by Joyce Alec
What had he done once he had enjoyed a few dances at the ball? Where had he gone? Yes, he had partaken of a few glasses of ratafia, but nothing more than that. Had he gone to the card room? Or the gardens?
“Yes.”
The word was hissed through clenched teeth as pain sliced through his head all over again. Yes, he remembered, he had gone out to the gardens with a few of his friends, but thereafter, he could not recall a single thing. It was very odd and most unsettling. Peter had only done such a thing once before, some years ago when he had been a young man in London—and he had vowed never to do so again. Now, some years later, he had a sense of pride that he had never once allowed himself to become so incapacitated by liquor and was utterly astonished—and rather disappointed—that he had done such a thing again and without any memory of doing so.
Blinking rapidly, Peter finally made out the small sources of light which lit up the room. One was a small candle that looked near to sputtering out, whilst the other was a long, heavy curtain with a couple of small chinks of light peeking through. Surely, then, Peter realized, it must be daytime or, at the very least, early dawn? Was he in his own house? He could not be, he realized, attempting to drag himself towards the curtain, else they would have attended him by now. Which therefore meant that he must still be in Lord Winter’s home, unless he had foolishly gone somewhere else in the midst of his drinking.
The pain in his head redoubled as he reached the curtain and attempted to throw it back. Light poured into the room, forcing his eyes to squeeze shut as the brilliance hit them. He had not expected the day to be so bright.
“Get up,” he told himself firmly, gritting his teeth and opening his eyes again. Squinting feebly, he wished that he could just lie back down and disappear into oblivion until the pain in his head had gone away. His limbs shook with weakness as he pushed himself upwards, grasping onto the curtain and then onto the window sill for support. His fingers squeezed hard as they held him there, helping him to find his balance. His eyes were fixed on the floor, his breathing coming in uneven gasps as he remained standing, his fingers finally loosening on the window sill.
Reaching up with careful fingers, Peter pushed back the other side of the curtain and allowed the light to flood the room behind him. The sun was warm and he leaned into the light, letting it wash over him and finding some relief from it. Drawing in three long breaths, Peter turned around to look at the room where he had clearly fallen asleep at some point last evening.
He frowned. There was nothing within the room save for a thin mattress in the corner with a musty blanket on top, two large chairs which were sitting next to each other by the empty grate, and, in front of them, a small box. A closed wooden door was to his left and Peter felt himself flush with the shame of having to stumble from this room and into whoever’s home this might be. How he was going to explain himself, Peter had very little idea. Clearly, he was somewhere within someone’s townhouse and, most likely, in rooms near the attic. Why had he come here? And why had he come alone? It was most unusual and certainly not in the least bit like him to behave so.
“Foolish,” he muttered aloud, turning his head cautiously to look across the rest of the room. There was nothing there. It was all rather odd, truth be told, and Peter had the unsettling feeling that he needed to leave this place just as soon as he could. The sooner he did, the less chance he would have of being discovered.
Muttering under his breath, Peter took in a long breath, set his shoulders, and then made his way carefully towards the door. Relieved that he managed to walk in a straight line, he set his shoulders and reached for the handle—only to find it locked tight.
Panic set his heart hammering furiously in his chest. He had no idea where he was or what he was doing here and now, it seemed, someone had left him locked up in this room. He could not even imagine what would bring someone to do such a thing, wondering if he had done something so truly awful that he had been thrown in here until he sobered up and could be reckoned with. Shame burned within him, sending heat crashing down over him. Trying the door again, he pushed at it, hard, but found that it remained entirely unwilling to move.
Closing his eyes, Peter forced himself to breathe steadily and not allow fright to overwhelm him. It was rather unsettling to wake up without any knowledge of what he had done or why he was here, but surely, very soon, someone would come and open the door to him to explain precisely why they had kept him within.
