Seduction Becomes Her

by Shirlee Busbee

  Approaching a set of narrow stairs, Charles hesitated at the top, staring down at the black void before him. The scent of mold and decay and something else, something that made his jaw clench and his fingers tighten on his pistol, wafted up to his nostrils.

  He glanced back over his shoulder. “He may be down there or he may not, but you must be vigilant. Your lives depend upon it.”

  It was a short series of steps, ending in an antechamber that showed signs of being used as living quarters. No attempt had been made to clean the room, the cobwebs, the dirt, and dust from countless years plain to see in the corners and scattered across the stone floor. Unable to help herself, Daphne lifted one corner of her skirts higher to avoid coming in contact with the filth in the room.

  In the sconces hanging on the walls, they could see the stubs of tallow candles; a single wooden bed had been pushed against one wall, the thin straw mattress covered by a tangle of quilts. Next to the bed was a small table; a half burnt candle in a brass holder sat in the middle of it. An old armoire had been placed on the far wall. An inspection of the contents revealed a meager wardrobe, but of good quality and workmanship. A doorway lay on the other side of the room; on that same wall, there was a cupboard upon which sat a pottery bowl and pitcher, a dirty pewter plate, and some utensils. Nearby, two chairs sat beneath a scarred wooden table. The tabletop was littered with breadcrumbs, the unidentifiable remains of food, and half empty bottles of brandy and port.

  His lip curling in distaste, Charles considered the area, wondering how his fastidious brother with his love of fine food, wine, clothes, and horses could have come to this. Could he have been wrong about Sofia’s jewels? Had Raoul escaped with only the clothes on his back, and had he been living a hand-to-mouth existence all this time? He shook his head. Surely, Sofia’s jewels would have fetched more than enough for Raoul to live in comfort and not in this squalor? Or could they be wrong? Were these belongings and the footprints those of a vagrant squatter?

  Charles gingerly poked again through the few pieces of clothing in the armoire. There was a clank as something suddenly tumbled to the floor from the pocket of the many-caped greatcoat he had been examining and landed near his foot. Using his white linen handkerchief, he picked up the object and held it in the light of his lantern. His breath caught as he recognized it—a diamond-encrusted emerald choker he had often seen worn by Sofia.

  Julian came to stand beside him, staring at the glittering jewels in Charles’s hand. His voice hard, Julian said, “If we needed further proof that Raoul is alive and has been using this place, that pretty little bauble gives it to us. It is a distinctive piece, and I remember seeing it many times around your stepmother’s neck.”

  They spent more time searching through the room and its paltry contents but found nothing else of note. Keeping the choker wrapped in his handkerchief, Charles handed it to Daphne, and she stuffed it in the deep pocket of her dark blue cashmere gown for safekeeping. The weight of it was a reminder of Raoul’s presence and Sofia’s perfidy.

  Approaching the door on the opposite side of the room, Charles pulled it open. Another flight of steps met his gaze, and the scent of blood, of death, of evil flowed into the antechamber like London sewage from a storm-swollen gutter. Filled with fury and fear at what he might next find, he sped silently down the crooked staircase.

  The stairs stopped in a large room. Glancing around at the heavy manacles that draped the smoke-stained walls, no one needed the sight of the four cells to know that they were standing in the dungeons of Beaumont Place. A huge fireplace lay at one end of the long room; an assortment of instruments whose ugly purpose needed no explanation lay carelessly on the blackened hearth. A bundle of faggots stood against one side of the fireplace.

  There was no sluice hole in this dungeon, nor was there the bloodstained slab upon which so many women had died screaming for succor. There were, however, the remains of an old rack, the evidence of new repair bright against the old wood and metal. More disturbing were signs that some of the bloodstains on the stone floor around the rack could not have been there for centuries. Charles knelt down for a closer look. They were not fresh, but they were not very old, either. Rising to his feet, he glanced at Julian and Marcus and nodded curtly. They had found the Monster’s lair.

