by Rebecca King
Dominic swore, and turned away just as Edward and Sebastian arrived.
“Please excuse our anger,” Sebastian offered, having heard Dominic’s shouting from the corridor. “One of our own was unjustly executed this morning, and we are all in mourning.”
Sir Dunnicliffe stiffened and stared at Peter in alarm.
“Who else?” His eyes flew around the room to land on each man in turn, as he waited for someone to fill him in.
Dominic sighed deeply, and somewhat apologetically offered the new arrival a glass of his best brandy, before waving everyone over to the chairs next to Peter and the fireplace.
“What?” Edward scowled, not understanding the question.
“Who else died?”
“Jemima,” Peter answered. Even saying her name was painful. “She was murdered this morning.” He watched Sir Dunnicliffe slowly take a seat on the wing-backed chair opposite, a dark frown on his face. There was something unusual about the man, only he couldn’t figure out what. His drink-laden mind wouldn’t operate clearly but, drunken stupor aside, there was something about Sir Dunnicliffe that was vaguely - odd.
“Murdered?” Sir Dunnicliffe sounded the word cautiously, as if realising there was something he was missing. He studied the toe of his boot intently and waited for someone to fill him in.
When neither Dominic nor Peter seemed inclined to explain, Sebastian took it upon himself to inform the man of the circumstances of Jemima’s demise earlier that morning as briskly as possible.
“Ah, I see,” was all Sir Dunnicliffe said as he glanced at each man in turn.
“You got word about Scraggan, I take it?” Dominic snapped, unwilling to allow the man off the hook just yet. He was well aware that Sir Dunnicliffe had not actually told them anything, and, given the circumstances of the morning, it rankled. A lot.
Sir Dunnicliffe nodded and looked sideways at him, before taking a long, fortifying draught of the amber liquid in his goblet. He knew if he had any chance of getting out of the room alive, he had to choose his words carefully. He couldn’t afford to mess things up; at least two people’s lives were at stake.
He nodded and glanced at Dominic. “We got your message. The Star Elite are in position and have been watching him for some time now.”
The conversational tone of his voice belied the brutal efficiency of the small group of elite soldiers who often worked undercover on the most secret missions for the War Office. Very few people knew of their existence, with only a handful of men in the War Office, and the Prince Regent himself, aware of what they have done to gain results. For this particular group, failure was not an option. Sir Dunnicliffe wondered if Peter and Dominic really knew anything about the group of men they had left behind to tie up loose ends in Norfolk, and somehow doubted it. They had certainly progressed from the rag-tag group of ex-soldiers Peter and Dominic had once considered friends.
“I need to take this -” Sir Dunnicliffe’s words were drowned out by a muffled scream from outside the window. Within seconds the room erupted into chaos, as they ran to the French windows as one to see who was screaming this time.
“They’ve got Eliza,” Edward snarled, slamming out of the French doors, and breaking into a run after the burly man carrying a screaming Eliza across the manicured lawn to the trees.
“I’ll get the horses,” Sebastian shouted, racing toward the back of the house.
“Wait!” Sir Dunnicliffe ordered, relieved when Peter drew to a reluctant stop just inside of the door, clearly bristling with impatience at having to stop and explain. “What’s happening?”
“By the look of it, Rogan, Scraggan’s son, has got Eliza,” Peter’s voice was merciless.
“Eliza Trelisk? Jemima’s sister?” Sir Dunnicliffe turned to frown out of the French doors, watching the Cavendish brothers tear across the manicured lawns after the group of burly men who were carrying a screaming young woman, presumably Eliza towards the woods.
“Yes,” Peter sighed. “Edward found her in Derby a couple of weeks ago. Unfortunately, so did Scraggan’s men. Edward managed to keep her safe while he sent word to us asking for our help. Eliza insisted on going to Padstow to see if Jemima was there, so Edward, Dominic, Sebastian and myself agreed to escort her and keep her from Scraggan’s clutched. We were all on our way to Padstow, when we got news of Jemima being held in Derby Gaol. Although we tried to get there in time, we –” Peter sucked in a breath, unable to say the words. He shook his head sadly, and flicked the man a stark look.
