by Locke, Laura
“Good.”
They tiptoed away. As Matilda fetched her bonnet and coat and got ready to leave, the anxiety in her chest was at least alleviated by that one thought.
Father will be safe while I am gone.
She let out a weary sigh. Her father would be safe. But would she be?
That was a question to which she had no answer. Thoughts of Alexander flooded her mind: his hand, holding her waist. His body pressed to hers. His mouth, cruel on her lips. His calculating hatred as he gazed at her that night, returned to the ballroom.
I have no idea what he might do.
It seemed she was about to find out. They would leave tomorrow.
Chapter 20
The carriage left early the next morning; just after a light breakfast. Matilda, sitting in the back, felt her stomach clench with worry.
She leaned back on the seat, trying to sleep. Stella sat opposite her, eyelids drooping. Matilda knew she had sat awake with their father through the night and she did not want to burden Stella with the need to stay awake and keep her company. Besides, she didn't want to talk.
He can't actually harm me. Not with Stella around.
Matilda felt her hand tighten into a fist and concentrated on relaxing it, trying to breathe deeply, stilling her racing heart. She had no idea what to expect.
The carriage ride would be an hour. She could only hope that by the end of it, a plan had worked out in her mind.
Father will be safe. But will I? And what of Henry?
Matilda had no idea what she expected him to do, but that cold, glittering-eyed look she had seen him cast on the pair of them was enough to make her blood ice. She had written a note to Henry and entrusted Lucas with delivering it, and she ran through it in her mind.
Dear Henry, she had written. I am going to Warrington on the demands of my mother. Please forgive me. I wish this as little as you can imagine. I have to. Father is safe. Please, please take care. I worry for you. Alexander Dartmoor is a dangerous man. Do not provoke him. Stay safe. Your loving friend, Matilda.
She was fairly sure that, even were Lucas to read it, he would think nothing of it. He and Pauline knew of the love she had for Henry – they had not hidden it, after all. Even their parents knew, though her mother did not approve.
And now Mama was forcing this matter of Alexander.
From visiting his home, it was a small step to marriage. It was conventional. Everyone would see this invitation and take it as good as writing: “Engagement coming soon”.
“Whoa!” the carriage-driver called out, cutting into her thoughts. They slowed and took a bend carefully, swinging past the field where she had ridden with Henry; where, those years ago, they had kissed and plighted their love.
I cannot do this.
She closed her eyes, afraid she would weep. If she had never met Henry; if she did not believe Alexander had somehow threatened her father's life, she would be content to be guided to marrying him. He was not the man she would choose – in truth, she found him repellant – but she knew it was a secure future and a good choice.
But he is a would-be killer and I love someone else.
The wretchedness of that made her want to cry again, so she clamped her lip between her teeth and forced her mind to think of other things. Lucas, and his forbidden affection for Miss LeCrecy. Their cousin, and the surprising care she showed their father. Even Mother, so excited, rushing about to help her choose her gowns.
I'm going to miss them.
She looked out of the window, watching the gray and green landscape draw back beneath a gray and white covered sky.
It was slightly over an hour until the coach slowed, going up a gentle rise. She saw it.
Warrington House.
Tall, imposing, built centuries before with its stern, high walls and tall, Elizabethan-style roof, the place practically yelled “wealth”. Anyone visiting it would be forgiven for imagining that the family was as wealthy as any in the land. Matilda reserved her judgment on that score as they rolled into the white gravel drive, the coach-wheels crunching on stone.
“My lady!”
A footman appeared to help her from the coach, and she almost laughed as Stella suddenly woke and found herself looking through the open door into his face.
“Eek! Oh, beg pardon!” she said, looking at Matilda, somewhere between horror and laughter. “I thought we was robbed!”
“Oh, Stella,” Matilda laughed. She felt glad she had come along – her candid reaction was just what she had needed.
