A Notorious Proposition

by Adele Ashworth

  Garrett sat back, his heart pounding in his chest as he glanced into the darkened passageway, feeling an odd combination of profound enlightenment coupled with overwhelming fury.

  He’d never considered there could be tiny rooms throughout the house inside which a person could hide, spy on the family at dinner, dressing and bathing, even in bed, and yet still remain hidden even from the passageway. If there were other closets like this one throughout the house, and he had every reason to believe whoever built this one would have built others, then it would certainly be possible for someone to stay hidden for an indeterminate length of time, moving undetected, hiding or exiting when necessary, knowing exactly where the family and servants were at any given time.

  Even now someone moved about his house freely, which explained how they’d been closed in the day they found the entrance to the wine cellar and the lock of hair on Ivy’s bed. He and Ivy had no doubt been spied upon, listened to, perhaps even watched during their intimate encounters, and the knowledge made him sick with revulsion.

  The orchestra began another well-played minuet, and Garrett stood, dusting himself off before exiting the closet space and pulling the paneling shut, his fear closing in on him as he realized Ivy could be lying unconscious in any such unknown room within the house. If he searched alone, it could take him days to find her, and he didn’t have days. The only thing he could do was gather every servant on the property, light up the passageway like afternoon sunshine, and do a detailed search.

  With renewed resolve, he picked up his own dim lamp and headed toward the stairs to the library.

  Ian had grown despondent. His bread and water had been gone for a time, though he could never know how long without light. He’d been caged for weeks, drugged until only recently, and at last he’d regained most of his memory. Yet now, with full awareness of his plight, he decided he’d rather be drugged. At least then he wouldn’t suffer the knowledge that he was going to die alone, chained to a wall in an unknown dungeon, without even his sister aware of what happened to him, much less the ability to tell her good-bye and that he loved her.

  It was the thought of Ivy that kept him alert, he supposed, and the mere frustration of knowing he would no longer be near to protect her—assuming he was ever found at all. Then again, he’d not been a very good protector these last two years as he’d charged ahead on his miserable quest to return the Martello diamonds to its rightful owner, only to lose his own life in the end.

  He wished he could know if there was truth behind the woman’s claim that Rye and his sister were lovers, but as things stood now there wasn’t much he could do about it anyway. The Marquess of Rye would make an excellent match for her, except for the tiny fact of her being a bastard child of the nefarious Baron Rothebury. And since Rye knew the full details, he doubted the man would marry his sister, though to give him credit, at least he hadn’t spread the word and ruined her reputation as he had ruined her future by taking her as his lover.

  But he’d never be able to help her now. His arm ached from being chained to the wall, held in the same position for so long. He no longer felt hunger, but thirst nearly overwhelmed him. And so he tried not to think about it.

  I’m so sorry, Ivy…so sorry…

  Be happy…

  Ian closed his eyes. All he had left was sleep.

  Ivy!

  Her eyes fluttered open to the blackness, her pulse suddenly racing as she sat up abruptly, holding her nose from the lingering stench, trying to piece together the thoughts, the message, that had startled her awake.

  She felt his presence, Ian’s presence, in the dark with her, close by. Calling to her.

  She finally felt alert enough to stand, but she was cautious in her attempt, gradually pushing herself onto her knees, then gingerly touching the wall for balance. Its sturdiness surprised her, and it took her only seconds to realize she’d been left inside a thick stone structure, void of windows.

  Clutching the cold wall, she slowly reached out and began to move, taking tiny steps as she followed the edge of the enclosure. Within moments she’d reached the corner, feeling suddenly fearful of what she couldn’t see around her, near her, as she continued to slide her shoes along the stone floor.

  Seconds later, she felt a difference at her fingertips, and then she touched wood—a wooden door.

  Relieved, Ivy reached for the latch, but after several moments of skimming the door she realized the wooden slab was simply a flat surface, though she could tell from touch that it was very thick. She pressed her ear against it, hearing nothing but silence fused with the sound of her own beating heart.