Shaking his head—and then immediately regretting doing so what with the explosion of agony that came with such an action—Peter wandered back towards the two chairs and carefully lowered himself down into one. His fingers twined together as he looked out towards the window, trying to think of what he should do next.
Nothing came to him. He was, for the moment, quite stuck. The door would not open to him and, from the view out the window, he appeared to be quite high up, which meant he could not open the window and climb out. A small groan escaped from him as he ran one hand across his forehead, wondering just how much of his current predicament was his own fault. He had not behaved well, mayhap, and therefore was reaping the consequences of such discourteous behavior. Sighing, Peter let his gaze travel about the rest of the room. There was nothing for him to do but wait for whoever had put him in here to open the door and allow him his freedom. Frowning, Peter swallowed hard, feeling the dryness of his mouth and wishing that they had thought to leave him something to drink. His throat felt like sand; his mouth filled with dust. Just how much liquor had he taken in last night?
His eyes fell to the small wooden box on the floor by his feet. He frowned. It was rather an odd item for someone to leave within the room, directly in front of where he would be sitting. What did it contain?
For some minutes, Peter fought the urge to reach down and open the box, telling himself that he had done more than enough already. To open the box and look inside would simply be yet one more thing that would count against him, for surely this was a private item and did not belong to him. He had no right to look inside, but as the minutes passed, Peter felt the desire to open the box growing steadily.
With a groan of frustration, he reached down and grasped the box, closing his eyes for a moment against the wave of dizziness that swept over him as he sat back up. The wooden box was plain, with no ornate carvings or anything jeweled pressed into it. It sat quietly on his lap, the plainness of it shouting at him and stoking his curiosity all the more.
Lifting the lid slowly, Peter felt his anticipation grow suddenly until the lid was thrust back completely, revealing—much to his disappointment—nothing more than a single piece of paper.
He frowned, looking at it and finding himself rather frustrated that there was nothing more interesting within. Most likely, someone had left a note here regarding what to do with the box itself. He did not need to read it. He should close the lid, set the box down, and wait patiently for whoever was holding him here to allow him his freedom.
Unfortunately, Peter’s curiosity was not that easily satisfied. He found himself reaching for the paper and opening it quickly even though he was berating himself for doing so. The paper was thin and rather cheaply made, although the writing itself was clear.
Peter read it and felt his entire world begin to crumble around him. Hair stood up on the back of his neck, a shiver running over every inch of his skin as he looked at what was held within.
Resume your court with Miss Ophelia Grey, Marchmont. Propose. Marry her. Else your brother shall bear the consequences of your failure. No one else is to know of this note and what it contains. Consider this fair warning.
His brother? Peter’s dulled mind tried to make sense of what he had read, his heart beating furiously within him. His brother? Edward had not been seen in two years, having left for the continent in order to inspect and protect his interests there that had been left to him by their late father. From his letters, Peter knew that his brother was doing quite well and had no particular intention of returning to
England in the near future—so why would he be used in such a manner now? This threat could not mean anything, surely? Edward was not even in England, which meant that Peter did not have to worry about either him or this strange threat.
His heart still pounding furiously, Peter folded up the note again, determined not to allow it to penetrate his heart and mind. This was nothing more than a foolish prank. Surely someone had thought it would be a jolly good laugh to see him so upset and frustrated. Most likely, the door would soon be opened to reveal one or two of Peter’s companions, either laughing or irritated that Peter had not given in to their pretense in any way whatsoever. It could not be real.
As he was about to put the letter down, Peter’s breath suddenly caught as his eyes found something small that had been resting at the bottom of the box. Peter had not seen it before when he had taken out the letter, but he saw the truth of it now, feeling his heart hammering furiously as he lifted it from the box. It was a small ring with a gold band and a small, square-cut emerald that rested on top. This was the ring that his brother wore on the last finger of his left hand. Edward had always done so, ever since he had been given it by their father. It was something of a family heirloom, although Peter had never once felt any jealousy over the fact that Edward had been given it instead of himself. His hand trembled as he lifted it high, looking to see if the ring was real, but something within him told him that it was so. This was Edward’s ring—which meant that this note had to be given more weight than Peter had first thought.
