The small room smelled of earth and damp. The only hint of furniture was the small wooden chair to which she had been tied. Cobwebs hung thick from the corners and the dark was punctuated by the scrabbling of the claws of mice.
Deborah had no idea of where she was. Had no idea of how far away she was from home. No idea of how far away she was from the Duke. She had been bound and blindfolded on the carriage ride to this cursed place, her thoughts tangled with fear. Her only clear memories of the ordeal were of finding herself in this bare, lightless room, her arms tied tightly to the chair.
The door clicked open. Deborah felt her heart leap into her throat. Her father appeared in the doorway, dressed in his finest waistcoat, his grey hair neatly combed, the same way it always was. He looked every inch the gentleman Deborah had always known. And yet somehow he also managed to look completely unknown.
It was his eyes, she realized, sickened. They were the eyes of a stranger.
They are the eyes of a madman.
As he fixed his gaze on her, she felt the skin prickle at the back of her neck.
“Father,” she said. “Please. Let me go.” She tried to look behind the cold façade of his eyes. The kind and loving father she had known had to be there somewhere.
He has to be.
How could that person have been a lie?
The Viscount came toward her, his footsteps echoing on the flagstones. “I’m sorry, my dear. It doesn’t please me to do this. Believe me. But you’ve come to know far too much.”
“Too much? I don’t understand. Too much about what?”
Is this about Edith?
Did their father know more about her death than he was letting on? Had he known all along that it had not been melancholy that had led Edith to take her own life?
The thought made Deborah’s stomach tighten. Made a wild sweep of dizziness fall over her.
Is Father somehow responsible for Edith’s death? Is he responsible for whatever happened to Lord Averton?
Their kind and loving father, who had played in the garden and read stories to them when they were small? Who had seemed so lost in his grief after Edith had died?
But as much as Deborah hated to admit it, this most horrid of realizations made sense. Her father’s footmen had come for her the day after she had confided in the Viscount all she knew of Lord Averton’s death. Entrusting the things she had learned to her father had caused a weight to be lifted from Deborah’s shoulders. But was it the most foolish thing she had ever done?
She had been alone in her bedchamber when the footmen had come charging into the room. Deborah had leaped from the bed, shocked and panicked.
“How dare you!?” she cried. “Who do you think you are, charging in here like this?” But she was unable to keep the tremor from her voice. Terror began to well up inside her.
The three men marched toward her. One clamped a hand around the top of her arm, causing her to gasp with a mix of terror and pain.
“You’re to come with us, Miss Wilds,” he said stiffly. “And I suggest you do it without a fuss. Or there’ll be trouble.” He pulled aside his coat to reveal the pistol tucked into his belt.
Deborah gripped the smooth globe of the bedpost, her legs unsteady beneath her. “My father will never let you get away with this,” she hissed, doing her best to glare at them, despite the terror that was building inside her.
The men said nothing. The footman’s hand still tight around the top of her arm, Deborah began to walk—out of her bedchamber, along the hall, down the staircase. The men led her out the side door of the manor.
The house felt oddly still. Where were the staff? Where was her mother? Her father?
Her final question was answered the moment the footmen led her to the waiting coach. There the Viscount sat, his face impassive, his long fingers folded neatly in his lap.
Deborah stared in disbelief. “Father?”
Has he something to do with all of this?
Her father didn’t speak at once. He waited until Deborah was perched on the bench seat opposite him. He reached into the valise beside him and produced a paper and quill. Held them out to Deborah.
“Write your mother a note,” he said, his voice empty of emotion. “Tell her you’re to go to London for a time. To visit my sister.”
“What?” Deborah’s voice was little more than a whisper.
Her father pressed his lips into a thin white line. “Do it.”
Deborah took the paper and ink pot. She wrote with a shaking hand as her father dictated the note. When she had finished, he handed it to one of the footmen who were waiting outside the carriage. “See that the Viscountess receives this.”
“Yes, My Lord.”
He nodded toward Deborah. “And take care of her.”
Deborah felt her heart shoot into her throat. “Father?” she said.
The Viscount turned away. And Deborah felt the firm hands of his footmen wrenching her arms behind her back. Ropes were bound around her wrists and ankles, a blindfold tied over her eyes. The man shoved her onto the floor of the carriage.
Deborah heard the door slam shut. Heard her father rap on the carriage wall, signaling to the coachman. And they began to move.
Huddled on the floor of the carriage, she could feel every lurch, every thud, as the wheels rattled down the front path and out onto the road. She could feel her father’s presence beside her. Was he truly just sitting there, watching, as she curled up, bound, at his feet, her entire body shaking with terror?
Nothing felt real. Surely at any moment, she would wake from this most horrific of dreams. But was she trapped in a dream, or had she finally woken to reality? She couldn’t be sure.
