There was the thud of feet and the scamper of paws. Something moist snuffled against her face and she knew that it was Max. Madeline ceased the struggle to open her eyes and let her head rest back upon the rug.
The raucous barking had turned to a low-pitched growling.
Farquharson cursed and his boots scuffed away. She heard the opening of the window, and then the rapid sliding of its close.
And Madeline knew that she had failed, for Farquharson would escape. He could swing down from the balcony across to the roof of the front porch. And from there it was not so very far to the ground.
She pushed herself up until she was sitting. Spots danced before her eyes. Her stomach jiggled like a ship on a choppy sea. She looked up to see Farquharson out on the balcony and Max growling with his nose pressed against the glass. A black paw scraped against the pane.
‘Max,’ she called. And Max ceased his noise and came to stand by her. He whined and licked her face. Her fingers caught in his smooth black fur. She eased herself back to rest against the bedstead, and shut her eyes.
There was the sudden loud crashing sound. A man cried out, followed by a bone-jarring thud. Then there was only silence.
Lucien was taking the stairs two at a time, leaving a trail of muddy footsteps behind, when he heard the cry and the sickening thud of a body landing hard upon the ground. His stomach turned over and the breath tore ragged in his throat as he ran full tilt towards Madeline’s chamber. ‘Madeline!’ he bellowed, fearing what he would find, but charging onward regardless. The door reverberated from his onslaught, swinging back open and wide. Only then did Lucien pause. Madeline was sitting on the floor, leaning against the bed. Her eyes were closed and her face was so white as to appear lifeless. Blood trickled from a gash on her forehead, and blood was dripping down her throat. And she was naked. Max sat by her side. He looked up at his master and gave a whimper. Lucien thought that he was too late.
‘Madeline,’ he whispered and moved quickly to her side. Down below there were the sounds of feet running and doors banging and servants’ voices. ‘Madeline!’ he said again and it seemed that his heart had stopped.
Her eyes flickered open, and she was looking at him, and he knew that God had heard his prayer. She was alive. His beloved Madeline was alive.
‘Lucien, is it really you?’ she whispered and reached for him.
He took off his coat and wrapped it around her and lifted her into his arms.
‘Lucien!’ She clung to him, her fingers touching gently to his mud-splattered cheeks. ‘My love.’
He felt the slow trickle of blood back into his face. The crushing burden of dread crumbled and dispersed. ‘You’re alive. You’re safe.’ He stared at her, unable to comprehend how that could be. ‘Farquharson…’ And then he remembered the cry and the thud and looked towards the window that led out on to the balcony.
Madeline saw his gaze. ‘He went out there, trying to escape,’ she said. ‘The railings…I think he fell.’
Lucien laid her gently on the bed, and then with Max at his heels he moved to the window, slid the sash up and stepped out on to the balcony. At the right-hand side the railings had given way completely. Lucien glanced down and over to the right to the roof of the porch. It was empty. He stepped closer to the edge of the balcony where there were no longer any railings. The drop was sheer. Below on the hard stone of the steps lay a man’s broken body: Cyril Farquharson. It was over.
Madeline heard him come back into the room, felt him sit down on the bed beside her. ‘He’s dead,’ he said.
‘Then we’re safe.’
He nodded. ‘I thought…’ She heard the crack in his voice and his eyes squeezed shut. When they opened again he seemed to have regained some measure of control.
‘No,’ she said, ‘You came in time, you and Max.’ And she told her husband what had passed between her and Farquharson.
He stared as if he could not quite believe it. ‘I must fetch the doctor for you.’
But she stayed him with a touch of her hand. ‘No. There’s nothing that shall not mend. The blood makes it appear worse than it is. Stay. Please.’ She wrapped her arms around him.
‘Madeline!’ Her name was a harsh expiration of breath and in that sound was everything of relief and disbelief and love. He cradled her against him.
She kissed his chest, his arms, tilted her face up to press a myriad of butterfly kisses against his jaw. ‘I thought I’d lost you,’ she whispered.
‘My love.’ He stroked her cheek. ‘I feared I was too late. I couldn’t bear to lose you. You are my very life.’
‘As you are mine,’ she breathed.
‘Madeline,’ he said again and their lips met in joyous salvation. And Lucien held her as if he would never let her go.
It was half an hour later when Farquharson’s body was being removed that Lucien undertook to search the villain’s pockets. A handkerchief, a pocket watch, some calling cards, two dice, a purse full of money…and a sheet of neatly folded paper. It rustled between Lucien’s fingers as he splayed it flat to reveal the drawing traced upon it.
‘What is it?’ Madeline peered over his shoulder.
‘A map…’ He moved the branch of candles closer, straining to read the small scribbled words amidst the sketch. ‘Showing the mine shaft close by the Hurlers stone circles.’
Two heads raised. Blue eyes met brown.
‘Collins said Farquharson took them somewhere deep under ground,’ said Madeline.
‘I think we may just have discovered where he’s holding my brother.’
