by Olivia Drake
Chapter 26
Shortly after entering the ballroom, Simon was astounded to come face-to-face with the one person he had never expected to see at the party. She had been on the original guest list, but had sent her regrets due to a prior engagement.
Smiling, he kissed her on the cheek. “Clarissa! What a delight to have you here.”
Lady Milford looked agelessly slender and serene in a gown of plum silk. A diamond aigrette decorated her upswept black hair. She had hardly changed since the days when she had been a dear friend of his grandmother’s. “There you are, Simon. You’re looking quite well.”
If only she knew how invigorated he felt—and why. “When did you arrive?” he asked. “Did I somehow miss you? There was quite the crush of people in the receiving line.”
“No, I fear I was hopelessly late. Supper was already in progress.”
“You traveled through the dark to join us?” he asked in surprise. “As much as I welcome your company, I would never have wished for you to take such a risk on these winding roads.”
“My coachman is quite proficient. Besides, I needed to be here as swiftly as possible.” On that enigmatic statement, she curled her gloved fingers into the crook of his elbow. “Do let us stroll to a quieter spot.”
Intrigued, Simon guided her on a route that skirted the edge of the crowd. He nodded coolly to a few people, not wanting to encourage conversation with anyone else. It was clear that Lady Milford had something important on her mind—and that was fine with him because he had momentous news for her, too.
Simon could scarcely keep from grinning like a besotted fool. He had begun the evening uncertain if Annabelle could ever forgive him for his reprehensible plan to make her his mistress. But things had turned out even more spectacularly than he had dared to hope. She loved him, and never in his life had he been happier.
Lady Milford stopped by a night-darkened window, far from the throng of dancers at the other end of the chamber. “This will do,” she said.
Simon noted the serious look on her face. “I must say you’re being quite mysterious tonight,” he said. “I hope you plan to enlighten me.”
“First I must know, where is Miss Quinn?”
“Asleep in her bed, I presume.”
“I had hoped she would still be here at the ball,” Lady Milford said with a moue of regret. “However, perhaps it’s for the best. It caused quite a stir when both of you vanished from the ball. And for nearly two hours!”
“Please be assured I did nothing to dishonor her.” That was the absolute truth. He loved Annabelle with all his heart and soul, and their physical joining had been an expression of their mutual devotion. There was no force on earth that could stop him from marrying her.
At that moment, Simon spotted Ludlow’s stooped figure shuffling toward them from across the room. The ancient retainer raised a gnarled hand in a beckoning wave as if he wanted to speak to Simon.
Good God. What if the old fellow had been up to the bedchamber and had seen the evidence of lovemaking? He might very well make a bawdy allusion to it in front of Lady Milford. It would confirm her suspicions when Simon was determined to guard Annabelle’s privacy.
Lady Milford was already eyeing him sharply. “Tell me the truth, Simon. Are you dallying with her? I won’t stand by while you heap shame on such a fine, decent woman.”
“You’ve no cause for concern, I promise you.” He placed his hands on her dainty shoulders. “In fact, I’ll let you in on a secret. Tonight, Annabelle consented to be my wife. We’re going to be married.”
A misty light entered Lady Milford’s violet eyes. Her mouth softened in a warm smile; then she leaned up on tiptoe and gave him a peck on the cheek. “Well! That is the most wonderful news! I can scarcely believe it.”
“I’ve you to thank for sending Annabelle here—and for insisting that Nicholas needed a governess. He’s blossomed under her care.”
“And so have you, it would seem.”
“To be honest, I don’t know how I ever lived without her.” Ludlow was almost upon them. Simon had no intention of having a conversation with him in front of Lady Milford. “Will you excuse me for a moment? I need a word with my manservant.”
Lady Milford gave Simon a meditative look. “Actually, the matter that brought me here involves Miss Quinn. I would much prefer to speak to both of you at the same time. Shall we do so in the morning?”
“If it pleases you, yes.”
