by Anne Stuart
“No,” said Francis, placing a pale, elegant hand on Gabriel’s arm, “you shouldn’t. You’ll join us, then? We’re really looking forward to having you share your wisdom.”
“I doubt my wisdom would coincide with yours. I have my doubts about the existence of wicker cages.”
“Oh, don’t be doubtful, dear boy. You’ve just seen one. I assure you, you didn’t imagine it.”
“No,” said Gabriel with a faint smile, “I realize that. Did it have to be quite so large? You’ll need quite a number of gifts to fill it.”
“I must confess I did become a bit overenthusiastic,” Francis murmured. “But never fear, we’ll find all we need. One fatted calf should take up a fair amount of space.”
“Dead or alive?” Gabriel asked in a dulcet tone.
“Don’t tell me you’re tiresome enough to object to the slaughter of animals? Do you wander around eating twigs and nuts, then, and eschew sirloin? I’m surprised at you, Gabriel. Though you don’t look like John the Baptist at the moment, despite that ill-shapen mane of hair.” He stroked his arm beneath the coat of black silk. “And muscles! My, my, you are a strong one, aren’t you? Couldn’t have gotten that way on a diet of locusts and honey.”
Gabriel just looked at him. Francis had obviously decided to see just how far he could push him, but Gabriel was immune to annoyance. He’d known men like Francis in the past, and had no quarrel with them as long as they chose their partners wisely and without coercion.
Francis dropped his arm with an extravagant moue. “You’re not being very cooperative, are you, darling?”
“I’m here, aren’t I?” Gabriel murmured.
“True enough. You’ve finally accepted one of our countless invitations. And yet, I wonder, what made you finally decide to grace us with your presence again after all these months? We so seldom see you. Have we finally worn down your resistance and your dedication to your ascetic principles, or was it something else?”
“I can’t imagine what you mean, Francis,” Gabriel said lazily. “I was bored.”
“Perhaps,” Francis murmured. “Or perhaps you wanted to distract us from those two young women left unprotected at Hernewood Manor?”
“Why should they have anything to fear from you?”
“Oh, they don’t,” Francis said with an airy wave of his elegant hand that was far too practiced to be convincing. “I’m in absolute awe of that old brute, your father. Though in fact, he isn’t your father, is he?”
“You’re a font of knowledge, Francis.”
“I spent years in London, my boy, with my eyes open and my ears listening. You have royal blood in your veins, my boy. It’s a wonder Sir Richard doesn’t parade you about like a prized trophy.”
“It’s not his blood.”
“True enough. Still, he was shown royal favor, to have been given you to raise into a proper young gentleman. Though I’m not sure how well he’s succeeded.”
“I imagine Sir Richard is more like to consider it a royal curse.”
“Well then, why didn’t he just do away with you? It’s easy enough to kill a child, and very few people ask questions.” Francis tossed a blond ringlet over his shoulder with a practiced gesture.
“How interesting. You know this from experience, Francis?” Gabriel inquired in an even voice.
“Me? Heavens, no.” Francis managed a soft, artificial laugh. “I’m merely suggesting that if you had anything to fear from Sir Richard, it would have been accomplished these ages past. I doubt he holds any ill feeling toward you.”
“I’m not particularly interested in discussing Sir Richard’s ill will.”
“Ah, but I am. And your heritage.”
“You find it far more interesting than I do, Francis. I’m the result of an unfortunate liaison between a well-bred, well-married lady and a royal duke. The situation was dealt with before the lady’s husband became aware of it. Sir Richard acquired a baronetcy and an heir, and all was well.”
“I do love a happy ending,” Francis murmured. “But that still doesn’t account for Jane. You don’t mind if I call her Jane, do you? She’s most obviously your kin, anyone with an eye can see that. Unfortunately on you it looks quite delicious, while her share of the family looks is, shall we say, infelicitous.”
Gabriel kept his face absolutely expressionless. He’d never had any illusions about just how dangerous Francis Chilton could be, but each fresh reminder was sharply painful. “I have to wonder why you’re so interested,” he said.