Sir Dunnicliffe shook his head regretfully, and turned to stare out of the French doors while he listened to Peter’s explanation.
“Scraggan set Jemima up,” Peter’s voice was raspy with emotion. “There is little we can do to help her now, but while I have breath in my body, they will not take Eliza too.” He didn’t waste any more time with explanations, and vanished.
Sir Dunnicliffe knew Eliza had recently been on her way to Padstow. He also knew that Edward had been accompanied by Sebastian and Dominic Cavendish, as well as Peter Davenport himself. What he didn’t understand was how Eliza had been captured by Rogan Scraggan while in the relative safety of Havistock Hall.
“We need to –,” he turned and found the room behind him empty.
Shaking his head, he stalked to the main hall and motioned to the man standing silently in the shadows beside the front door. Within moments, he too had simply vanished, so efficiently and so quietly, he could have been a ghost.
Sir Dunnicliffe decided to take advantage of not having any of the family members around and, instead of following them out of the house to help chase after Eliza, headed quickly toward the back of the house and the servants’ quarters.
It was time to put plan B into action, before any other unexpected events took place.
“God, what a mess,” he grumbled quietly, shaking his head at the speed at which his carefully thought-out plans were rapidly out of control.
CHAPTER TWO
She was so very cold.
It took all her concentration to simply breathe in and out, as she slowly became aware of her surroundings. The thick black fog in her head began to swirl around her, reluctant to relinquish its hold on her senses.
Sucking in a deep breath, she tried to ignore the acrid, slightly musty taste in the back of her throat, and the worrying churning of her empty stomach. Her head was pounding furiously, and her throat was so raw it was difficult to swallow. She ached from head to foot, which was bad enough in itself, but when accompanied by the pounding in her head, left her feeling decidedly ill. She couldn’t decide which was worse; the thick, black void that threatened to drag her down into oblivion and render her helpless, or the various ailments becoming more evident as time progressed.
She had the vague urge to run, as fast as her legs could carry her, but knew instinctively that her legs wouldn’t work. A teasing hint of something indefinably threatening lurked on the fringes of her thoughts for a few seconds, only to be snatched away by the swirling black mists threatening to suck her back under.
She lay perfectly still, and felt her confusion increase. She opened first one eye, then the other and stared at the dull, slightly cracked ceiling high above. Her breath fogged out before her as she breathed out, explaining why she was frozen to the core. She couldn’t ever remember being so cold and seemed to be covered with nothing more than a threadbare blanket.
Tentatively lifting her head off the table, she glanced cautiously around the room, confused to find it furnished only with the extremely hard bed she lay upon.
What had happened to her? Where was she? Why was she in a room with no heating?
Again, a whisper of memory appeared tantalisingly before her for an infinitesimal moment only to vanish again just as quickly. She knew there was something important she needed to remember, but her brain just wouldn’t cooperate.
It seemed the entire room was painted with the same dull, mossy green paint, and was completely unfurnished. The small window high on
the wall did little to allow any daylight in, leaving the room bathed in shadows. It was sparse, but better than where she had been.
That thought made her pause. Where had she been? Shaking her head, she slowly pushed herself onto her elbows, wincing as her stomach clenched in protest. Did she feel sick? She wasn’t sure. She had, but now? She didn’t know. She didn’t feel hungry, but something about her stomach didn’t feel right. She began to shiver as she sat upright, and tugged the thin blanket around her shoulders, trying to take stock of her situation. The room certainly wasn’t familiar to her. It seemed to be some kind of servants’ room, but she was fairly certain that she had never been in it before. So, where was she?
Outside of the room she could hear the low murmuring of what sounded like a group of people. Although she couldn’t decipher what was being said, she knew instinctively that they were close by. It sounded so domesticated that it made her feel like a visitor in someone else’s house. But whose house was she in?
