by Adele Clee
“Yes. You must be Blent.”
“Yes, sir. I’m to escort you to the house. Let me take your saddle-bag.” The servant took the leather bag and fell into step beside Finlay. “Sorry about the hounds, sir. They get restless at night.”
Blent was a young, handsome man, tall and slender with a round jaw and a kind, apologetic face. With nothing more than the faint glow of moonlight to guide their way, it was impossible to make a more detailed assessment.
“I’d prefer a savage dog to one that cowers at intruders,” Finlay said, wondering why Lady Adair kept hunting dogs when she did not entertain gentlemen from town.
“It would take more than a vicious bark to scare those souls brave enough to venture through the woods, sir.”
“Then why keep hounds?”
Blent paused before saying with some apprehension, “To track Miss Draper, sir. She’s taken to sleepwalking, and I’ve trained the dogs to follow her scent.” The servant cleared his throat and added, “I’m not breaking a confidence. The mistress said I’m to speak openly, answer any questions.”
What a relief. Finlay had worked cases where information had been less than forthcoming. The truth always came to light in the end.
“How long has Miss Draper been sleepwalking?”
“Two months, I’d say.” Blent gestured to the path veering right, past the thatched cottage covered in rambling musk roses. The vibrant white blooms seemed at odds with the stark surroundings. “But it’s been worse these last few weeks.”
A host of questions flitted through Finlay’s mind, but he should be careful what he said to Blent. Until proven otherwise, the man was a suspect in the attempted abduction of Jessica Draper.
“Has Miss Draper suffered a recent trauma, something to explain the sudden change in her behaviour?” Finlay remembered Jessica as a pleasant girl with an endearing naivety.
Blent failed to reply.
The hoot of an owl and the whispers of the night breeze filled the void.
“Well?”
“The mistress will explain, sir. But Miss Draper suffered a trauma some years ago. That’s why she’s here at Blackborne.”
“I see.”
If Sophia married Lord Adair to save her sister, this trauma must have occurred while Finlay was in Belgium. He had returned home almost a year after Waterloo, which meant Sophia had been caring for the girl for seven years. Seven years was a long time to keep a secret.
“How long has Miss Draper lived at Blackborne?” Finlay asked, keen to prove his theory.
“How long? Five years, sir.”
Five years!
The discrepancy roused Finlay’s ire. If Blent spoke the truth, then Sophia came to her sister’s aid after marrying Lord Adair. Damn the woman. No doubt she had manufactured parts of the tale to plead to Lucius Daventry’s conscience.
Bitterness rose like bile to his throat. Hostility held him in its grasp as they approached the rear entrance of the late medieval house. Even the aromatic scents wafting from the herb garden failed to soothe him.
“This way, sir.” Blent gripped the iron handle and pushed open the arched oak door. He led Finlay into a narrow panelled passage, the half-burned candles in the sconces casting a modicum of light. “You’ll find the kitchen and Mrs Friswell’s room through there.” He motioned to the small door on the left. “Anne sleeps with Miss Draper.”
“And your mistress keeps one maid?”
Blent nodded.
“Do you have a room in the house?”
“No, sir. I stay in the old cottage near the kennels.”
Finlay might have asked more questions, but Blent led him through the great hall, a vast room with a stone fireplace, hanging tapestries and a minstrels’ gallery. They stopped outside the open door of a well-lit drawing room. Blent knocked and waited for his mistress to bid them entrance.
“Come!”
Finlay’s heart was in his throat seconds before he stepped into the room. As always, his bitterness dissipated when he locked gazes with Sophia Adair. His body tricked him into believing this was another time, another place. The deep yearning in his gut commanded his full attention. The sudden rush of excitement made him forget she had married someone else.
He could live in this euphoric place forever, in a state of blissful ignorance, but he came crashing back to reality the moment she said, “Mr Cole. How good of you to come.”
