The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh

by Stephanie Laurens

  With his back to the altar, Ryder played the lantern beam slowly around the cavern. There were five entrances. He thought, then said, “It was the Protestants in Mary’s reign.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Because the Cavanaughs, and most of the families around here, were never Catholic, or at least, not truly.” He pointed to the entrance now to their left, almost opposite the passage from which they’d come. “So that way will lead to Axford, the village. And that”—he pointed to the next tunnel mouth—“makes that The Oaks. And that one’s Kitchener Hall, and that leaves that”—he pointed to the tunnel almost directly opposite the altar—“as the way to the abbey.”

  Mary glanced at him. “Are you sure?”

  “No.” Through the dimness, he met her eyes. “But we need to keep moving, and as long as we stick to a worked-on tunnel with air on our faces, we should come out somewhere.”

  Glancing back at the tunnel from the Dower House, she nodded. “Let’s go.”

  They did. The tunnel they hoped led to the abbey had been cut wider and the floor evened out; they made good time. They’d been striding along for perhaps half a mile when Mary tugged his sleeve. “What’s the time?”

  He glanced at her, decided a pause wouldn’t hurt. Handing the fully lit lantern to her, he pulled out his watch, held its face in the beam. “Not quite midnight.” Tucking the watch back, he retook the lantern and they walked on.

  The tunnel slowly climbed, then they came to a spot where it narrowed severely, leaving just enough space for a man to fit through. There appeared to be a wider space beyond, and past that . . . came the soft swoosh and splash of falling water.

  Ryder stared through the gap; he tried angling the lantern beam through, but the light reflected back—from a curtain of falling water. “I don’t believe it.”

  Peering past his shoulder, Mary asked, “Where is it?”

  “I think we’re behind the waterfall in the grotto above the abbey lake.” He stood back and waved her through. “Trust me, there won’t be any spiders. Not with all that water about.”

  Mary handed him her lantern, then stepped into the crevice and edged through. “Just as long as I don’t get soaked.”

  She emerged onto a narrow rock ledge that curved to her left around the waterfall.

  “Here—take the lanterns.”

  She turned and took the lanterns as Ryder handed them through, followed by the poker.

  Then, with difficulty and several curses, he squeezed through the opening and they were both standing in the spray from the waterfall—one she’d thus far seen only from the mouth of the grotto.

  Instead of clambering on and making her way out, she set down her burdens, looked up at Ryder, then smiled, stretched up, wrapped her arms about his neck and kissed him—ferociously.

  He closed his arms around her and kissed her back—equally passionate, even more possessive—but then he drew back and set her on her feet. “We’re not safe yet. It’s a good half mile to the house.”

  Once out of the grotto, damp but not soaked, they doused the lanterns. Ryder knew every inch of his gardens, and the moon shed enough light for them to see their way.

  Carrying one lantern and the poker in one hand, his other hand closed firmly about Mary’s, Ryder strode along as rapidly as her shorter legs would allow. He’d given thanks several times that she was no delicate miss, no weak, wilting female; she’d kept up without complaint through the tunnels and continued to walk swiftly by his side.

  Ahead of them, the abbey was ablaze. Light shone from the long library windows, and flares had been planted in the forecourt. There was activity in the stable yard but, Ryder was relieved to note, no carriage drawn up before the front steps. “Just pray that Forsythe hasn’t reached the point of sending for the magistrate, Lord Hughes, yet. If at all possible, I want to handle this myself.”

  Mary glanced at him. “You’re the Lord Marshal for the area, aren’t you?”

  He nodded. “But as I’m the one who’s disappeared . . .”

  “Yes, well, you’re back now, and ready to resume control.”

  He smiled, but as they strode on and he thought further, he sobered. “I’m trying to think of what evidence we have that it was Lavinia behind this—the men who abducted you are the best and very likely only witnesses.” He met Mary’s eyes as she looked at him. “Did you get a look at any of the three when they grabbed you?”

  “No.”

  He grimaced and looked ahead.

  “But I smelled them.”

  He looked at her. “Smelled?”

