Her Muse, Lord Patrick

by Jane Charles

  Undeterred, he passed through the door and took a seat in an unoccupied chair.

  Torrington handed each man a glass of brandy. Patrick’s mouth watered. Oh, to taste brandy again. To taste anything, for that matter. Why was he so bloody thirsty all of a sudden?

  “Something must be done,” insisted the older man with a shock of white hair.

  “What, Barton?” Torrington countered. “We’ve sent men into the forest time and time again, and cannot catch those murdering—”

  “Have you sent to London?” the youngest man interrupted. He couldn’t have been much older than Laura and possessed a slight build, watery blue eyes and blond hair cut in the latest fashion. Or, at least the styling of the hair had been the fashion last spring, before he and Blake set out on their journey.

  Where had they gone and why?

  “Yes.” Torrington gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Three times, no response. If you have a better solution, Franklin, I would like to hear it.”

  “Maybe when a peer is murdered they might become interested,” Barton grumbled.

  “Murdered?” Patrick straightened with alarm.

  “I pray that does not happen,” the unnamed man sniffed. He couldn’t be above forty, and he had an air of authority about him, as if he had been born to privilege and expected to be treated as such. Patrick had met more gentlemen like him than he could count, and disliked most of them.

  “Men have been murdered.” Franklin shot to his feet. “They may not be peers, but they were men just the same, who happened to be in that forest at the time.” He pointed out the window for emphasis.

  Patrick followed his line of vision. “I had been in the forest. I am almost certain of it. Was I murdered?”

  “Gentlemen stick to the roads,” the yet to be identified man drawled. “They don’t take short cuts through the woods.”

  “I did.” Patrick specifically remembered taking the turnoff right after the town, the one he and Blake always traveled.

  “Gentlemen do use the paths, if they do not know any better, Dirksen,” Franklin insisted and Patrick had to admire the young man for standing up to the highbrow.

  The elitist sniffed and turned his nose away.

  Patrick snorted. “The man probably doesn’t sit on a horse either, but prefers the comfort of his carriage.”

  “It does not matter if he is a peer or a common servant, nobody deserves to be murdered. Something must be done.” Franklin brought his fist down on the table with enough force to make the glasses shake.

  “I agree.” Torrington pushed his fingers through his white hair. “I just don’t know what else we can do. Every time we search we find nothing. Nothing!”

  “Has your nephew returned?” Barton gruffly demanded. “He could take care of the problem.”

  Torrington sadly shook his head.

  “How is Miss Chetwey holding up?” Franklin asked, all anger from his earlier tone gone.

  Patrick narrowed his eyes at the young gentleman.

  “Well, though she insists on wearing half-mourning.”

  “I missed her at the assembly.” Franklin settled back into his seat.

  “I bet ya did.” Patrick snorted and slouched in his chair before he folded his arms across his chest, never taking his eyes from Franklin. He was young enough to be of interest to Laura, maybe. He didn’t seem too foppish, but he wasn’t right for her. Though Patrick couldn’t determine exactly what was wrong, the man would not do. Not for Laura. Franklin would have to turn his interest elsewhere.

  Lord Torrington leaned toward Franklin. “Perhaps you should call on her. It might lift her spirits,”

  Franklin straightened, his eyes lit with anticipation. “It will be my pleasure.”

  Bloody hell. Patrick rose and wandered to the opposite side of the room. He couldn’t stand to sit there and watch Franklin endear himself to Torrington. In Blake’s absence, Torrington was Laura’s guardian, and he had just given Franklin permission to court her.

  This would not do at all.

  Patrick stalked to the couch and settled down. He now had a purpose. Lying back, he stretched out and closed his eyes. There were so many ways he could discourage Franklin, but which one should he try first?

  Would he be able to do any of them in this state?

  “Damn and blast.”

