by Lynn Kerstan
When Miss Ryder caught up with him, he led her to the end of the passageway and stopped before a pair of carved walnut doors. They shrieked on rusted hinges as he pushed them open.
Inside, a large round table covered with green baize dominated the room. Smaller tables were set against the walls, and a roulette wheel had been shoved into a corner. It was filled with moldy cigar butts.
“The gaming room,” he told her. “When the marquess was no longer welcomed at the London clubs, he created his own idea of heaven at Wolvercote.”
She crossed to the round table and sifted through a deck of dusty playing cards. “There is a chapter of Scandalbroth devoted to Fallon’s Hell,” she said softly. “There was nothing of heaven about it. Fortunes were lost here. Two men put bullets to their heads after gaming away their inheritances in this room. In the early years, women were brought from London to entertain the guests. They were known as Fallon’s Fillies, I believe.”
“You do know more than I!” he said with a grim laugh. “The licentious house parties had not begun when I set out for India, although there was plenty of gaming at Wolvercote on the rare occasions the marquess was in residence. My own room was just over this one, and I rarely got any sleep when the punters were in full cry.”
She gave him a curious look. “Do you game, too, my lord?”
“A fair question, given my ancestry, but no. Not on games of chance, at any rate, although there are many other ways to gamble. I did not earn my fortune by being cautious, Miss Ryder, but you may be sure I will never throw money away on the turn of a card.”
“I am glad to hear it.” She pulled off her gloves and tossed the edges of her red cloak over her shoulders. Then she selected three cards from the deck and spread them on the table. “Come look, my lord. Two aces and the queen of spades.”
He went to her side. “Do you mean to play a game with me, Miss Ryder?”
“If you like. I shall turn the cards over and shuffle them about. Then you must locate the queen. Care to try?”
He studied her expression, which was absolutely guileless. Suspiciously guileless. “What are the stakes?”
“Oh, a shilling, I think. That’s all I can afford. And since I am terribly clever with cards, you may have three chances to find the queen. To be sure, you are also clever and may well beat me straightaway.” She smiled, a dimple flashing in her cheek. “Shall we have a go at it?”
He nodded, rather certain he was about to be diddled.
She set down the deck she’d been holding, flipped the two aces and the queen facedown on the table, and began to move them about in a swift, fluid motion. Now and again she turned over the queen so he could see where it was. He followed its path intently, convinced he knew its location when Jane finally lifted her hands. “Choose, my lord.”
Three cards lay on the table, the queen in the center. With a smug smile, he turned it over.
“Ace of clubs!” Jane crowed. “But you have two more chances and know to pay better attention now. I’m sure you’ll go right this time.” After another series of lightning-quick moves, she again stood back and watched him select a card.
He slapped the ace of diamonds on the table with a growl.
“Oh dear,” she murmured. “I thought for sure you’d found me out by now. Well, this is your last chance, Lord Fallon.”
Again her smooth, long-fingered hands moved gracefully over the table as she lifted and dropped the three cards. As always, she showed him the queen on several occasions, and he followed her every move with keen regard. When she stepped back to let him choose, he would have bet Wolvercote and every penny he owned that he could pick the queen of spades.
The card he turned over was the queen of hearts.
Stunned, he stared at it for a long time. Then he glared at Jane Ryder, who looked just as smug as he had felt only minutes ago. “You cheated me, you infernal witch! Where the devil is the queen of spades?”
“Oh, I palmed it, of course.” She raised a hand to expose the card. She lifted her other hand, which held the ace of hearts. “First two tries, you were bound to uncover an ace. I gambled that you’d not remember precisely which aces we were playing with. The queen of spades left the table each time, about when you had made up your mind where she was. I substituted the extra ace twice, and the queen of hearts on your third try, for effect. I knew you’d go for her.”
