“She was recently kidnapped at the hands of a cruel, cruel man, you know. We must look after her until it is safe and she can be returned to her cousin.”
Well, at the mention of a harrowing experience and a kidnapper who merited repeated use of the word cruel, Mrs. Wimpole’s disapproval faded instantly away and an eager need to hover seemed to take over. She moved immediately to Sophie’s side and placed an arm over her shoulder. Actually, after riding all night in the damp air, it felt rather nice to be hovered over by an understanding female. Or at least one who craved a good story.
“Good heavens! The poor little thing,” the woman said, maternal concern simply oozing from her. “Whatever could have happened to you, my dear? Come, you’ll need something hot to drink and we’ll tuck you into bed right away. You can tell good Mrs. W all about it.”
Sophie glanced up at Lindley. She was not quite sure what he expected from her at this point. Should she give in to the hovering and let herself be ushered up to bed? Somehow she’d rather expected that…well, that Lindley would be the one ushering her to bed. But now she was to be treated as some sort of delicate maiden who required hovering? Would he allow such a thing?
“Go with her, Miss D’Archaud,” he said, nodding toward her as cool and polite as if they had just been introduced in a ballroom. “A good rest will do you well.”
“Yes, my lord, but…er, where will you be?”
“Don’t you worry,” he said, and now he spoke as if she were little more than a worrisome child. “I’ll be nearby. You’ll be safe.”
Yes, but would she be alone? It appeared so, as he did not follow when Mrs. Wimpole started leading her toward the staircase. Lindley seemed content to remain here below, laughing with his man, Wimpole, and discussing what was to be done with the horses. The stone steps seemed particularly cold and unwelcoming as she trailed Mrs. Wimpole up them, wondering how on earth to answer the woman’s myriad questions.
Wherever had they been? Had the kidnapper asked a ransom for her? How did it happen that Lindley was the one to rescue her? Didn’t she fear catching her death out in this night chill? Would she prefer to sleep in the blue room or the yellow? The only good thing about all of Mrs. Wimpole’s questions was that she hardly paused long enough between them for Sophie to mumble an incoherent one syllable answer. She knew, however, eventually she’d be expected to supply some additional information about this imaginary kidnapping Lindley had so rashly invented.
As they reached the top of the stairs, thankfully, she noticed something that might just serve to deter the woman’s inquiries. Family portraits hung gallery-style. Ah, but what beloved retainer could resist a few well-meaning comments here?
“What lovely paintings,” Sophie said, catching the woman midquestion. “How well you’ve looked after them. They seem almost alive.”
Indeed, at the head of the stairs was a quite handsome portrait of Lindley, himself. Clearly he was more than a few years younger, probably just out of school, but already his blue eyes showed the same confidence that defined the man now. His strong jawline and godlike features were richly portrayed in all their perfection.
Beside that portrait hung one of a very pretty young woman. Far prettier than Sophie could ever hope to be, in fact. The woman’s hair was a rich chestnut brown, and her ivory skin seemed to glisten on the canvas. The most striking thing about this portrait, however, was not the woman, but the child she held in her arms.
A young boy, it appeared. His mop of curling dark hair fell almost into his crystal blue eyes. The child seemed to smile out at the viewer, his expression full of joy and mischief. Even though so small, he clearly felt quite at ease with the world, ready to attempt anything that might suit his fancy. In fact…
Heavens, the boy looked very much like Lindley.
Oh dear, had she found his wife and child, immortalized in oil and positioned beside him in this hallway? Of course it must be. The reality of it slammed into her soul. To realize just what the man had, in fact, lost nearly took her breath away, and she felt her legs go weak. These were the people Lindley had loved—the ones her father had helped to murder. The tragedy of it all threatened to overwhelm her.
“Ah, that’s our Lady Marie with little Charles,” Mrs. Wimpole said, giving a reverent sigh.
“So very sad,” Sophie could only breathe.
“Oh, did you know them?”
