Tempt Me Twice

by Olivia Drake

  But she took only scant notice of her surroundings. She was too caught up in a pressing urgency to see Meg.

  On learning of her sister’s indiscretion during the coach ride here to Fairfield Park, Kate had hugged her close, terrified by what might have happened. Then she had soundly chastised Meg.

  “You went off with Sir Charles when I warned you not to do so. How could you have been so foolish?”

  “I wasn’t foolish. We were merely touring the castle. ” Kate leaned forward, grasping her sister’s arm beneath her traveling cloak. “Meg, he could have done you harm. Grave harm. He's a murderer. ”

  “You always think the worst of men,” Meg flared, pulling away. “Well, I don’t want to be so sour. I want to marry, to find love and happiness. ”

  The rebuke had arrowed into Kate, piercing her heart. Was that how her sister viewed her? As a disagreeable shrew who didn’t know how to love? If so, then her bitterness had influenced Meg to rebel.

  Instantly contrite, Meg had apologized, the defiance draining from her. For the remainder of the ten-mile journey, she’d sat in uncharacteristic silence, either gazing out the window or looking down at the slim volume of poetry gripped in her gloved hands.

  Kate brooded on her sister’s denunciation. If only Meg knew how the wondrous night with Gabriel had changed Kate, awakening her to the sharp, sweet pain of love. With him, she’d found the joy that had been missing from her life. Now she could even understand the restlessness that drove him, the distaste for family life that had been instilled in him by his father. But could she ever accept Gabriel’s wandering ways?

  Then an insight jolted her. She had to marry Gabriel; it was the only way to eradicate Sir Charles’s claim to guardianship. No court in the land would deny the rights of a husband and brother-in-law. A foolish, imprudent exhilaration filled her, tempered only by a natural caution. She would ponder the situation later, wait to see if Gabriel found the goddess. In the meantime, she had enough on her mind with worrying about her sister.

  She couldn’t forget the peculiarity of Meg’s restrained behavior. Did her sister regret the risk she’d taken? Or did she cling to the stubborn belief that Sir Charles had been wrongfully accused?

  Kate feared the latter. She knew how persuasive Sir Charles could be. She too had trusted him when he’d first come to their door, bringing the news of Papa’s death and offering his sham condolences. He’d presented himself as a colleague of Papa’s, and for a short while, she’d accepted his lies. How much more credulous and naïve was her sister.

  Meg had been a girl of twelve when Papa had departed on the expedition. The experiences of life that had made Kate wary of men had had the opposite effect on her sister. Too easily, Meg let her head be turned by a handsome face or a bold smile. She fell in love at the wink of an eye, often changing her affections from one day to the next.

  But now, Meg had set her sights on a master manipulator.

  I won’t forget this betrayal, my dear. You’ll pay for deceiving me.

  Haunted by Sir Charles’s threat, Kate hurried along the upstairs corridor. She tapped on the door to her sister’s bedchamber. The echo faded away to silence. She waited impatiently, shifting from one foot to the other.

  “Meg? Are you in there?”

  There was no response, no sound of movement inside the room. Kate opened the door, and a shaft of late afternoon sunlight blinded her for a moment. Blinking, she shaded her eyes and walked inside, glancing around at the old Tudor furnishings, the four-poster bed with its brocaded hangings and the cozy blue wing chairs by the hearth. The tall windows were open, and a soft spring breeze stirred the draperies.

  Meg’s book of poetry lay abandoned on a footstool. It was the only sign that she’d been here at all.

  Despite the tranquil scene, a knell of fear struck Kate’s heart. She walked swiftly through the bedchamber and into the dressing room. There was a silver hairbrush that had belonged to their mother, a pink ribbon draped over a chair, and an opened, leather-bound trunk that had yet to be unpacked.

  But her sister and Jabbar were gone.

  Gabe and Bickell searched Damson’s study, rapping on the walls, listening for a hollow sound that might indicate a hidden aperture. They’d already rolled back the large Persian rug in a vain hunt for a trapdoor. They’d pushed aside the lewd artifacts and checked the cabinets for a secret compartment. They’d examined every stick of furniture in the entire castle, every bookshelf, every closet and cupboard and cubbyhole. The one repository they’d found in Damson’s private sitting room had held an assortment of jewelry and stacks of banknotes.