His hand trembled as he grasped the note again, unfolding it with one hand and letting his gaze run down the page. Miss Grey? What did she have to do with all of this? They had courted in the first few weeks of the Season, for he had found her fairly pleasant with sharp, green eyes that had caught his attention whenever they lingered on him, but there had been nothing more substantial than that. He had found her a little too loudly spoken, with a harshness and bluntness about her conversation that he had disliked. She was also very intelligent and seemed to care a great deal about extending her knowledge in almost every subject instead of improving her painting or her needlework. Having not expected this from a young lady such as Miss Grey, Peter had chosen to step back from her and had felt relief in doing so. Why were they being pushed together now? Why did this unknown stranger wish for them to be not only courting but wed? If he married Miss Grey, then would his brother be safe? Would he be able to see him again? And just what would he do if Miss Grey refused to accept his court again?
Panic was rising up within him and Peter dropped his head down low between his knees, the box clattering to the floor as he held the note and the ring in one hand. Closing his eyes tightly, he forced another breath as he tried to find a way to calm himself. To lose his composure now would not do, for it would only make his situation a good deal worse.
Letting out another long, slow breath, Peter opened his eyes and lifted his head, ready to try and find a way forward.
And then, he saw it.
The door.
It was now wide open, having been unlocked by someone he had not seen, someone he had not heard. All he had to do now was leave the room and his freedom would be returned to him.
On unsteady feet, Peter began to make his way to the door, feeling sweat trickle down his spine. His stomach was twisting this way and that, his nerves stretched taut. Who was behind all this? And what, exactly, did they want?
2
“Really, Ophelia, must you behave with such a lack of decorum?”
Ophelia closed her eyes tightly and let out a slow breath in an attempt to keep her composure. “I said nothing offensive, Aunt.”
Lady Sharrow made a small, unbelieving noise in the back of her throat, her stiff back an indication that she was not at all pleased with what Ophelia had chosen to say in front of Lord Rutledge. Ophelia said nothing more, choosing instead to reach for and eat a small honey cake that remained on the table in front of her. She had no regard for Lord Rutledge and when he had stated, quite clearly, that all young ladies were, in his opinion, to be considered in much the same way as he might consider a good breeding mare, Ophelia had been unable to prevent herself from speaking her mind in a most indelicate manner. Of course, Lady Sharrow, who had been sitting to Ophelia’s right, had stiffened at once as Ophelia had begun to speak, her sharp, brown eyes flashing in Ophelia’s direction in an attempt to prevent her from continuing, but it had done no good. Ophelia had told Lord Rutledge that, as far as she was concerned, gentlemen who believed such things should be pushed as far outside of society as possible, for to consider and to treat young ladies in such a manner showed a lack of intelligence—and that, of course, was not at all a desirable trait. She had seen the way Lord Rutledge’s expression had grown dark, his jaw set firm as he realized what she was implying and, of course, he had quickly taken his leave thereafter.
Ophelia had been glad to see him go, thinking that his manner and his speech were both entirely unlikeable. Lady Sharrow, however, was still despairing over Ophelia entirely, which came as very little surprise.
“You shall have no other gentlemen in London willing to so much as look at you again, Ophelia!” Lady Sharrow exclaimed, turning from the window to regard her niece again. “I am doing my very best for you, child, can you not see that?”
Ophelia, who knew very well that her aunt was, in her own way, doing all she could to ensure that Ophelia was settled and married soon, tried to show some sort of appreciation. “I know you are, Aunt, but surely you cannot think that I would care for anyone so prestigiously boring and so entirely loathsome?” She held her aunt’s gaze and saw, with relief, the slight loosening of her aunt’s shoulders and the way she sighed heavily as she came to sit by Ophelia again.
