The Dark Regency Series: Boxed Set

by Chasity Bowlin

  “Well, this is cheerful,” Spencer mumbled under his breath. “God's wounds! Why the bloody hell would anyone want to spend time here?”

  “Bloody hell could be their ultimate goal,” Michael replied with more nonchalance than he felt.

  Michael walked the area carefully, looking for anything, any sign of who had been present or what had taken place there. As he paced the perimeter of the stones, he ignored the uneasy feeling that settled on him. It felt as if a thousand eyes were upon him. The weight of it, the oppressive heaviness of the area dragged at him. His blood raced in his veins and he felt much as he had on the eve of battle. The surge of energy in his body, the prickling awareness of danger—it was all too familiar.

  Against his better judgment, Michael breached the perimeter of the stones and walked towards the larger one at the center. As he neared it, he noticed something odd. The closer he came to it, the more uneasy he felt.

  A cold sweat broke out on his skin, and a sick feeling settled in his stomach as he stared down at the pocked surface of what could only be an altar. There were deep crevices in the rock, cracks and fissures that provided a natural path for any liquid that would fall upon its surface. Each of these crevices bore a dark stain.

  Removing a small blade from the pocket of his waistcoat, Michael dug into one of the deeper fissures until the darker substance began to flake off. Transferring those small flecks to his handkerchief, there was no mistaking the identity of the substance.

  “I think we know where Lord Harding's youngest son met his end,” Spencer noted.

  “This isn't young Mr. Harding's blood. It's too fresh. I'm afraid someone else has fallen victim to their games,” Michael noted.

  “Damn. How many victims have these Bedlamites claimed?”

  Michael shook his head. “Allerton, Harding, and the torment they inflicted upon poor Sarah... Abigail's father and stepmother. Who knows how many others?”

  Spencer let out a weary sigh. “At the risk of sounding missish, I don't like this place. It feels... haunted isn't exactly the word, but I don't have another one.”

  “Powerful,” Michael said. “It feels powerful. And like any power, it can be abused.”

  “You don't actually think they can resurrect some ancient god or goddess, do you?”

  “No, but I think they are drunk on their own power and drunk with the power of this place. Reality is a fluid thing, Spencer. You remember what happened in the tower at Briarleigh... Was Elise actually there or did Eleanor just believe that she was?”

  Spencer shook his head. “I don't know. I don't care to know. I prefer to put that night as far from my mind as possible and keep it that way... What else are we looking for?”

  Michael moved to the other side of the clearing. “Any indication of frequent foot traffic between this clearing and Wilhaven, perhaps in the post orgiastic haze one of the participants might have dropped something that would identify them.”

  “Not bloody likely.”

  Michael nodded his agreement. “At the moment, I'm afraid it's all we have.”

  Stepping free of the stone circle, Michael instantly felt better, as if a weight had lifted from him. Perhaps it was that which prompted his carelessness. He walked quickly towards his horse, eager to be free of the place entirely. With little regard for his surroundings, it was only Spencer's quick thinking that saved him.

  As the loud crack of gunfire split the morning air just as Spencer shoved Michael to the ground. The ball whizzed past him, taking a sliver of fabric from his coat, and burrowing into a tree beyond. The horse reared, rising on its hind legs in an impressive display. The hooves came down and pawed at the earth as Michael rolled out of the way. Still, one hoof caught his shoulder, and he cursed at the searing pain even as he rolled again to avoid another encounter with the massive hooves.

  Spencer had caught the horse by the bridle, struggling to hold the animal as Michael pushed himself back out of the way. With his back to one of the larger of the standing stones, Michael's hands were still flat on the ground. It was only that which allowed him to find the piece of evidence they would have missed otherwise.

  The watch fob was small but quite elaborate. It was also quite unique. It bore a gold insignia that the elder Harding had copied from the seal of a tomb in Egypt. He knew this because he'd been present when Harding had shown the fob to his father.

  “Bloody hell!” Spencer uttered, when the horse finally stilled both man and beast were sweating from their exertions. Michael fared little better, his shoulder throbbed and there would be a few other injuries that would make themselves known later, he was sure.

