The Earl's Captive

by Lorna Read

  Without any compliance on Lucy's part, Adam seized her pewter beaker, poured the remaining two inches of ale onto the floor, fished around inside his waistcoat and produced a small flask which he proceeded to open. He poured a trickle of amber liquid into Lucy's cup, then took a deep draught from the flask, wiped his lips with the back of his hand and replaced the vessel in its hiding place.

  He pushed the mug across the table towards Lucy. “Go on. This'll warm the cockles o' your heart.”

  She felt she couldn't very well refuse him. He wasn't being unpleasant in the way Hardcastle and Emmett were unpleasant; he was just a nice, ordinary man of twenty-six or so who was trying to welcome her into the servants' community and make it easier for her to mix with them.

  She raised the cup to her lips and spluttered as the pungent spirit burned its way down her throat. It was neat brandy. She had only tasted brandy once before and that had been several years ago, when her father, in one of his drunken sprees, had offered her a nip and had laughed uproariously at her grimaces.

  She bravely swallowed the mouthful she had taken, and a few moments later found she was indeed feeling more relaxed and sociable, having begun to tap her foot to the piper's tune and smile at the whirling, staggering couples all around her.

  “Now, how about that dance?” Adam invited, holding out his hand to her.

  Lucy grasped it and was soon weaving in and out among the other couples, steered by Adam, who proved to be a fine dancer. She careered past Maud, who was now in the arms of Josiah, whose wife was in the throes of a most remarkable dance with young Tom, the under-gardener, which called for much whooping and kicking-up of feet.

  When the kitchen clock struck midnight, Hawkins, the butler, called for a toast to King George and then another to their master, George Hardcastle, and all his family. On both occasions, Lucy downed more brandy and felt as if she were floating an inch or two above the floor.

  Abbie, one of the kitchen girls, had produced some mistletoe from somewhere and was going around holding it over couples' heads and exhorting them to kiss, which they all did with gusto. Then it was the turn of herself and Adam.

  His curly hair was plastered to his face with the sweat of his exertions and a broad smile wreathed his lips as his face bore down on Lucy's. She made no move to stop him. Indeed, she felt so deliriously happy that she responded to his kiss with far more enthusiasm than the occasion demanded and was suddenly aware of giggles and guffaws from all around, as the other servants stopped whatever else they were doing to nudge each other and remark on the length of the kiss.

  She realized that she was rather drunk and would need to keep a tight hold on herself, so she pulled herself from Adam's embrace, found a stool and sat down. Not everybody was behaving with as much propriety as she was. Old Dickon's twig-like fingers were clawing at Daisy's ample bosom, and two pairs of feet, one pair pointing upwards and the other down, could be glimpsed round the pantry door.

  Tom had Kitty, one of the dairymaids, spread along a bench, his hands vigorously exploring beneath her skirts, and even the sensible Maud had been pressed up against the wall and was allowing herself to be kissed and fondled by one of the stable lads.

  Lucy did not feel at all shocked at this libidinous spectacle. It just served to emphasize her feeling of not belonging. She could summon up no enthusiasm for such licentious behaviour, although she certainly did not condemn it in others. She just felt distanced from them all, and rather wistful. How Rory would have loved this night.

  Adam stood next to her, his hand on her shoulder, his fingers entwined in her hair. She looked up at him and he bent his face down to hers, meaning to kiss her.

  She turned aside. “I am sorry. I have a headache coming on. I think I need to retire,”

  A spasm of disappointment twisted his features. “But a few moments ago you were dancing and laughing. What's wrong? Have I done something, or said anything, to upset you?”

  “No,” replied Lucy softly, sensing his bewilderment. “It's just that I'm not used to strong liquor. I don't feel very well. Miss Rachel will chide me viciously tomorrow if I lack the energy to run round for her and do her bidding. You see …”

  She paused and smiled. She was about to impart a secret which she knew would set the whole household humming with gossip. She didn't care, for why should she feel any loyalty towards the girl who had treated her so badly? “You see,” she continued, “Miss Rachel is husband-hunting and her quarry is Lord Emmett.”