“Why, everything about you fascinates me, dear boy. You must know that I am quite . . . enraptured by you. Foolish of me, but then, I’m an emotional creature. So tell me about dear Jane. Do you share a father or a mother? I would really doubt it would be both.”
Sod off was the term that popped into Gabriel’s head. If Peter knew of Chilton’s impertinent questions, he’d probably beat him to a bloody pulp, though knowing Francis he’d probably derive intense pleasure from such an occurrence.
“I haven’t yet paid my respects to your wife. And I gather my old friend Merriwether is staying with you, along with some of his cronies. I’m looking forward to renewing our acquaintance.” He started toward the house, and Francis trotted after him, undeterred.
“Merriwether’s not here at the moment,” he said, almost as an aside, then returned to the subject that seemed to hold far too much interest for him. “I imagine it’s the mother you must share,” he murmured, half to himself. “After all, if Jane came blessed by royal blood, I imagine she’d be treated better by the Durhams. Richard seems to consider her a complete nonentity, not even worth despising. You, however, somehow have earned his undying hatred.”
Gabriel turned back to look at him, an innocent expression on his face. “But, Francis, you not long ago assured me that I had nothing to fear from Sir Richard. I had no idea your acquaintance with him had reached such warmth.”
Francis looked highly uncomfortable, a dubious satisfaction for Gabriel. “I’ve barely met the man. We hardly travel in the same circles,” he said in a haughty voice. “He’s a country squire. Not my favorite sort of companion at all.”
“I would think not. And yet you seem so knowledgeable about his family relationships and his emotions that I begin to wonder. Have you perhaps converted him to the Old Religion?”
Francis laughed with shrill merriment. “Unlikely. He strikes me as a most predictable and conservative gentleman.”
“True,” Gabriel agreed. “The idea of Sir Richard as a Druid is comical.”
“Comical,” Francis echoed jovially. They had reached a side portico of the main house, and beyond the arched doorway Gabriel could hear the sounds of raucous laughter and girlish shrieks. He suspected those shrieks were coming from male voices and wished he were anywhere but standing with Francis Chilton breathing down his neck.
He almost begged off. Almost came up with an instantaneous headache or a previous engagement, but his long-lost sense of duty pulled at him. These silly, useless creatures were probably quite harmless, even with their wicker cage and their animal sacrifices. Probably.
But the people of Hernewood were uneasy, frightened, and he knew he was the more obvious culprit. He needed to find out for sure there was no correlation between the three girls who’d taken off on various spring nights, make certain that nothing apart from freshly slaughtered livestock would be burned in that infernal cage. And that the Chiltons and their ilk would come nowhere near Hernewood Manor and the two women living there.
He would go to hell and back for Jane’s sake. He wasn’t quite sure what he’d do for Elizabeth’s sake. She was driving him to distraction.
She didn’t seem inclined to go back to Dorset, as he’d advised, and that left him with no choice but to walk into the lion’s den that was the Chiltons’ house party and see just how dan
gerous things truly were. If he deemed it necessary, he’d have Lizzie bound and gagged and carried back to Dorset in the back of a hay wagon.
Even now the notion appealed to him. But there was more at stake than Lizzie, more than Jane as well. Hernewood had turned into a place of darkness. His home had been invaded, and he couldn’t sit idly by while Francis Chilton and his whore-wife played their little games. He had to discover just how dangerous things really were.
Francis stepped past him and waited by the open door, a faint, supercilious smile on his elegant face, and Gabriel, who was not a violent man, knew a sudden, intense longing to plant his fist right in the middle of all that milky perfection.
He didn’t, of course. He simply stepped through the door, into the den of iniquity itself, promising himself the exquisite pleasure of ruining Francis’s perfect face in the near future.
