Lysander's Lady

by Patricia Ormsby

  In less time than she would have thought possible she was approaching the untidy cluster of buildings from whence she had seen Wayleigh emerge. They appeared to be deserted so, securing the mare to a post, she walked cautiously towards the decrepit-looking cottage that stood amid the sheds and barns.

  The heavy door stood ajar and, after a tentative knock which produced no response, she thrust it wide and stepped into an ill-lit room. On a table were heaped some provisions, as if the owners were about to take a journey. She moved forward to inspect them, and the next moment, a thick cloth was thrown over her head and a hand clamped over it across her mouth. A pair of powerful arms then half-lifted, half walked her to the low bed in the corner of the room upon which she was flung, face downward.

  ‘Some rope, quickly!’ The command was uttered in a sibilant whisper and speedily obeyed. Kate’s arms were wrenched behind her back so cruelly as to make her wince and firmly bound. Then she was picked up and carried across a man’s shoulder out of the cottage.

  ‘But that is Barbara Weston’s mare! How could—this lady come by it?’

  Her uncomfortable situation notwithstanding, Miss Honeywell felt a surge of satisfaction at hearing the clearly enunciated words. She had a remarkable memory for voices, and despite having heard it only once before, she was in no doubt that this voice belonged to Lord Francis Trennick, which seemed to postulate that he was there in order to cover up for his brother.

  After that, however, her cogitations became less coherent.

  She was deposited ungently upon the floor of some sort of farm vehicle which, after a muttered exchange between her captors, set off at an uneasy speed. The jolting about in the unsprung cart over rough ground took upwards of an hour and left her bruised and breathless. She was then carried into another building and up several flights, of stairs where she was once more tossed down upon a bed. The cloth was removed from about her head and she was left alone for a time.

  Then the door opened again and the man who entered set a tray of food upon a table, after which he pulled her to a sitting position and cut the cords binding her wrists. She had little time to chafe her aching hands, however, for he at once secured them together again in front of her. All this was undertaken in complete silence, his head and shoulders being masked by a rough hood of sacking, with slits for the eyes.

  To her infinite relief he then went away, the key grating in the lock behind him, and she heard his footsteps echo down the stone stairs. When the last sound had died away, she got to her feet and began to take stock of her surroundings. The room was a long, low one and, by the slope of the ceiling, was set hard under the roof. The single small window was encrusted with the grime of ages and overshadowed by a heavy creeper, but she was able to glimpse what appeared to be a moat lying far below.

  After a struggle with the rusted hinges, she managed to open the window and get a little fresh air into the stuffy room. There were a few iron bars set in the sill outside, but she realised that they served no practical purpose, since the sheer drop to the ground in itself provided an adequate deterrent against escape.

  Miss Honeywell, being of a naturally sanguine disposition, was not one to despair readily, but the more she thought about her predicament the less she cared for it. No one knew where she was, and even did Lord Fontevin guess her intention, he would not be likely to trace her to this remote spot. The urgent demands of a healthy appetite turned her attention to the tray, covered with a clean white napkin. To her amazement, it held an elegant repast of cold chicken, with crisp salad and fresh bread, supported by creamy yellow butter, a bowl of fruit and an earthenware jug containing a pleasantly cool white wine. Clearly it was not intended that she should starve, and she applied herself with enthusiasm to the food, after which she rolled up in her cloak and lay down on the bed. Then, because she was really very tired, she gave up trying to think out a solution to her immediate problem and fell asleep.

  When she awoke some hours later, the room was bright with sharp spears of moonlight filtering through the leaves of the creeper. One of these was shining full upon her face, and at first she presumed it was that which had awakened her. After a moment she became aware of another circumstance which gave her small comfort. A man’s shadowy figure was standing by the end of the bed: then he moved his hand and she saw the glint of steel. With a cry of alarm she tried to sit up, only to drop back upon her pillows at the sound of Wayleigh’s amused drawl.

  ‘Don’t put yourself in a taking, Miss Honeywell. I am not about to cut your throat, but only the bonds about your wrists.’

