly paneled walls were lined with paintings she assumed to be the Sedgwick ancestors, and a large staircase with a hand-carved oak banister curved up to the second and third floors, supported by alabaster columns.

She shivered slightly as her gaze swept across the scene for the second time. The low lights shrouded the elegantly appointed entry hall in a dim gloominess. From what she had been able to observe upon her arrival at the estate, the gardens, grounds and buildings all seemed to be well maintained. The estate projected an image of wealth, but it still reminded her of a movie set from some old Gothic film where sinister happenings enveloped the occupants in a cloak of mystery and danger. An involuntary shiver darted up her spine. Did the rest of the house project an equally ominous feel?

“This is an interesting—” Her words stopped, her hand went to her mouth as a startled gasp escaped her throat when her gaze fell on the portrait hanging on the wall. She quickly turned to stare at Donovan, then returned her attention to the painting. Her throat tightened and her mouth went dry as she stared at the portrait. The subject of the painting stared back at her with the same eyes and features as her host, but with clothes from a century earlier. An oppressive stillness filled the entry hall. She tried to shed the sudden apprehension that settled over her, pressing down like a heavy weight.

Donovan followed her line of sight, the expression on her face saying more than words could convey. “That’s my great-grandfather. His name was William.” He pointed to another painting. “That one’s my grandfather, Henry Sedgwick, and this one—” he indicated yet another painting “—is my father, James Sedgwick.”