Rose looked at the house, then forced a bright smile and nodded. She glanced up and met Thomas’s eyes. Her fingers tightened on his sleeve. “Yes. Let’s.”
With every evidence of embarking on a pleasant diversion, they walked through the gate Phelps swung open and continued up the gravel path to the steps that led up to the front porch. Standing apparently at ease beside the bottom step, Conner inclined his head as they approached. “Sir. Ma’am.” Only his eyes gave away his tension.
“Have you heard anything?” Thomas quietly asked.
“I’m pretty sure they went upstairs, and I haven’t heard them come down—the children were running, so I heard their footsteps.”
Thomas held to calm, stopped his eyes from narrowing. “How long ago did they go up?”
“About ten minutes ago.” Conner’s jaw tightened. “Call if you need us.”
“We will.” Thomas steered Rose on; the urgency riding her was becoming increasingly apparent, at least to him.
They reached the front door—and found it unlocked. Far from being at all reassured, Thomas found the blatant confidence of Roger Percival alarming. He’d left the door open so if—when—there was a scream or any such noise, Conner would rush in without encountering the oddity of an unexpectedly locked door, a door only Roger could have locked, and would then have to explain.
The man did, indeed, think quickly and was unquestionably, demonstrably, very thorough in dealing with details, with the minutiae that would have tripped up lesser men.
Ushering Rose over the threshold, lowering his head, Thomas whispered, “Remember your role.” She needed to cling to it, to preserve the façade of not suspecting Roger of anything.
Following her inside, Thomas looked around with mild interest as he slowly closed the door.
Rose halted in the middle of the front hall. She listened, straining her ears, but heard nothing. No giggles from Pippin, no scrape of Homer’s shoe. Inside, she felt as if her entire body had stopped, shut down—waiting. Turning, she looked at Thomas as he came to join her.
He caught her gaze. Smiled easily, and at normal volume said, “I wonder where they are.”
His gaze held hers, gave her strength, and encouraged her. Prodded her to keep to the script they’d rapidly devised as they’d walked down the street.
Turning to face the stairs once more, she raised her head and her voice. “William? Alice? Roger—are you there?” She paused for a second, then went on. “It’s Rose—Rosalind. Thomas and I were passing, and we thought we’d come and join you. I haven’t been here . . . well, since you two were last here. Years and years. So . . . where are you?”
With bated breath, both she and Thomas listened—and yes, that was a distant scuff, a shoe scraping.
She met Thomas’s eyes; he’d heard, too. He nodded at her to proceed.
Dragging in a breath, she infused her words with as much happy gaiety as she could. “Oh, is it a game, then? Are we supposed to search and find you—a game of hide-and-seek? Well, all right, but you know Thomas can’t run, so we won’t be quick, but . . . we’re coming to find you!”
Thomas nodded in approval and, still smiling amiably, walked with her to the stairs. “Up,” he murmured, “but don’t rush. Whatever happens, don’t run.”
They started climbing; Thomas had to take stairs like these one step at a time.
Reaching the landing, they started up the second flight. As they neared the top, Thomas murmured, “Cling to your act as long as you possibly can—don’t drop it until we have them in our arms and you’ve blown that whistle.”
She merely squeezed his arm in confirmation.
Stepping into the first-floor gallery, they looked around.
Thomas had been in deserted houses before. His senses remained well-honed, even more so after his accident, and they informed him that this house wasn’t empty, devoid of life, but he didn’t think the sound they’d heard had come from this floor.
He caught Rose’s anxious gaze. “Is there a nursery?” he whispered.
She nodded and, turning, pointed across the gallery to a narrow archway; in the shadows beyond the arch, stairs led upward.
Leaning closer to Rose, he murmured, “Describe what’s up there.”