When the carriage had finally stopped moving, she was lifted from the coach and carried inside. Were they her father’s arms around her? Or one of his footmen’s? She had no idea.
When the blindfold had finally been removed, she had been tied to the chair in this dank and lightless room.
In all the time she had been there, this was the first she had seen of her father. Twice a day, his footmen would appear, and hold a piece of stale bread out to her. Without the use of her arms, she was forced to eat it from their outstretched hands, feeling like little more than an animal.
Tears slid down her cheeks as she looked up at her father. She had much time to contemplate the reality of who the Viscount really was, but looking at him now, she found herself still clinging to the belief that this was all some terrible dream.
My father would never do a thing like this. Never.
“Please, Father,” she begged, “just untie me. Please.” The pain in her shoulders was beginning to grow unbearable.
The Viscount folded his arms across his chest and looked down at her. “Who else knows about Averton?” he asked, his voice eerily calm and even.
“What?” Deborah asked.
“Lord Averton.” The Viscount’s voice sharpened. “Who else knows about his relationship with Edith?”
“No one,” Deborah squeaked.
Her father knelt so his eyes were level with hers. “No one? Not even the Duke of Tarsington?”
Deborah shook her head hurriedly. If her fears were correct and her father had a hand in Lord Averton’s demise, she couldn’t bear to imagine what he might do to Leonard if he discovered she had told him everything. “I didn’t tell anyone but you, Father,” she said. “I swear it.”
A faint smile appeared in the corner of the Viscount’s lips. “I can’t help but think you are lying to me, my dear. And for that, you will have to be punished.”
“Punished?” Deborah repeated. “Punished how?” She swallowed hard, forcing back a violent wall of sickness.
But her father said no more. Just turned on his heel and disappeared out of the room.
Lord Chilson climbed the staircase of his hideout, his hand tense around the bannister, his jaw clenched tightly.
Frustration at Deborah bubbled under his skin. Why did the foolish child have to go prying
into things that didn’t involve her?
He had arranged a fine marriage for her. A fine marriage to a gentleman she clearly cared for. And yet she had gone off on this search to uncover the truth about her sister’s death.
Edith was gone. When would his family learn to accept it?
“I found Edith’s diary,” Deborah had told him. “She speaks of her friendship with Lord Averton.”
Lord Chilson had always feared Edith had left a diary behind. He had seen her writing in her little notebook many times before her death. After her suicide, he had found himself tearing apart her bedchamber, searching for the cursed thing.
The night he had learned Edith was to run away with Lord Averton, he had been unable to hold back his rage. For what felt like a lifetime, he had managed to hide away that side of him, managed to wangle himself into the fine upstanding member of the nobility the world expected him to be. Wangle himself into a decent father and show his wayward daughters something vaguely resembling love.
But run away with Lord Averton? A lowly baron, with no wealth, no prospects, and no courtesy? To let him take her honor? How could Edith have contemplated such a thing? Did she not appreciate the prestige that would come with marrying the Duke of Tarsington? Did she not appreciate what a fine thing it would be for her family? How pathetic of her to have chosen love over social standing. Lord Chilson had thought he’d raised her better than that.
And so, when his footman had returned from the river with Edith that night, Lord Chilson had let his true self out. Had allowed his daughter to see his rage. He knew, too, when he had seen Edith return home the next morning, that she had witnessed the murder of Lord Averton that he had engineered. Knew she held him responsible. He couldn’t bear to think what incriminating statements she had made in that infernal diary.
He had combed through every inch of her bedchamber. Raked through every drawer, every cupboard, peeked between every book on the shelf. There had been no sign of the diary. When his wife had caught him in their daughter’s room, he had put his behavior down to grief. A need to be close to their poor, departed daughter.
Sometimes he felt a vague sense of pity for Edith. Mostly, he saw her as a coward. She had taken the easy way out. Been unable to face up to the consequences of her actions.
What kind of fool took her own life when she had a Duke waiting to marry her?
Lord Chilson did not feel guilt. He had not been the one to pull the trigger. Not on Lord Averton. Not on Edith. They had both been foolish. Rash and disobedient. They only had themselves to blame.
Lord Chilson unlocked the door at the end of the shadowy, creaking passage. Most of the rooms in this old farmhouse were empty, but for the spiders and endless cobwebs. But upon discovering the house on a hunt some years ago, Lord Chilson had proclaimed it his and had set his footman to work turning this room into something of a study. There was little in the space but an armchair and coffee table, along with a pipe and tobacco box. But that was enough. It was a place to think. A place to plan. A place away from prying eyes.
Lord Chilson filled his pipe and sank into the chair, inhaling deeply and blowing a long line of smoke up to the ceiling.
What to do with Deborah?
