Gothic Romance

Legacy of Darkness

The Jago Legacy Series, Book One
It is 1837 and the young Queen Victoria has just ascended the English throne.
Orphaned and penniless after her father’s death in India, Lucy Alleyne is forced to accept a post as companion to an elderly lady, until a distant relative spirits her away to Castle Athal on the Cornish coast. But Lucy’s initial gratitude at Lady Demelza Jago’s benevolence soon gives way to unease.
The ancient Cornish castle, known locally as Tenebris, is a dark monument to the family’s history and secrets. Within its embrace Lucy is drawn into friendship with Tynan Jago. The young Earl of Athal is handsome and poetic yet tortured, like his father before him. Tynan is utterly different from his uncle, Uther, whose seductive, leonine power radiates from his every word and gesture.
Between them the two Jago men have innocent Lucy enthralled…mind, body and soul. If she remains within the bloodstained castle walls, with their history of ill-starred passion and madness, a mere broken heart will seem a blessing.

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Excerpt
Copyright © 2015 Jane Godman
All rights reserved

I could not sleep. Whether it was the strangeness of my surroundings, the speed with which Demelza had whisked me away to this place or, as I suspected, the unsettling effect of meeting Uther Jago, I could not say. But I rose from my restless, curtained bed and sat in a chair by the dim light of the dying fire for what seemed to be many hours. The shadow of the bedpost danced upon the wall, but my thoughts were as still as the grave.

I remembered with great clarity how my mother talked of her occasional childhood visits to Tenebris. Although she died when I was young, she had a remarkable gift for painting with words a vivid picture of reality. Her stories stayed with me long after she had gone. Bemused affection always tinged her recollections of this Jago stronghold, the walls of which had seen so many bloody endings. She viewed Tenebris through the romantic eyes of a fanciful child, and it had not disappointed. Ghosts and hauntings, mysterious whispers, troubled winds, darkened moors and secrets…these were the colours of her memories.

The awful grandeur of Tenebris, it seemed, exerted a powerful attraction over the Jago family, even those for whom it had never truly been home. My grandmother, a Jago cousin, spent her childhood nearby in an unremarkable manor house. Once married to a successful London diplomat, and with a family of her own, she made regular summer pilgrimages to the remnant of her ancestry. My own mother had married well, but perhaps not quite brilliantly enough for her Jago relatives. Although my father died a baronet, the title came to him through hard work, not birth. I suspected that my mother’s visits to Tenebris were curtailed because her husband—who, at that time, had been plain Mr Reginald Alleyne—was not quite grand enough for her noble relatives.

Of her Jago cousins, my mother had spoken little. And that struck me, with the great gift known as hindsight, as rather odd. I wondered at the charismatic duo who made up two-thirds of my new family. Brother and sister had physical beauty in abundance, undeniable charm and something more besides. Their wealth and pedigree were beyond question. Yet both were well past the expected marriageable age and remained unattached. Were they particularly difficult to please? Or, as my aunt had hinted, had their great sacrifice to the altar of family duty been their care for an orphaned, delicate nephew? And what of that nephew? Of Tynan Jago, the man who was master of this towering monument to the cruel vanity of men? In spite of Demelza’s dismissive assurances, I remained nervous about how the Earl of Athal would view the introduction of an indigent—and tenuously distant—relative into his ancestral home.

Uther, yielding to Demelza’s promptings, had promised to escort me around the castle on the following day. I looked forward to learning something of the castle’s history. Dare I also admit that I relished the prospect of his company? My thoughts, unbidden, returned repeatedly to dwell on this possibility. Indeed, if I am honest, my mind had not strayed far from Uther Jago since the minute I met him. I was utterly devastated by his charm.

At first, my mind was so preoccupied that I thought I must have imagined the sound. When it came again, it was faint and my ears strained to fully catch it. It was a cat, surely? Or maybe a fox had strayed into the gardens beneath my window. The hoarse, yipping sound could only have come from a wild animal.

I rose and drew my elegant new dressing gown tighter. The casement window creaked as I opened it. The moon was full and threw its benign silver-gauze veil over the unfamiliar scene. The sound grew louder. It became a croaking, screeching banshee wail that broke on a note of wild laughter before dying away to an embittered moan. Frozen into immobility, I stood by the open window, as the soulful lament—urgent and frenzied—went on and on, branding its madness into my brain. No emotion so effectively robs the mind of all reason, or the feet of all action, as fear. But my terror was not induced solely by the haunting desperation of the sound. It was also because its source was here inside the castle. In the corridor outside my bedchamber.