  There was no slipping off to bed for her now. The female servants clustered round her, demanding to know more, and there was much screeching, guffawing and slapping of thighs. But when they noticed how very pale and Lucy had gone and how she was having to resort to frequent blinking to keep her heavy eyelids open, they at last agreed to let her go and Maud accompanied her up the back stairs, having noticed that she was swaying.

  Lucy was grateful for the older maid's company as it prevented Adam from following her. However, she was not pleased to find, on entering the room, that Daisy was sprawled in a snoring heap right in the middle of the bed, leaving Lucy a mere few inches of space to curl up in.

  Her head was spinning and Maud helped her undress, then took the stone bowl from the dresser and placed it strategically close to the side of the bed.

  Fortunately, Lucy had no need of the bowl for sleep overtook her the moment her head touched the bolster. She awoke next morning to a blinding headache and the sound of Daisy coughing and groaning and bemoaning her own excesses of the night before. It was Christmas Eve and the day of the Hardcastle's ball at Rokeby Hall.

  Chapter Seventeen

  At first, Lucy feared that perhaps Hardcastle, with even more Christmas spirit inside his bulging belly than the previous night, might attempt to waylay her, but the ball passed without incident, the Hardcastles being much too busy entertaining their guests to dally with the servants.

  Lucy lost count of the number of times either Rachel or Harriet asked her to fetch this or do that, or escort one of their fatigued female guests to a retiring room. By the time the musicians had packed up their instruments, Lucy felt almost dead on her feet, especially with her head still throbbing from the previous night's over-consumption of brandy.

  She knew she ought to be thinking up some way of carrying out Philip's order but, the more she thought about it, the more she was forced to accept that there was only one way of obtaining the vital key and that was to take it while Hardcastle slept.

  The only way of ensuring that he slept heavily enough not to awaken at the entry of an intruder into his bedchamber, was to see that he consumed plenty of ale and wine, with the addition of an extra ingredient. A pinch of spice in the form of a sleeping draught. Maud had a stock of it for her own use, made last summer from medicinal herbs and stored in a jar in a kitchen cupboard and Lucy had begged some, citing Daisy's snoring as her reason.

  This meant that she would have to oversee Hardcastle's liquor consumption herself. What that might entail, she knew only too well.

  * * *

  Christmas Day seemed to last for ever. There were several guests for the Christmas feast. There were those who had stayed over after the ball, plus other friends and relatives of the Hardcastles, who had avoided an accident in the snow by wrapping the hooves of their carriage horses in felt to lessen the chances of slipping on the ice.

  Lucy couldn't stop thinking of her mother, alone on Christmas Day, ignored by her husband who would have drunk himself into a stupor with the stable lads by midday. If only she could have been there to keep her company and make her life a little more pleasant.

  Even the presentation of two surprise gifts – a tiny phial of lavender water from Maud and an embroidered wristlet from Daisy – did little to lift her gloomy spirits. She imagined Philip striding up and down the draughty corridors of Darwell Manor, wondering how close she was to accomplishing of her task.

  Rachel was in a spitting, snarling mood, having failed to make much progress with Emmett d
uring the ball, and Lucy was forced to suffer having her hair pulled and being struck with a hair brush as she sought to appease her ill-tempered mistress. She couldn't wait to complete her task and leave.

  Every time she laid eyes on Hardcastle, he had a glass or a tankard somewhere near his lips and Jamieson hovering nearby to provide constant replenishment. Perhaps today was the day, Lucy thought, excitement starting to bubble inside her. Christmas night would be the ideal occasion on which to carry out her mission as, with luck, Jamieson, too, would drink too much and retire early.

  That morning, Lucy had found an opportunity to steal into the library and peer behind the screen next to the fireplace. The panel was closed. Even if she needed to use this escape route a second time, she doubted if she could remember exactly what she had done to release the hidden spring.

  Something else occurred to Lucy. How was she to get back to Darwell Manor? That was something that had featured in Philip's plan and it was something she should have asked him, as the manor was nigh on twenty miles away, over a snow-covered moor piled with drifts and veiled hollows into which she might fall and freeze to death.

