Deborah Simmons

by The Last Rogue

  And Jane lay there in the sunlight, smiling so hard it hurt, for even if he didn’t care for her as she wanted, at least she knew one thing about her husband. It was silly really, but considering his dandified ways, Jane could not help taking heart from the discovery.

  For once, Raleigh was more interested in her than in his fine clothes.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Since Jane knew it would take Antoine a good while to restore her husband to his former elegance, she donned one of her old gowns and a dust cap in order to set to work. Mindful of the mysterious bloodstain in the statuary room, she stuck close to the family apartments, tackling the library. Another woman might have been dismayed by the piles of books in heaping disarray, but Jane squared her shoulders, eager for this new challenge.

  By the time Raleigh found her, she had torn down the old draperies and was seated on the floor, heedless of the dirt, engrossed in a thick, old receipt book she had discovered under a chair.

  “Jane, love, I wish you wouldn’t wander off alone,” Raleigh said from the doorway. Although his attempt at scolding made her want to smile, Jane was too interested in her find to pursue her delight at his concern.

  She glanced up at him, once more perfectly attired, and enjoyed a good long look before voicing what was on her mind. “Did you know that your great uncle had an illegitimate daughter he never acknowledged?”

  “What’s that?” Raleigh asked, moving forward gracefully. Jane took a moment to admire the way he stepped around all the obstacles that littered the floor. A fumbling clod, he definitely was not. Feeling a flush climb in her cheeks, Jane tried to focus her attention on the startling revelation she had unearthed.

  “Did you know Cornelius had a daughter?” she asked again.

  “Lord, no,” Raleigh said, obviously taken aback. “We always thought the old bugger was a misogynist. I don’t see how he could have ever gotten close enough to a woman to have—”

  Jane cut him off with an admonishing glance. “It’s all here,” she said, pointing to a receipt page. “Apparently, the woman was a maid at the Hall, and your great-uncle not only turned her out with minimal payment for ruining her, but made her sign away any rights to additional funds or acknowledgment.”

  Wiping off the surface of a low stool, Raleigh sat down beside her. “Filthy old bastard,” he muttered. “He probably flew into a fit when she produced a girl.”

  Jane nodded, for attached to the receipt was a long note detailing the maid’s supposed transgressions. “From his rambling writings, I wonder if he was not ill. He claims that after sending her away, he let go all the female staff and kept only a few footmen.”

  Raleigh shuddered. “No doubt that’s when the place really started falling to rack and ruin.” He paused, his lips curving upward wickedly. “But how to explain Mrs. Gruesome? Don’t tell me the old devil had a change of heart later in life?”

  Jane bit her lip, refusing to encourage him. “Deverell! This is serious,” she scolded.

  “Say that again.”

  Jane glanced up to see him eyeing her intently. “This is serious! I—”

  “Jane, Jane,” he muttered, clucking his tongue. “As I told you before, nothing is serious. It’s my name I want to hear.”

  She blushed. “Deverell.” The sound lingered in the silence of the close room, and Jane took a deep breath to dispel the sudden mood of growing intimacy. She had no intention of dallying with her husband all day when there was much to do—and consider. “Don’t you see what this means?” she asked.

  “Uncle Cornelius was even worse than we thought?” Raleigh speculated, his brows lifted.

  “No! I mean, yes, of course, but somewhere he has a daughter who has been denied her own legacy.” Jane frowned as her husband gave her an incredulous look and then burst out laughing. Although the sound filled her with pleasure, she could not condone his source of amusement “And just what is so funny?”

  Leaning back on the small stool, Raleigh spread his arms wide, to encompass the mess that surrounded them, faded silk hangings falling from the walls, years of dirt and dust, along with books and papers and items of every description piled so high as to make walking through the room difficult at best.

  “You cannot mean that you want to share all this bounty?”

  Jane sniffed. “Well, I think we should try to find her, at least. The poor woman deserves something.”

