“Bloody hell,” Marcus burst out. “You didn't inform her of my presence?”
Steven glanced around the tavern and Marcus cursed his temper.
The younger man leaned closer. “Of course not. But the woman's no fool. She knew I was up to something. Nothing goes on in any household the servants don't know, sometimes even before other family members, and with good reason; they're smarter than the devil himself. Our stew is coming.” Steven slumped back in his chair.
Marcus did the same as the barmaid set a bowl of stew before him, then Steven. She turned and headed back to the bar. Steven placed his elbows on the table and took another drink of ale before stirring the stew.
“Mrs Hartley knew that Price told the board Elise was here in America,” he said, and took a bite of stew. “He's in the habit of having late meetings in his home with board members. Last night, a woman was brought in. She was dressed in black. Heavily veiled and heavily sedated. Price carried her to one of the guestrooms on the second floor. He wouldn't allow anyone into the room when he took her up. Half an hour later, he called for Mrs Hartley. Imagine her shock at seeing Elise in the bed, looking as if she had all but stepped into the grave.”
Marcus's heart missed a beat. “How did he get her past us—we left Danvers too soon.”
“Don't lose yourself just yet, MacGregor. I thought the same, but there was something wrong with Mrs Hartley's story.”
“What do you mean?”
“She said a single candle burned on a table in the corner of the room. The covers were tucked tightly around the woman's shoulders. Despite the dim lighting, Mrs Hartley observed the emaciated neck and hollow cheeks of the woman—and her hair—you know how thick Elise's hair is.”
“Aye.” Marcus remembered well the silky feel of the thick tresses between his fingers.
“Mrs Hartley said her hair was so thin that her scalp was visible in places.”
“'Tis but two months since Arsdley abducted her. How is it possible—”
“It isn't,” Steven cut in. “The resemblance must have been strong for Mrs Hartley to believe the woman was Elise, but Mrs Hartley said the woman was barely recognizable as the Elise she had seen just a year ago. Elise lost weight due to the stress of Amelia's illness, but she was, overall, very healthy.”
Marcus nodded. “The housekeeper thought Elise had been wasting away an entire year.”
“Right.” Steven took another spoonful of stew. “Consider,” he said between chewing, “it's not yet two months since Elise disappeared. Had Price starved her to the point of shedding that much weight, her heart would probably have given out.”
“The woman is not Elise.” Marcus leaned back in his chair. “Why an impersonator? Why not simply incapacitate Elise?”
“I can only guess,” Steven said, “but—”
“But,” Marcus interrupted, “he will not risk her leaving the asylum.”
Steven nodded. “Price is… canny.” His expression turned pained. “Had I been more aware—”
“Nae,” Marcus cut him off. “The man is clever and he can't have done this alone.”
Suddenly, Langley's words came back to Marcus. “Ye have a spy, MacGregor.” Price Ardsley had help. The truth hit like a landslide. The Campbells. Marcus recalled the day they attacked the women at the loch and the look on the Campbell warrior's face when Elise called out that Nell had been taken. The man recognized the American accent. They had come for Elise—for the second time. Marcus suddenly understood why they hadn't accosted her when they kidnapped her: the ten thousand pound bounty. But how had they known—more importantly, who at Brahan Seer had aided them?
“MacGregor.”
Marcus shook from his thoughts at hearing Steven's voice.
“What is it?” Steven asked.
“Ardsley may not be as omnipotent as he appears.”
“What do you mean?”
“I believe some old enemies of mine were in league with him,” Marcus said. “Elise had a bad habit of leaving Brahan Seer without an escort.”
Steven paused in taking another drink of ale. “Brahan Seer?”
“Our home in the Highlands. She used to go alone outside the castle.”
Steven grimaced. “I can believe she would be so foolish. Even as a girl, she drove Father to distraction, coming and going without permission.”
“You are saying this is a fault of hers?”
The younger man barked a rough laugh. “MacGregor, if you're only now coming to this conclusion, I have no sympathy for you.”
