Spinning on her heel, she marched out of the breakfast room. This time, there wasn’t a footman in sight.
“Sara!” Nicholas called after her, tossing his serviette down. There was no reply, and he skirted the table and strode out into the corridor. She had already reached the second-floor landing. Through the gloom that presided over the halls, fair weather or foul, he caught a glimpse of her sprigged muslin frock melting into the shadows as she turned toward her suite. He bolted after her, but the thunderous crack of the front door knocker echoing along the hallway stopped him in his tracks. Who the devil can that be? he wondered. The knock came again. It sounded urgent. The racket brought Smythe shuffling along the corridor tugging at his frock coat and muttering complaints.
The butler scarcely acknowledged him as he passed, and Nicholas raked his hair back, his eyes oscillating between Sara disappearing and the sound of raised voices funneling along the great hall at his back. He was ready to spring, but in which direction? Like a pendulum, swinging this way and that, he swayed there, trying to decide.
“The Devil take it!” he mumbled at last. Spinning around on the heels of his turned-down boots, he sprinted down the corridor toward the front door.
Smythe was standing in the open doorway arguing with three men in drab stuff breeches, short coats, and low-crown wide-brim hats. Guards from the Watch?
“What the deuce is going on here, Smythe?” Nicholas demanded, ranging himself alongside. “I could hear you clear back to the breakfast room.”
“Captain Renkins, m’lord,” the leader spoke up before the butler could answer. He doffed his hat. “Your man here don’t seem to understand. We have to come in. There’s been a complaint.”
“What sort of complaint?” said Nicholas, struggling with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. What was this now?
“We’ve come about a vicious dog,” said the Captain.
“That animal again?” the butler grumbled low-voiced.
“That will be all, Smythe. I’ll handle this,” said Nicholas through clenched teeth. Dismissing him with a look that booked no argument, he turned to the guards. “Gentlemen, if you will follow me . . . ?”
He led them to the study. No use to have the whole house privy to this new press, though he had no doubt the rafters would be ringing with it once Smythe reached the servants’ quarters. Ushering the guards inside, he closed the door behind them, and took his seat behind the desk
“Now then, gentlemen,” he said, “what is all this about a dog?”
The three men stood ramrod-rigid before him, the captain in the center seeming the only one possessed of a tongue. The others stood like bookends at his side. Nicholas did not invite them to sit.
“The young chap says it might be rabid,” said the captain. “He’s got the village in an uproar over it, m’lord. Folks won’t rest easy now until we know. We’ll have to see the animal to be certain.”
“What ‘young chap’?” Nicholas asked, as the blood drained away from his scalp. His nostrils flared, and the short hairs on the back of his neck stood up as gooseflesh riddled his spine.
“Fella by the name of Jeremy Peters—says he was one of your staff here till you sacked him. Says he was of a mind to give his notice anyway because the animal attacked him. Folks ain’t safe with a creature like that roaming about.”
“Ah! That explains it,” Nicholas responded, with as much authority as he could muster. “Peters was sacked for diddling one of the maids when he was supposed to be at his post—not that that’s any business of the Watch. Your ‘complaint’ is nothing more than the vindictive ramblings of a disgruntled servant, plain and simple.” He surged to his feet. “Now, if that is all, you really must excuse me. I have urgent business to attend to this morning.” He started toward the door, but the captain’s gruff voice turned him back.
“That may be, m’lord,” Renkins said, “but we still have to have a look at the animal.”
“There is no dog!” Nicholas said in a raised voice. Anger sent hot blood rushing to his temples, and he worked white-knuckled fists at his sides, wishing he could get his hands upon the traitorous hall boy. He took deep measured breaths in a vain attempt to quell the rage building inside. He dared not succumb to anger now and risk transformation before their very eyes.
“That’s not what your butler said,” the captain returned. “I heard him plain as day just now.”
