Daring Lords and Ladies

by Emily Murdoch

  “Drink this.” Hunt tipped the glass toward her lips. “And then explain what occurred.”

  “Someone—master—be in—the miss’s room—when I gits here.”

  “A man?” Remmington prompted. “Did you see him? Could you tell us who might be the culprit?”

  The maid sipped again. “No, sir. Grabbed me from behind. Placed a stinking rag—over me mouth and nose. ’Tempted to fights him—but I took to dizzy. When I’s wake—I be tied in the miss’s wardrobe. No latch to git out.”

  “We must search the house and the estate,” Remmington declared. “Do we know what time it was when Miss Lovelace returned to her quarters?”

  Lovelace shook his head. “I am not certain, but I would estimate a little before ten. The Countess of Gunnimore said Angelica exited from the music room perhaps five minutes prior to the gentlemen joining the ladies.”

  Hunt scowled. “Nearly twelve hours. I should speak to the duke. We will require additional men.”

  Remmington was on the move. “I will set the servants to searching the house. If Miss Lovelace’s abductor overcame her by the same means as he did the maid, Miss Lovelace could be unconscious in one of the unused rooms.”

  “I will see to the horses,” Lovelace declared. “We must search the grounds.”

  Hunt knew the man was thinking of Newsome’s body floating in the tarn. Hunt had an image of Angelica’s lovely form caught in the bushes along the lake. “Where do we begin?” he said. He felt overwhelmed by the magnitude of the search. “We possess no leads.”

  “We must do something,” Remmington insisted. “We cannot simply wait around...”

  There was no need for Remmington to speak what was on his mind. Hunt held like fears. Simply wait around for news of Miss Lovelace’s demise. The thought made it hard for Hunt to breathe. “I will meet you in the stables as quickly as I can arrange for someone to tend Beca and for me to report to the duke.”

  “Someone must have seen or heard something unusual,” Lovelace reasoned.

  Hunt started for the door. “We can only hope.”

  * * *

  The room reeked of rotten wood and damp earth. Tentatively, Angel lifted her head from where it rested upon her arm. Her captor had left her slumped over in a most awkward position. Her arm and both her legs tingled from lack of use, while her wrists knew the sting of a rope. The interloper had tied her to a post. She wished she could see her surroundings better, but darkness draped the space. With intent, she extended her leg. The toe of her shoe bumped against what appeared to be a barrel or a cask. The item was hard and curved and too heavy for her to tip over with her foot for the object was set just inches beyond from her full reach.

  Angel wrestled her way to a seated position. A dull, throbbing headache, one worse than the headache, which had driven her to her room, remained. Her mouth felt dry, but her gown was damp. She rested her forehead against the post, attempting to clear her thinking.

  “The devil!” she whispered. “What a cat’s claw!” Someone had rendered her unconscious and dumped her in a ...

  “In a what?” she grumbled. With a groan of desperation, she tugged upon the ropes binding her wrists, but the knot refused to give. “Fustian!” she whined. “What am I to do?”

  * * *

  Devilfoard paled when Hunt delivered the news of Angelica’s disappearance. Hunt would not admit it aloud, but the pained expression upon the duke’s countenance shook Hunt to his core.

  “What else do we know?” his father demanded as he rang for Mr. Strasser.

  “Not much,” Hunt explained. “Miss Lovelace’s maid spoke of a foul-smelling rag pressed over her mouth and nose. Remmington suspects some sort of herbal concoction.”

  “Possibly sacred datura or there is a mixture of opium, hemlock, and mandragora, which serves the purpose,” the duke mused. Hunt could recall nothing of the effects of either potion, but he accepted the duke’s guess as logical. “Has anyone spoken to Lord Sandahl?” the duke asked.

  “Why would we speak to Sandahl?” Hunt asked suspiciously.

  His father shook his head in disbelief. “After I foiled Sandahl’s ploy to foist Lady Mathild upon you, the earl threatened me. Said I would know sorrow. Perhaps he saw fit to take revenge on me, as well as his brother, by making Miss Lovelace his victim. I foolishly spoke of Miss Lovelace’s goodness in Sandahl’s presence.”

