Once he located the door, he turned the knob, pushed the door open, and stood blinking in the glow of candlelight flickering in iron sconces along a short stone passage. He seemed to remember being dragged along an earth packed tunnel at some point before the blackness claimed him again, and felt sure he was still underground. The weight of stone pressed down, disorienting him. The air rank with the smell of rat droppings and tallow made him swallow as nausea gripped him. He sucked in the stale air struggling to breathe. Brighter light shone out from an archway at the end. Bracing himself against the wall, he lurched forward, stumbling into a wide cavern. A candle wheel hung from the ceiling throwing the cavern into a chiaroscuro of light and shadow, the frigid air smoky. Without his coat, Guy shivered in his ruined evening clothes.
An arched door opened in the far wall, and he started towards it, coming to a halt as a tall man entered. He pointed a pistol in Guy’s direction. “Vous êtes éveillé dernière.”
“Who are you?” Guy asked. He wiped his eyes and took a step backwards.
The man moved into the circle of light.
Stunned, Guy almost collapsed. He grasped the back of a wooden chair to right himself. It was like looking into a mirror. The face that stared back at him was leaner, the blue eyes harder. A long scar marred his cheek. But taken feature by feature, each feature was identical to his. Identical twins.
“Est-ce vous, Vincent?” Guy almost whispered.
“’Tis I. You’d best sit down before you fall.”
Guy stared at him, hardly trusting his eyes. He slumped onto the chair and put his hand to his throbbing head. “You speak better English than I.”
“I learn fast. You have to when life isn’t offered to you on a platter.”
“I have so longed to find you, Vincent. Father never stopped searching. He’s dead. Did you know?”
“He abandoned me to the fire. His own son. He liked you best, Guy.”
“That’s not true.”
“He disapproved of everything I did.”
“You could be damned difficult, but he loved you anyway. We all did.”
“I doesn’t matter now.”
“Why have you done this? What do you want with me?”
“All in good time.”
“You were not in your chamber that night the fire started. Where were you?”
“Don’t you want food?”
“Yes, but first you must tell me what happened.”
“First I will fetch you food.”
He disappeared out the door again, shutting it behind him.
Guy sat with his head in his hands, it all seemed unreal.
His brother was soon back and pushed a plate of meat, a rind of cheese and heel of bread into his hands.
Guy was hungry, but he pushed it away. “I won’t eat until you tell me.”
“It is nothing to me whether you eat or not,” Vincent said. “It will not matter in the end.”
Guy felt the chill of those words. “What do you intend to do with me?”
“I shall explain that later. While you eat I’ll explain what happened that night.”
Guy reluctantly picked up the plate. He broke off a bit of the bread and chewed. “Go on.”
“I had crept downstairs to get food from the kitchen. When the crowd began to ransack the chateau I was frightened. I could not reach Papa and Mere’s chamber, as flames licked up the servant’s stairs and blocked my way to the corridor leading to the family quarters. A servant rescued me as the house fell in flames around me. He carried me away half comatose for I had inhaled too much smoke. It was some days before I recovered. He cared for me and adopted me as his own. I could hardly believe it when he told me my family had left France. If the Committee of Public Safety had found me, I would have gone to the guillotine.”
“We did not leave immediately, for Papa still hoped you were alive. Who was this servant?”
“Papa’s chef. Remember Pierre Valois?”
Guy vaguely remembered a short, rotund man who gave him food when he was hungry. “Why did he not return you to us?”
“By the time it was safe to go back, you had gone. Abandoned me.”
“We did not, I say! The whole of our quartier was in flames. We believed you dead and still waited far too long. We barely escaped with our lives. Papa paid someone to continue to look for you, but he sent us word that he’d had no luck. Did Pierre take you away from Paris?”
Vincent nodded. “We went to live in Calais. Pierre started a restaurant there. That’s where I grew up.”
“You never tried to find us?”
