The Leading Lady (Half Moon House Series)

by Deb Marlowe

Why? Her heart cried out the question. She’d just shared the most beautifully intimate moments of her life with him—and he’d been keeping this secret the whole time. All along he’d been meaning to shut her out of something so important—

  And that must be the why of it, she realized. Because it all came back to Marstoke for him. He must believe that Letty was going to lead him to something that would be useful in the hunt for the marquess.

  He’d put his own goals ahead of hers—and ahead of Letty’s safety. He’d gone right back to his stance in London—find and capture Marstoke, no matter the harm or consequences to anyone else.

  So much had happened between them—everything had happened between them—and yet it had changed nothing for him.

  It broke her heart. Filled her with fury. Forged the fiercest determination to thwart him.

  Except that she couldn’t. Not entirely. She had changed, even if he had not. She understood now how important it was that Marstoke be stopped. But her calling was the same—she could not abandon this girl who needed help.

  She would take up Letty’s plan, find the captive girl and discover what she could. But she would be damned if she did it with Tru.

  “No,” she told Edgar. “Monsieur Chaput will not be joining us now. Let him follow later, if he wishes to.”

  While she did what she’d known she was going to have to do all along—pick up the reins of her life again and move forward.

  Alone.

  * * *

  The morning mist turned to tiny droplets on Callie’s hair and on the borrowed gown and cloak she’d taken from Letty’s room. She ignored the damp, and the cold, too. The first rays of the sun struck the haze, lighting it from within. She could just barely see Edgar’s form as he knocked at the villa’s front door. He waited patiently, and she did too, crouched behind one of the stone gateposts.

  At last he gave in and returned to his waiting mare, note still in hand. He followed directions perfectly, never looking her way or indicating that he knew she was there as he rode away.

  Callie scrambled back up the lane the way they had come. She crouched low, keeping close to the bushes. She stopped when she crossed over the lip of a rise and couldn’t be seen from the house.

  Edgar looked desolate, waiting for her. “No one answered,” he mourned. “I couldn’t deliver the note.”

  “Don’t despair yet. The note mentions a cottage here on the estate, somewhere in the woods. Do you know it?”

  ‘Yes.” He frowned. “I delivered furniture there not long ago. But I wasn’t allowed to carry it in. They had me leave it on the drive.” He sounded disapproving. “Do you think I should try to make the delivery there?”

  “The woman the note is meant for could well be there. It’s worth a try.”

  He led them back along the lane, bordered by vineyards and fields. He took a turn just before an apple orchard bright and alive with blossoms. The road meandered, eventually passing the back side of the stables.

  “No horses,” Callie remarked. “But look.” She gestured toward a small building with one half of the door standing open. “See that little gig? We could make use of that. Could Rose pull it?”

  “Easily.” He sounded slightly insulted at the question.

  “Good. Remember, there’s a chance the lady the message is meant for will need you to take her into town. She’ll likely want to head for a livery to hire transportation to take her further. Now, instead, you can suggest that you use the gig and take her where she needs to go.”

  “She would pay more, then, wouldn’t she? More than just for a delivery.”

  “She should. And you can report back on her destination, which may be valuable information.”

  He nodded. “Fine, then.”

  They continued along the narrow road until Callie glimpsed a chimney through the trees. “You go on from here. I’ll follow along and find a spot to hide and watch.”

  It was a much easier task here, with the small wood surrounding the place. The cottage was small and charming, made of timber and stone. Callie peeked between the split trunks of a tree and waited while Edgar repeated his performance.

  Except this time, someone answered the door. A stout, middle-aged woman in a plain gown. She read the note and then stuck out a finger, shaking it at Edgar while she barked orders. She quickly moved to close the door, but Edgar stopped her, speaking for a moment.

  The woman paused, her head turned back over her shoulder, as if contemplating something inside the house. She spoke sharply, then abruptly she nodded and went inside. Edgar turned away to lead Rose away.

