Too Wanton to Wed: Gothic Love Stories #4

by Ridley, Erica

  “Come. The master wishes to speak with you.”

  She shrunk back. “Wh-who?”

  Surprise fluttered across his face before the servant’s blank expression returned to mask it. “Master Waldegrave, miss. You’re in Waldegrave Abbey.”

  Well. That answered one question, at least. And spawned a dozen more.

  The manservant retrieved the brass key from the prayer room door and beckoned her to follow him into the shadows.

  She sent one last glance over her shoulder into the gilded prayer room, with its boarded-over stained glass and wooden tub of bathwater next to the altar, then followed the servant into the gloom.

  He slowed to match her pace. “Are you injured?”

  “A turned ankle,” she murmured, hating to confess any weakness. She preferred to appear strong. She preferred to be strong. One never knew when one might need to run. Resting had helped, but it would take at least another day before her ankle could fully withstand her weight.

  The manservant offered his arm without further comment. After twisting down a murky passageway, he paused to unlock a dark-paneled door before gesturing for her to enter.

  Panic crept over her once again as he pocketed the key rather than offer it to her. “No. You’re not locking me in any chambers.”

  Once again, the heavily muscled servant seemed surprised at her refusal. “There are those who would say it’s for your own safety.”

  Doubt and more than a touch of fear sent gooseflesh rippling beneath her threadbare gown. If this huge, strong man feared for his safety... She glanced at the scars crisscrossing one side of his face. Had that been done here? Had whatever caused his disfigurement also caused the deaths of the women in those graves? What kind of godforsaken place was Waldegrave Abbey?

  She slowly turned around, taking in the unsettling dimness of her surroundings and admitting the even grimmer reality of her situation. She had nowhere else to go. In her weakened condition, even the five minute walk through the tall, windowless corridors had made her dizzy from exertion and half-nauseous with repressed hunger and pain from her swollen ankle.

  As if her physical deterioration weren’t bad enough, she needed coin to flee to London, and a king’s ransom to pay for a barrister capable of saving her neck when the lawmen inevitably caught her. Exhaustion, hunger, and poverty aside, she needed to hide until the search for Percy Livingstone’s murderer began to wane. Anywhere she could.

  With a slow, measured breath that did absolutely nothing to calm her nerves, she rolled back her shoulders and stepped into the chamber. The servant followed in her shadow, closing the door behind them with such speed that she wondered if there were monsters creeping closer on the other side.

  They had entered what appeared to be another prayer room. Once upon a time, this room also must have boasted floor-to-ceiling stained glass. Now, the artistry had been defiled with layers of thick planks nailed across every single inch. A lit candelabrum stood atop a fat altar, scattering light and shadow in equal measure about the darkly glittering room.

  A man sat in the front pew, his back to the locked door, his head bent in what Violet assumed to be prayer. Perhaps this Waldegrave was a holy man after all—an unconventional holy man, to be sure—and his servants merely indulged their master’s efforts to keep out the devil.

  He rose slowly. His clothing, like hers, was years out of fashion and hung a bit loosely on his frame, as if the superfine material had been tailored during a time when food had been less scarce. But there the similarities ended. Where her shabby gown was of the best quality three months’ teaching wages could afford, this man’s ill-fitting attire had been the first stare of fashion... ten years ago. Although the seams were off in places, the height and length were perfect, leading her to suspect that when he’d first been fitted for his wardrobe, Mr. Waldegrave’s musculature had rivaled that of his burly manservant.

  When he finally turned his face in her direction, however, her first impression was: white.

  Mr. Waldegrave wasn’t merely pale; he was translucent. The depth of which was made even more striking by the inky blackness of his hair and brows and eyes. Had the man never been out-of-doors in his life? Toffs had long believed that the flush of the summer sun was a faux pas only a peasant like her would court, but Mr. Waldegrave’s pallor appeared more deathly than lordly.