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Echoes in the Darkness 

The Jago Legacy Series, Book Two
In the artistic circles of 1860s Paris she is known as the Divine Dita, the
most sought-after nude model in Montmartre. But now she’s not so much striking a pose as playing a role, as fiancée to the next Earl of Athal. The charade is a favor to Dita’s best friend, Eddie Jago, a dissolute painter, and the aforementioned heir. As deceptions go, it is innocent compared with what is to come.
On the grim Cornish coast, from the ashes of a ruined castle rises the Jagos’ sumptuous new manor house. The fresh-hewn stone, however, cannot absorb the blood of centuries or quiet the echoes of past crimes. Dita struggles to decipher the Jago family. There is Tynan, the kindly Earl, Lucia, his capable wife, handsome, volatile Eddie and sweet, sheltered sister Eleanor. Then there is Cad, the handsome second son whose reputation is impeccable in business, but scandalous in everything else.
Drawn by friendship, ensnared by lust, Dita uncovers a sordid tangle of murder, desire and madness. It will lay her bare as no portraitist has done before.
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Excerpt
Copyright © 2015 Jane Godman
All rights reserved

Paris 1868
My journey to Tenebris started many months before I actually crossed the channel to England. I suppose it really began on the day I found a very beautiful, very naked man asleep in my apartment.

It was one of those pure, perfect April days when the Parisian sky was endlessly blue, skylarks sang and sunlight glinted on the crowded rooftops. The scent of just-baked bread and freshly poured coffee lingered in the still air. An accordion player provided a wailing accompaniment to the chatter of café goers as they sipped cloudy Pernod or rolled aromatic cigarettes. A group of young men, clad in the studied bohemian garb affected by poets and artists, hailed me by name as I ran lightly past them. I waved a hand and hurried on. The tiny attic rooms I rented were close to the Élysée Theatre in the Montmartre district. The cobbled streets were steep and, panting, I burst in through my door, casting my hat and cloak aside. I had lived here since I first arrived in Paris, almost a year ago. It was beginning to feel like home, and the thought was bittersweet.

I must have let out a squeal, or made another sound of surprise, because the stark-naked man lying full-length on my sofa awakened. I had time to notice the striking blue of his eyes and that his bare limbs were long and well muscled, before he abruptly sat up, managing to cover his exposed groin with an embroidered cushion. The thought that it was hardly the action of a dangerous attacker alleviated my shock slightly. We regarded each other warily before he burst out laughing.

“How did you get in here?” I demanded. Later, I would look back and wonder why it didn’t occur to me to be afraid.

“You should lock your door,” he said, yawning to show very white teeth.

“I always do! And I know I did exactly that before I left here this morning,” I informed him. It was true. No one had more cause than I to be meticulous about security.

He laughed again, a little sheepishly this time. My memory processed the fact that I had seen him before. He was one of the group of younger, wilder artists who frequented the theatres and bars of Montmartre. I had noticed him because of his height and remarkable good looks. “Very well, perhaps I should have said ‘You should make sure your door can’t be unlocked by anyone with half a brain and a penknife.’” The subtle trace of an English accent caught my ears.

Those words should, of course, have been my cue to run screaming to the gendarmes. But, bizarrely, I didn’t feel at risk from my unclothed intruder, and I like to think I have a well-honed sense of danger. So, instead of fleeing, I asked the most incongruous of the many questions that were racing around my head. “Why have you taken all your clothes off?”

“They’re wet,” he pointed out. And he was right; every item was soaked through. He had flung all of his discarded garments haphazardly onto a chair, and a puddle was forming on the floorboards beneath. I clicked my tongue disapprovingly and busied myself arranging his jacket, shirt and trousers so that they might actually begin to dry out. He lay back again, still holding the strategically placed cushion, and watched me.

“And, if it’s not an impertinent question,” I said, with an attempt at sarcasm, “might I also ask what you are doing here?”

“It was a wager,” he said, as though that explained everything. And, in a way, it did. The group I had seen him with were heavy drinkers, wild to a fault and legendary gamblers.

“You broke into a complete stranger’s apartment for a wager?”

“The bet was not to break in, but to persuade you to let me paint your portrait,” he explained. “Your face, I mean. You weren’t here, so I decided to wait for you.”

