Return of the Viscount

by Gayle Callen

  “So once Appertan became the earl, he had a right to choose his own guardian, and Lord Doddridge suited him, according to my wife.”

  “I imagine all young men wish to do whatever they please,” Talbot said in a faintly amused voice. “Lord Doddridge permitted this, as long as he could be certain the estates were being properly cared for. When Lady Blackthorne proved she could function in that capacity, he stipulated that he would visit once a month to be apprised. But surely you know most of this, my lord.”

  “Did you ever hear that Lord Doddridge might have deliberately sought the position of Lord Appertan’s guardian?”

  “Sought?” Talbot echoed, frowning. “As in, for a motive all his own?”

  Michael nodded.

  “I’m sorry, my lord, but that I don’t know.”

  “And he doesn’t benefit in any way?”

  “I believe not.”

  This was pointless. How could he ask the butler if Lord Doddridge would benefit if Cecilia were dead? It would sound . . . ominous.

  “Thank you for your information, Talbot,” Michael said. “I’ll be having dinner with the man tonight and no chance to discuss him with my wife beforehand. You’ve been helpful. Do you mind if I ask about the new servants most recently hired?”

  Talbot frowned. “There have only been three, my lord, only one of whom is under my direct control. Susan, the new maid, works for Mrs. Ellison, and Parsons, the watchman, is overseen by the gamekeeper. The page, Francis, runs errands and does the occasional task about the house when the footmen are too busy.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Seventeen. He, of course, aspires to be a footman. But we are his first employer.”

  The boy was certainly old enough to be up to mischief if he wanted to. And Susan also had the run of the house, but Michael remembered the horrified expression on her face when the bust fell toward Cecilia.

  “My lord, have we given you some reason to question our hiring decisions?”

  Michael would have liked to confide in Talbot but worried that his suspicions might become common knowledge. “I know Susan the maid is also relatively new, and that accident involving the falling bust concerns me. My wife almost died.”

  Talbot studied him gravely. “And you fear for her. I understand.”

  “Due to my military career, we will most likely be separated for long periods of time.” How strange that he would have settled for this so easily once upon a time, but now that he was so against it, he didn’t have the first idea how to solve it. “I need to know that my wife is safe, Talbot. Can you do me a favor and recheck the references and the backgrounds of the new people hired?”

  “Of course, my lord. I will confer with the steward and see it done.”

  Michael stood up with the aid of his cane. “Thank you. I know I have no true standing within this household, but I appreciate your taking my concerns seriously.”

  “Lady Blackthorne often remarked on the late earl’s high praise of you, my lord. I am grateful to see your concern for her, considering . . .” He trailed off.

  “Considering I agreed to marry her sight unseen?” Michael answered dryly.

  Talbot gave a brief nod.

  “I am more than content with my decision.” He only hoped that someday Cecilia would say the same.

  Before dawn the next morning, Cecilia congratulated herself for getting out of the Hall before the sun was even up. Surely she was safe in broad daylight, out among her people. She needed a walk to help her think, and she couldn’t do that with Lord Blackthorne dogging her heels. It would be a long day, much of it spent answering more of Lord Doddridge’s questions before welcoming a large party of guests for dinner.

  The old man was as genial as always, and she received the usual pats on the head for a job well-done, as if she were his favorite pet who performed all the right tricks. He did appreciate her work because, of course, it left less for him to do, but he was so very patronizing.

  Her thoughts wandered as always to Lord Blackthorne, who’d attempted to seduce a decision from her on their marriage. He wanted her to trust him, and often she felt like she couldn’t trust anyone but herself. She remembered her panicked suggestion that perhaps he should visit his family. He wasn’t going to do that. So last night, she’d realized she could bring his family to him and had written a letter to his mother, sending it the half day’s journey this morning with a footman. She was still congratulating herself.