She had used the same formal greeting upon his return from Belgium. He’d expected her to race down the gravel drive, arms outstretched, calling his name. But she had been reserved and dignified when she led him into her father’s house to meet her husband.
Sophia rose from her fireside chair. “You may leave us, Blent, and close the door. Place Mr Cole’s saddle-bag in his room.”
The servant bowed and left.
The atmosphere changed with the click of the latch. It became harder to breathe. His throat grew tight, every muscle in his body taut, strained. Arrogance was his only defence against the unwelcome attack.
“Why didn’t you tell me the truth about Jessica? I thought she was happily married to Mr Archer and living in India.” He had taken solace in the fact someone he cared about was content and settled.
Sophia clasped her hands in front of her body. As he studied her, he realised she looked nothing like the lady who held a privileged position in society, much more like the woman from his past. No doubt she wore the plain blue dress to breach his defences. Her silver-blonde hair was tied loosely at the nape, not fashioned into an elaborate coiffure—another ploy to unsettle him.
“I wanted to tell you,” she said, “so many times, but didn’t want you to blame yourself. I didn’t want to make matters worse.”
“Blame myself?”
“For not coming home sooner.”
Finlay snorted. “You make it sound as if I were sowing my wild oats on a Grand Tour, not floundering on the brink of death in a hellhole in Leuven.” Knowing Sophia was waiting for him at home had given him the strength to recover.
He prepared himself for a sharp retort, but she surprised him by saying, “I cannot bear to think of you suffering, though it is nothing like the pain of being told you were dead.”
Hell!
His heart plunged like a rock kicked from the cliff edge.
Sophia hugged her abdomen and turned to stare at the flames dancing in the hearth.
He couldn’t do this.
He could not revisit emotions that were so raw they still wept.
He should leave, but duty held him rigid.
“None of that matters,” he lied. It all mattered. “You approached Lucius Daventry because you needed help and I am here to bring an end to your problems.” Though numerous times in the last few minutes he’d considered braving the haunted woods and returning home. “Let us consider this a business arrangement. Push all personal feelings aside.” He had been doing the same for years.
Sophia cast him a sidelong glance. “An arrangement between old friends?”
“Yes,” he said, already reinforcing the wall he kept between them. “We will work together and have the matter resolved in a few days.”
Her sapphire blue eyes widened. “So soon?”
“There are few suspects.”
“That I know of, yes, but I fear there is something more sinister afoot.”
Sinister?
“When scared, the mind plays tricks and feeds our fears.” Hell, he had almost imagined devilish creatures hiding in the woods. “Once we examine the facts, things will appear clearer. Perhaps I should return in the morning, begin proceedings when your mind is more alert.”
She swung around to face him. “Return in the morning? But Mr Daventry assured me you would remain here.” A wild panic filled her eyes. “Jessica often goes missing at night. It is at night when I need you most.”
Merciful Lord!
When journeying along the woodland path, he’d sensed this visit would be a form of retribution. To hear she needed him at ni
ght was like a prod with the devil’s pitchfork.
“Besides, where would you go at this late hour?” Sophia added.
He had not given the matter any thought. But he knew a thousand miles was not far enough away to banish his craving for her.
“Come.” She stepped closer and gestured to the red velvet Knole sofa close to the fire. Once, she might have grabbed his arm and tugged playfully. Now, she knew not to touch him. “You’ve ridden a long way, and we have much to discuss. Trust me, you’ll be exhausted and fit for nothing but bed when I’ve finished explaining the strange nature of events.”
The strength it took to keep a tight rein on his emotions left him weary, though he doubted he would sleep tonight.
“Leave your greatcoat on the chair by the window, and I shall pour you a drink.” Sophia’s weak smile failed to hide her apprehension. Clearly, this was difficult for her, too. “P-port or brandy?”
“Brandy.”
He could not drink port without recalling the time they stole his father’s decanter, keen to experience why the fortified wine made men spout nonsense. The prank led to their first kiss. And despite the heartache that followed, nothing could eradicate the beauty of the moment.
