Even though his memories weren’t worth recalling, the last several dukes had used this as their home. He owed it to them to keep the place in good condition. It wasn’t their fault that Aunt Marguerite had made the years here awkward with her attempts to treat Ryland and Gregory like brothers. It wouldn’t have been so bad if she’d shown them equal affection, but she’d never had anything but reprimands for Ryland.
It didn’t—couldn’t—matter what had happened within those walls. All that concerned him now was whether or not Miranda was within them. Was she inside somewhere, screaming for him to rescue her? She had to know he was coming.
In the distance he saw the old caretaker, Mr. Blakemoor, leaving the barn.
It was the first stroke of luck he’d had in a very long time.
Ryland was coming. Miranda didn’t know when, how, or from where, but she knew he was coming for her. It was up to her to do what she could to make things easier for him when he got here.
The best thing she could do was be nowhere near Mr. Montgomery.
So she put every one of her lady lessons to use and became the exemplary hostage. She perched on the edge of a sofa covered in a white dustcloth, watching her captor pace in front of the window in an upstairs parlor. Nary a peep had crossed her gagged lips in more than half an hour.
She knew because she’d been counting the seconds. It was the only thing she could think of to occupy her mind.
After ten minutes he’d slid the gun into the waist of his pants.
After twenty minutes he’d stopped glancing her way at all.
She gave it another fifteen minutes to be sure he’d all but forgotten her.
Then she moved. Slow, steady steps. The soundless graceful kind her mother had made her practice for hours before her debut. She had her excuse ready if he caught her. He couldn’t question her looking for the chamber pot. That excuse was only going to work once, though, so this was her only chance to get away and remove Mr. Montgomery’s advantage.
Because Miranda knew if it came down to it, Ryland would sacrifice anything to keep her safe.
Possibly even his own life.
The door was ajar but not enough for her to fit through. Praying the hinges wouldn’t creak, she eased a foot into the crack, followed by her leg and then her body, holding her breath and pulling everything in as tightly as she could. As her shoulder met the doorframe, Mr. Montgomery slammed a hand against the windowsill.
She jumped, pushing the door open enough to slip the rest of the way through. The hinges had indeed creaked, but Mr. Montgomery’s yelling about Ryland taking too long to arrive had covered the noise.
Free of the room Miranda moved faster. Her hands were bound behind her, so they were all but useless. She could gather up her skirt in them though. But in order to raise the skirt in the front she had to pull up the back indecently high. Her cloak still covered her, though, and there was no one around but Mr. Montgomery and the caretaker. Decency was going to have to take a holiday.
Knowing he’d expect her to take the main stairs when he discovered her missing, Miranda headed for the servant stairs. She was partway down the first flight when she heard Mr. Montgomery yell again. This time it was her name mingled in with a selection of blush-inducing curse words. Forsaking quietness for speed, Miranda flew down the rest of the back stairs.
A large wooden door with iron hinges stood at the base of the stairs. Miranda grinned around the cloth in her mouth. She’d found a way out if she could just get the door open. Dropping her skirt, she turned around to work the latch with her quickly numbing fingers. Whatever he’d used to bind her hands seemed to be tightening as it dried.
Finally the latch gave, and Miranda shoved the door open, expecting to fall into the precious freedom of sunlight and fresh air.
Instead she found herself in utter darkness, the heavy wooden door slowly swinging shut behind her.
She’d managed to trap herself in the cellar.
Several minutes passed while Miranda focused on breathing.
Closing her eyes—useless, really, but it made her feel better—she prayed. And prayed. And prayed some more. She lost track of everything she prayed for, not really paying attention to the words, just focusing on the fact that God could hear them and she wasn’t alone.
Peace finally settled around her, bringing a calm assurance with it. Yes, her situation was dire, but at the moment, with a large door between her and her captor, she felt safe. Her eyes remained squeezed shut though. It was much better to think the darkness was of her own making.
