Lord Quimbly.
A shiver of fear trickled down her spine. Something dark and sinister sounded in his voice.
And suddenly she knew.
Before turning around to correct him, she knew in her heart that Quimbly had been poisoning the duke.
He stood in the doorway with his arms crossed on his chest. Two burly men stood behind him.
When she met his eyes, panic swelled in her chest. If the duke died, Marcus would step into the title.
Marcus’ wife would become duchess.
Her! Miss Emily Goodnight!
Not Quimbly’s daughter.
Quimbly would need to dispose of Marcus’ wife. With Emily out of the way, Marcus would be free to marry Lady Lila. Quimbly’s daughter could become the Duchess of Waters.
“Good morning, my lord.” She lifted her chin. If she screamed. would anyone hear her? Had she merely allowed her imagination to run amok?
“It is, is it not?” He appeared calm. Composed. Could she be wrong? Her voice caught in her throat.
Quimbly nodded to his two henchmen.
As they approached ominously, Emily’s mouth went dry. She made to back away, looking for an escape. She was not mistaken. Quimbly had ill intent.
She wanted to scream, but her throat would not cooperate. Was this really happening? This sort of thing didn’t happen to somebody like her.
She was bland.
A wallflower.
Except all that had changed when she married Marcus. She’d married the heir to a dukedom. She’d taken something coveted by others.
Something this man wanted for his own daughter.
Her eyes darted toward the door, and she took two cautious steps so that a wing-backed chair separated herself from the two men.
The larger of them was bald with several scars along the top of his head. He appeared as though somebody had carved his scalp at one time.
The other man was most distinguishable for his heavy black eyebrows. As they neared her, a stench wafted into her nostrils.
She was not mistaken.
Lord Quimbly had nefarious intentions.
She needed to move. To do something. At last the danger she faced prodded her into motion.
With a mighty shove, she threw the chair into their path and then bolted toward the exit. Freedom. Safety?
One step.
Two.
Just a few more and she could throw the door open.
But she was not quick enough.
One burly hand grasped the top of her arm and then another wrapped itself around her neck.
“Not so fast, Miss Goodnight,” Lord Quimbly said. “I’m afraid your plans for the day will have to change.”
Emily took a deep breath, intending to let out a scream just as a white cloth pressed against her nose and mouth.
She gagged and flailed her hands at the arm that pinned her.
He was going to kill her. She would never see Marcus again.
The only sound that escaped her was a muffled sob. Much louder in her own head than in reality.
It had all been for naught. The marriage. The trip to Gretna Green. Everything…
Oh, Marcus.
And then nothing. Darkness… and nothing.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Figuring It Out
Marcus reached out, expecting to touch soft, feminine skin but instead grazed his hand along the cool sheets of the bed.
Of course, leave it to Emily to elude him in surprising moments. As she did the evening after meeting with the blacksmith. He grinned to himself. Any man could only appreciate the efficiency of such a ceremony. But women.
Emily.
She’d needed more.
She’d seen him at the inn, apparently in the worst moment possible. For all of thirty seconds, he’d contemplated taking the willing and buxom woman up on her offer. A devilish side of him had wanted to throw off his marital responsibilities.
And then he’d caught a whiff of the woman’s perfume. She’d been unfamiliar.
In the past, the unfamiliar merely beckoned him.
But in that instant, he’d wanted the sweet clean scent of his Emily. He’d not wanted another woman’s hands fondling him. He’d not wanted to experience the awkwardness that always managed to come afterward with a strange woman.
He’d wanted…
His wife.
His wife, who’d given far more than he’d ever asked for.
And when he’d needed her last night, she’d welcomed him with all of her being.
When he needed her?
When had he come to think in terms of needing her? Had this occurred last night or earlier?
In the past, he’d considered his need for women to be mostly physical. But even that notion had been challenged when he’d found himself with absolutely no desire for the barmaid he’d set his sights on the previous evening.
She’d dropped onto his lap. Pressed her bosom into him.
It had felt wrong. His cock had withered like a flower in a hailstorm.
Marcus stretched and lazily trailed his gaze around the room. He was roused from his languor at the sound of a carriage drawing away from the residence.
Had a doctor been called? Why hadn’t he been awakened? Perhaps that was where Emily had gone.
Leaping from the bed, he scrounged around and hastily stepped into his breeches.
Where had she gone?
After discovering his father sleeping comfortably, Marcus returned to his suite where Crandall awaited. He could not go about his family home without shirt or shoes. Impatience gnawed until he had to brush Crandall’s hands away. The cravat would have to be good enough. Obviously, his valet was beginning to see his own rise in the world.
Once dressed for the day, an itch of concern pricked further at him when Emily was not in the breakfast room. Although his mother hadn’t seen her about, she reassured him there was no cause for concern. “Likely she’s taking a constitutional outside.”
Emily was not one to go exploring outside though. She was more likely to lose herself in…
The library.
Feeling only a little foolish, he walked and then ran in the direction of the room his wife would most likely get lost in. Urgency drove him. For some reason, he needed to see her. Assure himself…
Of what?