“No. What was the point? You had left the country. And in the end I didn’t want to. I suppose my adopted parent’s hatred of aristos rubbed off on me.”
“Pierre was treated well. All Papa’s servants were.”
Vincent shrugged. “I do not remember. It’s likely you don’t either.”
“You must know that we would have died had we stayed.”
Vincent shook his head. He backed away still pointing the gun at Guy. “Time to move.”
Guy thrust the plate onto the table and lurched to his feet, his head pounding. “I am telling you the truth, Vincent. Why are you threatening me with that pistol? Put it away!”
“You are to return to the room you woke up in. Déménager!”
“And if I refuse?”
“I will shoot you. Don’t doubt that I mean it, Guy.”
Guy searched his brother’s hot blue eyes. Vincent had lost his reason. More time was needed to appeal to him. Fear that he may not succeed, made his stomach roil as he stumbled back into the appalling space. He would go mad too, if he stayed here too long. “Why are you doing this?” he asked trying to delay.
He was pushed through the doorway. The door slammed shut in his face leaving him in pitch black darkness. “Tomorrow,” came the muffled reply.
“Will you tell me why all this?” Guy motioned to the central room with the table and chairs, and Vincent’s pistol still in his hand. He had spent a sleepless night in freezing blackness trying to think of way out of this, but he was so tired and distressed he couldn’t think of one. He would take his chances as they came.
“I want what’s mine.”
“Bien sûr. You do not need to do this, Vincent.”
“But I do, Guy. I’m ready to become Baron Fortescue. I have paid for that right.”
“But, I am the first-born son.”
Vincent shrugged. “A matter of a few minutes. Is that fair?”
“It is the way of the world. I am happy to share all that I have with you, although I know it won’t make up for what you have suffered. Where have you brought me?”
“We are in the bowels of Rosecroft Hall.”
“How did you learn of these tunnels?”
“Later! I need your identification papers. I’ve searched your chamber and the library here and turned up nothing. I tried to get you to tell me in Hampstead, but you were out to it. Tell me now.”
“Pourquoi? For God’s sake, Vincent. This is madness. Sit down and we’ll talk.”
“Non! We shall just waste time. I need those papers!”
“I lost them when your men attacked me and I fell off my horse. What good will they do you while I live?” Guy swallowed as the enormity of what Vincent planned became clear to him.
“I’ll need them later. But first I must supply the British government with a body so the authorities will stop searching for me. Once I convince them that this dangerous spy who has been masquerading as the baron is dead, I can become you,” he waved his hand… “And take over your charmed life. We are identical, but for this. He touched the scar. And that I can fix.”
Guy whistled through his teeth. “You are the spy of whom they speak.”
Vincent’s mouth stretched in a wry grin. “Oui.” Vincent looked down at the pistol in his hand. “Once you are dead, I will be accepted as the baron. But I must have proof.”
“You can’t mean it!” He searched for a si
gn that Vincent’s determination would falter. “I can’t help you.” Guy’s dry scratchy throat made talking difficult. “Can I have some water?”
“Confound you! Where did you lose the documents?” Vincent jerked his head towards a barrel in the corner.
“Somewhere out in the countryside. I doubt you’ll find them. I know better where to look, and I couldn’t.”
A metal cup lay alongside the barrel. Guy scooped up water and swallowed thirstily. It was icy and chilled him through to his very marrow, but his throat felt better. An ache thudded cruelly behind his eyes. “Even if you found the papers, your plan won’t work, Vincent. You could not carry out such a ruse.”
“After Pierre died, it was useful to take on your identity in France. To all intents and purposes, Vincent Valois died years ago.”
“Weren’t you afraid you’d run into me or someone who knew me?”
Vincent gave him a sly glance. “I knew you had been arrested with lot of hapless people and thrown in prison.” He grinned. “I expected your head to roll at the guillotine like many others.”
Guy frowned. “You knew where I was and didn’t try to help me?”
