“She wears my ring,” Paul whispered. “She would not, could not say yes to my proposal of marriage, but she told me she would accept at Christmas. I wonder now if we shall ever see Christmas.”
“Keep your heart fixed on our Saviour’s promises, son. Christmas is always a ray of hope, for it reminds us why we fight—and whom we fight. Or perhaps, it is better said what we fight.”
The doors opened suddenly, and Laurence came in and whispered to the duke. James shot up from his chair and called for the men to rally again in the yard in front of the house. “Saddle up the horses—now!”
Paul sat up, trying to stand. “What has happened?” he asked, fearing the reply.
“It’s Clever Girl. She’s returned to the stable, and there’s no one on her back.”
CHAPTER Seventeen
Martin Kepelheim had spent the last day recuperating. Mrs. Alcorn’s ministrations and medicines, alongside those of Dr. Price had been much in demand during the past twenty-four hours. After the Queen of the Meadow’s dramatic ascent, the tailor had stood shoulder to shoulder and sometimes back to back with Baxter and his men against two parties of well-armed scoundrels, twenty to each party. Now, a day later, forty-three men lay dead, three from Branham and the rest from their enemy’s ranks. Those bodies had been searched for letters or other information that might aid the inner circle members regarding Redwing’s plans. Only one, a thick-set villain with oddly shaped ears that grew to a point, bore anything useful, but that was a prize indeed!
“Mr. Baxter, we shall need to send a telegram to the duke and to Galton at once, but we must not include our news. Have Mr. Powers’s men finished restringing the telegraph wires?”
Cornelius Baxter, his right arm dressed and in a sling, nodded from a chair near the fire. Generally, he would consider such behaviour presumptuous, but today, he knew his lady would insist upon this small pleasure. “They have indeed, Mr. Kepelheim,” he replied. “Those monstrous invaders cut through the entire cable, I’m told, but Powers brought in a friend who works in London as an electrician, and together they’ve repaired the broken line. I’m sure the duke is most anxious about our silence.”
“Yes, but he is not one to panic, is he, my friend? I shall compose our communiqué right away. All messages sent must be in code, of course, but even a cipher can be broken, and we must not lose this advantage,” Kepelheim told him. “How many injured all told?”
“Including the two of us, seventeen. Davis is the worst. He’s the lad who rode in at the eleventh hour, guns blazing. It was rather like those western battles we saw last May during the fete, was it not, Mrs. Alcorn?”
The housekeeper was limping, but she continued with her tasks. “Those Americans,” she said, rolling up a bandage. “I remember thinking how thrilling it all seemed. That is, until I saw it for real last night. I hope never to see such again!”
“You did us proud, Mrs. Alcorn,” the butler said, his old eyes gleaming with delight. “Who would have pictured a refined woman such as yourself swinging into action with a fireplace poker and a pair of kitchen shears? I shall treasure that memory until my final days.”
The tailor took the lady’s hand and kissed her fingertips. “And so shall I, dear lady,” he said with a wink. “I would not be here to tell it, were it not for your courage and quick thinking. That said, my friend Mr. Baxter, tell me how the search goes. Have your valiant men completely combed the estate and those infernal tunnels that connect to hell?”
“So I’m told, sir. Powers and his men have searched it for signs of more invaders. They worked the passages all the way to a strange cove near the coast,” the butler replied. “I’m told no other intruders were found, but there is evidence that the group had camped near there for some time. It’s God’s mercies that our lady and Mr. St. Clair were not molested whilst below ground. Pardon me, Mr. Kepelheim, as you’ve informed us, it is Sinclair, of course. Or more properly, Lord Haimsbury. I’d thought he looked somewhat familiar.”
Kepelheim laughed. “Yes, our Charles Sinclair wears the same handsome features as that of the child who visited here many years ago, does he not?”
“He looks rather like his father,” the butler remarked, sipping a glass of sherry.
“So he does,” the tailor said. “I wonder how the detective has reacted to learning he’s a high-ranking peer of the realm. Of course, had Inspector Reid not brought that magnificent balloon, none of us would be here to speak of it. Which reminds me, Mrs. Alcorn. Has our courageous Chief Groom yet awakened?”