They looked at one another a moment longer, each knowing the other’s thoughts…and fears.
‘Pray God he’s still alive.’ Lucien dropped a hasty kiss to her lips and went to ready the men of Trethevyn.
‘And pray God that you come back safely to me,’ replied his wife softly as he closed the door behind him.
The night was well advanced when Lucien and his party crept silently through the shadows towards the tin mine. The moonlight revealed a large group of men loitering by the entrance to the engine house. There looked to be about ten of them, perhaps as many as twelve. Vicious-looking villains. The hired muscle of which Collins had spoken. Some were armed with wooden clubs. And on some the moonlight glinted against long knife blades. Tobacco smoke drifted in the air; the small orange glowing spots of clay pipes were visible through the darkness. Lucien gestured the advance sign to the men behind him and slowly they began to spread out and edge forward.
The men had clearly been there some time. Some were leaning their backs against the wall of the engine house, others were sitting on what looked to be boxes. A bottle was being passed around. The quiet burr of their voices carried in the night. Someone sighed his boredom and another sniffed the contents of his nose down his throat. One of them gave a soft throaty laugh. None of them suspected what was closing around them.
Lucien and the men of Trethevyn attacked without warning, running in fast, catching the ruffians unawares. Lucien felled one man with a well-aimed blow from the handle of his pistol. The villains fought back, shouting, swearing. All around was mayhem. A fist cracked hard against Lucien’s jaw and he tasted blood against his tongue. He lashed out and the man punched no more. The Trethevyn men were well armed, and they were angry. The night resounded with the clash of cudgels and yelling and screaming. A man ran at young Hayley’s back with a knife raised ready to strike. Lucien aimed his pistol and pulled the trigger. There was a roar of gunpowder and the man collapsed with a grunt and a wet darkness seeping from his shoulder. The ruffians were falling, and those that didn’t, ran away. The rest were easily overpowered. One by one the ruffians were bound and gagged and left where they lay.
Lucien checked inside the building that housed the great steam engine. It lay silent; the pumps that drained the mines of water idle for once. The place was deserted: no more of Farquharson’s ruffians hiding. Back out into the darkness, past the tall chimney stalk, he made straight for the mout
h of the mine. The tinderbox was struck, the lantern held low. He poured some powder into the pistol’s pan and also down its barrel, fitted a patch over the muzzle and rammed a lead ball down into place. He slipped the pistol into his pocket. Those in the mine would have heard his shot. They were warned. Lucien had to be ready.
He peered down the shaft. It was narrow and vertical, and far deeper than the lantern light illuminated. A pit of hell. And down there somewhere Guy was waiting. Lucien could only pray that his brother was still alive. A ladder leaned against the shaft’s inner rim. He swung his legs over and, gripping the ladder, began to descend, as fast as he dared. In a matter of seconds he was swallowed down into the narrow well of darkness, to meet what waited below. Sweat dripped down his back, soaking his shirt.
Never once did Lucien falter, just climbed and climbed further, down into the bowels of the earth, while up above his men waited and the moon shone down on a silent landscape.
Madeline paced the library. The woman who had faced Farquharson without fear now found her body chilled with apprehension. She chided herself, reasoning that Farquharson was dead and that Lucien knew what he was doing. But it is a mine shaft, the fear whispered, and you do not know what awaits him. The thought made her feel queasy. She bit down hard on her lip and tried to calm her fluttering nerves. What of Lord Varington? She dared not dwell too much on that thought, only hoped and prayed that he would be safe. She forced herself down into the large wing chair so favoured by her husband and watched the hands of the clock creep slowly forward. Night had never seemed so long, waiting never so difficult. At last the crunch of hooves sounded upon the driveway gravel. A low murmur of voices filled the night air. Madeline shook off the sleep that hovered so beguilingly close, and ran. She did not stop running until she saw her husband across the hallway.
Lucien was on one side. John Hayley on the other. Between them they supported the weight of a man who was pale and blood-smeared, a man that looked back at her with eyes so like her husband’s.
‘It was about time you sent him to collect me,’ he drawled. ‘I was growing bored with the wait.’ Something of the familiar arrogance sparkled in his eyes, but his voice was strained and weak.
‘Lord Varington,’ she said.
‘Guy,’ he corrected her. ‘I owe you an apology, Madeline.’
She saw how swollen and split the lips were that formed those words. Bruising darkened bloodshot eyes. ‘There’s no need.’
‘On the contrary, I must insist that there’s every need.’ He coughed and fresh blood speckled his lips. A ragged hand wiped them away.
‘We’ll discuss the matter later when you’ve rested.’
‘No.’ The word forced out guttural and loud, echoing in the hallway.
‘Come on, Guy,’ Lucien coaxed his brother. ‘Let’s get you cleaned up and attended to by a physician first.’
‘Madeline didn’t write that letter, the one Farquharson showed to me. He had a copy made of your seal, bribed your printer to obtain the paper, and forged her writing by means of a polygraph.’
