Ignoring the Lawrence penchant for dramatics, Michael tilted his head to listen for any sounds from his patient. “You don’t listen well, my noble lord,” he answered dryly, once satisfied the woman in the other room still slept. “She’s an heiress. She’s most likely blind and probably more scarred than you. She’s in desperate need of protection. What more can you ask? Protect her. Woo her. Earn her undying affection. Marry her, and save her and yourself. I expect you to speak politely to me for all the rest of our lives in return.”
Michael’s audacity shouldn’t surprise him anymore, but Gavin still found himself caught off guard by his stupendous gall. His brother was quite capable of entering a hospital and kidnapping the poor woman in the mistaken assumption that what he wanted was right and therefore the rest of the world could go to hell.
“I suppose I can expect a Bow Street Runner and the militia on my doorstep by morning,” Gavin replied gloomily, imagining the invasion of his privacy to come.
“Nary a bit.” Michael produced a bottle of laudanum from his pocket and handed it over. “I took her out of the physician’s house in his own carriage while the physician slept. No one had any reason to follow. He makes late house calls all the time. I just need to remove the carriage before anyone sees it. All you need do is hold down the fort a day or two while I’m gone.”
The woman in the other room moaned softly. Michael instantly slipped from Gavin’s grasp, disappearing into the bedchamber to look after his patient—or victim, whichever the case might be. Still fighting his temper, Gavin slammed his fist into the wall, then in a swirl of his long cloak, stalked after his brother.
The bedchamber was empty of all but the restless invalid in white. Michael had disappeared.
* * *
Dillian cringed and clung to the wall at the muffled roar of rage from the room where the monster had taken Blanche. A draft blew around her feet, and the old walls surrounding her creaked and groaned in the stillness. The rage in the next room, however, didn’t frighten her so much as their circumstances.
She heard the sound of pounding feet outside her doorway. Stockinged feet, she’d noticed earlier. What manner of man or beast traversed these drafty halls in stockings? Or hooded cloaks, for all that mattered. Whoever had abducted Blanche had brought her to a lunatic asylum.
But the conversation she had overheard relieved some of her fears. She had feared one of Neville’s men lay behind this abduction. Now all she need fear was a simpleton who thought a woman as wealthy as Blanche should feel grateful for the protection of a moldering ruin.
She suspected that this Michael had been one of Blanche’s myriad footmen, but she hadn’t seen him in a good light now. She’d heard the cloaked one leave, but she hadn’t heard Michael depart. From the roar of rage, she suspected Michael had slipped out before the other finished ripping up at him.
She hesitated. She needed to see Blanche. But she didn’t want the men knowing of her presence. If they were Neville’s accomplices, Blanche could be in worse danger than before.
Brushing disheveled curls from her face, Dillian rubbed her hands together for warmth. She wished she could just walk into Blanche’s chamber and warm herself at the fire, but she’d learned patience and a cynical suspicion over these past few years. She had learned she had no physical strength or power with which to fight men. She had no wealth or fame. She had only her wits, and her wits told her the element of surprise was her best weapon right now. If they didn’t know of her presence, she had some small advantage.
Listening carefully, she could hear no more sounds from the other room. She must take the chance. Blanche would be frightened. They needed to talk.
Cautiously, Dillian clung to the shadows as she slipped down the corridor from one room to the next. The fire threw a nickering light across the bare floors and wall. No shadow passed before it. No sound emanated from the chamber. Taking a deep breath, she entered.
Blanche was prying at the bandage over her eyes.
“Stop that!” Dillian hissed. “Do you want to ruin your eyes for certain?”
The figure in the bed turned quickly toward the sound of her voice. “Dillian! Thank heavens. Where am I?”
That was an excellent question, but Dillian couldn’t answer it. In the dark, all country roads looked alike to her, and she couldn’t read the signs while clinging in terror to the back of a carriage. She just knew it had taken hours at hair-raising speeds to get here. She didn’t tell Blanche that.