  She fought a quick prickling of tears but withheld them, knowing her best chance for escape required a stable mind, and she pressed on, determined to stay focused. Garrett would be looking for her by now, she could take comfort in that, though if she didn’t know where she was, how could he? And why was she here?

  Ivy decided her best approach was to continue following the wall, to learn what she could about the place of her entrapment. Once again she began to move, continuing at a markedly slow pace in fear of stepping onto the body of the dead animal—or whatever it was. The smell truly nauseated her, but she managed to avoid any disastrous effects by breathing through her mouth. Her head still hurt, but the pain had lessened, clearing the fog that shadowed her memory.

  Clinging to the stone wall as she crawled along, she focused on what she remembered last. She’d had a discussion with Lady Margaret, and then the woman had stormed from her bedchamber. She…fell—she remembered that, which explained why her hands were sore now. She’d cut them on glass. And then…she could swear she saw Hermione, but by then whatever drug she’d been given had taken effect and blurred her thinking so that—

  She stuck her hand on something moist, startling her as she stopped moving in the black enclosure. And then she felt the tiny crawling on her skin and realized she’d struck a web of large proportion and released a host of spiders across the wall, the floor.

  Ivy screamed. Terror enveloped her before she panicked, and she sprang away from the wall, shaking out her gown, her hair, feeling the creatures on her skin, the web on her face. In a frenzy she screamed again, and again, trembling with fear as she shook herself, brushed herself off the best she could, her breath coming fast and heavy and loud. She tried to get away, to move to the other side of whatever tomb they’d locked her in, but the blinding blackness left her confused about direction, where she’d been lying earlier, where the web was located. And the spiders—oh, God the spiders—

  Suddenly her feet struck a solid mass, tripping her. She fell over, her knees landing on something soft, her palms on wet stones—the source of the smell.

  She shivered, shaking her head, righting herself as she realized she sat on the torso of a human. Not a cat. A dead human. For a timeless moment, she thought she’d gone insane.

  No, no, no, no, no…. Please, God, help me!

  Through quick breaths and a racing heart, she squeezed her eyes shut, and ignoring all thoughts of what she was doing, she quickly crawled off the body, her shoe catching on clothing. She yanked her foot away hard and fast, hearing the clinking of metal buttons hitting rock but ignoring it as she moved forward on all fours, her hand outstretched until it touched the wall.

  Then she curled herself into a ball, hugging her gown around her knees as she melded into the stone as much as she could, rocking back and forth as tears flowed down her cheeks.

  Decaying flesh, spiders and webs, blackness, entombed for eternity…

  Insanity.

  “Garrett…” she whispered. “Find me…”

  Garrett reached the bottom of the stairs just as he heard a click of the latch from the other side of the library entrance. He stilled, pulling back against the wall and dimming his lamp as the bookcase moved aside and light filtered in from the room.

  He readied himself to grab whoever came through—then noticed Madeleine squeezing through the crack.

  “Wha
t are you doing?” he whispered.

  She sucked in a breath as she slapped her hand to her chest. “You startled me!”

  “Sorry,” he said, moving into the light.

  Quickly, she grabbed his arm. “Something’s happened. I was just coming to look for you.”

  He allowed her to pull him through the tight opening, and she shut the bookcase behind him.

  Garrett stared at the scene before him. Lady Margaret sat on the settee near the center of the room, holding a wet cloth to her forehead as she leaned back almost indelicately, her legs spread out, her gown in disarray, her free arm limp at her side, eyes half-shut.

  Immediately, he walked toward her. “What happened to you?”

  She said nothing at first, just blinked as she tried to focus on him. “Paul?”

  He fought the urge to shake her. Instead, he turned to Madeleine who had brushed past him to sit beside the girl.

  “I found her on the floor in here, unconscious,” she said. “I don’t know what happened.”

  Garrett stood erect in front of them, hands on hips. “Can you speak?”