Frowning in consternation, she searched the inner depths of her memory for anything - any clue, any hint - that would get her wayward memory to relinquish its secrets, but could remember nothing. It was as though her memory of life before the room had been completely obliterated, leaving nothing but an empty space and brief snatches of - something.
After several minutes, her reeling senses settled enough to allow her to slowly swing her legs over the side of the table. As she turned, out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of a cascade of tangled muddy-coloured hair hanging limply over her shoulder. Was that hers? It didn’t look as though it had been washed for some considerable time, and smelled awful.
Again, a wisp of a memory swam before her, this time accompanied by a tangible sense of fear that was so real she was driven to look over her shoulder. This time, the fear didn’t leave her, and she fought the surge of panic that began to take hold. Again, she felt the wild urge to run for her life.
She began to gasp against the tightness locked in her throat. The spectre of menace hung over her until she couldn’t stand it any longer and had to get out of the room. She desperately needed to get out into the open; to fresh air, and freedom. Freedom?
Had she been held captive here? If so, by whom? What was going on?
Slowly sliding to her feet, she cried out as her knees buckled beneath her. Frantically clutching tightly onto the wooden board, she stared down at it with a dark frown of consternation. She had been lying on a simple wooden board, resting on a table? Why? She turned at the sound of movement by the doorway and watched it swing open to reveal a maid.
Jemima stared at the woman now standing in the doorway. At first she seemed ignorant of Jemima’s presence, only to give a startled gasp when she caught sight of her standing beside the table. Jemima opened her mouth to speak, only for the maid to emit a high-pitched, banshee-like scream and bolt from the room, slamming the door behind her.
Shocked, Jemima slumped back against the wooden board. She wished she had the strength to run after the woman and demand to know what was happening, but the trembling in her knees had increased to the point that she knew she couldn’t even stand up any longer. Carefully lying back down on the hard wooden board, Jemima listened to the screams of the maid disappear into the distance. She gathered enough strength to drag the blanket back over her body just as the thick fog began to weave its way around her again, drawing her back down into oblivion. As she succumbed, she thought she heard a flurry of activity outside the door, but was so cold and tired that she couldn’t summon the energy to keep her eyes open, or call out to anyone for help.
Jemima jolted as a sudden blast of icy air brushed over the bare flesh of her chest. Her eyes jerked open and she stared up in surprise - straight into the stunned gaze of another strange woman. Another maid?
The woman jerked backward, staring at Jemima in horror for a few seconds before letting out the most ear-piercing scream Jemima had ever heard.
It was so high-pitched that it made Jemima’s head pound, and she immediately groaned at the churning in her stomach. Clutching her head, she took a breath to ask the woman what was wrong, only to find herself suddenly alone. She winced as the door to the room slammed shut.
Memories of another woman fleeing the same room came flooding back. As before, she lay listening to the screams of the maid disappearing into the distance.
“Why does everyone do that?” she croaked, holding her pounding head.
Instinctively Jemima lifted a trembling hand to her tangled mass of hair, before tenderly touching her cheek. Did she look that bad? Why didn’t anyone stop to help her? Where was she anyway?
She still had no memory of anything, only her name. What was going on?
Shaking with a mixture of fear, exhaustion and confusion, Jemima eased her legs over the side of the table once more, and paused to allow her sore head to settle to the new arrangement of standing upright. As she did so, she became aware of a commotion outside of the room again, only this time more muffled, as though it was coming from further away.
Slowly gathering the blanket around her shoulders, she shuffled on unsteady feet toward the door.
This time she would get some answers and find out just what was going on, and why she was being kept in a tiny storage room.
Immediately the word ‘cell’ sprang to mind, and once again she felt a surge of fear so strong that she had the urge to run and not look back. Driven by a desperate need to escape the room, she lurched toward the open door.