‘I know. Madeline learned of it from Farquharson himself this evening. He could not refrain from boasting of his sly scheme.’
Guy stopped, an indefinable expression frozen upon his face. ‘He’s here?’
‘Oh, he’s here all right.’ Lucien regarded his brother. ‘But I didn’t lie when I said that he was dead. The High Constable will arrange for the body to be removed in the morning.’ He tried to pull his brother forward, but, despite the fact that Guy was bone-weary and swaying from the blood loss, the younger man showed not the slightest sign of moving.
Guy held Madeline’s eye. ‘I shouldn’t have doubted you. Should have realised that Farquharson was as devious as the devil and sought only to use me to get to you and Lucien…and I damn well let him, fool that I am. I can only plead your forgiveness, Madeline.’
Madeline gently touched a hand against Guy’s sleeve. ‘There’s nothing to forgive, my lord…Guy. Farquharson tricked us all.’
Guy gave a nod of his head.
‘And now, little brother, if you’re quite finished setting yourself right with my wife, I must insist that you retire to the blue bedchamber.’
Between them Lucien and his footman helped the wounded man up the main staircase.
Two weeks later, and Madeline and Lucien stood on the steps of Trethevyn, waving goodbye to Guy.
‘He’s not recovered enough to travel yet and London is so very far. I wish he would have heeded you.’ Madeline sighed. ‘I mean, what if—’
Lucien touched a finger to her lips. ‘No more “what ifs”. Guy is as stubborn as a mule when it comes to getting his way in these things.’
‘Is the country really so abhorrent to him?’ A dove cooed from a nearby bush. The sky above was a clear bright blue. And the air was fresh and rich with the fragrance of spring. ‘I cannot imagine anyone preferring the foul-smelling streets of London to this.’
‘I think, perhaps—’ his eyes held Madeline’s ‘—that there are certain other matters to which Guy is keen to attend.’ A dark eyebrow raised suggestively. ‘My brother does have a certain reputation to maintain.’
A flush of delicate pink suffused Madeline’s cheeks. ‘Reputations can be misleading—why, sir, all of London is convinced that you’re the Wicked Earl. I must rectify that rumour when we return there next.’
‘Beginning with your parents.’
‘Did I not tell you?’ Madeline raised her eyebrows and drew him a small smile. ‘My parents have suffered a change of heart. Angelina writes that Mama has discovered the merits of having an earl in the family and has become quite high in the instep about it. And Papa worries only for my happiness. He is happy as long as I am.’
‘And are you happy, my love?’
‘Never more so,’ she laughed.
His hands slid seductively around her back. ‘Am I not wicked? To have forced you to a marriage that you didn’t want? To have exposed you to the worst of an evil villain who would have taken your life?’
‘Extremely wicked,’ she agreed and raised her lips so that they almost touched his.
‘Did you believe the whispers that I was a wicked man?’
‘Never.’
‘How could you be so certain? You didn’t know me, after all.’
‘Instinct. Trust. I don’t really understand it myself, but when I looked into your eyes the night you danced with me at Lady Gilmour’s ball…’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I just knew. Besides…’ she smiled and stole a kiss from his mouth ‘…anyone who saved me from Farquharson could not be at all wicked.’
With uncanny timing a black bobbing head appeared in the distance, scampering paws against gravel and barking fit to raise a riot. Max bounded up to where they stood.
‘This old boy can chew as much of my footwear as he likes.’ Lucien stooped to rub the dog’s ears. ‘Good dog!’
Madeline smiled. ‘I did see him with one of your boots this morning.’
‘Mmm.’ Her husband’s hands were busy plucking the pins from her hair, releasing it to tumble free down her back.
She held up her face to his and traced her tongue against his lips.
A low rumble sounded in Lucien’s throat. The pins dropped to scatter upon the steps.
‘Will you not tell me again how the ghost of Harry Staunton guided you back across the moor to Trethevyn that night?’
‘Madeline…’ he briefly covered her mouth with his own. One light kiss. ‘There are no such things as ghosts.’ A second kiss, harder, more thorough than the first. ‘The man was likely someone from a neighbouring village.’ When his lips claimed hers for a third time it was with a mounting passion that would brook no more talk of the ghostly highwayman. ‘Did I tell you how much I love you?’ He swept her up into his arms, his ice-pale eyes thawing to a blue smoulder. ‘Or show you?’
‘You know very well that you did only this morning, you wicked man!’
‘Wicked by name, wicked by n
ature! Alas, my love, I find I’ve a need to show you again. And there’s the small matter of the village sweepstake on our producing an heir…’
Together they laughed, and Earl Tregellas turned and carried his Countess over the threshold of Trethevyn.
Out on the moor, the figure of a masked man doffed his cocked hat and faded into the sunlight.
ISBN: 978-1-474-03497-5
LUCIEN TREGELLAS
© 2007 Margaret McPhee
First published as The Wicked Earl in 2007
Published in Great Britain 2015
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of Harlequin (UK) Limited
Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road, Richmond, Surrey TW9 1SR
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
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