Andrews Brothers 01 - The Ruse

by Felicia Rogers

  “Sir, begging your pardon, but I don’t remember you explaining the plan to Brigitta.”

  He stood and stalked to the window. “Why should I have to explain the plan? We were married, well, not really, but she thinks we’re married. That should be enough to keep the arguments going. Doesn’t she know that?”

  “Perhaps not all relationships are as volatile as that of your parents.”

  Chadwick refused to be mollified. The coin from today’s tours was to have paid for last night’s game of Faro.

  There had to be a solution. He needed to find funds. Perhaps he could reschedule the tour. That was it! He could go to Brigitta’s room and anger her and then push her out in front of the crowd. They would give the people a show they would never forget.

  Roland interrupted his thoughts. “Sir, if you need nothing further from me, then I will leave to assist with the afternoon meal.”

  Chadwick waved him away. “Please go. I need to be alone.”

  Roland left him and Chadwick lay on the bed and drifted into a restless sleep.

  ****

  Brigitta grabbed a pile of gowns and threw them against the wall. They landed in an unceremonious heap.

  Wind howled and whistled. Her shutters banged and Brigitta had an idea.

  The cold floor pierced her bare feet as she padded to the clothes pile. Arms full, she drew back a shutter. Rain entered, sharp and piercing, stinging her legs and spraying her face. She dropped a gown through the window. As the gown billowed out and drifted downward, Brigitta’s lips twitched with satisfaction.

  Once all the yellow gowns were disposed of, Brigitta picked another color. The release of the fabric felt like being released from her prison. With each one that dropped, her elation increased. Holding a blue gown over the window ledge, she hesitated. Lightning flashed in rapid succession and a shadowy figure emerged in the gardens below. Brigitta leaned forward. Her hand slipped on the wet sill and she jerked herself back before toppling out the window. She placed her hand over her racing heart and leaned against the wall until she caught her breath.

  Once calm, she hung onto a shutter and searched the outside again. The figure appeared comfortable sneaking around in the estate’s gardens, getting closer and closer to the house. She opened her mouth to yell for the footmen outside her door, but paused. Fueled by anger at the stranger’s freedom and her own outrageous imprisonment, she grabbed the remaining dresses from her bed and closet, and tied them together. Next, she secured one to a bed post. Confident her knot wouldn’t slip, she lowered the makeshift rope out the window and began a gradual descent along the outer wall.

  Why had she never thought of this before? The garden below represented the perfect escape route. Shimmy down to the ground, find a chink in the estate’s wall, and slip through to the other side.

  Halfway down the rope, she realized her mistake. The gowns had soaked up the rain. Once waterlogged, the makeshift rope’s weight increased. The bed frame couldn’t hold the extra weight and scooted in a jerky motion across the floor. Brigitta held tight.

  Fear clenched her stomach as the rope bounced in her slick hands. Sounds of cracking wood mingled with the loud booms of thunder. Her cries for help were drowned out by the fierce storm.

  She tightened her grip and prayed. Words drifted to her and she glanced below. Unable to decipher the figure, she refocused on her slipping fingers. Again she thought she heard a voice.

  “I-ca– you.”

  “What?” she yelled.

  “I sa-, I’ll ca– y—.”

  If Brigitta’s ears didn’t deceive her, the voice said its owner would catch her. She hoped she had heard correctly because she had reached the end of her rope and she was still sliding.

  ****

  Skirts caught the wind and rotated above. The first yellow gown had descended and landed at Luke’s feet. He had shielded his eyes and gazed upward. A rope made of gowns had flown through the air and slapped against the estate’s wall. Next came a figure bathed in white and clinging to the rope like a spider on a silken fiber. A feminine scream had mingled with the wailing wind and Luke had squinted. Rain had decreased his visibility and he had stridden closer.

  The spider-like figure danced on the jiggling line. With each jerk, the figure fell another inch. He yelled that he would help, but the storm swallowed his voice. He cupped his hands over his mouth and tried again. Whether the lady heard him or not no longer mattered because her body now tumbled through the air like a toy.

