by Sean Russell
“Farrelle preserve him,” he whispered to the now much emptier passage.
He waited for some sign that his friend was safe on the other side, but there was none.
“Mustn’t let the imagination range freely,” he muttered.
The candlelight fell upon the dark pool as it undulated slowly—like oil, Hayes thought. And then the faintest glow, like iridescence in the night sea, filtered through the watery tunnel.
Hayes felt himself relax a little.
“Oh, Farrelle’s bloody ghost!” he said, and began wrapping food in a shirt and stuffing it all into one of the oiled bags. By the time Kehler reappeared, he had two bags ready and had begun to pull off his shirt.
“Hayes. . . . Are you considering a bath? I must tell you, it is past due.”
“I’m sure I can’t sit here with my guttering little candle while you go off to make the discovery of our age. I can’t guarantee that I can do this more than once in and once to come back.”
“No matter. Bring yourself. That will be enough. I’m used to it now. Except for the bloody cold. But be quick. The quicker we’re through and dry, the better.”
Hayes stumbled into the pool, the cold nearly taking his breath away. He stuck an arm into the hole beneath the rock, testing the way forward. At least there was some light to go toward.
“All right, Samual,” he said aloud. “In we go.” He took a deep breath and plunged in, clawing along the rock ceiling, panic gripping him immediately. He battered his heels and knees against the rock as he went, and immediately he became desperate for air.
He could not be sure how far he had gone. He cracked his head and then his elbow against hard stone. He was about to turn back, sure that it was much farther than Kehler had guessed, when he realized his face was in air and light.
“Thank Farrelle!” he muttered, scrambling out of the water, huddling near the lamp rather pathetically.
A moment later Kehler appeared, tossing a bag to Hayes and then a second. “Get your clothes on. I’ll be back in a moment.” He ducked under and disappeared back into the tunnel.
As Hayes pulled on his damp clothing, Kehler reappeared, carrying two more bags.
“One more trip, I think. Empty those bags. . . . Ah, good. Thank you.” He disappeared again, clearly anxious to get the ordeal over with.
Kehler appeared again a moment later bearing the last bags and both their empty packs. He came unsteadily out of the water, grabbing up his clothing in trembling hands and pulling it on awkwardly. The two of them sat there, shivering, water streaming from their hair and eyes.
Kehler laughed. “You look like a half-drowned hound.”
Hayes laughed as well. “You look much the same.”
“It wasn’t so bad, really—was it?”
“Yes, it was,” Hayes said, and laughed. “Martyr’s balls, but I don’t look forward to going back.”
Kehler shrugged. “It will be easier next time.”
“Did you snuff the candle?”
“No. I didn’t think. It’s still burning. Well, we can’t afford to lose any, but . . . I don’t think either of us is ready to go back for the sake of saving a candle. Let’s go on before we’re too cold.”
They repacked their bags, drank a cup of netherworld tea, and set off down the passage, which soon became large enough for them to walk upright.
In no time the passage changed. Openings began to appear on one side, most small but some seemed almost large enough for a man. The rock was riddled with them, as though it had been attacked by enormous, boring worms. Fifty feet farther the larger passage ended.
Kehler and Hayes stood looking around, and then at each other.
“There must be a hundred openings here,” Hayes said. “And look at them! They are tiny!”
“Just the size of a child,” Kehler said dully.
They stood staring at the endless number of openings. Openings that seemed like speechless mouths. Mouths that knew how to keep secrets.
Twenty-Six
Sir John Dalrymple was not asleep when the knock came. Indeed, he could not remember when he had last slept well. In concession to the idea of sleep he had gone through the motions of going to bed, where he then lay in the darkness listening for the sound of nightingales, which he thought he had heard earlier.
His first reaction was to ignore the banging, but when it seemed apparent that whomever it was would not soon stop, he roused himself slowly. A sudden fear struck him and he threw his robe on. Bryce, he thought, and hurried to light a lamp.
His accommodations were an odd arrangement, over a carriage house attached to a larger home. A stairway led from his room down to a door into the courtyard or a second door into the main house, where he could take his meals. It was more comfortable than an inn, and relatively inexpensive.
He opened the tiny window in the door and found his fears made real.
“Mr. Bryce! I was asleep. I do apologize,” he said, wondering why he apologized for sleeping in the middle of the night!
The man said nothing, but stood waiting impatiently for the door to be opened.
Still without speaking, he led the way up the stairs, forcing Sir John to hurry after, trying to light the way, struggling for breath almost immediately. When they entered the upper room, Bryce turned on him.
“There are agents of the Admiralty, here in Castlebough, watching Skye,” Bryce said.
“Ah, I should have thought Moncrief would have been warned off. . . .” He looked at Bryce, wondering why it was of particular concern. If Bryce was not out to bring down Moncrief, as Sir John had once believed, then what were his intentions? “I assume you haven’t wakened me just to give me this news?”
“No,” Bryce continued to stand, frustrating Sir John, who felt a great need to sit. “I have a task for you, of course. I must speak with this Admiralty man—Captain James is his name—it is an absolute necessity. You will have to arrange it.”
