“I’ll tell her every word,” he said.
“I’m glad of it.” Mrs. Ward gave him a faint smile. She back against the wall behind them and let out a long breath. “Monsters,” she said suddenly.
“Pardon?”
She scrambled to her feet. “When she came to my house that night, Rachel told me the house was full of monsters. I didn’t think anything of it. But—”
She pointed up at the crumbling façade of the house on the corner. The twisted stone face of a gargoyle loomed over the front door.
She inhaled sharply. “You don’t think…”
But Ernest was already charging toward the house.
Chapter 41
Ernest tried to peer through the slats of the boarded-up window at the front of the house. He could see little more than tiny pieces of the room beyond. The floor was covered in dust and broken fragments of the stone walls. He could see no furniture. Could see no people.
“What do you see?” Mrs. Ward hissed.
“It looks abandoned,” Ernest reported. He could feel the stone eyes of the gargoyle staring down at him.
“Any sign of Rachel?”
“I can barely see in,” he told her, his heart thumping. “I need to get inside.”
I’ve no weapon. If Rachel is in here, the men holding her are likely dangerous.
But what choice did he have? There was no way he was going to waste time trundling back to Graceton Manor for a pistol.
He yanked at the rickety wooden fence at the edge of the property. A piece snapped off in his hand. A meager weapon, but it would have to do.
How do I get inside? Walking through the front door was far too dangerous. He would have to find another way inside.
He looked back at Mrs. Ward. “I’m going to find another way in. Stay here.”
After all the danger he had put Rachel in, there was no way he was going to risk Betsey Ward’s safety too. Especially not after all he had discovered.
But she fixed him with hard eyes and said: “If you think I’m staying out here, you’re mad. Rachel could be in there. Besides,” her voice lost a little of its sharpness, “you might need my help.”
Ernest opened his mouth to speak.
“This is not open for discussion,” said Mrs. Ward, in a voice Ernest felt sure she often used with her children.
He nodded wordlessly, feeling suitably chastened.
With fingers tight around the fence post, he led her down the narrow passage at the side of the house. The neighboring building was close, and they were forced to walk sideways to make it through the cramped space. Shadows lay thick over the walkway. The sunlight felt muted and pale.
At the back of the house, Ernest found a second boarded window. Using the fence post, he pried at the boards until they snapped with the pressure. He held his breath.
Silence.
He yanked away the sharp ends of the broken boards and hauled himself through the window. He held his breath. Around him, the house was still.
The room was bare and dirty, its bare stone walls swathed in a thick layer of dust. A disused fireplace sat in one corner, a door at each end of the room. A rat darted out from within the hearth and darted across the floor.
Ernest turned back to the window and nodded at Mrs. Ward. Gripping her skirts in her fist, she scrambled through the window, accepting his outstretched hand.
She straightened her skirts and looked about her, shivering at the sight of the empty, lightless room.
From somewhere within the house, Ernest heard the soft sigh of footsteps.
“Someone’s here.” Mrs. Ward inhaled sharply. “We need to find Rachel.”
Ernest nodded toward the door nearest to them. “Let me go first.”
The shard of the fence held out in front of him, he crept across the room, pausing as the floorboards groaned beneath their feet. Tentatively, he pushed open the door and peeked out into the hallway. Three doors lined the passage, one firmly closed, the others swinging on rusted hinges. Long shadows lay across the hallway. And again came the footsteps. Soft and steady, as though someone was pacing. He could hear no voices.
He bit back the urge to call Rachel’s name and felt a line of sweat run down his back. What he would give for a pistol…
“Over here.” Mrs. Ward’s whisper made him start. She was peering through a door at the other side of the room, beckoning to him frantically. Ernest hurried to her and peeked through the door. Below them, a crooked staircase led down into the darkness. At the bottom, Ernest could just make out a cellar door, a thick plank of wood jammed against the handle, preventing it from opening. A chair lay in pieces at the bottom of the stairs.
He glanced at Mrs. Ward. Her eyes were wide with apprehension.
Gripping the banister, Ernest lowered himself onto the staircase, hearing it groan beneath him. He kept walking, down, down toward that barricaded door at the bottom. His heart hammered against his ribs.
With each step, he felt his fear intensify. Sickness rose in his throat.
He had found himself in far more deadly situations than this. Had marched in battle and faced a sea of French bullets, had watched friends and colleagues fall around him. And yet the thought of opening that cellar door and finding Rachel hurt—or worse—made his legs weak and his heart thunder.
He climbed over the chair that lay on its side at the bottom of the stairs, careful to avoid the sharp edges that were jutting out from the broken legs. Silently, he slid the plank of wood from beneath the handle and pushed open the door.
A sliver of light fell on a figure huddled on the floor. Her head snapped up at sight of them.