“Devil it! I’ve never known what to make of you, Miss Ryder, but not once did I guess you were a bloody card sharp!” He felt heat rise to his ears. “Pardon my language. But then, I imagine you’ve heard worse. Did you make a living at this game before settling in to write a scandalous book with Lady Swann?”
She shuffled the five cards she’d been using into the deck and set it neatly on the table. “As it happens, a twelve-year-old boy taught me this trick. He made his living on the streets, and we chanced to share quarters for a few months. Since then, I’ve kept in practice for the fun of it, but you are the only person I’ve actually played with.” She cocked her head. “I’m rather good, don’t you think?”
From the shattered remnants of his pride, he produced a noncommittal grunt. Then, feeling surly and embarrassed, he stalked to the cabinets lining the room and flung open the doors. When a mouse jumped out at him, fleeing in terror, he let out a squawk of his own. Pretty soon he was opening drawers and cupboards with a vengeance.
“I should have remembered,” she said amiably, “that men cannot bear to lose.”
He slammed a cabinet door so hard it wrenched loose from its hinges. “I am angry with myself,” he said between clenched teeth.
“For choosing the wrong card? Or because a female got the better of you?”
“Neither. I had thought this house meant nothing to me, but clearly it has put me on edge.” Turning, he held out his arms in a gesture of apology. “I’m acting like an a—like the backside of a mule,” he corrected swiftly, glad to note that she was smiling at him. “Would you believe I am rarely out of temper?”
“No,” she replied, her smile widening. “You seem to me an uncommonly temperamental man. If I had to guess, I’d say that you imagine yourself what you want to be and undertake to ignore what you really are. But my opinion of your character is worth even less than the shilling you owe me, sir. I’ve little experience dealing with aristocrats.” She regarded him speculatively. “Have I offended you?”
“Not in the least.” He turned away and delved into the next cupboard. This time he hit upon something worth finding—several bottles of vintage wine and French brandy. His father always boasted of his excellent cellar, he recalled, although at the time he had no idea what that meant. He selected two bottles of brandy and two more of port wine, cradling them in his arms.
“We’ll enjoy these over dinner tonight,” he explained when she raised an eyebrow. “Better fare than the Black Dove can provide, I’d wager.”
“This room has an unwholesome effect on you,” she said after a moment. “Perhaps we should leave it.”
He nodded. Since stepping inside, he had placed a bet on cards for the first time in his life and practically lunged for a few bottles of spirits. Were he a fanciful man, he’d imagine himself possessed by his father’s ghost. As if to prove otherwise, he deliberately abandoned the port and took only one bottle of brandy into the passageway.
They explored a few more rooms, finally locating one that might have served as someone’s office. Miss Ryder went immediately to the shelves and pulled down a heavy ledger.
“Shall I see what is here, my lord, while you go off on your own for a bit?”
How did she know he wished to be alone? With a bow, he returned to the passageway and set the brandy on the floor. Then he headed back in the direction of the gaming room. Close by was an inconspicuous door that opened to the servants’ stairs. He’d used them often enough as a boy, mostly t
o sneak in and out of the house when he was supposedly confined to his room.
The narrow staircase was pitch dark. Lifting the brace of candles, he began the ascent, noting that the ceiling seemed to be a good deal lower than he remembered. Of course, he was over six feet tall now and had last mounted these stairs before his voice changed. Still, more than any other place in the house, this musty staircase held memories. Once he’d made the trip stark naked after someone made off with his clothes while he was swimming in the river. Another time, he was smuggling a stray dog into his room.
Nearing the top of the stairs, he began to move swiftly, suddenly eager to see his small bedchamber again. Then he heard wood splinter as his left foot hit a stair and broke through. Automatically he flung his arms against the walls on either side to catch himself, but it was too late. His leg plowed through the rotted wood.
A spur of wood had caught in his thigh. Struggling to keep his balance, he tried to pull loose without doing any more damage. But it knifed deeper when he moved, and the jolt of pain sent him toppling backward.