  But no golden goddess.

  Reaching the end of the wall, Gabe bit out a string of profanity that provided only a moment’s respite from his angry frustration.

  Bickell glanced up from his examination of the baseboards. The red waistcoat of the Bow Street Runners stretched across his stout belly. Like Gabe, he’d shed his coat and rolled up his shirtsleeves hours ago. “No luck, milord?”

  Gabe shook his head. “When Damson returns, I may just throttle the truth out of him.”

  “I may just help you,” Bickell said wearily.

  Half an hour ago, Mrs. Swindon had entered the study. Curling her mustachioed upper lip, she’d stared at Gabe while she and the baron had held a whispered conversation. A covert gleam in his cold blue eyes, he’d quickly excused himself, the housekeeper marching after him.

  Where the hell had Damson gone?

  “Perhaps we should face facts,” Bickell said, rising to his feet and flexing his knees as if they pained him. “The statue isn’t here. The baron must have smuggled it out of the castle during the night.”

  “I’m not giving up.”

  “But we’ve run out of places to look. I fear we’ve been led on a merry chase.”

  Gabe bitterly wondered that, too. All afternoon and into the early evening, Damson had hovered over them, offering taunts and caustic hints to thwart their search. “Look under the mattress,” he’d suggested. “That’s where commoners hide their valuables.” Or he’d point to a desk, saying, “There might be a hidden compartment if you two buffoons can find it.”

  By force of will, Gabe had held his temper. His sole compensation had been the sight of Damson’s bruised, puffy nose and blackened eye. But that wasn’t enough to satisfy Gabe. He had worked silently, efficiently, driven by his determination to locate the goddess. Not just for himself but for Kate, who deserved to have her father’s death avenged.

  Perhaps then she would love him.

  He clenched his jaw. Their one night together had only intensified his damn-fool hopes. Denial was useless; he wanted Kate in his bed, by his side for the rest of his life. The thought warmed him, a strengthening flame that had been steadily burning away his distaste for commitment. Somehow, when this was all over, he would convince her to marry him. He had to make her trust him, to convince her that he would abandon his wandering life and settle down with her at Fairfield Park to raise a family. The fantasy of her suckling their baby at her breast vitalized him. He couldn’t fail. He couldn’t lose Kate.

  I won't forget this betrayal, my dear. You’ll pay for deceiving me.

  The memory of Damson’s threat provoked fury and fear in Gabe. With their plan exposed, she’d been in peril of retribution from that villain. Thank God she was safe at his estate. She hadn’t been happy to leave, but in the end, she’d had no choice.

  The sound of running footsteps approached from the corridor. Ashraf burst into the study. Instead of his traditional white robe, he wore the garb of a coachman. His thin, dark features showed an uncharacteristic agitation. “Master!”

  The urgency in his tone caught at Gabe. He stalked forward, meeting the servant in the middle of the study. “What is it?” he demanded. “You took Kate home, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, master. As you commanded, I brought the coach back here to wait for you.” Ashraf prostrated himself on the floor. “But I no longer deserve to live. I have d
ispleased you.”

  “Get up, for God’s sake. Explain yourself.”

  Ashraf compromised by rising into a crouched position at Gabe’s feet. He clasped his hands in supplication. “I did not know she had crept back into the coach. I swear I did not. She must have done so while I was at prayer.”

  “She?” Gabe seized the servant by the arms and hauled him to his feet. “Who?”

  The image of misery, Ashraf hung his head. “The younger Miss Talisford.”

  “Meg? She’s here?”

  Even as Gabe absorbed that shock, Ashraf hit him with another one. “I did not realize I had been fooled until the elder Miss Talisford galloped into the courtyard. She was riding your horse,” he added, his judgmental brown eyes conveying a scandalized astonishment.

  A cold sweat broke out on Gabe’s skin. He glanced toward the outer corridor in the vain hope of seeing them waiting out there. “Where are they?”

