Devil at the Gates

by Lauren Smith

  “Wait… Don’t go…” Harriet’s murmur was so full of loss and pain, he wondered who she was dreaming about.

  He wiped the tears from her face with a handkerchief, stunned by his desire to be gentle with the stranger who had trespassed in his domain. Ever since Millicent and Thomas had died, he had demanded solitude, a quiet house to himself so he could bury himself in regret and guilt. It was no less than he deserved.

  Suddenly the hairs on his neck rose, and he felt the faintest caress of something over his skin, like cool fingertips. He sensed it, sensed the presence that often came to haunt him just after midnight. His grandmother would have called it the hour of the wolf, where the sleepless were haunted by their deepest fears, when ghosts and demons were at their most powerful. He looked around as he always did but saw nothing.

  “She doesn’t belong here, not with me.” He spoke softly to the room, not sure why he needed to speak at all, or what otherworldly thing might be lingering in the shadows.

  Harriet grasped his hand, which had brushed against her cheek.

  “Please don’t leave,” she murmured, her eyes still closed. “Please… I’m so cold.”

  Redmond gasped as he tripped and fell onto the bed. He would have sworn it felt as if someone had just pushed him. But it was madness to think such a thing, wasn’t it?

  Harriet burrowed closer to him, and before Redmond could extricate himself, he found himself holding Harriet. He could have done anything he liked to her, she was that helpless, still under the hypnotic sway of the laudanum. But he was not a monster, not the monster he pretended to be, at any rate. Whatever cruelty she had endured elsewhere, he would not perpetuate any on her here.

  He pulled the coverlet up again around their bodies, not caring that he was still fully clothed. He had slept many a night in worse conditions in the last seven years, and perhaps it would help assure her that he had not taken advantage of her vulnerable state if she should regain her senses too soon. He closed his eyes, wondering how Edward Russell’s daughter had ended up here in his arms.

  Redmond had been one of Russell’s students more than a decade ago, just after he left Cambridge. He had felt a bond to the fencing master, like he would have to an older brother. The man had been honorable, amusing, and openhearted. To hear of his death tonight had shocked Redmond, but he had been so angry at having a young woman here disturbing him that he hadn’t processed the fact that Edward Russell was dead.

  And now here he was, holding the man’s daughter, a daughter who was lonely and tempting. She was also the same tender age as his late wife. Pain seized his heart, and he squeezed his eyes even tighter, hoping he would sleep soon because he was not going to cry about the past.

  Not again.

  George Halifax smiled smugly as he left the bedside of his wife, who now lay cold and lifeless. He’d slept late after dinner, and by the time he’d returned to Emmeline’s bed, she’d finally drawn her last breath. It’d taken her long enough to die. Now he was clear to get what he wanted, what he had craved for so many years. He walked down to the room his men had taken Harriet into, and his grin widened at the sight of the locked door. She was inside, waiting for him, waiting to ease his needs. If she resisted, as he expected her to, he would call for his men to assist him in subduing her. She’d always been such a willful creature, no doubt because she had wasted her time learning the art of fencing when she should have been practicing needlepoint or some other frivolous activity. But it had made for a fiery creature he would delight in bedding and breaking until he molded her into what he desired.

  He pulled the heavy brass key from his pocket and inserted it into the keyhole. He opened the door, his heart pounding with excitement, anticipating the chase. He waited for his caged pet to fly at him in a rage, but there was no movement in the dark room.

  “Harriet?” he murmured. “Your dear mother has passed, and your father has come to comfort you.”

  More silence. He stepped into the room and retrieved a lamp, lighting it with a pair of strikers he found on the side table. He waved the lamp around the room, casting its light over every corner as a black rage built up inside him. The room was empty. The window was open, with a trail of bedsheets knotted together dropping down to the gardens one floor below. His pretty little bird had flown away. When he caught up with her, she would regret ever escaping him.

  5

  When Harriet woke, warm sunlight illuminated the lavish bedchamber she was in. She blinked in confusion, expecting to see watery pale sunlight fogging up the glass windows of a room in Thursley Manor, yet she found herself in the same room she’d dreamt about.