That last night hadn’t been an aberration? That she hadn’t given up on him? On them?
He pushed open the heavy oak door eagerly, expecting her to look up at him with those curious brown eyes of hers.
Perhaps there were a few things he could teach her in this room that she would not find in any book.
She was not there.
“Emily?” Was she hiding? As she’d done that evening in the Crabtrees’ library.
Nothing.
And then he noticed one of the chairs tipped over.
A large lump lodged itself in his throat. When he stepped across the room to right it, something else caught his attention.
A reflection.
A lens. On the floor.
Emily’s lens.
But no Emily.
He dropped to his haunches and held the smooth glass between his fingers.
She would not have left without searching for the lens. His eyes burned when he remembered the lengths she’d gone searching his person the last time she’d lost one of her lenses. A harsh gurgling noise, not quite a laugh, not a sob, escaped his throat.
Where the hell was she?
What had happened in here?
His father had nothing to do with this. Had he? His father could barely lift his own head off of his pillow.
Would he have enlisted his valet?
Billings was stooped and arthritic.
Marcus wandered over to a table where one book lay open.
Poisons.
Arsenic?
His gaze flicked along the page and then over the drawings of fingernails with odd striations.
Fingernails?
Garlic-li
ke odor?
And then all the pieces began dropping into place. His father wasn’t ill from cholera. God, no! His father had been poisoned. And Emily had guessed the truth. Hell, she hadn’t guessed. The woman was a walking encyclopedia. She’d known. But she’d come down here looking for confirmation.
And someone had discovered her here.
Quimbly.
The carriage he’d heard leaving earlier. It would have been him. Possibly with Emily inside.
Ice coursed through his limbs.
Not willing to waste a moment, Marcus briefed Crandall as to the situation and ordered a mount readied for him immediately.
Various scenarios playing out in his brain, Marcus dashed to his father’s suite and burst into the room. His father barely lifted his lids enough to glance in his direction. He appeared weak but alive.
A tray that must have recently been brought up sat on the table adjacent to the bed. Dishes remained covered.
Brushing past an annoyed and affronted Mr. Billings, Marcus lifted the lids and examined the food.
Upon initial inspection, it appeared perfectly normal.
But then he saw barely a trace of a white powder. “Billings, call the magistrate. And do not touch this food. I have reason to believe it’s been poisoned.” Not for a minute did Marcus suspect the valet of any nefarious deeds. The man loved the duke as though he were his father, son, and wife rolled into one. “And have the house searched. My wife has gone missing. I believe Quimbly might have taken her. Foul play. But I’ve no time to waste. Have a doctor inspect this food.” He took a few steps toward the door but then halted himself. “A different doctor. Call for Whitley.” Likely, Quimbly had paid off his father’s attending physician.
Marcus rubbed his chest as he ran down the stairs and rushed out the front door. An old favorite mare of his was just being led to the steps. Lady. He’d been forced to forfeit her with his estrangement. Not taking the time to exchange words with the servant, Marcus merely nodded approvingly before rubbing a hand along Lady’s neck and side and then swinging himself onto the saddle.
“Hiya!” Marcus urged the horse into a run at the same time the stablemasters stepped back.
Quimbly’s estate was less than two miles away.
Would Emily be there? In his mind, the puzzle pieces began to fall into place. His father’s desperation. The poisoning. Quimbly’s persistence.
In Quimbly’s eyes, Emily’s disappearance, her death, would pave the way for Marcus to marry Lady Lila. Not that he would ever do it. But Quimbly had apparently gone mad in his quest to improve his family’s position.
Mad for his daughter to become a duchess.
Leaning forward, Marcus raised himself off the seat, urging the horse onward. The road was smooth but, knowing he could nearly halve the distance by cutting across some pasture, he drew them off the road and into an open field.
Emily would likely not hold her tongue with a man like Quimbly. Marcus forced himself to relax his hands on the reins, hoping against hope she didn’t anger Quimbly to do anything stupid.
As they neared a fence, he silently thanked the servant’s choice of mount and he and Lady went flying over it almost effortlessly.
Rather than enjoying the thrill of the ride, his heart thudded painfully.
He did not want to exist upon this earth without her.
He wanted to listen to her oddly timed recollections and observations. He wanted to hold back his laughter when she veered from socially acceptable conversation at dinner parties.
He wanted to allow her to experiment with him. Seek new techniques for pleasuring one another. He wanted to make love to her in the traditional way, over and over again. He wanted to spend the next half-century growing bored with her.
Good God, he even wanted her to attempt to manipulate much of his life again.
He needed her alive in order to do all of this.
When a distant Tudor-styled home appeared behind the rise, an icy calm settled in him.
He would find her.
He would bring her home.
He had to. She was the only home he’d known in years.
Emily’s eyelids felt heavy. So heavy. Why was she so tired? Except she wasn’t tired. When she went to raise her hand, touch her face, her hand felt as though it weighed a thousand tons!
