She reached Peebles and pressed her finger to her lips, then pointed to one of the enormous chestnut trees and began to walk toward it. She slipped behind it, out of sight of the house, and asked Peebles, “Did you see or hear anything?”
“No, miss. All was quiet as could be. I’d think no one was there but for the lights upstairs.”
Her too, except for that brief bit of murmuring she’d heard. Where was Max?
She gestured toward the two buildings, both of them visible but partially obscured by trees.
“I’d like you to search the far building,” she whispered. “If there’s nobody inside, see if you can get in and search the interior as well. But only if you’re certain there’s no one inside, understand?”
“Yes, miss.”
“If you see or hear anyone, don’t let them see you. Come straight to me. I’ll be searching the closer building.”
“Yes, miss.”
“Good.” She gave him a tentative smile. “And thank you, Mr. Peebles.”
He looked down, a bashful expression passing over his face. “ ’Tis nothing, miss.”
She took a slow breath, calming her shaking nerves. “All right, let’s go.”
Mr. Peebles strode away, treading with his amazingly silent gait through the grass. She followed, veering from his path to approach the first outbuilding. It was silent and dark. No lights, no sounds. She circled it at first and decided that it must be a barn. From peering into the windows, she could see animal pens, but she couldn’t discern the movements or sounds of any animals. The place appeared to be abandoned.
After completing her circle of the building, she deemed it safe enough to try the door. It opened easily and glided wide without a squeak. That was surprising. Someone had recently oiled the hinges. This was odd, since the barn smelled like lye soap and dust—like it hadn’t been recently used. She turned to the left and began to explore the animal pens one by one. They were all clean and empty. A narrow set of stairs along the back wall led up to a hayloft. Olivia climbed them—the boards squeaked and complained as she ascended, but there was nothing in the loft but an old black traveling trunk tucked into the far corner. When she opened it, the lid gave a loud, complaining creak, but the inside was empty.
She tiptoed back to the stairs and began to descend. About halfway down, she heard a soft thump.
She froze. There it was again. Thump. And again, louder this time. Thump!
“Jessica?” she whispered. She stepped down from the last step and hurried toward the source of the noise—it seemed to come from the opposite side of the barn, beneath the hayloft.
Thump. Thump. Thump!
The sound grew louder as she walked into the very last stall—what looked like a large pigpen. The space was empty except for a dark woven rug covering the floor.
She heard a voice—what sounded like muffled shouting. She’d know that tone anywhere. It was Jessica. And her voice was coming from below the rug.
“Jessica!”
More thumping and shouting.
“I hear you!” she said in as loud a voice as she dared. “Wait a moment.”
She pulled back the rug, struggling with its heavy weight. She could only see the door thanks to the moonlight shining through the bare window, casting a soft silvery glow over the floorboards. It was the barest outline of a door, invisible within the design of the planking, unless one was looking.
But how to pry it open? There was no handle.
She fell to her stomach and spoke to the crack in the floor. “Jess—it’s me, Olivia. I’m going to get you out of there… but how do I open the door?”
She heard a muffled sound, then one word: “Crowbar!”
A crowbar? Where on earth would she find a crowbar? The barn was completely empty.
Well, there had to be one somewhere. If it was here, she’d find it.
She closed her eyes in a long blink of relief. Her sister sounded as energetic and full of life as ever. “It’s so good to hear your voice, Jess.”
She heard a faint, “You, too, Liv.”
“I’ll be back,” she promised. “I need to find a crowbar.”
She scrambled to her feet. There was nothing in this barn besides the trunk, and that wouldn’t be of any help. She went outside and hurried to the adjacent building, finding Peebles standing near a window with his head cocked as if he were listening intently.
“What is it?”
“I cannot tell if there’s someone inside, miss. I hear something… but it might just be a horse, aye?”
She peeked into the window, but the moon was on the opposite side of the building and she couldn’t see anything.
She released a breath through pursed lips. “How good are you with your fists, Peebles?”
