The Vanishing of Lord Vale

by Chasity Bowlin

  *

  The room was pitch black when she awoke. The darkness was so deep and impenetrable that she couldn’t see her own hand in front of her face. Swallowing a moan of despair, forcing herself to work through her fear, Mary sat up on the narrow cot that was her only respite from the cold and damp that surrounded her. She couldn’t even be certain she was alone. Was it preferable to be alone in the darkness? What if she wasn’t alone? What if whoever or whatever was in the darkness with her meant her harm?

  Summoning her courage, she called out tentatively, “Hello? Is anyone there?”

  Her own voice echoed back to her, distorted and strange to her ears. Alone then, she thought grimly. Perhaps it was for the best. Blinded as she was by the inky blackness surrounding her, she would never be able to differentiate friend from foe.

  She moved her hands experimentally and found that the bonds she’d worn before were gone. Though sore and tender to the touch, her wrists were now free of the ropes that had held her fast the last time she’d awoken. Her ankles were freed, as well. She took neither as a good omen. If her captors believed there was any possibility of escaping whatever dungeon currently held her, those bonds would never have been removed. Despair welled up inside her, but she tamped it down. She would not give up and she would not give in.

  “I’m not like other girls,” she said softly, her voice little more than a whisper. “I survived the Masons and their torment, didn’t I? I can get through this, too! I’m not going to just sit here and wait for whatever fate they have in store for me.”

  With those hollow words of encouragement ringing in her ears, Mary struggled to her feet. She swayed, still dizzy from whatever substance had been on the foul smelling cloth they’d held over her mouth and nose as they dragged her to a waiting carriage. Using the edge of the cot as a guide, she followed it to the wall. With her hands pressed against the wet and sometimes slimy feeling stone, she inched carefully, one painful step at a time, around the periphery of the room. The aches and pains of having been manhandled, bound, tossed in a carriage and then dragged into whatever pit she currently found herself in had taken a toll on her.

  Her foot struck a loose stone on the floor and she gasped with the sudden agony of it. Disoriented by the dark, stiff and sore from being bound for so long, she lost her balance and pitched forward onto the hard floor. The rough stones scraped her palms and the jolt of it made her shoulders ache. Tears threatened, but they were a useless indulgence. Forcing them back, swallowing past the lump in her throat and the metallic tang of fear, she rallied.

  Struggling once more to her feet, she placed her abraded hand against the wall and moved forward again. More carefully than before, she patted the ground in front of her with her foot to ensure that the way was clear.

  The texture of the wall changed, giving way from stone to wood. It wasn’t quite relief as Mary was unwilling to give herself leave to hope just yet. But wood meant a man-made structure, and a man-made structure meant there was likely a door or window. Based on the absolute blackness around her, she had to assume that she was underground or hidden away well within the confines of another building.

  Running her fingertips up and down the boards, she kept moving until she encountered the rusted metal of a hinge. Taking a deep breath, she sighed into the darkness and let the feeling of relief swarm her for just a moment. Whether she could get out or not, at that time, remained a mystery. But at least there was a way out and now she knew where it was.

  More investigation revealed a second hinge and several inches further, she encountered the heavy latch. It was locked, of course. She hadn’t expected anything less. Sinking back against the wood, she allowed herself a moment’s reprieve. After catching her breath, she reached up to her hair, hoping against hope that one of her pins had managed to snag in the tangled mass. Luck, in that respect, was with her at least. Plucking the one remaining pin from her hair, she carefully lowered herself to the floor once more and began working on the lock.

  A soft shuffling noise sounded on the other side of the door and Mary stilled immediately. She dared not even breathe. After what seemed an eternity, when no other sound was heard, she leaned forward again and pressed her face against the wooden door, listening for any hint of who might be on the other side.

  Suddenly and without warning, a fist pounded heavily on the door causing her to jump back. She landed on her bottom, terrified and feeling as if she were being toyed with.

  “I hear you in there, little mouse!”

  The words were called out in a soft sing-song fashion, taunting and cruel. “Who are you?” she shouted back. “Why am I here?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough, my little mouse,” the man answered in that same childish fashion. “All in good time.”

  Mary could hear him laughing as he moved away. She wouldn’t give up. She would find a way out of that room and a way to avoid whatever fate her cruel captor had in store for her.

  Chapter Five

  The heat in the small loft where he and Mary slept was unbearable. The air was so thick it felt like it was closing in around him. As he rolled onto his back, praying for a breeze to flutter through the opening in the wall that had never held a single pane of glass, Benedict imagined what it would be like to swim in the big pond on the estate where he’d gone with his father to deliver coal just that morning. The cook had given him a biscuit and it had been the sweetest treat he’d ever had in his life. He’d tried to save some for Mary but it had crumbled to nothing but crumbs in his pocket by the time they’d made it home.

  Closing his eyes, Benedict imagined the cold, clear water closing around him, gliding over him as he cut through the pond. Fish would dart and dance around him, and the blessed coolness of it would soothe away the heat that left him sweating on the thin straw mat that was his bed. His father had gone to the village with the money he’d been paid for delivering the coal. If they were lucky, he would stay there all night.