  Laura glanced at the small watch inside her reticule. This short jaunt into town for a bit of shopping was going on three hours. Aunt Ivy insisted Laura accompany her because she was spending too much time cooped up in that room. Or course, her aunt would fear for Laura’s sanity, given she had come across her talking to a ghost this morning.

  As the hours progressed, Laura couldn’t help but wonder if she hadn’t slipped a bit into madness. As real as this morning had seemed, had it all been her imagination? A dream?

  She put it from her mind before she was overcome with the embarrassment following her bath again. She had been barely covered and if Blake knew how much of her person Patrick had seen, he might just call his friend out. Not that it would do any good, given Patrick was already dead. A person could only die once, couldn’t they?

  She glanced back at Aunt Ivy, who was still in deep discussion with Lady Carter. Gossip actually. Laura couldn’t stand to be in the milliner’s shop one more moment, not on a day like today. She stepped outside and took a big gulp of fresh air. The sky was a light blue with a crisp bite in the air but far from uncomfortable and she was determined to enjoy this fine weather while she could.

  Laura studied the walk of shops they had already visited with no desire to revisit them. There was little she needed. In the other direction, there were four more businesses. It would be hours before she’d be able to drag her aunt from town, so she strolled along the walk to see where else they had to visit. A mercantile, lending library and haberdashery. Hopefully none of them would take too long.

  Retracing her steps, she ducked into the mercantile to purchase what she needed most and selected a stack of paper, which she placed on the counter with a new quill, tips, ink and pencils. If she were going to finish her horrid novel, she needed plenty of supplies.

  The clerk added up her purchases and Laura counted out payment from her pin money. Once she exited onto the street she turned back the way she had come only to find her aunt still gossiping with Lady Carter. What could the two be talking about? Hadn’t they just seen each other at the assembly?

  Instead of waiting, Laura wandered to the entrance of the lending library and peeked into the window. Should she borrow a few books? No. If she were to write this novel, she couldn’t spend time reading. Besides, there was Patrick to consider and since she was the only one who apparently could see or talk to him, she shouldn’t spend her spare time with her nose in a book. She’d rather spend it trying to help him regain his memory.

  At the end of the small street stood her uncle’s carriage and she strolled in that direction with the intention of putting her new purchases inside but stopped when she reached the end of the road. On the opposite side sat the quaint church where she attended services with her aunt and uncle. Beside it was a cemetery where men gathered for a funeral. Laura checked for oncoming carriages and horses before she crossed the road to get a better view. Funerals had never interested her before, especially since they were a man’s domain, but today she was pulled toward it. She stopped and lingered behind the wrought iron fence. Several gentlemen stood around a simple, pine box. Vicar Watson held his book open and spoke quietly. A moment later the gentlemen bowed their heads. Laura did the same out of respect, not that she could hear the prayers, but said her own for the poor soul being put into the ground.

  A moment later she glanced up. The casket was being lowered and the mourners turned from the grave and exited the cemetery. Some were on foot and others climbed into carriages. Brian Urlich, an odd man of approximately thirty with light brown hair and deep green eyes, stopped before her.

  “Miss Chetwey, how are you this bright day?”
r />   He didn’t seem overly upset having just come from a funeral. “I am well, and you?”

  “Well, thank you.” His grin was wide given the circumstances.

  Laura glanced back at the cemetery. “Who passed away?”

  Mr. Urlich shrugged. “I have no idea.”

  She pulled away. The man was a bit more than odd. “Yet you attended his funeral?”

  “Oh, I don’t make a habit of attending the services of strangers.” He chuckled.

  She studied him. Was Mr. Ulrich so lacking in humor that attending a funeral seemed a good idea as any? “Then why were you there?”

  “We felt someone should be, given no one knew him.”

  Alarm shot through her. “What do you mean?”

  “He was found along the river, beaten.” Ulrich rocked back on his heels. “There was nothing to identify him and when our inquiries into anyone missing went unanswered, we thought to give the man a proper burial.”

  Laura clutched the fence. “What did he look like?”