  As the gray light gave way to the first rays of the sun, she waved to gardeners and grooms, dairymaids and plowboys. Farther from the hall, she followed her usual path along a creek and into a dense copse of woodland. She could smell the falling leaves of oak and sycamore, see the muted colors of autumn mixed in with the green. Leaves already formed a dense carpet across the path, and she kicked at them, trying to summon up her usual optimistic start to the day.

  Suddenly, the ground seemed to give way before her. She’d been moving so quickly, all she could do was flail her arms as she fell forward, where leaves now trickled between branches that had been laid as a distraction. She crashed through them and down into a hole, landing hard on her side, her breath knocked from her to leave her gasping. Dazed and shocked, she tried to roll onto her back, and it was as if every bone in her body had been realigned in the fall, and now protested painfully. For what seemed like endless moments, she gaped up at the overcast sky glimpsed between treetops. Crisp leaves continued to fall gently on top of her, along with the faintest drops of a light mist.

  The cool wetness seemed to make her brain function again, and she slowly pushed herself into a sitting position. The ground oozed with mud, her filthy skirts were twisted around her. And although it hurt to take a deep breath, she hadn’t hit her head. Her limbs seemed to work, and there was no blood. She’d been so lucky, she thought, hugging herself.

  And then she realized she’d walked this same path yesterday, and the hole hadn’t been there. Why would someone dig in the middle of a little woodland? It wouldn’t be for a well—there was no cottage nearby, and the creek was so close that moisture continued to ooze slowly into the hole.

  Holding on to a root protruding from the earthen wall, she got to her feet—and realized that she couldn’t reach the top of the hole. Standing on her tiptoes, she tried over and over, but only managed to dislodge dirt that fell into her eyes and mouth, making her cough and gag, even as her eyes ran.

  She was trapped.

  Fear shot through her, and she crouched against the edge of the hole, as if someone would start shooting down at her, as if she were a deer with a broken leg—or something equally expendable.

  Had—had someone done this deliberately?

  No, she told herself. It had to be an accident. If deliberate, the person would know she walked this way nearly every day, had done so only yesterday. Everyone would be able to find her, especially Lord Blackthorne, who surely knew her customary paths by now.

  There might be people who would think he had motive not to find her, but she refused to believe it. Whoever put her there knew she might be found soon, which meant they only wanted to harm her—or did they think the fall would kill her?

  She hugged herself, feeling the cold mud surrounding her bare stocking. Somehow she’d lost a shoe, she thought a bit wildly.

  And then she started to scream for help.

  She walked these paths every day, knew how desolate they could be—especially in bad weather, she realized bleakly, as rain began to fall in earnest. So she screamed louder, reminding herself that someone in her household would miss her and come looking.

  Michael stood in the breakfast-parlor window, staring out at the bleak landscape through the rain that ran in rivulets down the diamond-shaped panes of glass. His jaw ached from all the clenching he’d done since the moment he realized Cecilia had left on her walk without him. He’d known in his gut he had to accompany her everywhere, and now something was wrong. She hadn’t returned in her normal time.

  He p
ivoted about his cane and saw Lord Doddridge calmly eating his bacon and mushrooms, buttering a muffin, his lined face unconcerned as he squinted at the Times. He was a short man, but his posture was unbowed, as if he met the world squarely and was confident in his ability to handle anything. Did he think that everyone was just as capable as he was, leaving him unconcerned about Cecilia?

  Or was he unconcerned because he was in on some sort of plot?

  Appertan lounged almost regally in his chair, watching Michael, then rolled eyes. “She got caught in the rain and is waiting it out somewhere. You don’t need to be so worried.”

  And then he looked away, because he damn well knew why Michael was worried. Did he look away out of guilt?

  The uncertainty was the worst part—whether or not someone was trying to kill her, and if so, who it was. But that didn’t matter right now, so much as finding her and making sure she was all right.

  “I can’t wait here any longer,” he said, limping swiftly toward the door.