He had a brief moment to be glad his leg had come free, and then he was bouncing uncontrollably down the long staircase. His head hit the passageway floor with a loud thump.
He could not have been unconscious very long. The brace of candles had beat him down the stairs by inches, and one candle still burned so close to his head that it singed his hair. He batted it away and the flame went out.
He lay curled in the dark passageway, taking stock of his injuries. Pain raked along his left thigh, and assorted parts of him would be black-and-blue on the morrow, but he’d been damnably lucky. Nothing seemed to be broken.
Reassured, he attempted to stand and fell back with a groan. No wonder he had always hated this house, he thought dizzily. It had a malicious will of its own, did Wolvercote.
Chapter 7
JANE CLOSED the ledger, sending up a cloud of dust, and returned it to the shelf. It contained nothing of interest—only a disorganized listing of estate purchases and expenditures from three decades ago. She expected the other volumes were equally useless, but carried a second to the desk for inspection.
Something, perhaps the noises of the creaky old house, seemed different now. Louder, perhaps, or more ominous. She paused beside her chair to listen. The windows were rattling, she decided, the sound muffled by the heavy curtains. Crossing the room, she lifted a swath of faded blue velvet and looked outside.
“Oh, my word!”
Snatching the candlebrace, she darted into the passageway, wondering which direction Fallon had taken. She was speeding toward the main entrance when a loud thumping noise caused her to retrace her steps.
Beyond the dim circle of light cast by her candles, the passageway was black as a cave. “Where are you?” she called.
Silence. Then, “G-gaming room.”
When she found him, Lord Fallon was leaning against the wall near an open door, his greatcoat tangled around his shoulders. “I fell down the stairs,” he mumbled. “C-clumsy oaf.”
“Oh, dear.” She came closer, lifting the candleholder, and saw blood dripping from a cut on his forehead. “Perhaps you had better sit down.”
“No. Took me forever to stand up. Just give me a moment. Hit m’head. I’m a t-trifle woozy.”
“Take your time, my lord,” she said, her mind racing. How badly was he hurt? Ought they return to the inn or wait here until the storm passed? That might be only a matter of hours, but it could also be several days.
If only the light were better. In the shadows, Fallon looked on the verge of collapse. Then, as if to prove otherwise, he lifted himself from the wall.
“Is it only my head ringing,” he asked, “or is the house about to collapse around our ears?”
She released the breath she’d been holding. He sounded himself again, forceful and impatient. “A storm has blown in, I’m afraid. It has begun to snow, and—”
“Then we’d better get going. Will you bring around the horse? I don’t know where you put him.” He took a few steps, favoring his left leg. “Go on ahead. I’ll meet you at the entrance.”
When she reached the door and stepped outside, she was nearly toppled by the force of the wind. It screamed past her ears and set her cloak flying behind her like wings.
Fallon would change his mind about leaving, she was certain as she made her way toward the alcove where she’d tethered the horse. The enormous bay stomped his hooves against the cold, whinnying as she drew near. “Sorry,” she told him. “The best I can do is take you inside, horse.”
Clutching the reins, she led him to the front of the house. Gusts of winds had all but demolished the footprints she’d left only moments ago, and the tracks from the Black Dove Inn would be obliterated by now. There was no choice but to remain at Wolvercote.
Fallon was waiting for her just inside the door, saddle pack in hand. “We’re not staying here,” he said. “The dower house is close by, and I’m reasonably sure I know the way.”
She looked him over, head to foot. The cut on his forehead had stopped bleeding, but when he moved toward her, he was limping noticeably. “What’s wrong with your leg?” she demanded.
“A flea bite. Nothing to worry about.”
She lifted the fold of his greatcoat and gasped. From a point several inches above his knee all the way down to the top of his boot, his buckskin breeches were soaked with blood.
“That is no scratch, sir. Please tell me the truth. Are you fit to travel?”
“Absolutely. Let’s make for the dower house before heavy snow sets in.”