  Even so, the fine bone structure chiseled beneath his improbably handsome face and the regal aura of his bearing beneath his once-fine vestments spoke to the blue blood undoubtedly coursing beneath his pale flesh. Whether he’d ever seen the sun or not, this was a man well used to getting what he wanted. Those powerful eyes alone held her in something not unlike thrall. When she wrenched her gaze from the spellbinding weight of his, her trembling knees finally buckled beneath her.

  The manservant caught her by the shoulders. “She suffers a turned ankle, master.”

  Mr. Waldegrave stepped closer. “Ring for bindings. Mrs. Tumsen can assist.”

  With a nod, the manservant led her to the closest pew.

  She gathered the strength to perch on the outer arm rather than allow herself to be seated in its ranks. She wasn’t frightened, she told herself for perhaps the hundredth time since the lock had automatically clicked home behind her. She was merely weak from lack of nourishment.

  But she had learned long ago to trust no man.

  Mr. Waldegrave stopped within arm’s reach, but did not offer his hand. He regarded her in silence, as if her appearance was equally as arresting as his own. When at last he spoke, his deep voice was shockingly seductive. “Welcome. I am Alistair Waldegrave. May I ask from whence you come?”

  No, the frantic voice deep inside her cried out, you cannot. She stared up at him.

  His gaze burned into hers. “What is your name?”

  “Violet...” she blurted out, the word torn unbidden from her tongue. “Smythe,” she added lamely, certain he would see through the paltry deception. What had happened to the practiced dissimulation that had saved her from more horrors than she cared to count?

  His raised brow provided proof of his disbelief, but he did not waste his breath demanding honesty. “I see,” he said in that incredible voice, smooth and dark. “Miss Violet Smythe, if that is your real name, pray tell me to what I owe the pleasure of your company this eve?”

  She gripped the edge of the pew. Had she appeared so dishonest, he hadn’t even believed her when she’d been fool enough to admit to her first name? Add that to the likelihood that this man never ventured far enough from his shadowed chambers to hear the barest whisper of news from a town as far away as upper Lancashire, and she might actually be safe... If she could convince him to grant her asylum for a spell before tossing her back into the wild.

  And assuming Waldegrave Abbey was safer inside than out.

  “I’m looking for work,” she admitted. The best lies were based on truth, and she would get nowhere with empty pockets. Like it or not, temporarily trusting her fate to this man was a risk she would have to take if she wished to avoid the gaol. That the mistrust was mutual spoke to his intelligence. “Have you a garden that needs tending or stockings that need darning?”

  If anything, the skepticism lining his coldly beautiful face deepened. “Am I to believe you a misplaced gardener, then? A wandering seamstress in search of torn hems?”

  She jerked her hands from the hard pew and laced her fingers in her lap to hide their trembling. “I don’t suppose my curriculum vitae would carry much weight in an abbey. I’m... a governess by trade.”

  The manservant at her side jerked violently, as if she’d brandished a blade and lunged at the unscarred side of his face.

  Mr. Waldegrave’s chiseled cheekbones paled further—if that were possible—as he cast his manservant a quelling glare. “A governess?”

  “Of a sort. I specialize in art of all mediums.” Not that she imagined him to be an art enthusiast. She couldn’t prevent an involuntary glance at the boarded-over stained glass and won
dered what devilry would incite a man to cover up medieval beauty in order to live in darkness.

  Mr. Waldegrave’s black eyes glittered. He clearly didn’t trust her, but hopefully the bit about teaching art held enough ring of truth to convince him of her harmlessness. At least long enough to get a scrap of meat in her belly and few more hours of sleep upon a wooden pew. With the lock securely engaged.

  “Do you have references?”

  Not anymore. Her shoulders tensed. “None with me at the moment.”

  Mr. Waldegrave and his manservant exchanged a series of meaningful looks that Violet had no clue how to decipher.

  “What is six times eight?” he demanded.

  She blinked. “Forty-eight.”

  “How many lines are in a sonnet?”

  “Fourteen?” she guessed.

  “Name the English monarchs in order, starting with William.”