Sophie shook her head, suddenly eager to be done with the portraits and lock herself in her room, away from such painful reminders. “No, but I have heard…”
The servant nodded. “Yes, I suppose everyone heard. The house has never been the same. In fact, I have worried for his lordship. For years it appeared he would not come here again.”
“It’s very hard to lose our loved ones.”
“So young, and leaving his lordship behind all alone like that,” Mrs. Wimpole said, opening one of the many doors along the corridor. “Ah, but I’m glad to see he’s taken to helping others now. So tell me, just how did our Lindley come to be your champion, Miss D’Archaud?”
“Well,” Sophie said, stepping into an enormous, cold room and wishing Mrs. Wimpole’s taper did more than simply send shadows dancing around them. “He simply, er, happened along at the right moment, I suppose you could say.”
The older woman nodded, putting the taper on a table and bending over the grate. “Yes, sometimes fate does things that way, doesn’t it?”
Not often for me, she thought about saying, but she held her tongue. No sense getting Mrs. Wimpole primed for another barrage of questions. There had been far too many of them already, and none of them had answers she wanted to think about.
“Get yourself into bed, dear,” the woman said as she glanced up to catch Sophie yawning. “I’ll fetch some tea.”
“Thank you.” She only hoped she’d still be awake by the time it arrived.
“DID YOU MANAGE TO ROUSE OLD BEN AND GET HIM to tend to the horses, sir?” Wimpole asked when Lindley returned from the stables.
It had taken far longer to rub down the horses and clean up the carriage than expected, and Lindley brushed at the muck on his boots. They were a lost cause, he feared. It seemed very likely that all of him would smell of horse forever.
“How long has Ben been looking after everything on his own?” Lindley asked. “The poor fellow ought to have some help out there.”
“Oh, we don’t need much, my lord,” Wimpole replied, helping Lindley out of his damp coat. “There’s just the one carriage when we need it, and we don’t need it often, so Ben is hardly overworked.”
Lindley draped his coat over his arm and eyed the abbey’s butler. The man must be nearing seventy, at least. Why had it not dawned on him that the staff here at Haven Abbey was aging, that he ought to see about setting up their pensions and finding a relief staff?
Because he’d been happier to forget Haven Abbey existed altogether, of course. For the sake of his own pain he’d completely forgotten about theirs. It was inexcusable.
“And what of you and the missus, Wimpole? How are you getting along, rattling about in this old ruin all on your own?”
Wimpole shrugged. “We have the dailies, my lord. You’ve been very generous with allowances, and your steward keeps an eye on things for you. The grounds are kept well, and we’ve shut up most of the house. We’re getting by, sir.”
Indeed, but getting by was hardly what he wished for such loyal retainers. No, the Wimpoles were more like family. As much as any of the family he had left, at least. They deserved better.
“You’ve certainly done a far better job of tending to things around here than I have, Wimpole,” Lindley acknowledged. “I’m sorry to have neglected you.”
“You’ve had other responsibilities, sir. And now it seems you’ve taken on some others, eh? That pretty little miss is awfully lucky you found her.”
The man had a suspicious sparkle to his eye and just the hint of insinuation in his voice. Yes, of course the man must be curious. Who wo
uldn’t be, a gentleman showing up in the middle of the night to a home he hadn’t visited in three years in the company of a beautiful young woman he claimed had been the victim of a kidnapping? Only a fool would not expect to answer a few questions.
“Miss D’Archaud has been the victim of unhappy circumstance, and I am only too glad to have made myself useful to her,” Lindley said diplomatically. “Fortunately, I was able to remove her from the unhappy circumstance before she was very ill treated.”
“Yes, how fortunate. Pity, though, you could not have made it the additional hour to her cousin’s home, milord.”
“Hour and a half, at least,” Lindley corrected just a bit too quickly.
As if it made a difference. Clearly Wimpole knew as well as he that Hartwood was not very far. Why had he not simply gone on there? Why had he brought an unaccompanied lady to his family home like this? It was already such an ungodly hour, what were another few miles if it meant protecting Miss D’Archaud’s invented honor?