With the sense of calm came a determination to do something, anything, to better her plight. One foot inched forward. The floor below was roughhewn stone. Her toes crept forward some more. One agonizingly slow step at a time, she crossed the floor until her foot bumped into something. Pressing her body forward she realized it was a wall, also made of rough stone.
She eased her face forward, desperate to remove the gag but vain enough to not want her face scratched up in the process. It took some work and her cheek stung a bit from a slight scrape, but the gag finally fell to hang around her neck.
Her body sagged into the wall, joy at the simple pleasure of moving her jaw filling her heart. Somewhat renewed by her small success, she began the considerably more difficult task of unbinding her hands. Before she could get to the bindings she had to take care of the cloak, which involved some very ridiculous-feeling twists and painful rubs against the wall to get the garment pushed over one shoulder.
She was exhausted, thirsty, scared, and about twenty other feelings she’d only thought she had experienced before. As much as she wanted to curl up and cry, she knew there was a man in the house who intended to kill Ryland and very likely her as well. Quitting was not an option.
Her fingers were sure to endure more cuts and scrapes than her face. She had lost too much feeling to be delicate about the operation. Hours seemed to pass, though it might have been mere minutes. She’d stopped counting. Her arms ached from the constant up-and-down motion. She began to rise and fall on her toes so that her arms could rest and the binding would still scrape against the craggy rocks.
A loud crack broke the thick silence with an almost physical punch. Light suddenly filled the room, causing Miranda to squeeze her eyes shut and curl her face toward her chest. “There you are.”
A hand wrapped around her sore elbow and jerked her away from the wall. She stumbled after her captor, presuming it was once again Mr. Montgomery. He had been running through the house, if his harsh breathing was any indication.
He started dragging her toward the door but stopped after only two steps.
“Ah, Ryland. As you see, I have the winning card. A pretty queen, I grant you, though the sister shines a bit brighter. Time to fold, Marshington.” He spat his cousin’s title out as if it were uncooked poultry.
Miranda eased her eyes open a crack, blinking furiously at the light. How was the room so bright?
“I look for more than a pretty face, Gregory.”
Her heart leaped at the sound of Ryland’s voice. She couldn’t bring herself to rejoice in his presence, though, knowing that Mr. Montgomery wanted to kill him.
“Ah, yes, you’re going to tell me you admire her brain as well.”
“If you wish to hear it.”
Miranda fluttered her lashes furiously, trying to adjust her eyes so she could see what was going on. She could almost stand to keep them open a crack.
After a heartbeat of silence, Mr. Montgomery spoke again.
“Unless you’d like to see those lovely brains in a more splattered manner, I suggest you stop right where you are.”
Finally! Miranda eased one eye open just as Mr. Montgomery’s words registered in her brain. She found herself looking straight into the barrel of a pistol.
Chapter 36
Ryland had faced down men with guns before. He’d had guns pointed at himself, guns aimed at partners, and even one memorable time where the gunman was threatening to shoot
himself. He would have considered letting him continue, except that they needed the secrets locked away in the crazy man’s head.
No past experience prepared him for seeing a gun held to Miranda’s head.
Her eyes fluttered open and then continued to widen as she took in the barrel of the gun. Two lanterns rested on the floor, blazing light into the storeroom. It was long and narrow, with shelves lining the wall behind Gregory and Miranda. The caretaker must be using the room for storing a portion of the farm’s production. The shelves were loaded with various vegetables and foodstuffs, waiting to be preserved for the winter or eaten in due time. Bins of flour, sugar, and other household needs lined the wall behind Ryland.
“What do you want?” he asked. Anything to save Miranda.
Gregory let out a harsh laugh. “I want to be you.”
Ryland jerked his eyes from Miranda’s face to Gregory’s.
“It should have been me! I’m older. My schooling was completed. I’ve always been more refined, more dependable, certainly more visible than you. I’ll be doing England a favor replacing the lost duke with one who actually cares what’s going on in London.”
