by Darcy Burke
Not a closet. By any means. She was in a ... prayer room of some kind. The chamber was small, but stretched up to the heavens. At one time, the walls had presumably been adorned floor-to-ceiling with stained glass, but were now completely covered over from the outside and boarded again on the inside, allowing not even the slightest hint of sunlight to filter through. Perhaps there was no sunlight. Perhaps it was still nightfall. Perhaps—
Rescued! Of course. A bubble of laughter escaped her parched throat in relief.
Clutching an oddly luxurious blanket to her chest, she took stock of her surroundings. She had awoken not on a bed, but a pew. No wonder her back felt bruised and sore.
She laughed again, her desolation lifting. Religious folk would be too godly to send her to the gallows and too reclusive to know about her crimes in the first place. A chill slithered across her bare skin as she recalled her fright at awakening to find herself stripped of her vestments. Perhaps her hosts weren’t as godly as they’d like to appear. One should never be too trusting.
A large wooden tub of soapy water sat near a gold-encrusted altar. She approached, favoring her sore ankle, and touched the tepid water. The temptation of cleanliness was too divine to resist but, before indulging, she hobbled across the room to verify the lock was engaged on the prayer room door. It was locked tight, with a slender brass key protruding from the keyhole.
Twenty minutes later, she was drying her hair with the edge of her blanket when a sharp rap came at the door. Fear flooded back. Gripping the blanket in one hand in order to grab a heavy chalice with the other, she crept to the door. After taking a deep breath, she raised the chalice above her head.
“Yes?”
“Your garments and boots, miss.” The voice was elderly. Female. And ... nervous?
Violet lowered the chalice. If this was a ruse, it was a bloody good one. And she could hardly stay locked in a prayer room forever.
“Just a moment.”
After enshrouding herself with the blanket, she hefted the makeshift weapon in one hand, twisted the key, and creaked open the door.
A wiry older woman stood alone in the hallway, dressed in servant garb. She held a stack of clean, folded vestments and a freshly cleaned pair of very familiar boots.
The servant’s shoulders were hunched and her posture tense, as if she half-expected monsters to spring from the darkness. The woman’s knobby fingers trembled, but Violet could not be sure if this were due to age or anxiety. The servant’s clear lack of ease did nothing to soothe Violet’s own shattered nerves.
She snaked one arm through the crack and snatched her dress to her chest. Ratty and frayed as ever, but blessedly free of grime.
“Thank you.”
The servant nodded once, and at first made no move to go, nor to enter and offer assistance. If anything, she appeared to be warring with herself as to whether or not to speak her mind.
Just when Violet was about to break down and beg the strange visitor to say her piece so she might close the door and dress herself, the old woman finally spoke.
“Don’t make deals with the devil for a crust of bread. He may tempt ye to tend that creature of his, but if ye value your life, you’ll run whilst you still can. If ye still can.”
Without waiting for a reply, the old woman turned and melted into the darkness.
Violet blinked at the gap in the door where the servant had just stood. What on earth had that meant? Clearly the old woman had meant a warning of some kind, but of what creature did she speak? And who was “he”, this devil with whom Violet was not to bargain?
She nudged the door open far enough to poke her head out into the hall.
Nothing. No candles. No windows. No light. The old woman had managed to disappear into the shadows in less than a half dozen steps.
Unsettled, Violet slowly shut the door, then blinked in surprise when the key rotated clockwise of its own accord. She tested the handle and discovered the door had locked automatically. She tensed. If someone hadn’t left the key behind ... A shiver chased up her spine and she shook her head. Being held against her will still had the power to paralyze her with fear and panic, and she must keep a clear head. She drew in a breath and forced her trembling limbs to relax by imagining the medieval beauty of the boarded-over stained glass windows. Reds, yellows, blues. Simple. Calming. She set down the chalice and dressed as quickly as she could. She wouldn’t be able to run with a turned ankle, but if she did need to escape, at least she’d be ready.
