Summerton (Lady Eleanor Mysteries Book 1)

by Becca St. John

  Oh, Lord, let me live through this. Let Summerton live through this. Let this be the end of Roger Little.

  She spun at the sound of splintering wood, closer than she’d thought. She looked behind her. Roger pulled his leg out of the hole in the rotting floorboards.

  Impossible to go back.

  She shouldn’t have stopped. Shouldn’t have risked allowing him to gain on her. The sight of his wretched smile a haunting picture she couldn’t shake, even when she turned away. His eyes sparkled with the thrill of her terror, his nostrils flared in anticipation of torture. The vision spurred her on, even as it stole away any sense of hope.

  ***

  Summerton and his steward, Tom, stood before the kennels.

  “Do you think it might work?” Summerton shouted to be heard over Baver’s howls.

  “Don’t know, your grace. I’ve only trained dogs to go after foxes and the like. Never saw one what chases humans.”

  “But it’s been done, with this breed. He found the girl.”

  “He picked up the scent of death. But I see what you’re thinking.” Tom looked doubtful. “We can try, your grace, but don’t get your hopes up. Have you got anything to use for scent?”

  Summerton looked down at Baver, wondering what Caroline thought to do with her animals. If she left, when she left. A shiver of unease slipped down his back. He shook it off. She was safe, away from this place.

  “Something was found behind the first baron’s tomb. One of the newspaper women noticed it, but there was a distraction, so we all forgot.”

  “I looked this morning, and it’s still there. Didn’t know if I should pick it up or not, so I left it. Shall we start there? See if this thing will work?”

  Tom nodded. “Best not to confuse scents.” He grabbed a lead and opened the kennel, standing in front of it to keep the anxious dog from escaping. “This boy’s keen enough, but who knows how he was trained.” He fixed the lead to Baver’s collar. “Let’s go see what happens.”

  Baver struggled to go to the Hall, but Tom forced him along the trail until they reached the crypt. Whether he caught the scent of a fox or rabbit or man, they didn’t know, but Baver started to sniff hard. Then set off on a short jog before stopping and sniffing again. Soon enough, he set off so fast they were rushing to keep up. Tom wanted to slow him, but Summerton was spurred on by a worry he couldn’t explain.

  “Let him have his lead.” It helped that the bloodhound was heading straight for the family tomb.

  “He’s on to somefin’,” Tom agreed. “Though I couldn’t tell you what.”

  Again, an ill shiver ran along Summerton’s spine. As if he, too, had caught a drift of some scent, he lifted his head and looked behind him, anxiety building to near madness.

  Baver bayed at the closed door of the crypt.

  “It’s unlocked.” Summerton told Tom, who was already opening the metal gate.

  The hound shot in and headed straight to the squashed cloth behind the sarcophagus of the first Baron St. Martins.

  “He’s got it!” Tom shouted.

  The dog’s muzzle was buried deep in the folds of cloth, his body shivering with anticipation. He turned and followed some unseen trail. The men hurried along, allowing him to guide them.

  “He’s going back to the Hall!” Tom snapped. “I thought we had him off that track.”

  “Or maybe that is the track!” Summerton shouted, as he grabbed the dog’s lead, urging him to pick up speed, rushed along by his own billowing anxiety.

  ***

  The carriage shuddered and drew to a wrenching stop. Lady Eleanor struggled with the window, and then managed to push it down. She stuck her head out of the gap. “We can’t afford a delay.”

  “It’s Wills, your lady.” Coachman pointed to one of Summerton’s liveried riders, looking worse for the wear on the side of the road. “He was sent to ride ahead.”

  “What happened?” she called out. “You should be there by now.” They were less than a mile away from the Hall.

  Wills pulled his forelock. “We were riding like the devil, m’lady, across the field. Hit a hole, the horse lost his footing. He’s back there—leg’s gone, I’m afraid. I started running, fast as I could, along the road, hoping someone would come by, get me there faster, but…”

  “You’d best climb in.” She tapped the window frame, forcing down her fear. She’d done what she could, and fretting would only make matters worse.