And damn it, but now that he’d made the girl respectable gentry, how was he supposed to explain spending the rest of the night energetically making himself additionally useful to her up in her bed?
He wasn’t, of course.
“Miss D’Archaud may not be entirely out of danger yet, Wimpole,” Lindley explained. “I did not feel the road to her cousin’s home would be safe for us at this hour. Haven Abbey was a much better choice given the circumstance.”
“Of course, milord,” Wimpole said with that still-annoying little smirk. “Would you have me dispatch word to her cousin, or would you rather we wait until you can be sure all is safe?”
“Let’s wait, most definitely,” Lindley replied.
“As you wish, milord.”
It did seem as though the man was milording him more than was absolutely necessary, but Lindley decided he was far too exhausted to bother with further explanation. Much better just to say good night and be done with it. Surely by morning he would be in a better frame of mind for explaining Sophie to his hired man.
“There’s no need for you to lose any further sleep on my account, Wimpole,” Lindley said. “Why not head back to your bed? I think I’ll visit the brandy decanter for a few moments before taking myself up to sleep.”
“You’re certain there’s nothing more you need, sir?”
“No, Wimpole, I’ll be fine.”
“I see. Well, the missus said we ought to put you in the green room, sir.”
Yes, that made sense. He’d rather taken that as his room over the years. He wondered how he was going to tactfully ask which room Sophie had been placed in.
“I believe Miss D’Archaud will be in the rose room,” Wimpole volunteered.
Lindley was most grateful. “Fine. Good. She should be very comfortable there.”
The old man nodded, bowed slightly, and turned to go. He paused at the door.
“It’s good to have you back, sir.”
“It’s good to be back, Wimpole.”
With that, his man actually smiled, then politely left Lindley alone. The huge house was deathly quiet. And dark, as well. The single taper Lindley had kept to find his way hardly did the job. Odd how a familiar place such as Haven Abbey could take on such an alien appearance simply because of the dark.
He made good on his promise to visit the brandy and downed a few swallows before heading up the broad staircase. The darkness was heavy, and every sound made him jump inwardly. His taper flickered, sending eerie shadows dancing across the walls and ceiling. He didn’t realize he was doing it, but he must have been clutching the stair rail. It gave him a splinter and he swore.
Faces at the top of the staircase became visible in the candlelight. His face. And Marie’s. He’d forgotten their portraits hung here, along with several other Durmonds. Strange that these portraits could be all that was left of them. The silence and chilling darkness added to the strangeness of it all.
He should not have come back here. It was still too painful. He should have found somewhere else to take Sophie.
But where? He believed Sophie’s claim that she’d never been close to Dashford. Would the man have eagerly welcomed them at Hartwood, in the middle of the night? He couldn’t know. But clearly they would not be safe on the road to London, not while Fitzgelder was on his way to collect the damn locket. No, for Sophie’s sake he’d done the only safe thing he could do. He’d just have to be man enough to walk past these portraits and ignore the blasted sensation of his soul being ripped from inside him all over again.
He wondered if he’d be man enough to walk past Sophie’s room, as well.
Damn it, he needed her. He needed to be certain she was well, that she was safe and comfortable here. He needed the warmth of a living body tonight. He needed it to be hers.
The rose room. He stood at the door and listened, hoping Mrs. Wimpole was long gone and Sophie was alone. All he heard was the emptiness all around him and the blood pounding in his own veins.
Almost silently, he knocked. Then held his breath to wait. Finally, a sound from inside let him know he’d been heard. He breathed a sigh of relief as if the simple act of rousing Sophie would save him from the many ghosts that roamed these halls.
SHE KNEW IT WAS LINDLEY WHEN THE SLIGHT RAP came at her door. It had seemed ages since Mrs. W got the fire in the grate, helped her undress, then left her to sleep. She’d begun to believe Lindley would not come to her.
