Her knees could hold her up no longer. Annabella sank to the floor and put her hands over her eyes and let out a sob. If only her parents had not urged her to consider the duke! A hot anger against them rose in her, then quickly dissipated. No, they could not have known anything of his true character. They would not have considered him for a suitor, else. She could not blame them. If anything, the fault was her own, for not telling the duke immediately when she knew the course of her affections for giving in to her impulses and kissing Parsifal.
Parsifal. If only he were here! His image, strong and steady, his honest eyes shining with love for her, rose in her mind. He was the Cavalier, she knew, but he said it was only the costume, that he had been playing a part. But, surely, that was not true. One did not carry acting to such lengths as saving ladies from assault. Did he not understand how brave he was? Why, even when he had stopped the cart from injuring the people in the village, he had denied any bravery on his part. He wore no costume then! Surely, he would come for her.
And then she realized a dreadful thing. He did not know she was in danger. He knew she had gone with the duke to tell him she’d refuse his proposal of marriage. There was nothing untoward in that—why should he suspect anything, or come to her aid? An hour would pass, and no one would think anything amiss. It would be two hours before anyone would worry about her, and then, no doubt, it would be too late.
Annabella rose to her feet, and she clenched her hands to still their trembling. She had to escape, and she had to do it by herself. She went to the window and looked out. An oak tree stood just outside, but it was not nearly close enough for her to climb—if she could climb it, that is. An image of Parsifal came to her, the way he so easily climbed the old oak in the Wentworth woods, and her hand went to the ring he had given her, which she had strung on a gold chain around her neck.
No, that way was no escape; she could not jump to the tree or climb it, and it was no use thinking of how Parsifal had done it. She turned resolutely from the window and gazed about the chamber. She needed to find something with which to escape. It was certain she would not do so through the door, for the duke had locked it. The only way was out the window. Her gaze fell on the bed ... bedsheets.
Quickly, she stripped the sheets from the bed and began tying them together, as firmly as she could.
* * * *
Parsifal threw his dry quill on the desk, rising from his chair, then pacing the floor of the library. Surely, it was time for Annabella to have returned from her drive with the Duke of Stratton. He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. No, only five minutes had passed. A drive in the country usually took much longer than that.
He caught himself looking at the clock again and let out an exasperated breath. There was no use staying here when he was so restless. It’d be best if he went out of doors and enjoyed the day.
The bay horse was already saddled when he went to the stables; Geoffrey was there, and it seemed he was about to ride it. The horse shifted uneasily. Parsifal frowned.
“I wouldn’t advise it, brother,” he said. “That horse needs more training.”
Geoffrey gazed at him and smiled with an ironic sweetness. “I think I know how to ride, brother.”
“He’ll throw you, believe me.”
“What, has he thrown you?”
“No, but he has tried.”
For a moment Geoffrey looked uneasy, then he shrugged. “I’ll try him anyway.”
Parsifal shrugged as well. “Do not blame me if it happens.”
His brother smiled sardonically. “I’ll try my best not to.”
Geoffrey led the horse out, and Parsifal could sense its uneasiness with an unfamiliar rider. He watched as Geoffrey mounted the horse, how the bay pranced about in a skittish manner. Parsifal leaned against a post of the stable and crossed his arms across his chest, smiling slightly. Geoffrey sometimes forced his horses to his will instead of guiding them.
Lord Grafton leaned forward, and the bay went into a canter, then a gallop. Parsifal shook his head. They were going toward a small stile, and he knew his brother was going to attempt it. With any other horse he’d not think twice about it, but Parsifal knew that the bay would either refuse to jump or unseat his rider—the horse did not trust Geoffrey enough to try the stile. Luckily, it was surrounded by soft dirt and grass. Parsifal pushed himself away from the post and walked toward them. He supposed he ought to be there just in case his brother suffered a worse injury than Parsifal thought Geoffrey might.