“Dr. Price tells me he still lies in a coma,” the housekeeper replied. “Dear Mr. Clark is to be honoured above all. He alone brought down a dozen or more, and all whilst in flight upon a horse! It truly was like one of those western shows, wasn’t it? The Indians turning to shoot at the cowboys behind them. Did I say that right, Mr. Baxter? Cowboys, or is it cowmen?”
“It was more like a skilled Englishman with a Lee-Metford repeater,” the butler answered proudly, to which all nodded in agreement.
“And what of our skilled Scottish friends? We must know if the inspector’s wonderful balloon arrived at Drummond Castle,” Kepelheim said as he finished encoding the message. “There! I have completed the cipher, which your man, Mr. Baxter, may send to the duke. That dear gentleman must have paid a small fortune to run telegraph lines from Drummond to Glasgow, but praise be to the Lord that he did! I would not wish such a message to pass through too many hands and past too many sets of eyes.”
Baxter stood and took the card, raising a brow at the odd collection of numbers and letters upon it. “I marvel that any of those eyes could read it,” he said, limping slightly as he headed toward the foyer where he rang a hand bell. Within moments, young Stephen Priest, his own head bandaged, appeared in casual attire.
“Begging your pardon, Mr. Baxter. I’ve only now finished with the doctor, but it was my turn in the rotor for the wire room. Shall I change into livery, sir?”
“No, no. I believe our situation calls for more relaxed rules, but only for the time being, Mr. Priest. Send this right away, and make sure that the operator at Drummond Castle acknowledges receipt, and then bring any reply to us immediately. Is that clear?”
“As crystal, sir. I mean, yes, sir, Mr. Baxter.”
Baxter thought a moment and then stopped the lad with a touch on the arm. “Stephen, your head? You are well enough to perform?”
“It wasn’t much, sir. Just a slight wound, and Dr. Price says no real damage. Thank you, sir.”
The lad hobbled away, his left leg bandaged beneath his trousers, and the aging butler saluted, a tear in his eye.
In Scotland, Charles Sinclair, for he now began to think of himself as such, made certain of the security of their cottage, checking first the latch on the door and the locks on the windows. The one-room cottage had but two windows, one on either side of the entrance, so by facing the door, he could defend their position if needed. The only bed stood in the far corner of the room, layered in half a dozen quilts, now keeping Elizabeth warm as she dreamt.
Deciding his best action would be to remain awake all night and keep watch, Sinclair took up his post in a simple wooden chair near the fire. Despite the cheerful warmth, he felt cold. Fear? If so, not for himself. He’d faced gunfire before, many times. No, this was different. Perhaps it was the ghost story the farmer’s wife had told him. The man with the foreign accent. The man’s appearance sounded eerily similar to the stranger he’d seen inside the maze. But that was a dream, wasn’t it?
It seemed impossible that this could have been William Trent, however the basic description—except for the accent and strange clothing—nearly matched the man he’d met ten years earlier. Trent had been clean shaven then, but facial hair is easily altered. What was it about Trent that nagged at him so? Often times, Charles had struggled to recover his childhood memories so long ago lost, but even a visit to an alienist in his teen years had
done nothing. The man, a Dr. Prüsscher, as Charles remembered, had suggested he contact a mesmerist; that a new French therapy of the mind might unlock the past.
Who am I really? he wondered as he watched her sleep. There was no denying it; he had fallen deeply in love with Elizabeth, but it was a futile love. She belonged to another man. Always had, always would. That man may be his own cousin, but Paul Stuart had certainly become a friend, and betraying him could never happen. He must stop thinking of Elizabeth in that way.
And yet, the play of light upon her soft face danced in his mind, and he feared his own heart more than any phantom. Tea would help keep him alert and watchful. He reached into the basket and withdrew the sealed glass jar that held the strong brew that Maggie Campbell had prepared. It would have gone cold by now, but its effects would not be diminished, so he unscrewed the lid and began to sip the sweet liquid.