She glided away into the multitude of guests. Simon felt an intense curiosity. What was this issue involving Annabelle that had induced Lady Milford to drive through the night? He couldn’t imagine.
Ludlow made a creaky bow. “Praise God I have found you at last, my lord.”
“At last?”
“A messenger brought word more than an hour ago. It seems that Mr. Bunting has escaped from prison.”
* * *
Annabelle awakened slowly to a groggy sense of dread. Her eyelids felt too heavy to lift and her head ached abominably. She wanted nothing more than to sink back into restful oblivion. Yet some inner imp prodded her to assess her surroundings.
She lay flat on her back on a cold, hard surface. Her right foot felt icy; she wore only one shoe. The scent of damp earth hung heavy in the air. Though she could not explain why, she had the impression of being trapped inside a tight enclosure.
A grave. I’ve been buried alive.
Alarm stabbed into her. With supreme effort, Annabelle opened her eyes. She was indeed underground. Directly above her loomed a dirt ceiling seamed with tree roots. She was close enough to discern every twist and turn in their thickness.
Gasping, she managed to push herself up onto one elbow. The world spun dizzily and she had to close her eyes again. When she opened them, it became clear why she was able to see at all.
Light emanated from beyond her feet. Something black blocked the source of it. She blinked several times, then realized that a shadowed figure crouched before her. A creature wearing a devil’s mask.
The memory of the face in the mirror flashed into her mind.
Terrified, she tried to scream. But in her weakened state, it sounded more like a squeak.
A laugh came from behind the mask. “Well, well, Miss Quinn. It’s high time you awakened.”
That voice.
As recognition struck, a cold tremor gripped her bones.
* * *
Holding a lantern, Simon raced up the nursery stairs two at a time. He assured himself the news posed no immediate danger. Bunting would not have escaped from prison and come straight here; he would have scuttled into hiding like the coward he was.
Yet Simon couldn’t shake the premonition that Annabelle was in danger. Nor could he forget the loathing in the vicar’s eyes whenever the man had looked at her.
He headed swiftly through the shadowed schoolroom. Though he’d never been in her bedchamber, Simon knew its location. The sight of her open door caused a lurch in his chest. But maybe she’d only wanted to be able to hear Nicholas if he called out in his sleep.
That brief hope died when Simon stepped into the chamber. The light of his lamp fell on her empty cot. The covers had not been disturbed.
Driven by alarm, he pivoted on his heel and strode across the schoolroom to the boy’s chamber. Nicholas lay asleep in the big canopied bed. Annabelle was nowhere in sight.
Where was she? She would not have gone back to the ball.
Three quick steps took him to the tiny chamber where the nursemaid slept. It was empty as well.
Something sparkled on the floor: a single garnet shoe encrusted with crystal beads. It lay in front of the hidden entry to the tunnels.
Fingers trembling, Simon picked up the shoe and stuffed it into his pocket. Then he felt along the stone wall for the concealed latch. He pressed it and the door sprang open to a stygian darkness.
Annabelle would not have ventured into the tunnels merely on a lark. Especially not while missing a slipper. Someone had to have
forced her through here.
Bunting.
Taking the lamp, Simon raced down the steep steps. As he neared the landing where the stairway split into two, he spied something that made his blood run cold. A woman lay there in a shadowed heap. It was obvious from the unnatural tilt of her head that she was dead.
His heart thundered in his chest. No!
He dropped to his knees, turned her over, and realized two things in swift succession. She was not Annabelle, but the missing nursemaid.
And she had been strangled.
* * *
“Scream all you like,” he said. “No one can hear you out here.”
Annabelle struggled to rise. But her head swam and her limbs felt shaky. She managed to wriggle into a sitting position while watching him. Something had been on the cloth that he’d put over her mouth when he’d captured her. Something that had made her swoon.
At least now, though, she knew his identity by his cultured voice.
“Why…” She paused to wet her dry lips. “Why are you wearing that silly mask?”
“In case we ran into anyone on the way here, I could pretend we were merely revelers from the Samhain party. But I don’t suppose I need it anymore, now do I?”