The horse sped toward the stile and then, just as Parsifal thought, the bay stopped short and shied. He could hear a loud curse form his brother, and grinned. The horse reared—no doubt Geoffrey had pulled on the reins inappropriately in his impatience—and at last the Earl of Grafton tumbled off.
If words had temperature, the air would have been seared by the curses that came from Geoffrey’s lips. Parsifal grinned widely, but managed to control his expression when he finally came to his brother. Geoffrey sat in a sandy spot, pointedly ignoring the bay, which was contentedly cropping grass beside him. He glared at Parsifal.
“Very well! You told me so!” He rose and dusted himself off, and shot another irritated glance at Parsifal.
“Did I say that, brother?”
Geoffrey stared at him for an angry moment, then suddenly burst out laughing. “No, but you were thinking it, damn your eyes!”
Parsifal grinned. “How did you guess? You have become remarkably perceptive of late, I think.”
His brother gave him a reluctant smile. “Hmph. And you have become less of a lap-dog of late. The lovely Miss Smith must have put some heart into you—or prodded you with that damnably sharp tongue of hers. And get that idiotic smile off your face. It makes you look like a sap-skull.” His smile twisted. “I suppose that means the lady has agreed to marry you?”
“Yes ... and I’m lucky I’m of age so I don’t need your approval.” Parsifal went to the horse and took the reins.
Walking by his side, Geoffrey shook his head mockingly. “How you underestimate my nature, Parsifal! I am more generous than you know. My heart would have been moved by pity and certainly I would have consented.”
“Thank you for seeing me as an object of pity.”
“You mock, but it is so, brother. However, I would have reserved my pity for Miss Smith, rather than you.”
“What’s this? Can my dear brother actually think me a better prospect than our neighbor?” Parsifal shook his head in mock amazement, then peered intently at his brother. “Yes ... yes, it is you, Geoffrey. I thought for a moment it was someone else disguised as the Earl of Grafton.”
Geoffrey grinned. “You’ve become less tedious lately, and you know how I detest bores. As for your prospects, why, it’s only this: I wouldn’t wish the Duke of Stratton on a whore, much less your sweet Annabella. He’s a worse man than I, and that makes for a bad man indeed.” He rubbed his back and grimaced. “I think I shall wait a while before I try that bay of yours again.”
Parsifal stopped and stared at him. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, don’t be so precious. I’ll admit you were right—I should not have tried the horse so soon.”
“No—the duke. What do you mean he’s a bad man?”
Geoffrey shrugged. “I don’t expect you to believe me. Why should you? But for all his fine reputation, the man’s lain with more whores than I can count. I hear he’s turned to virgins now—when he can find ‘em. Gave me a nasty turn the last time I visited Sally Hawkins—and don’t look at me like that, you know I stay near home for my pleasure. I’m not that careless with my health, especially now that the duke’s been at Sally’s. But it stopped me dead when I recognized him there; you know his reputation—you’d think he’d been gelded, the way he’s supposed to be so virtuous. But he isn’t—far from it.”
It was not more than most gentlemen did, Parsifal knew. He’d heard of men who had visited brothels, but who seemed upright and decent men in public. But a cold chill
passed over him at his brother’s words, nevertheless. “You can’t be serious. And what do you mean, ‘especially now the duke’s been at Sally’s’?”
Geoffrey frowned and kicked at a stone. “The French disease—the pox has put its stamp on him. Poor Sally. She didn’t know how to refuse the man one of her girls—she likes to keep them healthy as she can. But she’d heard it from one of her friends, and it was true, or so one of her girls said. All he wants are virgins now, to cure himself of it.” His expression grew cold and still. “And he’s got no cause to love either of us brother, so beware. He nearly killed one girl when he found out she wasn’t a virgin, and looked fit to kill me when I pulled him off her.”
Parsifal stared at his brother, horror choking him. Surely Geoffrey was lying ... but there was no reason for him to do so, and though he’d been blunt and harsh, he had never been devious. Everything made sense now—the duke’s watchfulness, the reports that he’d met with Sir Quentin— though Parsifal had discounted it, because of the man’s spotless reputation.
