“Oh, my word, Henry! Your father too, they went with St Clair to the church to look for you. Henry was attacked last night at his home… oh, he’s well, darling,” she added, as Florence made an exclamation of alarm. “Thankfully, he has a thick head, but he believes the gravedigger, Joe Foster, is somehow involved in all this.”
Florence stared at her mother in shock. Joe Foster? Was that the unpleasant man she’d thought had been watching her in the churchyard?
“The devil,” she whispered, a cold, sick sensation swirling in her guts. Perhaps it had not been Mr Oak after all, or perhaps… perhaps they were in it together?
“Whatever do you mean?” Mama said, one hand pressing to her heart.
“Oh, Mama, we must leave at once,” Florence said, grasping her mother’s hand. “I think Henry may be about to walk into a great deal of trouble.”
It had to be a crypt. Of course, it had to be a crypt.
Henry stared at the steps that led down, and down, into utter darkness.
“Hell,” he muttered.
The stench of things long dead wafted up, the air cold and unsettling, sliding over his warm skin as he descended towards the earthly remains of generations of Stanhopes. It reminded him of Egypt, of the tombs he’d visited. It had bothered him, the way the archaeologists had scrabbled in the sand, picking over the bones of the long dead and uncovering their treasures. Not that it hadn’t been fascinating—the treasures had been marvellous things, glimpses of a world it was hard to comprehend—but for many of those adventurers and treasure seekers it had been all about the gold, and there had been little reverence for the dead. He almost felt like offering an apology now, as he saw the coffins of long-dead relatives arranged neatly on their stone shelves. An expression of regret was due for disturbing their slumber, was it not?
He bit back such foolish thoughts. No doubt Pippin and Mrs Dharani had got into his head with their talk of witches and revenge. There were no such things as ghosts, certainly no such things as witches. It was all nonsense. Yet the hair on the back of his neck was standing on end and he had the very strong sense that something was wrong. As he reached the bottom of the crypt he noticed the stink of scorched fat that mingled unpleasantly with the ancient dust of the decayed dead. Then he saw a small stack of tallow candles and a tinder box. Well, that was reassuringly substantial. Ghosts did not need to light a candle to see in the dark, of that much he was certain. He couldn’t speak for witches, but he was content to assume whoever was down here was merely flesh and blood.
Human, he could deal with. Hopefully.
After a couple of attempts he got the tinder lit and, in turn, lit a candle. Ugh, he hated tallow candles, smoky, filthy things. It explained the greasy, burned meat smell though. The flame flickered wildly as a breeze fluttered through the shadowy confines of the crypt. Henry turned towards it, away from the entrance. There was another opening. Moving as silently as he could, he saw the small door. It was open now, but that must have been the sound he’d heard, of stone sliding against stone. It was a large plaque emblazoned with the family crest, and had been pushed to one side to reveal a rectangular opening, just large enough for a man to go through if he stooped low.
Bloody marvellous, a secret tunnel. As a boy, such a discovery would have delighted him. Right at this moment it was a little less appealing, especially as his head was still throbbing after his last encounter with whoever had clobbered him. It must be the same person, or people. Whoever it had been had vanished from the room before his servants had appeared, and not one of them had seen anyone else. This tunnel must somehow lead to the bedroom adjoining his own. Well, well, Great-great-grandfather Stanhope had been a canny old bastard and no mistake.
With deep misgivings, he ducked through the opening, discovering the tunnel had been worked through a large seam of chalk. He followed it as it went down and down and then levelled out. Much to his relief it was taller here and, though he still had to tilt his head, there was a bit more space. The revolting smoke from the candle was overwhelming in such a confined area, and Henry covered his nose with his lapel as the urge to cough became too strong. Suddenly the passage opened out into a wide area. The white walls gleamed a sickly yellow in the smoky candlelight, illuminating the pieces of broken barrels and opened boxes. The smell of brandy lingered, evident even over the stench of the tallow, and Henry could not help but imagine the smugglers here, toasting another successful run as they evaded the excise men. There was no time to linger, though, and Henry crossed the space to the where the tunnel carried on again. It seemed to go on forever, though it must only be the distance from Saxenhurst Hall to the church, which really wasn’t that far.