She met his eyes, then whispered back, “The stair has three short flights. You’ll step out”—she looked up at the ceiling—“virtually directly above. There’s a corridor that runs above the one we’re standing in, forward and back through the house. If you go forward”—with her hands she directed—“the first rooms you come to are maids’ rooms and nurses’ quarters. The last four rooms, two on either side, are the children’s bedrooms—William and Alice had the two closest to the schoolroom. That’s the room at the end of the corridor—it runs along the front of that floor.”
Thomas nodded. “Start talking. Tell them you’re coming to look for them—keep talking and move to the front of the house.” He pointed ahead. “Pretend to search the bedrooms at the front on this floor.”
Her face clouded. “What are—”
He gripped her hand, squeezed hard. “We don’t have time. They’re upstairs, and it’s too silent up there. I’m going up, but I need you to distract them, to make them think we’re searching down here.”
She stared at him for a second, then she stepped close, framed his face, and kissed him.
Briefly.
Pulling back, she looked into his eyes. “Be careful.”
Releasing him, she whirled, and started along the corridor. Raising her voice, she called, “We’re starting to search for you along here. Pippin? Where are you? Are you hiding in Mama’s room?”
Thomas limped to the archway, cast a last look over his shoulder, and heard Rose continuing on. Then he gripped his cane and started up as fast as he silently could. As fast as he dared.
It still took too long, but, eventually, he paused on the top step. Rose was still calling out now and then, marking her progress through the lower rooms. At her next pause, Thomas listened—and detected an odd, sliding, scraping sound, then muted voices reached him.
From the direction of the schoolroom.
Stepping out from the cover of the stairwell, his cane held off the thinly carpeted floor, he made his way swiftly but silently toward the schoolroom door.
It stood half open; beyond, the room was bright, full of light. Presumably, the dormer windows had no curtains.
The voices were nearer, had grown clearer; although Thomas couldn’t yet make out any words, he identified Homer’s boyish tones, then on a rush of relief, he heard Pippin’s piping squeak—immediately drowned by a deeper, darker, seductively lethal male voice.
Roger, Homer, and Pippin were together somewhere beyond the door.
Cloaked in the shadows thrown by the door, Thomas scanned what he could see of the room but saw no one and nothing of note. Putting out a hand, very carefully, he eased the door further open.
One part of his mind gave mute thanks that the door didn’t squeak; the rest rapidly absorbed and analyzed what his eyes were seeing.
One of the dormer windows stood open, the long casement pushed wide. Roger had taken—forced—both Homer and Pippin out onto the roof. At pistol-point.
A few feet from the open window, the blackguard held Pippin loosely against him; the little girl wasn’t struggling because Roger was holding a pistol in his right hand, with the end of the barrel tucked under Pippin’s chin. The girl was terrified.
No doubt using the threat against Pippin for leverage, Roger had forced Homer to climb out onto the roof first. Standing heartbreakingly straight and tall, his fists clenched at his sides, his chin tipped defiantly, the boy was further away from the window, a good five paces from his would-be murderer. Who was holding a gun on his little sister.
The section of roof on which they were standing was a flat expanse no more than two feet wide that ran between the parapet and the steep upslope in which the windows were set.
Conner was standing too close to the
house to notice the action occurring two stories above. Thomas glanced toward where Phelps waited with the carriage and realized a tree blocked the coachman’s view.
Roger’s attention was fixed on Homer, and Homer was staring back at him. “Just remember,” Roger murmured, “if either of you raise your voice, much less think to scream to your sister or the others for help, I’ll almost certainly startle and pull the trigger . . . and you wouldn’t want that, would you?”
After a moment of fraught silence, Roger smiled. “Excellent. So, now, here’s what you’re going to do.” He continued in the same low, murmurous, almost mesmerizing voice to direct all to his liking . . .
Thomas teetered on the brink of rushing forward.
He caught himself.
Dragging in a huge breath, his gaze locked on the scene playing out before him, he ruthlessly quashed the emotions geysering through him, clamoring for immediate, impulsive actions, and reached deep, deeper, and found and hauled forth his old persona.
