by Jenna Kernan
* * *
When she came to her senses, she was in the carriage. It was rocking on its springs, tearing along at breakneck speed. And she was alone, lying on the seat with a blanket over her and a cushion beneath her head.
Where were they going? Where was Beresford?
She sat up, her head spun and she put a hand to temples that ached. A glance out of the carriage window told her they were pulling into the Abbey’s drive.
Her stomach sank to her shoes. She was back in his power. Back where he could do with her as he willed.
The carriage pulled up outside the great door to the Abbey. The driver leapt down in a crunch of gravel and wrenched open the door.
Beresford.
She covered her mouth with a shaking hand at the look of fury he cast her. Anger flashed in his eyes. ‘You little fool.’
The words were like a knife piercing her heart.
She should have gone across the fields when she had the chance.
‘You are right,’ she said in a low voice. ‘I am a fool.’ Because she hadn’t wanted to believe he wished her dead. She looked at him. ‘I was a fool to trust you.’
She ignored his hand and stepped down from the coach and, head held high, marched in through the front door held open by Manners.
The butler’s eyes widened in shock at the sight of her. ‘I’ll send Betsy to your room, miss,’ he said, sounding concerned.
‘Thank you.’ She didn’t look back. Didn’t care to. If she did, she might cry, and she wasn’t going to do that. Not over him.
* * *
Nor would she go to dinner. Sit there being pleasant to a man who had tried to drop her down a deep hole in the ground? Certainly not.
But would he suspect that she realised that it was him? As it was, she should not have said that about not trusting him.
Very well, she would tell him she’d been angry because she thought he was leaving without her instead of searching. Again the bitterness rose like bile in her throat. And the fear. Of course, he wouldn’t search when he assumed he’d succeeded.
She wouldn’t let him get away with trying to kill her, now she was sure. She was going to find a constable. Or a magistrate.
What if they wouldn’t believe her? What if they brought his supposed ward right back here? Then she wouldn’t go to the authorities. She would just disappear. Tonight. It might be her last chance.
Betsy popped her head around the door. ‘I brought some salve for your poor hands, miss.’
Betsy had been horrified at the sight of her hands and knees when she’d help Mary bathe. It was that soaking in the tub that had got Mary’s brain working again. Returned her power of logic.
She smiled. ‘Thank you.’
Betsy smiled back. ‘A parcel came from Mrs Wharton while you were out today. A new gown. It is a lovely deep rose.’
Mary stared at her. ‘I didn’t order another gown.’
‘His lordship did. He was tired of seeing you in the same gown for dinner, Mrs Wharton’s girl said.’
His lordship was tired of seeing her. Full stop. She turned away, worried that her expression might give away the welling feeling of sadness. So his lordship had ordered her a gown. Then she would wear it. And let him make of that what he would.
After dressing in the low-necked, high-waisted gown with its pretty velvet ribbons, she gave Betsy free rein with her hair, as she planned her departure for after midnight.
‘It has started snowing, miss,’ Betsy said between teeth full of pins. ‘We don’t get snow very often in these parts. The children will be out playing in it tomorrow.’
‘You sound as if you would like to join them,’ Mary said looking up. She gasped at the sight of herself in the mirror. Betsy had turned her straight hair into a confection of ringlets and curls. ‘Oh, Betsy, that is amazing.’
‘Thank you, miss.’
‘You really should be a lady’s maid.’
Betsy beamed. ‘Yours, I hope, miss?’
‘We’ll have to see,’ she said, hating knowing she must disappoint the girl.
She got up from the stool in front of the dresser and gazed at the wall. How on earth could she escape, knowing that at any moment his lordship could walk through that wall and catch her out?
Her glance fell on the little history book on her side table. It had drawings of the old Abbey. And maps. She had forgotten about the maps. Perhaps they held the key.
She picked the book up and looked at the last few pages. There were plans of the house. Each floor in detail. And odd little markings, little dotted lines running along beside some of the walls. Along the walls of her room and the one above. Those dotted lines connected each of the towers, and then carried on to where the cliffs and the sea were marked.
The caves under the house.
It also showed a passage from the cellars to the old ruins.
Had the earl seen these maps, when he had glanced at this book? She hoped not.
‘Gloves, miss,’ Betsy said. ‘It is a good thing you bought more than one pair. The ones from this afternoon were ruined.’
‘Thank you, Betsy. Thank you for all you have done for me since I have been here.’
Betsy beamed. ‘Do you need me to walk you down to the drawing room, miss?’
Mary smiled. ‘No. Do you know, I think I have finally got the hang of it.’ Right when she was ready to leave.
* * *
When she arrived at the drawing room, the Hamptons were there and Jeffrey, but there was no sign of the earl.
Manners entered shortly after she did. ‘His lordship sent his regrets,’ he said. ‘He will not be dining tonight.’
A rush of relief shot through Mary.
Jeffrey held his arm out for his aunt and Gerald escorted Mary. ‘How was your visit to the mine?’ her dinner companion asked when they were seated.
‘Very interesting.’