Marcus smiled faintly. “The woman can be a pain in the arse. She is mine, nonetheless.”
“These enemies,” Steven prodded.
“Aye. They kidnapped Elise once, tried a second time.”
Steven regarded him for a long moment, then shook his head and took another bite of stew.
Marcus liked the lad. “The board meeting,” he said. “The vote is to be held at Ardsley's home tonight?”
“No, tomorrow. But the board members are to meet at Price's home tonight. I wager Price is going to let them see Elise in her sick bed then, when he presents the paper tomorrow—a paper signed by my sister—it will be a fait accompli.”
“What time this evening?”
“Eight o'clock.”
Marcus glanced at the clock hanging on the wall behind the bar. Four fifty-five. “We have three hours.”
Steven raised a brow. “If we show up and claim the impostor…”
“Aye,” Marcus said. “If he wants my wife's fifty-one percent of Landen Shipping, he will have no choice but to return Elise to me.”
“We should have stormed the damned hospital,” Steven muttered darkly.
Marcus tensed, remembering all too well the strength of will it had taken to keep from hiring fifty men and raiding Danvers. Strength of will. Nae. Justin had been the voice of reason. They weren't in Scotland, Justin had reminded him. Here, Marcus was naught but a British subject on foreign soil. He had always thought of himself as a man of logic and not given to rash action. But, until now, he hadn't realized how much he relied upon his position as the Marquess of Ashlund—even more—the son of the Duke of Ashlund.
Ah, Ryan, my ancestor, how far our paths have diverged.
For the first time in his life, Marcus understood the true nature of Ryan MacGregor. All these years, Marcus thought he understood him—thought it was Ryan who demanded recompense for the wrongs done to the MacGregors over the centuries. But, in truth, how could Marcus, a man of wealth and position, understand a man who possessed nothing? A man who fought with the only weapon he had: his mind. Marcus laughed inwardly. How many years had he fought his enemies with the sword—the very thing Ryan had fought against?
Marcus turned his attention to his brother-in-law. “We are far from finished with Price Ardsley. We shall deal with him in a way that brings about his demise because of his own actions.”
Steven's gaze intensified. “All I ask is that I be allowed to witness his end.”
“Aye, lad,” Marcus replied in a quiet voice. “You will be one among many.”
* * *
Marcus watched, concealed by the evening shadows among the trees, as the seventh carriage that night passed through the iron gates of Price Ardsley's mansion. The crunch of gravel beneath the carriage wheels grew fainter until the high and low seesaw pitch of cricket music again filled the quiet. Marcus's horse shifted beneath him and he gave the animal a soothing stroke. Steven's horse nickered softly, nuzzling his companion's nose, and Steven patted his shoulder.
Marcus looked at him. “What time is it?”
Steven pulled a pocket watch from the breast pocket of his suit. “Nearly eight,” he whispered, and slipped the watch back into its place.
Marcus returned his attention to the mansion. “Is that the last of them?”
“Unless Brentley rode with one of the other board members, no.”
“You are sure your vice-chairman will attend?”
Steven grunted. “Price would be
glad not to have Brentley attend. Brentley is a thorn in his side. But Brentley has been chairman since the inception of the company and the other members would not attend a meeting of such importance without him.”
Steven peered down the road and they lapsed into silence. The cricket symphony abruptly halted and, an instant later, the faint clop of hooves and turning of carriage wheels sounded on the public road up ahead. Marcus squinted until the outline of a coach took shape in the darkness.
“Brentley,” Steven said.
The carriage passed through the gates and the darkness, once again, closed in around it. The nightlife sprang back to life. Still, Marcus waited several long moments, acutely aware of his companion's impatience before saying, “Now, Brother,” and urged his horse from the cover of trees.
