by Darcy Burke
But what fancy did he suffer? The warmth in his eyes when he spoke of his daughter had not been feigned. And yet, the name he had given matched that of the grave behind the abbey. Either her would-be employer had named his daughter after a dead woman, or the girl she was about to meet was someone other than Lillian Waldegrave. A doppelganger meant to replace the dead Lillian Waldegrave?
No. Certainly she was overreacting from fatigue. If there was a daughter, then there was nothing to fear. Perhaps.
Mr. Waldegrave was no Prince Charming. He was tall and broad and his chiseled-marble features undeniably handsome, but he was far too cold and emotionless to be a desirable companion in any sense of the word. Although his flesh burned hot beneath his sleeve, his passions—if he had any—clearly did not. She doubted he’d spoken fifty words to her during the short interview, and none at all during this walk. Perhaps he was still overcome with grief over the loss of the two Waldegrave women buried behind the abbey. And the living “creature”?
More like as not, any rich child’s sole affliction was simply a lifetime of being spoiled by self-important parents whose concerns ran more to matters of high society than to childrearing. Violet was ashamed to admit that there had been innumerable moments in her childhood when she’d wished herself the most lonely and unloved of all the future debutantes rather than continue to suffer the unwanted attentions paid to a young girl with no place to call home.
“Why the frown?” Mr. Waldegrave’s voice was detached, but his gaze sharp. “Do you already regret agreeing to help my daughter? What have you heard?”
Trepidation began to prick along her neck once more. What did he fear she knew? She’d barely arrived at the abbey alive. She had heard nothing, save the ravings of an old woman. But what she’d seen was a grave bearing the same name as his alleged daughter.
No matter the circumstance, she was stuck here until she could conceive a better plan. She drew back her shoulders. If his concerns gave her bargaining power ...
“Two pounds per week, you said?”
“I did indeed.” His gaze did not waver from her face. “I am a man of my word.”
Doubtful. She’d only ever met one who was, and now he was dead. She lifted a bland smile in Mr. Waldegrave’s direction. “Then I should like to be paid in advance. Two pounds, at the start of each week.”
She held her breath. The demand was a calculated risk. Payment in advance was unheard of. But any man who hired a crumpled scrap of a girl, one who tumbled across the moor like the broken seeds of a dandelion, was either lying about his intentions ... or in no position to negotiate.
His shuttered expression indicated neither surprise nor suspicion. Just the same pale handsomeness and unreadable gaze. “Are you a woman of your word?”
She inclined her head. “I am.”
“As a woman of your word, do you agree to stay for not less than one full month?” His cold eyes flickered with what might have been actual emotion. “Come what may?”
She choked back a laugh—or perhaps a sob—at the question. Pay, and a full month of shelter? She had nowhere else to go. No one would look for her here, and he was offering coin for her services, whatever they might be. Without an income and a hiding place, she was a dead woman. She had no choice.
So she lifted her chin and said, “I do.”
She expected a shrug and a disdainful, “Then you’ll take your pay at the end of the month like the rest of the servants.” When he slipped her hand from his elbow, she broke out in an icy sweat, terrified that her cocky risk had provoked him to rescind his offer completely.
However, he simply paused to unlock one of the many mahogany doors along the dark hallway. He motioned for the manservant behind them to lift the sole candle, casting its meager light into the shadows. This door led not into a prayer room, but to what appeared to be an endless, windowless passageway carved into the earth itself.
Poised on the threshold, he replaced the slender key into his pocket then removed what could only be a money purse.
Violet couldn’t stop her jaw from slackening in shock. He would pay her now, before she’d worked a single minute, before his daughter had so much as laid eyes on her new governess? Now she knew he was mad.
“Hold out your hand,” he directed calmly.
Following his instructions, her trembling fingers uncurled between them. He placed two impossibly shiny coins in the center of her palm. Her breath caught. Had she ever even held two sovereigns at one time?