  Rising to his feet in one graceful motion, Raleigh shook his head as he grinned down at her. The gleam in his eye shone oddly warm and soft, as if mellowed by affection. Affection for her? Jane’s heart did a country reel even as she told herself that she must be imagining things. “The poor woman, whoever she may be, has no idea what she’s getting into,” Raleigh muttered.

  “Whatever do you mean?” Jane asked, not sure whether she should be offended or not.

  “I think Great-uncle Cornelius has finally met his match,” Raleigh said, chuckling as he crossed the room. When he turned once more, Jane grew breathless and giddy at his rueful grin. “I know that I have.”

  Antoine arrived late in the fading afternoon with a dozen new servants, and Jane was so excited that she threw her arms around the small Frenchman and gave him a hug. He stepped back, sputtering with astonishment, and she laughed aloud, which only made him gape all the more foolishly.

  It was absurd, really, but Jane couldn’t help her high spirits. A new staff meant they could stay at Craven Hall without worries while getting the house in order—and all else, too. Raleigh had agreed that along with checking for the solicitor, he would make inquiries into the whereabouts of Cornelius’s daughter, who might well be a grandmother by this time. Added to Jane’s sense of purpose was the delight she took in her marriage. Against all odds, it had turned into something wonderful, and each new encounter with her husband made her eager for more. Much more.

  She flushed, smiling while she watched Antoine ordering the new staff about, his mustache twitching as he tried to make silk purses from a few sows’ ears. In fact, the only shadow on her happiness was Mrs. Graves, who looked so grim and displeased with the additional servants that Jane wondered if Raleigh was right and the housekeeper was behind all the disturbances at the Hall. But Jane could hardly imagine the staid older woman trotting out in the middle of the night, let alone having the skill or strength required to throw a stone through the window.

  Pushing aside such thoughts, Jane kept her good mood through supper. She even let Raleigh coax her into a sip or two of wine, and so she was feeling a bit daring, too, as the evening swiftly approached. When her husband went off to confer with Antoine, she walked to the dining room window, enjoying the gloaming that had greeted her first view of the moorland.

  “M’lady?” Jane nearly started at the voice before chiding herself. With the advent of the workers, she would have to grow accustomed to sharing her home with more than just a few. Her home. Jane drew in a sharp breath, shying away from the meaning all those words encompassed, for she was still uncertain of what the future would hold.

  Pushing aside such thoughts, she turned to find herself facing a short, squat fellow in rather rough clothing. He did not look anything like a footman, but Jane knew they must be glad to have anyone to serve at Craven Hall and so she nodded a greeting.

  “Yer husband wants you to meet him in the conservatory. This way, if you please.”

  Raleigh in the orangery? Jane smiled. Perhaps he was beginning to take an interest in the Hall—and plants, too! Biting back a smile, she hurried after the already disappearing servant. Dusk was settling outside, making the interior dim, and Jane struggled to keep the fellow in her sight. She had not yet tackled this wing, so the heavy drapes and closed doors kept what little light there was at bay. She wished that she had brought a lantern, but it was too late now.

  When she reached the conservatory, the door stood open, and Jane stepped inside, the failing light adding an odd glow to the many-windowed addition. She could see neither Raleigh nor the servant who had le
d her here, and she turned up her nose at the musty smell of death. Long-dried and rotted plants stood like shadowy sentinels in the gloom, and she hesitated, seized by a sudden uneasiness.

  “Hello?” she called, her voice sounding thin in the stillness. Although she loved Craven Hall, Jane was aware of how isolated she was in this wing and of the strange happenings that had occurred. As elsewhere, she saw tall shapes covered in sheets that could easily hide someone—or something—and she remembered all too well the blood in the statuary room. When she heard a strange rustling somewhere among the pots and plants, Jane nearly jumped.

  Nonsense. She had never been fainthearted. Berating herself for behaving foolishly, Jane moved forward. “Raleigh?” she called firmly. If this was some jest of his, she planned to scold him sharply. “Raleigh?”