  How clever he had been in explaining his plan and instructing her in the lay-out of the interior of the hall – yet how remiss in failing to devise the successful delivery of that prized treasure! She was angry both with him and with herself.

  As she ran the flat-iron over the bundle of petticoats that Rachel had thrust into her arms, demanding that they be quickly returned freshened and smoothed, Lucy wondered if there was any way of getting a message to the Manor so that Matthew, or even Philip himself, could wait for her somewhere and convey her to safety.

  But that would mean stating an exact time, for she could hardly expect anybody to linger in the freezing cold. In any case, it would take several hours for her message to get there – that was, if she could find anyone to take it without arousing the suspicions of all and sundry. She could hardly steal a carriage, or even a horse, from under the vigilant eye of Adam Redhead and his fellows.

  The problem of how to get the deeds back to Philip seemed insurmountable, yet this particular worry seemed minor when compared to the sheer horror of what she would have to accomplish first. Because it was fast dawning on her that there was only one reliable way of getting herself inside George Hardcastle's bedchamber legitimately, and that was for her to pretend to submit to his lecherous desires

  She hoped the sleeping draught would work, because the alternative was far too repulsive to contemplate.

  * * *

  “So, you little minx …” Hardcastle extended a meaty hand and tweaked her ear. “Run away from me, would you? I'd a mind to find out where those stairs led to myself, but I'm getting too old for that caper. But I'm not too old for this, m'dear!”

  Fate had played into Lucy's hands. As she had suspected from the way Jamieson was tipping the ale back at the servant's party, he had been too sick to perform his Christmas Day duties and the other servants had taken it in turns to make sure that hosts and guests had enough to drink. It was Lucy who had been ordered by Maud to deliver Hardcastle's hot rum punch to his bedchamber.

  “Make sure you put the cup down and come straight out again. The master can be a bit, er, difficult.” She winked, leaving Lucy in no doubt about what she meant. She guessed he must have tried it on with all the servants in turn, including Maud herself.

  The smile Lucy gave Hardcastle as she placed the tankard on his bedside cabinet was genuine. In fact, it was all she could do not to laugh, knowing that the flavour of the sleeping draught would not be detected amid the potent spices of the punch.

  She bobbed a curtsey. “Please, sir, forgive me for the other night. You took me by surprise and I was scared.”

  “A little virgin, I'll be bound,” boomed Hardcastle from the armchair he sat in, licking his thick lips. “I like a girl who gives me the runaround – but not too much, mind. I'm not as young as I used to be, but –” his voice rose to a hearty crescendo – “I can still throw a passable leg over!”

  Ugh! She felt queasy at the thought of being straddled by that podgy leg!

  He rose from the chair, lifted the tankard, drank deeply, then sat down on the bed, which groaned beneath his weight.

  “Undress me, my pretty,” he ordered. “Then let me watch you undress yourself.”

  By the time she had undressed him, he would be asleep, she thought. Her fear had left her now. She was starting to enjoy this game, knowing she was not in any danger thanks to the potency of the herbs.

  As she divested him of waistcoat, shirt and undershirt, grimacing at the sight of his doughy belly that bristled with dark hairs, Philip's information about the key's hiding place came back to her. Whilst folding his brocade waistcoat and placing it on a chair, she felt swiftly inside the interior pocket.

  There was no key. Philip was wrong! To think she had got herself into this predicament for nothing! Somehow, she would have to trick Hardcastle into telling her where it was, before the draught took effect.

  Like a wisp of smoke, an idea drifted into her mind. It remained half-formed for a moment, then solidified into a workable shape. Pursing her lips in a provocative pout, Lucy ran the tip of a fingernail across one of Hardcastle's shoulders.

  “You're a fine figure of a man, George Hardcastle,” she murmured, marvelling at her ability to lie so convincingly.

  “I admire you,” she fibbed. “You're such a successful man. How did you achieve –” she swept her glance around the room – “all this?”