  A wave of concern washed over Mr. Urlich’s face. “Are you missing someone?”

  She nodded and swallowed. “Perhaps. Tell me what he looked like.”

  “About my height.” Mr. Urlich was not much taller than Laura. “Blondish hair.”

  Relief swept through her, and she sagged against the fence. At least it wasn’t Patrick.

  Mr. Urlich grasped her elbow and led her to a bench. “Are you quite all right, Miss Chetwey? You look as pale as a ghost.”

  An inappropriate giggle bubbled up inside and Laura covered her mouth to stifle the sound. “I will be fine.” She glanced toward the grave. Two young men were shoveling dirt into the hole. “It is a shame.”

  “Yes, it is.” Mr. Urlich settled next to her. “That is the fifth body in as many months.”

  She straightened and blinked. “Five?”

  Mr. Urlich nodded. “Something must be done about that forest. It’s been overrun with thieves and murderers. It isn’t safe to leave the road, as I am sure you are aware. I just wish the king would send troops to roust them before their numbers grow and someone else decides to take one of the old paths and ends up like him.” He pointed to the grave upon the hill.

  Laura slanted a glance to where Mr. Ulrich indicated. Is that what happened to Patrick? Had he taken the path and was set upon? She hated to think that Patrick could be buried in an unmarked grave, nobody knowing what had become of him. “Were all five strangers or just the one buried today?”

  He shook his head. “Sadly, three are a mystery.” A gentle smile came to his lips. “Don’t worry yourself, Miss Chetwey. I am sure your uncle will see that you and your aunt are protected.”

  “Yes, I am sure,” she answered absently, studying the five graves again. Four had simple markings. Did one of them mark Patrick’s grave?

  “Your uncle is very careful. Not only do you have the coachman and two footmen, but at least three outriders when anyone travels to or from the Abbey.”

  She returned her attention to Mr. Urlich. “I’ve always wondered why.” It had all seemed so unnecessary to her, especially when one was simply going into town to pick up a dress or attend services.

  “I hope I haven’t disturbed you. I thought you knew. . .”

  Her uncle had been keeping the dangers a secret from her. “It is perfectly all right. I am sure he would have told me had I asked.”

  From up the street, Aunt Ivy bustled toward them, and within a moment, she stood at Laura’s side. “I was wondering where you had wandered off to.” She turned to Mr. Urlich. “Good afternoon.”

  He tipped his hat and bowed. “Enjoy your day, ladies.”

  “Mr. Urlich?”

  The man tilted his head. “Yes, Miss Chetwey.”

  “What did the other men look like?” Just because the one they buried today wasn’t Patrick didn’t mean he wasn’t amongst the others already buried.

  “I don’t know. But Dr. Leward made a death mask of each, and Tommy Haskins drew their likenesses.”

  Dr. Leward was both the physician to those in the village, as well as the coroner. Tommy was a young man who hoped to be an artist one day.

  “Where are they kept?” If she could only get a glimpse of the masks and drawings then she would know for certain if Patrick lay in one of the graves.

  “Why would you wish to look at something so morbid, dear?” Aunt Ivy asked.

  What could she say? If she told anyone of Patrick they would surely lock her away. “The men haven’t been identified I thought perhaps I may help.”

  “It is impossible you would know any of them.” Aunt Ivy glanced down the street. “The carriage will meet us here. I’m exhausted and don’t wish to be delayed further.”

  As much as Laura wanted to assure herself by viewing the masks and drawings, she was also apprehensive to do so. If Patrick’s likeness was among them, then she would have to tell him the truth. What would he do once he knew? Of course, he had to know he was dead since he was a ghost, yet knowing one was buried in the ground somehow made matters all the more final.

  The carriage pulled up beside them and a footman offered a hand to help them up. The conveyance lurched forward as Laura settled back against the squabs. As the town disappeared and they moved into the woods she peered out the window. Were there bandits out there now, watching them?