Ryland wasn’t sure how to respond. He couldn’t risk having Gregory crack the way Aunt Marguerite had. Who knew what nonsense the woman had been feeding Gregory over the years? He had to get Miranda out of there. Maybe Ryland could placate his cousin, make him think he’d won. “You want to be Marshington? You can have it. Just let Miranda go.”
Gregory’s laugh grated down Ryland’s spine. “You think me a fool? Mother wanted to kill you years ago, but then you disappeared. We tried to have you declared dead, but they kept asking for the body.”
“And now you intend to give them one?” Ryland shifted his weight, debating his best move to draw Gregory away from Miranda.
“Yes. With an abundance of grieving over the hunting accident, of course.”
Was Miranda crying? No, it appeared to be sweat. How amazing was she, holding her composure together with a gun to her head?
Gregory. He had to focus on Gregory. What had he said? He meant to make it look like a hunting accident? “No one will believe we went hunting together.”
“Of course they will. You’ve returned to London, eager to reconnect with your family. What better way for gentlemen to bond than over a hunt?”
“In the middle of the Season?”
Gregory shrugged. “You’ve already been labeled eccentric. I might as well use it to my advantage.”
Ryland’s fingers curled into fists. He felt the ache in his knuckles and the bite of fingernails. Once he got Miranda out of this, he was going to pummel Gregory to bits.
“Let her go, Gregory. This is between you and me.”
Gregory’s smile was evil. There was no other way to describe it. “I have the girl, and I have the gun. What do you have?”
That was a very good question.
“A bigger gun.”
Ryland turned to see Jeffreys coming through the doorway, a blunderbuss poised to fire. The scene had turned almost farcical. If Jeffreys fired that gun in this small room, they would all be feeling the bitter sting of smoke for weeks.
He turned back to Miranda. Better the bitter sting of smoke than the painful stab of death.
Miranda cut her eyes to see who had joined Ryland. Until then she hadn’t been able to look at anything but the cold metal barrel pointed in her direction. Seeing a bigger gun also aimed in her direction was not comforting. Even if she wasn’t the intended target, her proximity was very disconcerting.
“Get back! I’ll shoot her.” Mr. Montgomery’s grip on her elbow was sliding. She could feel the sticky sweat coating his palm. “I’ll shoot you!” The gun was now swinging erratically between herself and Ryland, waving through the air, shaking with the trembling of Mr. Montgomery’s arm.
She looked at Ryland and at a glance he looked calm, controlled, but little things gave away his nervousness. His hands clenched and released, as if he were directing all of his fidgeting to his fingers. The skin around his eyes tightened, his mouth turning down as his eyes followed his cousin’s hand.
A shaky finger could pull the trigger, even if he didn’t mean to.
“I’ll shoot her!” Mr. Montgomery repeated, obviously believing that to be the more impressive threat.
“Then I will shoot you. Either way you won’t be leavin’ here the duke.” Jeffreys’ voice was much calmer than Miranda would have suspected for a valet. Then again, Ryland wasn’t likely to have hired the average valet. He must be like Price and Jess, one of Ryland’s former cohorts.
The gun swung around once more and steadied in Ryland’s direction.
“I may not leave, but I will be Marshington.”
Miranda told herself to look away, to push him over, to scream, to do something. But time held her captive, wrapping her in icy ropes of fear as minutes slowed to a crawl, allowing her to watch each detail as Mr. Montgomery curled his finger more securely around the trigger.
Fear has a smell. A combination of sweat and bad breath mingled with an unexplainable bitter undertone. Slightly metallic. A bit like the smell that clings to the soot-blackened men leaving the steel factory after a long day of work. Ryland was familiar with the smell—had even noticed it on himself when he’d been on the wrong end of a pistol before.
Never had the odor filled his nostrils to this extreme. There was more at stake than ever before for every person in that room. A part of his brain, the logical part that made it possible for him to face life as an agent of the Crown, realized that fear wasn’t really tangible and the combination of spices and food in the storeroom was mixing with the stench created by rivulets of sweat he could see rolling down Gregory and Miranda’s faces.
