“That I can well believe,” Sir Matthew said with a smirk. “Our dear old Nick has no intention of offering you anything honorable, Sylvia, so put that out of your pretty head. Much better to take my offer and become Lady Farnaby, my dear girl. And who knows? If some accident should befall our Nicholas—and one can never be sure when accidents will happen, as Angelica found out—” He paused abruptly and sneered, as though deciding not to reveal his thoughts on the matter.
Farnaby stared at her for several moments, during which Sylvia felt her skin crawl. The look in Matthew’s eyes was not entirely sane, she thought, wondering what he could hope to achieve by detaining her against her will.
“I really must go, Matthew,” she said, fighting to keep her voice from trembling. “I am on an errand for my aunt,” she lied, hoping to persuade him to let her go.
“Are you, now?” he said sarcastically. “I wonder why I do not believe you, Sylvia. I suspect you are off to a secret rendezvous with my esteemed cousin.” He paused and stared at her with hard, cold eyes. “You are wasting your time, my love, and making me very angry with you. And believe me, love, you do not want to make me angry with you. I may do something I will regret, and you will most certainly regret it.”
Sylvia glanced down the lane in the direction of Longueville Castle, but no horseman—no white knight, as Matthew had called him—came riding over the hill to rescue her.
Farnaby laughed, and the sound grated on her ears. “He will not come, my love. So why not be reasonable? Give me the answer I wish to hear from your sweet lips. Say you will marry me and all will be well.”
“I shall never consent to wed you, Matthew,” she said coldly. “You are a fool if you believe that I could care for the man who betrayed me. So release me this instant, or I shall complain to your cousin.”
Too late Sylvia saw that her rejection had been too harsh for the baronet’s patience. Or perhaps it had been unwise of her to mention the earl. Whatever the cause, Sir Matthew’s face turned an ugly shade of purple, and his grip on Greyboy’s bridle tightened until the horse jerked his head in fright.
“So,” he snarled in a tone Sylvia had never heard him use before, “you have set your heart on being a countess, have you? Well, let me warn you that will never happen. Only look what happened to that slut Angelica when she chose to be a countess instead of a baroness. She might have been alive today had she chosen wisely. But no, nothing I said could convince her that we might live well enough at Farnaby Hall with her dowry and the rents from the estate.”
Appalled at what she was hearing, Sylvia shrank back from the ugliness Matthew hurled at her.
“You mean, you were b-betrothed to Angelica?” she murmured disjointedly, not quite believing her ears.
Farnaby glowered at her. “What do you think I mean?” he snarled. “Until that cousin of mine came along and filled her head with dreams of being a pampered countess, Angelica was mine. Nicholas took her away from me. But he did not enjoy her for long, you know. I saw to that.”
Sylvia shuddered at the implications of Farnaby’s admission. Her alarm must have been apparent, for the baronet grimaced at her. “I am not a man to trifle with, my love,” he said in a gentler voice. “But do not try my patience too far, Sylvia, or you will come to the same fate. I will not be thwarted a second time by that pompous fool. I shall make sure that he does not interfere this time.”
Before Sylvia realized what he was about, she felt the reins jerked out of her hands, and found herself a prisoner led along helplessly beside the baronet.
“Where are you taking me?” she demanded, with as much force as she could muster, as they turned back towards Helston.
“You will know soon enough, my dear,” he replied with another ugly laugh.
Premonitions of disaster flooded Sylvia’s consciousness, and she saw in her mind’s eye where Matthew was taking her. Of course, she thought, her heart cringing inside her. Where else but Pirate’s Cove and that sinister stone hut?
Frantically, Sylvia glanced around, hoping for the sight of someone, anyone who would dare to confront Sir Matthew and put an end to this nightmare. But there was no one in sight.
And then she saw a movement in a clump of brambles. Inexplicably, for there was no breeze. Had she imagined it, or had there been a face peering at her through the leaves? Hastily, she withdrew her gaze, fearful of alerting Matthew to the presence of a witness.