  Hunt temporized with a hint of susceptibility. “Would you accompany me to question the earl? I do not feel competent in all the intrigues which passed between you.”

  His father squeezed Hunt’s shoulder. “I know it took courage to admit you require assistance. I am proud of you.”

  “Your Grace?” Strasser appeared at the open door.

  “Yes, Strasser. Send word to the stables. We require every able-bodied man prepared to ride in twenty minutes. My men should take their leads from Sir Alexander and Lord Remmington.”

  “Immediately, Your Grace.”

  “Come along, Malvern. We have not much time before we join the others.”

  Hunt followed his father through the twisted passages, but when they reached the suite the Sandahls shared, it was Hunt who knocked.

  Within seconds, the countess’s lady’s maid appeared. “Yes, Your Grace? My lord?”

  “The duke and I wish to speak to Lord Sandahl,” Hunt announced.

  The maid shot a glance behind her. “Lord Sandahl is not within, but the countess can respond to His Grace’s inquiries.” She opened the door wider to admit them.

  Hunt took in the room’s improvement. The door to the bedchamber remained open, and he could see the drapes, as well as the windows, were open to the fresh air.

  The maid gestured to the bedchamber. “This way.”

  Hunt followed his father into the room to discover Lady Sandahl propped against several pillows as she reclined upon a chaise. “Devilfoard. Malvern.” The countess lowered her chin in reverence. “Please pardon my not rising. Although my health is recovering, I am still too weak to stand unsupported.”

  “I am pleased, Countess, to find your countenance returning,” Hunt replied with kindness.

  His father’s eyes scanned the room. “We had hoped to speak to Lord Sandahl.”

  The countess worried her bottom lip with her teeth. “Mathild informed me her father rode out early this morning—after he broke his fast. Is that not correct, Ivy?”

  “Yes, my lady.” The maid placed folded clothes within the drawers of the press.

  Hunt recalled what Angelica had shared regarding the lady’s maid and the woman’s allegiance to Lord Sandahl. “If it would not be an imposition, might we speak to you in private, Countess?”

  Lady Sandahl appeared intrigued by the conundrum before her. “Ivy, would you fetch me some fresh tea?”

  The maid appeared to disapprove, but she responded appropriately with a quick “Certainly,” a curtsey, and a speedy exit.

  “What is amiss, my lord?” the countess asked as the door closed behind the servant.

  Hunt did not know how best to approach the woman. He felt a sense of foreboding enter his heart. “Do you recall your niece’s efforts to assist you several days prior?”

  “The earl does not refer to the girl as a relative, but I am aware of Miss Lovelace’s kindness,” the countess said. “Her notice, and that of the duchess, brought me more tender care.”

  The duke eyed Hunt with something that appeared as encouragement. “This is awkward, Lady Sandahl, but are you aware my father demanded your husband’s withdrawal from Devil’s Keep?” It seemed important to Hunt to define the countess’s involvement in whatever plan Sandahl invented.

  Surprise crossed her expression. “Forgive me, Duke. I do apologize if my husband offered you an offense. Surely that was not Sandahl’s reason for riding out this morning. The earl mentioned nothing to me of your edict, although I am certain my husband meant to protect me from an ugly situation. Is there any service Lord Sandahl might offer to regain your good opin
ion? The earl is not, by nature, an unsympathetic man.”

  Hunt hid the scoff, which rushed to his lips. He noticed his father’s features displayed like thoughts.

  “I doubt, Countess, that is possible.” The duke’s tone softened. “Two nights prior, Lord Sandahl brought your daughter to my quarters to claim a tryst had occurred between Lady Mathild and Malvern. When I objected to this untruth, Sandahl expressed a warning for crossing him.”

  Impatience laced the countess’s voice. “I would never question your word, Duke, but I claim confusion. As much as the earl valued the connection to the McLaughlin family, why would my husband prostrate his daughter’s reputation at your feet? Did Mathild participate in this deception?”

  “Your daughter, ma’am, simply agreed with her father’s assertions,” the duke explained. “As to the reason, I assume Lord Sandahl thought to expedite a marriage to which Malvern disapproves.” His father’s bluntness did not appear to fluster the countess as much as had her husband’s actions. Yet, the duke did enough to blight her spirits.

