The male voices rose in volume, Chauncey flailed and struck, and the man ducked just as Chauncey charged. Whoever he was, the man was going to be badly injured; Chauncey was a hulking man and a hardened soldier, and worse, lacking in scruples.
More noise, more scuffling. Vaguely she saw limbs striking and clothes moving, making weird shapes and shadows in the weak golden light.
Her ribs. The corset. Finally she recognized the exertion- and pain-induced stupor. Lethargy would follow, then she’d faint unless she could draw a free breath. She concentrated on slowing her breathing. Flexing her fists helped calm her pulse. Sitting against the fence, facing the house, spires came into focus. Mullioned arches, lead-framed Gothic windows topped with crosses — not a house, but an abbey.
She hadn’t imagined church bells a moment ago.
An idea landed like a brick in her head. Subconsciously she’d been drawn to this place, and now she knew why. Helena pulled on the iron slat to rise to her feet, holding her breath until the stabs of pain faded from her ankle, ribs, and arm. “Sanctuary!” she wheezed. The men’s voices drowned the sound. They were locked in some sort of struggle.
“Sanctuary!” she shouted. “I claim sanctuary!” She had to yell it twice more before the men broke apart, heaving for breath.
“Sanctuary?” Lord Chauncey scoffed. “You can’t claim asylum. You’re my wife.” He made a move in her direction, but his way was blocked by the man with the billowy shirt and long hair.
“On the contrary, she can.” His voice came low and smooth, almost lazy if not for the hint of steel in the tone. He shifted to place himself between her and Chauncey. “By law, it’s my right to enforce it, sir.”
“An antiquated custom.” Chauncey’s words slurred, and even in the dark, she knew his face flushed red with rage. “And there’s been no crime, no magistrate presiding. This is hardly the medieval age, and I’m Viscount Chauncey!”
“Lord Chauncey? Of Eastleigh?” The man sniffed as though saying the name emitted a foul odor. “You are the Hampshire Country magistrate. Preside away.”
“There’s no criminal—”
“She is a fugitive, which places her under the protection of the rectory for forty days.”
“Absurd.” Chauncey spat on the ground, followed with a string of foul curses. He pushed at the man again, who gave not an inch and returned a shove that made Chauncey flail.
“Call it what you will, but the law is still in effect.”
Chauncey grunted and threw a fist, which his opponent caught midair. Their hands locked in struggle, shaking.
“Transgress it at your peril, my lord.” He threw his weight forward, and Chauncey stumbled backward until he collided with the fence.
Another curse — Chauncey reached behind his waist, and lamplight glinted on the barrel of a pistol he pointed at the man. The bottom dropped out of Helena’s stomach, and the hope of rescue that had unfurled a moment ago was utterly crushed by awareness of what she’d done. An innocent bystander was about to die. Whether out of naiveté or miscalculation, it was her fault. With a disconcertingly steady hand, Chauncey turned it on her, and she was weirdly relieved.
“Hand over my wife. Now.”
“Lower your weapon.”
“Not until you give way.”
Another subtle movement, and the man placed himself in front of her again. “I didn’t take her. And she’s not yours to retrieve, not for forty days.” His voice rose as he said, “By law, I order you from the premises. You trespass on holy ground with violent intentions. That is a prosecutable offense, even for a viscount.”
Chauncey began to argue when the sound of a rifle chambering made him freeze. She couldn’t see, but the noise had come from the direction of the house. Long seconds ticked by with only riled breathing to fill the silence.
Shouting came from across the field, likely Chauncey’s henchmen catching up.
Chauncey swore then apparently knocked over the cement statuary lining the fence. “No matter.” He gave a bitter laugh. “I’d like to see her stay anyplace for forty days. And I can find Anne-Sophia without you.” He struck something else, a metallic object that rang with a dull twang. “Stupid whore.”
“You test my patience,” the man said.
Chauncey muttered something Helena couldn’t make out, followed by the waning noise of his boot steps. He shouted, the others in the field answered, but even that faded. All the while, the man stood at the gate, motionless, watching with an intense vigilance that made her wonder who he could be. The lanterns cast his profile in harsh golden light; craggy features, a heavy brow, and a stern, unforgiving cut to his shoulders.