  Jane heard no answer, but a footfall behind her made her gasp, and then her breath was swiftly cut off by a big, rough-skinned hand that closed over her face. Uttering a muffled shriek, she reached for the beefy arm that held her, clawing at it helplessly as a cloth was stuffed into her open mouth. The material was dry and stiff, and she breathed deeply through her nose to avoid gagging, but when her captor picked her up as if to carry her away, she fought him with renewed vigor, kicking and flailing, until he swore softly.

  “Shut up, you!” he snarled, and Jane saw that there were two of them. Both wore black robes, their faces covered with hoods, and she quaked in terror as she realized they were costumed as monks. The eerie sight made her squeak, though no sound issued forth, and they subdued her easily.

  Jane closed her eyes in an effort to think clearly as they took her from the conservatory into the evening air. Vainly she tried to recall some important passage involving threatening friars, but convents and abbeys were a staple of the gothic novels, and Raleigh knew these books far better than she did.

  Jane moaned in despair at the thought of her husband. Now she wished that she had not dismissed his fears for her safety. What she had thought harmless tricks to scare them away had turned into a deadly threat, and how was she to escape? She had no idea where the hooded men were taking her, and even if she were discovered missing, how would anyone know where to look for her?

  Jane’s lashes lifted as determination surged through her once more. Although the sun had nearly set, she would have to do what she could to leave a trail, beginning now. Twisting suddenly, she shook her head violently, throwing off the cap, which had already been loosened by her struggle.

  Although the monks tightened their hold upon her, they did not notice the loss of the flimsy hair covering, and they silently slipped into the grove of spindly ash on the far side of the house, where Jane had never before ventured. Blinking into the twilight, she saw a small chapel and stifled a horrified wheeze at the thought that they might intend to conduct some unnatural ceremony there.

  Devil worship. The black arts. The Hellfire Club, known in the past century for its debauchery and worse, leapt swiftly to mind, and Jane wondered what her father, the vicar, would say to discover his daughter involved in such blasphemous activities. The thought made her furious, and she lashed out, kicking one monk in the stomach and tossing off her slipper in the ensuing struggle.

  The man she had struck swore loudly, earning him a sharp word from his hooded companion. Apparently, they were supposed to serve in silence, but the man at her feet was reaching the end of his patience. Jane might have enjoyed a brief moment of triumph, but for a firm yank on her hair that brought tears to her eyes.

  When they marched past the crumbling chapel, she blinked in surprise, only to twitch with terror as they moved into the graveyard. Having grown up at the vicarage, Jane was no stranger to burials and had done her best to keep flowers growing in the nearby cemetery. But sunny afternoons spent tending the well-kept Sussex sites seemed a world removed from this gloomy place, overgrown with gnarled trees and weeds and cloaked in shadow.

  Being forcibly carried past the crumbling stones by captors clad as monks was the stuff of nightmares, not something from the quiet life of Plain Jane, and a sense of unreality drifted over her. It continued as they approached the yawning black entrance of a crypt, but when they stepped past the shadowy gate and into the darkness of the interior, Jane felt cold beads of sweat upon her forehead. If they put her in a coffin…She shivered violently, for even in this day and age, she had heard tales of people being buried alive.

  She felt only a brief measure of relief when they laid her out on a cold stone slab instead of a wooden casket, for new fears assailed her. Would she now be murdered in the name of some pagan sacrifice? Despite her nearly brain-numbing terror, Jane knew that she must keep her wits about her. She needed to be alert for any opportunity to escape—and take it. She might only have one chance.

  As if to mock her hopes, the friar at her head dropped her down against the hard surface so roughly that she blinked, dizzy, but as he reached around her, she saw her opportunity. Snatching at the cloth in her mouth, Jane screamed with all the pent-up fury and fear inside of her. It rang around the walls of the crypt in one long, bloodcurdling wail before being cut off by the return of the gag, stuffed so deeply into her mouth that Jane choked.

  The man at her feet swore again until the other monk silenced him. Then, with an angry huff, he pulled something from beneath his robe. For a moment, Jane could only blink into the blackness as she felt something against her feet. When she realized that he was wrapping a pale material around her like an old-fashioned burial shroud, hot pressure stung her eyes.