The inner circle and all its exploits played in his thoughts, and he wondered who else might be included in this team of unsung heroes. He prayed dear Kepelheim would soon arrive, his sewing needles, experience, and delightful mannerisms helping their cause and easing their minds. He thought, too, of Lemuel and wondered how a man whom the duke trusted with the lives of his family could have fallen into the traps of their common enemy.
To keep awake, he stood and stretched, walking close to the windows as he sipped the tea. The skies had cleared now, and the full moon shone upon the rolling landscape, bathing everything in an ethereal silver. The duchess turned in her sleep, moaning slightly.
“Charles,” she whispered, and he wondered if she had finally started to awaken.
“Elizabeth? Darling, are you all right? Are you cold?” She reached out, taking his hand, and he longed to pull her into his arms. “Beth? Are you awake?” he asked, but her eyes remained shut, her breathing regular.
Tears formed at the corners of his eyes, and Charles realised no matter how firm his resolve, he would never be able to stop loving her. She turned toward him, the moonlight falling upon her face, and he kissed her small hand before making certain that the quilts were tucked in securely. Returning to his sentry position by the fire, Charles finished the tea and set the empty jar back inside the basket.
Outside, on the moors and hills, wolves howled, hunting for their night’s feast, and Charles thought of the cattle and sheep outside belonging to the farmer. All we like sheep have gone astray, he remembered suddenly. Dear Lord and Saviour, help us now, through your ministering angels, to battle the human wolves of this world!
Despite the tea, Charles felt his eyelids grow heavy, and he imagined that gypsy music played upon the night air. He had read that gypsies often traveled along these lowland highways, and strange tales of magic heard as a boy floated through his mind like ghosts.
Heard as a boy? he asked himself. Did I once hear old Scottish ghost tales? If I was born and raised here, then my mother—Angela Stuart Sinclair—may have once told me such tales before a fire much like this.
His eyelids closed, and Sinclair fancied he could see gypsies dancing around a great campfire, their women arrayed in multicoloured, ruffled skirts with tiny bells on their trim ankles and tambourines in their soft hands. One particular dancer, fair of face with long waves of raven hair, moved closer to his dreaming mind, and as he fell into slumber, Charles reached out for the seductive dancer and drew her close, his eager lips drinking in hers, as their bodies entwined to the rhythmic music. He had never felt such heat before, not with his wife, not with any woman. She melted to him, their bodies dancing together, perfectly in sync as if they had been so designed—created for each other alone—perfectly joined with the night and the song of wolves!
He lingered there in that wild dream world as if in a delightful trance, and his dreaming mind reached out for a final thought seeded before he fell asleep, asking the beautiful dancer if her skirts, her hips, her warm, seductive body had been implanted in his mind by some stage hypnotist.
He smiled in his sleep, the dream driving to erotic conclusion, the dancers and the dance. And outside, the wolves circled, and a large male, a massive grey with eyes of fire, howled at the bright, round moon.
Charles awoke suddenly, his eyes snapping open as if an electric shock ran through him. Outside, through the windows, he could still see the pale round moon and hear the wolves upon the moors. He had no idea just how long he’d slept, but he felt warm, wonderfully warm.
He moved in the bed.
The bed?
Sinclair’s eyes rounded wide in shock, panic overtaking him, seizing him like a cold vice, and what he saw sent an icy chill into his heart. There she lay, his Elizabeth, her body nestled against his, warm and flushed. Her clothing and his lay scattered upon the cottage floorboards, and her trusting face was turned toward his bare chest, her delicate arm draped across his stomach.
“Dear God! What have I done?!” he cried out, leaping from the bed and pulling on his clothing—Paul’s clothing. It was like a fairy tale or an old Arthurian legend of Druid wizards turning one man into another. He had worn Paul’s clothing, and now—like a manic wolf—he had claimed Paul’s bride!
“Elizabeth, darling, you must wake up!” he urged her, his head spinning and his eyes straining to focus. Yet, how seductive she looked still, and he nearly found his eyes drifting shut once more, his mind circling back to the dream and the dance. “The tea! Can she have tampered with it?”
