A Notorious Proposition

by Adele Ashworth

“It smells like death,” Madeleine stated through a cough.

  “But it couldn’t be Ivy,” he said, more for his own reassurance, taking the lamp from her. “Leave the door open,” he added as he took a step inside.

  Garrett lifted the light as high he could to get his bearings. Directly in front of him, he noticed six stone steps that hugged the wall and curved to the stone floor, but nothing beyond that.

  “I’m going down,” he said over his shoulder. “Hand me the key in case I need it, then go and tell Newbury what’s happened and have him send for a doctor.”

  “I should come with you—”

  “No,” he cut in sharply. “Nobody knows where this dungeon is except for you and me, and I don’t want to risk us both getting locked in.”

  She was silent for a moment, then replied, “Use caution, Garrett. I’ll be back.”

  He heard her footsteps disappear in the passageway as he began his descent into hell.

  “Ivy!” he called out.

  Nothing.

  “Ivy!”

  He heard nothing but silence—and a trace, a gentle trickling, of water.

  “Ivy!”

  Once he reached the bottom step, he began a cautious approach toward the center of the room, the lamp held high, the smell nearly intolerable. And then he saw a door—a large wooden door with a lock attached, and broken.

  Swallowing hard, he moved quickly toward it, shoving the lock to the side with his foot as he pulled on the door. Remarkably heavy, it still managed to move for him, and he stepped into what truly had to be a dungeon, a stone floor, a few wooden beams, and undoubtedly soundproof. But aside from that it was empty.

  Turning, he walked out and continued around the room until he found a second door, secured with a heavy metal lock. Trembling with apprehension, he passed the lamp to his left hand and tried it with the key. It clicked, then turned.

  “Ivy!” he bellowed again.

  This time he heard a thump. From…somewhere.

  He set the lamp down, then pulled the lock from the latch, dropped it to the floor, and proceeded to shove the door hard with his foot.

  It opened at once.

  He grabbed the lamp and peered inside, shock and horror slicing through him as bile rose in his throat. He’d never seen anything like this in his life.

  On a threadbare cot lay Ian Wentworth, Earl of Stamford, covered in filth and chained—chained—to the wall.

  “Jesus, God,” he mumbled, rushing forward. “Ian…”

  He didn’t move, but Garrett could see the quick rise and fall of his chest. He tried to shake him awake, but the man was pale, thin, and his eyes never fluttered. A man near death.

  Garrett rubbed the sting from his eyes, then stood and walked back to the center of the dungeon, knowing there had to be another door. There had to be.

  Suddenly he heard footsteps from above. For a second he thought to take cover, until he noticed the hem of Madeleine’s skirt as she, Newbury, and two or three other men began descending the stairs. And he could see a light. Thank God, she had brought a lantern.

  “Ivy’s brother’s in here,” he shouted. “Get him out now. He’s dying.”

  Suddenly he moved, a raw energy returning to overpower his fury. In mere seconds he found a third door, locked like the second, and with suddenly calm hands, he inserted the key, turned it, and shoved the door with his shoulder.

  It opened at once, and he rushed inside, struck soundly by the smell that stopped him cold.

  The smell of death. And then his gaze fell upon her, huddling on the floor against the far wall, and nothing else mattered.

  “Ivy…” he whispered, his throat closing over with emotion.

  She looked up, her eyes wide as she blinked from the light. Then she recognized him, and they filled with tears. Immediately, he moved to her side and lifted her into his arms as she started to cry.

  “I knew you’d find me,” she whispered, her voice husky, barely audible. “I knew you’d find me…”

  He sat on the stone floor and held her for a moment or two, kissing her forehead, smoothing the hair from her face, feeling a renewed anger well up inside of him as he stared at the cobwebs, the decomposing body on the floor, inhaled the rankness in the cold air.

  Seconds later, Madeleine stood in the doorway, looking flustered and concerned, her cheeks pink, stray curls out of place. She gaped as she took in her surroundings, then tipped her head toward the center of the dungeon floor. “Who is that?”