  “Horses—all three of them. It’s not a smell I would mistake. And one gave orders to the others—I’ll know him by his voice, too.” Mary glanced at him. “How many men work in the Dower House stables?”

  Slowly, he grinned. “Lavinia has a favorite groom, and there are two stable hands, I believe.”

  “Well, then.” Mary quickened her pace. “I suspect we know who our three miscreants are.”

  “Hmm . . . that may be, but I understand the groom, Snickert, is devoted to Lavinia—she’ll doubtless claim he acted on his own, and he might not give her up.”

  “Perhaps, but do you think all three will hang for her?”

  He inclined his head. “Probably not.” They reached the terrace and went up the steps, heading around the house to the front door. “I suggest we calm the troops, then tidy ourselves, and then, despite the hour, I believe we should pay Lavinia a visit.”

  Glancing at Mary, he saw a smile—a particularly ferocious one—curve her lips. “Yes. Let’s.”

  They turned the corner.

  And walked into consternation.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The pandemonium that erupted when they walked calmly into the midst of their panicking household took mere minutes to calm.

  Ryder was astonished—and abjectly grateful he had Mary by his side; despite having been his marchioness for only three weeks, she’d established her position and developed a certain no-nonsense tone his staff patently found reassuring. She stemmed their fussing and the inevitable avalanche of questions with a minimum of declarative sentences. Subsequently, unimpeded by her bedraggled state, she marched across the tiles issuing crisp orders right and left, and like a well-conditioned team, the household responded to her hands on their reins; in short order he and she were in their respective bathing chambers, supplied with hot water and fresh clothes, brushes, towels, and scented soaps.

  Fifteen minutes later, restored to their customary sartorial elegance, side by side they descended the main stairs, crossed the front hall, and went out through the doors Forsythe held open. Their carriage stood waiting, with Ridges on the box, Filmore beside him, and two burly grooms, one already up behind, the other holding open the carriage door.

  Behind them, other than Forsythe, the great house was once again devoid of males. Before he’d followed Mary upstairs, Ryder had dispatched every man, other than the four who would travel with them, to form a cordon around the Dower House. He’d put Dukes in charge; the man knew every inch of the estate, including the Dower House woods. Ryder’s orders had been for every man to keep silent and out of sight, and to allow any who wished to enter to do so unchallenged, but to ensure that no one left.

  Handing Mary into the carriage, he followed. The footman shut the door, then swung up behind as Ridges set the horses in motion.

  “What’s the time?” Mary had seen Ryder check his watch just before they reached the carriage.

  “Twenty minutes after midnight. We’ll be there in less than five minutes.”

  “So she might or might not have returned yet.”

  Ryder had settled beside her, his hand wrapped around one of hers; her shoulder rocked against his arm as the carriage turned out of the abbey drive. “I asked Dukes to scout the house and see what he could learn of who was there,
and in particular where Lavinia’s groom—Snickert—and the other two stable hands were.”

  “Hmm . . . correct me if I’m wrong, but we assume Potherby will return with Lavinia, and we don’t actually know his standing in this.”

  “No, we don’t.” Ryder gently squeezed her hand. “We’ll have to play it by ear and watch how he reacts.”

  The carriage slowed, turned, then rolled slowly forward.

  A soft owl-call sounded just ahead, and the horses were drawn to a halt.

  Ryder let down the window as Dukes appeared.

  The head gardener saluted. “Her ladyship hasn’t returned yet, my lord. The Dower House staff are here, but it seems they’ve only just got in. They’re all in the kitchen having a late supper. We’ve been listening from outside the window. Seems her ladyship insisted they all go off to see the circus in Marlborough—all except Snickert and the two stable hands. None of the rest of the staff knows what those three have been doing—there’ve been questions aplenty—but all three are there now, standing about the kitchen and looking right smug. Did hear the cook complaining that the bolt on the basement door had been broken—Snickert told her not to worry about it, but he and his two mates are sticking close by that door.”

  Ryder thought, then nodded. “Here’s what I want done.”