  “I don't want to be shot again, Spencer. It hurts like the devil... but if I have a choice between that and being trampled by that bloody horse, I'll take the pistol ball.”

  Spencer snorted. “The horse got your shoulder... that pistol ball was meant for your head. Empty as it is, I can't imagine it would do much damage.”

  Michael tucked the watch fob into his pocket. He didn't want to give too much away when there was a chance of them being overheard. “We need to get back to the house. Do you think our sniper is gone?”

  “Sniper my arse!” Spencer sneered. “If his bloody aim had been any worse he probably would have shot me!”

  Michael rolled his eyes. “Get me on that damned horse and you can give the bastard lessons!”

  “You'll not be getting on this horse... The bullet took a bit of his hide along with your coat. Take mine and I'll walk him back. Stay in the trees and off the path, no need to make more of a target of yourself.”

  Michael crouched low and made his way back towards Spencer's horse. Rather than mount the horse immediately, he waited until he was in the protection of the trees which offered some cover, but not nearly enough. As he clambered onto the horse's back, his movement hindered by his all but useless left arm, another shot rang out. The ball hit its mark this time, embedding itself into his thigh. Blood soaked through his breeches and the horse, already spooked by earlier events and the malevolent atmosphere of their surroundings, reared.

  For the second time in a few short minutes, Michael landed hard in the dirt. This time there were no hooves crashing down upon him as the panicked horse fled.

  He was losing blood too quickly and weakness was already settling in. Tugging at his cravat he managed to get the piece of linen loosened, but his fingers stopped working, becoming clumsy and useless as he attempted to pull it free. He knew that if the wound wasn't bound, the blood loss would take him. But the means were simply beyond him at that point, his body was betraying him. Blackness had claimed him before the curse escaped his lips.

  Abby had finished polishing the desk in a small room on the third floor and had moved to the large armoire in one corner. It was the one piece of furniture in the house she'd never considered selling off because there was no one capable of moving it. Looking at the elaborate carvings on the top, she knew it would require a significant amount of work for her to reach, let alone clean and polish them. She eyed the small chair at the desk dubiously. If she attempted to stand on it, the chair would not be the only thing that wound up broken.

  It was only the second room she'd managed to tackle and she was already filthy and exhausted from her efforts. Still, it had to be done. The servants would be arriving before weeks end, or so she had been told. She felt somehow that Michael's household was not the most efficiently run.

  It might seem counterintuitive to clean for the people who would be cleaning for her, but she didn't have it in her to allow them to arrive a decade's worth of dust and cobwebs. Regardless of their origins, she thought somewhat perplexed. Michael's servants, now hers, were the motley crew that Spencer had labeled them. Not a one of them appeared to be well trained in their positions.

  Opening the doors of the armoire, Abby placed one foot carefully on the bottom of the large cabinet. The wood was solid, not giving at all beneath her weight. Sighing in relief, she brought the other foot up. Standing on h
er toes and clinging to one of the doors, she could just reach the uppermost point of the elaborate pediment.

  Carefully, she began to clean within all the nooks and crannies. A scratching noise caught her attention and she turned to see the blasted cat poised on the edge of her bucket, smacking at the water.

  “You vile beast! Don't you dare! Get away from there.”

  The cat ignored her, continuing to bat at the water, splashing it about and making a mess of everything. “Oh, how I hate you!”

  Abby let go of the door and attempted to shoo the cat away. It continued in its pursuits as if she weren't yelling at it and waving her arms like a madwoman. Shifting her weight slightly, one of the armoire's doors began to swing shut. Attempting to keep the heavy door from smashing her fingers, she grabbed at it but succeeded only in losing her balance.

  Pitching forward into the darkened interior of the cabinet, her shoulder connected painfully with the back panel. She heard a loud crack and felt searing pain in her arm; she moved her shoulder gingerly, hoping it was the cabinet that was broken and not her. It ached and would undoubtedly leave a nasty bruise, but at least it was intact.