When she glanced again, she was sure of it. Little Timmy Collins was staring at her with round eyes jumping out of his face.
Sylvia relaxed infinitesimally. She might yet be saved.
“Steady, boy. Steady.”
Nicholas let out a muttered oath as Arion shied violendy, almost
unseating him. Once he had controlled the horse, the earl glanced around to see what had startled the big bay.
A small, grubby lad stood barefoot on the grassy verge, huge eyes staring up at him. He appeared to be out of breath, for his thin chest heaved and his mouth hung open. After a brief pause Nicholas recognized the urchin as the son of one of his tenants, one of the Collins boys from the village who had posed in several of Lady Sylvia’s paintings. What was the child doing so far from home? he wondered.
“Trying to break my neck, lad?” he growled, keeping a firm hand on the reins. Once aroused, Arion appeared to be toying with the idea of bolting. The big horse sidled nervously, tossing his head up and down.
“Oh, no, m’lord,” the lad said in his reed-like voice, one childish hand touching his forelock. “But you must come, m’lord. ’Tis urgent.”
Now that Nicholas had recovered from the shock of almost coming a cropper, he remembered where he had last seen the boy. “You are the lad who brought that old letter to Lady Sylvia over at Pirate’s Cove, are you not?” he demanded, a coil of fear unwinding in his stomach.
“Aye, m’lord. Me name is Timmy. But that ain’t what I come fer. ’Er ladyship sent me. Or no, she dinna send me exactly. But she wanted me to come, I saw it plain-like. She would ’ave said it, m’lord. She did say it, with ’er peepers, that is. ’Er ladyship couldna speak, yer see. But I known at once she wanted me to come fer you, m’lord. So I run all the way.”
Breathing heavily and obviously exhausted by his long speech, Timmy stared at the earl expectantly.
Nicholas listened to this garbled speech with growing apprehension. “Are you telling me that Lady Sylvia is in danger?” he demanded sharply, unwilling to believe the lad’s jumbled message. “Did she send you to find me?”
The lad looked at Nicholas disgustedly, and the earl felt as though he had not lived up to the lad’s expectations.
“Aye, m’lord,” was all he said, however.
“And she needs my help?”
“Aye,” the lad repeated patiently, and the earl knew he had been labeled a slow-top by a twelve-year-old. “I couldna do it meself, yer see. The gent was too big, and as mean as old Dudley’s prize boar—”
“What gent is this?” Nicholas interrupted, his premonition of danger growing.
“The one as nabbed ’er ladyship.”
Nicholas felt his jaw drop. “Nabbed her?”
“Aye. Nabbed ’er. Loped off with ’er. I couldna do nothin’ to stop ’im. 1 only had me slingshot, ye see.” Timmy reached into his back pocket and pulled out the crude weapon. “No good against a big blighter like that.”
The earl felt his blood run cold. “Are you saying that someone kidnapped Lady Sylvia?” A flicker of impatience in the boy’s eyes caused Nicholas to add, “Where did he take her?”
“Pirate’s Cove,” came the terse reply. “Ye’d best ’urry, m’lord. Said ’e’d kill ’er, same as the other lady, if she gave ’im any trouble.’
Convinced that the lad was not making up a Canterbury tale, the earl was about to clap heels to his mount when he remembered something.
“Do you know Captain Ransome, lad?”
Timmy grinned. “Everybody knows the captain, m’lord.”
Nicholas tossed him a shilling, which the lad caught and slipped into his pocket. “Find him for me and tell him what you have just told me, Timmy. Tell him to come to Pirate’s Cove as soon as he can.”
And then the earl gave Arion his head. Sylvia needed him. He was well aware who that other gent was who had kidnapped his love. What his cousin’s motive could be for taking her to Pirate’s Cove, Nicholas could only guess. But he did not for a moment believe Matt’s intentions were honest.
Timmy’s ominous words rang in his head as he raced along the Helston Road. Said 'e ’d kill ’er, same as the other lady, if she gave ’im any trouble. That other lady could be none other than Angelica, Nicholas realized as the truth of his cousin’s threat sank in. He had been right—he was dealing with a madman.