  “I suspect it’s Benedict Sharon,” he replied.

  “I stepped on him,” Ivy murmured through a shudder. “Oh, God, please get me out of here.”

  “With pleasure—”

  “Wait a minute,” Madeleine cut in, moving forward, holding her own light up high as she gazed at the decomposing body.

  Garrett stood, holding Ivy as she clung to him, her legs shaking as her feet finally touched the stone floor.

  Madeleine walked toward the body, closing in on it as she lowered the lamp. With a satisfied twist of her lips, she glanced up and said, “See the sparkling?”

  He took a step closer, holding Ivy’s hand as he peered down to the lifeless form.

  In a pool of dried, putrid blood, spread out from the chest of the decomposing body, Garrett’s three priceless stones glittered brilliantly in the lamplight.

  “The Martello diamonds,” he whispered.

  “He had them the entire time,” Madeleine conjectured. “Apparently even died with them on his person. That’s—utterly horrible.”

  “They—they look like they were in the pocket of his dress coat,” Ivy said in a trembling voice. “When I tripped over him, my shoe caught, and I thought I heard metal buttons on the stone when I pulled free of him.” She shivered. “Diamonds in snow…falling…tears falling on crystals…”

  Garrett tipped his head to the side to look at her. “What does that mean?”

  She swallowed hard. “I saw it in my dream, my vision. I—I think he died in here, Garrett, aware that he would never be found.” Her voice dropped to a whisper of sorrow. “Just Benedict and the diamonds…stones that meant nothing to him in the end.”

  For seconds nobody said a word, the terror surely felt by the man enveloping them as the meaning of her words sank in. Then Garrett gathered his wits and hugged her tightly against him. “Let’s get out of here.”

  At that moment Newbury appeared at the doorway. “My lord, the key to Lord Stamford’s shackle was left on the table beside him, I suppose to be used by the person who kept him locked in here. We’ve taken him upstairs and called for a local doctor.”

  “You’ve—found my brother?” Ivy whispered with a heavy swallow. “He’s been here in this…place the whole time?”

  Giles nodded once. “Indeed, my lady, but he’s—I’m sorry to say he’s very near death.”

  “I have to see him,” she said with newfound strength.

  “I’ll take you,” Garrett insisted. “Can you walk?”

  She tugged at his arm. “Yes. Please, Garrett, now.”

  Madeleine said, “You go. I’ll collect the diamonds and arrange to have them cleaned and put in your safe.”

  Garrett turned to her and, with a hesitant smile said, “Thank you, Lady Eastleigh.”

  She offered him a delicate curtsy. “It’s been quite an adventure, my lord Rye.”

  Then without another look at the hideous room of death, he and Ivy silently left the dungeon.

  Chapter 24

  Ivy relaxed against the copper bathtub that had been filled to the brim with hot bubbly water. She’d already washed her hair and now simply wanted to sit and soak away the tension and horror of the last two days, relishing the low-burning fire in the grate at her side, the scent of lilacs, and the comfort of her bedchamber on the Rye estate.

  She’d sat at Ian’s bedside for hours following their rescue, and Garrett had stayed in the background, allowing her to cry and hug her brother and be there for him should he not recover. He�
��d been in dire need of liquids and she’d spoon-fed beef broth to him, occasionally talking to him and holding his hand, whether he knew she was there or not. By morning his color had returned, and by the following afternoon, he opened his eyes.

  He would be very weak for a long time, but he would live, and they would eventually share their stories. But she wanted sleep first, then peace, then a long and frank discussion with Garrett. They hadn’t said much to each other yet, but she had numerous questions, and she suspected he’d spent the last two days learning what he could about what happened—two years ago and the night of the Winter Masquerade.

  Ivy inhaled deeply of the scent of lilacs, absorbing the warmth, her eyes closed. And when suddenly she heard the click of the latch to the passageway entrance from her withdrawing room, she didn’t even lift a lash.

  “Did you come to scrub my back?” she asked huskily.