Without her, he would have no way of securing his family’s alliance to the Duke of Tarsington. He needed that connection. He had worked hard to secure it. His family had languished in obscurity for far too long.
The wedding was planned. The guests invited, the bridal gown sewn, the lavish banquet arranged. Lord Chilson was one step away from uniting his family with that of a duke.
But she knows far too much. And likely, so does Tarsington.
How could he just release her? Things had gone too far for them to ever go back to the way they had been.
But if anything were to happen to Deborah, it would raise questions. His Grace would ask questions—far more questions than he had when Edith had died, of that Lord Chilson was certain.
And then there was the matter of his other prisoner, tied up in the room beside his little study. He had not spoken with the Dowager Duchess yet.
Let her cower in there in fear for a time. Let her become so afraid she has no choice but to become compliant. That will teach her to keep her mouth shut.
Chapter 36
“Leonard,” said Phineas. “I must say I’m rather surprised to see you again so soon.” His voice was clipped and cold.
Leonard couldn’t blame him. He had left Phineas’ manor several days earlier in steely silence, furious at his uncle. Phineas knew what his mother was hiding and was too infuriatingly loyal to his sister to say a word. Phineas, in turn, had sent his nephew off with terse words about the importance of respecting one’s mother.
But things had gone too far for them to keep up with some petty feud. The moment he had finished speaking with the Viscountess, Leonard had leaped into the carriage and made for his uncle’s manor.
“I need your help,” he said abruptly. “I’m afraid Mother is in trouble.”
The iciness disappeared from Phineas’s gray eyes. “Trouble? What kind of trouble?”
Leonard began to pace up and down the hallway. “She’s disappeared. She told Florentina she was going to London. But I don’t think that’s the case. I thought at first she had simply left out of anger, but…” He drew in a deep breath, aware his words were spilling out with uncontrollable speed. “It’s the Viscount of Chilson, Uncle. He is not the person we think he is. He’s done terrible things.”
Phineas frowned, his thick eyebrows meeting. “What do you mean?”
Leonard told his uncle all he had read in Edith Wilds’s dairy. Told him of the Baron of Averton’s murder and of the way the footmen had hauled his body out into the night. Told of how the ordeal had led his former betrothed to take her own life. He stopped pacing and rubbed his eyes. “Miss Wilds was searching for answers about her sister’s death. And now she is missing. And so is Mother. I’m afraid they both know too much about the Viscount. I’m afraid he wants to stop them before they can tell the world who he truly is.”
Phineas stepped forward and gripped Leonard’s shoulders firmly. “Calm yourself, my boy,” he said. “In times like this, it’s important to think clearly.” But Leonard could hear the strain in his uncle’s words. Could tell Phineas, too, was struggling to stay calm.
“I have to find her,” said Leonard. “I have to find them both. If anything were to happen to either of them…” He faded out, unable to find the words.
Phineas squeezed Leonard’s shoulder. “I know,” he said. “I know.” He rang for the butler and sent the man off to fetch his coat and gloves. “Do you have any thoughts on where Lord Chilson might be?” he asked Leonard. “Where he might have taken Miss Wilds and your mother?”
Leonard shook his head. He had pressed Lady Chilson for any information about her husband’s possible whereabouts, but she had been unable to provide them with anything useful. “Perhaps Averton’s manor,” he said. “Perhaps that’s where we ought to start looking. Lord Chilson knows it is abandoned.” He clenched his jaw. “He knows well Averton is no longer about.”
Phineas nodded grimly. He snatched his coat and gloves from the butler as he appeared at the bottom of the staircase. “Is the coach ready?”
Leonard nodded. “I’m worried for Florentina,” he told his uncle as they made for the door. “She’s alone at the manor with her governess. I don’t know what Lord Chilson is capable of. I know it’s not beyond reason to fear he might go after my sister.”
Phineas nodded. “You’re right. Best we be cautious. I’ll have one of my footmen fetch her. Bring her back here. We’ll see no harm comes to her.”
Phineas’s heart was racing as the carriage tore through the streets.
“There is no time to waste,” Leonard had told the coachman. And now, here they were racing toward the hills. The carriage rattled and tilted like a ship at sea.
He peered out the window at the blur of trees, his hand tight around the do
or handle to keep him from being thrown from the bench seat. Though he was doing his best to keep his panic at bay, he could feel it building inside him. His heart was fast and his breath short. A line of sweat ran down his back. The thought of his sister in danger made knots of his stomach. Never mind that they were grown adults, Phineas had always felt a need to protect Lydia. Letting her fall into the hands of a madman felt like the greatest of failures.
Perhaps he ought to have told Leonard the truth when he had come questioning earlier that week. Perhaps he ought to have told him the true reason Lydia had been so determined to see him wed to one of the Wilds sisters. But Lydia had made him swear him never to tell a soul. Not even her son.
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