by Allison Lane
“That hardly matters. My neighbors know me well enough to discount claims by a London wastrel.”
“I am not talking about words but deeds, Miss Ashburton. He would stay in the area until he found the servant who struck him, then deal with her.”
“Yet you claim him as a friend?” she demanded, her skin crawling at the image he painted.
“No longer. I had not realized how far he was willing to go. I cannot condone force.”
“Nor I.” His words warmed her heart, but she stifled the softening. No matter what face he put on his past, he was hardly harmless. “It grows late, and I was up all night with Mother. I will leave the keys in your dressing room. If we need to talk, slip a note into my hall.” She motioned him toward the terrace, covering a yawn.
He yawned in return, then took a civil leave.
Locking the door, she made sure the draperies were firmly closed, then headed upstairs.
* * * *
Max glanced around the table at dinner that night. In three days the character of the party had changed. The first night, they had gathered around Terrence at the pianoforte to sing bawdy tunes. The next evening they’d played a lascivious game of charades that had most of them laughing by the time it concluded.
Now he was so tense he feared he would shatter. The morning’s revelations had kept him from sleep. Blake’s claims were bad enough, but Miss Ashburton’s notion that Dornbras used the flattery of hired companions to feed his arrogance had struck even closer to the bone. Was he also guilty of using insincere words to confirm his worth? Not sexually, but his position invited toadying. Dornbras was the most obvious example, trading praise for support, but there might be others.
Having to reevaluate longstanding friendships was one reason he felt nervous tonight. The other was Dornbras. Did he suspect whom he had accosted that morning? He had become more petulant as the day progressed, popping in and out of rooms, obviously looking for the mysterious servant. Max had finally drawn him aside, ignoring the slight swelling around the man’s nose.
“She quit,” he’d said firmly. “I had to hire tenants and villagers to help with this party, but they are not of the servant class. I promised that we would leave them alone, so please keep your hands off the others, or we will have no staff at all. One more incident and they will leave en masse. Most are related.”
Dornbras had blustered, swearing that the girl had misunderstood.
“Your intentions don’t matter,” Max had finally said soothingly. “She was flustered enough to leave. Since no one else is available, I must ask all of you to ignore the remaining staff.”
Now Blake frowned in disgust as Dornbras caressed Missy. Reggie also looked irritated, for Dornbras had grown too overt for even rakish tastes. But with luck the man would find a new interest by morning.
His eyes moved on to Annette. She had not been surprised when he’d dismissed her. He’d avoided her for two days, too concerned with protecting the east wing to enjoy her attentions. It hadn’t taken her long to line up a new protector. Terrence had already taken her under his wing, becoming oblivious to both Dornbras and the growing tension.
It had not diminished. And it wasn’t imagination. Blake also felt it, his eyes appearing troubled as he examined the guests. But he made no comment on Dornbras’s increasingly explicit remarks.
Dinner finally ended. Dornbras and Missy headed upstairs, to no one’s regret. Max followed, eschewing a second evening of music. Yet three hours later, he remained wide awake, standing at the window as he stared into the distance. A feeling of doom was growing.
Chapter Seven
Dawn crept through a crack in the draperies, waking Hope. Her neck was stiff from sleeping in the chair.
She had not meant to spend the night in her mother’s room. With the fever gone, it was no longer necessary to keep constant watch. But she had remained to make sure that no hint of the west wing revelries penetrated the door.
They had not, which had actually disturbed her, for she’d hoped that her mother’s latest delirium had been triggered by voices.
It was not the first time illness had produced a rambling monologue, of course. The incidents had started several years ago, about the same time her melancholy had noticeably deepened. The first one had merely recalled Uncle Edward’s most recent visit.
Hope had been appalled to realize how terrified her mother was to be alone with Uncle Edward, though the monologue itself had made little impression. Even the realization that her mother recalled nothing of her revelations once she recovered seemed unimportant. Hope took steps to see that her mother was always accompanied during his visits and put the incident behind her.
But the same thing had happened during the next illness, and the next. More than a year passed before she realized that each monologue relived a memory that preceded the last, reversing through every fearful event in her mother’s life. Yesterday she had reached her ruination by Arnold Ashburton. The fever had flared at dusk, sending her into yet another memory.
“Call me Arnold, my love,” she had murmured, after disjointed phrases that hinted she had slipped away more than once to meet him in the woods. Hope had bitten her lip as her mother continued quoting his blandishments. “So beautiful, love. Fresh as the fairest flower of spring. Must have a taste. Just one taste.”
“No.” Her mother had thrashed briefly, but whether she had protested to him or was trying to warn her younger self of danger, Hope didn’t know. She soothed the brow with cool water as words tumbled from those dry lips – words that cajoled, words that flattered, words that pleaded for just one more touch or one last kiss, and words that subtly threatened if she refused.
”Sinful,” shouted her mother. “Blasphemous.” Her hand jerked to her throat. “But you know your father will never accept me, love. The only way we can be together is to force his hand.”
Hope had listened in growing fury as her mother relived every moment of that encounter – her uncertainty that she was choosing the right course, the short-lived excitement that changed to bewilderment and pain, and finally to terror when he disappeared without a word the next day.
