by Deb Marlowe
“Good news,” he said as he approached. “The grooms tell me of a new bridge open on a road we’ll meet just before Liddington. It will allow us to take that route and head more directly south and west toward our destination. It means leaving the Bath Road for smaller lanes, but the roads are dry and it should cut several hours off our journey. What do you say, Hestia? Shall we take the gamble?”
She stilled. The music faded, that faint, gentle song that he’d spun and let loose inside of her. Their intimate interlude was over. Reality intruded. Marstoke awaited—and what could be the most dangerous confrontation of her life.
“Hestia?”
“Yes.” She took a moment to mentally fill in the crack he’d made in her icy core. “Yes, let’s take it. Let’s get there quickly and see what we find.”
Chapter 10
Should you find Lord M—or one of his minions in the Green Room, ladies associated with the theatre, please beware. The last one associated with him was found floating in the Thames.
--from the Journal of the Infamous Miss Hestia Wright
* * *
Hestia grew quieter and more withdrawn as the hours passed and they drew nearer their destination. Stoneacre spent the time cleaning his pistols and the rifle from the bench and left her alone. Everyone prepared for battle in their own way.
They stopped in Sandridge to change horses for the last time and Hestia asked him to delay a moment before they started out again.
“Would you pass down that small case at the top?” she asked Drake, gesturing to the luggage tied at the back of the carriage.
The coachman eyed the horses being settled into harness at the front, then cast a questioning glance his way. Stoneacre raised a shoulder and gave a nod, curious to see what she was up to.
She took the case, balanced it on the footman’s step on the back and cracked it open. His brow rose when she pulled out a long, thin, firmly braided rope and ran it through her fingers.
“Is that silk?” He held out a hand.
She nodded and handed it over.
“It’s so light.”
“And strong.” She started to reach for a folded leather bundle, but then she stopped and looked to him. “Do you have your lock picks?”
He patted his coat. “At the ready.”
“No need to duplicate, then.” Instead she took up a small, stitched bag that could have been a lady’s reticule. “Extra powder and bullets.” They were tucked away into a fold of her skirt. Taking back the coil of rope, she reached to raise her skirts, but then thought better of their location. “Come along to the other side of the coach, gentlemen, and provide me with a screen.”
Obedient, he and Drake turned away, but stood to block her from view while she attached the rope. He turned to find her swaying and checking the fall of the heavy fabric and laughed. “I never knew a woman with such a penchant for storing implements beneath her skirts.”
She snorted. “You disappoint me, Stoneacre. Surely you are experienced enough to know that all women keep their finest tools beneath their skirts.”
Drake turned a laugh into a cough and she looked between the coachman and him. “I’ve been thinking that we shouldn’t delay. When we reach Bradford-on-Avon, or perhaps before, we should stop at a livery and hire a couple of horses. Stoneacre and I can set out for Farleigh Wick.” She nodded at Drake. “You can go on and see to getting us rooms.”
The coachman looked startled. “But, what shall I say to the proprietor, when I arrive with coach and luggage and no passengers?”
She shrugged, unconcerned. “Tell them we are newly married and stopped at a pretty spot outside the town.”
Stoneacre grinned as Drake colored.
“It will look odder still for us to arrive and immediately set out on horseback,” she told him.
“She’s right.” Stoneacre waggled his brows at her. “Of course, that means that I’ll have to play the besotted groom when we arrive.”
“Have at it,” she said with a wave of her hand. Looking ahead, she motioned. “The horses are all rigged up. Let’s go.”
They found a livery on the outskirts of Bradford-on-Avon and followed her plan. Hestia hung back while he hired the horses, but she swung into the saddle easily enough, and spread the dark wool carriage blanket across her lower limbs, where her traveling gown lacked the extra fabric a riding habit would have included. Drake and the carriage continued on into the town and toward the sign of the Three Feathers while he and Hestia circled north and west.
They’d only ridden a mile or so when she pulled up in a copse of trees. “The light is fading.” Buttoning up her jacket, she completely covered the white shirtwaist beneath it, and nodded toward his ivory waistcoat. “Is that lined in black? You should turn it around or leave it behind. We’ll want to blend in with the shadows.”
Dismounting, he handed her his reins. “Even better.” He pulled of his coat, unbuttoned his waistcoat and firmly told his nether regions to stand down, despite the seclusion and the undressing. “Reversible,” he said, holding up the garment and donning it black side out. “And I commandeered this from Drake.” He wrapped a dark scarf around his neck, hiding his white linen.
She nodded approval as she tucked her blue gloves away and donned black ones. “Make sure it is anchored tightly. You won’t want it coming undone if we have to move quickly.”
She had a scarf as well, and removed her dainty bonnet and tied the scarf over her hair, hiding her bright locks. She knotted it in the back and he tried not to stare at the long, slender column of her neck. They mounted again and moved out. The track here was wide enough for them to ride side by side, so he nudged his mount up next to hers. “What do you know of this place? Anything useful?”