  Benedict continued thinking of the pond until, soon, he was dreaming of it, drifting into sleep.

  “You’re a sorry excuse for a son. All you do is take, take, take. You eat our food, you sleep under our roof, you do nothing to earn your keep!”

  The kick to the gut had him gasping and rolling away from the heavy, booted foot. He didn’t move quickly enough though. It came down on his head with just enough pressure to pin him to the floor.

  “I could crush you, boy! Like a damned bug,” he slurred.

  Benedict had learned early on that when his father’s words were sharp and clear, life was smooth sailing. If there was even a hint of slur, it was best to hide. But he’d been lax, he’d fallen asleep before his father had returned home and hadn’t heard the loud greeting he’d called out to the house.

  The weight of the booted foot increased as he applied more pressure. The pain of it was excruciating. “You’re worthless, boy! Worthless. If I thought it’d end my misery, I’d put an end to you right here!”

  “Stop! Stop it! You’re hurting him!”

  The soft, sweet voice of his baby sister registered through the haze of pain and fear. He tried to call out, to stop her, but he couldn’t even form the words. Abruptly, the boot was removed. Another kick to his ribs had him gasping as his father walked away, directly toward Mary.

  “Run, Mary!” he managed to shout. She looked at him then, just past their father, but it was too late. The slap sent her sprawling, her little body flying nearly across the room. It wouldn’t be enough. Even as he thought it, he saw their father take a step toward her fallen form. She wouldn’t survive the kind of beating he routinely received.

  Benedict dove toward the bed, his hand slipping beneath the hay-stuffed mattress and closing over the blade he’d hidden there.

  *

  “What on earth must he be dreaming to have him thrashing about so?”

  Elizabeth pressed a cool, damp cloth to his brow and sighed. She didn’t know, nor could she even imagine. From the violence of his response
, his nightmares must be terrible, indeed. “I could not say, my lady. The laudanum may be making them worse, but given the fervor with which Dr. Nichols dug out the pistol ball, I cannot imagine how much pain he would be in without it.”

  They’d managed to get him into the house with the help of servants. Two strong footmen had carried him up the stairs while yet another had been sent to fetch the doctor. That had been hours earlier. It was now well past midnight and they were both teetering on the brink of collapse.

  Pressing another damp cloth to his brow, he stilled at the touch, turning his face toward her palm. Elizabeth took a moment to study his face, the sheer perfection of planes and angles that resulted in something that was so much more than simply the sum of their parts. She could admit that she’d never seen a more handsome man. And whether it was simply his physical beauty, or the heroic manner in which he’d rushed to her rescue, or his flirtatious and easy manner from the square that afternoon, she didn’t know. Whatever it was, she felt drawn to him, connected to him in a way that left her feeling incredibly unsettled and far more invested in his welfare than she should have been for a stranger.

  To find herself attracted to a man, one who might not even survive his current injuries, was only further proof that the weakness of character which had lowered her position in society remained intact. It was not the first time in her life she’d found herself drawn to an inappropriate man. God willing, it would be the last.

  As Elizabeth wrestled with her conscience, Lady Vale continued her pacing. Her voice quivered with emotion and she was clearly overwrought with the situation. There was no swaying her. She was completely convinced that this stranger was her long lost son. “No. He must have it. I don’t want him to suffer physically, but it is so difficult to see his mental anguish. What must have happened to him after he was taken from me? What is it that haunts him so?”

  Elizabeth did not reply immediately. Instead, she carefully composed her reply so as not to overset her mistress. The doctor had come, removed the pistol ball and stitched the wound. Afterward, he’d left them with his final statement being that it was in the hands of God. He clearly had not appreciated being called out so late at night. She had thought, at his callous statement, that Lady Vale was going to rip the man’s head off and beat him with it. She did not want to invoke a similar response by pointing out that the injured man might not be Lady Vale’s son.

  As to what haunted the man so, she could not dare to guess. The way he thrashed and cried out hinted at a violent past. When he tensed at her touch or flinched away from her, it led her to assume others had not touched him with care and kindness. As Lady Vale had already reached that same conclusion, stating it again would hardly be beneficial. Still, it struck a chord inside her, it raised tender and protective feelings that she did not fully understand. Having been foolish in the past, she’d learned to guard her heart against all men, especially handsome ones.

  As she studied his face, Elizabeth had to grant that the similarities between the unknown man and Lady Vale were striking. Every time he opened his eyes, Lady Vale grew more convinced that he was her missing son returned. Despite their physical similarities, Elizabeth could not quite put her faith in that theory yet.

  Taking another look at him, she catalogued his features. Ostensibly it was to identify points of similarity. She vowed to herself it had nothing to do with her own selfish desire to study his form.

  While the planes and angles of his face were harder and more chiseled by virtue of his sex, he did possess the same startling pure bone structure and patrician features as her ladyship, and same oddly hued blue-green eyes. He was her masculine counterpart in appearance. Still, the coincidence of it all bothered her. From running into him in the square that afternoon, to her being attacked outside Madame Zula’s and his well-timed rescue as he rushed to her aid there, in full view of Lady Vale, was all entirely too convenient. That all of it followed Madame Zula’s predictions as well as her cryptic statements about the disappearance of Lady Vale’s son—it was all tight and tidy and all the more suspect for it.

