The Rightful Lord (The Saga Of Wolfbridge Manor Book 3)

by Sahara Kelly

  “Let’s go in.” Harry took the key from Gwyneth and unlocked the door, pushing it wide and letting both air and light into the dark hall. “It doesn’t get any better, does it?” He muttered the rhetorical question as he walked inside.

  “No.” Gwyneth and Gabriel followed him, Gabriel closing the door as they moved forward.

  “Where do we start?”

  “There is a portrait gallery, I believe…” Gwyneth headed down a wide corridor. “We didn’t look here last time. It really was sheer luck that we stumbled on that room.” She rounded a corner and there it was, a long gallery with paintings on each section of the wall.

  Harry wrinkled his nose. “Dusty as hell,” he muttered.

  He was right. As they entered, the dust motes disturbed by their passage rose to dance in the beams of light entering from tall narrow windows.

  “We have to start somewhere, I suppose.” Gabriel tugged a chair beneath the first painting, and gently lifted the bottom. “It was too much to hope for.” He shook his head. “Blank wall.”

  Harry and Gwyneth followed his example.

  She, wisely, focused on the smaller portraits that dotted the walls, which sometimes echoed the paintings above them, and at other times occupied an entire space.

  It was a futile effort, though. She found nothing but spiders’ webs and years of grime. “What a pity none of this has been cared for.”

  “Truthfully,” Harry brushed his hand together, “I can’t say that any of these subjects would be welcome on my walls. They really seem to be a lot of unpleasant and ugly people without a kind thought between ‘em.”

  Gabriel chuckled. “I wondered if perhaps their underwear was uncomfortable.” He clambered down and once again shook his head. “We may be looking in the wrong place, you know.”

  “I hate to think we are,” replied Gwyneth. “Because this is a massive house and I absolutely refuse to go through every room searching for a strongbox we’re not sure we can find.”

  Sadly, that option grew ever larger as the gallery refused to produce anything at all of interest.

  “We’ve been here for more than an hour,” she sighed, trying to rub grime off her hands. “Any ideas as to where to look next?”

  Gabriel shook his head.

  Harry glanced at them. “Well, if we assume that the Fairhursts were logical people, and didn’t use the gallery, where else would be the most likely place?”

  Gwyneth thought about that. “My father had a hidey-hole in his study…?”

  “Yes. That makes sense. But didn’t we look there last time?”

  “We were only looking for signs of intrusion, if you recall,” said Gabriel. “I know we peeked in, but since there was nothing disturbed, we didn’t really go over it thoroughly.” He turned around and pointed. “It’s that way.”

  They followed him back down the gallery and along the corridor until they reached the hall where he led them over to another smaller hallway and opened the first door he found.

  “Goodness, you have a good memory, Gabriel,” observed Gwyneth as the room revealed itself to be the study.

  “And nothing has been touched,” added Harry. “At least nothing I can see.” He lit the remains of a candle in one of the candlesticks. “It must have been a gloomy place to work with no windows. But it’s old. Perhaps the oldest of the rooms we’ve seen.” He walked around. “Which means that it might well date back to our original Bishop.”

  “Not much left,” Gabriel nodded. “There were books at some point, that’s all.” He ran a finger across the large desk and frowned at the dust.

  “So if I was a safe,” mused Gwyneth, looking around in the dim light, “where would I be?”

  “An excellent question.” Harry mimicked her moves, and then walked to a wall directly behind the desk where a large mirror and two candle sconces hung on the dark wood panelling. He carefully lifted the bottom of the mirror.

  “Nothing.” He sighed.

  Gabriel began a survey of everything on the walls, checking behind paintings and maps, much as he had done in the gallery.

  Gwyneth let her gaze roam, trying not to focus on anything specific, but on the general appearance of the room. Then she crossed the carpet, pulled out the chair, dusted it off with her gloves and sat behind the desk.

  “That chair is filthy, love,” Gabriel warned.

  “I know. But sitting here gives me a feeling for how the room would work.” She thought for a moment. “So I have an important document in my hand.” She stood, pretending to hold papers.