She allowed the man to help her down, then crunched resolutely over the gravel and up to the vast edifice that was Lord Epworth's house.
“Good afternoon, my lady,” he said, walking down the steps to greet her. “An honor to have you here.” He put his hand on her shoulder and looked at her face. “Why! I declare. You are even lovelier than you were. Though I can see you have been worrying about your father. You look pale. Come, inside. We have set out some light refreshment for you, for I am certain you are famished after the journey...”
“I am quite well, thank you,” Matilda said quietly, though she was following him at a brisk pace up the steps and she did not know if he heard. She paused, checking Stella was following along.
Inside, she stopped and looked around. The entrance foyer was vast, the ceiling, as in most houses from that time, extending right up to the top of the house, a soaring dome over the stairs the led up to the upper rooms. The ballroom extended to her left – built in the central wing of the house, the ceiling again reaching up to the roof. She could just glimpse a gallery for performers and the white marble floor, candles in chandeliers reaching down from the roof.
My, but this place is grand.
“Welcome, my lady.”
“Thank you, my lord. You're kind.”
He turned to face her fully. Lifted her hand to his mouth.
“I am not kind, my lady. I am sure I am quite conniving. Having you to myself is selfish, not good.”
Matilda looked into those black eyes, wishing she believed him. He was so good at saying the right thing. If only it were also true!
“Thank you, my lord,” she said quietly. He kissed her hand and she withdrew it.
“Now, then,” he said briskly. “We should show you to your quarters. I have assigned the rooms in the East wing to you...we have a suite for guests there, though I hope it is too your liking...Father had it done over a few years ago, and I trust it is modern enough to appeal...”
Matilda tried to keep up with him as he hurried up the steps ahead of her. She put her hand on her heart, tired after the long journey.
“Alexander, I...” she called up.
“What?”
“I am tired, my lord. My heart. I...” she trailed off. It was an excuse to have some time alone, but at that moment it did not feel like one. Her heart was thudding in her chest, painfully. She really did need to sit down.
“Come,” he said, suddenly gentle. He climbed down the stairs and stood beside her. “I am sorry. It's so good to have you here that my manners have been discarded. Forgive me.”
“Nothing to forgive,” she murmured courteously. Tense as he slid his arm through hers, she let him lead her up the stairs to her new chamber. Her prison, as she couldn't help but think about it.
“My maid?” she asked, when they paused outside the door.
“She is coming,” he said reassuringly. “I think Haddon took her to the kitchen for tea. You're quite safe.”
Matilda looked up at him, feeling flustered. “I didn't mean...” she began weakly.
“You didn't mean you minded being alone with a strange man in your quarters?” he said, a smile touching his mouth. “Well, that is nice.”
Before she could stop him, he stroked her hair and brought his lips to hers. She struggled, but his arms were strong around her and she could not stop him plundering her mouth with his.
“My lady,” he said, releasing her. He looked a little wildly at her, pupils dila
ted with longing.
“Please,” Matilda whispered. “I'm weary.”
“Of course,” he said. “I shall go.”
Without saying a word, he turned and headed briskly off down the stairs. She heard him up the hallway, talking with the butler, directing him to bring the cases – and Stella – to her chambers.
Matilda went through the door. The room was decorated in creamy silk – the walls silk-covered and the bed with silken hangings. The floor was intricately patterned; parquet cut in diamond-shapes, laid out in a circular design. She lay back on the bed, feeling the smooth coverlet slide beneath her linen dress.
She closed her eyes.
They certainly seem to have a great deal of wealth. Perhaps the rumors are lies. In which case...
In which case, perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps all this fanciful stuff about her father being poisoned was just that. Fanciful stuff.
In which case there is no reason not to marry the man.
She wiped her mouth, wishing the memory of his kisses was easily erased. She shivered.
I cannot imagine intimacy with him.