Tears had streamed down Hope’s face, mirroring those flowing from her mother’s eyes.
“Mortal sin … damnation…” her mother had murmured before sliding into a deeper sleep. Again the fever had broken, as it so often did following one of these spells.
Hope had stayed, pondering the revelations, straining to hear any sound from Merimont’s room or the west wing, and finally falling asleep. Now she massaged the soreness from her neck as she watched her mother.
The lady’s eyes remained closed, but her breathing seemed more labored. The fever was back. Yesterday’s improvement might have slowed her decline, but she was not yet on the road to recovery.
Hope’s fears returned, more debilitating than ever. Being alone would make her vulnerable. Only now did she fully understand her mother’s warnings against rakes. They would do and say anything to achieve their goals – and sound sincere in the process. How else had her father persuaded her mother to abandon a lifetime of propriety and violate her own convictions to lie with him? One mistake, one moment of temptation, and her life had been ruined.
She would never fall into that trap. Once her mother recovered, she would eject Merimont from the house and keep him out. He might be better at hiding his true nature than most, but she would not allow him to pull the wool over her eyes.
She headed downstairs to make breakfast. The house felt even eerier than it had yesterday, when Dornbras’s eyes had seemed to bore into her back wherever she’d gone. Imagination, of course. But she could not forget them – scanning the house on arrival, glaring daggers at her when she’d struck him, promising retribution in that last black gaze before he’d left the rose garden.
Her governess had once claimed Hope had a touch of the sight, for she knew too much about others. Hope had rejected the notion, claiming that she was merely more observant than poor Miss Ellis. B
ut it was true that she could read eyes. Dornbras’s were evil, hard and black, devoid of emotion, offering no glimpse of a soul.
Rockhurst’s were cautious, though it was difficult to draw conclusions since she’d seen him only when he was suffused with anger. Merimont’s were different yet – brilliant blue, amazingly expressive, and capable of great warmth.
It’s a trick, swore her conscience. He’s trying to steal Redrock just as your father stole your mother’s virginity. Beneath that charm lies a heart as cold as any other man’s.
She shivered, suddenly remembering the muffled shout she’d heard as she’d started to leave her mother’s room last night. That was why she’d fallen asleep in there. Quickly shutting the door, she’d decided to wait until all was quiet. The shout had been male, though she’d not recognized the voice.
Reaching the ground floor, she entered the stillroom, then froze as a whimper escaped from the laundry.
“Who is there?” The eeriness was back, stronger than ever. Even the Prices should not be here this early.
Silence.
“Anyone there?”
Nothing.
Shrugging, she turned away, but the clatter of metal striking the stone floor jerked her back. Forcing the bar aside, she threw open the door and gasped.
“Dear Lord!”
A girl huddled under a bloody sheet. Hope’s candle picked up red glints in the matted hair, though bruising around the eyes made identification difficult. A kitchen knife lay on the floor, bloodstains on the handle showing how the girl had gripped it.
“You are one of Lord Merimont’s guests,” Hope said, lighting the lamp on the table.
The girl nodded. Fear blazed in her eyes. One hand formed a peasant sign against evil.
“I am no ghost,” said Hope quietly. “I live in the east wing.”
A line appeared on the girl’s forehead as though she was trying to puzzle out the words, but she said nothing. As she pulled the sheet closer, pain exploded through her eyes.
“How badly are you hurt?” Maintaining the calm tone was difficult, for the girl’s recoil had bared one thigh, revealing cuts and bruises.
“I – I am fine.” The sound barely carried across the six feet that separated them.
“You are not fine.”
The contradiction increased the fear in those green eyes.
Hope sighed, taking a seat several feet away. “I am not angry with you. Nor will I do anything to hurt you further. But I must tend your injuries and find you a better place to recuperate. You’ll catch your death lying on cold stone. Do you need a doctor?”
“No!”
“Can you walk?”
The girl nodded.
“Then let us move into the next room, where I can build up the fire and heat water.”
She collected clean sheets and a nightgown from the linen press, then helped the girl to her feet.
Relieved that nothing seemed broken, Hope led her into the still room. Warm water removed dried blood, exposing cuts and bruising on every part of her body. Up close, the girl seemed older than she had on arrival, at least ten years older than her own twenty-six.
“Do you have a name?” she asked as she tied off bandages.
“Missy.”
“You may call me Hope.” She turned toward the broth simmering on the fire. Missy had wrapped a clean sheet around her, hiding the heavy cotton nightgown. Since a courtesan would hardly feel modest, she must be seeking protection – or anonymity. The gesture seemed oddly youthful.
“How old are you, Missy?” she asked, setting a bowl on the table, then turning her back as she sliced bread.
“Four-and-twenty.”
Hope glanced over her shoulder, unable to hide her shock.
“’Tis a hard life,” Missy murmured.
“How long have you pursued it?” Her curiosity often got her into trouble, but she could not remain silent.
“Da sold me to Madame when I were twelve.”
“Twelve?”
Missy shrugged, then winced. “He needed my space.” Her tone stopped further questions.
Hope set the softest slice of bread where Missy could reach it, then forced her mind back to business. “Who beat you, Missy?”