  ‘Th-thank you,’ she managed to get out, and watched him while he completed his task, her nimble mind trying to assess the implications of this nocturnal visit.

  ‘Good.’ He put away his knife and straightened up. ‘I cannot have it said that I maltreat my prisoners. I must apologise for my henchmen’s excess of zeal.’ Miss Honeywell wondered if it was a trick of the moonlight or if she had forgotten his considerable height, for he seemed to tower menacingly over her.

  ‘What a foolish young woman you are, to be sure,’ he reproved her in a downright avuncular way. ‘When I informed Derwent that I had you in my custody, I collected from his mode of expression that he held to much the same opinion.’

  ‘Well, if that isn’t the outside of enough!’ she protested. ‘Whatever I have undertaken has been on his behalf!’

  ‘Ungrateful creatures, we men, are we not?’ He put out an arm to draw her towards him and, from the heavy aroma of brandy that clung about his person, she was brought to realise that his lordship had been celebrating his victory. ‘ ’Pon honour, you’re a pretty thing!’ he mused, cupping her chin in his hand and tilting her face to the light the better to inspect it. ‘Had I not a prior assignation I’d give myself the pleasure of bearing you company for a while longer.’

  Miss Honeywell felt that to be speaking of his lordship’s honour was hardly appropriate in the circumstances, but wisely refrained from saying so.

  ‘Still, perhaps that is but a delight deferred,’ he went on in the same mocking vein. ‘If Derwent does not stump up the dibs, I am afraid, my dear, you must prepare yourself for what I believe is spoken of as a Fate Worse than Death.’ Miss Honeywell told herself that he was only trying to frighten her, and she must not let him see that he was succeeding admirably in his intention.

  ‘Are you holding me to ransom?’ she enquired brightly. ‘But I am at a loss to know why you should expect Mr. Derwent to pay for my release.’

  ‘Since my grandfather chose to throw everything out of joint and accuse me of dishonest dealing, your Mr. Derwent has refused to pay his wager until he is satisfied that the race was fairly won.’

  ‘He is not my Mr. Derwent,’ Kate objected, wondering what she had done to give rise to this general misapprehension.

  ‘No?’ He raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘He gives every appearance of being so—even to expressing a wish to beat you for your ill-advised interference! Very lover-like, I assure you!’

  ‘I don’t wonder at it, if I am to be the cause of his being cheated out of twenty thousand pounds!’ she retorted. ‘What threat did you hold over him to force his hand?’

  ‘Cannot you guess, Miss Honeywell? Derwent, no more than any, does not care for other men’s leavings.’ She could not repress a shudder and he laughed softly. ‘I vow, were I not so deep in the suds, I’d be tempted to forgo the twenty thousand! Maybe even now there is a way around it.’

  ‘You mean you would try to trick Mr. Derwent once again? What a monster of deceit you are, Wayleigh!’ she snorted, marvelling at her own temerity.

  ‘ ’Twould be difficult, I allow, for he declares he will not hand over the money until he has seen you and heard from your own lips that you are—unmolested. What had you hoped to gain by returning to the—er—scene of the crime?’ Proof that it had been committed,’ she returned coolly, detaching herself from his grasp and seating herself upon the bed. ‘You drove your first team so cruelly they must
have been beat to a standstill. You, or Lord Francis, could not have moved them far in the time. With my word to support that of the groom, Lord Fontevin would have a stronger case.’

  ‘Ah, yes, Lord Fontevin,’ he reflected. ‘A very odd thing, to be sure, for him to be dealing in such a way with his grandson. There’s no understanding it at all. Unfortunate about Bredon, is it not?’

  The sudden change of subject disconcerted Miss Honeywell, who was discreetly feeling in the folds of her mantle for the little pistol concealed in the pocket, but she was quick to respond.

  ‘You betrayed him, I have no doubt?’

  ‘Strangely, no, though I had cause enough. My sister’s good name and all that.’ She wrinkled her forehead in disgust and he chuckled. ‘Astonishing, ain’t it, how the most profligate of brothers will discover a conscience where his sister’s conduct is concerned? In fact it was the necklace that betrayed him. He was foolish enough to try to sell it before he left England.’