“Once he finds out you’re to marry Miss Smith….” Geoffrey paused as he brushed off one last bit of dirt from his sleeve. “Well, I’m just glad you’ve had her so well guarded. I’d watch your own back if I were—
“Go get Lord Laughton, quickly!” Parsifal leaped upon the bay horse, and his fists clenched tightly on the reins before he loosened them. His mouth went dry with fear for Annabella, and his heart beat painfully. “He must go to Stratton’s house—now!”
Geoffrey stared at him gape-jawed. “What the bloody—”
“Annabella has gone in his carriage—to tell him she’ll not marry him. Now go, damn you!”
Parsifal dug his heels into the horse’s flanks. The bay shot off into a gallop, fast, but not so fast as Parsifal’s racing mind. He hoped he was right that the duke had taken Annabella to his house and not elsewhere. Where else but his house if he wished to keep his actions secret? A million images of Annabella struggling in the duke’s diseased grasp flitted through his mind, and his stomach lurched. God, oh, God. He hoped the duke had not touched her; he hoped she was not hurt.
The wind blew at his face, almost taking his breath away, and he ducked his head low. The horse galloped faster at his movement, hooves pounding the ground as fast as Parsifal’s own heartbeat. He took the short way, through the woods that bordered both their properties. He’d be coming up behind the house, and he believed it was better than demanding entrance. The duke’s servants were known to be well trained, and if they were so well trained as to obey the duke utterly, they’d hardly give him access to the house. Parsifal grimaced. He’d hardly be any better off looking for her himself.
He could see the great house now, and he slowed, just at the edge of the woods, though his concern for Annabella made him want to dash out from the trees immediately. But he might well put her in more jeopardy if he did that; it would be best if he thought out what he needed to do. He could see the stables from where he stood, and various outbuildings surrounded them. If he was careful, it might be possible for him to go from one to another, fairly unseen. Clouds had gathered, making the afternoon dark, and he hoped it would help conceal him. For once he was glad he wore dull-colored clothing, close in hue to the trees and buildings. It had concealed him in the woods, and it would help conceal him here. He dismounted and tied the bay to a tree, well out of sight of the house.
Every nerve and sense were on edge as Parsifal moved from bush to tree, from tree to wall. He was next to the stables now, and though he could hear no voices within, he could hear the quiet “shush, shush” of a brush, as if someone was grooming a horse. He hoped there was only one man—he could hear nothing else within—and that he could find the needed information from him. He’d have to overpower him, and with any luck the man would know what happened to Annabella.
He slowly looked around the threshold of the stable and was relieved to find that the groom—it looked like one of Stratton’s grooms—had his back to him as he brushed the horse in front of him. Parsifal crept carefully in, his feet making no more noise than they would in the woods.
The servant had only time to let out a breath of air before Parsifal twisted the groom’s arm behind him and clamped his hand over the man’s mouth.
“If you cry out, I will break it, be sure of it,” Parsifal hissed. He hoped he would not have to, and it made him ill to think he might, but he made himself sound as fierce as possible. “Do you understand me?”
The man nodded slowly.
“No tricks. The magistrate will soon be here, and if you tell me what I want to know, I will let him know you had no part in it.”
The groom’s body stiffened, and he let out a sob beneath Parsifal’s hand. Clearly, the man knew something ... perhaps something in which a magistrate would be keenly interested. Parsifal’s stomach tightened with dread. Annabella must definitely be here, and this man no doubt at least suspected why.
“I will remove my hand, and you will tell me what the duke has done.” He moved his hand down to the groom’s throat. “And if you lie or cry out, you will certainly be the worse for it.”
“Please, sir, I didn’t do it... the duke only had me move the body—He was the one—Ah, God, he’ll kill me if he knew I said anything about it.”
