Dark Rise: Dark Rise 1

by C. S. Pacat

  He was gallant enough to say, ‘This is an adventure.’

  ‘May I ask your name?’

  ‘Kempen,’ he said. ‘Will Kempen.’

  ‘I hope I’m not taking you too far out of your way, Mr Kempen.’

  He was looking back at her with evident curiosity, though he had been too much of a gentleman to ask her any questions. So when he merely said, ‘Not at all; I’m happy to accompany you,’ Katherine found herself relenting, telling the whole story in a rush.

  ‘The truth is, Mrs Dupont – she’s my lady’s maid – was out with me, but a man came into the shop while I was being fitted for some shoes.’

  Martin’s was one of London’s most exclusive shoemakers, and Katherine had been looking forward to the excursion all week. Until the disappearance of Mrs Dupont, the outing had exceeded her expectations. She had been measured, then looked at delightful samples, with Mrs Dupont pointing out the most fashionable ones, telling her, Lord Crenshaw thinks the colour pink suits you.

  ‘He wasn’t one of our servants. I’d never seen him before. He came and spoke to her. I don’t know what he said, but she seemed to think it was urgent, and left right away!’ The disturbing feelings of earlier came back to her, that sense of being abandoned. ‘And then, when I came out to look for the carriage, it had gone. Mrs Dupont must have taken it, or – all I can think is that my fiancé called them away on business, not realising I was with them.’

  ‘Your fiancé?’ said Will mildly.

  He was gazing across at her. Droplets of water still clung to the hollow of his throat and wet his waistcoat and shirt. But he had a way of ignoring the discomfort, as if it was all just part of the adventure, that of course he’d get drenched rescuing my lady from a social dilemma.

  Looking back at him, it was easy to forget the disturbing feelings of earlier. It was occurring to her that this whole thing was rather dashing. Will looked just like the sort of handsome young lord’s son she had always imagined asking her to dance at a ball. I always knew I’d meet you, came the thought, out of nowhere. Of course, her aunt wouldn’t approve. This was one of those ‘unnecessary youthful experiences’ her aunt wished her to avoid.

  One she never thought she’d have. She was conscious of her own pulse.

  ‘Lord Crenshaw,’ said Katherine. ‘Do you know him?’

  The words were conversational. ‘I’ve heard of him. He owns ships, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, that’s him.’ Of course, everyone knew of Lord Crenshaw.

  Will spoke with polite interest. ‘And he collects antiquities – or is that his father?’

  ‘They both do. But Lord Crenshaw has a passion for it. They say he dredged the whole Thames in summer just to recover a sword that he wanted.’ Katherine liked the wealth and power this displayed. Annabel had later said it was the talk of the town. An extravagance that only a man of his fortune could afford.

  ‘Did he find it?’ said Will.

  ‘Apparently. Annabel – that’s my aunt’s maid – she said that—’

  ‘Whoa!’ came the call from the coachman outside, and she broke off as the coach pulled up at the address she had given.

  ‘Oh! We’ve arrived,’ she said.

  She suddenly realised that it was the last she would see of her rescuer. This had not been a meeting at a ball where he might leave a card and come to call on her family a week later. This meeting had been a secret, a glimpse of a life she didn’t have, and it would not be repeated. She felt again that connection to him, and the excitement of their adventure. She wasn’t ready for it to end.

  ‘I can’t allow you to leave without replacing your jacket. It’s the least I can do.’

  She could see his splashed, muddy trousers very plainly, and could only imagine the sorry state of the jacket that would be revealed when she stood up.

  Will demurred. ‘That isn’t necessary—’

  ‘I insist. You’re soaked. And covered in mud. And your hair is ruined. And—’

  Carefully, he said, ‘I don’t think your family would be thrilled to learn that a young man had escorted you home.’

  She flushed. That was true. It would be a scandal. The very scandal that he had accompanied her to avoid. If her aunt knew she had spent time with a young man, it would mean a lifetime of disapproving looks, not to mention losing every remaining freedom she had. Certainly, she couldn’t introduce Will to any of them.