While she ventured to the rosewood chiffonier, he removed his coat and draped it over the chair. He poked the fire until she joined him, though she placed the brandy goblet on the side table, not in his hand.
“I suppose I should start with what happened while you were away in Belgium,” she said, lowering into the wingback chair. Evidently, she was just as keen to get this over with.
“Held hostage in Belgium,” he corrected, taking a seat at the far end of the sofa. “There’s a vast difference.”
“Yes.” Sophia stared at the flames crackling in the hearth before turning to face him. “Of course, you’re aware my father gave permission for Jessica to wed Mr Archer. It was assumed we would marry first. When we learnt you were amongst the casualties at Waterloo, Father insisted they wait until I was settled.”
She spoke with an air of detachment, as if updating him on the local gossip.
“I recall Archer being an impatient man with burning ambition. But then he was a little older than Jessica if memory serves me right.”
“Yes. He was twenty-two when my father made the announcement that was to ruin all our lives.”
Finlay inhaled a sharp breath. If he hoped to help with her dilemma, he had to focus on Jessica and not on their misfortune.
“Your father loved you dearly and could not have foreseen how events would unfold.”
“No, I’m thankful he is no longer here to see how dreadful things have become.”
Finlay snatched his glass. He swallowed a mouthful of brandy and welcomed the burn. “What happened after your father insisted on a lengthy betrothal?”
Sophia sighed. “I shall spare you every crude detail. Mr Archer’s impatience got the better of him and he seduced Maud. Jessica found them writhing in Maud’s attic room. She fled in a blind panic, tripped and tumbled—” Her voice broke, cracking like the poor girl’s bones hitting the boards.
An internal war raged.
Despite Sophia’s distress, he could not pull her into an embrace.
“I presume Archer thought himself in love with Maud,” he said in the measured tone he used when distancing himself from clients. “Why else would he marry her?” He was desperate to ask about Jessica’s health but wanted to delay the onset of Sophia’s tears.
“Guilt. He married Maud out of guilt.”
Finlay decided not to mention that gentlemen often took advantage of the hired help. His colleague’s last case involved a similar situation. No one would have expected Archer to marry the girl, though Finlay would have flogged the profligate had he been at home.
“So, Archer married Maud as a form of reparation?” he said.
“No. He married Maud to protect Jessica.”
“Forgive me. I’m confused.”
“J-Jessica hit her head in the fall and has not been of sound mind since.” Sophia blinked back tears.
Damn it!
Focus on the case.
“Not of sound mind?” He was keen to know who made the diagnosis, keen to judge the situation for himself. “Is that why a doctor visits weekly?” Sophia spent an inordinate amount of time in town. She would not leave Jessica were it not safe to do so.
“It’s a rather unusual condition. Sometimes she seems like the happy girl of old. Other times it’s as if she is possessed by a wickedness that makes her as devious as the devil. Then she behaves as if she were ten and I find her scrumping in the orchard, or paddling her feet in the moat.”
“To summarise, she is unpredictable.”
“So unpredictable I can no longer sleep peacefully at night.”
Finlay had experience with afflictions of the mind but would judge Jessica’s condition without prejudice. Prevalent men in society needed little evidence of strange behaviour to commit a woman to an asylum. No doubt it was the reason Jessica lived in the heart of an eerie wood, far from the nearest coaching inn, far from town and prying eyes.
“And she has been like this since the accident?” he said.
Sophia nodded and then bowed her head. She clutched her hands so tightly in her lap her knuckles were white. He imagined slipping his hand over hers and giving a squeeze of reassurance. Words of comfort would naturally fall from his lips, promises he shouldn’t make, vows he couldn’t keep.
“In the beginning, we assumed her distress stemmed from witnessing Mr Archer in the … in the act,” she continued. “Father thought the nightmares would pass. We hired Dr Goodwin, and Jessica seemed to make some progress. But one evening while out walking, she disappeared. We found her in Godstow, making an exhibition of herself at The Trout Inn. That’s when Mr Archer and Maud married. Maud pretended she was Jessica to appease the villagers. Whispers of witchery were already spreading like wildfire.”