Vincent shook his head. “You disappeared after they released you. I heard you’d left France. Where did you go?”
“Spain.” Guy wrestled with the fact that his brother had known where he was at some point and never approached him. “It won’t work, Vincent,” he said. “There are those who know me well here in England.”
“You refer to Mademoiselle Cavendish.”
At hearing Horatia’s name on Vincent’s lips, anger and fear tightened his gut. He curled his hands into fists. “You know of Miss Cavendish?”
“After the last failed attempt by the incompetent rogues I hired, I changed my plans. I have been following you about.”
Guy welcomed the anger. It energized him. “You will not hurt her.”
“If she accepts the relationship is at an end and returns home, it won’t be necessary.”
He had to stay alive. Even if Horatia did accept whatever Vincent told her and meekly returned home to Digswell, which he doubted, what would happen when he took up residence in Rosecroft Hall? Horatia would be in terrible danger. He wasn’t prepared to let that happen.
“How did you discover the secret tunnel?”
Vincent smiled with boyish enthusiasm. “Remember how often Papa told us stories about the tunnel that leads to the wood? How it had been an escape route for priests during the reign of Queen Elizabeth.”
Guy nodded. “How did you avoid my servants?”
“I move about late at night.”
“I searched high and low for the tunnel under the solar and couldn’t find it. Where is the entrance?” Guy asked.
“I doubt I would have found it either had I started my search inside the house. I located the tunnel entrance in the wood. It lies close to the eastern wing.”
“Near the fountain?”
“You can see the fountain through the trees; it’s so close you can feel the spray from it when the wind blows. It’s covered by a moss-covered stone tablet, which was quite heavy to lift. Steps lead down and the tunnel branches out into these storerooms. I daresay priests lived here at one time. Maybe some even starved to death here, no?
“I emerged in the far corner of the long storage room beneath the solar. The door fits into the wall so snug it would be impossible to find without some prior knowledge. You have to locate the exact spot. Once pressed, it releases the catch.” Vincent’s eyes gleamed; he acted as though they were young brothers again, sharing a secret.
“So you come and go undetected,” Guy said. “Intelligents d’entre vous.”
Vincent nodded with a satisfied smile. “I brought you here because it makes a perfect prison. I hefted you down through the tunnels. You are no lightweight! No one saw me. No one will ever know you’ve been here.” He raised a brow. “I shan’t kill you here, though. If you behave, you may enjoy what there is left of your life.”
Guy’s heart thudded in his throat. “You would kill your own flesh and blood?”
“I don’t blame you for the past, Guy. But don’t try to change my mind. I have very little choice. There’s nothing out there for me. If I fail, the British Government will hang, draw and quarter me. Not a nice way to die. I burned my bridges in France. Suicide is all I have left.”
“You can’t mean it,” Guy said, chilled to the bone. Unthinkable that should Vincent suicide, a stake would be driven through his body, and he’d be buried in unconsecrated ground.
“I do. Now Napoleon’s finished.”
“You were close to Napoleon?”
“Napoleon relied on me. He had a special name for me, le renard. There are those who plot to rescue him once more.” Vincent shook his head. “It is impossible.” He walked to the door. “I’ll fetch more food from the next room. I want you fit enough for the trip to London.”
“We return to London?”
Vincent cast him a pitying look. He went out, locking the arched wooden door behind him.
Guy cringed at the disturbing words said in such a flat unemotional tone. He leaned his arms on his knees on the uncomfortable chair, his thoughts racing as he considered possible means of escape. Could he wrestle the gun from Vincent? He looked to be every bit as strong as he and right now was in better shape, but he had to try.
As a boy Vincent could be cruel. He ran wild and liked to torment animals and tease his sister. But how did he become such a ruthless murderer? Guy was glad his father wasn’t here to witness it.
Horatia and Geneviève arrived in Hampstead two hours later after negotiating the busy London traffic. The large white house of Lord and Lady Taylor lay behind a high stone wall.