He untied the strings behind his head. The devil’s mask fell away to reveal a visage even more chilling for its mild-mannered appearance: Mr. Harold Tremayne.
She still felt too woozy to make sense of things. Yet instinct told her to try. The longer she kept him talking, the better her chance of regaining her strength and making her escape.
“Where am I?” she asked, her voice sounding feeble.
“Guess. You ought to recognize this place.”
Annabelle glanced around. Revulsion filled her as she spied a pile of bones beside her. She was in the excavated hole at the Druid site. The hard surface beneath her was the stone altar.
She tried not to shiver. “How do you know I’ve been here before?”
“Percival Bunting told me. Besides, I’ve seen you here myself.”
She knew at once what he meant. “It wasn’t the vicar who shot at me. It was … you.”
Tremayne smiled in the caricature of a gentleman. The lamplight behind him cast shadows that made his eyes look like the empty sockets of a skull. “I was watching you that day,” he said. “And when the opportunity presented itself … I knew what I had to do.”
Horror crept over her skin. He had to be mad. A raving lunatic. How was she to flee him? He blocked the entry to the hollowed-out area in which she sat. There was no one to save her but herself.
Time was her only weapon. Moment by moment, she felt more clear-headed. She prayed her physical strength would return as well.
He went on rather proudly, “I also sent the note luring you to the cave on the beach. It was quite simple to copy Lord Simon’s penmanship from his correspondence with the vicar.” Tremayne leaned over her feet to leer at her. “How eager you were to meet your lover.”
The thought of Simon made her throat catch. Would she ever see him again? He believed Mr. Bunting had written that forged note with Mrs. Wickett as his accomplice. “Then you must have been very disappointed when Simon rescued me.”
“Don’t count on him coming for you again, not this time.” Tremayne’s tone took on a whining edge. “It wasn’t supposed to happen this way, you know. It’s all your fault for rebuffing me.”
“Rebuffing you?”
“At the dinner party shortly after my arrival here. Right in the middle of our conversation, you turned your back on me and went straight to Lord Simon. You did the same thing when I was speaking to you as you played the pianoforte.”
His resentment alarmed Annabelle. She had to relax him if she hoped to catch him off his guard. “I meant no slight, I assure you.”
“Yes, you did. You snubbed me. You, a bastard-born nothing.”
She stared at him. She’d told no one but Simon about her base birth. “I’m sorry, Mr. Tremayne. I can’t imagine who has been gossiping about me.”
His guttural laugh chilled her. “You think I obtained my knowledge from gossip? Nay, I have it from one in the innermost circle of royalty. You see, Miss Quinn, I am merely posing as a cleric. I was sent here to seduce you—to make certain you were ruined and never again found employment with any decent family.”
The man was deranged. Nothing he said made any sense. “Sent here? By whom?”
“There is one at court who wants you out of the way … because of who your father was.”
Stunned, Annabelle shook her head. “My father?”
Rather than enlighten her, Tremayne bared his teeth in a grimace. “I was paid a handsome fee to lure you into an indiscretion, but you wouldn’t cooperate. So it became necessary to kill you instead.”
He lifted his arm. In his hand gleamed a long knife.
* * *
After discovering the maid’s body, Simon had raced through the tunnels. But he failed to find any further clue leading to Annabelle’s location. Where would Bunting have taken her?
Simon fought off panic and forced himself to think. There were far too many possibilities—the cave on the beach, the countless rooms in the castle, the vast grounds outside. Worse, Bunting might have thrust her into a waiting vehicle and was now driving away. Simon needed help, and luckily, plenty of footmen and grooms had attended the Samhain festivities. A search party could comb the area much faster than one man.
As he made haste through the courtyard and then the open portcullis, Simon ran smack into a girl who was running in from beyond the castle walls. He recognized her as Livvy, one of the kitchen maids.
She had landed on her skinny behind, and as he helped her up, Livvy babbled, “M’lord! They be out there! ’Ee mustn’t go near!”