  ‘The necklace?’ she repeated, astonished. ‘But how did anyone know—’

  He shook an admonishing finger at her. ‘Your friend Mr. Jacobson’s enquiries had come to the ears of the Runners. These gentlemen questioned him—they also questioned me, as a known friend of Bredon’s.’

  ‘And you told them he was in the country?’

  He spread his hands wide in a deprecating gesture. ‘No more than that, and they would have found it out for themselves in any event. Your dear cousin is none too particular in covering up his tracks.’

  ‘And now he is on trial for his life for a murder he never committed.’ Miss Honeywell had found what she sought, and the comforting feel of the pistol butt in her hand gave her courage.

  ‘Justice must run its course,’ proclaimed his lordship sententiously. ‘And you cannot imagine that I am too eager for his trial, since it was I who aided his escape.’

  ‘Better be tried as the friend of a murderer than for the murder itself.’ She spoke almost without thinking, but the marked silence with which her words were received alerted her to their possible implication. ‘Why, of course, that must be it! If Bredon did not kill the man, then you had no choice but to do so! How else were you to obtain those deeds and use them to persuade Elizabeth Draycott to marry you?’

  ‘How did you know of that?’ he ground out between clenched teeth.

  ‘She told me. No, stay your distance, my lord!’ She got up and backed against the wall, holding the pistol trained steadily upon him.

  ‘Do you take me for a fool?’ he jeered. ‘Pull the trigger if it amuses you, it’ll do no harm!’ Miss Honeywell, who saw no reason to believe anything his lordship might say, did as she was bid and was rewarded by an empty click. ‘The lady whose horse you borrowed and who awaits me belowstairs, was much concerned to find her pistol gone.’

  From this, Miss Honeywell understood that he must have removed the charge while she slept and a wave of despondency swept over her.

  ‘You are quite free to move about as you will,’ went on the hateful voice. ‘This house is something of a small fortress in its way, but if you wish to prove that for yourself, pray do so.’ He tossed the key on to the bed. ‘Goodnight, ma’am, sweet dreams.’

  Long after he had left her she sat, a little bewildered at the turn of events, debating what to do for the best. Then she went to the door which stood open to listen for any sound from below. Once or twice she thought she heard distant movement, but that soon ceased and she was encouraged to steal down the stairs.

  Lights showed under one or two of the doors she passed, but no one came to challenge her passage and, at length, she arrived in the great hall and set about seeking a way out of the house.

  This she at once found to be difficult of attainment. The outer doors were firmly locked and barred, while the windows of every room she entered either gave on to the moat or, on the other side, looked upon an inner courtyard.

  ‘Do try for a little sense,’ she advised herself. ‘Wayleigh is not likely to let you run tame about the place if there is any possibility of escape.’

  As she stood irresolute, reluctant to admit defeat and ‘ climb all the way back to her attic, the door to the kitchen quarters opened and a man clad in a cook’s apron crossed the hall and disappeared down a passage which led to the back stairs. She placed herself behind a suit of armour and waited lest his departure should release a horde of kitchen-maids and lesser menials upon her. After a time, as no one appeared, she made her way cautiously through a labyrinth of stone passages to the kitchens.

  Here she found herself to be still as much a prisoner in the strange old house as ever, and was about to give up her quest when she noticed a lantern lit and hung on a hook by a massive door. This opened on to a flight of steps leading downwards, and she was about to close it again when a cool current of air encouraged her to hope that there might be a way out across, or even under, the moat from the cellars.

  Detaching the lantern, she carried it down into a dank cavern, the walls of which were streaming with water. A sudden scuttle near at hand made her almost drop the lantern and, feeling that she was not improving her plight by sharing it with rats, she was about to return to safer levels when, once again, a covering was thrown over her head and a hand clamped to her mouth. She could have fainted from sheer relief when Mr. Derwent’s measured tones sounded in her ear.

  ‘Don’t make a sound or I’ll wring your neck!’