The duchess’s name opened the door to them like magic. They were soon ensconced with Lord and Lady Taylor in their cold blue and gold drawing room.
Lord Taylor’s thin face bore a haughty expression. “Lord Strathairn was here this morning.” He settled his boney frame on the chair and crossed his legs. “My wife and I could tell him little. Lord Fortescue was last seen dancing with Lady Georgina. I have sent missives to each of our guests and shall no doubt hear from them soon.”
“Lord Strathairn was in quite a hurry.” Bemused, Lady Taylor raised her brows. “He rushed off to question the neighbors. I’ve no idea why. Lord Fortescue could hardly have been snatched from our home. He must have left of his own free will.”
“He would not have been so ill-mannered,” Horatia said.
“I’m sure he will return when it suits him.” Lord Taylor looked down his long nose at Horatia. “We know so little about the baron. We couldn’t say if this is his usual behavior.”
“Well, I do know, Lord Taylor,” Geneviève said. “My brother has impeccable manners.”
“But of course he has, Your Grace,” Lady Taylor said hastily, with an annoyed look at her husband. “Perhaps some tea?” Her hand hovered over the bell.
“No, merci. We shall follow in Lord Strathairn’s footsteps and question the servants in the houses along the street.”
Lord and Lady Taylor rose with obvious relief. Lady Taylor patted the lace cap that covered most of her iron-grey hair. “It is to be hoped that the baron returns very soon to lay this mystery to rest. We wouldn’t wish any scandal to attach itself to us, especially with our daughter’s first season upon us.”
Several unproductive hours later, Horatia and the duchess entered the farrier’s in the village. The densely muscled man pushed his cap back with a finger. “Just fancy carriages lined up along the road with their liveried grooms, and a couple of men in their cups is all. So many shady coves roam the heath. The Bow Street boys often bring bodies out of there.”
Horatia shivered. “Tell us everything you saw on that night.”
“I told ’is lordship I passed two men when I was walking ’ome down Hampstead Road. One cove was half carrying the other. Said ’e was drunk when I enquired. Toffs they were, probably been t
o the ball, so’s I minded me own business. He bundled the drunker one into a curricle and drove off like the devil.”
Horatia grasped the man’s sleeve. “What did they look like?”
“No need to rush me, miss.” He released her hand and took a step back. “I’m about to tell you. Didn’t see the drunk’s face. Tall and dark-haired, both of ’em.”
Fear clutched at Horatia’s throat like an iron hand. “But which way did they go?”
“Took the road north, but from there, I know not.”
“Guy might have been hurt,” Horatia said as the footman assisted them back into the carriage. ”I wonder who that man could be.”
“Take us to Lord Strathairn’s residence,” Geneviève instructed the coachman.
Chapter Fifteen
Guy ate bread, sausage, and cheese with an eye on Vincent. The pistol had never wavered in his hand. If he managed to escape his brother, would he be able to find his way through the labyrinth of tunnels before Vincent shot him?
“Do you remember your childhood, Vincent? The happy times when we swam in the lake and fought duels with wooden swords?”
“Oui. The apple fights in the orchard. And that time we set fire to Geneviève’s doll’s hair.” He laughed and shook his head. “She cried and cried.”
As the memories came, they shared them, lapsing into their native tongue. Guy indulged him and began to hope he could convince Vincent to give up his awful plan.
“You can’t do this Vincent. Don’t you see? We can have a good life, here. Together.”
Vincent frowned and shook his head. “En ai assez! This changes nothing. I have burned my bridges.” When he reverted to English, his persona changed. He became more intent on his purpose. Guy reluctantly accepted that Vincent was committed to his wicked plan, and the pain and the hurt of it tore through him as if he’d already been shot.
His thoughts returned to a means of escape. If he could find his way to the room under the solar, he could make for his chamber where he kept a brace of pistols. It was an enticing thought. Then they would be on equal terms, although he doubted he could shoot Vincent, if it came to it.
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