  Callie watched him come and regarded the cottage with a thoughtful eye.

  That woman had certainly looked like someone that Letty might label a dragon. She’d spoken to someone in the house. If her job was to guard the girl that Letty had heard, then it was doubtful that she’d been speaking to her—or planned to leave her alone.

  So. Someone else was likely in there. But who?

  Her lips pressed tight, she stared at the house a few more seconds, then spun on her heel to follow Edgar and his mare as they headed back toward the stables. She stamped her displeasure into the ground with every step.

  The whole way out here, she’d thought of nothing but beating Tru at his own game. She’d fetch this girl out of harm’s way and have her sitting in her kitchen, drinking tea before Tru even hauled himself out of bed. Now, however, things were looking a little more complicated.

  Edgar was already hitching Rose to the gig when she trailed into the stable yard after him. “Edgar, could I have the heather blooms from Rose’s mane?”

  He looked up. “Why?”

  “They’ll make a good marker.”

  He thought a second, then nodded.

  When he’d gently unbraided an armful, she thanked him, and clasped his hand when he would have turned away. “Do be careful. This woman is working with the dangerous men that Monsieur Chaput spoke of. Try not to anger her.”

  “I’ll be careful.” He frowned a little. “What will you do?”

  She sighed. “I’ll be careful too.”

  She was still utterly furious with Tru, but she’d been dealing with situations like these for a long time. She knew when to be cautious.

  Bidding Edgar farewell, she headed back towards the corner where this lane met the main road through the estate. A quarter of an hour later, she stood back, examining the carefully placed and anchored pile of heather blooms with a critical eye.

  If Tru came this way, he should notice it. Whether he would catch the significance of it and stop—well, that was still to be seen.

  She left her marker and headed back to the cottage, ducking into the woods when Edgar came by with Letty’s dragon in the gig. When they had passed, she returned to the spot by the split tree—and waited.

  She knew how to be patient. Near a quarter hour she watched and listened, but there was no change in the quiet surrounding the place. She moved then, keeping to the trees and circling around to the back of the house.

  Quietly now.

  The back of the cottage was not nearly so picturesque as the front. A few chickens scratched in an untended garden bed. Empty kegs and boxes were stacked in a corner. As she drew slowly closer, she noticed the butts of cigarillos scattered near the kitchen door.

  Any activity this early would likely be centered there, around the kitchen. She studied the windows, imagining the layout. The windows on the third floor were long and deep, likely affording a pretty view of the forest. Those were probably the main bedrooms. A small balcony graced the room on the corner, furthest from the kitchens. The master bedroom, in all likelihood.

  Would the girl be ensconced there? Was she a prisoner or a guest? There was no way for Callie to know, but she surely must be in one of the bedrooms.

  She approached the windows on the ground beneath that room and peered in to see a desk and bookshelves. A study. The window slid up without noise or protest and she slipped inside.

  A wrai
th, she moved through the house, knife in hand, entering the main passage and taking the main stairway up and away from the faint noises drifting from the kitchen.

  She climbed steadily, quietly, keeping to the wall and testing each step as she went. The slam of a door below made her jump and she began to hurry. On the third floor she crossed to the largest bedroom she’d selected from outside.

  The door was not locked. She turned the knob slowly and peeked inside.

  A fire, burning low. A table set with last night’s dinner. A glass door onto the balcony behind it and across the room, a closed door to an adjoining room. A rumpled bed and a slight figure in it, fast asleep.

  Her heart sank as her brain registered what she’d seen and her gaze went back to the table. It had been set for two.

  Her heart rate ratcheted. She eased inside and followed the sound of soft, easy breathing to the bed. A spill of golden hair lay across the pillows.

  A woman, barely more than a girl. Pretty and innocent looking, she slept wrapped around a pillow pulled tight to her chest.

  Callie listened carefully for the sound of anyone else nearby, then stashed her knife in her cloak pocket. She reached for the girl. In one motion she placed one hand over her mouth and gently shook her shoulder with the other.