“I suppose it would be out of the question for you to simply approach the captain yourself.”
Bryce glared at him. The man had no sense of humor at all.
“I thought not. You would like this meeting arranged as soon as possible, I collect?”
Bryce nodded.
“Let me dress, then. I won’t be a moment.”
* * *
* * *
Kent was more than embarrassed by what he was doing—he was ashamed. The gate seemed to be barred, but the wall was not high, and there was a convenient barrel meant to catch rain.
He hoped there were no dogs nearby, for though he was as silent as possible, he was only quiet by human standards. In a moment he was over and in a lane between the house and garden wall. He stole along in the faint light of the stars, feeling before him as he went, listening for the sounds of discovery.
If he were caught doing this it would mean his ruin. “Fool,” he hissed without meaning to. He had barely missed ruin once that evening, and he was still not out of the woods on that one. Not in his wildest dreams had he imagined the countess displaying his painting to everyone and starting a game to see who could name the artist. What a buffoon he would look if someone discovered the truth!
But that was nothing compared to what he would suffer if he were discovered now.
“Go back,” he urged, but he was past listening to the voice of wisdom. Kent seemed to be divided in half. Part of him, the sensible part, was aghast at his actions but unable to do anything to stop them. He was being ruled by something else. Not his heart, he hoped, for he had always hoped his heart was more noble.
It is a madness, he thought. I will be fighting duels next, and I have not spent as much as an hour in her company.
He came to the corner of the house and peeked out to see what was there. A terrace, doors and windows, all closed. There seemed to be light coming from one room. For a momen
t he stood in the shadow, certain that he was alone, hoping that somehow his common sense would gain the upper hand—to no avail.
He bent low and went under the first window, and then came to the one from which light escaped. It was slightly ajar, and as he came to it heard unmistakably a woman moan. For a second Kent froze in place, almost reeling. It was his absolute worst fear. It could not be the countess. She had left with Erasmus Flattery, for Farrelle’s sake. The man was brilliant, no doubt, but he was hardly an object of fascination to the women of Avonel. No, this must be some maid and her buck. The sounds of love became more insistent.
Ever so slowly Kent raised his head. Before the fireplace a man and woman lay on a divan. A trill of laughter, then a moan. Then suddenly the woman rose, astride her lover, her face hidden by dark tendrils of hair. She moved over her partner more urgently now. With a quick motion she threw her head back, revealing her face, her naked torso.
Kent closed his eyes and let his head rest against the window ledge. It was she. As he stayed thus, he listened to her cry out, unable to contain her pleasure.
He opened his eyes again, watching her move over her lover. Drawing up the man’s hands she pressed them tight to her breasts.
When her climax came, she collapsed over her lover, burying him in the dark avalanche of her hair.
“Mr. Flattery!” she teased, her voice filled with pleasure. “You have taken liberties with me, sir! As penance you shall be flogged . . . with my hair—fifty lashes. And you shall have to stay and pleasure me until the light of day.”
Kent heard the unmistakable sound of Erasmus Flattery’s laughter. The countess rose up again, and Kent did not even attempt to hide, she was so beautiful. The firelight played upon her perfect form, turning her skin the color of copper.
Kent was sure he had never felt such exquisite agony, and at the same time his heart was pounding at what he had just seen. The Countess of Chilton in the act of love. He had heard her cries of pleasure, and though it was not he in her arms, as it should have been, it was more than most men would ever know. At least he had seen her lost to passion. To his obsessed and confused mind, it seemed almost like intimacy.
* * *
* * *
Sir John waited in the small lobby of the White Hart Inn, having bribed the night clerk to tip him when Captain James came in. Not that it was likely he would mistake the man, but he knew that a bluff must be supported by something—in this case knowing the man’s name and business, and very likely knowing who had sent him as well.
In his mind, he turned the possibilities over again. Moncrief and Brookes had set out to bring Skye to ruin, but surely his miraculous escape must have made them realize that this endeavor should be abandoned. So why had they men watching Skye still?
One thing was certain. The Admiralty did not continue to monitor the activities of Lord Skye without the Sea Lord’s approval, though he may have distanced himself from the endeavor. Perhaps the real question was: Who in the Admiralty’s intelligence department was utterly loyal to the Sea Lord, and therefore would not reveal their activities to the government? Likely Admiral Matheson, he reasoned. The man was brilliant, and utterly trustworthy. It almost had to be Matheson.
The door opened, and a tired, unshaven man appeared. He was not dressed in uniform, though his bearing was unmistakable. Sir John looked over at the clerk, who nodded.
“Captain James?”
The man stopped as Sir John rose from his chair.
“Sir?”
“Sir John Dalrymple. Foreign Ministry. I’ve been asked to have a word with you by a mutual friend,” he said, offering his hand.
The officer’s eyes narrowed as he took Sir John’s hand.
“Have we met, sir? You are very familiar.”
“It is likely. I’m in and out of the Admiralty offices regularly, for we have much business in common. Admiral Matheson is a particular friend, as is the Sea Lord himself.”