  “She’ll be fine,” Liz soothed. “That lass’s got a right good head on her shoulders.”

  “She can’t outfight a man!” Eleanor fretted.

  “Perhaps not, but she can outwit one.”

  Eleanor sat back. “I do hope so. I dearly hope so.”

  ***

  Roger had the advantage. He’d spent time above stairs. Caroline had not. If he thought she was caught, she probably was. She should have taken that tour, but there were so many distractions.

  Unlike the lower floors, with their grand rooms, this was a warren of hallways and…

  Stairs. There were stairs ahead. She stretched out her legs and ran faster. One side of the staircase was walled, the other open. She swung onto the balustrade and pushed away, to slide down the railing but Roger, feet away on the landing, grabbed her arm, laughing. Time turned to molasses as he jumped onto the steps. The railing tipped drunkenly to one side.

  Straddling the balustrade, she lifted her leg over, precariously swaying with the listing rail. She looked down at another set of steps below, wondering if it would hold her. Despite his fingers digging into her wrist, she jumped, giving him all of her weight, wrenching her sore arm, slipping free when he couldn’t hold her. He took a step and fell halfway through it.

  She landed hard, but the stairs held firm, even when the heavy wooden railing crashed onto it.

  A miracle.

  She ignored Roger’s angry curses, his hiss of pain, and scanned the area, immediately below her. A vestibule with more rooms. She must be a whole floor away from the worst of the rot. These would be the rooms for lesser guests, companions, and nannies.

  The staircase cut back around and continued down.

  Roger was stuck, his legs kicking out through the ceiling over the lower stairs. She rushed away as quietly as she could, counting on the fact that Roger could not see her. She was certain the doorway to the original keep would be near. If she could find it.

  A dangerous ‘if.’

  Roger would expect her to continue down the spiral of stairs. Instead she went the other way, holding her breath until she rounded a corner to a wider hall. Larger rooms in this section, if the spacing of doorways meant anything. At the end, a wall of windows overlooked the grounds, to its left a pair of double doors.

  The original square hall.

  She’d found her escape, and none too soon. A crash reverberated through the hallway. He was close, so close. And she was standing in plain sight, bathed in sunlight. She shot for the double doors, grasped the lever, pushed down, and pulled.

  Locked.

  She looked over her shoulder, but the hallway was empty.

  There was no place to hide. She looked out the window, hoping there would be a ledge and caught sight of Baver, powerful and determined, bounding forward on the lawn.

  Summerton and his steward, broke from the woods, racing after him, heading toward the study!

  If Roger caught her, they would be too late.

  She pulled the door again, yanked. It didn’t give. Sobbing, she fell against it, pushing it open. She yelped, struggling not to fall in her surprise, and slipped through the opening. As quietly as she could, she eased it shut behind her, saying little prayers of thanks to Hitches for making sure those hinges had been oiled.

  She was in the gallery. The ground floor was below, the fireplace and the spiraling staircase to her right. She needed to get down there, but Summerton had warned her the wood would not hold, not on the stairs and not on the floors.

  She tested the give beneath he
r feet, as close to the wall as she could, wanting the security of the stone. It bowed, springy and rotten. She looked up at the strong walls, stained with decades worth of rain.

  She side-stepped—cautious, testing—to the balcony side, praying the support for the arches had fared better than the stone walls. It felt stronger, but she didn’t dare trust it, not after what had happened before. Not after seeing the drop to the floor below.

  She refused to look at anything but where her feet slipped gently over the wood, her heart easing its beat with every sure step. Time ceased to mean anything. With the same caution she had used to get to the stairway, she made her way to the bottom, tears streaming down her face.

  She hiccupped with relief, as she turned toward the far wing.

  Roger stood leaning against the curtain wall.

  “So cautious.” He tsked. “But not quite cautious enough.”

  His laughter echoed through the hall, but she refused to go down without a fight. She ran, but he followed and tackled her, and they both tumbled to the ground.

  She scrambled to get free from the tangle of limbs, but he held her fast, with anger. He dragged her toward him. She kicked and flailed, but to no avail. He sat on her, pinning her.

