Rapture Becomes Her

by Shirlee Busbee

  “So now we know,” Barnaby said as he stepped into the wine cellar, “how Peckham disappeared.” He glanced back at the doorway. “By Jove, but I’d like to do more exploring—actually follow the tunnel to the other end.”

  “You need your wife for that,” Lamb said dryly. “She said that there are other tunnels but only one leads to the old barn—the last thing we need is to get lost and suffer the humiliation of being rescued by your wife.”

  Barnaby winced but continued to look longingly at the beckoning doorway. Almost to himself, he said, “I’ll wager the tunnel Peckham is using is well marked and that we could follow it with no trouble.”

  “No doubt, but do you want to face the wrath of your Amazon,” Lamb asked, the azure eyes smiling, “should you do so without her?”

  “Excellent point,” Barnaby said absently, staring mesmerized by the darkness beyond the range of their torches. “But since she’s going to be mad as fire,” he murmured, “with our antics today as it is”—he glanced back at Lamb and grinned—“I’ve a mind to go exploring. Are you with me?”

  “I’m sure as the devil not going to let you go disappearing down here by yourself,” Lamb said, an answering grin curving his mouth.

  Both men were aware of the reasons why exploring the tunnel would be unwise, but the lure proved irresistible. Like two schoolboys in search of adventure, after closing the secret door, their torches lighting the way, they set off.

  The tunnel was not large. In several places, their heads brushed the ceiling. The tunnel was narrow, hardly wider than their shoulders, and thinking of the endless buckets of dirt and rock dug out by pickax and shovel and hauled to the surface, Barnaby wasn’t surprised. The tunnel in which they walked would have taken months, perhaps years to construct. Some oak beams for support had been added, but stopping to examine some of them, it was apparent they were very old—older than the last century when legend had it that his ancestor had constructed the tunnel to hide his smuggling practices. No, the tunnel had been dug out long before that and Barnaby suspected his ancestor had only reopened an existing tunnel.

  Lamb echoed his thoughts. “You’ll never convince me that someone spent the time, money and manpower to build something like this for the purpose of hiding and moving smuggled goods. I’ll wager it was constructed when Windmere was a fortified castle and was built to move troops around out of sight of the enemy.”

  Barnaby agreed. “That makes far more sense than the smuggling legend—but like most legends it appears that only part of it is true.”

  As they explored, they passed two openings leading off from the main tunnel, but a quick glance with their torches revealed that while these other tunnels might have been passable once, they had caved in and were no longer usable.

  The tunnel traveled fairly straight, only curving when the makers had hit solid rock and had been forced to change direction around it. The two men pressed onward, noting periodically torches hanging on the walls. Examining one of them, Barnaby smiled grimly. “This is no ancient torch—and it’s been used recently.”

  “Probably during Peckham’s last trip down here,” Lamb replied.

  The first signs of the smugglers’ activities came into view when they spied several ropes of tobacco piled along the edge of the tunnel near their feet.

  “How much farther to the end do you think?” Barnaby asked, staring at the tobacco.

  “Not far,” Lamb said. “Your wife indicated yesterday that as the crow flies, the barn is less than an eighth of a mile from the house. Unless I miss my guess, we’ve come nearly that far already.”

  Edging past more stacks of contraband, they rounded a bend and stepped into the cavern Lamb had seen with Emily yesterday.

  Astonished by the size of the area and the rows, stacks and piles of smuggled goods before him, Barnaby whistled. “What do you want to wager that it was the creation of this cavern that gave rise to the legend that our ancestors built the tunnels in the first place?”

  “You’re most likely right.”

  Aware that smuggling activities commonly took place under the cover of darkness, Barnaby hadn’t been worried about stumbling across any smugglers this afternoon, yet as he stood at the edge of that large cavern, a feeling of unease swept through him. His head lifted and like an animal scenting danger, his gaze raked the area in front of him. The wavering light of his torch caused shadows to slide and jump over the stacks and barrels of contraband, but he saw nothing to alarm him.

  Still, as he stepped out of the tunnel and into the cavern, he whispered to Lamb, “Keep your wits about you.”

  Lamb muttered, “I’m not likely to let them stray down here.”