She blushed to think of it. But she had to. If she was truly to marry him, they would do...those things. And the thought made her feel horrible. Actually doing any of it was absolutely unthinkable. She thought of his hands on her waist, his body thrust toward hers, his mouth, hard and probing...She swallowed, retching dryly. She had no idea why he revolted her: he was handsome, charming, thoughtful when he wanted something. But he frightened her.
“Milady?” Stella's voice cut through her thoughts. “Oh! Milady! You feel sick?”
“No, Stella,” Matilda dismissed her worry gently. “I am just weary. I will rest.”
“Of course, milady. The butler said luncheon's at noon.”
“Thank you. I'll sleep now,” Matilda said tiredly. “Wake me in time to dress for luncheon?”
“Very good, madam.”
Matilda closed her eyes. She had no idea why, but simply being anywhere near Alexander made her feel so terribly weary. She suspected she wanted to avoid him, which was why she wanted to sleep. Or mayhap, like a small dog, she slept because she was too sad and scared to do aught else.
When Stella shook her shoulder she was drifting in a nightmare. In it, Alexander rode away from her home, glaring as he rode past her on the path. He had left a cannon in their house, she realized, primed and lit, ready to go off. As she ran back towards Braxton to warn her sister, Stella called her.
“Milady? Time to dress.”
“Mm? Yes, Stella,” she said, sitting up and wiping sleep from her eyes.
As Stella restyled her hair, she thought about the dream. That day in the woods, when she had seen Alexander, what had he been doing. It was clear he had been at Braxton. But why?
What had he left there?
As Stella combed out her locks, she recalled something. Her blood chilled. Lucas had received new accounts.
He said they were from London, but were they? How could he be sure? Had Mr. Merridew brought them? Had anyone seen him? Asked if he had sent those books in truth?
It was the books that showed Father was ruined. What if they were falsified?
As she thought it, Matilda decided she had to find out. Those books would be the proof. They just had to, somehow, show they were not real.
“Milady?” Stella asked, “Will you wear the blue dinner-dress, or the yellow?”
“The blue, please, Stella,” Matilda said quietly. “And Stella?”
“Yes, milady?”
“Could you arrange for a message to be taken to Pauline? This afternoon?”
“Very well, milady,” Stella said, though she looked surprised.
Matilda felt her heart pound with excitement.
They had their first real clue. She just had to find a way of getting word to Pauline. Without anyone else finding out.
Chapter 21
That evening, feeling restless, Matilda decided to take action. She was sitting in the drawing room, playing cards with Alexander.
“Ha! I score again,” he said, raking in the cards. “My lady? You aren't concentrating on the game.”
Matilda nodded, lowering her hand of cards. “No, I'm not,” she admitted. “I'm sorry, my lord, but I feel terribly weary. It was the coach-ride...so bumpy and uncomfortable. I'm worn out, I'm afraid,” she said with a little laugh.
Matilda, if anyone ever tells you otherwise, remember: you're a dreadful actor. She grimaced.
“My lady, I am sorry,” Alexander said smoothly. He set his cards aside, a frown of concern on his handsome face. He was wearing a black velvet dinner-jacket and looked quite stunning. Matilda wished, in that moment, she could trust him.
“Don't be sorry,” she whispered. “I should lie down,” she added, glancing at the clock. It was an hour before dinner, and if she was quick about it, she could search through the house and perhaps find something. A sample of handwriting, a discarded blotter with evidence he had written those books...an incriminating note. Anything that might help prove he did it. She looped her fingers together nervously.
“Of course, my lady,” he added. He, too, glanced at the clock. “It is an hour before dinner, and I think we should eat early. Then you can go to bed and sleep.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Matilda whispered hollowly. “I'll lie down now.”
“Very good, my lady. Haddon?”
“Yes, my lord?” the butler replied, appearing as if by magic through the door.
“See the lady to her chambers. Make sure she's undisturbed.”