A log suddenly shifted, the fire crackling and hissing in protest.
Sophia gasped and brought her clasped her hands to her breast. “Goodness, I fear my nerves are frayed.”
The knots in his stomach returned. He couldn’t soothe her, not in the way she needed. “Godstow must be fifty miles from here. I hear Dr Goodwin still makes regular visits. Is it not a long way to come?”
“Dr Goodwin is Mr Archer’s trusted friend, though he’s somewhat older. I daren’t hire a new doctor, daren’t speak of this to anyone else.”
“Because you fear they will have Jessica committed?”
“Yes, and once the secret is out, everyone will know we lied to save a poor girl’s reputation.”
A rising panic forced him to say, “Please tell me Archer and Maud married legally.” The Order did not condone fraud.
Sophia nodded. “They married in Gretna Green. When they returned, Maud pretended to be Jessica. They sailed for India a week later.”
Everything she had said so far explained the need for secrecy. Yet the burning question on his lips had nothing to do with Jessica Draper. For a few seconds they sat in silence while he fought the need for an answer. But he could not solve a case without knowing all the facts.
“And what prompted you to marry Lord Adair?” The man was her father’s friend and twenty-five years her senior. “Surely the need to keep the secret outweighed the need to marry.” Bitterness clung to every word.
She closed her eyes briefly. “Father took ill not long after we learnt you were dead. While he had made financial provisions for our welfare, the house was to go to his cousin Jeremy. He’s a pompous prig and hasn’t the capacity to hold his own water. Lord Adair offered a solution. William’s first wife bore him an heir but died before giving him a second son. We married for convenience, as most people do.”
A cavernous hole opened in the pit of Finlay’s stomach. He hated that she used Adair’s given name so intimately. He hated the thought of her sharing the lord’s bed.
“As it turned out, I am barr
en,” she added with cool detachment.
“Barren, or just so anxious you could not conceive?”
She shrugged. “Who can say? I’m rather glad, truth be told.”
He was glad, too, though did not want to delve into the reasons why.
“And so your husband agreed you might purchase this house after your marriage,” Finlay stated. “He agreed to keep your secret and let Jessica live here.”
“Yes. We hid her at home until Father died five years ago and then moved her here.”
Ah, that accounted for the discrepancy.
The longcase clock in the great hall chimed the midnight hour. The ominous ring brought tension to the air, as if the sound preceded the onset of supernatural events. No doubt wicked spirits were already waiting in the shadows to plague his dreams.
“Perhaps that’s enough for tonight,” he said, pushing to his feet. He drained the goblet and returned the glass to the silver tray on the chiffonier. “Tomorrow, you may reveal the catalogue of events that forced you to approach Lucius Daventry and request my assistance.”
Sophia gripped the arm of the chair and stood. She took a moment to peruse his clothes and face. “I don’t recall ever seeing you with a beard. Not even when you returned from Belgium.”
No, he had taken care over his appearance before their reunion. He had wanted everything to be perfect when she discovered he’d escaped his abductors.
Fool!
Finlay drew his hand along the black beard tinged with the odd fleck of grey now he’d turned thirty. “Do you not like it?” He hoped she found it dirty, thought him shabby and unkempt, a shadow of his former self.
“You don’t need my approval. But it suits you, Mr Cole.”
He almost raised a smile at her use of formal address. Over the years, they had devised ways to maintain their distance. Still, he wore his beard like a mask. For all intents and purposes, the man she once knew had perished in Leuven.
“Might you ring for Blent to show me to my room?”
“There’s no need. I can escort you upstairs.”
“No!” he said sharply. He kept his gaze focused on her face, didn’t dare let it slide down to the beating pulse in her throat or the soft swell of her breasts. “I must build relations with the staff if I’m to help you here.”