What had once seemed an improbable boon—a timely rescue by a kindhearted religious community—now felt much less auspicious. Violet would eat her boots if that gnarled old woman was a nun.
Which meant what? Who lived in a ramshackle medieval abbey in the middle of nowhere if not virginal nuns and godly monks? Violet swallowed hard. Had she been rescued ... or abducted?
By the time a second knock struck the prayer room door, she had worked herself into a shivering ball of nerves. She took a deep breath, forcing her muscles to relax and her frenzied thoughts to slow, then swung open the door.
A different servant stood in the darkness, this one even less monk-like than the old woman was nun-like. The flickering of his candle sent distorted shadows dancing across his face. A well-muscled build bespoke hours of daily exercise and the scars slashing one cheek indicated he had survived a knife fight. All in all, not the most calming visage to emerge from the shadows.
“Come. The master wishes to speak with you.”
She shrunk back. “Wh-who?”
Surprise fluttered across his face before the servant’s blank expression returned to mask it. “Master Waldegrave, miss. You’re in Waldegrave Abbey.”
Well. That answered one question, at least. And spawned a dozen more.
The manservant retrieved the brass key from the prayer room door and beckoned her to follow him into the shadows.
She sent one last glance over her shoulder into the gilded prayer room, with its boarded-over stained glass and wooden tub of bathwater next to the altar, then followed the servant into the gloom.
He slowed to match her pace. “Are you injured?”
“A turned ankle,” she murmured, hating to confess any weakness. She preferred to appear strong. She preferred to be strong. One never knew when one might need to run. Resting had helped, but it would take at least another day before her ankle could fully withstand her weight.
The manservant offered his arm without further comment. After twisting down a murky passageway, he paused to unlock a dark-paneled door before gesturing for her to enter.
Panic crept over her once again as he pocketed the key rather than offer it to her. “No. You’re not locking me in any chambers.”
Once again, the heavily muscled servant seemed surprised at her refusal. “There are those who would say it’s for your own safety.”
Doubt and more than a touch of fear sent gooseflesh rippling beneath her threadbare gown. If this huge, strong man feared for his safety ... She glanced at the scars crisscrossing one side of his face. Had that been done here? Had whatever caused his disfigurement also caused the deaths of the women in those graves? What kind of godforsaken place was Waldegrave Abbey?
She slowly turned around, taking in the unsettling dimness of her surroundings and admitting the even grimmer reality of her situation. She had nowhere else to go. In her weakened condition, even the five minute walk through the tall, windowless corridors had made her dizzy from exertion and half-nauseous with repressed hunger and pain from her swollen ankle.
As if her physical deterioration weren’t bad enough, she needed coin to flee to London, and a king’s ransom to pay for a barrister capable of saving her neck when the lawmen inevitably caught her. Exhaustion, hunger, and poverty aside, she needed to hide until the search for Percy Livingstone’s murderer began to wane. Anywhere she could.
With a slow, measured breath that did absolutely nothing to calm her nerves, she rolled back her shoulders and stepped into the chamber. T
he servant followed in her shadow, closing the door behind them with such speed that she wondered if there were monsters creeping closer on the other side.
They had entered what appeared to be another prayer room. Once upon a time, this room also must have boasted floor-to-ceiling stained glass. Now, the artistry had been defiled with layers of thick planks nailed across every single inch. A lit candelabrum stood atop a fat altar, scattering light and shadow in equal measure about the darkly glittering room.
A man sat in the front pew, his back to the locked door, his head bent in what Violet assumed to be prayer. Perhaps this Waldegrave was a holy man after all—an unconventional holy man, to be sure—and his servants merely indulged their master’s efforts to keep out the devil.
He rose slowly. His clothing, like hers, was years out of fashion and hung a bit loosely on his frame, as if the superfine material had been tailored during a time when food had been less scarce. But there the similarities ended. Where her shabby gown was of the best quality three months’ teaching wages could afford, this man’s ill-fitting attire had been the first stare of fashion ... ten years ago. Although the seams were off in places, the height and length were perfect, leading her to suspect that when he’d first been fitted for his wardrobe, Mr. Waldegrave’s musculature had rivaled that of his burly manservant.