“We’ll figure that out later. I only have a few minutes before one of them returns. I just wanted you to know I’m here. Make them go away, and then we can talk.”
Even as she said it, they could hear the floor creak beneath approaching footsteps. The monster still hadn’t donned his shoes.
“I’ll be in the wardrobe,” Dillian whispered. Without hesitation, she slid into the narrow musty darkness of old clothes. She left the door open just enough to hear.
“Stop that!” a male voice roared from the other side of the door.
Dillian stifled a grin. Blanche must have been fiddling with the bandages again.
“I brought you some water.”
He didn’t sound like a monster, more like an irritated male. She suspected men didn’t much like being woken in the middle of the night to nurse invalids they didn’t know. But this man lived in a moldering Gothic ruin and dressed like a madman. She wanted to know his story. Her imagination had taken flight when Blanche’s weak voice prosaically asked the questions dancing through Dillian’s mind.
“Could you tell me who you are and where I am?” Blanche always spoke politely, even when frightened out of her wits. Dillian held her breath as her cousin continued, “Your accent is odd. Are you Canadian?”
The man didn’t answer immediately. Dillian considered his hesitation suspicious. His reply didn’t entirely relieve her.
“Close enough,” he answered the last question first. “I’m Gavin Lawrence. The house’s official name is Arinmede Manor. I’m more inclined to call it Arinmede Ruins.”
The man’s wry tone indicated a sense of humor, but Dillian wasn’t in the mood for laughing. The description seemed apt enough from what little she had seen of the place. She wondered where the servants were. Surely, he didn’t live alone in this sprawling monstrosity. He had mentioned a maid.
She listened to the battle of wills taking place in the room beyond her hiding place. Blanche used her best little-girl voice trying to send her host away. Neville always fell for that childish tone of voice, until recently anyway.
This man didn’t seem impressed. Dillian gritted her teeth as he insisted on sleeping in the next chamber in the event that his “guest” needed him.
“Oh, no, sir! Not on my account, please,” Blanche responded sweetly. “It would be highly improper, in any event. If you have a bell, I can just summon a maid if I need someone.”
Blanche’s innocent posturing had fooled many a male before, but Dillian didn’t think it would work on a man bent on seducing an heiress. Of course, a man trying to do what was proper would be caught in another sort of bind. Blanche could not attend herself. Just as obviously, she could not have a man as attendant. Dillian found herself listening with interest to how the monster would resolve that problem.
The growling answer emanating from beyond the door indicated he didn’t resolve it willingly. “The bell pull rotted long ago. Just fling the water glass when you need someone. It’s bound to hit something loud enough for me to hear. The maid is too far away, and Michael indicated some need for secrecy, so it seems you’re stuck with me.”
Dillian bit back a giggle at this highly original system of summoning help. She could imagine Mr. Gavin Lawrence wanting to strangle this man Michael right about now. She almost felt sorry for the poor misanthropic chap. Almost. The fact that Mr. Lawrence needed a wealthy wife and couldn’t obtain one through normal means squelched any real sympathy.
Remembering the rugged cloaked form carrying Blanche through
endless, corridors quenched any other thought of giggling.
“Will you send for my companion in the morning?” Blanche inquired hopefully. Dillian waited for the reply with interest.
Again, their host hesitated before replying. She didn’t like it when he did that.
“I’ll look into it,” he answered slowly, “but if there’s some danger, it might not be the wisest course.”
“Dillian wouldn’t hurt me!” Blanche replied indignantly.
“Someone could follow her,” he pointed out.
Even Blanche couldn’t come up with a suitable reply to that. How did one say, “Open the wardrobe, and she’ll appear” without causing no end of complications? They would come up with a better solution later. Right now Dillian wanted to find out more about the Lawrences of Arinmede Ruin.
Blanche and her host apparently reached some understanding with little more discussion. Dillian listened with relief as the man’s footsteps disappeared from the room. She wished she’d dared peek at the monster, but the darkness was too complete.