“Rachel!” he gushed, suddenly overcome with a sudden swell of relief.
A mumbled cry fell from her lips.
She was cowering in a corner of the basement, her wrists bound tightly. Her blonde hair was loose and tangled around her shoulders. Ernest felt his heart lurch wildly. He hurried to her and dropped to the floor, pressing a hand to her cheek. He looked into her eyes. “Are you hurt?”
She shook her head, coughing back a sob of relief. “You found me,” she gushed, her eyes wide. “Oh, Ernest, you found me.”
Ernest.
How achingly sweet his name sounded on her lips.
Fighting back the urge to hold her, he worked frantically at the ropes tying her wrists. He yanked the ropes away and pressed an impulsive kiss into her neck. She threw her arms around him and squeezed tightly.
Ernest slid his arms around her waist, holding her close, feeling the weight and warmth of her in his arms. He never wanted to let her go.
Rachel climbed tentatively to her feet. She leaned heavily on Ernest as she tested first one leg, then the other.
“Can you stand?” he asked anxiously.
She nodded. “My legs are just a little stiff.” She darted suddenly toward Mrs. Ward and threw her arms around her. “Thank you, Betsey,” Ernest heard her whisper. “Thank you for coming for me.” She smiled. “I knew you’d find me.”
Mrs. Ward squeezed her arm. “You would have done the same for me.”
Rachel looked upwards to the dark roof of the cellar. “They’re up there,” she breathed. “I heard them.”
“Is it your client?” Mrs. Ward asked darkly. “The one who came after you?”
Rachel nodded. “Yes. Mr. Burns and another man. His son. I’d never seen him before last night. But Burns isn’t who he says he is. I’m sure of it.” She turned to Ernest, her eyes wide and anxious. “This is about you and your search for your sister. Whoever Burns is working for wants to stop you from looking. They’re afraid of what you might find out.”
Ernest inhaled sharply. He had begun to fear as much. But hearing Rachel speak the words made his stomach tighten.
He heard the creak of footsteps.
Who would be willing to go to such levels to stop me finding Unity?
He swallowed heavily. With each passing second, he felt surer that his missing sister was standing beside him. What se
crets were about to come spilling out? And what dreadful consequences were they all about to face?
“I’m going after Burns,” he said firmly. He turned to Mrs. Ward. “Go back the way we came. Get Rachel out of this place.”
“No.” Rachel’s voice was a sharp whisper. “I’m not leaving you alone.”
“It’s not safe for you here,” he said, his voice rising involuntarily. “Either of you.” His eyes fixed on Mrs. Ward’s.
Especially not you.
Mrs. Ward gave a faint nod and wrapped her fingers around the top of Rachel’s arm. “He’s right,” she said finally. “We need to get you out of this place. I’ll take you back to the bakery.”
Rachel shook her head firmly. “Burns found me there. I want to go back to my building.”
“You can’t go back to your building,” Ernest whispered. “Someone was there looking.” He hesitated. “Looking for me.”
“If they’ve already been, they’ll not come again,” Rachel said firmly. “I’m going back to my building. The bakery is where they’ll expect me to go.”
After a moment, Ernest nodded acceptingly. Together, the three of them made their way back up the stairs. When they reached the top, Ernest nodded toward the door.
“Go. Out the window. Get away from here as fast as you can.”
Rachel reached for his hand. Her fingers were cold against his. “I don’t want to leave you here alone.”
“I don’t want you to worry for me,” he told her, her concern over him making his chest ache. “You need to leave now. It’s my fault you’re in this mess. And I’ll not see any harm more come to you.”
She gave a reluctant nod and stepped close to him, pressing her palms to his cheeks. In the spear of light piercing the slats across the window, he could see the faint freckles sprinkled over her nose. “Be careful,” she said, her voice low. “Please.” She planted a gentle kiss on the side of his lips.
Ernest waited until he heard Rachel and Mrs. Ward’s footsteps disappear out of the house. He made his way across the room with the fireplace and pressed an ear to the door. The footsteps had fallen silent. He heard no voices. Perhaps Burns—or whoever he was—was alone.
Ernest glanced down at the fence post in his hand. A meager weapon. But he could not let this man go free, not after all he had done to Rachel.
More than that, he needed answers. Needed to know who the man was working for.
He took slow, silent steps down the passage, barely daring to breathe. If he got to the door without Burns hearing, he would have the element of surprise on his side. Could charge into the room and ambush the man. Force him to confess all he knew.
He reached the room in which he had heard the footsteps.
Nothing but silence inside now. And then the soft creak of a chair.