“My butler, sir, has gone addled with age. I keep him here out of pity. I am master of this house, and if I say there is no dog, there is no dog! And even if there were and it were rabid, would I be standing here denying it—putting my household at risk? Would that not have been the first thing out of my butler’s mouth when he opened that door out there? I assure you, gentlemen, if there were a rabid dog on Ravencliff, I would have sent for you myself.”
“It’s not just your butler, m’lord. The whole village is in an uproar over the tales your hirelings have spread about the animal you keep out here.”
“Then Peters must have put them up to it. The little tart he’s diddling is still in my employ. She is the baroness’s abigail until I can find a suitable maid to replace her. Then, you shall have more on-dits, I have no doubt, because the girl will be sacked as well. Now, gentlemen, I don’t mean to be rude, but I really must be about my business.”
“Young Peters says that dog you ain’t got out here bit your steward, and that he ain’t been seen since. What have you got to say to that, m’lord?”
“I dismissed my steward a sennight ago,” said Nicholas seamlessly. “He was bitten all right—jug-bitten, not dog bitten, I assure you. When he sobers up and hauls his arse back out here for the rest of his belongings, I shall send him ’round to tell you so himself.”
The three men stood their ground, studying him. Did they believe him? The captain’s knit brows and pursed lips didn’t bode well.
Transformation was imminent. Between his argument with Sara and this new press, it was only a matter of time before Nero made a liar of him. The soul-shattering palpitations had begun inside—the dizzying nausea and narrowed vision that always warned him it was time to shed his clothes in preparation, for the phenomenon had begun. That couldn’t happen here, in front of three guards from the Watch, and he sketched a dramatic bow and swept his arm wide in one last attempt to be rid of them before it was too late.
“Very well, gentlemen,” he said, “since I see we shall have no peace until I submit to this ridiculous affront, be my guest. Search the house from top to bottom if needs must—anything so that I can get on with my affairs. I have a houseguest in residence—a prominent London physician. I am behindhand for a tour of the estate I promised him this morning. He’s going to think we are barbarians here on the coast: servants spreading scandalous lies, guards banging our door down at the crack of dawn. . . . If you would rather take the word of a lying little weasel of a put-off malcontent than that of a baron, have at it! I shan’t stand in your way, just stay out of mine. And if you find a dog on this estate, I shall have Cook roast it with an apple in its mouth and I will eat it for my supper. You gentlemen may join me. Well? What are you waiting for? Get on with it, then.” He reached the door in three strides, and flung it wide with a clammy hand.
Standing motionless until then, the captain broke his trancelike stance, and meandered toward the door. The others followed. Were they going to take him up on the offer? Nicholas held his breath as the captain on the threshold turned to face him.
“That won’t be necessary, m’lord . . . for now,” he said. “But if I hear of any more complaints, you can bet your blunt that we’ll be back, and if there is a predator lurking about, we’ll run it to ground, sure as check—four-legged or two.”
“Just what is that supposed to mean?” said Nicholas.
“It means, m’lord, that I ain’t so green as I’m cabbage-looking. Something just don’t set right with me about this, and if I have to come back out here over it, I won’t be put off till I’ve found
out just what that something is.”
“Just so,” said Nicholas, frosty-voiced. “If something untoward were afoot, I would insist upon it. Now then, if Peters encountered a dog it must have been a stray—none of mine. And if I set eyes upon it, I shan’t need you to run it to ground, I assure you. I can hold my own at Manton’s Gallery with the best of them. Rabid dog indeed! Now, good morning, gentlemen.”
Nicholas slammed the door to the master suite with force enough to set it off its hinges, bringing Mills from his adjoining rooms, clothes brush and Nicholas’s best dinner jacket in hand.
“Has something untoward happened, my lord?”
“Untoward? You might say that, Mills,” said Nicholas. “We’ve just had the guards in from the Watch.”
“The guards, my lord?” Mills asked. “Whatever for?”
“It seems that Peters has spread the tale that Nero attacked him, and bit Alex.”
“Oh, my lord! What are we going to do?”
“Nothing, Mills,” Nicholas pronounced. “They’ve gone . . . for now. But they will be back, I have no doubt. The whole staff has been spreading rumors in the village that we have a rabid animal out here.”