He thought not. Maggie had seemed so kind, so very helpful. “Something is not right about any of this,” he whispered, dreading Beth’s eyes when at last she opened them, when she realised what he had done to her.
“Beth, please, dearest, you must wake up!”
Slowly, her warm body turned, and her dark eyes fluttered open. “The dream,” she whispered, reaching out for him. “I must return to the dream, the beautiful dream. Charles, my Charles,” she whispered, her eyes round, her pupils wide as saucers.
“Beth, darling, listen to me. We have been drugged. You must arise and dress. We must leave this accursed place at once!”
She blinked slowly, languidly, and he knew she could not awaken. Perhaps, some strange admixture of the drug Lemuel had given her with this new poison affected her strangely.
Lemuel. What if the kidnapping was merely the lure? What if this is the real trap?
A knot grew in his stomach as he lifted the duchess from their bower, and he began dressing her as quickly as possible. “Beth, I care not what may befall us on the road now. I fear this place more. Please, dearest, you must help me. Put your arm through this sleeve, please, Beth. Help me!”
It took many minutes, and he managed it at last, but she still slept, her eyes opening now and then, her breathing slow and rhythmic, her slender arms limp. He unlatched the door and gazed out into the night. He could see no wolves, and yet he had heard them clearly.
It was but a dream.
Fearing that to leave her, even for a moment, could lead to tragedy, he took Elizabeth into his arms and carried her to the barn where the horses and carriage had been housed. After settling her into the seat and covering her with a quilt, Charles swiftly hitched the pair, and then led them and the rig out as quietly as possible toward the road, for he did not wish to alert their hosts—people who must surely be in the pay of the enemy.
Once they were far enough away, he took the reins, cracked the whip, and raced toward the smell of sea air. On they drove for an hour, and off in the distance, he could hear wolves howling, but this was no dream. Looking back, Charles could see a pack of six, mouths foaming, their eyes red, led by a seventh: a huge grey, whose fiery eyes seemed fixed upon them both.
As the horses galloped, Charles began to pray aloud, hot tears and the lingering effects of the drug blurring his vision.
“Father, Good Saviour, please, help us! We need your aid! I have failed, and I am unable to do what I must,” he prayed. “Help us, please, Lord Je
sus! For her sake, please!”
As if in answer, gunshots rang out in the night, the sharp reports pinging off the rocky crags, and behind the carriage, one of the pack fell in a pool of dark blood. Another shot, and a second wolf dropped dead upon the road.
Charles lifted his eyes toward heaven and sang out, “Thank you, Father!”
And then, about a mile ahead, he could just make out riders, five of them, galloping toward him like mounted avengers, rifles spitting heavenly fire, until all but the lead wolf lay dead upon the dusty road. This one ran at incredible speed, nearly catching their carriage, but just as the beast’s enormous head reached Beth’s side of the curricle, the entire road lit up with the dawn, and Charles heard the gigantic creature cry out—howling like a banshee—before disappearing into the silvery smoke of morning’s light.
The horsemen rode up to the curricle, taking the panicked paints by their bridles and slowing their manic pace. Gradually, the horses came to a stop, and the duke’s courageous butler, Matthew Laurence, removed his hat and said with a smile, “We’re grateful to the Lord for His aid in finding you, sir. And not a moment too soon.”
Charles felt as if his heart were about to burst. His face was pale and covered in sweat, and his pulse hammered like a blacksmith in his ears, causing him to nearly faint. His vision darkened, but he could feel Laurence and his men helping him into a large Drummond coach, setting him next to Elizabeth. And as her head fell against his shoulder, Sinclair began to weep tears of exhaustion and relief.
CHAPTER Eighteen
9, October
It was nearly 7:00 a.m. by the time Charles, Elizabeth, and their escort reached the castle. Elizabeth still lay in a deep sleep, and Charles had all but collapsed, so both were helped or carried into their makeshift bedrooms in the west wing.
Paul insisted on visiting Elizabeth, despite being warned to remain off his feet, and he now sat next to her, great tears dropping from his deep blue eyes onto her blouse.
Blood Lies Page 31