At last the tunnel ended with a set of steep stairs cut into the chalk. Henry climbed, cautious now, aware that he was behind the walls of his own home. He stilled as he heard muffled voices, guessing he must be close to the kitchens. At least not all his staff had deserted him in terror… yet.
The passage ran until he reached another staircase, wooden this time and worn with age. The treads creaked and protested, and Henry held back a curse, praying they would not give way or make so much noise his arrival would be revealed. At the top of the staircase was another short passage. At the end, the panelling that hid the tunnel must have been left open, as daylight pierced through a narrow slit, illuminating the dim entryway.
Henry blew out the candle, set it down, and moved silently towards the light.
Chapter 16
Dear diary,
I’m so tired. I stayed up all night reading and did not sleep a wink. Truthfully, I am not certain I shall ever sleep again. The Ghosts of Castle Madruzzo was quite magnificent, though the villain was so much more interesting than the hero. How I wish he had not died horribly. He was so clever and wicked, funny too. I would far rather have run away with him than the hero who was something of a wet blanket and had no sense of humour. Bad men are always much more interesting for they need unravelling and I have always enjoyed puzzles. The descriptions of the ghosts and the villain’s grisly demise was so vivid, though, and now I see it every time I close my eyes. Indeed it makes me feel a little queasy whenever I think on it.
I cannot tell Mama, or she will tell Papa and he’ll be disappointed in me and that is worse than any other fate imaginable, even the villain’s.
―Excerpt of an entry to the diary of Lady Catherine ‘Cat’ Barrington, (youngest daughter of the Marquess and Marchioness of Montagu).
18th August 1839, Holbrook House, Sussex.
“Where is he, you villain?”
“Florence!” Mama scolded as Florence flew out of the carriage before the footman could even let down the step for her. They had not even reached Thistley Farm but had passed Mr Oak at the side of a narrow lane, mending fences.
Evie sent Louis César a pleading expression and he sighed, jumping down after her.
Mr Oak looked up in surprise as Florence ran up to him, with Louis close behind.
“Miss Knight?”
“Don’t you, Miss Knight me! where is Henry?”
Mr Oak’s expression darkened as he realised he was being accused of something and Louis stepped in hurriedly.
“Mr Oak, forgive us for interrupting your work, but we believe Mr Stanhope may be in danger.”
“Oh, he knows,” Florence said, vibrating with anger as Mama pulled her back and hushed her.
Mr Oak’s anger seemed to evaporate to something closer to concern and, despite his brusque manner, Evie could not believe he would hurt Mr Stanhope. The two men had appeared to her to be friends.
“I told him not to meddle with things he didn’t understand,” Mr Oak muttered. “What’s happened?”
As no one else seemed capable of speaking without accusing Mr Oak of wrongdoing, Louis ploughed on. “Miss Knight was attacked by Susan Cooper this morning. Miss Cooper tied Miss Knight up and held her captive. Happily, we found her, as you see. Miss Cooper spoke of a man though, someone she referred to as the devil, and how
he had gone too far. We know Henry suspected Joe Foster of involvement, but we have been to the church and there is no sign of Foster or Henry, nor Mr Knight and St Clair, who were with him.”
“My father and St Clair went to the village to ask if anyone had seen my sister, or Mr Foster, but the vicar said Henry wasn’t with them,” Evie added desperately. She was horribly afraid someone was going to get hurt and, if they had to waste any more time driving about looking for people, she might run mad.
Mr Oak ran a hand through his unruly black hair. He had been hard at work mending a broken fence and had taken off his coat. His cravat had also been discarded, exposing a strong, tanned throat and the suggestion of wiry hair on his chest. His waistcoat hung open and his sleeves were rolled up to show powerful forearms also covered with dark hair. Despite her anxiety, Evie could not help but stare, fascinated by such a rare display of masculine virility. Most men would never be seen without their coat, let alone in such disarray. Evie had certainly never seen anyone dressed so. She wondered vaguely if Louis César was built in the same fashion beneath his elegant attire, but chased the thought away. There was no time for such frivolous meanderings. Though she doubted there was much that her father could not handle she still worried for him, and for Henry too, for Florence loved him and was clearly worried sick.