The past was repeating itself in more ways than one, and his Cousin Matt, confident in winning this test of wills, as he had won so many times before, was about to taste defeat.
Nicholas had promised to protect Sylvia from his cousin, a promise he intended to keep.
Chapter Twenty-four
Pirate's Cove Revisited
Far too soon for Lady Sylvia’s peace of mind, they came in sight of the mysterious stone hut where so many of the dramatic events leading up to her present predicament had played themselves out. As Sir Matthew dismounted and tied the two horses to a wind- battered grove of maritime pines, Sylvia glanced furtively about for a means of escape. She found none, so was forced to submit to being pulled roughly from Grayboy’s back. The possessive touch of her captor’s hands on her waist frightened her, but she refused to show it.
“Well, love,” Sir Matthew murmured close to her ear as he guided her, one arm firmly wrapped around her, towards the narrow stone steps, “here we are. An ideal spot for an amorous rendezvous, do you not agree? I always found it so. The locals rarely if ever come near the place because they believe it inhabited by ghosts of dead women.” He paused, then let out a cynical chuckle. “They may well be right. So do not look for help in that quarter, my sweet.” He threw back his head and laughed again, a high- pitched, raucous sound that rang eerily in the still, darkening afternoon.
“You surely do not mean to force me to wed you against my will, Matthew,” she said, forcing herself to keep her panic at bay. “I never took you to be cruel. Careless perhaps, but never deliberately hurtful.”
They reached the steps, and Sir Matthew drew her closer to his side as they descended the narrow steps together. “No, my sweet love,” he whispered as they stepped onto the uneven rock floor
around the hut, “never hurtful, especially to those I love. And as for you, Sylvia, I intend to show you just how much I adore you, sweetheart. Always provided you do not cross me,” he added in a sinister tone. “I cannot answer for my actions if you cross me.”
“If you truly loved me, as you say, Matthew, you would let me go,” she said, grasping at any straw.
“Come, Sylvia, no more questions. You must believe that what I do is for the best.” So saying, he dragged her towards the door of the hut, pushed it open, and pulled her inside.
The interior of the hut, which Sylvia had never dared enter before, was dim, and she had to wait a moment for her eyes to adjust. She glanced curiously about her. The room was smaller than she had imagined, but had a cozy though unkempt air about it, as though it had not been used since the countess’s death ten years earlier.
Sylvia could not suppress a shudder as the charged atmosphere of the hut began to work on her sensibilities. Call it foolishness, she thought, but her senses were picking up the vibrations of an invisible presence in the tiny room. It was all in her imagination, of course, she reminded herself, having experienced similar sensations many times before during her painting sessions, when she had been able to see shapes and colors that were not there. At least not visibly there.
Her premonitions were rarely mistaken. Even now Sylvia caught die heavy scent of flowers, a heady perfume that she found too provocative for her own taste. A woman’s perfume here in this desolate place?
A movement at the door reminded her that she was wasting precious time. Instead of trying to commune with ghosts, she should be looking about for a means of escape. Glancing over her shoulder, Sylvia saw that Matthew still stood on the threshold, his gaze fixed on the scattered clumps of pine, scraggly junipers, and an occasional larch through which they had just ridden. Did he fear pursuit? she wondered. Her thoughts flew to Timmy, and she offered up a small prayer that the bright lad had understood the frantic message in her eyes, and was even now at the Castle, urging the earl to come to her rescue.
In the meantime, her practical self reminded her, she had best fend for herself. But by what means?
It was then her darting gaze fell upon the flowers, and she smiled as the mystery of the perfume resolved itself. They sat on the narrow mantel, in a squat jelly-jar, a modest posy of wild lupines, two or three tall blue delphiniums from someone’s garden, and a single white rose, arranged with apparent care.
Sylvia’s thoughts flashed back to the afternoon she had seen George Connan, the Helston bookseller, place a similar modest bouquet on the window ledge of the hut. The same bouquet the Longueville agent had thrown over the cliff into the sea. Well, here was one bouquet Tom Gates had not found, she thought, absurdly pleased that the countess had enjoyed at least one of poor Mr. Con- nan’s tributes.