His brown eyes widened. “Well, I daresay I’ve been in a fight or two, but—”
“Good enough,” she said quickly. “Look, if there’s someone in there, I’ll talk to him, but if he threatens to go to his master, we’re going to have to stop him.”
Peebles nodded, his eyes wide.
“All right. Come with me.”
She walked to the door, took a deep, fortifying breath, and pushed it open, hesitating at the threshold. A horse whinnied, and the floorboards creaked as another horse shifted its stance.
It was a smallish stable, with stalls for six or eight horses and space for a carriage, but certainly not enough room for apartments for the stable boys and groomsmen.
She glanced back at Peebles. “I think it’s just horses.”
Still wide-eyed, he nodded.
“We’re looking for a crowbar. Will you help me see if there’s one to be found in here?”
“Yes, miss.”
She moved to the far end and started opening doors to survey the stalls. The first two stalls she opened were completely bare save for the bales of hay piled inside, but when she opened the third door, she gasped in relief.
She’d discovered a veritable treasure trove of tools and farming and gardening implements. At the very front of the row of tools lined up against the stable wall was a crowbar as tall as Olivia.
She hefted it and went out of the stable. “Mr. Peebles! I found it.”
“Oh, miss, you shouldn’t be carryin’ that.” He hurried up to her and took it, frowning.
“Thank you. Now follow me, and we’ll help my sister escape.”
“Your sister—?”
But she was already hurrying out of the stable and back to the barn. She rushed inside and into the room where she’d found the hidden door in the floor. She pointed at its faint outline. “See? There’s the edge of a door, right there. Do you think you can open it?”
He slid the edge of the crowbar into the widest crack between the door and the adjacent floorboard slat and pried it up, grunting. “Prodigious heavy.”
Olivia chewed on her lip and watched him as he continued to inch the door upward. The bottom seemed to be made of solid metal—that was why it was so heavy.
When it was halfway open, she saw blue eyes peering out from a very dirty face and matted blond hair. Jessica’s blue eyes.
“Olivia!” her sister cried. “Thank God you came.”
With a grunt, Peebles pushed the door one more time, and it fell open with a resounding thump.
Jessica scrambled up and out of the hole and threw herself into Olivia’s arms.
Chapter Twenty-four
Max methodically searched every downstairs room of Fenwicke’s house. He started with the kitchen and servants’ wing and found it completely empty, though he was certain servants usually occupied the place. There were clothes strewn over chairs and soiled dishes in the scullery, which gave the impression that people had departed in a hurry.
The stiff formality of the rooms occupying the opposite wing, the wing bearing all the enormous portraits, made it obvious that those rooms were reserved for formal activities. Some of the rooms had been locked but the open ones were cold and stark. Max walked through a darkened draw
ing room, a study, and a library, all of which were sparsely furnished with dark, uncomfortable-looking furniture.
Max exited from the library and resolutely headed back toward the stairway. He had no doubt that he’d find Fenwicke and his weasel-faced manservant upstairs. Max was aware of the possibility that there might be others, though it stood to reason that Fenwicke wouldn’t have thought anyone would be looking for him here. The world still believed him confined to his bed in London after a near-deadly sickness.
At the bottom of the stairs, Max drew his pistol, the weight more comfortable in his hand now that he’d spent a bit of time last autumn using similar weapons for hunting at Stratford House. Then, it was a tool for sport; now, it was a weapon that could save his life, and the lives of two innocent women.
He ascended the stairs slowly, wary of making noise and alerting anyone to his presence. He listened for any noise coming from the upstairs rooms and watched carefully for movement above him.
He reached the top of the staircase. Corridors led to the left and right, but Max focused on the right, where he could see light seeping out from beneath one of the doors.
He moved toward the door, trying to be as silent as possible on the wood slats of the floor. He reached the door and leaned close to it to hear if any noises were coming from inside.
After a minute, he heard a very faint, very low humming noise. He reached for the handle and tried to open the door, but it was locked from the inside.