After what seemed like a quarter hour of silent observation, he finally turned. His appearance didn’t improve much with the front view, but she had half a mind to kiss his feet if he stood close enough to reach.
“Best get you inside, my lady.” He approached and offered a hand, which she took out of desire not to collapse should her knees liquefy again. He grasped her hand in his warm, roughened one then tucked her under his arm. They walked slowly toward the darkened arch framing giant wood doors, flanked by the rifleman. Not until she neared the steps did she see that it wasn’t a man at all, but a silver-haired woman clutching a rifle, looking like she knew how to use it. She traded glances with the man and wordlessly followed him inside where a massive hearth blazed with a fire.
Alone with two strangers whom she trusted with her life.
The sound of iron-banded doors locking shut had never been so beautiful.
Chapter Two
The man gestured to a wingback leather armchair by the fire then passed her a tin mug, and again she noticed his large, rough-hewn hands. The brush of his index finger across her palm was so gentle it stalled her thoughts, making her aware that she’d associated strength with brutality for so long, experiencing a bit of masculine tenderness seemed contradictory.
Helena sat, and the giant chair practically swallowed her rear end. The leather was already heated from the fire, so it was a welcome sensation. Whoever the elderly woman was, she’d disappeared, and the man seemed content to sit with his knees sprawled in the armchair opposite hers and stare into the flames without a word.
After several minutes, she couldn’t stand it. Twisting the mug in her hands, she said, “Is there truly a sanctuary law in force?”
His eyes flashed sideways at her, but he gave no other indication of heeding her question. He took deep breaths in and out, drawing her gaze to his massive chest, and she was strangely fascinated by his excessively rustic looks. He appeared to have been carved from the hills and woods, all hard angles, weatherbeaten, and with a sage demeanor that made him seem older than he probably was. Her mysterious rescuer clearly had the physique of a man in his prime, but streaks of silver at his temples and lines at the corners of his eyes gave him a distinguished look only acquired by men as they aged.
He hummed, sighed, then said, “I hope not. Or else you’re obliged to dress in sackcloth and confess your sins. Frankly, I don’t want to hear it.”
A more sensitive woman would’ve been piqued, but Helena had sparred wits with continental royalty and the crème of society across the continent, and so she had a tough hide few verbal barbs could prick. “It is a long list,” she conceded, toasting him with her mug. “And sackcloth would do no favors for my complexion, I fear.”
Again he stole a sideways glance then gulped from his mug.
Finally she remembered the stockings, garters, and shifts she’d stuffed in her dress. Half of them hung out at odd angles. Collins’ cloak had dropped somewhere outdoors, which explained why she was a bit chilled despite her seat before the hearth. What an odd sight she must be, her hair a frightful mess even Medusa would be ashamed of, her gown torn and hanging askew on her shoulders with inexplicable hints of lingerie peeking out of her clothing.
Since he wasn’t looking anyway, Helena fished them all out and straightened the pile on her lap, rubbing her fingers
along the seams to feel the reassuring bumps, the hidden jewels. “I shan’t ask forty days of hospitality, sir, but perhaps I might impose on you this evening?”
“Very well.”
He wasn’t rude, exactly, but she had the impression he simply had no inclination to please anyone other than himself. What confidence… “I’m afraid I haven’t had the pleasure of your name, sir. I am—”
“I know who you are, Lady Chauncey.”
Well, that could be an insult as easily as it could be a compliment. She wasn’t exactly a saint, and when she behaved unsaint-like, it tended to be a public affair. “Are you the master here?”
“The vicar. Julian Grey the Third,” he said, as though his quite pleasant name was ridiculous.
A holy man? Truly? She’d have guessed a number of professions for him, including pugilist and assassin, before thinking he was a priest. “And pray tell, where in England are we? My carriage overturned on the road, and before then I was sleeping, so I have no idea.”
“To where were you traveling?”
“Dover.”