They slowed their horses through the gates and onto the gravel of the private lane. The cool air of fall brushed across Marcus's face, then snaked its way between his collar and neck in chilled fingers. The road wound through the grounds until, at last, a faint glow lit a beacon through the thick trees to the left. The road made a sudden left turn and the mansion came into view, two gas lights blazing on each side of the doors. No servant waited to greet them. All expected guests had arrived. Both men dismounted at the base of the stairs and hurried to the door. Steven entered with Marcus close behind. A butler appeared from a door at the end of the hallway carrying a tray laden with decanter and glasses.
“Sir!” he cried, rattling the tray.
“Simons,” Steven replied, and started up the grand black walnut stairway to his right.
“Sir,” Simons called again as Marcus followed Steven up the staircase.
“I'll see myself to the second floor,” Steven called over his shoulder.
The tray was set down with a clatter and was followed by the light tread of feet on the stairs behind them.
“Simons is persistent,” Steven said in a low voice, taking the stairs two at a time.
The staircase followed the wall straight up to the second floor. The landing turned sharply left at the top. Marcus strode down the corridor alongside Steven, who stopped at the fifth door on the left.
“Sir,” Simons called from the landing.
Steven reached for the doorknob and Marcus saw his hand shake.
“Lad,” he said, gently.
“Sir!” Simons cried, his voice nearly hysterical. “You know how Mr Ardsley does not like strangers upstairs.” Simons had nearly reached them.
Steven looked at Marcus, gave a single nod, then said as he pushed open the door, “He's no stranger, Simons; he is my brother-in-law.”
The words “brother-in-law” rang in the silence of the bedchambers.
Simons hit the doorframe with an audible slap. “Mr Ardsley, sir,” he said between heavy breaths, “I tried stopping them.”
Marcus locked gazes with the powerfully-built golden-haired man who stood nearest the bed. He looked to be about ten years older than himself. He outweighed Marcus by twenty pounds, but his fit frame testified that he wasn't a man given to excessive drinking or any such habits that would quicken the infirmities of age. Cold blue eyes stared back at Marcus. Here, at last, he understood what Elise so feared.
“I am—” Simons began, but Price Ardsley said in a quiet voice, “Go along, Simons. We're fine.” Price shifted his gaze to Steven. “Steven, I wasn't expecting you.”
“I am sure,” Steven remarked.
Ardsley focused on Marcus, and said, “Sir?”
His tone was quizzical, but Marcus understood the flicker of expression that had said, Lord Ashlund, you are a surprise.
“Pardon me, Gentlemen,” Marcus said, and brushed past the men who stood in stunned silence. He felt Price's eyes settle on him as he sat on the bed beside the woman Price claimed was Elise. Marcus took her cold, limp hand in his and lifted it to his lips. “Elise,” he said in a choked whisper, then gently lay her hand upon her breast. Sliding his arms beneath her, he lifted her, bed covers and all, from the bed.
A chorus of protests sounded as Marcus turned toward the men gathered in the room.
Chapter Twenty
Elise felt herself lifted into a sitting position. Next came the familiar cold rim of the metal cup against her lips. Do not drink, she warned herself silently. The thirst doesn't matter. Her mouth felt like sandpaper, parched from lack of water, but the laudanum-laced water held a greater fear than death. She allowed her head to loll to one side. A meaty hand cupped her cheek and forced her into a more upright position. Liquid dribbled past her lips and into her mouth. She kept mouth and throat muscles lax and, despite the cold of the liquid as it trickled down her neck, none made its way down her throat.
“She can barely sit up,” a coarse female voice said. “Why does she need more?”
“'Tis the doctor's orders,” came the all-too-familiar Irish brogue of Ramsey.
“Bah!” the woman said. “If you want to waste your time forcing it down her throat, do so. I have better things to do.”
The cup left Elise's mouth and the hand released her face. Again, she allowed her head to loll to one side.
“You're right,” Ramsey said.
Her head was laid back on the pallet.
“They will dose her this evening. She's not likely to come out of this stupor before then.”
The woman laughed. “She's not likely to come out of that stupor ever.”
“How is the bleeding?” Ramsey asked.