When he finally turned his face in her direction, however, her first impression was: white.
Mr. Waldegrave wasn’t merely pale; he was translucent. The depth of which was made even more striking by the inky blackness of his hair and brows and eyes. Had the man never been out-of-doors in his life? Toffs had long believed that the flush of the summer sun was a faux pas only a peasant like her would court, but Mr. Waldegrave’s pallor appeared more deathly than lordly.
Even so, the fine bone structure chiseled beneath his improbably handsome face and the regal aura of his bearing beneath his once-fine vestments spoke to the blue blood undoubtedly coursing beneath his pale flesh. Whether he’d ever seen the sun or not, this was a man well used to getting what he wanted. Those powerful eyes alone held her in something not unlike thrall. When she wrenched her gaze from the spellbinding weight of his, her trembling knees finally buckled beneath her.
The manservant caught her by the shoulders. “She suffers a turned ankle, master.”
Mr. Waldegrave stepped closer. “Ring for bindings. Mrs. Tumsen can assist.”
With a nod, the manservant led her to the closest pew.
She gathered the strength to perch on the outer arm rather than allow herself to be seated in its ranks. She wasn’t frightened, she told herself for perhaps the hundredth time since the lock had automatically clicked home behind her. She was merely weak from lack of nourishment.
But she had learned long ago to trust no man.
Mr. Waldegrave stopped within arm’s reach, but did not offer his hand. He regarded her in silence, as if her appearance was equally as arresting as his own. When at last he spoke, his deep voice was shockingly seductive. “Welcome. I am Alistair Waldegrave. May I ask from whence you come?”
No, the frantic voice deep inside her cried out, you cannot. She stared up at him.
His gaze burned into hers. “What is your name?”
“Violet ...” she blurted out, the word torn unbidden from her tongue. “Smythe,” she added lamely, certain he would see through the paltry deception. What had happened to the practiced dissimulation that had saved her from more horrors than she cared to count?
His raised brow provided proof of his disbelief, but he did not waste his breath demanding honesty. “I see,” he said in that incredible voice, smooth and dark. “Miss Violet Smythe, if that is your real name, pray tell me to what I owe the pleasure of your company this eve?”
She gripped the edge of the pew. Had she appeared so dishonest, he hadn’t even believed her when she’d been fool enough to admit to her first name? Add that to the likelihood that this man never ventured far enough from his shadowed chambers to hear the barest whisper of news from a town as far away as upper Lancashire, and she might actually be safe ... If she could convince him to grant her asylum for a spell before tossing her back into the wild.
And assuming Waldegrave Abbey was safer inside than out.
“I’m looking for work,” she admitted. The best lies were based on truth, and she would get nowhere with empty pockets. Like it or not, temporarily trusting her fate to this man was a risk she would have to take if she wished to avoid the gaol. That the mistrust was mutual spoke to his intelligence. “Have you a garden that needs tending or stockings that need darning?”
If anything, the skepticism lining his coldly beautiful face deepened. “Am I to believe you a misplaced gardener, then? A wandering seamstress in search of torn hems?”
She jerked her hands from the hard pew and laced her fingers in her lap to hide their trembling. “I don’t suppose my curriculum vitae would carry much weight in an abbey. I’m ... a governess by trade.”
The manservant at her side started violently, as if she’d brandished a blade and lunged at the unscarred side of his face.
Mr. Waldegrave’s chiseled cheekbones paled further—if that were possible—as he cast his manservant a quelling glare. “A governess?”
“Of a sort. I specialize in art of all mediums.” Not that she imagined him to be an enthusiast. She couldn’t prevent an involuntary glance at the boarded-over stained glass and wondered what devilry would incite a man to cover up medieval beauty in order to live in darkness.