  “Lady Vale, I know that you believe him to be your son, but… he has not spoken of his life, of his childhood. It is very possible that he is not,” Elizabeth protested softly. “I will grant you that the resemblance is uncanny, but we should not make any assumptions until he is awake to confirm or refute them.”

  “He is my son!” Lady Vale stated firmly. “I know you think me a lunatic, as does Branson. That is why he set you to watch me, after all!”

  Elizabeth dropped her gaze. “No, my lady, he does not think you a lunatic and neither do I. Mr. Middlethorp hired me to act as your companion because he felt your search for your son made you vulnerable to those who might exploit your grief!”

  Lady Vale halted her pacing long enough to throw her hands up in the air and glare in Elizabeth’s direction with righteous indignation. “And you eagerly reported it to him any time my search employed unorthodox methods! I’m not a child, nor am I fool… yet for most of my life men have treated me thusly!”

  “I only reported to Mr. Middlethorp when I feared for your safety or for the security of your fortune,” Elizabeth protested. “And I say this to you now, not because I do not wish for him to be your son, or because I do not wish for you to have such a joyous reunion, but because if it is not true, your heart will be broken all over again. I only want you prepared for the eventuality rather than buried under disappointment if your belief proves false!”

  A low groan from the bed silenced them. Those familiar blue-green eyes opened. They were clearer than before, more cognizant of the present.

  “Sir, you’ve been shot. Please lie still and have a care for your stitches,” Elizabeth murmured softly.

  He grimaced and then, slowly, brought his gaze to her face, focusing intently. “Little brown bird,” he murmured softly and then, once again, he drifted into unconsciousness.

  “He may be developing a fever,” Elizabeth said.

  Lady Vale wrung her hands. “What on earth happened outside Madame Zula’s, Miss Masters? Why were those men lying in wait and why was he there?”

  “Perhaps we should ask Madame Zula,” Elizabeth said. “I heard him questioning that brute of a man. He spoke of another woman who had been taken from there, from the very same address. Perhaps we need more information before we proceed.”

  Lady Vale nodded. “I may detest Branson’s interference in my life, Miss Masters, but despite how you came to be a part of my household, there are times when I am quite relieved to have you present. You do have a remarkable clarity of mind, girl.”

  Elizabeth shook her head in denial. Her mind felt anything but clear. Buzzing with her own wayward thoughts, with the confusion of the events and with the strange feelings that now consumed her for the man in her care, it was praise she did not deserve. “It was not so clear earlier. I might have helped him more… perhaps even prevented him from being wounded so gravely.”

  Lady Vale placed a comforting hand on Elizabeth’s shoulder. “You could not have done more… not against three attackers. It’s a wonder that he is not more seriously injured. As for you, thank God he prevented them from making off with you. I shudder to think what fate might have awaited you at their hands.”

  Elizabeth had been pondering just that same question. “I believe they meant to turn me over to someone else. While I was raised within the ranks of the gentry, I have been on my own for enough years to understand the dangers of unscrupulous abbesses and the lengths they will go to in order to procure innocent young women for their clients. It is my understanding that women of breeding are even more highly sought after by certain gentleman.”

  Lady Vale did shudder then, visibly, and then for both their sakes, changed the subject. “What on earth should we do for him now?”

  “At this point, I cannot tell if it is the blow to the head, a developing fever, or simply the loss of blood that is rendering him senseless. So long as he continues to wake every few m
inutes, I suppose we can let him rest without it doing any harm. You should rest as well, madame. I will sit with him a while longer and if I become too tired, I will rouse one of the maids.”

  Lady Vale nodded. “I believe that I will write to Branson. I will not say anything about my suspicions regarding his identity… but I will tell him that we have brought the man who rescued you to my home to recuperate. Otherwise, Calvert will tell him and then heaven knows what that man will embellish it with.”

  Lady Vale had often accused her of being a spy but, in truth, it was Calvert, her butler, who reported with the greatest frequency to Mr. Middlethorp. He also greatly exaggerated the degree to which Lady Vale’s continued search for her missing son put her in the way of danger. What the man’s agenda was remained to be seen.

  “I think that is a wise choice,” Elizabeth conceded. “I will say nothing to the other servants about your theory regarding our mysterious hero… at least not until he rouses enough for you to speak with him and ascertain if it is even possible.”

  Lady Vale gave a curt nod. “That is fair enough, I suppose. You will wake me if he worsens?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  Lady Vale nodded again and then swept from the room with a swoosh of her elegant skirts. Again, it stirred memories she’d thought long buried.

  “I used to do that,” Elizabeth confessed to the unconscious man. “I moved with all the winsome grace my tutors had drilled into me and I tried so very hard to make up for in elegance of bearing what I might lack in true beauty. Sadly, I was never quite as successful at making a grand entrance or exit as her ladyship is. But I was the belle of a few balls, back when such things mattered.”