  “I would go this way…” a turn to her right, and she faced bookshelves. She took a step. Then another. And a third, which produced an odd creak.

  “Hmm.” Harry’s gaze fell to the floor, as did Gwyneth’s. The rugs in the room were well-worn, betraying the thousands of times that feet had crushed their pile.

  But they were large rugs, not entire carpets.

  “Move aside a little, sweetheart.” Harry squinted at the floor. “I wish there was a window or two in here.” Grumbling, he knelt down and ran his fingers over the edges of the rugs near where Gwyneth stood.

  “Is it possible…” Gabriel tiptoed to his side.

  “Yes, I think so.” Harry raised the edge and forced it backward, making Gwyneth hop out of the way.

  And there, in the floor, was an indentation holding a small ring.

  “Oh God,” she breathed.

  “Wait…don’t get too excited…” Harry reached out and hooked his finger in the ring, pulling it upward to reveal a narrow hole containing a tin box.

  “Yes…” Gabriel’s shout echoed through the house as Harry retrieved it.

  “Well it might be nothing—” he broke off as he stood and lifted his head. “I smell something.”

  Gwyneth sniffed. And her eyes widened. “Smoke. I smell smoke.”

  Harry kicked the secret compartment shut and pushed the rug back over it, tucking the box under his arm. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Gabriel rushed to the door and opened it, only to be faced with clouds of thick smoke. “Jesus.” He coughed and backed up.

  “Oh my God,” Gwyneth’s eyes watered. “We’re trapped.”

  *~~*~~*

  Jeremy and Evan found themselves wondering how the others were getting on at Fivetrees.

  “Tea?” Evan stretched as he chopped the last of the carrots for the stew he was planning for dinner.

  Jeremy, who had just popped his head around the door, nodded. “Lovely.” He came in and washed his hands. “Just finished a good dusting, so your timing is excellent.” He filched a couple of pieces of carrot from the bowl and crunched happily.

  “Hey…that’s your dinner. Wait until then.”

  Evan scolded as he put all the ingredients into a massive saucepan and stoked up the fire beneath the stove.

  “Oh, stew. Perfect for a cold night. The others will be so pleased. Fivetrees is a cold and dismal place. The smell alone will lure them back post haste.”

  Evan chuckled as he stirred his mixture, then nodded and put the lid on. “That’ll do for a couple of hours. I’ll season it later.” He pulled out the teapot and a couple of cups. “Just made this, so if you’ll get the milk…”

  Jeremy hurried over to the pantry and came back with a small jug. “Here we are.”

  Evan poured. “I wonder how things are going for them?”

  “Me too.” He stirred his tea. “Have you ever wondered what we’d do if Wolfbridge is sold to someone else?”

  Evan blinked. “Er, no. No I haven’t.” His face turned sombre. “I don’t even want to think about that, Jeremy.”

  “Neither do I, but these are uncertain times. The whole business with Fivetrees, and now learning that originally we were all part of one estate. It’s…unsettling, I think. It’s shaken my confidence more than a little, I don’t mind saying.”

  Evan looked out the window. “I cannot imagine being anywhere else. This has been our home for so long now. And I can’t i
magine life without the Lady of Wolfbridge.”

  “We have loved them all, haven’t we?”

  “Well, not all of ‘em, but our fair share.”

  Jeremy leaned back in his chair. “Do you ever wonder if you loved one more than the others?”

  Evan looked at him. “I wonder how I can love every new lady that arrives, to be truthful.”

  “And yet we do.”

  “Yes, we do.” He sighed. “If it wasn’t me that did the cooking, I’d swear there was something in the food.”

  Jeremy chuckled at that. “Not unsurprising. But perhaps we’re the kind of people who want to help and to heal. Each lady comes to us needing just those qualities…”

  “True.”

  They finished their tea in companionable silence, each busy with their own thoughts.

  Jeremy finally stood. “I’ll wash the cups up, since you made the tea.”

  A knock sounded at the front door, so Evan rose. “And I’ll answer that since you’re doing the dishes.”

  Both men grinned as each took off for his chore.