Holding on to the door jamb for support, she stepped out of the room and paused in what appeared to be a long, servants’ corridor. She found herself staring down the corridor at an assembled group of well-dressed people who were deep in conversation.
Her eyes immediately locked on the slender, elegantly beautiful vision of her sister standing beside a tall, black-haired man Jemima could vaguely remember; only she couldn’t remember where she had seen him before. She watched as Eliza leaned against the tall, startlingly handsome man whose hands rested on her shoulders as he stared down the corridor at Jemima with something akin to horror on his face.
“Sweet Jesus,” Edward whispered, staring down the corridor in shock. His hard hands prevented Eliza from turning and seeing the spectre slowly gliding toward them.
“What the -” Dominic swore, dumbfounded into stunned silence as he watched the spectacle. His eyes wide with surprise, he turned as Peter appeared at his elbow. For a brief moment, their eyes met and held. Peter instinctively tensed, knowing he wouldn’t like this latest turn of events.
“What?” Peter snapped, in no frame of mind for any more ridiculous charades with the servants. Behind Dominic, Edward was staring, transfixed, at something further down the corridor. From his place just outside the doorway, Peter couldn’t see anything, but whatever it was had shocked Edward so badly he looked deathly pale, his jaw hanging open with stunned surprise.
Peter’s curiosity and temper surged, and his hand dropped to the wicked-looking dagger tucked into his belt.
“Is it Scraggan?” Peter whispered to a stunned-looking Sebastian, who slowly shook his head in silent reply.
Dominic suddenly jerked out of his trance and turned to Peter. “You need to -” he paused, clearly stuck for words. He looked askance at his friend, and moved to one side, gesturing behind him with one arm.
With a sigh of impatience, Peter brushed past him and Edward, who drew Eliza to one size and held her head close to his shoulder to prevent her from turning around.
Peter’s world stopped.
His breath locked in his throat.
The ground shifted beneath his feet.
He went cold, then hot.
His heart lurched in his chest, as a wave of shock swept through him that was so strong his fingers tingled and the vision became hazy.
Jemima?
Very pale; very thin. With unkempt hair, almost black with dirt, and her face so gaunt and pale that the dark shadows beneath her eyes stood out in stark contra
st. She looked like a ghost. But she was walking. A walking ghost. Did ghosts walk?
His mind tried to assimilate what he was seeing. Jemima was clearly alive, and presently shuffling toward him.
He couldn’t believe it.
“Does everyone see what I am seeing?” Edward murmured to nobody in particular.
“What?” Eliza snapped. “What is it you are all seeing?” Losing patience with Edward’s restraint, she roughly pushed his hands from her shoulders and turned around, standing on tip-toes to peer over Peter’s broad shoulder. Her gasp was half-squeal as she stared into the haunting face of her sister, who had paused halfway down the corridor, and was now staring back at them in confusion.
“Please?” Jemima croaked, feeling the black swirling mist begin to take hold once more. Her eyes locked onto Peter’s, begging him to help her. Why were they just staring at her?
“Please help me?” Jemima murmured, putting a hand to her head in a vague attempt to stop it spinning.
Peter struggled to draw breath for fear of breaking the wonderfully enticing vision before him. Was she real? His mind just couldn’t take in this latest turn of events.
Was she alive? How could she be? She must be alive, his logical mind reasoned. She must be, because everyone else could see her.
On hollow legs he slowly moved toward her, fearful that she would simply vanish if he got too close, and this wonderfully startling moment would all turn out to be a dream.
Could ghosts appear so real? He wasn’t sure, but he had to know for certain. He had to touch her to find out. As he approached, he could smell the faint odour of the gaol on her clothing, and saw tiny bits of straw tangled in the wild mass of her hair.
Did ghosts appear that real?
He drew to a halt mere inches from her. She was so deathly pale she was almost translucent. She began to sway as she tipped her head back to look at him. Her wonderful amber eyes met his, so achingly familiar that he felt the sting of tears in his eyes.