  The girl came alert instantly, her eyes wide. They stared at each other. Callie pursed her lips and pressed a finger to them. The girl nodded. She removed the hand over her mouth.

  The girl raised her head.

  Callie recoiled. The other side of her face was bruised and swollen. Her right eye was a horrid shade of red. She mouthed one, silent but urgent word.

  Run!

  Behind Callie came a soft click from the adjoining doorway. She straightened. A high-pitched hum sent a shiver down her spine. And then a horribly familiar voice broke the silence.

  “Well, well. What have we here?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  I knew then I could not stay. I was vulnerable. Lord M— could take me again, at any time, lock me up again and who would stop him? Not gentle Pearl.

  --from the Journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright

  True awoke with a start. Rolling over, he reached for Callie and surged upright when he found her gone.

  What time was it?

  The sky still wore that faint grey that comes before the dawn. Not too late, then. He braced his hands on the window frame and peered out towards the stables.

  All lay still and dark. If Callie was up and in the kitchens, surely Edgar should be astir in the stables?

  Dressing quickly, he hurried downstairs. His gut clenched when he found the kitchen dark and empty. With rising alarm, he raced outside.

  Gone. No sign of Edgar, his mare, or Callie. Young Tom slept peacefully in his bunk and the gelding he’d brought back from the livery last night was in its stall.

  He turned on his heel and raced back into the inn and upstairs.

  Letty’s door was locked. After a frustrating search, he found Callie’s keys and let himself in to find Letty asleep as well. Soundly. Try as he might, he could not get her completely awake.

  Drugged.

  And the others gone. Sick dread washed over him.

  Callie knew. Somehow she’d discovered Letty’s intent. She’d gone in her sister’s place. He knew it in his bones. It sounded exactly like something Callie would do.

  The question was—did she know Tru’s part in it?

  Heading back to the stables at a run, he sincerely hoped not. In the raw early light, he understood anew what a betrayal that would feel like to her.

  His own impulses didn’t hold up well to a second viewing, either. Especially stark was the one he hadn’t even yet acknowledged—his burning need to play a major part in taking Marstoke back.

  He’d tried to bury it. Worked to ignore the relentless pricking of his frustration. He’d told himself that it didn’t matter who brought the villain to justice, as long as it happened.

  But it was true, some deeply dark part of himself needed the distinction. Needed to show the world that he may once have been naive and foolish, but he’d won in the end.

  He’d placed that selfish need ahead of Callie’s—and ahead of Letty Robbins’ safety.

  Damnation! He had no time for guilt and self-flagellation. He had to get out to that villa. Hurriedly saddling his mount, he rushed out of the courtyard and into the nearly empty city streets at a gallop.

  He pushed the horse hard and they made good time, but the animal was winded by the time they reached the estate. He had to slow down as they traveled the road that led through the estate fields to the villa.

  It was likely the only reason he noticed the clump of blooming purple heather beneath an apple tree.

  It immediately sent him back to that night beneath the stars, when Callie had responded to his touch so sweetly, and peered so dangerously close to the worst part of him.

  But there was no heather in any other spot along this road. And that hadn’t looked like a natural configuration. He reined in and turned back.

  Beneath the mound of fragrant blossoms he found a note anchored by a rock. Letty had written it to Callie. He read it quickly, looked down the narrow lane that branched off from the road—and set off as quick as his mount could take him.

  * * *

  Callie turned. The Marquess of Marstoke, wearing only breeches and a loose linen shirt, cast a benevolent smile upon her and wiped his face with a towel.

  Marstoke was back. And they’d had neither word nor warning. Callie sent up silent thanks that it hadn’t been Letty to find him here—but her own situation did not look good.

  The younger man beside him held a razor. One finger absently trailed along the flat part of the blade as he looked Callie over. “The clothes are right,” he drawled. “But it’s the wrong girl.”