A funny taste in her mouth. Sweet. Fruity. She licked her lips and used all her strength to force her eyes open.
Drat and fiddlesticks! Although one eye could focus on the ceiling above her, the other blended with her corrected eye and blurred her overall vision.
What?
Where was she? Was she dreaming? Was she at Eden’s Court? Marcus had taken her spectacles though… to repair them.
And then her memory rushed in like a crashing wave.
She’d been in the Duke of Waters’ library. Quimbly’s henchmen. The arsenic! Marcus’ father.
She squirmed and clenched her fists, hoping to regain normal use of her limbs. She’d been drugged. Likely that very new chemical she’d read about that was used to calm patients with asthma. She could not remember the name. It wasn’t necessary right now. She needed to warn Marcus about Quimbly.
She needed to escape from Quimbly herself!
Quimbly wanted her gone! Out of Marcus’ life forever!
Feeling some of her strength returning, Emily forced herself into a sitting position.
Identifying the slanted ceilings, Emily deduced that she had been locked away in an attic. A sparsely furnished attic, but she was not bound. Her hands and feet were free.
But one of the lenses had fallen out of her spectacles. Again. Double drat and damn!
She pinched that eye closed and peered about the room. The mattress she now sat upon, the one she’d awoken on, lay on the floor. One chair. One desk. And dusty, ancient-looking trunks. Sunlight filtered through a window near the ceiling.
If she had more time, she’d explore the contents of each and every treasure chest. What might such trunks contain? Secrets from the past? Old clothing? Jewelry? Or better yet? Books?
She forced her curious mind aside and, as best she could with only one functioning eyeball, explored her surroundings thoroughly.
The narrow staircase led her to a locked door.
Locked tight.
After searching fruitlessly for any screws or pins that could be used to remove the door from its hinges, she returned upstairs. She might be able to break the window and climb out of it. Depending upon the height of the window from the ground, perhaps something of a rope could be made of any sheets she could locate.
But first, she needed to see out of the window.
She piled one of the lighter trunks atop the desk. And then the chair atop the trunk. A second trunk could be used to climb onto the structure.
Feeling a little woozy still, she held her dress up away from her legs—scandalous if anyone were to see!—and then climbed atop the lower trunk. Wearing only her wool socks, she now regretted not taking the time to don her boots earlier. If she did manage to escape, would she have a long way to travel by foot?
Grasping the chair, Emily tested it for stability. Not what she would prefer, but what other choice did she have? She slid the chair to one side of the trunk and stepped gingerly onto the wobbly table.
For a moment, she thought the entire structure might collapse and froze in anticipation of falling, but then it steadied itself.
Now to pull herself onto the second trunk.
She… just… yes… “Oomph.” She grabbed the edge. “Ouch.” Yes. Stupid, stupid gown. She really needed breeches to perform such a maneuver.
Just a little farther, steady.
Aha.
Standing, she could reach the window casement with her arms outstretched now.
The chair presented an even more precarious challenge.
Damn dratted gown. She hooked it over her arm and ever so carefully. One knee. Another. Bracing herself against the wall.
The table wobbl
ed some more.
Oh, goodness.
One foot. Rise slowly.
Carefully.
As the window came into view, she saw that it was latched from the inside. It would open. In fact, it opened just a few feet above another roofline. She could do this. The sun caught her eye, blinding her for a moment and causing her to turn her face quickly.
Unfortunately, the movement destabilized her entire structure. As she tumbled toward the floor, she wished she’d had the foresight to drag the mattress across the room lest she fall.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Finding Emily
“I wish I knew where she went, Blakely. Some misses simply aren’t equipped for the demands that come with marrying into the aristocracy. Likely running home to her parents.” Quimbly’s icy gaze belied his deception.
After pushing his way past the earl’s stubborn butler, Marcus had barged into Quimbly’s study and demanded to know Emily’s whereabouts.
Quimbly hadn’t appeared the least surprised. He’d merely reclined in his chair and invited Marcus to sit down, for all the world as though they were the best of friends.
“My stable lad reported that she departed Candlewood Park in your carriage,” Marcus bluffed.
Quimbly lifted one brow. A tick appeared on the right side of his jaw. “Your lad is mistaken.”
Something like thunder sounded overhead.
Except the sky was a clear blue. No clouds in sight.
“Damned servants.” Quimbly grimaced and, as he did so, his eyes shifted to a vial of white powder on the edge of his desk. His casual attempt at laughter did not distract Marcus’ attention.
“Hard to come by good help these days.” The earl pocketed the vial.
Marcus clenched his fists. It had to be the poison. The arsenic. Quimbly knew where she was. Marcus wished he’d formulated more of a plan before rushing over here.
And then frustration, anger, and outright terror at the thought of losing her took over. In a flash, he leaned across the desk, fisting Quimbly’s cravat with his right hand. “Where is she?” God damn him to hell if he so much as harmed a single hair on her head…
The older man’s lips trembled as his eyes jumped toward the door. As though they’d been waiting outside, two burly servants entered.
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