  She landed in his arms with such force his knees buckled and they collapsed onto the rain-soaked earth. He grunted but the lady remained quiet. Except for her heavy breathing, he might have thought her dead.

  “My lady, are you all right?”

  Breathlessly, she said, “Aye. And you, kind sir?”

  “I will do.”

  She moved from his lap and used both hands and knees to rise to a standing position. He followed suit. They moved beneath overhanging tree limbs which provided minimal shelter. Lightning flashed and Luke got his first real look at the rescued damsel.

  Swathed in a white chemise, which clung to every nuance of her body, the lady trembled. Wet tendrils of reddish brown hair hung to her waistline. Pale ice blue eyes watched him wearily. Her teeth chattered and she wrapped her arms around her middle.

  “Thank you for the rescue,” she said.

  “You’re most welcome. May I be of further assistance?”

  She shook her head, sending droplets of water over them both. She gnawed at her lip, pushed hair from her eyes, and said, “Why are you in the estate’s garden, in a storm, no less?”

  He wished to ask the same of her, but the sight of her scantily clad frame tortured his already frazzled mind.

  “Sir? Why do you stare at me so?”

  The discomfort in his legs and bum from his less-than-graceful catch distracted him from his salacious thoughts and he said, “I came to enjoy the flowers.”

  The lady dropped her arms to her sides, and if not for the covering of hair that wound over her shoulders, she would have appeared completely nude.

  Luke forced himself to look away and mentally chanted, I am not a cur like Chadwick, I am not a cur like Chadwick.

  “Sir, begging your pardon, but this hardly seems the time. Besides, you’re not in the public gardens. This land belongs to the Baron of Stockport. One does not just drift into these gardens and enjoy the flowers.”

  He turned. A gentleman should always face a lady when speaking to her.

  His throat clenched as the chant died away and he allowed his gaze to rove over her form for only a moment. Clearing his throat, he spoke. “You don’t say? And what about you? Why are you dropping from windows during a torrential downpour into the baron’s private gardens?”

  “I — I, um…” She tapped a finger to her chin. Whatever her internal deliberation, she didn’t take long to say, “I have every right to be here.”

  “Do you now?” he asked.

  “I do.”

  “And why is that, my lady?’

  She gnawed on her lip and Luke fought his body’s carnal reaction to take over the chewing himself.

  For a moment he believed she would tell the truth and reveal her identity as Baroness Stockport, or that she would accuse him of looking like her husband, but when she continued in silence he thought of other concerns. They couldn’t continue to stand here. If the lightning didn’t strike them then they would be spotted by the night watchmen, neither of which he was prepared for.

  Taking a chance, he grabbed her arm and attempted to guide her to a safer location. She protested by digging her heels into the mud and leaning backward. Wind from the storm kicked higher and Luke’s fear escalated. They were running out of time.

  Lightning flashed and lit up the afternoon sky. She placed a hand over her mouth. “Oh, my word!”

  “We need to move. The storm is getting worse,” he said, hoping to distract her.

  In a breathy tone, she said, “The resemb
lance is uncanny.”

  She moved forward and placed her hands upon his chin, rotating his face and continuing to gasp.

  “We need to move now. You don’t want to be caught.” The last words were said with a hint of a threat.

  “I won’t move until you tell me who you are.” She backed away and crossed her arms over her chest.

  Instead of waiting for compliance, he hoisted her over his shoulder. She pummeled his back and kicked above his waist. He kept his grunts of pain to himself, unwilling to give her the satisfaction.

  Gruffly, he announced, “I’m Chadwick’s brother.”

  The statement halted her beating and he continued forward, skating on the slick grass toward the house. Lightning struck and lit a crevice in the wall. He headed there. As soon as he entered the tunnel, he dropped his burden and she yelped.

  “Next time, don’t beat your rescuer,” he said, his breath strained.

  Smidgeons of light drifted through the opening and she stood and massaged her behind. The action drew her wet gown taut across her unrestrained chest, and he fought his desire to peek, instead looking away.