  His hands wrapped around her throat, squeezing, pressing.

  She fought against him, fought so very hard, but then she saw Jeremy’s lanky form and Biggs’ massive bulk looking over either side of Roger’s shoulders. Jeremy, her friend, and Biggs, her uncle’s bodyguard, were in on it, too.

  There was no room for wondering. There was no time for questions.

  Hope slipped away on the heels of consciousness.

  ***

  The hound led them into the house, to the study, and then up two flights of stairs, into quarters that had long been closed. These quarters were used in a day and age when St. Martins hosted so many guests they needed separate quarters for commoners and companions and governesses. A balustrade hung at a drunken angle, and there was a hole in the staircase where a foot had broken through.

  The animal didn’t stop, not for a moment, but pulled them with greater force. He seemed torn when they entered the open gallery lined with doors to bedchambers on the one side and a balcony overlooking the grand staircase on the other. Summerton’s heart raced wildly.

  The dog sniffed and howled, nearly yanking Summerton off his feet, and charged for the staircase, his nose close to the carpet. Even as they headed down, his aunt rushed in through the doors below.

  “Summerton!” Her call rang through the hall. Panicked, frightened, sounds he’d never thought to hear from her.

  “Here,” he shouted, as he ran behind the dog.

  “Summerton! Caroline is not with me! She could be in mortal danger!”

  Those words, the dire fear that had been running down his spine these past hours, the broken stairs, balustrade. Caroline would not go quietly or meekly. She would take the whole search on her own shoulders, and in so doing, become a victim.

  Without saying a word, he gave the dog his lead, bounding toward the doors to the old Hall. The doors were ajar.

  His stomach plummeted at the sounds of shouts and running feet. They crossed the threshold into the great hall.

  CHAPTER 21 ~ Thresholds

  Angry cries rent the air. Summerton pushed past three of Sir Michael’s men, tracking the sounds to the west wing.

  He raced into the old hall, to the screen wall.

  Caroline’s limp body lay in another man’s hold. The man’s weeping stalling Summerton from moving any closer.

  She couldn’t be dead.

  She couldn’t be.

  Baver pulled free, bounding over to Caroline, shoving his muzzle into her neck. Footmen were pulling the man away from her. He looked familiar, but Summerton didn’t care about who he was. Not now.

  Baver pushed at her, stopping to lick her face, just as he had the night Caroline tried to run away. She was even dressed in the same urchin’s clothes, her hair a snarled halo. Her beautiful, delicate hands, ripped and bruised, the promise of another bruise on her cheek, beneath one eye.

  The duke knelt, wrapping his arm around the dog, burying his face in the folds of his neck, unwilling to face the reality before him.

  “Summerton.” His aunt took his arm. “I don’t think she’s dead.”

  He looked up. Even with Baver pushing her, licking her, she lay limp and unresponsive, a rag doll of a woman. “Are you certain?”

  Baver used his moment of distraction to pull free of him, and shove Caroline with his snout.

  She moaned.

  Baver licked her face.

  She gasped, her eyes opening but not seeing, the whites turned blood red, her wild fear as terrifying as a demon. She flailed against Baver. The dog sat back on his haunches and howled. A footman, who’d come to take Baver away, scurried back, crossing himself.

  Fool. She could have four eyes and Summerton would still love her. She was alive! That’s all that mattered.

  Eleanor slumped back from where she had crouched beside him. “I didn’t think she was dead.” Her hand shook, as she raised it to brush away a greying tendril. “Her complexion wasn’t mottled enough.”

  “Her eyes?” he asked, not afraid, but worried.

  “Broken blood vessels. They will mend.”

  He thought his aunt might cry. He didn’t blame her. Caroline had given them quite a scare.

  “Caroline,” he soothed, “it’s me. You’re safe.” He reached for her, pulled her onto his lap. She whimpered, tried to cough, and whimpered again, curling into him. He felt her tears against his shirt, unable to see them with her face buried so deeply against him. He rocked her, speaking over her head.