  Not a dream…

  She shifted in the bed and groaned as every muscle protested. She winced and put a hand to her head as memories from the night before trickled back.

  She had fled Thursley while her mother lay dying. The coach had overturned during a terrible storm. She had fought the Devil of Dover with a fencing foil…and won? Yes, but then the memories grew fuzzier, like thick wool blanketing a window she desperately wished to see through. She remembered dinner, and her shoulder in pain, and then… She gasped.

  Lord Frostmore had drugged her, and now she was in a bedroom. She lifted the blankets and found she was wearing a nightgown of fine quality. She had never touched something like this before, let alone worn one. With trembling hands, she pulled her gown up but saw no bruises, no blood on her thighs. Had he not taken his pleasure, then, while she lay helpless?

  The bedchamber door opened, and a lovely young woman with dark hair and light-brown eyes entered. She was humming to herself but paused when she saw that Harriet was awake. She glanced down at the tray she was holding and lifted it up slightly as she looked at Harriet.

  “Good morning, miss, my name is Maisie. I’m to tend to you as a lady’s maid while you’re staying here. His Grace thought you might be hungry. May I come in?”

  Harriet nodded mutely, and the girl came in to place the tray on the bed. Toast, a jar of marmalade, a hard-boiled egg, and some peaches were all set on a pale-blue-and-white pattern set of china. A tiny vase of chrysanthemums filled the air with their sweet floral perfume. The duke must have a hothouse on his grounds somewhere. It was far too cold for anything to grow outside this time of year.

  “Tea or coffee?” the maid asked.

  “Er… tea, thank you.”

  “A bit of orange pekoe, all right?” Maisie’s lilting Scottish accent was bright and cheery. It managed to put Harriet at ease a little.

  “Orange pekoe? I’ve never heard of it.”

  “It’s from Denmark.”

  “Does it taste like oranges?” Harriet asked as the maid began to prepare a cup.

  “His Grace says it’s not a flavor, but a reference to the noble house of Orange-Nassau, who brought the tea to Europe a hundred years ago. He says the pekoe is the top bud of the tea plant.” The maid handed her a hot cup of tea, and the scent was divine.

  “And how did you come to learn so much about it?”

  Maisie chuckled. “I often pester His Grace, when he’s in a mood to talk. He knows quite a bit about a lot of things. He’s traveled all over the continent, even as far as Bavaria.”

  “Oh?” Harriet found herself wanting to know more about him, but she was afraid of him, and the fact that she couldn’t remember fully what had happened the night before between them only strengthened those concerns.

  “He’s…” The maid paused as she retrieved Harriet’s muddy muslin dress off the floor. “Well, he’s quite gentle and scholarly, when he’s not in a black mood.” Maisie eyed the clothes in her arms thoughtfully. “Oh, dear. You cannot wear these again. Too torn up to repair, not with my poor sewing skills. I’ll see what I can find for you.”

  “Oh, please, I don’t want to be any trouble, and I really must leave, at any rate. Did Mr. Grindle find my coach driver, Mr. Johnson? He was injured when I came here last night.”

  “Oh, aye. A pair of our grooms found him. Mr. Johnson’s leg i
s broken, but Dr. Axel set it, and your man is resting in the servants’ quarters. The groom who found him happened to say you had no luggage?” Maisie asked.

  “I didn’t.” Harriet lay back against the pillows, feeling suddenly very tired again.

  “Never you mind then, miss. Like I said, I’ll find something for you to wear. Now eat up and sleep.” The maid turned to leave.

  “But—”

  Maisie halted and looked over her shoulder. “Yes, miss?”

  “The duke… Did he…?” She blushed and stared down at the bedclothes she clutched hard enough that her knuckles were white.

  “Did he what, miss?” Maisie inquired, her tone softer now.

  “I don’t remember much after dinner. He gave me something… Laudanum, I think.”

  “Aye, he did. Your shoulder was badly out of joint, and His Grace said you were close to hysterics. He had the cook put a bit of it in the wine and carried you up here. The doctor set your shoulder and tended to your cuts. I changed your clothes myself.” Maisie gave her a meaningful look of reassurance.