  The two men edged cautiously toward the center of the cavern, stopping when they came to a cleared space that contained a chair and a wooden table; several pieces of paper scattered across the scarred surface. As if hastily thrown down, a quill lay amongst the papers, a pewter ink holder and a small lantern sat off to one side of the table. In the light of his torch, Barnaby saw the wet gleam of ink on the quill and the hair on the back of his neck rose. Someone had been down here using the quill not long ago. . . .

  Cursing himself for blundering, he took a quick step away from the table. His eyes met Lamb’s and he hissed, “Douse your lantern! Someone is here.”

  But it was too late. Even as he reached to kill his torch, a half-dozen figures appeared from behind the stacks of contraband and surrounded them.

  “We’ll take the torches,” said Tom Joslyn, as he stepped forward, the pistol in his hand pointed at Barnaby’s heart.

  Within minutes Barnaby and Lamb were stripped of their torches and securely tied up. Arms fastened behind their backs, their ankles roped together, they sat on the ground, shoulder-to-shoulder, their backs against a stack of barrels of brandy. Full of rage at his own stupidity, Barnaby stared at Tom’s smug features, his agile brain considering and discarding a dozen different means of escape.

  Barnaby knew that Lamb would be doing the same thing. And if he had to fight for his life, then he couldn’t ask for a better companion at his side than Lamb. He glanced around, recognizing Peckham standing beside the table and realizing after a closer look that the other men were some of the brutes he’d seen at The Ram’s Head.

  The situation wasn’t as desperate as it appeared. He had Lamb at his side . . . and though their pockets and the inside of their coats had been searched for weapons, the knife inside his boot had not been discovered, nor the equally dangerous blade Barnaby knew Lamb carried. The smugglers should have known better, but they’d been looking for pistols, not concealed knives. . . .

  The lantern on the table was relit and Tom Joslyn seated himself on a corner of the table, a satisfied smile on his lips. Looking at Barnaby and Lamb trussed up like a pair of Christmas peacocks before him, Tom said, “To think that after all my scheming you simply wander into my hands like, ah”—he grinned—“lambs to slaughter.”

  “That remains to be seen,” Barnaby said in a bored tone. “You’ve not managed to kill me yet.”

  Tom’s face darkened. “That may be, but I’m afraid this time your luck has run out.” He leaned forward. “Matt should have been Viscount Joslyn,” he snapped. “All his life he was groomed for the title—it was his and you stole it from him!” Hatred glittered in the azure eyes. “Bah! Every time I look at you I am reminded of a pig dressed up in silk.” His voice shook with emotion and he spat, “Every time I’ve had to bow and call you ‘my lord’ the words burned like acid in my mouth and I dreamed of the day you’d die and Matt would take his rightful place.”

  His gaze watchful, Barnaby said, “Ah, so your desire for my death has nothing to do with keeping your connection with Nolles and his gang a secret?”

  “I’ll admit your death will be killing two birds with one stone,” Tom answered. “Matt inherits the title and Windmere and I no longer have to worry that you’ll poke your nose where it doesn’t belong.” A smile tugged at his lips. “Your death wil
l be my noble deed for my brother—giving him all that was meant to be his from birth.”

  “Don’t delude yourself,” Barnaby growled. “You’re not killing me for Mathew, you’re killing me to hide your lucrative arrangement with Nolles.”

  Tom smirked. “Well, there is that. Even if Matt were to discover the source of my fortune, he’d not betray me.” For a moment, something vicious flashed in Tom’s eyes, “Now Simon . . . Simon would turn me over to the revenue service in the blink of an eye.” Looking thoughtful, he rubbed his chin. “I fear that my younger brother may suffer a fatal accident a few months from now.” He smiled at Barnaby. “Of course, should that cow of yours be with child, I’ll have to take care of her first. Such a tragedy it will be. First you and then your wife and her unborn child. . . .”

  Barnaby surged forward, murder blazing in his eyes. Tom laughed and, standing up, kicked him in the head. Barnaby saw stars and sliding sideways, fought against the blackness that threatened to overtake him.