  Clearing his throat, he said, “These tunnels will lead us inside the estate.”

  He walked a few paces, but when she didn’t follow, he returned. Lightning filled the air and cast an eerie glow on Brigitta’s pale features. Dark circles rimmed her eyes and red streaks covered her face. She gazed at him and his heart skipped a beat.

  “What if I do not wish to return?”

  He frowned. “Why would you not?”

  “I have my reasons.” She turned her back to him and made to exit.

  “What if I go inside to murder the baron? Would you return to protect him?” asked Luke.

  She whirled around, her finger shaking before his face like a reprimanding governess. “The baron, y-your brother, keeps me locked in my room like a prisoner. Why should I care what happens to him?”

  “That is a strong accusation.”

  “Perhaps, but it is the truth.”

  “Why would the baron do such a thing? He is a kind and considerate man.” The lie tasted bitter on his lips.

  “Is this why you go to kill him?” she asked.

  “I didn’t say I was to kill him, I asked what you would do if I was set on such a course.”

  “Now you know. If you will excuse me.”

  The extent of Chadwick’s duplicity had grown so dire, the woman before him didn’t care whether he lived or died. Luke and Chadwick had had their differences in the past. They weren’t close, and they agreed on very little, but they were family.

  Brigitta took a step back. A downpour from the house’s gutter sluiced over her and a crack of lightning struck the ground. Sparks flew. Startled, Luke rushed forward, wrapped his arms around her middle, yanked her backward, and swung her out of danger as the splintered tree slammed to the ground and blocked the exit.

  She twisted, and buried her face in his chest. Sobbing, she said, “I can’t go back there. I just can’t. He never lets me out. No matter what I do, it’s never good enough. I always dress wrong or fix my hair wrong or say the wrong thing. Livered footmen wait outside my door and only escort me out for a tour.”

  The sobbing increased, and Luke wrapped his arms around her and patted her back. Heat from their two bodies consumed him, and he bit his lip to keep from tilting her chin and planting a kiss on her rosy lips.

  Finally, tears spent, she said, “I’m sorry.” In the darkness she grabbed for his greatcoat lapels, but in missing, she pinched his chest. He grunted and she said, “Sorry.” She sniffed and added, “You must promise never to repeat a word of this to anyone.”

  “But—”

  She didn’t release her painful grip. “Please, promise me. If the baron believes I speak ill of him…”

  The words trailed off. Red hot anger surged inside him. “Explain.” His tone brooked no argument.

  But Brigitta didn’t elaborate. Instead she sighed and said, “Lead me inside.”

  The morose, defeated quality of her voice caused a tinge in his conscience, but yet he felt along the tunnel wall and enacted her bidding.

  Chapter Eight

  Brigitta bent, felt around, and grabbed a rock. As her brother-in-law led her through the tunnels she scraped the rock lightly against the wall, hopefully leaving a mark she could follow later.

  If only she could have escaped through the window and been given time to find the garden’s exit. She gnawed her lip. The baron’s brother? Why, when she braved an escape, had she fallen into the clutches of a relative?

  The only way to free herself was to go along with him for now. Having an intimate knowledge of the estate’s tunnel system could come in handy later.

  “Are we under the west wing?” asked Brigitta.

  “Yes, how did you know?”

  She ignored his question. “What are these tunnels for?”

  “They were intended as a means of escape if the estate was ever under siege.”

  “So that is why your father built the west wing over the castle ruins.” She had meant to say the words in her head but his gasp filling the air alerted her to her blunder.

  “How do you know that?”

  Brigitta didn’t respond. Instead she focused on holding the hem of his greatcoat. Water dribbled from the fabric as she squeezed. If she lost him in the darkness, she would be lost forever.

  She sighed and the tunnel swallowed the sound. Rumor held the baron’s brother was a bit of a rogue. A child conceived out of wedlock, wanted by no one, and brought into the world, only to be disdained. As he’d grown to adulthood he’d taken to gambling.