  Doddridge glanced up at him with curiosity. The old man hadn’t said much when they met this morning, only arched a brow when Appertan had introduced Michael as Cecilia’s husband, looking him up and down without stating his conclusions. He shook his head and went back at his newspaper.

  “You’re going out in this?” Appertan demanded. “She’ll laugh at you when you find her—or she’ll be angry that you didn’t trust her to handle herself.”

  “I’ll accept any of that as long as I know she’s well.” He glanced at Talbot, who was looking relieved. “Can you send someone to the stables to prepare my mount while I retrieve my cloak?”

  A half hour later, Michael was riding across the grassy park, feeling like himself again on his horse. He followed Cecilia’s usual path, asking the occasional tenant or servant if she’d been seen. She had, but then most pointed to the dripping sky and said they had gone indoors and hadn’t seen her return. After an hour, the sick feeling in his stomach seemed to be spreading, clenching his heart, bringing an ache that battered the inside of his skull. She meant so much to him already. Her sunny letters to India had never failed to cheer him even though he knew they’d masked pain. He’d been a stranger to her, someone she didn’t have to care about, but she’d taken the time for him. But then, she took care of everyone residing on their estates, believed she could make the world right for her younger brother though he was a grown man and should have been taking care of her. She thought the best of everyone—yet someone might be trying to kill her, and she knew that, and was trying to deal with it on her own.

  Michael slowed his mount when he reached the woodland. She could be lost within the trees, her ankle twisted, looking for shelter. “Cecilia?” he shouted, as the rain trickled beneath his collar like a cold brush of reality. He slowed his horse to a walk, feeling that old stiffening in his neck that he’d always trusted. Some men felt it in their gut, but he trusted his neck. “Cecilia?”

  And then he thought he heard the faintest cry. He froze, and his horse did the same, its ears twitching. Slowly, he went forward, and the cry became louder, though hoarse.

  “I’m here! But beware the hole!”

  He came up short when he understood her and dismounted. He could see the hole now, a gaping blackness in the center of the narrow path. Cursing under his breath, he pulled the cane out of the strap behind the saddle, and limped forward. He saw the top of her blond head before he reached the edge, and went down on his knees to peer in.

  “You came,” she cried, sagging back against the dirt wall that was etched with rivulets of water and mud.

  The color of her gown was indiscernible, her hair and face matted with mud. But she was alive and on her feet and staring up at him with hope.

  “Are you injured?” he demanded.

  She shook her head. “But I can’t get out. If you hadn’t come . . .”

  She trailed off, swallowing, and he knew she’d feared that she’d been abandoned.

  “I’ll always come for you, Cecilia,” he said. Then he saw a stone as she dropped it, the gouges in the wall one above the other near a tree root. “Were you trying to dig stairs?”

  Her blue eyes lightened with satisfaction. “Yes, I was. But it’s very muddy, and I wasn’t sure they could hold my weight, even if I supported myself with the root.”

  “You’re a resourceful woman,” he said with admiration, watching her blush beneath the layer of dirt on her skin. “And you never lost your head. Take my hands, and I’ll pull you to safety.”

  Her hands were slick with mud, and he could feel her trembling. As he pulled, she used her feet to climb up the rough walls of the hole. When she emerged, she collapsed against him. He held her tight, kissing the top of her head over and over, feeling more relieved and full of fear than he’d ever felt on a battlefield.

  She clutched at him for a moment, her heart pounding against his chest, her body quaking. And then he realized how cold she was, for her hands were like ice. He held her back a bit although she was still in his lap.

  Chafing her dirty hands between his, he stared into her face. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know,” she said between chattering teeth. “One moment, I was striding along; the next, I was falling forward. I’m so lucky—I could have broken my neck!” She stared up at him almost wildly.

  He took her cold face between his hands. “Thank God you’re all right. I knew something was wrong even though everyone else thought you’d sought shelter from the rain.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered, then dropped her gaze.

  “Let me get you home. We’ll talk then.”