Mr. Waldegrave’s black eyes glittered. He clearly didn’t trust her, but hopefully the bit about teaching art held enough ring of truth to convince him of her harmlessness. At least long enough to get a scrap of meat in her belly and few more hours of sleep upon a wooden pew. With the lock securely engaged.
“I will pay you two pounds per week—”
She started. “You’ll what?”
“—for tutoring my daughter until she recovers from her ... illness.”
The manservant at his side tried to mask his shock, but he looked equally as blindsided by the proposal as Violet felt. This was madness. Why would Mr. Waldegrave offer such riches without requesting names and references or at least testing her basic literacy?
Her stomach soured with suspicion. Was there a daughter?
Perhaps she had misread the signs completely. Was the tension emanating from Mr. Waldegrave’s every muscle due to a desire to enslave her as his personal plaything rather than due to a simple mistrust of strangers? Perhaps this was the devil’s bargain the old woman had foretold. Alluding to a man’s “creature” could as easily be figurative as literal.
She dug her fingernails into her palms as she tried to puzzle the outlandish offer. Was there more to it? As unusual as his pallor might be, he was still strikingly handsome enough to win the attention of any number of willing females. Unfortunately, she well knew that to some men, desire could only be provoked by unwillingness. Or helplessness. Perhaps the sanctuary had already turned into a trap.
“If two pounds per week is insufficient for your needs, you may begin the negotiations. Or if you prefer, I’ll return you to wherever it is you call home.”
She pulled herself together long enough to shake her head violently at this last suggestion. The bitter truth remained that she had nowhere to go. If there were coin involved—particularly that much coin—she would be ten times a fool not to take it. No matter what she must sacrifice. After she’d saved enough money to save her own neck, she could worry about her soul. But before she agreed to any sordid schemes, she wished to at least know the truth.
“Do you have a daughter?”
Even the chill of Mr. Waldegrave’s harsh features could not hide the surge of warmth—and anguish—from his eyes. “I do.”
So there was a daughter. A “creature” she had been warned to flee, lest she risk her very life.
“Is she ... contagious?”
Hesitation flickered in his dark eyes, followed quickly
by a glint of curiosity. “Do you consider yourself to be strong of character?”
Violet did not miss the evasion. Fighting a sudden urge to run, she somehow kept a neutral expression fixed firmly on her face. “I do, indeed.”
At that moment, the old woman arrived with strips of cloth. To Violet’s surprise, both men averted their gazes while her ankle was being bandaged. As soon as the servant woman took her leave, however, Violet was once again the object of Mr. Waldegrave’s scrutiny.
He studied her so intently that she shifted uncomfortably against the hardwood pew.
“Come,” he said, shocking her speechless when he offered his elbow as smartly as if he were a London lordling accompanying his ladylove to dinner. “It is late. And just moments ago, I was informed that my daughter is still very much awake. As I shall have to put Lillian abed anew, you may as well meet her and decide your future for yourself.”
Lillian. The name on the grave. Violet’s heart pounded double-time.
There was no daughter. He had lied.
And yet, her best hope for food and shelter was to play along. To bide her time until escape was possible. Even as she slipped unsteady fingers between the heat of his body and the taut muscle beneath his shirtsleeve, she couldn’t help but suspect this new risk was far more dangerous than any she’d managed to live through yet.
CHAPTER THREE
Violet allowed Mr. Waldegrave to help her rise from the edge of the pew. His manservant hovered just behind, holding aloft a freshly lit taper. Her limbs trembled as much from anxiety as hunger-induced frailty.
In the corridor, Mr. Waldegrave kept her fingers tucked against the crook of his elbow. Although she didn’t trust him as far as she could throw him—and in her current condition, she doubted she could throw so much as a breadcrumb—it was disconcerting to realize that this was the first time a gentleman had ever held out his arm for her. She despised her weakness at even noticing the solid warmth of his bicep beneath her fingertips. It was no doubt the novelty, and not the man himself, she found so intriguing. She hoped he realized any reliance on his aid was due to her swollen ankle, and not to any girlish fancy.