  This affectionate utterance so entranced Miss Honeywell that she emitted a small gurgle of laughter. His grasp relaxed, and a moment later, as the odour of her perfume penetrated the damp shirt he had used to muffle her, he released her with a low-voiced imprecation. She shook off his shirt and handed it back to him.

  ‘Why is it so wet? And you—Mr. Derwent!’

  ‘Because I had to swim the moat, there is no other way!’ he snapped irascibly, standing revealed in dripping pantaloons which clung caressingly to his shapely person. ‘Come with me!’

  He snatched up the lantern and almost dragged her to a corner of the cellar from which ascended a short ladder. This led to a small, musty, but dry room where he set down the lantern and pulled on his shirt.

  ‘And now, will you be pleased to tell me just what you have been about?’

  Miss Honeywell obliged him in a very few sentences, wishing the while she could run her fingers through his ruffled hair and kiss away the frown from between his brows. ‘Lord Wayleigh threatened me with a Fate Worse than Death,’ she ended portentously.

  He emitted a sigh of mingled exasperation and relief. ‘But he didn’t lay a finger on you?’

  Miss Honeywell was persuaded that this expression should be interpreted in a very general way. ‘Quite the contrary,’ she assured him. ‘I am, as you see, free to wander where I will—inside this building, of course.’

  ‘Miss Honeywell,’ he said in a voice shaking with feeling, ‘you are quite the most bantam-brained ninnyhammer it has ever been my misfortune to encounter! Had it not been for your placing yourself in Wayleigh’s power, I could have outfaced him and demanded a full enquiry into the conduct of the race. As it is—’

  ‘I have cost you twenty thousand pounds,’ she said sadly.

  ‘Not yet, but you well might. And a soaking,’ he added bitterly, ‘which, I might remind you, ma’am, you will have to endure also if you are to win free of this house!’

  He then proceeded to deliver an outstandingly pungent commentary upon her disastrous upbringing, her lack of sense, her want of conduct, and any other derogatory traits in her character which occurred to him. The fact that he had discovered her to be quite unhurt and apparently unrepentant had merely added fuel to his fury.

  Miss Honeywell, appreciating this circumstance, listened to the tirade with meekly downbent head. ‘How did you discover where I was?’ she asked when his eloquence was spent. She fancied her question threw him off balance, but he made instant reply.

  ‘The lady whose horse you appropriated made no secret of her loss. I
should think the half of Newmarket must have learned of your intention.’

  ‘But—did she tell you of this house?’

  ‘Yes, it is an old residence of the Trennick family, not used much nowadays. Wayleigh, it would appear, keeps it open for his own purposes. Now, if you please, we must not linger. Someone may be tempted to follow upon your movements. You will have to take off your skirts; the moat is full of weeds and they will hamper you. I take it you can swim?’ Miss Honeywell allowed that she could and, without hesitation, stepped out of her gown and petticoat. ‘Your shoes, too.’

  Tactfully, he averted his eyes from the sight of her standing there in long cambric drawers and cotton bodice. Folding her clothes into a tight roll, he secured it across his shoulders with one of her stockings.

  ‘Harvey is waiting on the other side of the moat with the horses,’ he explained, leading the way back into the cellar. ‘Be careful how you tread here. Give me your hand.’

  Kate, her bare feet slipping on the slimy stone of the cellar floor, shivered miserably and brooded with longing on the memory of her warm cloak, left behind in the attic. They halted at the edge of what looked to be a deep pool, and she gazed in bewilderment at the apparently unbroken walls rising up on every side.

  ‘This is fed by the moat. The entrance is there, just visible above the water.’ Mr. Derwent extinguished the lantern and she could perceive a thin pale line showing against the blackness of the stone. ‘You have to dive under until you are through the walls and out in the open moat. Don’t come up too soon or you will strike your head. Now, if you are ready, follow me, and dive when I do.’

  Reflecting that there must be more pleasant ways of spending a fine April night than swimming in a stagnant moat, she followed him without question, half-choking as the icy waters closed over her shrinking body and trying not to think of the warm lakes and bays of the Cape.