  “What happened here?” he whispered, finding rips in her clothes, pieces of wood and plaster in her hair.

  What had she gone through, fighting for her life?

  “I will kill this man,” he promised. “I will see him hung as he hung Alice, but first, he will be sorry for touching you.” He brushed a kiss on the one small portion of her hand that was not torn or bruised. “You are safe now,” he promised. “I am here, I won’t let anyone hurt you.” He opened her hand, kissed her palm. “You will be safe.” He pressed his lips to her ear.

  “We need to move her, Summerton,” Eleanor told him.

  She nestled in, as though she could burrow right inside of him. “Still, my sweet,” he soothed. “Not just yet. She’s not ready.”

  He wanted someone to blame.

  “You!” he said, to the man being held by two footman. “What do you know?”

  “It wasn’t me!” he pled. “We caught him at it. It wasn’t me.”

  Caroline’s head shot up. Wild-eyed, she looked at Jeremy.

  “Oh, God!” Jeremy tried to back off, “Oh God, oh God what did he do to you.” He collapsed, weeping and crying and calling for God.

  “Who is ‘he’?” Summerton demanded, caught between billowing fury and calming Caroline, her breath coming in short panicked hitches. “Shhhh,” he calmed her. “He can’t hurt you now,” Summerton promised, wishing to hell he knew who ‘he’ was. He shot Jeremy a look, letting him know he’d best start talking.

  The man wiped his nose on his sleeve, hiccupped a sob. “Roger Little, that’s the man. We caught him doing…” he pointed at Caroline. “I thought…we thought….”

  “Where’d he go?”

  “Biggs ran after him. If he doesn’t get him, no one will.”

  “Biggs, that’s Robert Howlett’s man?”

  Jeremy nodded, twisting his cap in his hand, rubbing his eyes with his sleeve. “Is she…you know…going…”

  “She’s going to be fine,” Eleanor told him, “but we need to get her upstairs. Hitches has sent for the doctor.”

  Caroline sat up slowly. He started to lift her, to carry her. She pushed away, used him for support to stand on her own. Tremors wracked her body, visible to all. She ignored them, refused his wish to carry her, though she did take his arm.
/>
  No one said a word, but stood at attention, as the duke and duchess slowly made their way through the hall. Her knees buckled more than once. He caught her from falling but didn’t try to do more than that.

  “I don’t know why,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, “but if walking on your own is what you want, so be it.”

  Although shaky, she made it to the duchess’ bedchamber on her own legs.

  “There you are!” Mrs. Beechum hurried out of the duchess’s dressing room. “I’ve a bath prepared for you, your grace,” she promised Caroline. “Nice and warm with plenty of salts to ease sore muscles. And we’ve Hilda here,” she gestured to a robust little woman who stood beside a table topped by a traveling apothecary cabinet. “She’ll see to you until the doctor can arrive.”

  “Hilda?” Summerton asked.

  “I will take good care of her, sir,” Hilda told him, joining Mrs. Beechum to help Caroline into the dressing room.

  Caroline rebuffed her help, looking to Summerton for assurance.

  “I’ll be in your sitting room,” he promised. “We’ll all be there.” He was loathe to leave.

  “No need to wait,” Hilda told him, practically pulling Caroline away from him. “She’ll need her rest.”

  “Gently!” the duke reminded her.

  “You’ll have to trust me,” Hilda told him, though she eased her hold of the duchess. “But she needs to get into that water, it will help.”

  “Cara?” Summerton asked, summing up in one word, all he wanted to know—was she all right, did she want him to stay, did she feel safe?

  Would she ever feel safe?

  She offered a pathetic smile—no doubt merely a show for him—but her nod, her turning to walk with the other woman, gave him the answer he needed.

  “Be gentle with her,” he reminded them, hesitating in the doorway, uneasy. Of course he was uneasy, he’d nearly lost her.

  “Come, sit down, Summerton.” Eleanor beckoned from the sitting room.

  He tapped his fingers on the side of his leg. The reason for fear abated, even though the feel of it lingered. “Just a moment,” he told his aunt, and went to knock on the dressing room door.