  Aunt Ivy reached forward and pulled the shade on the window. “It is best not to add to temptation, dear.”

  Laura looked at her. “You know about the men in the woods?”

  Her aunt sighed. “It has gotten worse, I understand. Even though your uncle stopped hunting a few years back - his gout, you know - he couldn’t now if he wished to because it is far too dangerous. So far they haven’t bothered anyone traveling the roads, but your uncle doesn’t wish to take chances.”

  “Which is why we have outriders whenever we travel?”

  “Yes, dear.” She patted Laura’s arm, her aunt’s habit whenever she felt the need to comfort someone. “Don’t you worry. We are perfectly safe.”

  “They haven’t come out of the forest?” How could they survive, especially in the winter? While they could hunt for game, a man needed more than meat to survive. What about shelter? Was there a small house hidden that nobody knew about? A cave?

  Aunt Ivy bit her bottom lip.

  “What is it? Do they leave the forest?”

  She sighed. “There have been instances of families being robbed.”

  Fear raced up Laura’s spine. “Was anyone hurt?”

  “No,” her aunt insisted. “The homes were usually on the outskirts of town with little or no protection.”

  As is ours.

  “The thieves always come in the dead of night and they must be very quiet because nobody knows they’ve had been there until they wake the following morning.”

  Laura leaned forward again. “What do they take?”

  “Food and anything of value left in the common rooms. As far as we know, they’ve left the bedchambers alone,” she informed Laura. “The gentlemen assume the thieves don’t want the families awakening to find them so they avoid where people would be.”

  “What if someone did see them?” Laura asked quietly.

  Aunt Ivy swallowed. “They’ve already killed in the forest and I fear it wouldn’t stop them from doing the same in a home.”

  Laura shivered and pulled her pelisse tight. Certainly the thieves would not try to break into Torrington Abbey, would they?

  Upon arriving at the Abbey, she hurried to her chambers and dispensed of her purchases with the exception of her writing implements, and then rushed to her office in the east wing. “Patrick,” she called as she burst through the door.

  Nothing.

  “Are you here?”

  She searched the room.

  “Where are you?”

  There was nothing but silence. Surely he hadn’t left her. Not now.

  Why couldn’t he open his eyes? They were so heavy, weighted
down. And he was hot. So, so hot. He wanted to take off his clothing, but he was unable to move. Why did he ache so? Every part of his being was in pain. What was wrong? Why couldn’t he get up?

  Laura should be back. Patrick needed to be alert for her. All he meant to do was rest on the settee.

  Why was it so blasted hot? And why was he in such agony?

  No. I can’t be in Hell!

  Murmurs surrounded him and he strained to listen. Nothing was familiar. Not the voices, the language, or the smell. The air should be musty from Laura’s writing room being empty for so long, tinged with the aroma of burning wood, not with sweat and other repugnant odors he could not define. Laura smelled of lilacs and he couldn’t pick out her scent.

  What was happening to him?

  Patrick’s heart raced. He fought to breathe and struggled against the weight pinned against him, trying to block the searing pain every movement delivered. What was holding him back? Why couldn’t he move?

  Panic surged through him. He had to break away. He couldn’t be moving on. Not now. Not yet. He had to get back to Laura. He had to get out of Hell.

  Laura called his name over and over, but Patrick was not in the cozy and quaint room where she wrote. “He could be in another part of the house.” She checked each room in the east wing, but he was not in any of them.

  “My room?” He hadn’t been there when she left her packages on the bed to be put away, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t there now.

  She hurried toward her chamber. Pushing the door open she stepped in, stopped and looked around. Janie was in the process of folding her new chemise.

  “Did you need something, Miss Chetwey?”

  Laura strained to see anything that could indicate Patrick was in the room. Her heart sank. “No. I . . .” She couldn’t tell Janie she was looking for a ghost. “It’s nothing.” She shook her head and returned to the corridor. Where could he have gone?

  “Laura, dear?”

  She turned at her aunt’s voice.