  There was little conversation between them as they moved stoically around the dungeon. It was difficult to discern what might have been moldering there for centuries and what might be from more recent times. One of the cells appeared to have had an occupant at some time within the last year or so—there were fewer cobwebs, and the dust on the floor had been greatly disturbed. But it was the condition of the manacles that suggested they had been used not too long ago. The edges of the metal gleamed brightly as if someone had twisted and fought to escape from their hold, the few scraps of bloodstained cloth caught on the chains looking too new to be very old. The pieces were stiff and brown with dried blood, but the three men agreed that it was unlikely they were relics from centuries ago.

  The dungeon was a horrid place, reeking of death and evil. Looking around him, Charles wondered if Sir Wesley’s nephew, John, had died here. Perhaps even Katherine, the very young wife? Who knew how many lives had been lost here in Sir Wesley’s time, and even before him?

  Daphne came to stand beside him. Putting her hand on his arm, she said, “I cannot bear to be here any longer. Is there a reason for us to remain?”

  He glanced at her and giving her a twisted smile, said, “Not quite the adventure you thought it would be?”

  She shook her head. “I didn’t expect an adventure; I just didn’t want to remain behind worrying and wondering what was happening with you.” She looked around. “This is a beastly place, isn’t it?”

  Charles shrugged. “Not all dungeons have as bloody a history as this one, if what we know of Sir Wesley is true. Not to excuse him, but it was a savage time, a cruel age. Remember King Henry had two of his wives beheaded and waited ahorse for news of Boleyn’s death before rushing off to marry Jane Seymour. And don’t forget that his father probably murdered the princes in the Tower, and not Richard, as the Tudors would have us believe.” He smiled without humor. “Our ancestors were not as civilized as we are today.”

  Her eyes on the rack, she said in a low tone, “Some of us have not left that age behind, not the cruelty or the savagery.” Unable to tear her gaze away from the rack, imagining the terror, the pain of Raoul’s helpless victim, horror washed over her, and needing the air and the light, she said, “Please, let us go.”

  Charles wanted nothing more than to rush Daphne up the stairs and out of this wretched place, but they must have some sort of plan before they left. His thoughts raced. The women could not be allowed to return outside alone while he and his cousins remained behind to set a trap. Not knowing Raoul’s whereabouts made it far too dangerous—sending the women away could be sending them straight into Raoul’s arms. Charles wasn’t afraid to face his half brother on his own, but he knew he’d have the devil’s own time convincing the others to leave him here alone. The notion of he and Julian remaining while sending Marcus to see the women safely into the house didn’t sit well, either. Even if Marcus agreed, and he doubted his cousin would, he wasn’t willing to send Daphne and Nell back with only one man to protect them. In the end, there was only one plan: the three men must escort Daphne and Nell to safety, and then he and his cousins would return to deal with Raoul.

  Most worrisome was the possibility that Raoul would come back and discover he’d had visitors. They had not tried to hide their presence. And when his half brother discovered that the emerald choker was missing…

  Charles didn’t want Raoul to bolt. If Raoul escaped from here, who knew how long it would take to run him down again? How many women might die in the interval? His half brother had sought refuge here, and they had a chance of ending this nightmare here and now, but only if they moved swiftly and caught him by surprise.

  They had discovered Raoul’s hidin
g place, but the advantage still lay with his half brother. Raoul had had months, years to explore this area. The dungeon seemed a dead-end, but what if it wasn’t? What if there were more secret doorways? Hidden passageways? Raoul could be watching them this very moment.

  A sense of urgency came over Charles, and he motioned to the others that they should leave. Almost whispering, he said, “We go out the same way we came in. I’ll lead, then Julian, Nell, Daphne, Marcus.”

  There was no argument. Leading the way, Charles sprinted up the stairs, Julian followed, and then Nell. Nell had taken a half dozen steps before something—a sound? instinct?—made her pause and glance back at the empty passage. Daphne should have been directly behind her…Nell froze; hearing only the thundering of her blood, she stared back at the faint outline of the doorway to the dungeon. There was no one there. Not Daphne. Not Marcus.

  “Julian! Charles!” she shrieked. “To me!”

  Julian was at her side in a moment, Charles right behind him.

  In trembling accents, she said, “Daphne and Marcus….”