  “My head hurts,” Margaret whispered.

  He hoped so, but that wasn’t the answer he wanted. “Where’s Ivy?”

  She shook her head. “I—I don’t know.”

  “What were you doing in here?” Madeleine urged, patting the woman’s hand in an attempt to comfort.

  Margaret shook her head in tiny movements. “I can’t remember.”

  Garrett groaned, his impatience teetering on violence. “We don’t have time for this—”

  The door to the library opened at precisely that moment, cutting him off. He turned just as Penelope entered, followed by Catherine Mossley, Lady Isadora, and, lastly, Hermione.

  Penelope’s eyes widened as she took in the scene. Then suddenly realizing she stood in the presence of the marquess, she made a vain attempt at curtsying. The others did the same.

  “My lord, sorry to disturb you, but…”

  He crossed his arms over his chest, brows furrowed. “But?”

  She cleared her throat. “I’m looking for my daughter, Viola. She has disappeared.”

  “And I am looking for Lady Ivy,” he replied with annoyance. “She, too, has disappeared.”

  “Perhaps they’re together,” Lady Isadora said brightly.

  He grunted. “I doubt it. Now if you’ll excuse us—”

  “What did you put in my champagne?” Margaret asked in a low tremor of malice.

  Garrett’s head flipped around sharply. He stared at his former betrothed, who in turn tried to focus on Hermione.

  “What did you say?” he murmured, watching her closely.

  Margaret glanced up to his face. “She gave me champagne, but it was clearly laced with something. I remember now—it made me sleepy, which is why I fell.”

  A tremor of rage cut through his chest as he turned his focus to Hermione. She just looked at him, her features unreadable.

  “Did you give champagne to Lady Ivy?” he asked as he began to walk slowly toward her.

  “I did not,” she replied succinctly.

  Penelope stepped in front of her daughter. “My lord, this is ridiculous—”

  “Be quiet, madam,” he warned, his voice dark. “Answer my question truthfully, Hermione.”

  Penelope’s mouth popped open, and then she closed it abruptly.

  Hermione blinked, apparently taken aback by his mood, the sudden tension filling the air. “If you’re asking me if I gave Lady Ivy champagne, the answer is no, I did not.”

  “She gave it to me,” Margaret snipped, her voice carrying more strength as she tried to sit up.

  Garrett fisted his hands tightly to keep himself composed. “And did you give it to Lady Ivy, Margaret?”

  Her lips curled in distaste. “Hermione suggested I give her a glass of champagne after the obvious turmoil you caused when you arrived.” She lifted a shoulder negligibly. “I simply followed her to her bedchamber and had words with her.”

  His head reeled suddenly as he felt the air being sucked from his chest.

  “Did you argue with her?” Madeleine asked as she threw him a warning glance.

  “Yes, but I left her there alone,” she replied somewhat caustically. “I don’t know where she is. If she’s disappeared, it isn’t of my doing.”

  Garrett’s eyes narrowed. “What are you doing in Winter Garden?”

  She smiled flatly. “I came to visit my aunt, who subsequently asked me to accompany her to the Winter Masquerade. There’s nothing sinister in that, is there?”

  He shook his head in disgust at the lie. Lady Margaret was clever and manipulative, and she clearly had more to tell him, but he believed her when she said she didn’t know a thing about Ivy’s disappearance. He had no reason to think she knew about the house, much less have the help she’d need to devise a scheme so rich in drama. He ignored her for now and turned back to confront Hermione.

  “You drugged her, didn’t you?” he maintained in a deadly tone of caution. “Why? Where is she?”

  Penelope grabbed hold of her daughter’s shoulders. “My lord, you can’t possibly think—”

  “Oh, yes I can,” he cut in, “and I do. Where is she, Hermione?”

  The woman didn’t even flinch as she stared at him through narrowed eyes. “I don’t know.”

  He didn’t believe her, and it took all that was in him not to reach forward and break her neck.