“Did you convince them otherwise, my lord?” said Mills.
“I wouldn’t count upon it. I told them to go ahead and search the place, and they cried off.”
“Was that wise, my lord, considering? Suppose they had taken you up on it? I wouldn’t try that strategy again as things are here now, if you take my meaning.”
Nicholas scarcely heard. “By God,” he said, pacing like a caged animal. “The staff is going to be called to account for this. Before I’m through, they’ll wish they’d kept their traitorous jaws from flapping. No one leaves this house again until I’ve addressed this with every servant below stairs. Pass the word.”
“Y-yes, my lord,” said Mills.”
“And that’s not the whole of what’s come down upon me this bedeviled morning!”
“There’s more, my lord?”
Nicholas nodded. “My lady wants the hall boys dismissed. You know I cannot do that. She’s still leaving that damned door ajar, and don’t you dare say ‘whose fault is that,’ or so help me God . . .”
“I haven’t said a word, my lord,” the valet defended.
“No, but you don’t have to. You were thinking it. You read like a book, old boy.”
“What are you going to do, my lord?”
“She thinks I mean Nero harm,” said Nicholas, pacing the oriental carpet. “I cannot explain it to her, Mills. She wouldn’t believe me if I did. Hah! I don’t even know what we’re dealing with. How the Devil could I presume to explain it to her? She’s certain it was Nero that I nearly shot, and she means to protect him. She loves that animal.”
“She loves you, too, my lord,” said the valet in a small voice.
“That doesn’t help me, Mills,” Nicholas growled, “it only makes matters worse, if that were possible. Besides, I think you’re wrong—I pray you are. I think you’d be of a different opinion if you heard her down there just now.”
“Begging your pardon, my lord, but mightn’t you curtail Nero’s visits to her suite for a time?”
“You know the limits of my control over Nero. It’s too late for that in any case. She’d only go off in search of him. That would be catastrophic now, what with Alex prowling about, and her penchant for finding Ravencliff’s pitfalls. She’s right. He has to be found, and quickly.” He reached inside his waistcoat and produced a small pocket pistol, ignoring the valet’s gasp. “I had to see that Dr. Breeden was armed,” he went on, exhibiting the gun. “I can hardly have the man blundering about without protection. While I was at it, I chose this for myself. I couldn’t very well go around toting a dueling pistol at the ready. This is compact enough to conceal on my person.”
“Is . . . is it loaded, my lord?”
“It wouldn’t be much use if it wasn’t, would it, old boy?”
“I expect not. I’m just afraid . . .”
“The only thing you have to be afraid of, Mills, is that I should come face to face with Alex without it. Now, fetch my greatcoat—the one with the pockets.”
“You’re going out, my lord?”
“I’m in need of a walk on the strand,” Nicholas replied. Stripping off his indigo superfine jacket and oyster-white brocade waistcoat, he handed them to the valet, and unbuttoned his shirt halfway down the front. “Believe me, you’d best hurry.”
“Y-yes, my lord,” said the valet, skittering off. He returned moments later with the caped greatcoat, and helped Nicholas into it.
“See that her ladyship is escorted to the breakfast room when the time comes,” Nicholas said, jamming the pistol into his coat pocket. “I doubt I shall be back in time for nuncheon.”
Sara should have been working on the rest of the menus for Dr. Breeden’s stay, but she was far too overset to take that on. Traveling back and forth before the window in her sitting room, she tried to order her thoughts. The storm had blown over, but the wind still had its bluster. Though the sun remained hidden behind dense cloud cover, the drafts seeping in around the mullioned panes seemed milder, if such a thing could be.
The hall boy was still stationed outside. How she hated imprisonment, for that was how she saw her situation. Nothing had been settled. She should have stayed until she’d won her freedom. Now she would have to confront Nicholas again over the issue. Her posture collapsed. He would never give in, but then, neither would she. Nero had to have access to her. The poor starved creature needed food, and friendship—someone he could trust. But she couldn’t betray Nell; the abigail was right that she would be blamed if they were caught out. So the hall boys had to go.