I had been bustling about in a diffident, housewifely manner, straightening chairs and hanging my hat and cloak on a peg, but I stopped at that and turned to look at him. “I pose for nudes,” I said quietly. But he knew that. I remembered the first time I’d seen him was in a class for which I’d modelled at the ateliers des arts. I remembered the appreciative look in his eyes when I took off my robe. “I don’t do portraits.”

“Why?” He made an impulsive movement as though he was about to stand up, but my raised hand and look of horror forestalled him. He collapsed back on the sofa with an apologetic grin. “You are the most incredible woman I have ever seen. That was how the wager started—we were discussing the perfect shape of your face, the drama of your colouring, the glory of your eyes. The Divine Dita. That’s what they call you. No one can understand why you’ll let them paint your tits but not your face.” He seemed to feel I might be offended by the comment and added, “Don’t get me wrong. Your tits are glorious, too! But you could earn a king’s ransom from portraits, you know.”

“No.” I shook my head firmly.

“Privately?” His tone was low, and very persuasive. “Just you and I, alone. The artist and his muse. A portrait no one else will ever see? I will pay you well.” He named a figure far in excess of anything I had ever earned.

I studied him thoughtfully. He really was quite alarmingly attractive and not remotely self-conscious, apparently, about his own nudity. “If it was just between us, how would you win your wager?” I asked.

“I wouldn’t, of course. But I would have the satisfaction—private satisfaction—of knowing that I had succeeded where others had failed.”

His smile was heartbreaking, but I couldn’t help noticing that, in contrast, his eyes were sad. It was a curiously irresistible combination. The offer was enticing, but I couldn’t risk it, even for the sum he had mentioned. To avoid any further temptation, I changed the subject. “How did your clothes get so wet?”

“Some of my so-called friends decided to throw me into the fountain before we parted company last night.” He frowned in an effort to remember. “I mean, this morning.”

“These things will take forever to dry. I can go to your apartment, if you wish, and bring you back something to change into. You’ll have to give me a key, of course. I’m not as skilled in the art of house-breaking as you.”

“Ah,” he said, as though another memory had just occurred to him. “When those clothes are dry, I’d better get out and start looking for somewhere to live.” He glanced around my neat, little apartment, taking in the two boxlike bedrooms, tiny bathroom and this comfortable parlour with its views across the rooftops and curtained-off kitchen area at one end. “Unless—you wouldn’t happen to be looking for a roommate, would you, sweetheart? I’m house-trained and harmless.”

I eyed him thoughtfully while my mind raced through a series of arguments. Against the dangers of allowing a dissolute, undeniably charismatic—but probably penniless, and almost certainly lecherous—artist into my home and my life, I weighed the previous day’s stern warning from my landlord: “Pay the arrears by Monday, or take up residence on the street corner.” And, of course, it wouldn’t be a bad thing to have a man about the place. Another girl had been found dead just yards from my front door. My restless mind flitted back again to the arguments against the idea. The biggest of them all lurked in the shadows of my imagination. Thankfully, he had not yet appeared in the shadows of my reality. But I knew it was only a matter of time. I had made myself a promise that Sandor would never be allowed to hurt another person because of me. Could I keep that promise if I allowed myself to become close to this engaging rogue?

“The rent is due on Friday and I will need two weeks in advance,” I blurted out before I had time to apply either caution or sense to the situation. I could always throw him out if he proved to be a nuisance. He held out his hand with solemn courtesy. Averting my eyes as the cushion slipped slightly, I returned his warm grasp. His eyes twinkled, briefly dispelling the discordant air of sorrow that prevailed in their depths.

That was the day on which Eddie Jago and I became roommates. And best friends.

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Darkness Unchained 

The Jago Legacy Series, Book Three

1922, Cornwall, England
Could the maddest, baddest, sexiest Jago of them all really be back?
Growing up in the shadows of the Drakensberg mountains, ever since she can remember, Annie van der Merwe has envisioned a golden eyed man she calls Uther. Now, half way across the world, in a beautiful cliff top mansion known as Tenebris, Annie comes face to face with the embodiment of her visions.
Torn body and soul between mesmerising nobleman Uther Jago and his brooding brother Nicca, headstrong Annie must face the awful legacy of the Jagos. Lust, betrayal and a darkness older than time await her if she remains within the encircling walls of Tenebris.
Only in sultry South Africa can Annie hope to conquer the darkness borne in blood and bone that threatens to destroy them all. But once the Jago darkness has been unleashed, can it ever be vanquished?