  From beside him, he heard Lamb ask calmly, “Tell me, did you enjoy torturing kittens as a child? Or was it puppies? Certainly it had to be something defenseless, because you’re too much of a coward to offer a fair fight. I wonder if his hands were untied if you’d dare touch him.”

  “Shut your filthy mouth!” Tom snarled, striking Lamb in the face with his fist. Turning to Barnaby, he prodded him with his foot. “Who knows you’re down here?”

  Fighting off the dizziness, Barnaby struggled into a sitting position. “You expect me to tell you? And if I don’t, what will you do?” He grinned. “Kill me?”

  Annoyed, Tom said, “It doesn’t matter. By the time your disappearance is discovered, it’ll be too late for you.” A cold smile curving his lips, he said, “This time when you end up in the Channel there’ll be no escape.”

  It was late afternoon when Emily and Cornelia returned home. Greeted by a smiling Tilden in the black-and-white tiled foyer as she handed him her gloves, Emily asked, “My lord? Is he about?”

  Tilden hesitated. “I saw him earlier this afternoon with Lamb, but I’ve not seen him since.”

  Emily smiled at him. “He’s probably in his study—or at the Dower House visiting his brother. Will you find him and tell him that we are home and that once my aunt and I have freshened up that we will be in the blue-and-silver salon and would like him to join us?”

  Several minutes later, when Emily and Cornelia entered the salon, Emily was surprised to find the room empty. “I suppose he is at the Dower House and hasn’t returned yet,” Emily said, wandering around the room. She and Cornelia were very pleased with their afternoon’s work at the vicarage and she’d been looking forward to relaying to Barnaby the difference his very generous donation had made to the poor in the area.

  She and Cornelia spent a pleasant half hour discussing their accomplishments and future plans, but as time passed and there was no sign of Barnaby, Emily began to fidget. Where was he? She wasn’t worried yet, but unease fluttered in her chest. Telling herself he was probably delayed by business, she chatted away with Cornelia, but her ears were pricked for the sound of his arrival.

  Aware that Emily was only half listening to her, Cornelia said bluntly, “Ring for Tilden and ask him to find out what is delaying your husband. And stop fretting—nothing’s happened to him.”

  Looking somewhat harassed, Tilden appeared in answer to her pull of the velvet bell rope in the corner. When Emily asked after Barnaby, Tilden muttered, “Uh, we cannot find him.”

  The unease in her chest bloomed into near panic. “What do mean, you cannot find him?” she asked in a surprisingly calm tone. He’s fine, she told herself. I am fearful for no reason. He’s here in the house . . . somewhere.

  Tugging at his cravat, Tilden said, “When I did not find him in his study or the library or any of the rooms where he would usually be, I sent one of the footmen to inquire if he was at the Dower House.” He shook his head. “He was not there.” Almost ringing his hands, Tilden cried, “We have searched everywhere, but there is no sign of him . . . or Lamb.”

  Lamb! If Lamb was with him . . . Her fear eased back and her eyes narrowed. “You said you saw him and Lamb earlier—where?”

  Tilden’s face cleared. “Of course. They must still be in the wine cellar.” He laughed nervously. “Milord must have decided to sample a few bottles and hasn’t realized the time.”

  “I wouldn’t bet on it,” Emily said under her breath as she rushed from the room. Tilden was at her heels when she entered the wine cellar and his eyes nearly popped out of his head when she walked right over to the corner wine rack and a moment later the secret door opened. There was no sign of their passage, but she was as certain as she was standing here that Barnaby and Lamb hadn’t been able to resist the opportunity to explore the tunnel on their own. Ignoring the panic nipping at her ankles, telling herself that at any moment she’d see the flicker of light that would herald their return, she stared into the darkness, willing Barnaby and Lamb to appear. But they did not.

  Whirling around to look at Tilden, she demanded, “When did you see them? How long ago?”

  “Um, it was hours ago—early afternoon.” Pointing at the secret doorway, he asked, awed, “How long has that been there?”

  Shutting the door and returning the wine rack to its customary place, she said, “Probably since Windmere was first built.” She didn’t have time to know if she’d been wise or incredibly stupid by showing Tilden the secret door, but the damage was done. Fixing him with a look, she said, “I trust you’ll keep this to yourself?”