He sounded so sure of himself that she was almost convinced, until he required several attempts to mount the horse. But when he’d made it onto the saddle, he lifted her up with ease and settled her in front of him. “Hang on, Miss Ryder,” he said into her ear. “We are looking for two elm trees that appear to be embracing. Grandmama called them The Lovers. They stand directly in front of the dower house.”
Ice pellets spat at her face like grapeshot, effectively blinding her as the horse plodded ahead, probably sightless, too. She wondered if Lord Fallon could somehow see the unseen.
She could only hope his instincts were on target, for they seemed to be going in no particular direction. As the long minutes passed and the sky grew darker, she was fairly certain he had mistaken the way. Turning her head, she brought her lips close to his ear. “Are we lost?”
His arms tightened around her. “Somewhat. We’re in the vicinity, I believe. Watch for the embracing trees or the outline of a building.”
She tried holding her gloved hands over her eyes to block the wind-driven snow, peering out from the cracks between her fingers. Her vision was clearer now, although she couldn’t see any great distance. They would have to run smack into the dower house before she’d know it was there.
Oddly, she wasn’t the least bit afraid, even though they were in considerable danger unless they found shelter very soon. But when she had been in trouble before, she’d always had to face it alone. Now, atop this enormous horse with a pair of strong arms wrapped around her, she felt unaccountably secure. It seemed impossible that anything, even a violent storm, could get the better of Lord Fallon.
His arm lifted, and he pointed to the left. “The Lovers! We’re almost there.”
She finally made out a pair of bare-branched elms, taller than the others and standing close together. By no stretch of the imagination did they appear to be embracing, and she was certain he had fixed upon the wrong pair of trees. But as they drew closer, she saw the outline of chimney pots and a high, sloping roof.
He had spotted them, too. He dismounted, helped her down, grabbed the saddle pack, located the keys, and went to the tall iron-studded doors. They must have been unlocked, because he was back at her side within seconds. “Go inside,” he shouted over the wind. “I�
�ll take the horse to the stable.”
Expecting another unholy wreck like Wolvercote, she was astonished to see a small, neat entrance hall beyond the rough medieval doors. The marble floor had been swept not long ago, and only a little dust coated a pair of console tables set against the wall.
The house was bitterly cold, though, and only the barest trace of light filtered through the mullioned windows. Less than half an hour before nightfall, she calculated, heading in search of a room with a fireplace.
The first door she opened led to a large salon with furniture concealed under holland covers. Next came a dining room, cobwebs draping the long table and carved wooden chairs. It connected to a small bare room, and just beyond that was a cozy parlor. Both were meticulously clean.
The parlor held a pale blue Grecian couch with a high sloping headrest at one end, two padded leather wing chairs, several small tables, and a few logs piled on the hearth. Without question, someone had used this room recently and likely slept here, too. A number of neatly folded blankets were stacked in a corner.
She returned to the passageway and followed it to a large, spotless kitchen. Several pots, pans, and dishes were laid out on a pine worktable next to a pair of tin containers. One, nearly empty, held a handful of tea leaves, and the other was filled with stale crackers. She nibbled on one as she examined the larder, which was too dark for her to see more than the outlines of a few jars and packets. There was a fist-size lump wrapped in cheesecloth on the shelf, and a few potatoes and turnips were tucked in a burlap sack.
She returned to the entrance hall. Daylight had all but vanished, and Fallon was nowhere in sight. She wondered if she ought to go after him, but had no idea where the stable was located and reckoned she ought to be doing something useful.
Gathering her cloak about her, she headed upstairs. The rooms on the first floor were filthy, but she located a well-stocked linen closet and made several trips to the parlor with towels, sheets, blankets, and pillows. Whenever she spied a candle stub, she stuffed it in her pocket. She rummaged through the drawers in the bedrooms, pulling out anything that looked soft and clean enough to use for bandages.