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Excerpt
Copyright © 2015 Jane Godman
All rights reserved

The old house slumbered in the morning sunlight. It allowed that unique Cornish glow—the one that bounced back from the sea in all directions—to bathe its tired corners and crevices with warmth. After centuries of darkness, Tenebris had enjoyed a brief period of quiet. This world, a whirl of automobiles, telephones and air travel, could not understand the ancient creeds. This brave new century thought it knew everything. It had survived a great war, one that it arrogantly called “the war to end all wars,” but there was greater horror to come. The darkness that waited patiently within the ancient walls knew it. A man who led a small, but vocal, political party in Germany—a man named Adolf Hitler—knew it, too. The world would cringe before the awful truth in time.

The darkness missed the Jago clan, the true family of Athal. The Hungarian woman had brought peace, and with her coming, the evil had moved on. For a while it had stalked the streets of London’s Whitechapel district, knife in hand. But it was on its way back. Tenebris sensed the true darkness drawing ever closer. It smiled to itself, hugging its secrets tightly. The Jago legacy was about to be unchained once more.

Cornwall, England, 1922
I paused astride the top of the wall, looking down at the expanse of garden below me. Nothing moved. When I was absolutely certain that there was no other living creature around, I dropped down onto the grass and crouched low in the late afternoon shadows. If I’d thought this through, I’d have come at night, equipped with a torch. But I’d reached the age of twenty-two and not yet acquired the skill of thinking things through. The garden was overgrown and deserted, not at all what I had expected or imagined. I thought of Rudi’s paintings. They invariably depicted this pale marble manor, a castle with its soaring ramparts and flying pennants, or an impossibly handsome man with golden eyes and a cruel smile.
“Sies tog, Annie! For shame,” I scolded myself under my breath. “Did you think he would be here, waiting to greet you?”

I moved away from the wall, confident now that the house really was, as I had believed, empty. It was a hauntingly beautiful place. Rudi’s brushstrokes had been remarkably accurate. He had even managed to reproduce the shape of the ornate lake, now a still, dark mirror, and the way the contours of the house clung sinuously to the scorching drama of the cliffs. Bolder now, I followed a path through well-planned gardens. Someone had put great thought and love into the arrangement of these, but their upkeep now showed signs of definite neglect.

I had attempted, in what Rudi would doubtless call my “sledge-hammer Annie” fashion, to get into the house by more conventional means two days ago. Ever since we had first seen this place and realised, with an awe-filled exchange of glances, that we were here, I had been determined to get over the doorstep. Rudi, always more cautious than I, had put forward a series of reasoned arguments.

“It’s a coincidence, Annie. It must be.”

I gazed steadily back at him. “Coincidence?” I said at last, pointing to his sketchpad. He had the grace to hunch one thin shoulder. “Don’t worry, broer, I’ll make some excuse. I was out walking and the laces on my shoe broke, or something like that. Even I’m not going to march up to their front door and blurt out the real reason.” I fluttered my eyelashes and affected a flirtatious tone. “Oh, goeie more, meneer. Good morning to you, sir. Yes, you with the eyes like a hunting lion. My broer and I live over five thousand miles away, but I just dropped by to say ‘hello’ because we’ve known about you and your house ever since we were little babas. We have the pictures to prove it.”

I had made some enquiries in Port Isaac. People seemed surprisingly reluctant to talk about the impressive mansion on the jutting peninsula, but I learned it was called Athal House. The name meant nothing to me, which I found slightly disappointing. I had expected a cacophony of bells to chime in my mind when at last I heard its name. I swung briskly along the cliff path in preparation to put my plan into action, only to encounter an ornate gatehouse that spanned the drive. The huge gates themselves, carved from wrought iron, were embellished with a crest of gold stars on a black background. The words Lucent in Tenebris were engraved in flowing script across the top of the closed barrier. I didn’t know any Latin, but these words did strike a chord somewhere deep inside my subconscious. Not bells and whistles, but something I didn’t understand stirred within me, and the hairs on the back of my neck lifted. The feeling intensified when I had reached out a hand to touch the cold metal of the gate. I knew it would be firmly locked against me before I tried it.

You are not welcome here, Annie. We are not ready for you…yet.