The terror in her voice struck him. They … Annabelle and Bunting? “Cease your gibbering and speak clearly.”
“The piskies—they’ll bewitch ’ee. I saw their light on the hillside!”
“Piskies! Good God!” Simon stepped aside to wave her past. “Go on with you.”
But even as Livvy darted into the castle, comprehension swept away his scorn. A light on the hillside …
Suddenly he knew exactly where Bunting had taken Annabelle.
* * *
The lamplight gleamed on the sharp edge of the knife.
Willing her teeth not to chatter, Annabelle strove for the firm tone of a governess. “You’re making a terrible mistake. You’ll be sent to prison to hang.”
Tremayne chuckled darkly. “Ah, but I’m too clever for that. You see, I arranged for Percival Bunting to escape from prison a few hours ago. When your bloody remains are found on that altar, Bunting will be held to blame and hunted down like a dog.”
Dear God. Simon would have no reason to doubt the false story. He knew that Bunting had a keen interest in Druid sacrifices. In addition, Tremayne had claimed to have found a diary that added further damning evidence. Perhaps that too was a convenient forgery.
Eyeing the blade in his hand, Annabelle felt a clutch of terror. How could she fight him when she had no weapon of her own?
Out of desperation, she decided to play to his vanities. “I never realized how very clever you are,” she said. “I do wish you would give me a second chance.”
“You are beautiful,” Tremayne said, almost regretfully. “It is truly a pity that you have to die.”
In a crouch because of the low ceiling, he moved closer to her. Annabelle pretended to cower against the back wall. When he was near enough, she gathered all of her strength and kicked at him.
The tangle of her skirts blunted the blow. Yet she managed to graze his crotch with her heeled shoe and knock him off balance. Tremayne hissed out a curse as he fell sideways against the wall. A fine shower of dirt rained down on both of them.
Annabelle snatched up a hefty bone from the pile. She intended to hit him over the head and knock him out. But he recovered too swiftly.
With a feral growl, he lunged at he
r.
She had time only to grasp the long bone in both hands, using it as a shield to ward off his attack. She cried out as the hard strike splintered the bone and narrowly missed slicing her fingers.
His face twisted in a snarl, he drew back the knife again.
Annabelle brandished the broken bone like a spear. She would gouge out his eyes if necessary. But the blow never came. A dark figure dropped into the hole and seized Tremayne from behind.
Simon!
The lantern lit his grim features. He clamped his arm around Tremayne’s throat in a chokehold. The knife thumped to the ground. Tremayne struggled, uttering strangled gasps, until he abruptly went limp.
As Simon dropped him, Annabelle stumbled out of the cavelike hole and threw herself at Simon. Shuddering, she slid her arms around his waist and clung tightly to his warmth. The swift beating of his heart made her fiercely glad to be alive.
She turned a glance at Tremayne’s crumpled body. “Is he—”
“He’s dead,” Simon said flatly.
There was a coldness to his tone that she ached to heal. She cupped his cheek in her hand. “You did what needed to be done. He nearly killed me.”
Simon drew a deep breath. “You’re safe now, my love.” As he pressed a kiss into her palm, his voice throbbed with emotion. “Praise God you’re safe.”
Chapter 27
Clarissa fought off a wave of weariness that had more to do with the weight of her secret than the lateness of the hour.
Yet it pleased her to watch Simon fuss over Annabelle. They were in his study, and he had settled Annabelle onto a chaise by the roaring fire. When he had brought her back to the castle, word of what had happened had spread quickly throughout the ball.
Clarissa had been about to retire for the night. But the time for explanations had come. Sick at heart, she knew that she alone had had prior knowledge that could have prevented the attack. If only she’d arrived sooner … but that had not been humanly possible.
Now, Simon brought Annabelle a glass of brandy, but she waved it away with a shudder. “Just tea, please. I don’t want anything to cloud my senses. Mr. Tremayne put a smelly rag over my mouth, and I don’t remember anything until I awakened on that altar.”