  Charles’s gaze flew to the bottom of the stairs, where he willed his wife’s sweet form to appear. It did not. Pushing roughly past Julian and Nell on the narrow stairs, knowing there was no time for finesse, he bounded down the stairs and into the dungeon.

  Marcus lay on the floor, a crimson pool of blood encircling his head, his pistol hanging limply in one hand, his lantern nearby. Beside him lay a second pistol. Charles blanched, realizing that he was staring at Daphne’s pistol.

  Julian and Nell tumbled into the room, Nell crying out when she saw Marcus. Sinking to the floor beside him, she tenderly cradled his head in her lap. Gently, her fingers traced out the wound at the back of his head. Looking up at the two men, she said, “He is alive, but it is an ugly wound.”

  Charles glanced frantically around the room. There was no sign of Daphne. “A secret door,” he muttered, struggling against the primal fear that threatened to overpower him. Raoul had Daphne. Think of her, he ordered himself. Think of Daphne. You must find her. “There has to be another bloody secret door,” he shouted and sprang across the room, staring wildly at the nearest wall.

  At first, he could find nothing, his search too frenzied to be of any use. He fought to gain mastery of himself, knowing that he would do Daphne no good by giving way to the wild terror that flooded him. Shoving his pistol into the waistband of his breeches, he took a deep breath and despite the urge for speed, made himself study the wall, forced his fingers to move slowly and thoroughly over the seemingly impenetrable stone surface. A moment later, he found what he searched for so desperately, a small stone slightly out of alignment from the others in the wall.

  With fingers that visibly shook, he touched the stone, the air whooshing from his lungs when the section of wall in front of him slid noiselessly aside, revealing a narrow opening.

  “By heaven!” exclaimed Julian, leaving Nell to tend Marcus and coming to stand beside Charles. “You were right. There is another secret doorway.”

  His voice harsh, Charles said, “There may be more such doorways…and Raoul will know them all. I do not.” Charles grabbed his pistol and threw Julian a look in which fury and terror were mingled. “I am sorry to leave you with Marcus…I-I-I hope he recovers, but I must go.”

  His expression bleak, Julian nodded. “Go! And bring her back safely.”

  “I will,” Charles swore fiercely as he stepped once more into the unknown.

  Raoul’s attack had been so silent, swift, and savage that the first inkling Daphne had of his presence was when a powerful arm closed around her waist and the sharp blade of a knife dug into her throat. “One sound,” hissed a voice in her ear, “and I will slit your pretty little throat even as we stand here.” He jabbed the knife against her skin. “Understand? Nod if you do.”

  Daphne nodded, the sour taste of horror rising in the back of her throat. Raoul swung her away from the stairs, and she glimpsed Marcus lying motionless on the floor, blood oozing from the back of his head. Fright skittered through her chest. Was he dead? Please, dear God, no!

  Raoul jabbed her again, and she felt blood seeping down her neck and disappearing into the neck of her gown. “Put down the pistol,” he said. “Quietly, if you don’t wish to join him.”

  She hesitated, wondering if she could stall for time, knowing that any second, Nell would notice she was not behind her. A deeper jab of the knife made up her mind for her, and she promptly followed his orders, setting her pistol beside Marcus.

  Raoul was a strong man, and she was whisked effortlessly across the room and through an opening in the wall, yet for all his strength, she was aware that there was a shuffling motion to his movements. He pushed something with his shoulder, and the wall slid shut, plunging them into pitch-black darkness.

  Daphne fought back a moan as the suffocating blackness pressed against her. She was terrified, unable to think, numbed by the horror of the attack on Marcus and the knowledge that she was in the power of a madman.

  “Hurry! Hurry!” he muttered, pulling her up several steps. “Your beloved will be looking for you at any moment.” She thought he laughed. “And we don’t want dear Charles to find you, do we?” This time, she heard the laughter in his muffled tone. “At least not right away.”

  Raoul continued to half drag, half carry her up the stairs, the knife pressed against her throat. Gripped by incomprehensible terror, it was made worse by the slow slide of her own blood down her neck. Had he cut her deep enough to kill her? Was she already bleeding to death?