Deliberately wrapped it like an old and well-worn cloak about him.
Malcolm Sinclair had never felt emotion. Had never had to contend with its distraction.
Malcolm Sinclair was who he needed to be to rescue Homer and Pippin.
His vision cleared, sharpened.
Everything, he immediately saw, hinged on how close he could get to the open window without Roger seeing him or either of the children noticing him and reacting.
Leaning his cane against the door frame, he glided forward. One step. Two. His need to limp was still there, but he ignored it—blocked out the pain not limping sent shooting through him.
He didn’t matter. Homer and Pippin did.
“I won’t!” Fists clenched hard, Homer flung the words, quiet but implacable, at Roger. “We thought you were kind—we liked you. But you’re a monster.” Homer jerked his chin at Pippin. “Let her go!”
Roger smiled, all charm and deadly calm. “I’ll let her go after you jump—you have my word.”
“Your word?” For a nine-year-old, Homer managed to infuse an incredible amount of scorn into the phrase. “What is that worth? I know you won’t let her go—you’ll throw her off after me or she’ll tell everyone what you did.”
Roger’s smile changed, taunting and openly evil. “Very well. In that case, how about I throw her off first?”
Homer’s face blanched.
Malcolm reached the open dormer.
Homer saw him—his gaze locked on him and his expression changed.
Roger noticed and glanced at the window.
He panicked and swung around, lifting the pistol from beneath Pippin’s chin.
Malcolm didn’t look at the pistol. He looked at Pippin, trapped the girl’s gaze. “Pippin—drop!”
Her eyes widened.
Then she did.
Roger tried to grab her suddenly boneless little body, but she slid through his hold.
Swearing, he glanced at Malcolm. Lips lifting in a snarl, Roger gave up on Pippin, who scrambled and scuttled to Homer. The boy grabbed her and bundled her behind him.
Roger held Malcolm’s gaze for a split second, then straightened, turned, and leveled his pistol on Homer.
No thought was required.
Malcolm grabbed both sides of the window frame, hauled himself up, and launched himself at Roger Percival.
He slammed into the man. Hands locking on Percival’s arm, Malcolm forced the pistol barrel up and back.
They wrestled. Percival cursed. Malcolm tightened his grip and forced Percival’s arm higher.
The pistol discharged harmlessly into the sky.
Percival roared. With his free hand, he pushed Malcolm away.
Pushed himself backward.
The top of the low parapet caught Percival across the backs of his knees.
Eyes flaring wide, arms flailing, Percival started falling backward.
Unsupported, unbalanced, Malcolm staggered forward.
In utter desperation, Percival lashed out—and caught the side of Malcolm’s coat.
Then he fell.
And took Malcolm with him.
He was falling.
Again.
And as it had on the first occasion, time slowed.
But, this time, instead of myriad flashes of his life, his senses replayed that time before, the deafening thunder of the water, the icy chill as the tumult soaked him. Most especially he remembered the savage terror that had ripped through him, body and soul, as he’d plummeted toward the jagged black rocks . . .
That picture faded.
This time, there was only peace.
A sense of finality.
Of completeness.
Of end.
A scream pierced the enveloping silence.
Rose. His Rose.
His loving Rose.
His route to peace—his salvation.
Something struck his ribs; a sharp crack sounded.
He couldn’t see. His vision had dimmed.
His body tumbled; pain shot through him.
Overtook him.
He landed with a thud.
On soft, dark earth instead of jagged rocks.
It didn’t matter—he was done.
Closing his eyes, he let Fate have him.
Standing on the semicircular balcony at the front of the house, tears clouding her vision, her heart in her throat, Rose blew and blew on the whistle.
Chapter
16
He heard murmurs, whispers, but couldn’t tell who spoke, nor what they said.
Perhaps it was St. Peter deciding where he should go? Up, or down? But he didn’t believe in God—so perhaps it was the Fates, deciding his.