  “But you told Margaret to offer her champagne that would render her unconscious,” he continued, attempting to put the pieces together even when they made no sense at all. “Did you take her through the passageway?”

  Hermione didn’t answer, just continued to stare at him with a growing contempt that seemed to radiate from her rigid form.

  Garrett was sick to death of the evasiveness. “Where in Christ’s name is she!” he bellowed in rage, clenching his fists at his sides.

  Penelope gasped, as did Lady Catherine. Hermione never blinked.

  “Maybe she’s in the dungeon.”

  Very slowly, Garrett pivoted around, his head swimming, to stare at Lady Isadora, who’d spoken for the first time in a soft, wistful voice.

  “What did you say?” he breathed.

  The elderly lady smiled. “Well, it is a mystery, is it not? And what is a good mystery without someone locked in a dungeon?”

  “What dungeon?” he repeated.

  At last Hermione blurted, “She’s insane.”

  He ignored that. “What dungeon, madam.”

  Lady Isadora shrugged. “I really don’t know a thing about it.”

  Furious, Garrett turned to Madeleine, who shook her head, as perplexed as he.

  “But Margaret does. She’s the one who told me about it,” Lady Isadora added.

  He blinked. “Margaret? Your niece?”

  “Of course.”

  Garrett looked back at his former betrothed as his heart started racing with the possibility. “Explain that to me,” he ordered.

  “She doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” Margaret repeated, with a wave of a wrist.

  Immediately, he strode to her side, surprising her so much that her eyes opened wide, and she flinched.

  Placing both palms on the sides of her hips, he leaned forward so that his face nearly touched hers, trapping her against the settee.

  “You will tell me what you know of the dungeon now,” he whispered so that only she could hear, “or I will inform your parents of your various love affairs—”

  She gasped, pulling back in utter shock.

  “I will assure them,” he continued, “that you are ruined, and this is why I broke our betrothal.”

  “But—but none of that is true,” she seethed.

  He lifted a shoulder in shrug. “I don’t care.”

  She blinked as her face paled.

  Smiling in immense satisfaction, he murmured, “Who do you think they’ll believe?”

  Seconds of silence
lingered. And then tears welled up in her eyes, and she admitted softly, “All I know is that Benedict mentioned it, that it’s attached to the tunnel in this house.”

  Stunned, he repeated, “Benedict Sharon?”

  Glaring at him, her eyes misty and red, she whispered, “I loved him.”

  Abruptly, he stood, fairly gaping at her, trying to understand, to control his racing pulse. And then it hit him. “Our betrothal was a ruse from the beginning, wasn’t it? You were involved in the theft. You helped him steal the Martello diamonds.”

  She said nothing, though her face turned an ugly shade of crimson.

  He inhaled a staggered breath. “What happened to Ian?”

  “I don’t know,” she spat.

  “What happened, Margaret?”

  And suddenly he knew. Taking a step or two away from her, his gaze traveled over the length of her, his mouth opened in a paralyzing shock. “You were the woman in the church, weren’t you?” he asked in a raspy voice, his mouth dry. “The woman who watched in the corner while—then who hit me? Benedict?”

  She snorted with fury. “My, you have it completely figured out, my lord.”

  Disgust permeated him to his bones. Suddenly questions about the theft, that night, everything, filled his mind. “Then where was Ian? Or did you and Benedict Sharon contact me, claiming to be him? You both set me up to die—”

  “I did not,” she interjected with closed teeth. “I didn’t know he was going to hit you, or hurt you. It wasn’t supposed to happen that way.”

  Now he understood, and a strange peace settled in. “But you took the money I’d brought in exchange for the diamonds. And then you left me for dead.”

  She said nothing, just turned and looked at her aunt, who’d gone so pale she looked as if she might crumble.

  Seconds later, he murmured, “I don’t have time for this.”

  Snidely, Madeleine said, “What do you know of Ivy, Margaret?”

  Garrett answered for her. “She doesn’t have any idea. She’s not that smart.”