  Was his disgrace the reason he snuck into the estate through the tunnels? Maybe he didn’t want Chadwick to know he’d returned. Maybe he was banned from the estate?

  To cover the next mark she made, she asked, “Does the tunnel only have one exit into the estate or are there more?”

  Fortune shined on her and he spilled what could only be secret knowledge.

  “There are actually several entry points. One is in the library, one in the kitchen, several in various suites, and one close to the ba—” He interrupted himself and stopped talking.

  She hummed and pretended she hadn’t heard his slip of the tongue. They continued, staggering over broken cobblestones. She bit her tongue as she stubbed her toe through her thin-toed slippers. Her damp chemise clung to her frame and heat flushed her cheeks as she realized her state of undress. Thankfully the darkness covered her and she forced herself not to think about what might happen when they exited the tunnel.

  She made another mark and he swiveled, propelling her into his chest. He placed his free hand on her arm.

  “Did you hear that?”

  Even though he couldn’t see her, she shook her head.

  “My lady?” Concern tinged his tone.

  “Yes?”

  “So you did hear the noise?”

  “No.”

  “But you said—”

  “I was merely responding to your call.”

  “So you didn’t hear a noise?”

  Innocently, she said, “The darkness must have affected you for I didn’t hear a thing.”

  “Humph,” he said as he turned and waited for her to grab his greatcoat skirt before continuing. Brigitta held her breath, afraid to even release a sigh.

  Uneven stones continued to bump her toes. She yelped in pain, and used the opportunity to strike another mark.

  “Are you well, my lady?”

  “Naught that good shoes wouldn’t fix.”

  “Perhaps the next time you climb from a window, you will consider sturdier footwear.”

  Brigitta fought a smile. “Perhaps.”

  He came to a sudden stop and began tapping the wall. Brigitta cringed as an ominous screech filled the air. Light filtered into the tunnel through a widening crack.

  He disappeared through an opening. She waited. When she didn’t follow he poked his head back out and said, “Ar
en’t you coming?”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head and wrapping her arms around her middle. The warmth filtering into the tunnel renewed her. She was a brave, intelligent, resilient woman who had just lowered herself from her bedroom window during a vicious thunderstorm to escape her imprisonment. If she could do that, then she could stand up to Chadwick’s brother.

  He stared aghast and held out his hand. “But you must!”

  “No!” she whispered harshly.

  “But—”

  Pointing a trembling finger, she said, “I have finally escaped the clutches of my unloving husband and I will not return. Besides, how do you propose I reenter my rooms? Once the footmen are alerted to my insolence, I will be boiled in pitch and my already roasted flesh burned.”

  ****

  The secret entrance opened into a rarely used hallway not far from his own suite of rooms in the east wing. Light poured through the gallery of windows and filtered into the tunnel. Brigitta trembled, whether with fear or cold Luke couldn’t decipher. The chemise sagged against her frame. Her auburn hair dried and sprang upward in a mass of unruly curls.

  The lady refused to move. Expediency was of the essence. If they didn’t move quickly, they would be discovered by a passing servant and that would not be good for either of them.

  “We can’t stay here,” he whispered.

  “Well, I won’t return to my rooms.”

  “Then what is your plan? Stay here until the staff discovers you?”

  She gnawed on her lip.

  Taking a chance, he said, “Very well, I will place you elsewhere, but until we find a permanent solution, you must come with me now.”

  Clipped footsteps echoed along the wide hall. Luke grabbed her forearm and whispered, “We must hurry.”

  “I tell you I won’t move.”

  He squeezed tighter and pulled. She protested only until she reached the lit hall.

  “What have you done? You’ve doomed us both.”

  “Hush, woman, and move.”

  She clenched his hand and he led them to his suite. Once inside, he closed the door and prayed Jarvis wouldn’t make a request of him. His heart beat rapidly as he leaned against the door. Brigitta had made her way to the bed and huddled beside it, curled into a tight ball. She squeezed her eyelids closed and mumbled unintelligible words under her breath.