“I suppose that even I must admit that Lord Rutledge was both loathsome and lacking in intelligence,” Lady Sharrow said slowly, not looking at Ophelia but rather allowing her gaze to travel around the room. “It is just that I am seeking to do what your own mother would have wished me to do, Ophelia.”
Ophelia’s heart lurched at the mention of her late mother, who had passed some six years ago when Ophelia had been only a child. Her father, Viscount Harrington, had gone to the continent two years later in an attempt to escape from his lingering sorrow and grief but had left Ophelia in the care of Lady Sharrow, his sister. She had not seen her father since, even though he wrote faithfully each and every month.
“I know my father is grateful for your care and consideration,” Ophelia said quietly, seeing Lady Sharrow sigh heavily. “And I know that he will not hold it against either yourself or Lord Sharrow if my uncle chooses not to return to London next Season.”
Lady Sharrow sat up straight, her eyes widening. “Good gracious, Ophelia! Do not say that you have given up all hope already? We have the remainder of this Season to find you another gentleman to court you and, thereafter, the little Season.”
Ophelia’s heart began to sink to her toes. “I do not mind if I remain a spinster, Aunt. I am quite certain my father would not care particularly also.”
“In that, you are quite mistaken,” Lady Sharrow replied with alacrity. “Your father writes to Lord Sharrow very frequently, reminding him that your only aim in life should be to marry—and to marry well.”
Ophelia swallowed hard, aware that her father had never mentioned such a thing to her in his letters but realizing that it was, clearly, her father’s intention for her to marry. It was somewhat frustrating, being told that she ought to do this or that by the gentleman she had not laid eyes on in years, but Ophelia knew that it was what she ought to be considering with almost every day that passed. Despite this, the thought of marrying someone such as Lord Rutledge—for there were a good many like him within the beau monde—made her heart sore. She could not tie herself to a fool such as that. No, it was quite impossible.
“I think I shall take a short walk, Aunt,” Ophelia said, getting to her feet and hoping that this would bring an end to their conversat
ion. “If you will permit me?”
Lady Sharrow waved a hand and shook her head. “If you have no other expected calls?”
Ophelia hid a smile and kept her expression entirely blank. “No, I do not believe that I have, Aunt.” She heard her aunt sigh heavily, her displeasure evident, but Ophelia did not allow it to rile her. She was not like every other young lady of the ton was and therefore, she knew, did not make things particularly easy for her aunt. It could not be helped, however, for Ophelia was not about to tie herself to an idiotic and lackluster gentleman simply because it would bring her aunt some sort of relief and gladness.
“Then ensure that you take Mary with you,” Lady Sharrow stated, referring to one of the maids. “Unless you wish to take the carriage?”
Ophelia shook her head. “No, I do not think I will require it. It is a fine day and I think I may stroll to the bookshop before I return home.”
“Mayhap you will meet someone within who might finally capture your attention,” her aunt murmured, sounding somewhat despondent. “For surely it must be intelligent gentlemen who visit bookshops, must it not?”
Ophelia did not reply, hearing the trace of irony in her aunt’s voice and choosing not to respond to it. Slipping out of the room, she hurried to prepare herself so that she might escape the confines of the house for a time.
The bookshop was quiet, just as Ophelia had expected. The hustle and bustle of the London street faded, the quietness of the shop bringing a peace to Ophelia’s heart. This place had been her refuge, from the very first time she had come to London some three years ago. Back then, she had been as equally determined not to allow her heart and mind to be captured by some charming gentleman who held no true regard for her as she was now, much to her aunt’s chagrin. As she had made her way through the London Season, as she had returned to it again and again, Ophelia had found her determination fixed. She could not marry someone such as Lord Rutledge, who clearly cared very little and thought even less of the fair sex. Nor could she consider someone as dull and as staid as Lord Marchmont.