After a long pause, she answered. “It’s ancient. An old priory for a small sect of monks. It has a Great Hall, where Marstoke is likely entertaining his guests, if they are still there. A low, stone wall surrounds the house, gardens, stables and outbuildings, but it is easy to get over. We’ll leave the horses at the back corner of it. It is far enough away that we won’t be seen and there are trees to provide cover.”
Stoneacre merely nodded, but his busy mind was conjuring reasons for her to be so familiar with the place—and hating every one of them. He knew the bare bones of her story, probably more of the truth of her history with the wicked marquess than most. He knew she’d somehow rejected Marstoke when she was young and untried. Knew that, furious, the marquess had conspired with the man she did have feelings for. He’d heard the rumors of the elopement and the faked wedding and the fact that she’d ended up in Marstoke’s clutches—and had been kept there for an undetermined length of time. He’d also heard that their first meeting had occurred in Bath. They were close to that city now. Could this have been where some of that drama had played out?
The thought sickened him. Under normal circumstances he would never ask her to return, but nothing about this mission was normal—and he knew she wanted Marstoke to answer for his sins more than anyone. Still, his respect and admiration for her strength soared yet again, and he rode silently from then on, allowing her to gather whatever defenses she might.
She just kept riding, focusing her mind on logistics, on one plan, then another to back it up, lulling her brain while they drew closer to the place where she’d sworn she would never return.
Each new landmark brought fresh pain. She’d made it to that rickety bridge the first time she’d tried to escape. The second time she’d only made it to this crossroads. Closing her mind’s eye to the past, she rode on.
And then they were there, at the back border, tying off the horses. She draped the blanket over her saddle and went to scramble over the low wall. She landed on her feet before Stoneacre had a chance to object, and stood, staring toward the house.
It was still hidden behind trees, but she could feel it, lurking. Waiting.
Stoneacre dropped down beside her. “We need to make a circuit around the place, see what we can, get an i
dea of what we are up against.”
“We’ll have to be careful around the stables. They are close to the house and after our escapade in Kendal a few weeks ago, they are sure to post guards there.”
He nodded and they set off. Stoneacre did blend well into the shadows, bless him, especially with that raven-wing hair. Memory invaded—how soft it felt beneath her fingers—but she pushed it away. Adjusting her scarf, she pushed on.
“It’s quiet,” he whispered as they paused behind the dairy shed, long empty. He stared at the house in frustration. “Do you suppose we’ve missed them completely?”
“Not completely. Look to the window above the main door and to the right. I saw movement.”
Tense and on edge, they waited. Stoneacre’s long form loomed slightly behind her. The slightest hint of bay drifted over her. She’d been so angry and upset at the thought of returning here and furious with mortification at the thought of him witnessing it. Yet, kneeling here before the dark, wicked old pile, fighting back the memories that skittered like mice across her mind and up and down her spine, she felt grateful for the comforting bulk of his presence.
“Yes,” he said suddenly into her ear. “There. I saw it too. Someone is in there, watching out the front.”
“There’s a hedge at the back border of the kitchen garden. Let’s follow it to the other side. We should be able to get a glimpse of the stables without being seen from there.”
They kept their heads down and crouched at the far end of the hedgerow. “No guards. I don’t see anyone at all.” Stoneacre cocked his head down at her. “Shall we go in for a look?”
She frowned. “Wait. Listen.”
She held her breath. Only the breeze stirred.
In her ear, Stoneacre huffed in frustration. “I’m going in.”
She clutched his arm before he could stand. “Go around the back. It’s built into a small hill. I think there is a door opening into the hayloft back there.”
He nodded.
“And be careful. If they are there, they are armed.”
He looked back toward the house, judged his moment, and sprinted away.
She cursed as he went. She hated being left behind. Waiting. She watched him run, to distract herself. Her eyebrows rose. Saints, but he could move quickly. Those long legs, no doubt, and the lean muscled—
He peeked around the barn door and held up his hands.
She frowned.
He held up one finger.
“One?” she mouthed.
He nodded and mimicked four running legs with his hand.
“One horse?”
He nodded again.
Possibilities crashed like billiard balls in her head. A trick? A trap? Were they too late? Or had she been wrong all along?
But no, Stoneacre’s man had heard mention of this place. And she knew Marstoke. Knew in her gut that she had not been wrong.
Emotions struck off each other in her chest, too. Damn Marstoke. Damn his endless game playing. She was sick to death of it all.
She stood suddenly. Glared at the back of the house. Spinning on her heel, she turned and walked into the open barn door.
“One horse?” she demanded of Stoneacre. “And no one else?”
“No one.” He watched her, alight with curiosity.
“Could it be your man’s mount?”
He frowned, considering. “No. Even if it were he inside, waiting, he would never stable his horse here, for fear of someone returning. Or arriving. He’ll have hidden his mount somewhere near, as we did.”
“Very well, then.” She gestured toward the placid mare, watching them. “Bring her along, then.”
She marched out and around the barn, climbed the short hill and waited for Stoneacre to catch up, leading the mare. When they all stood in the lane that led to the loft door, she took hold of the horse’s halter, brought her forward a few spaces, then slapped her rump, urging her away.