Chapter Sixteen
THE NIGHT WAS warmer than Lizzie had expected, though the wind tugged at her skirts and pulled at her hair. There was something about Hernewood Manor that held the cold, as if no warmth could survive long in its lofty rooms. The moon was strong enough to light her path, and she moved directly toward the old abbey ruins. There was nowhere else she could go for help—only Gabriel would care enough to go searching for Jane. Pray God it wasn’t too late.
There was a rich scent of spring in the air—fresh earth and growing things. It was the end of April, a time when everything should be blossoming, though this far north it was taking longer than Lizzie was used to. Still, she could smell the apple blossoms freshening in the night wind, and a part of her was comforted.
The ruined abbey loomed up in the darkness, and she supposed she should have been frightened. The last time she’d been in these woods she’d been terrified, running for her life until she’d slammed into Gabriel Durham.
But these woods felt different, safer, as they grew up around the old abbey. It felt like a holy place, whether one believed in the wicked Catholics or the ancient Druids or the more conventional faith of her father. She wondered if Mr. Penshurst would recognize the sanctity of the place. He’d probably deny it in scandalized tones.
But surely there was nothing to harm her in these towering woods. She was half-tempted to slip off her shoes in order to run faster, but she resisted the urge. She needed to keep her clothes fastened around her, her shoes on, and if she’d had any sense at all, she’d have scoured the manor until she found some hairpins to tame her wild mane. It only reminded her of the freedom she lacked when she felt it tumble down her back.
The tower was still and dark, and for a moment she hesitated. What if he wasn’t there? He had an estate somewhere nearby—it had to be more of a home than the ruined luxury of the tower. It was the logical place for him, and yet she had no idea how to find it. She couldn’t go back to the manor without Jane. She couldn’t abandon her without at least attempting to help.
The curving staircase was uneven beneath her feet, and she held on to the stone walls for guidance, moving slowly, feeling her way. No sound drifted to her ears, and while she was tempted to call out, the very thought of taking a deep breath and shouting made her feel even less secure on the crumbling steps. It wasn’t until she reached the top landing that she dared raise her voice.
“Mr. Durham?” It seemed absurd to call him that.
She tried again, and her voice was swallowed up by the cavernous darkness around her. “Gabriel?”
She heard a fluttering overhead, and she had the wretched suspicion there might be bats hovering around. She called once more, pushing against the heavy wooden door. The climb up in the darkness had been terrifying—the notion of climbing back down was even worse.
The door swung open easily, almost as if it had help. The room was in darkness, though the moonlight filtered in one narrow window, illuminating strange, ungainly shapes.
She didn’t move from the doorway. “Gabriel?” she said again, in a voice not much more than a whisper. She could remember where his bed lay—she’d spent so much time trying not to look at it during her previous visit here that it was thoroughly emblazoned in her mind. The obvious thing to do would be to head for it, to ascertain whether he was there or not.
But what if he was? What if he lay naked in that bed, waiting for her? Or even worse, what if he wasn’t alone?
She almost turned and left, willing to face those wretched stairs, when she remembered why she’d come there in the first place. Jane was missing. Jane needed her, and Lizzie couldn’t abandon her.
She cleared her throat, taking a tentative step into the room. “Gabriel?” she whispered. “Gabriel, are you here?”
The door slammed shut behind her, plunging her into darkness, and she screamed in panic.
“Oh, merciful heavens, please don’t do that!” begged a gentle voice from the shadows. Across the room from where the bed rested, thank heavens. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.” He sounded almost as frightened as she did.
She peered into the darkness. The voice was unfamiliar, though obviously well educated. “I’m sorry,” she said in a relatively calm voice. “I was looking for Mr. Durham.”
“He’s not here, my girl.” Another man’s voice spoke, coming from the same dark corner of the room. They were standing by the fireplace; she could vaguely see their silhouettes, one tall and thin, one shorter and rounder. “He’s gone off on some wild-goose chase, instead of staying here with his studies. I despair of the boy, I do.”
“Septimus . . .” the other man said in a gentle reproof. “His motives are pure.”
“His actions are not,” the man addressed as Septimus intoned. “As well you know it, Brother Paul. We’ve talked about this time and time again, and you never . . .”