Passing by the window, Sara glanced below in time to see Nicholas descending the stone steps hewn in the cliff, his greatcoat spread wide on the wind. She rang for Nell. It was only minutes before the maid scurried in, sketching a curtsy, but it seemed an eternity to Sara, her eyes fixed on the place where she’d last seen Nicholas on the cliff.
“Fetch my pelerine,” she charged the girl.
“Ya can’t go out, my lady!” the girl breathed. “The hall boy’ll see ya.”
“The hall boy will see us both, Nell,” she replied. “We are going to take a little stroll. I am allowed, so long as I’m escorted. I shall make a comment regarding the drafts in this mausoleum to excuse my wrapper for the benefit of my jailer out in that hall. Now hurry. You are going to show me how to get out on that cliff.”
Fifteen
Under protest, Nell led Sara to a side door, recessed in much the same manner as the priest hole door was, behind the back stairs. Obscured by tapestries, the exit was well disguised, something left over from the house’s smuggler days, Sara surmised. She never would have found it on her own. A narrow passageway connected it to a rear entrance to the servants’ quarters that she didn’t even know existed. It was a true service entrance, which didn’t make any sense unless one were a smuggler, because the cliff was not accessible from the main drive. Only through the narrow gate in a high stone wall was it possible to reach the cliff from the front of Ravencliff Manor. That portal, hewn of thick, seasoned timbers and crisscrossed with iron bars, like something that belonged on a medieval fortress, was always locked; as a safety precaution, so said Nell.
Sara dismissed the abigail, and stepped out onto a narrow skirtlike shelf only a few yards wide, tufted here and there with sprouting weeds. It was carved in the flat table of granite rock, and from it the house rose into the dismal sky. A low, stacked stone fence similar to the one barring the cliff from the road on the approach to Ravencliff was all that protected the edge. It, too, was in disrepair, riddled with holes carved over time by the sea. A narrow opening revealed the deep steps hewn in the face of the cliff that led to the strand below. It was a daunting drop, softened only by gradual sloping halfway down that was slightly less perpendicular. A jutting crag on the left offered some shelter from the wind, and convenie
nt niches were carved out, where, depending upon the weather, one descending could get a grip if not a firm hold upon the wet rock, slimed with algae and debris flung there by the sea. The rocky wall was damp from the morning mist now, and Sara wondered if it ever did dry out.
She paused a moment on the brink, her pelerine spread by the wind just as Nicholas’s caped greatcoat had been earlier, and scanned the shoreline below in both directions, but there was no sign of Nicholas. He had to be down there somewhere, and it was the perfect place to finish their discussion, with no prying eyes or listening ears. Surveying the distance down again, she could see why she had been warned against doing what she was now about to do, but there was nothing for it. She had to go down. She might not get such an opportunity again. Taking a deep breath of the salt sea air, she lifted the hem of her sprigged muslin frock and began her descent.
Clouds of waterfowl soared overhead, cormorant, tern, and gull among them. There were some species she couldn’t name, but all shared the same tertiary plumage in varying shades of white and brown and gray—the color of the brooding sky bleeding toward her. They were one brotherhood flocking inland: a flapping mass of squawking frenzy collecting on the stone apron above. Gracefully, they sailed over the gated wall to litter the drive and huddle in the courtyard just as she’d seen them do on other occasions when dirty weather was brewing. Another storm was on the way.
Ducking low-flying birds, Sara reached the strand without incident, and stopped to catch her breath. The rocky shoreline, edged in sand, looped around in a semicircular arc toward the north, to disappear beyond the sheer face of another ancient crag. The strand was straighter to the south, though the beach was foreshortened there by outcroppings—fallen boulders, tide pools formed by coves and natural jetties, and what debris the cliffs gave back to the sea. It was a rugged stretch of land, lonely and desolate, yet possessed of an ethereal beauty that drew her like a magnet.
Dawn Thompson Page 15