Of course, until she let him in she would really not know if he had merely come to bid her good night or if he had more interesting things on his mind. She tossed the covers back and dashed for the door. She was somewhat out of breath when she flung it open to find him there, his hair damp and tousled, his coat thrown over his arm, and his eyes dark with midnight and desire.
“I take it you were not sleeping?” he said quietly.
“No, I was waiting…er, to fall asleep, I mean. Waiting to fall asleep.”
“Then I’m glad I did not wake you. May I come in?”
Oh, dear heavens, yes! “Very well, I suppose so, if you like.”
Apparently he did like. He pushed the door open and stalked into the room. His presence seemed to fill the place up, where it had felt cavernous and empty before.
“You’re not wearing anything from your personal collection, my dear,” he said when she had shut the door and they were alone.
The room was dim, lit only by the flickering candle he held and the shuttered lamp she had left burning on the bed stand. Still, she could read the hunger in his eyes and the heat in his expression as he let his gaze roam over her. There was no point in feeling self-conscious. She would never tire of being the object of his attentions.
She did wish, however, she could forget about that dratted Marie person. It was embarrassingly painful to admit how jealous she was. Lindley might want her now, but down deep she knew she was just a poor substitute for what he really wanted. She could never replace what he’d lost.
She could, however, take advantage of the situation now.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come, my lord,” she said. “To see me, that is. Come to see me, I mean.”
“Of course.”
“But as you are here…perhaps you might look at something for me.”
He smiled at her. “Oh, most definitely, Miss Darshaw. I will most definitely look at something for you.”
Chapter Fifteen
“Er, the window, sir,” Sophie said, thinking of something quickly.
“You need me to look out the window?” he asked.
“No, that is, I need you to help me shut it. It’s open a bit, see? I’m afraid I might get cold in the night.”
“Ah, we don’t want you cold in the night, do we?” he said.
There was a sliver of moonlight trailing in through the window, and now that they stood there in it, she could see his face plainly. He was smiling, and he didn’t for one minute believe she needed his help with the window. Good. She needed him for something far more importan
t.
“So, my dear Miss Darshaw, what shall we do to ensure you stay adequately warm and comfortable all night long?”
He was standing very near her, and she moved even closer.
“You have some suggestions, my lord?”
“Indeed, I do,” he replied, still with that knee-weakening smile.
But just when she thought he might pull her into his arms, he stepped away. For some inexplicable reason, he walked away from her. Worse, he wasn’t even moving toward the bed. Instead, his eye seemed to be on the bureau across the room.
“What you need is some more appropriate clothing.”
What? She was ready to throw herself at his feet, and he was concerned with appropriate clothing? Why on earth had he come to her if he was not interested in warming her himself? If she didn’t want him so very badly just now, she was sure she would be quite infuriated with him.
“I was hoping to warm myself with something a bit more, er, inappropriate.”
“Then I’m certain we shall find just the thing. In here.”
He grabbed her pack where she had left it on the bureau. Ah, now he was moving in the right direction. He tossed the pack onto the bed, pulling it open to investigate the contents beside the flickering taper.
Her knees were still weak, but this time she was the one smiling. He did want her.
“Let’s see, this one has proven its worth,” he said, taking out the pink silk knitted article, then he set it aside to extract the white gauzy gown in miniature proportions. “And of course there’s this.”
Yet he set that one aside, as well, and kept looking. What did he expect to find? Oh, please not the hood with the rabbit ears. She really did not find that item alluring at all. Although, perhaps Lindley had some ideas for it she had not thought of…No, he set it aside with a roll of his eyes. But what else was he looking for?
“Oh, now this has definite merit,” he said at last.
He’d gotten to the very bottom of her pack. What had he found? She wasn’t sure she recalled any other clothing she’d been working on for Madame, and she doubted the strapping device was to his liking. She frowned, trying to recall what else he might discover when he pulled out the white satin cords.
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