Ernest lurched forward to charge through the door when he was grabbed suddenly from behind, the post knocked from his hands. He writhed against the thick arms, breaking free long enough to throw a wild punch, striking the man on the side of the head. And then more arms were around him, thick and tight around his neck. Ernest thrashed against him, struggling to break free, struggling to see the man’s face. The fence post lay several feet away, and he threw his weight forward, trying to desperately to reach it.
The first man lurched, snatching the post from the floor. Ernest glimpsed his face. The man was a stranger. He was young and thickly set—the man who had been at Rachel’s apartment, he felt sure. For a second, the grip on his neck loosened, and Ernest spun around, trying to see the face of the second man. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the post come at him.
Pain seared the side of his head. And then there was black.
Chapter 42
Ernest opened his eyes slowly. The side of his head was throbbing, and a trickle of blood was running into his eye. He used the cuff of his jacket to wipe it away. Slowly, tentatively, he brought himself to his knees, the world swaying slightly around him.
He listened.
Silence.
He climbed to his feet, leaning on the wall to keep his balance. He picked up the fence post from where it lay discarded on the other side of the room.
Slowly, he made his way through the house, checking each empty room, climbing down the stairs of that damp and lightless cellar.
The men were gone. No sign of that man Burns, or the man who had attacked him. Damn them to hell.
His head throbbing, Ernest stumbled to the door.
I have to get to Rachel.
* * *
At the thumping on the door of her apartment, Rachel leaped to her feet. Ernest stumbled inside, a line of blood running down the side of his head.
“You’re hurt,” she gushed, her stomach clenching at the sight.
She had been fiercely reluctant to leave Ernest alone to fight Burns and his son. Had turned to go back for him twice before Betsey had gripped her arm and practically forced her back to the tenement.
When they’d arrived, she had found herself pacing from one end of the room to the other. She stopped at the washstand to scrub the filth of the cellar from her body, then begun to pace again. She’d been repeating her routine since she’d returned. Wash and pace, wash and pace…
“I’m sorry,” Ernest coughed. “They got away. I couldn’t catch them.” He charged across the room and pushed aside the rag covering the window. “Are they here? Have they come for you?” The fear in his words made her chest ache.
Rachel took his arm gently. “It’s all right,” she said softly. “It’s all right. No one has come for me. No one is here.”
Betsey stood wordlessly, making her way toward the door. Ernest turned to her, anxiety in his eyes. “Burns got away. He may be waiting for you. I ought to see you home safe.”
“No,” Rachel said firmly, tightening her grip around his arm. “You’ve been hurt. You need to rest.”
“She’s right,” said Betsey. “I’ll be just fine. I promise you. I’ve barely a block to walk.” She flashed him a smile. “And besides, neither of the men that took Rachel even saw me. I’m not in any danger.”
Ernest watched reluctantly as she disappeared out the door.
“It’s all right,” Rachel said gently, feeling the muscles in his arms tense. She wanted more than anything to take away his anxiety. “It’s all right. Come and sit down. Please. Let me fix that cut.”
She led him to the table and eased him onto one of the stools. She took a cloth from above the range and pressed it gently to the cut on the side of his head. At that moment, she cared nothing of Burns or his blank-eyed bastard of a son. Cared nothing of what would happen to him, or who he was working for. All she cared about was that she was out of that dreadful basement, with Ernest Jackson sitting in front of her.
Ernest.
Without easing the pressure on his head, she pulled a stool toward her and sat opposite him. She pressed her free hand to his arm, feeling his muscles soften slightly at her touch. He closed his eyes. And slowly, slowly, she felt him begin to relax.
Rachel brushed a strand of auburn hair from Ernest’s forehead. Warmth swelled in her chest. He had come for her. Had risked his life for her.
Now she knew for certain she was more to him than just a way to find his sister.
“How did you find me?” she asked huskily.
Ernest opened his eyes, the intensity of his gaze making something move in her chest. “The gargoyle above the door,” he said. “Mrs. Ward remembered you saying the house was full of monsters. When we saw it, we thought, perhaps…” He faded out.
Rachel allowed herself a faint smile. “The gargoyle.” How the sight of the thing had sent a chill through her. And yet it had saved her.
He reached over and covered her free hand with his.
“Rachel,” he began softly, “I’m so sorry about what happened that night at the theater. I’m so sorry I made you feel as though you were nothing to me than a means to finding my sister.” His hand tightened around hers. “You are so much m
ore than that.”
Rachel managed a faint smile. “Perhaps I overreacted that night,” she said, feeling suddenly, inexplicably shy. “Perhaps I was…” She drew in her breath. “Perhaps I was afraid.”
“Afraid?” Ernest repeated. “Afraid of what?”
Rachel swallowed. “Of the way you make me feel.” She lowered her eyes. “Of the things I felt for you in the carriage that night.”
A Fiery Escort For The Roguish Marquess (Steamy Historical Regency) Page 24