Pain squeezed Parsifal’s heart, and his vision dimmed. He shook his head to clear it. No. Not Annabella. Grief, hot and angry, made him clench his hands. He could hear the groom choking and realized he had squeezed the man’s throat. He loosened his hand.
“I will kill you if you do not tell me. Where ... where did he put her?”
The groom coughed, then said: “Her? You mean Miss Smith, not Sir Quentin? He—the duke—always puts the women—ladies—in the Yellow Room—it overlooks the stables, just above here, or so the maids tell me.”
He had misunderstood—the groom had spoken of Sir Quentin and that it was his body he’d removed. Perhaps, perhaps it meant that Annabella was still alive.
“Is she alive, then?” he asked and closed his hand more firmly around the groom’s throat.
The groom made a little groan of terror. “I... I don’t know. She was but a short time ago. His—His Grace likes to take his time about his ... his business.”
Nausea rose in Parsifal’s throat. He could not delay any longer. Quickly, he spun the man around—Peters, it was, the head groom—and the man had only a moment to register surprise before Parsifal knocked him out with a left to the jaw.
“I am very sorry,” he whispered to the unconscious man as he tied his kerchief over his mouth and bound his hands and legs with rope. “I regret hitting you, but you must admit I have more important things to which I must attend without possible interference from you.” He did regret it, for clearly the groom was afraid of his master and was in fear for his own life. Who would believe a mere servant if he brought witness against the Duke of Stratton?
Parsifal crept out of the stable and looked about him. There was no sight or sound of any other servant. He looked up. There above him was the room Peters had spoken of... or, at least, one of those rooms. A tall oak tree reached almost to the window—it was a young tree, and the branches were not thick near the top. He was not certain if he could reach the right window—whichever one it was— without breaking a branch. He supposed he would soon find out.
He began to climb. A window was slightly open, just below one high branch. Perhaps that was where she was. He hoped so. He eyed the branch above and across the window. It was thin and not strong, though it was fairly close to the house, and would bend under his weight. If he managed to gather the slim branches above and below it, the combined strength of the branches might bear his weight quite well and make it possible for him to swing himself to the window and climb in. He’d done that once as a boy ... but he was not sure how well he could do it now. He shrugged. He’d just have to try, that was all.
Parsifal climbed a little more until he was directly in front of the window, lying on the branch. He loo
ked up and felt almost dizzy with relief. A very feminine profile appeared framed in the window, and a slim white hand pushed the window open wider. Annabella—and she was alive!
A long length of white cloth tied in knots crept down the side of the building. Parsifal grinned. It was probably made from bedsheets—how resourceful of her! He hoped it was securely tied to something inside the room. He would have need of it.
Annabella looked up then, and he saw her turn pale and cover her mouth with her hand. He put a finger to his lips in a cautioning gesture. He did not want to risk their voices attracting any notice, in case there was anyone near. As he pointed to the makeshift rope, he mouthed the words: “What did you tie it to?”
She looked puzzled at first, then nodded her head. “The bedpost,” she mouthed back.
“Is it firm?”
She nodded again and tugged at the bedsheet rope as proof. He smiled at her and gauged the distance between the branch and the windowsill. It was short enough, if he climbed to the branch above, and he prayed that if he grasped enough of the thin ones, they’d hold his weight well enough. Slowly, he crept up along the branch, trying to rustle the leaves as little as possible, then grasped the branches above and below the one he held. Carefully, he lowered himself so that he hung from them. He glanced at Annabella and saw she had put her hands over her mouth again, her face pale. He gave her a reassuring grin, then slowly began to swing backward and forward until he gained the momentum he needed.
Just as he gained the right height in his swing, he felt the branches cracking beneath his hands. He let go, hoping desperately that he’d timed it right. A broken neck would be very inconvenient right now.
A laugh escaped, him at the brief exhilaration he felt as his feet met the window frame. Hands seized his shirt, and sweet lips met his, pulling him into the room. They parted, and he stared at Annabella’s pale face and angry eyes.
Karen Harbaugh Page 21