  “The elder Miss Talisford went after her sister. She said Sir Charles Damson told the younger Miss Talisford to meet him in the dungeon.”

  The news struck Gabe like a punch in the gut. No wonder Damson had left in such gleeful delight. He’d learned of Meg’s arrival.

  Brushing aside a sticky cobweb, Kate held tightly to the candlestick. Its meager light failed to penetrate the deep gloom. The hollow drip-drip of water sounded somewhere, though she couldn’t locate its source.

  The castle had been built on the site of an old fortress, and the stone floor had been worn smooth in places, showing the patterns of traffic over the centuries. She’d half expected to see the ghosts of prisoners clad in filthy rags, their skeletal hands thrust through the iron bars. Instead, empty cells stretched out on either side of her, most of them unbarred, only the hinges showing where a door had once hung. A few cubicles contained casks of wine and brandy, while others held an accumulation of bric-a-brac.

  “Meg?” she called out softly. “Are you here?”

  Only a faint echo answered her.

  Icy terror gripped her breast, her sense of foreboding stronger than ever. She’d found a letter from Sir Charles tucked inside the book of poetry. Every deceitful word of it was burned into Kate’s mind.

  * * *

  My dearest Margaret,

  Do you believe in love at first sight? Until I met you, I thought it the invention of poets & fools. But now my world has been turned upside down, for I cannot bear the thought of never seeing you again. All other ladies pale beside your chaste beauty. I must declare myself hopelessly enamored, unable to think of anyone but you, my dearest love.

  If your heart beats as strongly for me as mine does for you, I beg you to come to me tonight. Meet me in the dungeon, lest Kenyon find out you are here. Take care, my love, for he or your sister would only try to separate us. As a token of your love, please bring your father’s journals, for his work has long fascinated me. I shall have a token for you, too, my darling, a gift that will prove my great admiration for your purity & virtue.

  Until then, dearest Margaret, I shall count the hours until I can hold you in my arms.

  Always your servant, Charles

  * * *

  As she went deeper into the dungeon, dread churned in Kate’s belly. Perhaps she ought to have enlisted the aid of Uncle Nathaniel and the Rosebuds. That had been her first impulse. But they’d have required a carriage and she could travel so much faster on horseback. Besides, she’d banked on having the help of Gabriel and the Bow Street Runner.

  What was taking them so long? Maybe Ashraf hadn’t been able to locate them. Maybe she was on her own.

  The thought spurred her. Meg must have already met Sir Charles somewhere in this labyrinth of cells and storerooms. Had he lured her into a secret passageway that led down into the bowels of the cliff?

  Scurrying down yet another corridor, Kate turned a corner and came to a dead end. The sound of dripping water grew louder.

  As she wheeled around to examine the place, the candle flame wavered, and she swiftly cupped her hand around it. If the taper went out, she’d be plunged into total darkness.

  Chilly air whispered against her face, the draft coming from the last cell. As she walked closer, the pale circle of candlelight showed a carving in the stone wall: a six- pointed star inside a circle, along with other strange symbols. Was it the work of a long-ago prisoner?

  From the darkness at the rear of the cell came a snuffling noise. She faltered to a stop, the fine hairs lifting at the back of her neck. Visions of ghosts and demons crowded her mind.

  “Who’s there?” she whispered.

  Silence.

  Her hand quivering, Kate lifted the candle. Its scant illumination caught something shining in the shadows.

  A pair of watching eyes.

  The Inmost Cave

  Kate’s heart slammed against her ribs. The moment seemed to stretch into forever. She heard the plop of a water droplet, smelled the damp mustiness, felt the hiss of air on her skin like the clammy breath of a fiend.

  Then a small, furry animal bounded out of the shadows. In a rush of relief, she recognized him. “Jabbar!”

  With a soft grunt of greeting, the chimpanzee came forward, balancing on his knuckles. He peeled back his lips in a grimace, and his rapid-fire chatter conveyed agitation and fear.

  Kate dropped down to peer into his leathery face. “Where’s my sister, darling? Where’s Meg? Can you take me to her?”