Was it Fenwicke’s bedchamber or the servant’s? Max had no idea. He explored the rest of the corridor, finding four empty, unlocked bedchambers, and then tried the opposite corridor. At the very end was another locked door, but there was no light emanating from this one. He remembered the lights he’d seen from outside when he first entered the house. One of those lights would most certainly have corresponded to this room. Perhaps its occupant had gone to bed.
Which left the room with the light on. He’d take care of the occupant of that room first and try not to wake the occupant of this one.
He returned to the room with the light on and knocked softly on the door.
“What is it, Thompson?” Fenwicke’s voice snapped out. “Have you finished packing? I want to be gone by dawn.”
“Yes, sir.” Max spoke on a cough, with his fist muffling his voice. So, Fenwicke planned to leave Manchester. It seemed Max’s arrival as John Smith had alerted Fenwicke that something was amiss.
“What’s that?”
There was a click as the lock tumbled, and then the handle turned and the door opened the merest crack, showing a sliver of Fenwicke’s face.
Max kicked the door open. He put so much force into the blow that Fenwicke stumbled backward and the door slammed into the wall.
Damn. The noise would awaken the bloody manservant.
Fenwicke recovered quickly. He lunged away, but Max’s eye had caught on something at the far corner of the room, and he couldn’t tear his gaze from it.
“Good God,” he whispered.
There was a naked figure slumped there. Her back, criss-crossed with welts and bloody lines, was facing Max, and her head lolled forward.
Was she dead or unconscious?
With a choke of outrage, Max rushed toward the woman, tearing the blanket from the top of the bed as he passed it. Pillows went tumbling to the ground. When he reached her, he wrapped the blanket around her and slid his arm beneath her. She moaned softly but didn’t wake as Max gently lifted her into his arms, trying not to disturb her many wounds. Lady Fenwicke slumped against him, a dead weight in his arms.
“Oh, what a hero,” Fenwicke sneered from behind him. He heard the click of a cocking gun.
Max froze, realizing he’d stuffed his pistol into his coat pocket without even thinking about it when he’d rushed to help Lady Fenwicke.
“Turn around, Wakefield,” Fenwicke said.
Clutching the unconscious Lady Fenwicke to his chest, Max slowly turned.
The man’s face was stone cold. He held a small silver pistol he pointed at Max’s chest.
“How dare you,” he said, his lip curling, “break into my home and then touch my wife in such an unseemly fashion? That’s a hanging offense, Wakefield.”
“Kidnapping is a hanging offense,” Max growled.
“Kidnapping one’s own wife? I don’t think so.”
“You have kidnapped Miss Jessica,” Max pushed out.
“Miss Jessica? I don’t see anyone by that name here. I was having a lovely evening with my wife when a villainous duke entered uninvited. In a fit of rage, he rendered me unconscious and then he proceeded to brutalize my beloved wife. That’s what the world will know.
“Now unhand my wife, Wakefield. I’d prefer not to be forced to shoot through her to get to you, but I will if I must.”
“I’d advise you not to do that. Be a gentleman for once and let me lay her down first.”
Fenwicke merely cocked an eyebrow. He kept the gun trained on Max as he went to the bed and laid the poor woman on it. She whimpered again, and murmured something Max couldn’t quite understand. He covered her as best he could with one of the blankets.
Straightening, he slowly turned to face Fenwicke. He felt the heavy weight of the gun in his pocket and wondered if Fenwicke had seen it when he’d first kicked in the door.
“My lord, is there—?” Weasel-face was at the door. He’d stopped in midsentence, his mouth hanging open, his gaze traveling from Lady Fenwicke lying prone on the bed, to Max, to Fenwicke and the gun.
“Thompson,” Fenwicke grated out. “You will bear witness to this event. The Duke of Wakefield broke into my home and proceeded to beat my wife to a bloody pulp. I shot him, killed him, to save her.”
The man’s face went still, and his focus settled on Max like a shard of ice. Weasel-face was definitely loyal to his master.
“Yes, sir,” he said.