“If you accept my money, then you accept the terms of the contract. No less than one calendar month as my daughter’s full-time governess.” Mr. Waldegrave’s voice was as dark and smooth as the silver-tongued procurers lurking in the Whitechapel alleys. “Come what may.”
The slyness in his tone gave her pause, but her fingers were already closing tight about the strangely heavy coins and shoving them into her own pocket for safekeeping. After a few months of teaching an heiress to paint, not only would the hunt for Mr. Percy Livingstone’s killer have (hopefully) lost some of its ardor, she would be able to afford a competent barrister. She would be free.
She tucked the coins deeper into her pocket. “So shall it be.”
“Come.” Taking the candle from his manservant, Mr. Waldegrave stepped into the murky passageway.
The manservant made no move to follow, so Violet assumed the command had been directed at her. She took a step forward but paused at the threshold as she realized the floor sloped steeply downward, with no indication of a plateau. A musty odor seeped from earthen walls. Dust. Mold. And something darker. “Where are we going?”
“To my daughter.”
Against her better judgment, she crossed into the passageway. As soon as she did so, the hallway door closed behind her and the lock engaged. “Mr. Waldegrave, wait! The door ...”
“Do not be alarmed.” He strode into the blackness, candle aloft. “All the doors in Waldegrave Abbey have been fitted with a mechanism to lock automatically, and Roper’s presence is required elsewhere. For now, you are safe enough with me. You may eventually be provided with a key of your own.”
Alarmed? Safe? Violet could not abide being locked in small dark spaces. She hurried to catch up to him, ignoring the twinge of pain when she put weight on her ankle.
“Where exactly is your daughter?”
He motioned to the shadows ahead. “The sanctuary.”
“Which is in the cellar?” she blurted doubtfully.
“The sanctuary is in one of the outbuildings.” He lifted the candle a little higher, but cupped the flame with the other hand as if to protect the light from a ghostly breeze. “These catacombs run beneath the earth and connect all seven structures to one another.”
She stopped walking, her swollen foot arrested in mid-air. “Catacombs, as in, ancient tunnels? Or catacombs, as in, ancient tunnels lined with”—she almost choked on the word—“corpses?”
“The latter. This was a working abbey for centuries. Every tunnel has history embedded in its walls. The monks’ graves are recessed, and quite old. The chances of stumbling over anything unpleasant are slim. The stale air, however, I can do nothing about.”
He did not so much as slow his pace. As he was the sole possessor of both key and candle, she was forced to hobble forward on trembling limbs. She took care to focus on the flickering light ahead, rather than the crumbling walls it illuminated.
Had she thought this man merely eccentric? He was off his dot completely.
She cleared her throat. “Might I ask a question?”
“Miss Smythe,” he said firmly, without slowing or even glancing in her direction. “Let us dispense with the formality of inquiring whether or not you may inquire something. I see no need to waste valuable time granting petitions to ask questions.” When he finally glanced down at her, his eyes glittered in the candlelight. “Though we may be master and servant, if you have something to say, please say it.”
Her chin rose. How positively generous of him. He was
her master now, and she did know her place. The worst part was that he wasn’t being uppity, but rather quite progressive. Most gentry would have sacked her for any one of the impertinences she’d displayed thus far. Mr. Waldegrave was perhaps too distracted—or, rather, too focused on someone other than his newest servant—to bother reprimanding her atypical behavior.
Even at her most unconventional, however, she would never choose to stroll through corpse-lined walls.
“In that case,” she said with as much composure as she could manage, “why not take the shortest path aboveground?”
At this, he did stop. He turned, lowered the candle, and looked her dead in the eyes for a long moment before answering. “My daughter and I suffer an incurable sensitivity to the sun. Our bedchambers are in the sanctuary outbuilding, which is double-boarded and accessible only via underground passageways because natural light burns our skin on contact. Significant exposure would cause death.” He spun away from her without waiting for a reply and strode further into the gloom. “I, for one, prefer the catacombs.”