  He didn’t reply for a moment, probably unsure what to say now that they were alone for the first time, and she snuggled farther down into the tub so that every part of her body below her neck remained hidden under bubbles.

  Finally, he drew a deep breath and moved toward her. “If that’s all you want from me, darling Ivy, I’ll be happy to scrub your back,” he murmured. “I just can’t see you very well with all the bubbles.”

  She opened her eyes a crack, gazing at him as he lowered his large body onto the settee and stretched his legs out to rest them on the edge of the tub.

  “That’s the point of the bubbles,” she replied slyly. “I think it’s good to leave some things to the imagination, don’t you?”

  He gave her a sultry stare. “My imagination needs pampering.”

  “As does my body, and you shouldn’t even be in here,” she returned after a moment, closing her eyes again.

  He exhaled a long sigh. “We need privacy to talk, Ivy.”

  Without pause, she stated, “Then you’re very fortunate I locked the door to the hallway, my lord Rye.”

  “Indeed.”

  They lingered in silence for a long moment as she realized he needed to gather his thoughts. At last he removed his feet from the side of the tub and placed them flat on the floor, then leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped together in front of him.

  “The Home Office is sending a man or two to look into the death of Benedict Sharon, and to investigate the house fully,” he disclosed, his voice low and thoughtful.

  She opened her eyes and looked at him. “What happened, Garrett? Who did this to us?”

  “I’ve been trying to piece together the events,” he began without hesitation, “and I’m not certain I know everything.”

  She sat up a little. “Then just tell me what you know.”

  He cocked his head to the side a little, his features growing soft, his gaze reflecting firelight. “I know I love you.”

  She sighed, her heart swelling with tenderness even as her mind fought the lingering anger within. “And you probably also know I’m furious with you.”

  Her somber tone penetrated the air around them, stifling the mood even more. For seconds he said nothing, then at last he murmured, “Your brother is doing better, I hear.”

  “I know,” she replied softly. “You saved his life, Garrett.”

  He said nothing to that, just watched her. Then, looking down to his hands. he revealed, “A man walking his dog found the body of a woman floating in the lake this morning.”

  She gasped lightly and sat up a bit more. “Does anyone know who she is?”

  His glanced up, focusing on her chest. “You’re distracting me.”

  Her brows furrowed, and then she noticed the curve of his lips and crossed her arms over her breasts to shield them from his gaze. “Who is she?” she asked again.

  Without hesitation, he replied, “Eastleigh seems to think it’s Desdemona Winsett, Hermione’s sister who was ruined by Baron Rothebury two years ago.”

  Her mouth dropped open a little. “I don’t understand. I thought—I thought she’d moved to the north country.”

  He leaned back again, lacing his fingers together on his stomach. “Thomas and Madeleine confronted Hermione, and she acknowledged that her sister’s husband was killed in a wartime accident, and then not long after her baby died from fever—two months after it was born. Apparently Desdemona had never really recovered from the loss, and blamed Rothebury for the loss of all she held dear in her life. She left Northumberland last year, returned to Winter Garden without anyone being aware of it, and began living in this house.”

  Now unconcerned by her nudity, Ivy sat up fully, leaning forward in rapt attention. “How could she live here without servants, or…staples? And nobody saw her?”

  He shrugged a shoulder. “Hermione and Viola helped her, and since the house was vacant, she could move around at will, learn its secrets.”

  “She killed Benedict, didn’t she?”

  He nodded. “He found her and ordered her out. Of course she had nowhere to go. I suppose he posed a threat to her already fractured life.”

  “But how—how did he get in the dungeon?” she asked through a shiver.

  “She dragged him in a sheet, with Hermione’s help, just as she dragged you.”

  She frowned again, thinking. “I remember seeing Hermione in my bedchamber after Lady Margaret left, and—and I thought I also saw Viola in a different gown, but now I’m wondering—”

  “I don’t think it was Viola; I think it was Desdemona. They look very much alike.”

  She reclined against the tub again, rubbing bubbles up and down her arms, enjoying the fact that he studied the slow motion of her fingers.