“I beg your pardon,” Lizzie said in a plaintive voice, her anxiety overcoming her manners, “but I really must . . .” Her voice trailed off. “Brother Paul?” she echoed.
“Yes, my child?” came the friendly voice from the shadows.
A chill ran down Lizzie’s spine. “Who are you?” she demanded in a hushed voice.
“Heavens, we’ve been rude,” Brother Paul said. A moment later a flash of light illuminated the fireplace, and a small fire blazed forth, illuminating the corner where the two men stood.
They were dressed in long white robes, and somewhere in the back of her mind she remembered the tales of Druids, with their robes and their beards and their human sacrifices, and it took all her strength of mind not to panic entirely. “Are you Druids?” she demanded, ready to run.
“Certainly not. I’m Brother Septimus, and this is Brother Paul. We’re Cistercian monks attached to this abbey.”
“But . . . the abbey was torn down. The monks died long ago,” she said helplessly.
“Well, of course,” Brother Septimus said in a crabby voice. “I didn’t say we were alive, did I? We’re attached to the place and don’t seem able to break free. We’re ghosts, child, not Druids.”
Her choices were simple, Lizzie thought dazedly. She could fall down in a dead faint, run screaming from the tower and probably break her neck on the treacherous stairs, or she could calm herself and treat this as any of the other occurrences, wondrous and commonplace, that had occurred in the forest. She took a deep, shattered breath.
“Why are you searching for Gabriel, my child?” Brother Paul inquired in a gentle voice. He had a ring of white hair on his head and a sweet, innocent expression on his round face.
“You’re far too innocent, brother,” Septimus intoned.
“You should be ashamed of yourself, Septimus,” Brother Paul replied sternly. “Can’t you see she’s a good girl? She wouldn’t have come here if it weren’t of the utmost importance. What’s happened, my child?”
“It’s Jane, Gabriel’s sister. She’s disappeared, and I’m afraid the Druids might have taken her.” The sheer absurd
ity of confiding her worst fears to a ghost did nothing to lessen her panic.
“We know who Jane is,” Septimus said in a condescending tone. “We know everything about Gabriel, including who you are. As for Jane, I’m certain she’s just fine. She’s a girl who knows the benefits of proper behavior, unlike some young girls I can think of.”
“That’s enough, Brother Septimus,” Brother Paul said. “Can’t you see the child is distressed? We need to find Gabriel for her.”
“We can’t find Gabriel,” his fellow monk said. “He left the abbey grounds, and there’s no way we can follow him.”
“We know where he went. We can show her the way.”
“Highly unwise. You want to send her into that den of lechers? I think not.”
“Then what do you propose we do, brother?” Brother Paul demanded with some asperity. “Sit back and do nothing to save her?”
Brother Septimus emitted a long-suffering ghostly sigh. “We can’t go with her. We can’t protect her. We’d be leading her into the valley of temptation with no one to aid her.”
“Gabriel will be there,” Brother Paul pointed out. “He’ll look after her.”
“Much good he’ll do,” he said with a sniff.
“Just tell me where he is,” Lizzie pleaded. “I’ll go find him myself.”
“I’m afraid he’s gone to Arundel, my dear,” Brother Paul said in an apologetic tone. “I’m certain his motives are entirely pure, but it’s nevertheless a dangerous place for a properly brought-up young lady.”
“What’s Arundel?” she asked, though she had the wretched feeling she knew.
“The home of Lord and Lady Chilton. A place of orgies, licentiousness, drunkenness, sloth, and evil,” Brother Paul intoned. “Or so I’ve been told. As we’ve explained, we aren’t actually able to leave the abbey grounds.” He sounded faintly mournful at the thought of missing the chance to observe such unrepentant evil. “How do I find it? Will I need to ride?” She tried to keep the quaver out of her voice. The notion of climbing back onto Marigold’s broad back filled her with loathing, but for Jane’s sake she wouldn’t hesitate.