  Three minutes later, their carriage drew up before the Dower House front steps. Ryder handed Mary down. Head high, gowned in an elegant carriage dress, she walked beside him up the steps to the front door. A small lamp high on the wall was still burning, shedding a pool of light immediately before the door but leaving the space to either side in deep shadow.

  Halting in the light, Ryder nodded at Dukes. Leading the six men who were melting back into the dimness on either side of the door, Dukes pulled a dangling chain, and in the distance they heard a bell jangle.

  Dukes joined his men, indiscernible in the gloom.

  A minute passed, then they heard the measured tread of a butler’s footsteps approaching, then the latch was lifted and the door swung open.

  The middle-aged butler who stood in the doorway, a lanky footman hovering behind him, blinked in surprise. “My lord?”

  “Good evening, Caldicott.” Sweeping Mary forward, Ryder ushered her in.

  Caldicott fell back, uncertain. “My lord?” Then Caldicott saw the seven large men crowding the doorway behind them. “What . . . ? My lord!” Caldicott’s eyes went wide and he looked back at Ryder. “Her ladyship—”

  “Is, I understand, not presently here.” Ryder caught and held Caldicott’s gaze. “You know who owns this house, and who in reality pays the wages of all those who work here.”

  Caldicott hesitated, then carefully nodded. “Indeed, my lord.”

  “That being so, speaking as the ultimate employer of all the staff here, this is what I want you to do.”

  Five minutes later, the household was secure. The Dower House staff were confined in the kitchen, with two of the abbey footmen standing guard inside the door leading to the kitchens and another blocking the back door. Snickert and his two helpers, reportedly belligerently mutinous, were sitting atop the stacked sacks of grain in the basement, watched over by Dukes and three of the abbey men, all armed. The abbey coach had been driven into the stable yard, out of sight of the front of the house; Ridges and Filmore were in charge in the stable yard, waiting for Lavinia’s carriage to roll in.

  Satisfied, Ryder led Mary into the unlighted drawing room and shut the door. Through the gloom, he met her eyes. “Now we wait.”

  She nodded, looked around, then crossed to a chaise and sat. “Why didn’t you want Snickert and the other two to see or hear us? Or to in any way learn that we’ve escaped their trap?”

  Ryder had had Dukes take charge of securing Snickert, giving orders for the abbey staff to behave as if they had no idea where he and Mary were. He paused by a table to light the lamp atop it. “Because while Snickert and his cronies think they hold the winning card—that you and I are still trapped below them—they’ll be much easier to manage. Snickert, at least, will believe to the last that Lavinia will be grateful enough to get them out of any potential difficulty . . . and, in truth, if you and I were still missing, no amount of suspicion of foul deeds befalling us would get the abbey staff or even the authorities anywhere.”

  He’d also sworn Caldicott and the footman who had come to the door to secrecy regarding his and Mary’s presence, then had allowed them to rejoin the others in the kitchen. That neither Caldicott nor the rest of the staff had any idea what had been going on had been transparent enough; Dukes had reported that they were puzzled and confused, but willing enough to wait in the kitchen and allow whatever game their betters were engaged in to play out elsewhere.

  The wick of the lamp caught and Ryder turned the flame low. Replacing the lamp glass, he glanced at the window. Mary had realized and was already on her feet. Crossing to the wide bay window, she hauled one long heavy curtain halfway across, then went to the other side and started to draw its mate, but then paused. Screened by the curtain, she stared out through the narrow gap remaining. “There’s a carriage—a curricle, I think—coming up the drive. Whoever’s driving it, they’re in a furious rush.”

  Frowning, Ryder circled to peer over her head. Using the curtain as a screen as she was, he looked out.

  Glancing up, Mary saw his frown deepen. “Who is it?”

  His expression grew grimmer. “Rand.” His hand clenched on the edge of the curtain, then he met her eyes. “I still don’t believe he had anything to do with this.”

  She let her lips curve. “Nor do I.”