  ‘Then you can wait for me in the stables while I bring you the clothes.’ She lifted her chin. ‘Tell the driver to go around the back,’ she said. Perhaps Will realised that she wouldn’t be denied, because he opened the coach window to shout the instruction out to the driver.

  They pulled up near the entrance to the mews, and she could see at once that her own carriage had not returned. Mrs Dupont was still unaccounted for. But her aunt and uncle would be at home with her sister and the servants. She would have to be careful. She showed Will the back way in through the mews and stables that allowed you into the garden – and from there into the house.

  The stables were dry and warm, smelling of fresh hay, and they ran in through the rain. She accumulated a few droplets on her hair and bonnet, but it was nothing she couldn’t shake off, and she was home now, out of harm’s way.

  ‘It’s a lovely house,’ Will said. He was looking past her into the dark leaves of the garden.

  ‘We only came here in January. We used to live in Hertfordshire.’ She kept her eyes on the lit windows of the house as she said it.

  ‘I was the opposite. My family used to live in London, but we left for the country.’

  He pushed his hand through his hair, forcing out the water. Something about the casual nature of the gesture made her flush. She had never been alone with a boy her own age before. Their eyes met, and he looked amused, making the situation like a joke shared between them.

  ‘Wait here,’ she said, and went out towards the house.

  Inside, the full impact of what she was doing reasserted itself. This was Lord Crenshaw’s house. The servants were Lord Crenshaw’s servants. She had ringed herself in with Lord Crenshaw’s walls, and into it all she had brought someone she shouldn’t. A young man whom she’d only just met, taking a risk she should never have taken.

  Her heartbeat accelerated wildly as she entered the back parlour. Was that footsteps? She stayed very still inside the door. After a few seconds of silence, she took a first step inside.

  ‘What are you doing?’ said a familiar voice.

  ‘I was just speaking with the coachman.’ Katherine turned calmly.

  Elizabeth was standing in the parlour, frowning. ‘That’s not the coachman.’ And then: ‘It’s a strange boy you’ve brought back to the house.’

  ‘He’s a friend,’ said Katherine.

  ‘You don’t have any friends,’ said Elizabeth.

  Katherine drew in a breath. ‘Elizabeth. He helped me, and it messed up his clothes. I’m getting him some new ones. It’s just polite, but you know the kind of trouble I’d be in. You can’t tell anyone.’

  ‘You mean it might mess up the engagement,’ said Elizabeth, with particular scorn.

  That was true. But Katherine felt excitement rather than nerves. The threat of discovery was low, she thought. It felt more as if she and Will were in an adventure together. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘He’s getting you in trouble. I don’t like him.’

  ‘You don’t like anyone.’

  ‘That’s not true! I like Aunt. And our old cook. And Mr Bailey who sells muffins.’ Elizabeth spoke slowly, thinking the list through with care. ‘And—’

  ‘I ran into him by chance and promised that he’d be safe here. Would you have me break my word?’

  Her little sister was a very upright person, a stickler, even, for the rules, and this point of honour was digested, albeit with difficulty.

  ‘No,’ said Elizabeth, scowling.

  ‘No. So stay quiet and don’t say anything.’

  Will looked up when she
entered with the jacket, half-changed in long trousers and socked feet, with the shirt she had left out for him untied and the neckcloth still draped over his shoulders, a state of undress she had never seen before in a man.

  She had earlier brought him a towel to get dry as well as the clothes he was now wearing. She would have liked to have sat him down in front of a fire with Cook’s hot broth, but she couldn’t light a fire or risk the kitchens. The enclosing walls of the stables would have to be their sanctuary, with its nose-tickling hay smell and the occasional soft sound of the horses. He lifted the edge of the neckcloth.

  ‘Whose clothes are these?’

  ‘My fiancé’s,’ she said.

  She saw him go still in a way that she liked. He didn’t look like Lord Crenshaw in those clothes. He looked younger, her own age. Her heart was beating fast. It wasn’t that he might be dangerous – he was dangerous. If she was found with him here, it would ruin her. It would ruin not only her but her entire family. She could hear the distant sounds from the house, see the lights from the windows. Each sound was a threat.