  He saw her chin lift, the mutinous curve of her mouth, as if she planned to keep everything in. Well, he’d just see about that. He stood up first, and when he pulled her up after him, she swayed.

  “Goodness, my skirts are heavy when they’re full of mud,” she said, her lightheartedness obviously forced.

  “The horse won’t care.”

  She pulled back and stared up at him. “We are not riding together.”

  He rolled his eyes even as the rain streaked down, washing more of the mud from her stubborn face. “Do you hear yourself? Do you plan to walk back in this weather? I’ll mount first, then pull you up.”

  She opened her mouth as if to protest, but he ignored her, mounting and securing his cane, before reaching down a hand. With an exaggerated sigh of surrender, she put her foot on top of his in the stirrup, and he had an intriguing glimpse of her damp stockings. Then he pulled, and he managed to toss her across his lap although she obviously meant to ride behind.

  “This is . . . uncomfortable,” she fumed.

  He slid back in the saddle so that her hip wasn’t jammed against the pommel. “For me, too. But I’ll suffer quietly.”

  Of course, he was suffering in ways she couldn’t imagine, with her body so intimately close to his. He opened his cloak and pulled it around her, sharing his heat. He felt her stiffen, thought she’d protest, but then, with a sigh, she sank back against him. They rode home in silence, and he wasn’t surprised to see Talbot, Mrs. Ellison, and Nell waiting beneath the portico, wearing relieved expressions. But her brother wasn’t there.

  Mrs. Ellison and Nell took charge, hustling Cecilia away. Talbot called for Tom and Will to see to bathing tubs for both rooms. Michael had a brief flash of sharing a brimming tub with his wife, but he put it from his mind—for now.

  Talbot was staring at him. “My lord, do tell me what happened. Lady Blackthorne looks a fright.”

  Michael saw Appertan leaning in the doorway of the drawing room, and Doddridge hovering just behind, wringing his hands together.

  “Do you want to know, too?” Michael asked his brother-in-law.

  Appertan frowned. “What kind of question is that?”

  Michael glared at him. “It’s a good thing I didn’t listen to you. She’d fallen into a hole.”

  “Why wasn’t she walking her normal route?” Appertan asked irritably.


  “She was. That hole wasn’t there yesterday.”

  He saw Talbot inhale and Appertan’s eyes widen, even as Doddridge gaped.

  “A hole?” Appertan echoed. “She wasn’t limping.”

  “The hole was deep enough that she couldn’t escape. I heard her screaming for help.”

  Appertan grimaced and ran a hand through his hair before eyeing Michael once again. “My thanks for your gallant rescue. Go take care of yourself before you catch a fever.”

  “Shall I escort you, Lord Blackthorne?” Talbot asked.

  “I’m fine.” He glanced back at Appertan. “I’ll speak with you soon.”

  “I assume you’ll be speaking with my sister first. We can cancel the dinner this evening if she likes.”

  Michael was tempted to decide in her stead, saying of course they should cancel it. But there would be so many people who knew her—possible suspects. Yet it wasn’t up to him. “I’ll let you know.”

  He went up to his bedroom to change, and then confront his wife.

  Chapter 14

  Cecilia couldn’t stop shaking, even after submerging herself in a steaming bath. Nell wanted to bundle her into bed for the day with hot compresses, but Cecilia was too impatient for that, dressing in a plain, loose gown, then pacing after Nell brought her a tray of carrot soup, bread, and hot tea.

  When she was alone, Cecilia looked crossly at the tray. “I’m not sick.”

  But inside, she was sick at heart. She was so used to being in control of every situation, and these—these accidents made her feel like cowering under her covers and never leaving her room. She couldn’t live like that. Uncertainty and fear were making her question everything.

  Except . . . Lord Blackthorne. He’d rescued her from the hole, confirming her belief in his innocence. Nell confided that he’d been worried through breakfast, whereas Oliver said that surely the storm had delayed her.