‘Dangerous place, mines,’ Mrs Hampton said. ‘I am surprised his lordship let you go. You did not actually go inside, did you, Miss Wilding?’
The irony struck a nerve and she had to force herself not to laugh. ‘I did.’
‘I say,’ Jeffrey said. ‘Good for you. I shall have to ask old Trelawny for a tour myself. I didn’t think they allowed people to walk around down there. Gerald and I used to sneak in there as lads, but the old manager wasn’t nearly as particular as Trelawny.’
‘I am a part-owner,’ she pointed out.
Mrs Hampton gave a disapproving sniff.
‘I heard you got lost down there,’ Gerald said.
Mary stared at him. ‘How did you hear such a thing?’
‘Some of the men were talking in the inn. They said his lordship was in a proper temper that you had wandered off.’ His gaze held speculation.
Anger rose hot inside her, but she filled her mouth with meat and let the act of chewing and swallowing before she answered cool her temper. ‘I got lost.’
‘There are a lot of old workings,’ he said, looking at her rather strangely. ‘Some of them go very deep. They are quite dangerous.’
‘You were lucky you didn’t fall down one of the old shafts,’ Jeffrey remarked. ‘I hear some of them date back to the dark ages. A couple of men from the village have lost their lives in them over the years.’
‘Next you will be telling me the place is haunted,’ she said with a sugary smile and a pretended shiver.
‘Oh, no,’ Gerald said blithely. ‘I’ve never heard tales of ghosts in the mine.’
‘Then perhaps it was a guardian angel who helped me find my way out.’
‘I expect you just followed your nose,’ Jeffrey said dismissively.
The door crashed open. The earl stood on the threshold.
Her heart gave a familiar jolt
, then dipped as she recalled his perfidy.
‘I hope I am not interrupting,’ he said smoothly, looking at Mary.
‘Not at all.’ She gave him the benefit of that sugary smile and was pleased when his eyes widened. ‘I thought you weren’t joining us for dinner.’
His lordship gave her a piercing stare. ‘I’m not.’ He sat down at the head of the table. Mary was glad she was at the other end, opposite Gerald, for the earl had a glitter about his eyes and a set look to his jaw that did not bode well. He was looking at her with angry suspicion, no doubt frustrated at the failure of his plan. She focused on the food on her plate. If she looked at him, she might give away her anger. Her rage.
He waved off the plate that Manners offered him and poured himself a glass of the burgundy from the decanter near his elbow. He leaned back in his chair and, against her will, Mary found her gaze drawn to him, to the form of the man. The solid strength. The way his coat hugged his manly shoulders.
She forced her gaze back to her plate.
No one said a word.
It was as if his presence had dampened any pretence of civilised conversation.
Mrs Hampton signalled to Manners to clear the table. ‘Will you take tea in the drawing room with me, Miss Wilding?’ she asked as she rose and the gentlemen followed suit.
‘Miss Wilding is otherwise engaged,’ Beresford said. He glowered at the two younger men. ‘Why don’t you two fellows go off for your usual game of billiards and leave me and Miss Wilding to our conversation?’
The chairs went back and the cousins followed Gerald’s mother out of the room.
Cowards.
But she didn’t really blame them. She wished she could follow them, but she seemed to be pinned to her chair by that bright steely gaze fixed on her face. He gestured for the servants to leave.
Her mouth dried. She could hear her heart beating faster than she would like. He looked different tonight, less controlled. He sipped at his wine, watching her over the rim. A muscle ticked in the side of his face. ‘What the devil did you think you were doing?’
She sat bolt upright in her chair. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Running off like that when my back was turned.’
It took a moment for her to understand. And then the answer came to her. He was making out that he thought she had tried to run away. How very clever of him. Did he think she would play along with his pretence? She pressed her lips together and lifted her chin.
He glared at her. ‘Why go to such trouble, when you knew I would fetch you back?’
It would have been a miracle if he could have brought her back from the dead. She bit her tongue. She must not arouse his suspicions. Not let him know that she understood full well what he was up to. ‘I got lost.’ She watched his face for a reaction. All she got was a sound of derision.
‘Believe what you will,’ she said calmly, keeping her gaze steady with his.
‘Then it seems I owe you an apology, Miss Wilding,’ he drawled.
She could not imagine he was apologising for pushing her down a hole in the ground. ‘Why?’
‘Why what?’
‘Why do you owe me an apology?’
He pushed his chair back and in a few lithe strides came to stand by her chair, looming, dark, still angry. He made her feel very small indeed. And that was quite a feat.
‘I apologise for assuming you had broken your word and left without informing me.’ He sounded as if he didn’t believe what he was saying.
Because he knew it wasn’t true. He knew she’d only wandered a little way down one of the tunnels. ‘Apology accepted,’ she said with remarkable calm. ‘What made you seek me on the road?’
‘One of the men said he glimpsed someone climbing the ladder. I was surprised not to find you in the courtyard.’
‘Did he now?’ She could not keep the sarcasm from her voice.
He gave her a puzzled look. ‘He did.’
‘All is well that ends well, then.’