  The countess blinked back watery tears and lifted startled eyes to Hunt. “Certainly, my lord,” she began with hesitation. “Although I grieve for my daughter’s lost hopes, I am well aware a marriage requires something more than a fabrication as its basis.” Hunt wondered if the woman thought of the disastrous beginnings to her joining. “May I inquire, Lord Malvern, as to why Sandahl thought you would accept Mathild’s word of an assignation? Although I know my daughter can be headstrong when someone thwarts her wishes, such actions would be outside her character.”

  Hunt eyed her with scarcely concealed displeasure. He was not comfortable speaking of the events. “I was not in my quarters when someone dispatched Lord Newsome—” he began, but before he could finish, the countess interrupted his explanation.

  “Dispatched?” Her voice rose in pitch. “Surely you do not mean to say Lord Newsome is ...”

  “Is dead, Countess,” his father supplied. “Strangled and tossed in the lake.” Something in his father’s tone had Hunt inspecting the duke with keen-eyed interest.

  As if startled by the duke’s words, Lady Sandahl’s eyes filled with more tears, ones she could not stifle. “It cannot be,” she whispered. “When?” she murmured as she fished a handkerchief from her sleeve. She stared at them in stricken incredulity.

  “Some eight and forty hours prior.”

  “I did not know,” she said lamely. “No one cared to inform me.” The countess diverted her eyes. “He was my dearest friend,” she admitted as she dabbed at her eyes. “For many years, my only friend. We have known each other since childhood—long before he became a viscount. Long before either of us knew a life of luxury.”

  Hunt suffered a jolt of anticipation before he and his father exchanged knowing glances. The countess unwittingly answered one of the nagging questions they had repeatedly encountered.

  “We require your assistance, Countess.” His father broke the awkward silence. “I do not have the time to provide you all the details, but Lord Newsome passed from a drugged delirium, similar to the one you have encountered.”

  Hunt knew his father’s position would engender a degree of confidence that the countess would be sore to share with others. Even so, would she speak to the earl of the events?

  “I never knew Newsome to partake of anything more than the occasional brandy,” she said simply. “The viscount’s vices were an obsession with shooting and time at the gaming tables.” Lady Sandahl did not elaborate further, but Hunt suspected she had come to the same conclusions as they. The woman had hinted to Angelica that Lord Sandahl had orchestrated her distress. Therefore, it would be natural to assume the earl’s hand in Newsome’s demise.

  “Lord Newsome is not the only one who has gibe missing.” Hunt watched the lady’s countenance carefully. “Your niece, the girl who attempted to save you—the one who stood against Lord Sandahl when you most needed her—has disappeared. Is it possible the earl has placed his name upon these events?” It was bald of Hunt to make such an accusation. He prayed he did not overplay his hand.

  The lady murmured, shaking her head in perplexity. “I cannot say so with any certainty, and it grieves me to consider the possibility.” She glanced to the door as if expecting the return of the maid.

  Hunt recognized the fear that crossed her expression. “If you know anything, please share it. I assure you the Duke and Duchess of Devilfoard will extend their protection to you.”

  “All I know is my husband has changed of late—since he learned of his brother’s return to England. He became more concerned in preserving the earldom. Even suggested we attempt to conceive an heir. Unfortunately, Sandahl—”

  She paused as the door opened, and the maid returned with fresh tea.

  Hunt looked at his father who nodded his agreement. They had learned all they could for now. “We must depart, Countess,” he said amiably. “As I explained, my mother is most concerned with your recovery. I am certain the duchess will call upon you later today, once the entertainments are well under way.” A promise of the duchess’s appearance should keep the countess safe for the time being.

  “If Lord Sandahl returns, please inform him I wish to speak to the earl,” the duke instructed.

  “I am certain Sandahl will welcome a renewal of your business negotiations,” the countess said coyly. “When next I see his lordship, I shall impart your request, Duke.”

  * * *

  “What took you so long?” Remmington grumbled as he handed Hunt the reins to Alibi.