  Her chance had come and gone, accomplishing nothing, for her scream had done little beyond ringing inside the crypt, and even if it traveled outside into the twilight of the desolate grounds, what good would it do her? Inside Craven Hall her desperate wail would never be noted.

  Despair washed over Jane as she realized that no one could possibly have heard her, least of all the man she wanted most to heed her cry. Suddenly, she wanted nothing more than to see Raleigh once more—his careless grace and wicked grin and eyes gleaming with mischief.

  With a moan, Jane let her head fall back against the stone, and, cursing the time she had wasted disdaining her husband, she wept for what might have been.

  Raleigh was aware of a pressing need to hurry even as he bade the burly footmen to halt. He and Antoine had picked two of the biggest, most fearless-looking fellows to patrol the grounds at night, and seeing no need to alarm Jane, he had brought them outside for their instructions. Yet he hated to leave his wife alone for long, even with the new servants to attend her.

  Never before had he felt such a strained wariness, and Raleigh regretted the loss of the peace of mind he had once taken for granted. And yet, he would not trade for it this thrill of discovery that surged through him, the strange, new excitement that had made him loll around in the mud without regard to anything but the woman in his arms.

  Shaking his head at the astounding memory that even now had the power to arouse him, Raleigh turned toward the footmen. He opened his mouth to speak, only to flinch when a chilling shriek pierced the air before being cut off. His stomach lurched painfully, for this was not just any scream. He had heard its like before.

  “Was that the wailing you told us about, my lord?” one of the men asked.

  “No! That was my wife!” Raleigh muttered, panic pounding through his veins as he headed off in the direction of the sound. The new footmen had lanterns, and they followed behind, swinging them high. At the side of the garden, Raleigh halted to listen, but he heard no more, and indeed, the abrupt silence filled him with something akin to terror.

  If anything happened to Jane…Although he had once dismissed her as a sour-faced prig, now Raleigh knew differently. She was so much more—lovelier and livelier and more loving—than he had ever dreamed. She was like some kind of fruity dessert, tart and crisp on the outside, but soft and sweet in the center, with so many layers and nuances in between as to keep him savoring each one for a lifetime.

  The thought made h
im pause, but instead of shying away, Raleigh accepted what once would have alarmed him: Jane had become precious to him in a way that no one ever had before. Even as his desire for her grew, she touched him in places no other woman had ever reached, beyond his body and his mind to his very heart. Was this love?

  “I think it came from the moors,” the one man said, jerking Raleigh from his thoughts. He glanced toward the dark hills and groaned, for he knew they could wander aimlessly on the lonely stretches without ever finding anything.

  “No, I think it came from the trees,” the other fellow said, and without wasting desperate moments, Raleigh grabbed one of the lanterns and strode forward. He had only gone a few steps beneath the rustling branches when a sliver of white caught his eye.

  “What’s that?” he muttered, hurrying toward it. Kneeling on the ground, he felt as if someone had struck him a bad blow in the gut, for he recognized the tiny bit of muslin at once as Jane’s cap. And suddenly, his life of restless pleasure-seeking and ease was over, changed irrevocably. He had told Jane more than once that nothing was serious or important to him, but now that was a lie. This was serious. She was important.

  Taking a deep breath, Raleigh rose to his feet and surged forward, determined that if she was hurt, whoever had taken her would pay. With their lives.

  They had reached her waist, and Jane wondered if they would wrap her chest so tightly that she would lose her breath. Even now she found it difficult to take enough air through her nose to sustain her thundering heart. It was almost completely dark, so when she saw a flicker of lamplight, she thought perhaps she was growing delirious, seeing a last giddy vision before the end. When she heard Raleigh’s voice, she knew she must surely be lost to the world.

  “I say, unhand my wife!”

  Jane nearly smiled at the words, so like her husband, but then she felt her captor jerk, and, lifting her head, she blinked to see that Raleigh really was standing nonchalantly in the opening to the crypt. Her emotions, already running high, careened out of control, and she didn’t know whether to weep or scream at his casual attitude.