  “Oh, indeed, milady,” Tilden promised earnestly.

  Her thoughts churning, she hastened to the main part of the house. Stopping to look back at Tilden, she said, “Send someone to the stables and have a horse saddled for me. Tell my aunt I’ll be joining her in a few minutes.”

  Emily had no clear plan as she mounted the stairs to her rooms. If Tilden was correct, Barnaby and Lamb had been missing for hours. There had been time aplenty for them to have done their exploring and returned. . . . Charging into her rooms, she ran across through the sitting room, across her bedroom and into her dressing room.

  Throwing wide the doors of one of the wardrobes, wild conjecture tumbling through her brain, she poked around looking for the bundle of clothes she’d brought from The Birches. If they hadn’t returned, something, or someone had delayed them

  Frightened as she had never been in her life, she concentrated on the task at hand. Finding what she was looking for, she scrambled out of her gown and into the male attire she’d worn that first night she’d met Barnaby. Attire, she admitted grimly, she’d never thought to wear again. She snorted. That was a lie, else why had she brought it with her? Had she sensed she might have need of it?

  After slipping a pistol into one pocket of her coat, she slid her knife into the other. Armed, she dragged out a black cloak from another wardrobe and whipping it around her shoulders, headed downstairs for the salon where Cornelia awaited her. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, she paused, struggling to compose herself and to make sense out of the chaos spinning in her brain. Just because Barnaby and Lamb couldn’t be found didn’t mean they were in danger. There could be a reasonable explanation for their absence, she reminded herself, and that reason would have nothing to do with secret tunnels, smugglers or the fact that someone had made three different attempts on her husband’s life. Except she didn’t believe it. She was certain that Barnaby and Lamb had gone exploring and that, somehow, they’d ended up in the hands of the Nolles gang. She swallowed painfully. Barnaby could be in the hands of whoever was trying to kill him. Had, perhaps, already killed him. . . .

  Eyes silver with panic, the cloak flying out behind her, Emily burst into the salon and skidded to a stop when she saw Mathew, still wearing his greatcoat, smiling and talking with her aunt. They both looked up astonished at her impetuous entrance.

  Cornelia’s breath caught at the sight of Emily’s garb, recognizing the signi
ficance of it. Her hand at her throat, she cried, “My dear! What is it?”

  Emily hesitated. Just because Mathew was here now didn’t mean he didn’t know where Barnaby and Lamb were. Or their fate.

  Her hand slid in the pocket of her jacket and closed around the pistol. Eyes hard on Mathew, she demanded, “Why are you here?”

  Thoroughly taken aback, not only by her dress, but her manner, Mathew stared at her as if she had gone mad. “I, ah, I was, er, in the area,” Mathew stammered, clearly thrown off stride.

  “You’re lying,” Emily said. “Simon wrote you.” Mathew’s lips thinned. “What if he did? He’s worried about your husband. Someone’s tried to kill him, remember?”

  “You?” She hurled the accusation at him like a spear. His fists clenched and he took a threatening step toward her, the azure eyes blazing. “By God! If you were a man, I’d knock you down for that. For the last time. I. Do. Not. Want. Your. Husband. Dead.”

  Quietly, Cornelia said, “I believe him. I told you that you’re wrong about Simon and I’m telling you now you’d be wrong not to trust Mathew. I’ve watched both boys grow up into fine men and I trust them as much as I do Barnaby.”

  “Barnaby’s life may hang in the balance,” Emily warned with a desperate glance at her great-aunt’s face.

  “Which is why you have to trust Mathew. Whatever has happened—and something obviously has—you cannot save him by yourself,” Cornelia said softly.

  Emily bit out a curse. Feeling time spinning away every moment she hesitated, she made a decision. And God help her if it was the wrong one.

  Concisely, she told him what she and Lamb had discovered yesterday at the old barn, ending with Barnaby and Lamb’s disappearance. She didn’t have to explain herself twice. Mathew grasped the situation immediately.

  His eyes as hard and grim as hers, he said, “You think they stumbled onto something they shouldn’t have and that they’ve been captured by the smugglers—and the man who has tried to kill your husband.”