Elise tensed inwardly, calling forth every ounce of strength not to react openly to what she knew was forthcoming. She felt her skirts lifted, then cool air washed her legs as the woman drew back the fabric. Elise bit back tears when her legs were spread, though only slightly this time.
Soon, she told herself, soon. If I can convince them for just one more day that I don't need the laudanum, I will find a way out of this madhouse.
There came a prod to the rags between her legs, and the woman said, “Not so bad.”
“Let the night shift deal with it,” Ramsey muttered. “The things they ask us to do.”
The skirts were yanked back over her legs and she lay motionless, counting the ten steps her jailers took to the door, then the creak of the door as it opened and the echo of the clank being pulled shut. She waited a long moment.
Was he still there?
How many times had the Irishman stared in at her through the small, barred window on the door? Twenty—thirty times? She had lost count. There came the soft but distinct scrape she had come to know. She willed her body not to tremble. Ramsey had, again, waited for the woman to go, then opened the shutter on the window to stare at her from the other side.
Minutes passed—more, she thought, than he had taken before. It wouldn't matter if she screamed. In this place, everyone screamed. The opening swished closed. Elise began to tremble so badly she feared her teeth would chatter. Most rooms were built to keep the sound in, but her room seemed to amplify sound. She imagined her persecutors listening for the slightest sound so they might pounce upon her, pronounce her stupor a lie, and administer more laudanum.
Tears rolled from the corners of her eyes. She had lost her child—Marcus's child—less than two months in the womb. Even in her laudanum-induced state, she had known the moment the blood began to flow. How many days ago that had been, she couldn't say. There had been no pain, the laudanum had ensured that, but she had known. The degradation that followed paled in comparison to the despair.
Laudanum had been the instrument that had taken the child's life, but Price was the babe's murderer as certainly as if he had squeezed the life from the infant with his own hands. Robert had taken her child and her brother. Now Price had taken her second child. Between them, they had stripped her of all she held dear. Not all, her mind reminded her. There was still Marcus. More tears flowed.
Dear God, let him accept my death. Do not bring him to America.
* * *
Marcus locked gazes with Price Ardsley. “My wife and I are leaving.�
�� He started toward the door.
The men, transfixed by the strange happenings, parted as he brushed past them. All but one—standing closest to the door—who stepped in front of him.
“Pardon me, sir,” he said in a low, firm voice, “if you would explain.”
“Brentley,” Steven said, and stepped up beside Marcus. “Please clear the doorway.”
“Steven,” Price said. “Explain yourself.”
Steven opened his mouth, but Marcus spoke. “I am Marcus MacGregor, the Marquess of Ashlund, and this”—he nodded to the woman in his arms—”is my wife, the Marchioness of Ashlund.”
An instant of stunned silence passed, then the man standing closest said, “I assume you have proof of this claim?”
“My brother-in-law has the wedding certificate.” Marcus motioned with a nod of his head in Steven's direction.
Steven retrieved the certificate from the front pocket of his great coat and handed it to Brentley. The older man took the paper while reaching into his pocket and pulling out a pair of spectacles. He wrapped the wires of the spectacles around his ears, then read the certificate.
“The ceremony was officiated by a Father Whyte of Badachro, Scotland,” he said.
“I know nothing of that person or place,” one of the other men said.
Brentley looked at Marcus. “Forgive me, sir, but you will understand this”—he indicated the wedding certificate with a small shake—”isn't enough.”
“Steven,” Marcus said, “take the ring from my breast pocket.”
Steven pulled back Marcus's coat and reached inside the pocket. He retrieved the ring Robert had given Elise and handed it to Brentley. “The inscription,” Steven said. “Read it.
Brentley took a step closer to the door, holding the ring out so that the light from the hallway glinted off it. He squinted, reading aloud, “For all eternity.” He looked questioningly at Steven.
“That is the ring Robert gave Elise on their wedding day.”
From the corner of his eye, Marcus saw Price's mouth thin.
Another of the board members cleared his throat. “What sort of proof is that?”
Brentley looked from his companion back to Steven. “You are sure?”
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