  The cabinet was another matter entirely. Extricating herself from the large piece of furniture, she stepped back to survey the damage. Her eyes widened in surprise. The cabinet itself was still intact, only the false back inside it had broken. Behind the splintered wood was a rolled up piece of parchment.

  “The map,” she whispered.

  Turning to look at the cat, Abby frowned. It was gone. “No,” she said aloud. “We have one two-legged ghost inhabiting Blagdon Hall. That is more than enough.”

  Reaching inside the cabinet, she retrieved the map, hoisted her bucket in her other hand and began to make her way toward the study. She didn't know how long Michael and Spencer would be out, but she was eager to show them what she'd found.

  Stepping out into the hallway, she felt the chill immediately. Looking over her shoulder, she saw the Gray Lady. She stood in the center of the hall pointing towards the window and the woods beyond.

  “Michael,” Abby whispered.

  The Gray Lady lowered her arm and gave Abby a sad but all too knowing look. Abby clutched the map to her chest and let go of the bucket, its contents spilling out over the floor as she ran down the stairs. Something terrible had happened to Michael.

  He should have paid more heed to Larissa's warnings. Covered in Michael's blood and his own sweat, Spencer raced through the woods. Unconscious and draped over his shoulder, Michael never stirred. Panic seized the breath in his lungs as he finally burst through the garden gate.

  The kitchen door flew open and Abigail was there, her face pale with fright. “Oh God!” she cried. “Is he—?” She didn't complete the question. She didn't need to.

  “No... but it's very bad,” Spencer managed, moving past her. “I need a bed for him.”

  “M'room is through there,” Mrs. Wolcot spoke up, pointing one bony finger toward a narrow door off the kitchen. “Put him on the bed and we'll see what needs doing.”

  Spencer placed Michael on the narrow bed. His skin was pale and waxy, the flow of blood from the wound slowing, but he didn't think that was necessarily a good sign. In fact, it signified something far worse in his mind. He turned to the small, ancient woman who was barking orders.

  Abigail had moved forward and was brushing the hair back from Michael's pale forehead. The injured man stirred, his eyes fluttering lightly. His lips parted and one word escaped. “Melisande.”

  Spencer saw her flinch as if she'd been slapped. She moved away from the bed, from the man lying upon it so gravely injured. It had hurt her deeply, but there was no time to explain the situation, other things required their immediate attention.

  “Perhaps I should go to the village and fetch the physician,” he offered.

  “You'd have to go a mite further than the village,” she said as she pulled a knife from her apron. “Make yourself useful and start cutting the cloth away from his leg. Don't pull it if it's stuck! You'll only make the bleeding worse. Just split the fabric to his hip. Miss Abigail, now isn't the time to fall apart. Go get your sewing basket. You move faster than I do and heaven knows your eyesight is better.”

  Abby did as she was bade, and while her expression was still shuttered, she moved with haste.

  Spencer eyed the blade dubiously. “Madam, surely a doctor—.”

  “Would set the leeches on him and take blood he doesn't have to give!” Mrs. Wolcot said, dismissing Spencer's concerns as if they were of no import. “The water is boiling. You fetch it while I get these clothes off him.”

  Spencer did as he was bade. The woman was more than likely correct, Michael had thought the use of leeches barbaric and unclean. While many other battlefield surgeons had used them, Ellersleigh had forsworn the practice and instead used precious whiskey as an antiseptic. It hadn't always worked, but by and large, he'd lost fewer men than the other physicians had.

  Fetching the kettle of boiling water, he moved back into the room and found the woman leaning over Michael's naked form, prodding at the wound.

  “Are you going to finish the job?” he demanded.

  The old crone continued her study, ignoring him and Michael's pained protests. Finally, she spoke. “The ball's still in there, 'twill have to come out. I don't have the eyesight for it and we'll need you to hold him, lest he pulls away and makes the damage worse.”

  Abigail entered the room then, carrying her sewing kit and clean linens. “How bad is it?”