  Does your fiancé know that you spend time alone with other men? He didn’t say that, though she could feel it between them. Instead, he said carefully, ‘He’s taller than I am.’

  ‘And older,’ she said.

  What was she doing? She had brought him here to replace the clothes he had wrecked on her behalf. But now that they were alone together, it felt like having the dashing son of a lord ask her for a dance at one of the outings her aunt insisted she was too young to attend.

  Despite what he’d said, Lord Crenshaw’s clothes fit him perfectly, and he looked good in them. Better than Lord Crenshaw, whispered a treacherous voice. She’d imagined a suitor just like this. The draped neckcloth gave him an unconcerned, slightly rakish look. Her eyes were drawn to it.

  She said, ‘I’ll tie that for you. I used to do it all the time for my uncle. Come here.’

  He came forward in the same slow, careful way that he had spoken. She reached up to his neck and he pulled back instinctively. ‘Are you shy? I’ve seen a man before.’ She lifted her chin. ‘I grew up in a family with boys.’ She was lying.

  ‘Cousins?’ he said.

  She took up the ends of the neckcloth. She knew that her looks were considered her greatest asset – her looks, after all, had procured the engagement with Lord Crenshaw. But youth and a sheltered upbringing had meant that she had never been feted as a beauty, nor yet even had the kind of social engagements that would put her in the company of suitors – at least not until Lord Crenshaw had made himself known to her family. And Lord Crenshaw’s admiration had come at a businesslike distance. Now she got to see, gratifyingly, at close quarters, the effect she had on a young man of her own age, as Will’s dark eyes went even darker.

  She was less prepared for his effect on her, how hard it was to concentrate on tying the neckcloth over the consciousness she had of him, his breath moving the thin, fine fabric of the shirt, the one lock of hair that fell down over his forehead.

  ‘If he knew about this, I suppose my fiancé would kill you.’

  Another conversational remark. She didn’t look up. But she was attuned to his reaction, imagining – or was she? – that he was controlling his breathing too.

  ‘Then I hope you won’t tell him.’

  She straightened the last of the neckcloth now in its simple tie and made certain to adopt a casual calm as she stepped back. ‘There.’

  As he settled the jacket on his shoulders, she realised in a rush that it was a mistake – a mistake to have dressed him in Lord Crenshaw’s clothes. That vital quality he had that drew the eye was transformed into a blaze, the clothing remaking him into a powerful young lord, and Lord Crenshaw had never looked like this, for all Annabel’s assurances that he was just what a fine suitor should be.

  ‘I’m in your debt,’ Will said.

  Instead of demurring that it was he who had helped her first, she said: ‘Then answer a question.’

  His hands went still over the last of the jacket buttons.

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Tell me who you are really. Where are you from? Who is your family? I thought you might be incognito.’

  ‘If I were hiding who I was, I’d hardly admit it.’

  It was all he said. The faint sounds of the horses were loud in the silence, the dust particles from the hay drifting slowly through the air. She realised that he’d said everything he was going to say, though she’d brought him back here and given him clothes. She spoke in a rush, frowning and sounding – she didn’t care – a little like Elizabeth. ‘You’re not going to tell me any of it!’

  Will was shaking his head. ‘You’ve been kind,’ he said. ‘Kinder than I thought. You shouldn’t be part of this. I’m sorry. I thought I could – I was wrong. I was wrong to—’

  ‘To?’

  There was a sudden loud sound, the unmistakable crunch of wheels on new-raked gravel, coming right towards them.

  ‘It’s the carriage,’ said Katherine.

  ‘You should go out and meet them,’ said Will. ‘I’ll go out the back way.’

  ‘But—’ Will I ever see you again? was a plaintive cry she didn’t want to make. There wasn’t much time. She would pretend that she and Mrs Dupont came back together, which would save her own reputation and Mrs Dupont’s. She lifted her chin. ‘The jacket is a loan.’

  From his eyes as he took her hand, she knew that he understood her meaning. ‘Then I’ll have to return it.’

  He didn’t kiss her hand the way Lord Crenshaw had done. He just bowed his head over her fingers, his words a promise that they would meet again.