“Very good my lord,” the man said, bowing low. “This way, milady,” he added to Matilda, who had stood and, wavering a little, walked forward to join him.
Acting ill was no hardship whatsoever – Matilda felt weary, and the thought of looking around the house made her feel sick with anxiety. She walked slowly beside the butler who, if he were questioned, would be able to report she was very tired indeed.
Once she was alone in her chambers, she felt herself suddenly come sharply awake. The fear mixed with resolved and she stiffened her spine, shivering with anticipation.
She opened the door a crack and peered around. The hallway, carpeted and vaulted, was untraveled.
“Off I go,” she whispered to herself. She took in a shaky breath and tiptoed into the hallway.
A crash from downstairs made her jump. She raced off up the hallway, terror giving her feet wings.
“You daft woman!” he heard the butler's voice saying. “That's the salver done for...”
She sighed. A maidservant had dropped part of the dinner-ware. That was all.
I'm so jumpy! I should relax.
Taking in another deep breath, she carried on.
She tried to recall the layout of the place from when Alexander showed her around earlier. He hadn't actually taken her anywhere besides to the parlor and the drawing room and then to her chambers, but he had gestured down the hallway to her left, saying the family's sleeping chambers were that direction.
At least I think it was the left. The West Wing. That's right.
Breathing through a tight throat, she headed there.
The door creaked open as she crossed over the gallery and into the west wing. The house was very old, the gallery smelling of dust and wood. She shivered, thinking of all the Dartmoor ancestors who had lived here, probably all watching her at that moment. She dismissed the thought.
If they are watching, I'm sure they're on my side. They wouldn't condone murder.
At least she hoped not. She walked up the corridor and towards the bedchambers.
She tiptoed past the first one. Decked in blue silk, the floor magnificently-designed, she assumed that was the main bedchamber. The duke was away on business, she recalled Alexander saying, so she did not have to worry over bumping into him. She tiptoed past the next room, which was decorated in cerise-red.
The room on her left, she guessed, was Alexander's own. It was decorated in cream, just a
shade closer to yellow than her chambers. She looked around fitfully and headed inside.
The room was fairly normal: Large bed with silk hangings, silk-papered walls, a vast wardrobe on one wall, a washstand by the bed, and over by the window a dark wooden desk.
Matilda headed towards it.
Holding her breath, she lifted the blotting-paper that lay across the parchments and letters on the desk, and started to read.
“Dear Son,” she read aloud from a letter. “I am writing to inform you that I'm safely returned to the town. No fears on that account. The house is much as you had left it...” she trailed off. Nothing too interesting there. At least, if it was interesting, it might have to wait until she'd more time.
The next one was a copy addressed to a Mr. Perkin and appeared to be requesting fittings for a new suit. “...for I will ensure payment of a partial sum of that which we owe yet...” she read.
That was some indication, no matter how small, that they were struggling financially. She felt a small glow of triumph. She put the letter aside.
“Dear Harris,” she read on the next one, which happened to be the last letter on the desk. “I assure you that the coach is in marvelous order. You must come to visit us someday. The hunting in the country is excellent, and...”
She let it drop, hearing something in the hallway. Footsteps? She paused. Let out a breath. Probably just imagination.
“I'll just check the drawers and...”
“Lady Matilda!” a voice said behind her. It did not sound angry; not quite. It was surprised, yes, but bland and neutral. Her blood froze.
“L...lord Epworth!” she cried. “I...”
“I thought you were resting,” he said, “and then I find you here? What are you doing?”
“I...” she wanted to cry. To run. To scream in fright. “I was just...Oh! I'm so, so sorry,” she said, then burst into tears.
“Matilda,” he said, walking to her. He took her in his arms and she did not flinch away; relieved that he was embracing her and not doing any worse. “Please, be calm. I didn't want to scare you.”
“It's not...” she sobbed. “Oh, Alexander! I should have asked you...” her mind, working furiously, had come up with an excuse.