  “William I, William II, Henry I, Stephen… and then… er… Henry II? No, Richard I. No, definitely Henry II.” She curled her hands into fists. “I said I specialize in art. Why are you quizzing me?”

  “Henry II before Richard I.” Mr. Waldegrave sighed. “She’s not ready, anyway.”

  Violet frowned. “I’m not ready for what?”

  “Not you.” The manservant waved an impatient hand in her direction before lowering his voice toward his master. “The library has all the answers. What you need is someone who can handle the situation.”

  Mr. Waldegrave’s eyes narrowed. “Where were you headed, when we found you?”

  “Nowhere,” she answered honestly.

  That answer appeared to decide the matter. “Then it’s Fate. I will pay you two pounds per week—”

  She started. “You’ll what?”

  “—for tutoring my daughter until she recovers from her... illness.”

  This was madness! Why would Mr. Waldegrave offer such riches without better answers to his test or at least a single note of reference?

  Violet’s stomach soured with suspicion. Was there a daughter?

  Perhaps she had misread the signs completely. Was the tension emanating from Mr. Waldegrave’s every muscle due to a desire to enslave her as his personal plaything rather than due to a simple mistrust of strangers? Perhaps this was the devil’s bargain the old woman had foretold. Alluding to a man’s “creature” could as easily be figurative as literal.

  She dug her fingernails into her palms as she tried to puzzle the outlandish offer. Was there more to it? As unusual as his pallor might be, he was still strikingly handsome enough to win the attention of any number of willing females. Unfortunately, she well knew that to some men, desire could only be provoked by unwillingness. Or helplessness. Perhaps the refuge had already turned into a trap.

  “If two pounds per week is insufficient for your needs, you may begin the negotiations. Or if you prefer, I’ll return you to wherever it is you call home.”

  She pulled herself together long enough to shake her head violently at this last suggestion. The bitter truth remained that she had nowhere to go. If there were coin involved—particularly that much coin—she would be ten times a fool not to take it. No matter what she must sacrifice. After she’d saved enough money to save her own neck, she could worry about her soul. But before she agreed to any sordid schemes, she wished to at least know the truth.

  “Do you have a daughter?”

  Even the chill of Mr. Waldegrave’s harsh features could not hide the surge of warmth—and anguish—from his eyes. “I do.”

  So there was a daughter. A “creature” she had been warned to flee, lest she risk her very life.

  “Is she... contagious?”

  Hesitation flickered in his dark eyes, followed quickly by a glint of curiosity. “Do you consider yourself to be strong of character?”

  Violet did not miss the evasion. Fighting a sudden urge to run, she somehow kept a neutral expression fixed firmly on her face. “I do, indeed.”

  “Then do you accept the post?”

  What choice did she have? She was out of money. A few pounds would go a long way toward getting her even farther from the scene of her crime.

  She swallowed. “I do.”

  At that moment, the old woman arrived with strips of cloth. To Violet’s surprise, both men averted their gazes while her ankle was being bandaged. As soon as the servant woman took her leave, however, Violet was once again the object of Mr. Waldegrave’s scrutiny.

  He studied her so intently that she shifted uncomfortably against the hardwood pew.

  “Come,” he said, shocking her speechless when he offered his elbow as smartly as if he were a London lordling accompanying his ladylove to dinner. “It is late. And just moments ago, I was informed that my daughter is still very much awake. As I shall have to put Lillian abed anew, you may as well meet her.”

  Lillian. The name on the grave. Violet’s heart pounded double-time.

  There was no daughter. He had lied.

  And yet, her best hope for food and shelter was to play along. To bide her time until escape was possible. Even as she slipped unsteady fingers between the heat of his body and the taut muscle beneath his shirtsleeve, she couldn’t help but suspect this new risk was far more dangerous than any she’d managed to live through yet.

  Chapter 5

  Violet allowed Mr. Waldegrave to help her rise from the edge of the pew. His manservant hovered just behind, holding aloft a freshly lit taper. Her limbs trembled as much from anxiety as hunger-induced frailty.