  Ryder studied her eyes, read her confidence in his judgment, then, glancing up as, gravel crunching, Rand angled his lathered horses into the forecourt, he drew the curtain fully closed. “Wait here. I’ll go and let him in.”

  By the time Ryder reached the front door and swung it open, Rand was striding up the steps.

  He checked his pace at the sight of Ryder in the doorway.

  Even in the poor light, Ryder could tell Rand’s face was unnaturally pale, his features drawn—and clearly saw those features transform, saw them light up with relief and unrestrained joy as Rand took in the sight of him.

  “You’re all right!” Quickening his pace, Rand crossed the porch.

  Ryder gestured. “As you see—but come in.”

  As Rand stepped past him, Ryder saw the shadowy figures of his men drift in to take the curricle around the house. Shutting the door, he turned to find Rand looking him up and down.

  A puzzled frown forming on his face, Rand met Ryder’s eyes. “You’re not even injured.”

  “No. Not in the least.” Ryder waved him into the drawing room and Rand instinctively obeyed, but as Ryder followed him in and shut the door, he could see the questions forming in Rand’s mind.

  Seeing Mary, Rand halted, then moved forward, holding out his hands. “Mary.”

  “Randolph.” She gave him her hands and Rand bussed her proffered cheek.

  But as he drew back, he looked even more confused. He glanced at Ryder. “Clearly, you’re both well.”

  Ryder arched a brow. “Why did you think we weren’t? And why are you here?”

  “For one and the same reason.” His frown deepening, Rand reached into his pocket and drew out a note. He handed it to Ryder, then glanced from him to Mary. “And if it comes to that, what are you two doing here? Where’s Mama?”

  Smoothing out the note, Ryder scanned its few lines, then offered the single sheet to Mary. “As it transpires, it appears we’re all here as part of the same game.”

  Taking the note, Mary read it aloud. “ ‘Randolph, dearest. Come urgently, darling—something’s gone terribly wrong at the abbey. Come to the Dower House first, and I’ll explain.’ ” Raising her head, Mary looked at Ryder. “When did she write this?”

  At Ryder’s in
quiring look, Rand shrugged. “It was delivered by courier. I got it at nine o’clock and left as soon as I could.”

  “So assuming she didn’t dispatch it from here,” Ryder said, “but from somewhere closer to London, then the latest she could have written this was about six o’clock.”

  Lips tightening, Mary nodded her agreement.

  Rand looked from one to the other. “What’s going on?” A thread of weary wariness wound through his voice. He sighed. “What’s Mama done now, and where is she?”

  “At a guess, she’s been out since early afternoon, possibly even earlier. As for what she’s done . . . I believe it would be best if you hear that from her.”

  Rand studied Ryder’s face, then nodded. “All right.”

  The three of them turned to the sofa and chairs but halted. All raised their heads, listening. Mary met Ryder’s eyes. “Another carriage.”

  “Also racketing along.” Ryder went to look through the curtains, Rand at his shoulder.

  “That’s Kit’s curricle,” Rand said.

  “And he’s got Stacie and Godfrey with him.” Ryder glanced at Rand. “She must have sent notes to all of you.”

  Rand nodded. “I’ll let them in.”

  He went out, and Ryder returned to stand beside Mary. Rand had left the drawing room door open. They heard Kit yell, “What’s happened?”

  “Nothing, apparently,” Rand replied. “Ryder and Mary are here—come inside.”

  Stacie reached Rand first. “My God! Are they really all right? That’s all I could think that Mama’s note meant.”

  The next instant Stacie rushed into the drawing room, saw Ryder and Mary, and all but flew across the room to hug first Ryder, then Mary. “Thank God you’re all right!”

  Then Godfrey and Kit came in, followed by Rand, who closed the door. Hugs and transparently genuine exclamations of relief came first, then the questions.

  Having had time to think, Ryder held to his tack of refusing to answer the latter, other than to assure his half siblings that he and Mary were indeed as hale and whole as they appeared. Standing with his back to the fireplace, he kept his hands clasped behind his back; he’d torn several nails while wrestling with the stone blocks, and that was the sort of thing Stacie might notice.