Telling myself to get a grip, I had given the gates a shake. They refused to budge. Stepping back, I scanned the mullioned windows of the gatehouse. Blankly, they stared back at me.

“Hello?” My voice had sounded nervy and hesitant. Distinctly un-Annie-like. I had glanced to the sides of the gatehouse. A wall ran away to either side, and I had seen on the approach that it bordered the perimeter of the house on three sides. On the fourth was the cliff. Although the wall was above head height, I knew I could scale it easily. But I had been dressed for an afternoon visit, not for climbing. My best dress, matching coat and smart shoes would have been ruined, as would my dignity. And if I got myself arrested for trespassing, what would happen to Rudi?

“Hello?” I had cupped my hands around my mouth and raised my voice. “Can you help me, please? I’ve broken my shoelace. If I could come inside? Just for a minute…”

It was useless. Dispirited, I had made my way back to the diminutive cottage we had rented for the summer season. But Athal House had taken a firm grip on my imagination. It had become a challenge. And I was never going to resist one of those. Which was why I had come back again, clad in Rudi’s clothes, with my braided hair tucked up under one of his tweed caps.

I approached the house from an oblique angle. Although the windows stared back at me like sightless eyes, I wasn’t prepared to take any chances. This was the side of the house with ocean views, and the first window I peeped into showed me a glimpse of a library, a room that fired my reader’s soul with bitter envy. The next was a beautiful parlour, and I somehow sensed the hand of an elegant, fashionable woman in its cool, comfortable design. As I approached the third window, a light flickered on inside and I leaped back in alarm, hoping to avoid detection. My instincts had failed me in the most spectacular fashion. I had been here only minutes, but it was already time to go.

Keeping low, I ran along the side of the house, heading back in the direction of the perimeter wall. I reached the corner and entered a large, desperately overgrown rose garden. Making my way through this proved fraught with obstacles, and I was soon hopelessly entangled in a thorny grip. As I twisted to free myself from sweet-smelling captivity, a huge paw of a hand grabbed me by my collar and plucked me bodily from the ground, holding me suspended so that my legs dangled in midair a foot above the grass.

“Now then, my boy.” The voice was low and rumbling, as befitted an owner of such immense proportions. “Might I ask what you are doing here? Casing the joint in preparation for a spot of house-breaking later, perhaps?”

I squirmed wildly in an attempt to break free. My feeble efforts made my captor laugh, a fact that caused me to gasp furiously. “Jou bliksem!” For the purposes of clarity I said it again in English. “You bastard! Put me down.”

He turned me easily in his grasp at that, and I found myself looking into a pair of puzzled blue eyes set in a strong-jawed face that was pleasantly handsome without being in any way remarkable. Although he retained his grip on my jacket, he did set my feet on the floor, and seizing the opportunity this presented, I kicked out. My boot gave a satisfying thud as it connected with his shin. He gave a grunt of annoyance, but still did not release me. I swung a punch in the direction of his jaw, but because of the man’s height, it fell short and connected with the base of his throat.

“Unless you want your ears soundly boxed, my lad, you’ll keep these pathetic attempts to do me physical damage under control.”

Ignoring this piece of advice, I kneed him sharply in the groin. He gave a loud “Oof!” and doubled up in pain. Not surprisingly, he did let me go at that, and I prepared to run. Unfortunately, the giant was not as badly hurt as I had hoped, and he reached out a hand, sweeping the tweed cap from my head as he did. My braids tumbled free, falling almost to my waist. My captor caught hold of one of these, jerking me to an instant standstill.

“Not a boy, after all,” he remarked, as though finding a girl in disguise prowling around his garden was an everyday occurrence. He wound the plaited length of my hair around his hand like a rope, drawing me relentlessly toward him. I regarded him belligerently as he studied my face. “The question remains the same, however. What the devil are you doing here?” Inside my pocket, I surreptitiously slid my little dagger out of its stitched leather sheath. “Cat got your tongue? Well, since you won’t speak to me, perhaps you’d rather talk to the police?”

Relying on speed and surprise, I twisted the knife in my hand. His eyes flashed as he saw it, but before he could react, I brought it up and sliced neatly through my own thick hair. I had time to register the look of comic surprise on his face as he stood there, clutching a length of plaited black hair in his hand before I sped off like a streak of lightning and hurled myself at the wall. Laughing, I turned back at the top.

“Call it a keepsake, meneer,” I called as I dropped down into the gathering twilight on the other side.

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