“You damned bastard.” Fenwicke sounded not only disgusted but anguished as he continued. “You thought you could get away with doing this? With breaking into my home, my sanctuary? With hurting my wife?”
For the first time, his eyes slid away from Max to go to Lady Fenwicke on the bed. Max’s hand went to his pocket, but before he could reach the gun, Fenwicke’s gaze snapped to him again, and he stepped forward, pointing the gun at Max’s chest.
“No, Wakefield. I know what’s in there. I’m not blind, and I’m not dumb. Now, very slowly, retrieve that pistol from your pocket and lay it on the floor. Any fast move and I’ll shoot, do you understand me?”
Hell. The crazy marquis was going to shoot him either way, wasn’t he? Max’s gun was already cocked, ready to shoot. If he could pull it out slowly, then get a shot off before Fenwicke could…
Well, it was his only hope.
Slowly, Max raised his empty hand, then slipped it into his pocket, his fingers scrambling to grasp the gun in the proper position.
Now.
He whipped the pistol out of his pocket, aimed, and fired as he dove to the floor in an attempt to avoid the shot he knew would be coming from Fenwicke.
Two shots rang out, deafening in the confined space of the bedchamber. Pain exploded in Max’s side as his body slammed to the floor. Dimly, he heard a thud as Fenwicke fell directly in front of him. He hadn’t seen where he’d hit the man. He hoped it had been in the bloody head.
He raised his own head to see Fenwicke crawling toward him, dragging his leg and leaving a bloody trail behind him. The servant was shouting something Max couldn’t understand. It sounded like a woman was screaming—perhaps Lady Fenwicke.
Through blurred eyes, Max saw Fenwicke’s hands reaching for him. Using his elbow, he slid his body to the side so Fenwicke’s hands just missed catching his neck and cracking his skull on the floor. Fenwicke made a snarling noise. “You shot my leg, you bastard!”
Fenwicke was coming for him again. Max slid on his back, curled his fist, and punched Fenwicke in the thigh, in the exact place where he’d shot the man. Hi
s side screamed with pain.
Fenwicke gave an agonized, rage-filled howl. There was more shouting in the periphery of Max’s awareness, but he kept his focus on the enemy.
Max surged upward onto his knees, shoving Fenwicke’s shoulder as he rose. Fenwicke fell back onto the floor, curling in on himself as if to protect his injured leg.
Max clenched his teeth. His side burned like someone had taken a torch to it.
Fenwicke wasn’t finished. He struggled up onto his elbow, then leveled a solid punch to Max’s stomach. Max hunched forward, and then Fenwicke copied Max’s first strike. He leveled a second punch at Max, this time in his bloody, injured side.
Max hissed through his teeth and struggled to keep himself upright. The pain was excruciating. It shot through his entire body, and he couldn’t hold back the grunt as he thumped back onto the floor. His eyes had closed of their own volition—it hurt to even open them, but he did.
Fenwicke loomed over him, his mouth warped into a ghastly grimace.
Max’s gun should be close by. It was a weapon he’d acquired from his uncle, who even in his dotage had kept a case filled with examples of the newest advances in weaponry.
This pistol felt like Max’s other weapons, but in truth, it wasn’t like any other weapon Max had ever shot before. This was a revolver.
He saw it at the periphery of his vision and reached for it. Fenwicke didn’t pay him any heed, probably assuming the gun had spent its one and only shot.
Max’s fingers caught the grip of the gun, and he raised the pistol up, cocking the hammer.
Fenwicke finally paid attention as the gun clicked. Over Max, his body jerked in recognition of the noise.
For the slightest second, Max hesitated. He’d spent his whole life trying to avoid being like his father. Trying to choose a path leading away from brutality and violence.
But this man had nearly killed his own wife. He’d kidnapped Jessica Donovan. And he’d attempted to rape Olivia.
He deserved to die.
Max buried the barrel into Fenwicke’s ribs. And he pulled the trigger.
Secrets of an Accidental Duchess Page 30