  “Then he didn’t…?” She still couldn’t voice her fears.

  “No, miss. That’s not his way. He’s…” Maisie hesitated.

  “He’s what?”

  “It’s no’ for me to say, miss.”

  “Please tell me. Surely you know of his reputation.”

  “Well that’s the thing, miss. He’s more bark than bite. He was hurt once, a long time ago, and he does not let anyone get too close anymore. But he’s a good man, once you get him to trust you. At least, that’s been my experience.”

  Harriet watched the maid collect her wet stockings from over the back of a chair, her pensive expression brightening a little as she faced Harriet again.

  “Ring the bell cord by the bed if you need anything. I’ll be back with clothes once I find something that will suit you.”

  “Thank you, Maisie.”

  “You’re welcome, miss.”

  After the maid had gone, Harriet’s appetite returned, and she ate her breakfast and had two cups of the orange pekoe tea. Then she lay back in the bed, half-asleep, and focused on the sunlight creeping across the room.

  Her gaze fell upon the radiantly colored tapestries of the woods and the stags within them. Had she really dreamt of a lustrous silver figure stealing into them, then evaporating like an errant pool of mist? She remembered quite clearly the figure raising a hand to point at a man asleep in the chair by the fire. It had to be the duke, and the scorching flames had illuminated his masculine form into a black, haunting silhouette that stole her breath. Had she really been visited by a spirit last night? If she had, what did it want? What was it trying to tell her by pointing at the duke as he slept?

  Exhaustion tugged at her limbs, pulling her back down into the bed again, but her fear and unease from the night before was fading quickly, and she no longer feared falling asleep.

  Harriet carefully lay upon her left side and closed her eyes. When she woke, it must have been a number of hours later. A haze of dappled sunlight lit the wooded tapestries as though it were a real forest where the stags might have raised their long, elegant limbs with ease, stepping clean out of the threaded world sewn around them. The magic of the room—with the added scent of someone, most likely the duke—lingered strongly here. Had he come to see her while she slept? The idea unnerved her, but there was very little fear left at the thought. Maisie was right, he was like that intimidating black dog of his, Devil. All bark and no bite.

  She sat up, pushed the covers away, and slipped out of bed. The stones beneath her feet were cool, but not cold as she expected. Harriet went to the fireplace and added a few logs, despite the fact that her shoulder still ached, but the pain was far more manageable. She studied the cut upon her brow in a mirror and washed her face in the white porcelain basin. The cold water felt good and woke her up a bit. Weariness still tugged at her limbs, but she was content to keep moving, stretching her legs and regaining some of her mobility. Maisie returned to find her practicing some fencing positions, ones she could execute without requiring her right arm.

  “Miss?” Maisie tilted her head. “Are you well? I’m not certain you should be out of bed.”

  “Yes, I’m quite well. I needed to move or else I’d become stiff.” Harriet returned to the bed. Maisie carried over a large white box and set it before her.

  “I found this up in the attic. Been stored there and was never worn, as far as I know.” She opened the box and pulled out a beautiful gown.

  “Oh… It’s lovely. I couldn’t possibly wear it,” Harriet protested.

  “Nonsense. You will look fetching in it, miss. I’ve dried your stays and have a clean chemise ready for you.”

  Maisie helped to remove her nightgown, and she was dressed in fresh undergarments before Maisie helped her don the dress. It was made of green silk, and it had an open robe with a matching underskirt of white silk. It was what her mother would have called a ‘greatcoat’ dress.

  The turned-down collar with patterned lapels gave the appearance of a man’s military coat, yet there was a feminine elegance to it. Harriet glanced down at the outer skirts and saw the ends of the side panels had been stitched back, which gave the illusion of additional panels in the same slightly masculine fashion, as though she were wearing a full-length military coat. But there was nothing masculine about the dress. The bright-green and cream silk called to mind the colors of summer lawns and clouds. Tiny pink flowers were embroidered along the hem and the bodice, making it look as though Harriet had rushed into a field of wildflowers and rolled about until her gown was covered with them.