  She walked out into the courtyard to meet Mrs Dupont.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  ‘— AFRAID IT’S TOO late for callers—’ said the housekeeper as the door opened, but then her eyes went wide. ‘Violet?’ and then, ‘Mr Ballard! Mr Ballard!’

  Violet found herself pulled into the hall amid a flurry of activity, the house waking, doors opening, footsteps clattering, and voices raised all at once.

  ‘Violet!’ she heard. It was Tom’s voice. She saw his familiar blue eyes wide with shock and recognition. She was immediately in his arms, his hug warm and safe. ‘Oh God. I thought you were dead. I thought you were—’ She found herself clutching him in turn, like a lifeline. ‘They said you jumped back onto the ship—’

  ‘Tom, I’m sorry. I didn’t think—’

  ‘It’s all right. You’re safe. You’re home.’

  His strong, solid embrace was real, and she gave herself over to it, eyes closed. She had last seen him looking dead and pale on the riverbank, but now he was here, warm and alive. She let herself feel it, the relief of return, the wash of gladness at the genuine concern in his eyes. Nothing mattered but her brother.

  ‘Violet?’ she heard again, this time in a different voice.

  Over Tom’s shoulder, she saw the figure on the stairs, his stern features and greying auburn hair, a dark brown robe over his sleeping clothes. She drew back from Tom’s arms slowly.

  ‘Father,’ she said.

  All she could see when she looked at her father was him standing on the docks coldly ordering Captain Maxwell to track her down. I haven’t kept that bastard girl in my house only to have her die before time. The housekeeper chose that moment to shut the door, and Violet jumped. Her heart was pounding. The trellis wallpaper seemed to crowd in around her as her father approached, and she had to force herself not to step back. He’s going to know, she thought. He’s going to know I’m here to spy on him. At the same time, she told herself, You have to do this. You have to find Marcus. A reminder of her mission.

  She let him embrace her and looked up at him with faked smiling relief.

  He was smiling back down at her and saying, ‘Welcome home, my child.’

  Violet sat in the downstairs drawing room, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders and the remains of supper on a tray in front of her. Her brother sat next
to her on the settee. Their father had drawn up a chair after ordering the servants to relight the fire and the candles and bring down some hot tea, sliced bread and leftover meat cuts from dinner.

  ‘Eat first,’ he’d insisted, after her injuries were tended, and she had done as she was told, having to feign the hunger, swallowing each bite determinedly. She looked up when she was done with the last of the bread and knew, with a twist in her stomach, that she couldn’t avoid things any longer. She drew in a breath and said the words of the story that she had prepared:

  ‘I’m sorry. I couldn’t stop them. They took the boy.’

  ‘The boy?’ her father said.

  Violet was looking at Tom. ‘You told me to protect the cargo. I thought you meant him. That boy. The boy who was chained up in the hold.’

  ‘Go on,’ said her father, after a moment.

  ‘The ship was sinking. The boy would have drowned. I went back and broke his chains … I thought I could carry him out. And then they came. They took us both.’

  ‘Stewards,’ said Tom. The way he said it was the way Justice said Lions.

  ‘That’s what they called themselves,’ she said. ‘Men and women in old-fashioned clothes. But they were – they weren’t natural – they were—’

  ‘Is the boy alive?’ interrupted her father.

  She had prepared for this too. ‘I don’t know. He used the distraction and escaped.’ It was close enough to what they knew already, but ambiguous enough that it muddied the waters. ‘He wasn’t natural either. At least, I thought I saw … What was he?’

  Tom and her father exchanged looks. Instead of answering her question about Will: ‘The Stewards are enemies of Simon,’ said Tom. ‘And they hate our family.’

  ‘Why?’

  Tom opened his mouth to answer, but their father cut him off with a small gesture. ‘There are some things you need to be told, but not until you’re rested. It’s a long story that shouldn’t be heard late at night, half-exhausted.’ He smiled at Violet. ‘What’s important right now is that you’re home.’ His hand came down to rest heavily on her shoulder, squeezing it a little.