“Has anyone been back to the Hall?” Mr Oak asked, to which they all shook their heads. “Right. We’ll start there. It’s an ancient old place that hides secrets aplenty, by my reckoning. Just because Henry never found a tunnel doesn’t mean no one else did. It would explain that corn doll on his pillow, assuming none of the staff are involved.”
“Could they be?” Evie asked as they all hurried back to the carriage.
Mr Oak shrugged on his coat before climbing in after them. “I don’t reckon so. I know everyone who works at the Hall, and they’re all decent folk. I don’t know of any grudges against Henry.”
“And what about you, Mr Oak?” Florence asked, folding her arms and glaring at him.
The carriage fell silent, the sudden jerk and sway a little disconcerting as the horses moved forward, making the prickling atmosphere even more uncomfortable.
Mr Oak stared back at Florence unblinking. “I know you don’t like me, Miss Knight, though I don’t know what I’ve done to offend you. I’ve no pretty manners, I suppose, and I don’t like to talk if I’ve naught to say, but I don’t reckon that’s an offense. All I can tell you is that Henry is my friend, and if he’s got himself in bother, I mean to help him out of it. That’s all.”
“I’m sure my daughter meant no offense,” Mama said and, from the way Florence jolted, Evie suspected she’d delivered a pinch to induce an apology.
Florence merely set her jaw.
“Aye, she did,” Mr Oak said, though there was a glimmer of amusement in his dark eyes. “But she’s worried for Henry, and I’ve a thick skin, so I’m told. Reckon I’ll wear her dislike right enough.”
Florence held her tongue, stubborn to the last, but Evie knew her sister and she saw the glimmer of doubt in her eyes. If she were wrong, which Evie fervently hoped she was, she would be quick to apologise to Mr Oak. One of the nicest things about Florence was that she never held a grudge. She would always acknowledge if she’d made a mistake and apologise. Evie could only hope that would be soon, preferably after they’d found Henry in one piece. Many girls longed for adventure and excitement, but Evie was not one of them. She much preferred the idea of everyone safe and sound, and thoroughly disliked the stress and anxiety that had made her heart thud in her chest all the time Florence had been missing. It was starting up again now as worry for Henry made her chest tight. She fisted her hands in her skirts and drew in a deep breath, trying to calm herself.
“Courage, ma biche.”
The murmured French was barely audible over the rumble of the carriage, but Evie turned to see Louis César’s bright blue eyes watching her. They were an incredible shade, so vividly blue it was hard to look away from them. Evie had heard descriptions of the Mediterranean sea and hoped to see for herself one day. She wondered if the two colours were comparable. His gaze was placid, reassuring, and much of the tension left her shoulders. Louis did not appear worried, and he had led her straight to Florence this morning. If he was confident all would be well, then so was she. She let out a breath and put up her chin. Everything would be all right.
Something was very wrong. Someone had pulled the expensive bed hangings down in Henry’s mother’s old room. They had left them in a heap on the bed and, from the strong smell of alcohol permeating the room, doused them in brandy. Whoever it was clattering about in Henry’s room was intending to set the place alight. Saxenhurst’s ancient timber frame and extensive wood panelling would go up like dry tinder. Henry cursed under his breath, silently creeping to the window. It opened it without so much as a squeak of protest and Henry could only be grateful the place had been well kept in his absence. He hurried to the bed and swept up the bed hangings, returning to dump the lot out of the window. The crashing about in his bedroom paused, and Henry held his breath until he heard it recommence. It sounded like someone was ransacking the drawers.