  Mrs. Wolcot sighed. “He's young and healthy, but it's an ugly wound and has bled too much. You'll need to dig the ball out.”

  Abigail blanched, her face draining of all color. She swayed lightly, but righted herself immediately. Squaring her chin, she nodded. “Let's get him cleaned up so we can better see what we're doing.”

  Spencer watched as the women washed their hands with scalding water and then cleaned the angry wound. Michael grimaced but made no sound. His skin was nearly as white as the linens he had been laid upon.

  “We'll need you now,” the housekeeper said.

  Bracing himself for what was to come, Spencer moved toward the bed and placed his hands firmly on his friend's shoulders. Mrs. Wolcot had brought in a set of tools that looked more akin to torture than medicine. “Why do you even have these things?” he asked, horrified.

  The old woman kept her eyes trained on Abigail, but answered his question. “My mother was a midwife. Those were her things.”

  “Good God! They're ancient!”

  She looked at him sharply. “Hold him down and hold your tongue.”

  Abby took a steadying breath and willed her hands not to tremble. It wasn't the first time she'd treated a wound, but it was the first time the patient had been so dear to her. Steeling herself, she probed the skin around the wound until she could feel the resistance of the ball beneath his flesh. He groaned in protest, and Abby's heart lurched in her chest. What was to come would be so much worse.

  “You must hold him... tightly. He can't move about at all.” Glancing up she met Spencer's gaze and didn't proceed until he gave her a curt nod.

  With her heart in her throat and her stomach rolling in protest, Abby pressed her hand firmly over the ball and inserted the small instrument into the wound.

  He screamed, his back arching and his body tensing as he struggled against them. Spencer held him firm, keeping him fully pinned to the bed.

  “Do it quickly, girl,” Mrs. Wolcot urged.

  With the blade of the instrument pressed beneath the ball and her hand above it, pressing, she worked it forward. Relief swept through her as it moved, slowly, one perilous inch at a time toward the opening. By the time the ball was close enough to the surface for her to grasp it and remove it, she was sweating, every part of her tense.

  She glanced up to see that Michael had lost consciousness altogether, for which she was thankful.

  “Now what?” she asked.

 
“Whiskey,” Mrs. Wolcot said. “Some for the wound and some for you, Miss. You've a need of it.”

  Abby allowed Mrs. Wolcot to pour the liquid over the wound. The liquid beaded on his skin, tinted pink with his blood before rolling onto the linens below.

  “Inspect the wound... make sure there's no bits of dirt or cloth still in there.”

  Grimacing, Abby did as she was told. Clearing away any debris, she used more whiskey to clean it thoroughly.

  “Now, pack the wound with these herbs,” Mrs. Wolcot instructed handing her a small bottle filled with a mixture that was familiar to her. Yarrow and plantain would staunch the bleeding. “Once that's done, we'll stitch it.”

  It seemed like hours though in fact it was only minutes. The drag of the needle through his flesh, pulling the jagged edges together as she sewed, was a far cry from the embroidery that she'd always despised. At that moment, she would have gladly embroidered a thousand handkerchiefs than pierce his flesh once more.

  When it was done, Abby sat back while Mrs. Wolcot wrapped clean bandages around his leg. She began to shake then, the tremors wracking her from head to toe.

  In all of it, she hadn't allowed herself to think, to examine what might happen to him. She was not so foolish as to think he was safe. The ball was out, the bleeding had slowed, but he'd lost so much, and then there was the risk of infection. If he developed a fever—she shied away from that thought.

  How foolish it had been of her to think she could avoid falling in love with him! All her initial efforts to keep distance between them had failed so miserably. His charm was difficult enough to resist, but it was the other side of him, the parts that he kept so carefully concealed from others that had swayed her. His tender care of Sarah after she'd been attacked, his concern for her and his attempts to keep her safe, infuriating as they were—she'd stood little chance of keeping her heart steeled against him. The futility of that effort seemed laughable.

  “You should rest,” Mrs. Wolcot suggested. “If a fever sets in, 'twill be later and you'll need to watch over him then.”