“I fell.”
“Do not take me for a fool. I’ve nursed tenants and villagers for eight years and helped my mother for years before that. I’ve seen riding accidents, a fall from the stable roof, a shoulder full of birdshot, a tenant’s leg sliced by a wayward scythe, severed fingers, victims of a drunken brawl at the White Heron…” She paused for breath. “You were beaten. Was it Lord Merimont?”
“No.”
The relief that swept her was shockingly powerful. “Then who?”
Missy picked at a seam in the sheet, ignoring her.
“Missy. I know what fists do when they connect with flesh. The marks on your neck can only have come from fingers, and there is a handprint on your back. I cannot protect you unless I know the culprit. Either tell me or tell Lord Merimont.”
Missy met her gaze. Her lip trembled. Nearly a minute passed before she mumbled an answer.
“I did not catch the name.”
“Do—”
“Dornbras?”
Missy nodded.
“I should have known. The man is an arrogant cad who does whatever he pleases.” She shuddered, remembering their encounter. Drawing blood had been a mistake, though she’d had no other choice. She should have known he would turn on someone else when he couldn’t find her. Why hadn’t she demanded that Merimont check that angry voice?
Because you feared it was his.
Stifling guilt over allowing the attack to continue and fear that Merimont’s charm was eroding her sense, she watched Missy eat as she arranged her mother’s tray. By the time they both finished, she knew what she had to do.
“You need sleep and warmth. Estelle’s old room will suit,” she said, naming her mother’s former maid, who had slept on the nursery floor. “It is tiny, but you will be safe there. And it has an adequate grate.”
“He’ll look for me.” Her eyes again filled with fear. “I slipped out while he was asleep. That man is evil.”
“I agree, but he cannot pass the barricades. The room itself is difficult to spot if one is unfamiliar with the house, for it is tucked behind a storage room. And I will keep your door locked. Lord Merimont will wish to speak with you, but no one else will learn of your presence.”
Her face twisted, revealing her turmoil, but she finally nodded.
Hope settled her, forced broth into her mother, then rapped sharply on Merimont’s door. He must pack up his friends and go.
* * * *
Pounding reverberated through Max’s head. It took a minute to realize that it did not arise from too much wine.
He had stumbled to the door before he awakened enough to recall that it led to the east wing. Why would Miss Ashburton be demanding admittance?
Donning a dressing gown, he jerked the door open. “What?”
“You are despicable!”
He blinked. Fury snapped in her eyes. Color flooded her cheeks. She looked magnificent with her red hair flying about her face. An Amazon. Or Boadicea poised to defend her people. Lust exploded through his groin.
But her next words doused his ardor.
“How dare you keep that monster in this house?” she demanded, striding into the room.
“Who?” Not that the question was necessary, but he needed a moment to order his thoughts. He was still half asleep.
“Dornbras.”
“Did you run into him again?”
“No. I found Missy huddled in the laundry this morning. He beat her nearly senseless last night.”
“Dear God!” Blake was right. Dornbras was more dangerous than he had believed. Had Meg’s broken arm been deliberate after all? Threats might have induced her to lie. “How badly is she hurt?”
She glared as if he were responsible. “She is head-to-toe bruises and covered in bl
ood. Four teeth are loose. At least two ribs are cracked. I don’t think her nose is broken, though it is so swollen that she has difficulty breathing. The marks on her neck show that someone tried to choke her. Shall I go on?”
He could feel the blood draining from his face. What the devil had Missy done to incite such fury? “Did she say why?”
“What does that matter? The man is a monster, undeserving of forgiveness. Make him leave before something else happens. You should all leave.”
“It is not that easy.” Nothing had changed since yesterday. If anything, the situation was worse. “I can speak to him, but that might do more harm than good. Are you sure her injuries are that bad?”
“You can check for yourself if you don’t believe me, but I’d rather you didn’t. She spent hours huddled on a stone floor, gripping an inadequate knife for defense. She only now feels safe enough to sleep.” Her eyes bored into his, seeming to see too much. “I won’t allow you to blame her for this attack. Dornbras is an arrogant, spoiled fool who believes that his every whim should be instantly gratified. He was furious that I escaped yesterday, so he took his frustrations out on her. After all, she makes a convenient scapegoat as her position hardly commands respect.”
“Is that what she said?”
“I didn’t ask, but have you a better explanation?”
He paced the room, knuckling sleep from his eyes as he turned the facts over in his mind. She was right. Dornbras had been irritated to learn that the supposed maid would not return to Redrock. His own warning would have increased that irritation, for the man still wanted his patronage. So he’d turned on Missy, the quietest of the girls and the one least capable of fighting back.
He’d often heard tales from the courtesans he’d helped. Men used feeble excuses to explain their abuse – a wayward touch, silence, talking, a gasp of pain from rough handling – but in truth, they were usually angry before they ever arrived at the brothels. Yet no one had named Dornbras as a man with a penchant for violence.
He squeezed his eyes shut, wondering if his own blindness had condemned Dornbras’s victims to repeated attacks. Were they unwilling to seek help because he had excused the man’s other crimes?