  As if he understood, the chimpanzee turned around and headed into the darkness at the rear of the cell, glancing back as if to beckon Kate. Straining her eyes, she saw the black outline of a small doorway.

  The secret entrance.

  Not daring to wait for Gabriel, she pulled out the ivory comb that had belonged to her mother. Pins popped out as the wild mass of her hair tumbled down her back. She placed the comb at the entrance of the cell. With luck, Gabriel would find it and realize where she’d gone.

  Then she took a deep breath and followed Jabbar through the doorway.

  Ducking her head to avoid the low ceiling, she entered a tunnel that was wide enough for a man. It twisted and turned on a slightly downward slope. According to Lady Stokeford, the chimpanzee had escaped yesterday evening and had gone exploring in the dungeon. He must have learned his way about, and that fact gave a boost to Kate’s spirits.

  Jabbar would lead her to Meg. He must know where Sir Charles had taken her sister.

  As they traversed on a steep, descending path, Kate dropped a hairpin every now and then to mark a trail for Gabriel. Other tunnels led off into the pitch darkness, but Jabbar never deviated from the main path. The candle lent an eerie illumination, and she tried not to think about the flame blowing out. Then the tunnel widened and they emerged into a small cavern.

  Her pulse leapt. A lighted torch illuminated the rocky area, proof that someone had been here a short time ago. There was no other sign of life. Water dripped from a fissure in the ceiling, plopping with unceasing regularity into a murky pond in the center of the chamber.

  Jabbar looked back, hooting softly to her, seemingly anxious to go on. Then he loped through a natural doorway in the rocky wall. Kate blinked as she spied another faint gleam of light ahead. Was Meg there with Sir Charles? What had he done to her sister?

  Fearful and angry, Kate braced herself for the inevitable confrontation. She had no weapons, only her wits. Somehow, she must make Meg realize her folly. She must convince Sir Charles to let her sister go...

  The chimpanzee went through yet another large opening and stopped just inside, looking up at her with bright black eyes. Her heart in her throat, she stepped through the doorway and came to an enforced halt.

  A wall of iron bars confronted her, transforming a natural grotto into a prison cell. Hanging from the low ceiling, an oil lamp shed a golden light over a scene of disconcerting domesticity.

  A low bedstead stood against the back wall. A tattered Persian carpet cushioned the rocky floor. Near a worn leather wing chair, a plain wooden shelf
held a sparse array of books.

  Her gaze riveted to the man who sat hunched over a desk, absorbed in writing on a sheaf of paper. His wire-rimmed spectacles gleamed in the lamplight. He blew on his fingers to warm them in the damp, chilly air. Then he dipped his pen into the inkwell, scribbled madly, then dipped again, the action so familiar she had to be dreaming. Or seeing a ghost. The pipe clamped in his mouth emitted a thin curl of smoke that drifted to her, teasing her with an impossible awareness.

  Kate blinked, then blinked again. Her throat tightened, making it difficult to breathe. Her lips moved, dry and disbelieving, as she uttered his name.

  “Papa?”

  The moment the old groom stepped into the drawing room, Lucy felt a premonition of disaster. Exchanging a glance with the Rosebuds and Nathaniel, she saw worry in their eyes, too.

  She’d had a vague sense of unease ever since Kate had gone upstairs to join her sister. There had been something unusual in Kate’s manner, a tension that Lucy had noticed and attributed to concern for Gabriel’s safety.

  The two had, after all, made love the previous night. The glow on Kate’s face this morning had warmed Lucy’s heart. At last she would see Gabriel settled and contented, his restless urge to wander tempered by the love of a spirited woman.

  But perhaps she had grown too complacent too soon.

  The stooped old man doffed his cap. Clad in hobnailed boots and homespun clothing, he looked like a duck out of water in the genteel surroundings of the drawing room.

  “You’re Tom Wickett, are you not?” Lucy said. “I thought you’d retired years ago.”

  “Ain’t dead yet,” he said, flashing a brief, toothless grin that vanished as swiftly as it had come. Clearly disquieted, he shifted from one booted foot to the other.

  “You asked to see her ladyship,” Nathaniel prodded. “Tell us what’s on your mind.”