She stared after him, openmouthed. Surely he exaggerated! “Many individuals experience sensitivity to the sun and go about safely with the aid of a decent parasol. Have you considered—”
“Miss Smythe, I have considered. What you fail to comprehend is that I do not refer to a ruddy complexion from having played one too many rounds of cricket. I am talking about blisters on every inch of exposed skin starting from the very first second of sunlight.” His voice cracked. “Burning flesh ... and screams of agony.”
Violet was uncertain whether she was meant to hear that last, but if his claim of acute sun sensitivity was even halfway true, she didn’t doubt the accompanying screams of agony. In fact, were she forced to witness such a horror, like as not she’d do a fair bit of screaming herself.
“Forgive me. I have never heard of such an affliction. Medical advances—”
“—have proven themselves to be of no practical use,” he interrupted coldly. “Science and medicine alike have failed us consistently since the moment of Lillian’s birth. To wit, I dare not admit publicly that my offspring suffers such a disease, or I’m like to find her forcibly taken from me and subjected to any number of gross experiments in the name of ‘scientific research.’”
He pronounced this last as if it were the most vulgar of profanities. Violet’s skin pricked in a cold sweat. Fodder for future nightmares. Her mind was more than creative enough to imagine the atrocities men of “science” might perform on a young girl.
His voice grew deadly calm. “I will not allow such barbarity, so I have kept her existence a secret from the entire world, including all but my most trusted servants.” The shadows about him shuddered. “You, as her first governess, will be expected to do the same.”
She glanced at him askance. “First governess in ... a while?”
“Ever.” His voice hardened to stone. “If hiring you turns out to be a mistake, it is not one I shall repeat. Take heed, Miss Smythe. If you ever breathe a word of her existence, you will not like the consequences.”
Her head swam at both the threat and his anguish. Year after year of living under lock and key. Of darkness. Catacombs. And hoping for the impossible. She could at least relate to the latter.
She slid her gaze toward the ancient graves buried within the interminable tunnel. This abbey was no place for a child. Shivering, she turned back to her new employer. She couldn’t squelch the fanciful thought that the coins in her pocket were like those from the folk tale—guaranteed to always return to their owner.
She took a shallow breath and tried to think logically.
“Your daughter may be a well-kept secret, but your own existence must be widely known. Why do you not fear for your own safety?”
“My daughter is a child and an innocent. She is but nine years old. I, on the other hand, am the last male heir to a forgotten abbey. When Lillian was born, only a handful of individuals called Shrewsbury home. Those who recall the Waldegraves think me a harmless recluse, if they think of me at all. Those who have darkened my doorstep number even fewer, and have done so at my express request.”
“That may be,” she said hesitantly, “but is it not impossible to control servants’ wagging tongues?”
“I have had no such problems with mine. I keep their pockets far too well lined for them to risk being disloyal.” He cast a meaningful glance at the skirt-pocket where two gold coins burned against her leg. “You, however, I do not yet trust.”
That made two of them. Violet swallowed. Perhaps the old lady was right about striking a devil’s bargain. Know thy enemy, she reminded herself as she considered her new employer. “Is that why you demanded a minimum of one month’s employ?”
“Of course.” Something in his cold gaze indicated he’d been analyzing her more than she’d realized. “And mutual mistrust is what I suspect predicated your demand for wages in advance.” With this casually delivered observation, he released her from his gaze.
She colored. He was correct, of course, but she could scarcely come forth and agree that she’d at first thought him a childless lecher. She still did not feel safe. Now more than ever, she longed to be back at the Livingstone School for Girls. Before Old Man Livingstone had died and left paradise in the hands of true evil.
She hurried to keep pace. Moments after the tunnel intersected with another, the uneven floor finally began to incline. He halted before a scarred wooden door and drew a thick key from his pocket. Yet he paused before sliding the teeth into the lock.