Suddenly, Sylvia heard the door slam behind her and whirled to see Matthew standing there, a calculating smile on his handsome face.
“What? No weeping and swooning and calling for hartshorn?” he asked in a mocking tone. “I am glad to see you have sense enough not to send me into the boughs with futile female farradid- dle, my dear. Never could abide those Cheltenham tragedies. Angelica was addicted to such nonsensical displays of temper, and I warned her often enough that she would rue the day she riled me beyond bearing. And I was right, of course. Little enough good her hysterics did her in the end.”
An uncomfortable silence followed this revealing remark, which Sylvia did her best to ignore. It would do her as little good as it had done the poor countess to dissolve into hysterics now, she thought. Far better to pretend that this was a normal conversation, a rendezvous between lovers. Anything but what it might well turn into. A repetition of an act of violence that had shocked the neighborhood and left the master of Longueville without a wife.
The baronet smiled at her then, and Sylvia braced herself, dredging up a weak smile in response.
“Let us see how reasonable you can be, my love,” he murmured in a low voice, so like the seductive tones of their first encounters that for a giddy moment Sylvia imagined herself back at the Blue Duck Inn in Dover with a younger, more charming, gentler Matthew whose kisses she had craved and whose hands had guided her into womanhood.
He walked over to stand before her, gazing deeply into her eyes until Sylvia felt mesmerized. He trailed a finger down her face, then raised her chin and lowered his mouth to hers.
Determined not to provoke the baronet by resisting his advances, Sylvia remained passive, hoping against hope that he would demand no more of her. She realized that she had misjudged him when his arms enveloped her and he jerked her against him roughly.
“Show a little enthusiasm when your future husband kisses you, my girl, or I shall have to give you graphic lessons on how to keep a gentleman happy.”
Gingerly, Sylvia slid one arm up his sleeve and round his neck. This appeared to satisfy him momentarily, for he lowered his head to nuzzle her neck and bosom. It was all she could do to suppress her distaste for his hot breath burning her skin, but when she felt evidence of his desire pressing against her, she was unable to stand this repulsive invasion any longer.
“I do not remember you being such a bully, Matthew,” she protested as mildly as she could. “You have changed far more than I thought possible over the years. I had such fond memories of our short time together,” she continued, instilling a hint of nostalgia into her voice. This at le
ast was true, of course. Her memories of their short-lived marriage were pleasant if hazy and centered on a laughing, teasing Matthew who was a far cry from the moody, violent man who now held her prisoner in his arms.
“You are mistaken, my dear,” he said, pulling back to gaze hotly into her eyes. “I am no bully, and when you are my wife, you will find me the gentlest of husbands, I swear.”
Before Sylvia could think up a suitable reply to this outrageous lie, she sensed the earl’s approach moments before she actually heard the racing of his horse’s hooves. How she knew it was the earl, she did not stop to ponder. Her whole attention was focused on keeping the baronet distracted long enough for her rescuer to arrive.
She returned Matthew’s gaze with a smile and lowered her lashes provocatively. “I do believe you, Matthew,” she began, but was cut short when the baronet released her abruptly and swore a string of oaths as he jerked the door open and peered out.
“Your white knight has arrived, my dear,” he sneered at her over his shoulder. “But never fear. I am more than a match for him.”
Sylvia saw a lathered Arion pulled to an abrupt halt amid a scattering of loose stones, and the earl fling himself from the saddle and race down the steps, two at a time.
Matthew slammed the door and glanced around for the wooden bar that held it shut. “Hand me that bar,” he growled, pointing to a short length of wood lying beside the hearth. “Quickly!”
Sylvia made no move to obey.
The baronet’s face turned an ugly red. “Do as I tell you, bitch,” he shouted, bracing his shoulder against the door, which buckled visibly under the assault from outside. “Or I shall teach you a lesson you will never forget. The bar, quickly!”
The Lady in Gray Page 23