A puddle formed in his ear. Sweat was pouring off of him as well.
Gregory’s hand shook visibly. He was going to pull the trigger, whether he meant to or not. At this distance it wouldn’t matter that Gregory had never been much of a marksman. The bullet would find Ryland’s chest anyway.
So he dove.
The crack of the pistol was joined by the roar of Jeffrey’s blunderbuss. In the close proximity, the noise reverberated through the storeroom, slamming into his ears as his shoulder rammed into a heavy storage barrel.
He rolled, scooting behind the barrel for shelter, shaking his head in a futile effort to clear his hearing.
Smoke from the dual gun blasts filled his face as he stood. It hit the back of his throat, stung his eyes, and made his nose itch. Lantern light bounced through the dust-filled air, making everything a giant blur. He couldn’t see a thing.
“Miranda!”
“Ryland.” Her voice trembled and the end of his name dissolved into a shaky sob. Crying was bad but sound was good. Sound meant she was alive.
He rushed around the barrel and into the cloud of acrid smoke.
Jeffreys’ shape loomed in the smoke, rushing across the room. “Ryla—oomph!”
Years of training, experience, and practicality urged him to go help Jeffreys. Ryland could make out the shadowy forms as his valet wrestled with his cousin. Fists were flying erratically as they struggled. Miranda’s whimpers were quiet but consistent, proving that not only was she alive, but at least well enough to remain so for the foreseeable future.
He had time to knock Gregory out cold.
He tripped over Jeffreys, but it didn’t slow him down. Three swift moves had him grabbing Gregory by the collar, kneeing him in the stomach, and sending him headfirst into the same heavy barrel Ryland had hid behind moments before. Gregory went limp in his grip. Ryland didn’t wait for him to hit the floor before he rushed to Miranda’s side.
Dirty and bedraggled, she appeared unhurt as she stood at the edge of the light from one of the lanterns. Her eyes were squeezed tight, and her body was shaking with the effort to control her sobs. Tears rolled in a steady stream down her cheeks as her breath shuddered in and out between trembling lips. Her hair was a tangled mess, her fac
e was scraped, and her dress was nearly as muddy as the day they’d hiked across the countryside.
She was beautiful.
“Miranda,” he whispered as he wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight to his chest, tucking her head beneath his chin.
“Ryland?” she whispered in return, her voice still shaking with hiccups and tears.
“It’s me. Don’t worry. Jeffreys has Gregory.” Ryland slowly ran his hands over her body, trying not to think of anything but whether or not she was injured. His hands encountered a thick glop of gooey substance that had him pulling back and dragging Miranda closer to the lantern.
She was gaining control of her breathing, and the tears were only occasional. More of the wet, pink substance resided in her hair. Her clothing was wrinkled and crusty from all the rain and travel, and more strings of goo covered her skirts.
“What on earth?” Ryland looked back to find a similar mess on the floor and wall near where Miranda and Gregory had been standing.
He slid his hands down her arms, looking around as he pulled a knife from his boot and sliced through her bindings. She’d been tied with a strip of leather, so it took some effort to cut through. As the strap came loose, his gaze zeroed in on the now-busted shelf high on the wall behind where Gregory and Miranda had been standing. Jeffreys must have aimed high in order to avoid hitting Miranda with his shot.
Miranda rubbed her hands up and down her arms. “You can tell Mr. Blakemoor that I have had quite enough of his tomatoes.”
Ryland blinked. After everything she’d been through, she’d have been well within her rights to cling, scream, cry, or even faint. He wouldn’t have blamed her.
Instead, now that both of them stood hale and hearty with the danger behind them, she was talking about tomatoes. Ryland threw his arms around her and laughed.
Chapter 37
Mr. Blakemoor was as steady and competent as Ryland’s steward had claimed. By the time the group emerged from the cellar, they found him returning from town with the magistrate, the rest of the staff, and a small army of people who set about cleaning the most necessary rooms and preparing food.
A Noble Masquerade Page 30