  Handing him the towel, Marstoke stepped into the room. “Do you not know who our unexpected guest is, Anselm?”

  “Should I?”

  Annoyance flashed across Marstoke’s face for the briefest of moments. “Indeed you should.”

  Callie stood rigid while the marquess stepped close and took her hand. Oh, God in Heaven, but she’d made a colossal mistake leaving that marker for Tru. She had to get away from here, and quickly. She didn’t want to think about Tru arriving in this secluded spot, facing the man he so despised. They were outnumbered and without reinforcements. Nothing good could come of that scenario.

  Bowing low, Marstoke kept his gaze fastened on her bosom. “This is Miss Grant, Hestia’s right-hand whore. Now, what she is doing here? That does seem to be the question.” He glanced from Callie to the girl in the bed and back again.

  Neither answered him.

  “I’d like to know to what we owe the pleasure of this intrusion, Miss Grant.” He hitched his head in the direction of the younger girl. “I know that this one did not send word to Half Moon House, looking for help.”

  “No, my lord!” The girl’s words were slurred due to the swelling in her face.

  “Neither did Hestia send you alone into my den.” Marstoke folded his arms. “Who has come with you?”

  Still, Callie said nothing. Her mind was racing, trying out one option after another, looking for one that ended up with her alive, the girl free and all before Tru came charging in after them.

  The marquess eyed her thoughtfully. “This smells of Stoneacre. Is that interfering wretch of an earl with you?” He walked around her, thinking, then reached out to pat her sides, smiling evilly as he found the knife in her pocket. Pulling it out, he handed it to the other man, then snapped his fingers. “Go. Search the house.”

  The man turned on his heel and left at once.

  “Come, now.” The marquess wore a deep scowl now. He was thinking as fast as she was. Callie could almost see the gears in his brain spinning. “What has brought this on? It could not be Penrith’s damned valet—it’s too soon for you to have made it here, surely, had you gained your information from him.”
>
  Both girls jumped as he suddenly exploded into motion, striking the bedpost a massive blow with both hands and rocking the bed back a foot or so. “Damn the fool and his blasted waistcoats!”

  The girl scrambled down and retreated to the far corner of the room.

  The marquess paced to the balcony door and back, growing quieter with each step. “No. Here you are, in borrowed plumes, no less. This reeks of something else entirely. But what?” He ended up before her again. “Tell me what it is. I bought those clothes for another girl. You fill them out admirably, but how did you come by them? What do you know of her?”

  Callie looked down. This was as bad a spot as she’d ever been in. Marstoke was a violent, dangerous man. She still had a knife tucked in her garter and a few minutes to face him alone, but defeating him would not be easy. Still, she had to try.

  He must have seen it in her face. “It would be best not to consider it,” the marquess said with a snort. He grabbed her arm, gripping it painfully. “Bring that chair over here.” He barked the order to the other girl. “And fetch me several of your stockings.”

  The blonde scrambled to do his bidding, but she’d only just got the chair into position when the young man returned.

  “The house is clear, but someone is coming in. I was checking the attics and caught sight of them at the top of the far rise.”

  “Penrith and Rockham with the traveling carriage?”

  “No, sir. A single rider.”

  Cursing, Marstoke pulled her close. “Come on. Let us go see who else is arriving without an invitation.”

  He pulled her from the room and down the hall toward the stairway. Beyond the landing was an empty space facing the front of the house. Light streamed in through a large window.

  Not Tru. Please, let it be anyone else.

  They all stared out. Callie could see nothing at first, but after a moment she saw a horse and rider emerge from the covering canopy of the wood. Her heart sank. It was him. She stiffened her knees. Kept her spine rigid. She could not, must not, allow Marstoke to see her anxiety.

  Below, Tru rode right up to the cottage, as brazen as you please, as if he’d been invited to tea. He didn’t know Marstoke was here, but he must have found the letter she’d left. He’d know that something was not right. What was he planning?