  Maisie brushed her palms over her skirts and nodded to herself in approval. “Very fetching.”

  “I still think I shouldn’t wear this.” Whoever had owned this dress deserved it more than she did.

  “We have a mountain of clothes that are still boxed and unworn. The duchess—”

  “These are the duchess’s clothes?” Harriet tried to remove the dress. Maisie pushed her hands away.

  “His Grace had them ordered as a wedding present, but she didn’t much care for them.”

  “But… They’re so lovely.” Harriet felt like a queen in the gown.

  “Yes, they are. Her Grace simply had different tastes. You are nearly the same size as her in the bust and hips, though she was a little taller. I can tailor the unworn gowns if you like. I have skill enough for that.”

  Harriet bit her lip and looked at herself in the looking glass. “It won’t upset him to see me in these?”

  “I dinna think so,” Maisie admitted honestly. “He ordered the gowns, but when she chose her own instead, he was sad. It may do him good to see these worn by a lovely woman.” Maisie’s gaze had moved to her hair. “Shall I style it better for you?”

  “Oh, could you? I haven’t had it done in ages. I wasn’t allowed to have a maid at Thursley.”

  Maisie’s eyes widened. “Thursley? That’s in Faversham, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but please don’t speak of it to anyone. I must insist.”

  The maid’s expression turned thoughtful, and she bit her lip. “Are you in some trouble, miss? I’m sure His Grace would protect you if you were.”

  “That’s just it—I’m quite certain he wouldn’t.” She took a chance to trust Maisie. “My father died when I was young, and my mother married a terrible man. That man is hunting me now, likely this very minute. He is an acquaintance of Lord Frostmore’s. I don’t want the duke to discover he’s harboring a fugitive from someone he considers a friend. He may choose to turn me over to my stepfather.”

  The maid ran a brush through Harriet’s hair and was silent a long moment. “What is your stepfather’s name?”

  “George Halifax.” Harriet was almost afraid to breathe it aloud lest she summon him like some demon.

  “I can say in all honesty that we haven’t had anyone by that name visit here. His Grace rarely goes into town. And we are a ways from Faversh
am. Of course, I’ve only worked here a few months. Could be that I’m wrong, but is it possible your stepfather lied to you?”

  Harriet wanted to believe her, but she was afraid. If she was wrong, George might catch up with her and… She shuddered and tried not to think about what he would do.

  “It’s possible, but I do not wish to risk it.”

  “Then I shall keep silent, miss.”

  “Thank you, Maisie.” The two of them shared a smile.

  “Come on. The housekeeper, Mrs. Breland, will want to show you the house. I told her I would fetch you once you were dressed.”

  “Mrs. Breland? I didn’t meet her last night.”

  “Most of us were in bed when you arrived.” Maisie giggled. “She gave Mr. Grindle quite the dressing down this morning for not waking her, but if you ask me, he let her sleep because he fancies her.”

  “Does he? Is she lovely?” Harriet asked.

  “She is, but she tries to act severe. But when she thinks she’s not being watched, she smiles and lights up the room.”

  They continued to gossip about the staff as Maisie escorted her downstairs to the great hall on the ground floor. A tall woman with auburn hair threaded with silver was busy issuing orders to a pair of footmen. She turned at their approach and offered a polite but reserved smile.

  “Miss Russell?”

  Harriet nearly dropped into a curtsy at the housekeeper’s regal beauty. She wore a black dress made of fine silk, and the cut was simple but elegant. “Yes, that’s me.”

  “I am Mrs. Breland. I regret I was not able to assist you last evening when you arrived. I trust you are feeling better this morning?”

  “I am, thank you. Maisie has been wonderful looking after me.”

  “Maisie is a good girl, though I hope she did not talk your ear off.” Mrs. Breland nodded at the maid, who smiled encouragingly at Harriet before leaving her alone with the housekeeper.

  “Now, I will take you on a quick tour of the house so you won’t lose your way. At night the corridors can feel much the same, and it can be very easy to get lost.”