“I fear you’ve missed your boat.”
“Indeed.”
Irritating how he diverted the conversation without apology. She considered asking again when he gestured a sweeping hand about the room. “Welcome to Millbrook Abbey. East of Chichester in West Sussex.”
“Oh. We hadn’t made it very far at all. Not even halfway.”
“These roads aren’t maintained for carriages. Most folk take the rail these days.” It sounded like a reprimand.
“Precisely. Which is why I did not take the rail.”
He grimaced, making it plain he found her dim.
“Chauncey expected it. So I thought he’d go looking for me at the railway stations and waste time while I got away on the roads.”
“He won’t stay away long.”
“I know. He’ll be back with more men, hallowed ground or not. I have no intention of bringing such danger here, I promise to be on my—”
“Millbrook was a fortress before it was an abbey. And Chauncey doesn’t concern me. He can break himself upon these rocks for all I care.”
“Then that makes us two souls in all the world who dare stand against him.”
“I thought I was alone in that.”
Again, a barb that would’ve injured a person with softer feelings. “You witnessed exhaustion on my part, not resignation, Mr. Grey. I don’t expect you to understand, but I defy my husband in my own way.”
“So I’ve heard.” Another neutral-sounding slight on her character.
She let his comment go unanswered; he was a priest, and she’d made a stellar career as a courtesan. No matter how much rouge and kohl she painted over it, that was still a fancy word meaning whore. Mr. Julian Grey was religiously obliged to loathe her. She could live with that, as she’d leave his home in the morning and never come back.
“I would be remiss if I didn’t thank you for your intervention on my behalf.” A small nod served as acknowledgement. “Not only for playing on my bluff, though I thank you for that too. I wasn’t so addled that I didn’t heed the manner in which you placed yourself in bodily danger to protect me. Lord Chauncey would’ve pulled the trigger.”
“I know.”
Perhaps that meant you’re welcome in his language.
She toyed with a thread end sticking out of the stocking seam then tugged on it until it gave way. A brilliantly faceted emerald the size of a guinea dropped into her palm. She thought about offering it to him as thanks then decided it would seem like an insult, or at the least, a tainted, cheap gesture. If he wanted no favors or kindness from the infamous Helena Duncombe, then who was she to set the stage for the first ever man to reject her?
Just the same, she resolved to leave the jewel in the bottom of the mug for him or the silver-haired woman to find in the morning, when she was long gone.
Tucking her feet up and smoothing her grass-stained and rumpled skirt, she settled her head against the cushioned side of the chair and closed her eyes. With no private accommodations forthcoming, a bizarre sense of pride prevented her asking for a room to sleep in. Perhaps to prove she was made of sterner stuff than he supposed, she slowed her breathing and hugged her hands across her sides to hold her injured ribs. It helped her relax and took her mind off the pain for a while.
Only a shred of awareness remained when a heavy, woolen warmth covered her from shoulder to knee — a blanket placed over her. Then she let herself drift back into the deep, untroubled slumber she considered a talent; no worry could find her there.
Chapter Three
A beam of sunlight woke Helena. Her eyelids seemed to scrape as though covered in sand, her bones popped and creaked as she stretched, and every bruise ached in the cold air, proving as usual that whoever invented mornings was an immortal being and no friend of hers.
At first she wondered why it was as cold as a cave, then the gamey scent of leather brought back the memory of curling up in the giant armchair before the now extinguished fire, and everything that had happened before that. Summoning her rescuer’s name from her memory was a rusty effort… Julian Grey. Who was nowhere to be found.
Ancient tapestries hung on clean stone walls, and ceiling beams that could only have been cut from giant oaks appeared free from dust, as did the few tables and chairs placed about the hall. Clearly there was staff in residence, but where were they? Breakfast tray not forthcoming, Helena gingerly uncurled her knees and placed her stocking feet on the floor, then regretted doing so as the chill and damp soaked through.
She did recall removing her boots the past night, but when she’d placed them before the fire to dry, they’d been mud-spattered and ruined. Now the pair of powder-blue kid leather boots gleamed, polished and clean if not completely dry. Her swollen ankle throbbed as she wrestled them on, but before long, the familiar twang of her injured ribs pushing against the corset overshadowed the ankle complaint.