Henry moved as softly as he was able, trying to remember which floorboards creaked as he made his way to the door. It was not latched, and he pushed it open a crack. The man he remembered from the graveyard was inside. He had a large hessian sack, which he was busy filling with anything that looked valuable. The man’s dirty hands reached for a cravat pin Henry had left on his dressing table. He turned it this way and that, watching the light glint on the emerald set in the golden mount. It had been a present from Henry’s parents on his twenty-first birthday, one of the few gifts he’d ever received from their hands. Most had been posted from some foreign shore or other, usually arriving long after the big day. He wondered how many birthdays they’d missed, how many childish triumphs they’d never celebrated. Too many to count, for both him and Harriet. It was a melancholy thought, though not one that hurt as it once had. It had been their loss as much as his and his sister’s, and at least they’d had each other, and the St Clair family. The old earl had been more a father to Henry than his own had ever been.
Though he ought to have more pressing matters on his mind, Henry made a vow to himself. If ever he should be fortunate enough to have a family with Florence, he would always be present in their lives. He would not keep distance between them, not even to protect himself. Loving her was a risk, a risk that made his heart tremble at the knowledge she could hurt him more than anyone he’d ever met, far more than Lily had managed. Lily had humiliated him and left a bruise that had lingered for too many years after. She had made him distrustful of women, even of himself, but that was over now. He could not protect his heart without becoming a lonely old man, and he could not bear that. Even knowing that a betrayal from Florence would destroy him, he would risk everything for her. With the benefit of maturity he could see now that Lily and Florence were nothing alike. Lily had been superficially beautiful, shallow, and ambitious. Florence’s beauty was not all on the surface, it ran deep, down to a loving heart and a beautiful soul. He loved her to her bones, and no amount of denying it would save him now. So he may as well live it to the full, and he fully intended to. Just as soon as he’d dealt with the bastard robbing his house.
He was about to barrel through the door when a soft whimpering sound reached him. Henry turned to see Susan Cooper huddled in the corner, her arms covering her head. Her dress was torn, one sleeve hanging loose, and her forearms were bruised. Henry felt a swell of rage at the way the woman had been abused and… oh, God. If this man had touched Florence, he’d bloody kill him.
On the dressing table which Susan was cowering beside was a pistol. Clearly Foster had put it down and believed Susan so terrified she was no threat to him. Well, that may be true, but it did not apply to Henry. He crept into the room, edging towards the pistol, and Susan looked up with a gasp.
Foster turned around.
/> Florence was beside herself by the time the carriage drew up outside the Hall. Mr Oak and the comte climbed out before any of the ladies could reach the door.
“You should stay here,” Mr Oak commanded, his expression fiercer even than usual.
Florence bristled. Mama glared at him, and even gentle Evie looked a little disgusted.
Ever the diplomat, Louis César qualified the brusque statement. “Until we ascertain all is as it should be.”
“Run along, then,” Mama said, waving them away with a dismissive little sniff.
“Mama!” Florence objected, stunned that her forthright mother would submit to sitting docilely whilst the men attended to business. Mama sent her a quelling look of such ferocity that Florence subsided, wondering what she meant by it.
As soon as the men were out of sight, her mother reached under the carriage seat and slid out a beautiful wooden box. She opened it to reveal two gleaming duelling pistols.
“Careful, it’s loaded,” she said, handing one to Florence.
Mama’s green eyes glittered, and Florence let out a breath.
“I love you, Mama,” she said.
“Of course you do,” her mama replied nonchalantly. “And so you should for the effort I expended in persuading your father to teach you both how to shoot. Do try not to fire at anyone by accident.”
“Don’t I get a pistol?” Evie said indignantly.
“There’s only two, darling, and it’s Florence’s beloved in danger. The next time I promise you may have one.”
“The next time?” Evie squeaked, looking more than a little alarmed. “I am most certainly not marrying the kind of man who gets himself into such dangerous situations.”
Mama’s lips twitched, but she only patted Evie’s knee.
“Of course you won’t, dearest,” she said, her voice soothing.
“The men went in through the front door,” Florence said, as she climbed down from the carriage, hiding the pistol in the voluminous skirts of her gown in case anyone was looking.
Dare it all for Love (Daring Daughters Book 5) Page 18