  Exhaling a breath through his teeth, he continued. “Ian, who felt responsible for the theft of the tiara, had been following Benedict since he left London. When he arrived here to confront the man, he found him dressed for dinner but lying unconscious on the floor of the library. Desdemona struck Ian from behind, and then, with Hermione’s help, she was able to drag them both, one by one, through the passageway to the dungeon. When they discovered Ian had come for the Martello diamonds, and that Benedict had them when he lived in the house, they decided—or at least Desdemona decided—that the price for the diamonds would save her family from financial and social ruin.”

  “But you bought the house,” she whispered.

  He smirked. “I don’t think she liked that very much, but she still had plenty of places to roam without being caught, and I only sent a minimal staff. She’s the one who toyed with us, Ivy. She would purposely scratch the walls, left the lock of Ian’s hair. She’s the one who blackmailed you. She had the tiara that she recovered from Benedict—who had probably already removed the diamonds—and she found an opportunity to use it by sending it to me the night of the ball. But in the end, all she wanted was the diamonds. They, alone, were worth everything to her, and she knew I’d trade them for you.”

  Ivy shook her head in growing disbelief, in sorrow. “She never knew he had the jewels on his person when he died, and never thought to look.”

  “When she died, she was wearing the locket we found in the tunnel.”

  Ivy furrowed her brows. “How—How did she get the locket?”

  “She lived here,” he answered huskily, “even after you and I were here together. And she knew every room and tunnel in the house.”

  Ivy closed her eyes. “Poor Desdemona. Ruined by a man who seduced her and wouldn’t marry her, then resorting to crime to make amends to her family. It’s awful.”

  “It happens too frequently,” he agreed in a deep, quiet voice.

  For a long moment she said nothing, then softly, she disclosed, “I was always glad you never got me with child two years ago, Garrett. The same could have happened to me.”

  “Look at me, Ivy,” he insisted in whisper.

  She raised her lashes to gaze into eyes of thoughtful devotion, the fullness of love.

  “I intended to marry you, you know that.”

  “I
do,” she answered.

  “And you would have said yes,” he reminded her with a gentle eagerness he couldn’t hide.

  Ivy inhaled deeply and leaned her head back against the copper edge of the tub. “I would have then, yes, but—”

  “Ivy…” he whispered with longing. “I’m so sorry for not telling you my identity two years ago, for not trusting you in Winter Garden, for keeping secrets. Regardless of circumstances, I should have been honest from the start. I do trust you that much. I only had to learn to trust myself, my instincts.” Through a shaky exhale, he admitted, “I never want to lose you again. Please—” He swallowed hard. “Please say you’ll marry me now?”

  For a long, still moment, time seemed to stop. Ivy looked into his dark eyes, so full of hurt, of sorrow for years lost, of regret for things that couldn’t be changed. Yet with all she now knew, the fact that the Marquess of Rye wanted to marry her despite knowing she and Ian were bastard children of the Baron Rothebury made her heart sing with pure joy. That was all the proof of love she needed. The secret he’d carried for two miserable years was where he’d held her trust in his hands.

  “Ian needs me,” she whispered, her lips cracking with a trace of a smile.

  He knew he’d won. A visible relief poured over him, so powerful that for a moment she thought he might break down into tears. Then he scrubbed a palm down his face.

  “Ian has consented to the match,” he returned, his tone thick and choked. “I’ve already asked him.”

  She cocked her head to the side. “He’s delirious and sick.”

  “He’s coherent and pleased.”

  When she said nothing to that, he reached over and stuck his fingers in the water, then began caressing her arm with the back of his nails, up and down. “Ivy…?”

  “I refuse to succumb to another seduction tactic,” she teased, as if completely unaffected.

  Suddenly, he was on his knees, leaning over her, his palms on the edge of the tub.

  “Garrett—”

  His lips closed hard over hers, and without thought, she wrapped her wet arms around his neck and held him close, pulling him against her as his mouth teased hers to submission.