  In the corridor, Mr. Waldegrave kept her fingers tucked against the crook of his elbow. Although she didn’t trust him as far as she could throw him—and in her current condition, she doubted she could throw so much as a breadcrumb—it was disconcerting to realize that this was the first time a gentleman had ever held out his arm for her. She despised her weakness at even noticing the solid warmth of his bicep beneath her fingertips. It was no doubt the novelty, and not the man himself, she found so intriguing. She hoped he realized any reliance on his aid was due to her swollen ankle, and not to any girlish fancy.

  But what fancy did he suffer? The warmth in his eyes when he spoke of his daughter had not been feigned. And yet, the name he had given matched that of the grave behind the abbey. Either her would-be employer had named his daughter after a dead woman, or the girl she was about to meet was someone other than Lillian Waldegrave. A doppelganger meant to replace the dead Lillian Waldegrave?

  No. Certainly she was overreacting from fatigue. If there was a daughter, then there was nothing to fear. Perhaps.

  Mr. Waldegrave was no Prince Charming. He was tall and broad and his chiseled-marble features undeniably handsome, but he was far too cold and emotionless to be a desirable companion in any sense of the word. Although his flesh burned hot beneath his sleeve, his passions—if he had any—clearly did not. She doubted he’d spoken fifty words to her during the short interview, and none at all during this walk. Perhaps he was still overcome with grief over the loss of the two Waldegrave women buried behind the abbey. And the living “creature”?

  More like as not, any rich child’s sole affliction was simply a lifetime of being spoiled by self-important parents whose concerns ran more to matters of high society than to childrearing. Violet was ashamed to admit that there had been innumerable moments in her childhood when she’d wished herself the most lonely and unloved of all the future debutantes rather than continue to suffer the unwanted attentions paid to a young girl with no place to call home.

  “Why the frown?” Mr. Waldegrave’s voice was detached, but his gaze sharp. “Do you already regret agreeing to help my daughter? What have you heard?”

  Trepidation began to prick along her neck once more. What did he fear she knew? She’d barely arrived at the abbey alive. She had heard nothing, save the ravings of an old woman. But what she’d seen was a grave bearing the same name as his alleged daughter.

  No matter the circumstance, she was stuck here until she could conceive a better plan. She
drew back her shoulders. If his concerns gave her bargaining power...

  “Two pounds per week, you said?”

  “I did indeed.” His gaze did not waver from her face. “I am a man of my word.”

  Doubtful. She’d only ever met one who was, and now he was dead. She lifted a bland smile in Mr. Waldegrave’s direction. “Then I should like to be paid in advance. Two pounds, at the start of each week.”

  She held her breath. The demand was a calculated risk. Payment in advance was unheard of. But any man who hired a crumpled scrap of a girl, one who tumbled across the moor like the broken seeds of a dandelion, was either lying about his intentions... or in no position to negotiate.

  His shuttered expression indicated neither surprise nor suspicion. Just the same pale handsomeness and unreadable gaze. “Are you a woman of your word?”

  She inclined her head. “I am.”

  “As a woman of your word, do you agree to stay for not less than one full month?” His cold eyes flickered with what might have been actual emotion. “Come what may?”

  She choked back a laugh—or perhaps a sob—at the question. Pay, and a full month of shelter? She had nowhere else to go. No one would look for her here, and he was offering coin for her services, whatever they might be. Without an income and a hiding place, she was a dead woman. She had no choice.

  So she lifted her chin and said, “I do.”

  She expected a shrug and a disdainful, “Then you’ll take your pay at the end of the month like the rest of the servants.” When he slipped her hand from his elbow, she broke out in an icy sweat, terrified that her cocky risk had provoked him to rescind his offer completely.

  However, he simply paused to unlock one of the many mahogany doors along the dark hallway. He motioned for the manservant behind them to lift the sole candle, casting its meager light into the shadows. This door led not into a prayer room, but to what appeared to be an endless, windowless passageway carved into the earth itself.