  “Oh, a bit of business here and there, m'dear,” he replied, giving nothing away.

  “What sort of business?” she inquired, hoping he would take the bait.

  He took another gulp of rum.

  “You must have all kinds of valuable things here. Jewels, papers … I hope you have them hidden somewhere safe, where they can't be stolen.”

  Was she being too obvious, she wondered? She was hoping he would boast and reveal his security arrangements, but instead, he quaffed from the tankard again and patted the bed next to him.

  “Now it's your turn to get undressed, I think,” he said.

  Lucy gave a nervous giggle.

  “Come on, don't be shy. Here, let me help you.”

  Lucy gasped as he stretched a hand towards her. He reached for the laces that held her dress together. He gave a tug and smiled at what was revealed. He pulled her towards him, pouting his wet lips in preparation for a kiss. Lucy sighed, cursing the damned potion that didn't seem to be working. Perhaps he needed to drink some more.

  She dodged the kiss and reached for the tankard but just as she was handing it to him, his eyes rolled upwards and he gave a shuddering gasp and collapsed back against the pillows.

  Dear God, she thought. Perhaps she had added too much of the sleeping draught to his drink! What if he were dead and the finger of blame pointed at her, as the last person to see him alive? Whichever way she looked at it, all her roads seemed to lead to the gallows.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Lucy held the waxed paper to her chilled flesh. In the guttering light of the candle she could scarcely read the closely written script, but the words Darwell Manor leapt off the rolled-up page as if in answer to her unspoken question.

  Fearfully, she glanced at the silent bulk slumped on the bed. He did look like a corpse. Perhaps she should check to see if he was breathing. She crept gingerly towards him, touched his wrist tentatively and jumped in fright as a loud snort trumpeted from his purple nose.

  At once, relief flooded her and, as regular, rumbling snores commenced, she let out her breath in a silent sigh.

  In the end, finding the deeds had been easy. She had taken the key that lay in the drawer, unlocked the bureau and discovered that the inner drawer had not been locked after all. If only she had known, she could have taken the deeds the night she had bolted up the concealed staircase and accidentally arrived in Hardcastle's bedroom, and she could have been home in time for Christmas.

/>   Oh, why had she not tried the drawer then?

  Stop it, she told herself. There was absolutely no point in torturing herself with whys and what-ifs. She had the deeds now, her mission was fulfilled and in another few moments, she would leave this hateful house and travel back to Darwell Manor, although she still had no idea how.

  She tiptoed up to her shared room, bundled up her few belongings, donned her thick, hooded cloak, another home-made gift from Martha, then waited until she was sure the household had settled down for the night before silently creeping out of Rokeby Hall, praying the dogs would not give her away. She was lucky. Hardcastle had fed them ale and they were sleeping as soundly as he was.

  * * *

  Her intention, as she started down the long drive feeling conspicuously dark against the blinding whiteness of the snow, was to walk and walk, hopefully in the right direction, until either she saw a familiar landmark, or grew so tired that she wrapped herself in her cloak and went to sleep in the shelter of a clump of bushes.

  The snow-bearing clouds had been swept away by a bitter wind and the moon sailed high and frosty in an ebony sky, which was sprinkled with bright stars as sharp as glittering dagger points. A fox had passed the same way not long before, the prints of its pads not yet frozen. In spite of the cold that was already attacking her face, hands and feet, Lucy smiled to think of the creature hunting freely in the night.

  Then her smile faded as she was reminded of her own hunger. Although the emphasis all day had been on eating Christmas fare, she had been far too busy to do anything other than watch other people eat. She had visited the kitchen briefly and snatched a few scraps of goose left over from the Hardcastles' table, which had momentarily satisfied her, but the exertions of this night had left her ravenous and the cold only served to sharpen her appetite.

  She knew Darwell Manor was somewhere to the right, for when Matthew had dropped her at the great iron gates, they had approached on the left. No light was burning in the lodge and no dog barked as Lucy slid the heavy iron bar back and swung the gate open just enough to permit her to slip out.