“My daughter,” he began, then stopped to consider his words. The uncharacteristic hesitation was somehow more alarming than all the previous declarations together. “Lillian,” he said at last, “can be difficult. But please know that I will allow no harm to come to her. None. She is my reason for living just as I am her only hope. Having a governess instruct her will be beneficial in many ways, but my desire for her education is secondary. Your aid will allow me to dedicate more time to the one goal that drives me above all others: finding a cure.”
Her brow creased. “I thought you said your condition was incurable.”
“I shall never stop searching,” he repeated as if he hadn’t heard the interruption. His gaze slid from hers as he murmured, “But what we need is a miracle.”
As she watched him fit the key into the lock, her stomach soured with suspicion and remembered nightmares. “Why keep a nine-year-old child behind lock and key?”
He closed his eyes as if her words caused him injury. “Allowed to roam free, Lillian cannot resist the allure of the sun. She escaped into the back lawn when she was but five years old, and very nearly died that same day. I immediately installed automatic locking mechanisms on every door as a precaution. I long to take her out-of-doors at night, but between the dangers of being discovered and Lillian’s propensity to run away, the risk is too great. She is my world, and I cannot lose her.” His eyes opened. He gave the key a sharp turn and the lock disengaged with a soft click. “Other reasons for her solitude, you are bound to discover on your own. Come.”
What other reasons? But before Violet could inquire further, he swung open the door.
He nudged her inside, leapt into the sanctuary beside her, and closed the door behind them with the speed and finesse borne of long practice.
Before her eyes finished adjusting to the oddly lit sanctuary, a white blur flew at them from across the room. Violet dove out of the way with an alacrity learned in London alleyways and nearly re-twisted her ankle in the process. When Mr. Waldegrave’s head smacked backward into the door with enough force to concuss, she realized she hadn’t been the intended victim.
Mr. Waldegrave lifted a kicking and screaming waif by her ribs and contained her far in front of him.
She lashed out with her feet and fists. “Why must you lock everything? I hate you! Let me out!”
He set the child on her feet as if he’d heard none of her shrill accusations, but he was not so trusting as
to release her just yet. “Lillian,” he said calmly, as if such a display were an everyday occurrence. Perhaps it was. “You have a visitor. This is Miss Violet Smythe, your new governess.”
“I don’t want a governess.” The child kicked and twisted, unsuccessfully trying to free herself from her father’s grasp.
“Miss Smythe is here to teach you maths and Latin and history, and even has a particular talent for—”
“I don’t care about maths and history! I want to see the sun! Let me go. Let me go!” This last was accompanied by a snarl and a nearly successful attempt to bite off her father’s hand at the wrist.
Violet slid her own hands into her pockets. She was fair-to-middling with maths and didn’t speak a word of Latin, but by the looks of things, the likelihood of bending heads over a schoolbook was close on zero. A greater concern would be discovering where in this medieval crypt the Waldegraves kept their battle armor. There was no longer any doubt as to the “evil creature” to which the old woman had referred. Nothing short of hammered steel would serve as protection from nine-year-old Lillian Waldegrave. And, Violet was beginning to suspect, no salary would be worth the scars.
“Lillian, enough. Bid goodnight to your new governess and get back in bed.”
“Is it nighttime, Papa? How would I know? It’s not as if I have windows.” When her father made no response, Lillian ceased struggling and bowed her head in defeat. “I have nothing.”
Mr. Waldegrave’s face twisted in pain, but he continued to guard his tongue. Or perhaps there was nothing more to say.
Violet stood awkwardly to one side, not trusting the apparent truce enough to approach. She took advantage of the moment to observe her new charge.
Lillian, not unlike her father, very much looked like someone who had never experienced sunlight. She was far too pale, too thin. Too ... small. Her dress and slippers were well made and expensive, but she looked more a child of six or seven than nine. Her slender fingers curved into claws. A tangle of pitch-black hair streamed down her back and covered most of her face, giving only brief glimpses of a pert nose and the curve of a pock-scarred cheek.