  The horse’s presence brought images of the lively smile upon Angelica Lovelace’s lips when she stroked the animal’s nose. Hunt shoved away the feeling of loss the image invoked.

  “The duke and I spoke to Lady Sandahl.”

  “Did the countess possess knowledge of Miss Lovelace’s whereabouts?”

  Hunt shook off the question. “Although we found the countess well on the way to health, the woman was sadly lacking in details of what has occurred since her return to Devil’s Keep. She knew nothing of Newsome’s death or of her husband’s banishment from the manor.”

  “And what of Lord Sandahl?” Remmington asked suspiciously.

  “According to Lady Mathild, the earl rode out early this morning on some sort of business.”

  Remmington stepped closer. “Do you still believe Sandahl is the link to solving this madness?”

  Hunt’s frown lines deepened. “How can I not?”

  Resentment crossed the earl’s expression. “I mean to discover Miss Lovelace’s whereabouts and Heaven help anyone who stands in my way.”

  Hunt studied his friend. The earl would always shelter Miss Lovelace from harm. The man was built for protection. Levison Davids possessed few faults.

  “We should mount,” he said in distraction. The idea of Lord Remmington’s superiority shook Hunt’s confidence. “It appears the baronet has divided the riders into search parties.”

  Remmington caught Hunt’s arm. “I mean to marry her,” he said softly, “and I think it most improper you speak of my prospective betrothed as ‘Angelica.’”

  Confusion filled Hunt’s mind, but he quickly recalled having called Miss Lovelace’s Christian name when he led the way into her chambers. “I cannot change our history,” he declared.

  “Just do not dismiss the fact I plan to be the lady’s future.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  They searched the manor, as well as the two towers, and every cavern and glade upon the estate. They even spoke to the duke’s tenants, but to no avail. A sickening horror cloaked the search party as desperation grew. Hunt thought Angelica’s father shrank a bit with each disappointment. Hunt, too, could feel his breathing contract, as the outcome loomed ominous.

  “I mean to take some of the men to question those tenants where Devil’s Keep marches along with Palmerson’s land,” the duke announced, “and then we will return to the manor. The duchess will wish to know of our lack of progress, and our men r
equire their mid-day meal. We will rejoin you a bit later.”

  “I plan to go into the village,” Remmington explained. “Perhaps someone took note of strangers in the area.”

  “I will accompany the earl,” Hunt stated. He studied Angelica’s father. “Take Lovelace with you, sir,” he whispered to his father. “The gentleman requires a bit of rest.”

  The duke nodded his agreement. “Be on alert,” he warned. “This is not customary. A madness is at work here.”

  * * *

  The smell of something quite foul drove her from her weary sleep. Whatever her abductor had used to overcome her had provided Angel frightful dreams filled with fist-sized spiders and wolves and hell’s fire. The only good she could recall from her nightmares was the presence of her “Lucifer.” She could not remember seeing him or feeling his touch, but with each trial her mind concocted, Angel knew he was there, watching over her, keeping the worst of her fears at bay.

  She turned her head to bury her nose in the puffy sleeve of her simple gown before opening her eyes. She had expected to find the pitch black, which had filled the space the previous two times she awoke, but this time a dull sense of light brought clarification. Angel glanced up to see thin slits of light.

  “The sun behind wooden slats,” she murmured. “But it is still cold.” Her teeth long since ceased chattering. Even so, the cold invaded every muscle in her body.

  She sat taller, better to decipher the shapes about her. “Boxes.” She wished she knew what each held. “The barrel I found last evening.” Her eyes searched each shape, using the pinpoints of light to assist her. “Grass hanging from the ceiling. No. Some sort of herb. A root cellar,” she declared, the knowledge providing her a glimmer of hope. “The cold. The boxes. It all makes perfect sense,” she reasoned aloud. “But whose cellar? Could I be close to Devil’s Keep or has my kidnapper carried me far from the manor?”

  For several seconds, a cloud robbed her of the weak rays of light, but when the bit of sun reentered her cell, she discovered the source of the odor filling her lungs. Over her left shoulder, propped against the boxes filling that particular corner, sat a slumped over figure. Angel’s eyes widened, as she looked hard upon the man, who wore a fine cut coat and dark boots.