“Ah, yes, of course.” The man’s eyes opened fully and he smiled. James looked tired enough to collapse where he stood, though he still held his shoulders square, even if his head seemed to bow a little.
“Can we speak more privately, Captain James? I shall not take but a moment of your time.”
James retrieved a key from the clerk. “Will you come up?”
“If you don’t mind, I have something to deliver to you. My lodgings are not far.”
James looked at him suspiciously.
“I know it seems a bit odd, but . . .” He cast his gaze around the room. “I would like to be certain we speak in privacy. I am fulfilling the instructions of your superior. Do you understand?”
James hardly seemed less mystified, but he nodded. They stepped out into the night, and proceeded down the street and around the corner. Bryce had instructed him to bring James four blocks to a certain dark corner.
“Where are we going, Sir John?”
“But two blocks more. Not far. I do apologize for the mystery, and the lateness of the hour.”
He found the carriage drawn up in the shadow of a darkened house, but it was not Bryce’s carriage. It was hard to see in the dark, but it was a large, old-fashioned looking coach, drawn by a four horse team.
He thought James might balk as they approached the carriage, yet he did not seem in the least concerned.
“The carriage waits for you,” Sir John said, the exact phrase Bryce had told him to use, and James nodded as though acknowledging an order.
Stopping twenty feet off, Sir John saw the door swing open and James climb unconcernedly aboard, as if it was not the most unsettling thing. The carriage moved off without a word from the driver, who hunched on the seat above, bent over his reins like a very old man.
Well, Sir John thought, my involvement with Mr. Bryce becomes more and more strange. He rather hoped no ill befell Captain James.
His head filled with questions, Sir John set out for his rooms, but soon realized that he would not sleep this night and so continued along the street, wandering about the town like a man utterly lost.
Twenty-Seven
It was a journey of several hours from Castlebough to the cave mouth, so Erasmus and Clarendon had left at first light. They rode a horse and a pony, while behind them followed a servant leading a packhorse that bore their gear.
On some level Erasmus was aware that the countryside they passed through was beautiful, but his attention was fixed on memories of the previous night, which he turned over and over in his mind.
If I live to a hundred years, I shall never know a night to be its equal, he thought.
The countess had made him no promises. In fact, her manner had left him uncertain as to their future, and this offset the incredible bliss that he felt—but only a little. Never had he imagined that he would win the favors of such a woman. Not that he had been entirely unsuccessful in his pursuit of the fairer sex, but still . . . the Countess of Chilton.
And here he was, entirely against his will, setting off into a cave in search of two foolish young men—and whatever it was that they had found. How he wanted to be back in Castlebough in the company of the countess. She had not quite understood why he was undertaking this expedition, and he did not really feel he could explain it all to her. Not that he completely understood himself. What, exactly, did Kehler expect to find in this cave? Certainly whatever it was, it had the Farrellite Church concerned, and this as much as anything drew Erasmus.
“You look alternately troubled, then happy beyond one’s dreams, Mr. Flattery,” Clarendon said suddenly. There hadn’t been much conversation since leaving the road for the simple reason that the trail through the trees forced them to ride in single file, but they were crossing a wide meadow now and Clarendon had dropped back to ride beside his companion.
“I am worried about these young gentlemen,” Erasmus said, not commenting on his alternate mood.
/> Clarendon smiled at him. “They do not seem like impetuous young men, Mr. Flattery. I’m certain we shall find them perfectly well; at the worst they might suffer a bit from disappointment.”
“You don’t think they’ll find whatever it is they’re seeking?”
Clarendon shook his head. “The cave has been explored by some very dedicated men over the years, men who were a bit obsessed by their endeavor, and nothing but natural miracles have been reported. These men had a great deal more experience than your young friends, as clever as they might be. No, I think they will be disappointed, but nevertheless, we shall go in and find them if that is what you wish.”
“My concern, Randall, is that Kehler had some information that the more experienced explorers did not, and that might lead them into unknown dangers.”
“But Hayes would never say what this information was?”
Erasmus shook his head.
“Though certainly it related to Baumgere’s search. Perhaps they will find the source of the priest’s wealth. From what you have said, Mr. Hayes, at least, would not be hurt by such a find.”
They rode into the trees again where the narrowness of the path allowed no further conversation.
The trail went up and after an hour of climbing they came to an indentation in the mountainside. Here, in a hollow, they found two men sitting on moss-covered rocks and talking quietly. It took Erasmus a moment to realize that the older of the two was Deacon Rose, for he had abandoned his priestly robes in favor of a huntsman’s garb.
“Ah, Mr. Flattery, you have come at last,” the priest said, rising from his seat. “I was beginning to think you had changed your mind.”
“Changed my mind?” Erasmus said. “I don’t remember making a decision to meet you. Deacon Rose.”
“Nor do I suggest you did, but nevertheless, here you are, and if I cannot accompany you, then I shall merely follow. I assume you will not stop a man from going into the cave if that is his wish?”
Erasmus swung a leg over his horse’s back and dropped to the soft ground. For a moment he stood staring at the priest, and then he glanced up at Clarendon, who remained on his pony. The small man raised his eyebrows, his mustache almost twitching.