  Evan wondered if it might be more messages from London. He hoped so, since it would be comforting to have the whole business settled, and if anyone could do that, it would be either Royce or Giles. Or perhaps both.

  So he opened the door expecting to see a messenger, or a lad from the village with some letters.

  He did not expect to see a woman, plainly dressed, with her hands by her sides, staring at him. “Uh…good day to you, ma’am. May I help you?”

  “I…” She stared past him and then looked around the front steps. “I…my horse…”

  “Who is it, Evan?” Jeremy emerged from the kitchen and started toward the door.

  At that point, two things happened.

  Darcy, hearing a knock at the door, had rushed from his bed and emerged in the hall at exactly the same moment as Jeremy—which happened to be the same moment the woman at the door raised her arm, revealing the large pistol clutched in her hand. She pointed it at Jeremy

  “Dear God.” Evan tried to grab her but he wasn’t close enough to catch her arm in time. She fired just as Jeremy stumbled over Darcy.

  “Damn you,” she screamed as she realised she’d failed to kill him. “Damn you all.”

  Backing away onto the front steps, she lifted her other hand—clutching a second pistol. But this one she held to her head. “I’m coming, Susanna. I’m coming…”

  It was all over in less than a second, leaving both men speechless and staring at the woman, now a horrid mess lying in blood-spattered snow.

  Then Jeremy looked down at his arm and paled. “Oh fuck. She shot me.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  “Jesus.”

  The shocked sound of Royce’s voice rang out over the front hall of Wolfbridge. He and another man were nearing the top steps as Evan looked up from Jeremy’s arm.

  “Royce. Oh God, Giles…” Evan’s eyes widened as he saw the two of them trying to pick their way around the remains of the dead woman on the doorstep.

  “Jeremy’s been shot,” he yelled.

  “How bad?” Royce managed to get inside and slithered to a stop next to Jeremy, who was staring at his arm.

  “There’s a hole,” he said. “In my arm.” He blinked.

  “I’d say yes there is, but you’re alive.” Giles joined them. “Evan, can you get us hot water and linens? I think this is easily treated. And perhaps the brandy, because Jeremy may be in shock.”

  “I think we both are,” muttered Evan, relinquishing his place to Giles.

  “Hallo, little one.” Darcy frisked around Royce’s shoes. “Not now. Later.” He rubbed his knuckles over the dog’s head.

  “He saved me,” Jeremy managed. “I tripped over him. She shot at me, but only caught my arm. If he hadn’t been there…if I hadn’t fallen…” He gulped.

  Giles was busy tearing away Jeremy’s shirt. “Who was she?”

  “I think she may have been Susanna’s sister,” he answered. “Evan opened the door, and I came upstairs and she looked at me then…then…”

  “Whoa.” Royce sighed and caught him as his eyes rolled back in his head and he passed out.

  “It’s not bad,” Giles commented. “But I’m sure it came as a bit of a shock.”

  Evan reappeared. “Oh God, is he…”

  “He fainted, that’s all.” Royce muttered. “Can you hold together, Evan? We could use your hand here.”

  “Of course.” White as a ghost, Evan took the used cloths from Giles.

  Between them, they managed to bandage Jeremy’s arm, confirming that the shot had indeed gone straight through flesh and muscle. Royce was happy to see that it had missed the bone, so other than a scar, he’d have no permanent damage.

  Evan’s hands shook as he passed bandages to Giles. “If I’d known,” he kept repeating. “If I’d known, I’d never have opened the door.”

  “Of course you wouldn’t,” Giles said sympathetically.

  “I must clean up,” said Evan hesitantly, looking outside. “She’s…I have to…”

  Royce glanced at Giles. “Shock. Both of ‘em.”

  Giles nodded back. “Get them into the parlour. The wound’s stopped bleeding and they need to be away from this.”

  An hour later, when Jeremy had recovered, Evan was no longer pale as a sheet, and the ghastly remains had been dealt with, the four men finally sat together.

  “You both arrived in the nick of time,” said Evan thankfully. “I’m not sure what I would have done without you.”

  Royce snorted. “The nick of time would have been five minutes before that woman shot Jeremy. But still, I take your point.”