“What are you doing?”
“Inconveniencing someone, I hope.”
She waited until the mare wandered around the curve of the wooded lane, then turned and stalked back the way they’d come.
“Now what are you doing?”
She kept marching. “At first, I’d thought we’d sneak in the back,” she told him as he followed her. “They never did discover how I managed to keep escaping. The way is surely still usable. I thought the place would be crowded and we would slip in and mingle a bit, gathering information before we made our move—or were found out.”
She didn’t attempt to hide this time, just strode along the path toward the house. When she came to the front she stopped and glared at it with all of the loathing in her heart.
“This place. It all began here. The lies, the manipulation, the pain. Here is where I began to understand Marstoke’s great game—and vowed to beat him at it. So many years since I left here, I’ve spent watching and maneuvering. Anticipate and strike. React and counteract.”
The sight of this place, though. All of the dark memories rising. The recollections of helplessness, despair and sheer, stubborn determination . . .
None of it made her feel the way she’d thought it would.
“I’m beyond tired of it all,” she said suddenly. She started for the front door. “It’s time Marstoke began to dance to my tune.”
Something dark was rising inside of her—and Hestia was going to go along with it.
Chapter 11
To any gentleman perhaps tempted to associate with Lord M—, we ask you to reconsider. He is easily offended and always looking for betrayal. Should he find it, or think he has, it may be the women in your life who pay the price.
--from the Journal of the Infamous Miss Hestia Wright
* * *
Stoneacre followed Hestia into the house, his every sense on alert. She’d stopped just a few steps past the arched double door. She stood, her color high and her spine ramrod straight.
He gazed about. A great hall lay to the left, littered with all the signs of a grand party. A grand, debauched party, he mentally revised, taking it all in.
Furniture had been moved about and left in odd groups. Wine glasses and decanters sat on every surface. Several bottles lay about on the floor, amongst discarded gloves, slippers and at least one leather boot. A woman’s garter hung from one light sconce and a shawl from another. An arched window was cracked open and a gentleman’s cravat hung over the sill, fluttering in the breeze.
“Smell that?” Hestia asked quietly. She had her chin lifted as she tested the air.
It was no hard feat. Despite the cracked window, the sweet and heavy scent of blown fruit and burning hung in the air.
She turned her gaze to the rickety stair ahead of her. It hugged two of the stone walls and ended on a dark passage high above. He looked at her, nodded, and they set out, climbing slowly and trying to keep as quiet as possible.
The first landing held a dark opening in the stone.
“The monk’s cells are down that corridor,” she said in a whisper.
Turning, they continued upward. They were nearly halfway up to the passage when a figure emerged onto the final landing above.
They both froze. A bit of light showed behind him, casting the man’s features in shadow. Stoneacre saw Hestia’s hand dip into the folds of her skirt.
“You are earlier than I expected, sir.”
Stoneacre put a hand on her arm to stall her. “It’s Crawford,” he said in relief. “He’s mine.”
Her muscles relaxed under his hand.
“Come on up,” Crawford said. “We can talk and keep watch.”
They stepped through a thick stone passage and emerged into a sun-filled room that stretched across the width of the hall below. Window seats were situated facing both the front and the back of the building. Carved, paneled wood covered the walls in Jacobean splendor. A massive fireplace with a marble surround centered on one wall.
“You must have traveled quickly.” Crawford moved to look out at the fro
nt of the house. “I didn’t expect you to make it from London until late tonight, at the earliest.”
His man stepped toward them again, making a bow to Hestia before moving into Stoneacre’s quick embrace. “How long have you been here?” Stoneacre asked, clapping his friend on his back.
“I followed a group of them from Reading. They set out before dawn and arrived yesterday afternoon. Other groups were already here.” He shook his head. “You missed quite the party.”
“So we gathered from the aftermath. You were here for it?”
“Yes. I watched the arrivals from outside. Everything was quiet in the afternoon. Whatever business they had to conduct, they must have done so then. The evening turned into something else altogether.”
“You invited yourself in?”
“I did. After a certain point, no one would have realized I didn’t belong. They were entirely caught up in their . . . pleasures.”
“Of several varieties, I noticed.”
“Yes. Notably—Marstoke partook in none of them. He waited until it started to get rowdy and then he left late in the evening, with several of his lackeys.”
“Did you learn anything about the business they conducted? Or were they too far gone?”
“Their pleasures were the business,” Hestia answered for him. “You smelled it. Opium.”
Crawford eyed her with admiration. “You are quick in more ways than one, ma’am. But there is something you should see.”
Hestia raised a brow.
Crawford glanced outside again, then crossed to a doorway in the corner of the room. He swung open a door and indicated that they proceed him.
Stoneacre sensed Hestia’s hesitation.
“That was the abbot’s office, in antiquity,” she told him. “Later Marstoke used it for his chambers. There is nothing in there I am going to want to see.”
Yet she pressed her lips together and followed the sweep of Crawford’s arm.
She stopped just past the threshold. Stoneacre, on her heels, stalled as well.