A few solid days of rest would go a long way toward mending the feeling of being trampled in a chariot race. Not that she was eager to linger in a dank old pile of stones probably haunted by a crowd of ghosts as old as the Romans, but the thought of traveling again in a bumpy, jerky railcar or especially in a carriage with poor suspension — a twinge of headache threatened at the mere thought. And how was she to escape without being caught?
She’d be a fool to think Chauncey had turned and gone home, a dog with its tail between its legs. He’d be waiting. She would have to think of something clever, and quickly. Not for the first time, she wished for Sophia. Her daughter had a mind for schemes, and she’d been successful when she’d run away the week before — gone without a trace.
The bundle of underthings lay rumpled on the seat of the chair where she’d placed it the past night. She gathered the fabric and the emerald rolled out, reminding her to leave it at the bottom of the mug as a token of thanks.
Taking a step toward the door hinted that walking to the next post stop to see if Collins and Ferry were waiting there would be a slow, painful ordeal. It helped to remember that if Mr. Grey hadn’t intervened, she wouldn’t be in such good condition. The glass frame reflected her rumpled hair, reminding her to smooth it down so as to not frighten the general public.
Outdoors, the sun punched through a thin fog, and she found the cheerful light obnoxious, like a shrill voice the morning after a drunken party. Since Sophia had escaped, every time Helena looked at the sky, she wondered where her daughter was and hoped she was safe.
The silver-haired woman knelt before a flower bed, plucking weed sprouts with a brisk efficiency most women acquired with needlepoint. “Thank you,” Helena said when she’d drawn close enough to not shout. “For your bravery last night. Putting oneself in peril on behalf of a stranger is truly noble. I don’t know how to repay you.”
The woman turned her head and regarded Helena with a blank expression. She had a freckled complexion, piercing silver eyes, and didn’t seem to care that time ha
dn’t been kind to her dramatic features. “Uh-hum.”
“I wish I knew your name.”
“Madge Grey.” She had quite a burr in her Sussex accent.
“Mr. Grey’s mother?”
“Uh-hum.”
Helena nodded, and Mrs. Grey resumed weeding. Helena had half a mind to kneel beside her and pull weeds in the shade, smelling the grass, and listening to birdcalls. But if Collins and Ferry were waiting down the road, she’d better hurry along.
“Next time? Hit ’im back.”
Helena turned. “Pardon?”
“Lettin’ your man beat on you like that. Can’t let ’im.” Mrs. Grey wiped a hand across her forehead. “So next time, wallop ’im good where it counts, and I wager he’ll leave ye be.”
Her eyebrows rose, but otherwise Helena hoped she betrayed no reaction. It was hardly the first time an observer had either blamed her for her husband’s abuse or offered overly simple advice for solving the problem.
Before she could reply, Mrs. Grey pointed in the direction of the chapel. “My Felix, he did that. Broke my arm, and then he set in on little Julian.”
“Oh. I’m very sorry to hear that.” Perhaps she’d judged too quickly.
“So I shot ’im.” She pointed at the church again, and Helena finally got it: she was pointing at the graveyard, not the chapel. “Never hit my son again.”
If Mrs. Grey wanted her to sanction murder, she’d have to wait longer. Not that Helena could swear the thought had never crossed her mind… “I understand wanting to protect your child.” She had the same motive, if not means.
“The man who abuses his own doesn’t deserve them. And that’s all.” Apparently Madge Grey had finished speaking; she turned back to her efficient gardening.
Helena limped down the lane toward the gate she’d climbed over the past night. With some luck, it would open from the inside. Acrobatics were simply not forthcoming. Her ankle pinched in the crease of the boot with every step, which made her pull harder for breath, setting off her ribs again. She knew what came next; the cramps that seized her lungs then the fainting. Helena paused and sighed, accepting the truth: she wasn’t going to make the post stop on foot.
Beauty and the Spymaster Page 2