He glowered. ‘From now on, I will be keeping a very close eye on you, madam.’
She almost groaned out loud. ‘If it will stop me from getting lost, I would much appreciate it.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘Don’t think to play your tricks off on me.’
‘My tricks. What tricks would those be?’
‘You know very well what I am talking about.’
‘Was there anything else you wanted to say to me?’
He looked as if he wanted to throttle her. ‘Not at this moment.’
‘Then if you will excuse me, I will retire.’
‘No.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘No I will not excuse you. We will go to the drawing room, take tea like sensible people, and enjoy some civilised conversation.’
‘I don’t believe you know how to have a civilised conversation. How to give orders, yes. How to impose your will on others, yes. But conversation? Sadly not.’
A pained look flashed across his face as if her words had the power to wound. Hardly. Annoyance was what she was seeing, nothing else. Annoyance that she wasn’t just falling willy-nilly in with his wishes.
‘You will excuse me, my lord. It has been a long and tiring day. I have no wish for conversation, civilised or otherwise.’
She rose to her feet. He stood up. As always, she was taken aback by the sheer size of him. The width of him. The height. She had to lift her chin to gaze into his eyes, to show him her determination. And he did not give, not one inch.
He gazed back, his eyes cold. ‘You speak as if I am the one at fault for your weariness, Miss Wilding.’ His mouth tightened. ‘If you had stayed with your party—’ He closed his eyes briefly. Took a breath as if mustering all of his patience. ‘What is done is done. But understand, I will not have you wandering off again.’
‘More commands? And where do you think I will go, my lord? I have no home, no relatives, no position of employment.’
‘You do have one position.’ His voice softened. ‘Mary, after our conversation in the carriage I thought...I had the impression...’
She lifted her chin and allowed a chill to creep into her voice. ‘What impression, my lord? That I had succumbed to your very obvious attempt at seduction?’
Pain filled his eyes. For once she had no trouble recognising his emotion and something horrid twisted inside her, like the blade of a knife slicing its way into her heart. Was she mad? She did not care if her words caused him pain. Could not.
She turned her face away, so she did not have to look into those fascinating silver-grey eyes, or to gaze on his handsome face. She was all too easily swayed by his wiles.
She was like a rabbit fascinated by the snake whose only intention was to make it the next meal. Little fool.
‘If you will excuse me, my lord? I find myself exhausted by the day’s events.’
He stepped back, frowning. ‘Then I must bid you goodnight, Miss Wilding.’
He held out his hand for hers.
Reluctantly she accepted his courtesy, intending to rest her fingers lightly in his, but when his hand curled around it and he brought it up to his lips, she winced at the pain of it.
He tensed and glanced down. Before she could stop him he had gently peeled off her cotton glove and revealed the grazed skin and broken nails. His face hardened. ‘These are the lengths to which you would go?’ The anger in his voice was unmistakable. He released her hand. Strode to the door, opening it. He paused. ‘Miss Wilding, if there was any other way, believe me, I would not do this.’
Do what? Kill her? Was that supposed to make her feel better?
Her chest squeezed painfully.
Chapter Eleven
Back in her chamber, Mary picked up the little history book and turned to the maps
. It clearly showed the tunnel to the old ruins. Hopefully it was in as good condition as the one running beside her chamber.
She put on her warmest gown, the last of the ones she had brought with her from Wiltshire, and donned her practical half-boots. She lay down on her bed to rest before it was time to leave, unable to stop herself from pondering Beresford’s last words.
The bleakness in his voice had touched a chord deep inside her, started an ache. A feeling she was missing something important. Sometimes she felt as if he was speaking in riddles.
She shook the feeling off. He was playing her again, like a fish on a line. Turning her on her head. But each time she heard those whispered words in her head and what he had said when he jumped down from the carriage: You little fool. For some reason she could not match them up. It was as if the words were spoken by two different people, for two very different reasons.
Or was it simply his seductive kisses turning her upside down, making her want to believe he was not the cause of her fall? Her long, deliberately forgotten dreams of a home, a husband, children playing at her feet, a real family, conspiring to make her yearn to believe in his innocence, to believe the seduction and not the facts.
Why did she want to believe? Had her foolish heart done something she had sworn she would never do again—could it be possible she had fallen for him?
Despite everything she knew.
If so, she really deserved all that had happened.
A numbness crept into her chest. The sort of emptiness she’d felt after she’d learned the truth about Allerdyce, only deeper. Colder. It was the only way not to feel the pain of knowing he’d sooner kill her than marry her.
And so she must leave. Without regrets. Without feeling anything. She got up and carried her candle to the clock on the mantel. Two in the morning. The household would be asleep by now. She wrapped her cloak around her and pulled up the hood. She had no valise. Nothing to carry except her reticule and that she had tied around her waist under her skirts for safekeeping.
Quietly she opened her chamber door.
It creaked.
She held still, waiting, wondering if the alarm would be raised. Nothing. She opened it a little more. And then she saw him. Beresford. Sitting on the bottom of the circular stairs leading up to the room above.