  “And you say the others are at Fivetrees?” Giles asked.

  Jeremy glanced at the clock. “Yes. They’ve been there a couple of hours now. In fact, I’d think they’d be on their way soon.”

  Edgy, Royce stood. He wanted to see Gwyneth, and soon. Violence had arrived at Wolfbridge again, in all its bloody horror. He’d seen more than enough of that on the battlefields of Europe. He wanted to know Gwyneth was safe.

  His gaze wandered over the wintry landscape—then stilled. “Giles.” His voice was sharp. “I need your eyes.”

  Giles came to his side, looked out the window, and sucked in a breath. “Fuck.” He turned and fled the room.

  “What? What?” Jeremy tried to rise.

  “Stay there. Both of you. We may need you soon. Fivetrees is on fire.” He ran out after Giles.

  “The horses,” Giles yelled.

  “They’re tired, but they’ll make it that far.” Royce caught up with him, both men grabbing their jackets on the way.

  “The smoke will be seen all around here,” Giles buttoned himself with one hand and untied the reins of his mount with the other.

  “The men will come,” agreed Royce, foot already in the stirrup.

  “They may be on their way home, you know.”

  “I pray that’s the case.”

  Royce gritted his teeth as the two of them set off as fast as they could for Fivetrees. The roads were poor but their mounts managed, splashing up mud in the wild ride down the lanes toward the plume of smoke that grew and darkened as they rode.

  “Dear God, please don’t let her be in there.”

  “Amen to that, lad.”

  Royce realised he’d spoken aloud. “We can’t lose her, Giles. I can’t lose her. Not now, not when we’re almost free…”

  “We won’t.” Giles’s voice was resolute. “Gwyneth has the backbone of ten of her contemporaries. She’s survived worse and come through it with bravery and courage.”

  “She’s one hell of a woman.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.”

  The conversation faded away as both men bent over their saddles, urging their tired horses into giving just a little more.

  As they approached the turn into the driveway, the smoke became a threatening cloud.

  The Wolfbridge gig was still
there, tied to the post, the horse neighing in fear.

  A crash made them both jump, and Royce’s heart thundered more loudly than the hoofbeats pounding on the snowy gravel.

  “Roof’s caught,” Giles looked upward. “God in heaven.”

  Royce nearly threw himself to the ground, leaped up the front steps two at a time and wrestled with the door, flinging it wide and staring inside.

  It was almost an inferno.

  “No,” he whispered… “No, no, no…”

  *~~*~~*

  One look out into the hall, and Gwyneth knew they were in bad trouble. “Get down on the floor,” she ordered sharply.

  “She’s right,” Harry barked. “More air down there.”

  All three dropped immediately and began to crawl forward. It was hotter, and to one side was a glow that frightened her. It was the fire itself, licking its way up the aged wood panelling.

  She heard something over the soft crackle—footsteps.

  “A fitting end to you all,” shouted the man who owned the boots. Gylbart strode toward them, apparently ignoring the fire and the smoke.

  His nose was blackened a little and his eyes wide and wild. Gwyneth’s eyes were already tearing. How could he walk through the smoke like that?

  “You bitch and your stupid men. Now you’re going to die and this place will burn to the ground and I’ll buy it for sixpence or less.” He sneered, then coughed. “I hope your souls rot in hell.” He stared at Gabriel, and then started to laugh. “You. So this is where you ended up. Still got my brand on your arse?”

  Gabriel froze.

  “Well, now you’ll die with my brand on the rest of your body, you sodding little bugger.” Wiping the soot from his face, he turned away, heading for the front door, wheezing a little, but with his head held arrogantly high.

  “Stop. Don’t…” Harry tried to yell, but the smoke was too thick and his words vanished in a harsh cough.

  Gwyneth tried to stand, to follow his steps to the door and safety, but it was growing even more dense above her and she fell back to her knees, watching in horror as the flames arched over her head.

  The beams were burning now, the vaulted ceiling a pattern of light and dark.

  Gylbart reached the door, wrenched it open—and the inrush of air sent fuel to the flames in a terrifying roar, knocking him back several steps.