  They climbed awkwardly up a few more stairs before Daphne lost her footing and fell, the knife slicing deeper when she stumbled to her knees. Only Raoul’s arm around her waist kept her from tumbling down the stairs.

  Cursing, Raoul dragged her upright. “Clumsy bitch,” he snarled.

  His words snapped her out her numbing terror. A ball of fury sprang to life within her. How dare this monster murder Marcus and abduct her! Destroy her life with Charles? How dare he! A bite to her voice, she said, “If you would take the knife away and allow me to walk on my own, I’m sure we’d make better time. Even an imbecile would realize that I am right.”

  There was a startled silence and then a laugh. “My brother seems to have married himself to a shrew,” he said.

  The knife was removed, and the arm fell away from her waist. His hand captured her wrist in a brutal grasp, and he said, “Perhaps you’re right. We shall try it your way, Madame.”

  “You’re never going to get away with this,” Daphne said, holding on to her courage. “Charles will find us.”

  “But will he find us soon enough to save you, my pet? That’s what you should be asking yourself.”

  “Charles will find me,” she said defiantly, and she knew it was true. Charles would find her. Hopefully, alive, she thought with a thrill of fright.

  “Oh, I intend for him to find you all right, but not perhaps, as soon as you would like,” Raoul said easily. “Come along now; we cannot dawdle.”

  “He’ll find us,” Daphne repeated, as much to convince herself as him.

  “I doubt it,” Raoul said, dragging her along behind him. “Your ancestors must have been a sly, secretive lot. The old house is riddled with hidden passageways, and I know them all. Charles does not. And here, my pet, is our first turnoff.”

  Daphne couldn’t guess how Raoul knew where to turn, but the next second, she was jerked in a different direction. They had left the original staircase, but how, Daphne wondered desperately, could she mark the change? How to guide Charles? An idea occurred to her, and she dropped to her knees as if she had fallen, groping frantically for the emerald and diamond choker. Just as Raoul viciously jerked her to her feet, she managed to free the choker from her pocket and leave it on the stairs to mark their turning. Pray God, Charles noticed it.

  The wetness at the neck of her gown gave her another idea, and with her free hand, she dabbed at the damp material. She clawed along the stone w
all, hoping she was leaving a blood trail.

  Climbing a few more steps, Daphne became aware of a change in the air. Suddenly, it was freezing, and a different kind of terror took hold of her. She knew that bone-numbing feeling. Recognized it. Sir Wesley? Or Katherine?

  The iciness must have puzzled Raoul because he stopped and tested the air like an animal scenting danger. “That’s bloody odd,” he muttered as much to himself as Daphne. “We’ll be warm soon enough, but first, there’re a few twists and turns we need to take to throw off good old Charles.”

  In the darkness, Raoul counted the steps to the first offshoot he planned to take. Reaching it, a wall of air so intensely cold that it drove him backward prevented him from climbing in that direction. Frowning, he attempted it again, but the cold was a palpable barrier and blocked any movement up that turnoff. Perplexed but not alarmed, Raoul gave up and continued climbing. There were other offshoots ahead that would serve him as well, but to his growing bafflement, each time he sought to change course, he slammed into that impenetrable glacial barrier.

  They came to a junction, the staircase from the dungeon merging with another set of stairs. All of his planned diversions cut off, a trickle of unease ran down his spine as he realized that he was being driven slowly but surely to the battlements. Baffled, he wondered about the source of the odd, bone-penetrating chill. A subterranean opening he hadn’t discovered? Confident the cold would disappear as mysteriously as it had appeared, Raoul bit back a curse and yanked Daphne ever upward, heading in the only direction that lay open to him.

  Daphne felt the change in course. Her neck had stopped bleeding, and uncertain if the blood streaks she’d made had even been visible against the stone walls, seeking a way to leave Charles a clue, she remembered his handkerchief in the pocket of her gown. Surreptitiously, she took it from her pocket and three steps up, dropped the square of white linen on the stairs. Oh, please dear God, she prayed, let Charles see it. And find me.