She leaned against the back of the wardrobe to untangle herself from a moth-eaten shawl and a ball gown with a train apparently designed to be carried by a dozen pages. She couldn’t believe women had trapped themselves in all that frippery in her mother’s time.
Impatiently, she brushed it aside, but before she could reach for the wardrobe door, the panel behind her gave a lurch, and she nearly fell backward into a gaping black hole.
Stifling a gasp, she steadied herself by grabbing the ball gown, then gazed in amazement at the opening where the back of the wardrobe should have been. A strong draft already wrapped around her ankles. So that’s where the mysterious Michael had disappeared.
“Dillian, are you in there?” Blanche called from the bed.
Unable to see anything but blackness, Dillian opened the wardrobe door. “I’m here. I think I just found a secret passage. I don’t suppose he left a candle?”
“How should I know?” Blanche’s irritated reply warned that pain had worn her patience thin. Dillian hopped down from the wardrobe and hurried to test her cousin’s brow for fever.
“You’re just a little warm. Drink some more water, then I think you’d best take more laudanum. There is no sense in suffering more than you must.” She spoke gently, wishing she could take away the pain. A lot of people owed this slip of a girl their lives, but Blanche would never acknowledge it. So Dillian said her thanks without words.
“I suppose that means you’ll have all the fun exploring secret passages and this rambling ruin while I lie here like an old grandmother,” Blanche fretted. “Well, you had best locate a chamber pot or something before you go. Or take off this ridiculous bandage so I can look for myself.”
Dillian caught her cousin’s damaged hands before she could pry at the bandages again. “I think our host has some aversion to anyone seeing him. That bandage makes him feel safe with you. Leave it on for now, until I can scout things out a little more. Let me look for the chamber pot.”
She couldn’t find one in the washstand or under the bed. Cautiously, she checked the door in the west wall.
“Like in the Beauty and the Beast story?” Blanche asked with interest. “Perhaps he’s a prince in disguise?”
“More likely a wolf in sheep’s clothing,” Dillian muttered, discovering a nearly bare sitting room behind the door. The owner certainly had spared the expense when he decorated this place.
“Do you have any idea where we are?” Blanche asked as Dillian opened another door.
“Wherever it is, it’s only a few hours from home. They have a water closet!” she announced with delight. “The place may be a ruin, but it’s a modern one.”
“He called it a manor, but it feels more like a castle. Castles have garderobes. Is there a moat?”
Dillian grimaced as she helped her cousin from the bed. “This is neither a fairy tale nor Sir Walter’s medieval fantasies. It’s a great sprawling lump of bad architecture and outlandish expense. I suspect this wing is relatively modern. I just can’t figure out why a modern structure would have something so medieval as a secret passage.”
Blanche apparently had time to think about it while she was in the water closet. When she came out, she announced with satisfaction, “So the lord of the manor could visit his mistress in secret. I read that in a Minerva novel once.”
That sounded highly unlikely to Dillian, but she didn’t argue. Despite her normal good nature and enormous energy, Blanche was tiring rapidly. Dillian helped her cousin back to bed and tucked her in before pouring her more laudanum.
“I’ll be right here while you go to sleep,” she murmured as Blanche obediently drank the sleeping draft.
And right after Blanche went to sleep, Dillian amended silently, she fully intended to explore this odd household. First, she would find the monster’s lair so she could avoid it in the future.
Then she would look for a weapon with which to protect Blanche. No matter how confident their thoughtful kidnapper sounded, Neville would find them within days.
She had every intention of being prepared for her cousin’s would-be murderer this time.
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Table of Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
Thirty-two
Thirty-three
Thirty-four
Thirty-five
Thirty-six
Thirty-seven
Thirty-eight
Thirty-nine
Forty
Forty-one
About Patricia Rice
Acknowledgments
Copyright & Credits
About Book View Café
A Sample Chapter: The Marquess
Chapter One
Patrica Rice Page 32