Either way, he’d done all he could. His life was over.
He drifted. Pain had no purchase here, on this plane where nothing existed.
But he was here, wasn’t he? He was real . . . or was he?
The questions were too hard, the mists shrouding him too dense to penetrate.
He let go, stopped wondering, and simply drifted.
He came to his senses and realized that they, and his wits, were once more his to command.
Of his body, he was not yet sure.
Before testing the latter, he let his senses expand, let them tell him what they might.
He was . . . lying in a bed, with plump pillows beneath his head, with covers, warm and soft, tucked about him.
Not what he’d expected.
It took effort to lift his lashes, but, eventually, he managed it. Blinked.
Rose sat in a chair by the bed, head bent, busily sewing.
He’d seen the sight so often in the kitchen at the manor that for several seconds he didn’t dare believe this was anything more than a memory . . .
Then, as if sensing his regard, Rose looked up—and met his eyes.
“Thank God,” she breathed as joy suffused her face. A smile brimming with love and gratitude lit her countenance.
Laying aside her sewing, she rose and drew near.
Placing her hand over his where it lay on the counterpane, she held his wondering gaze. “I love you.”
Her smile didn’t dim; her gaze remained steady and sure.
He was alive.
Emotions battered him, left his wits giddy, reeling, intoxicated with welling happiness. He studied her face, drank in her beloved features, soaked up the emotions he could see in her eyes. He let his lips curve wryly. “Not the monastery again, then.”
The words came out in a raspy rumble. His tongue felt thick, his throat dry.
Rose laughed, all but delirious with relief and happiness. Lifting a tumbler of water from the bedside table, she held it for him and urged him to sip.
Once he had, she asked, “How do you feel?”
He frowned, transparently taking stock.
Setting the glass down, she sat on the bed beside him, taking one of his hands between hers—unable not to touch him, to hold onto him now he was back.
After a moment, he r
aised his gaze and met hers. “I’m not sure. I was certain I would die.”
There was a question in the last sentence, one she answered. “No—according to the doctor, you were never in any danger of dying. You hit the tree as you fell, several times, and that slowed your fall, and also turned you so that you landed fully in the garden bed, rather than on the gravel or across the bed’s stone edge. You’ve broken several ribs, but they’re set and are healing, and the doctor believes you wrenched your already damaged hip and weak leg, and you suffered a bad wound across your back where you hit a large branch, but”—she paused to draw breath—“in time, the doctor believes that all you’ll have to show from the incident is a scar across your back.”
She watched him trying to assimilate that. “The doctor said that in a roundabout way your previous injuries protected you this time—he said your joints and muscles have grown unusually strong, having been forced to compensate for your earlier injuries. They held up better under the stress than an uninjured man’s would have.”
That seemed to help.
Then he turned his hand and grasped hers, and refocused on her eyes. “Homer and Pippin—William and Alice. How are they faring?”
She grinned and returned the pressure of his fingers. “Better than anyone else. They were as shocked as all we adults were, but as soon as they heard of the doctor’s verdict about you . . .” With her free hand, she gestured. “Their shock turned to excitement, and they’ve been busy telling everyone who’ll listen about their thrilling escape from Roger’s villainous clutches. He now features as ‘that very bad man.’ ”
“From the mouths of babes—he was a very bad man.” Thomas—he realized he was, indeed, Thomas again—remembered Roger’s voice on the roof. Heard again the cadence, recalled the darkness dripping from every syllable, and suppressed a shudder. Glancing up, he met Rose’s eyes. “I’ve met evil men before, several, of various different stripes. Roger was neither the highest nor the lowest in standing and scope. But he was the worst.”
He shifted in the bed, then asked, “What happened to him?”
“He’s in hospital, under guard, but not expected to live.”
Loving Rose: The Redemption of Malcolm Sinclair (Casebook of Barnaby Adair) Page 31