by Clee, Adele
Nicole sighed as she considered her predicament. She would have to release Baxter, eventually. It was only a matter of time before someone came to look for him. No doubt Mrs Gripes was up and dressed in her apron, ready to serve charred toast and coddled eggs.
“In a moment, I shall untie the ropes, starting with the one around your ankles.”
She edged closer to the disgruntled guard. The stranger’s timely arrival would prevent the staff from delivering whatever vile punishment they had in store.
Baxter sat calmly and watched her perform the ministrations. It appeared the man had no more fight left in him. But as soon as the restraints fell away he jumped to his feet. Nicole dodged the swipe as he hit out with his bound hands. She ran to the door, unlocked it and fled along the landing. The stomp of Baxter’s unsteady gait on the floorboards confirmed the guard was in pursuit.
Chapter Three
Morton Manor was the house of nightmares: an ugly monstrosity that looked to have burst up through the ground from the fiery pits of Hell. A place where people experimented with the dark arts. Where they sacrificed animals on a stone table located through a secret door in the cellar.
But it wasn’t an asylum — not anymore.
According to the villagers, it hadn’t housed patients for years and had long since been a private dwelling.
Oliver stood in the stark courtyard and surveyed the house his father had kept hidden. Heaven knows why. There was nothing remotely appealing about the sixteenth-century building. Everything looked odd and mismatched. There were too many small windows dotted about the grey stone facade. The uneven flight of steps leading up to the front door were evidently an afterthought, thrown down when the owner discovered he was too short to reach the threshold.
A sudden movement in the upstairs window caught his attention. He looked up, surprised to see a woman staring back at him. Oliver caught his breath. Had she possessed flowing white hair and a gown to match, he might have thought her a ghost.
But this flame-haired beauty was very much alive. As their eyes met, Oliver’s heart lurched — from a sudden pang of lust as opposed to an irrational fear of spectres.
Was this beguiling creature the Miss Flint named as his father’s benefactor?
He inclined his head, and she shot away from the window as if he were a witch hunter come to round up all the young women in the village.
Regardless of the early hour, Oliver marched up to the front door of the dreary manor house and rapped loudly with his fist. The thud echoed through the hall beyond. When met with an eerie silence, he raised the rusty knocker and let it fall.
A butler slept with one eye open, so where in devil’s name was he?
Oliver knocked again.
The house was occupied, he’d seen the evidence for himself. Unless the pretty temptress staring at him from the upper window was a mirage — a tempting illusion to remind him he’d not bedded a woman for weeks. The lady appeared far too young to bed his father and would no doubt welcome the skill and stamina a more virile member of the family could offer.
Had his mind not been focused on finding Rose, he’d have Miss Flint writhing and panting between the bedclothes before the day was out. Then another thought struck him, one that seriously dampened his ardour. Perhaps Miss Flint was his father’s by-blow.
A high-pitched scream from the hall beyond disturbed his rampant musings.
In a sudden state of panic, he seized the knob and twisted, equally shocked to discover the door unlocked. Oliver rushed into the entrance hall as the woman from the window came running down the stairs.
“Please, sir, you must help me.” The lady grabbed Oliver’s arm and clutched it as one would the mast of a sinking ship. While terror flashed in her eyes, she appeared to take comfort from the overfamiliar gesture. He did, too. The soft curve of her breast pressed against his sleeve and the sweet scent of jasmine wafted up to tease his nostrils.
Damn. If only he had time to further their acquaintance.
The thud of booted footsteps drew Oliver’s attention to the queer vision racing behind in hot pursuit. The man’s hands were bound, and he flexed his jaw to dislodge the piece of material wedged into his mouth.
The lady pressed her forehead to Oliver’s upper arm. “Save me, sir. You must save me,” she pleaded, too scared to look up at the scene unfolding.
Save her?
He imagined their ideas of what constituted saving differed somewhat.
Feeling strangely protective of the woman hanging on to his arm, Oliver straightened and squared his shoulders as the man skidded to a halt before them.
The fellow grunted, moaned, and nodded to the lady at Oliver’s side.
“May I make a suggestion?” Oliver leant forward and, using only the tips of his fingers, removed the sodden linen from the man’s mouth and dropped it onto the floor. “Now, perhaps you should begin again.”
The man heaved in a breath, and his nostrils flared. “This little witch is the devil’s own spawn,” he cried, his flushed cheeks resembling an overripe tomato. “I swear I’ll whip her with the birch for what she’s done.”
Oliver despised any man who threatened violence to intimidate a woman.
“Then I must tell you that your plan has one major flaw.” Oliver cleared his throat in a bid to remain calm, though he feared it was too late. His fingers throbbed with the need for satisfaction. “The only person doing the whipping will be me if you dare speak to a lady in such a manner again. Now explain yourself.”
“Lady?” the man sneered. “She ain’t no lady. She’s a shameless hussy—”
“Curb your tongue.” Oliver’s pulse raced. The roaring in his ears was not a good sign. “I’ll not warn you again.”
“I’ve spent the whole blasted night with that filthy rag stuck down my throat,” the fellow blurted. “I could have choked. I could have died. And she … she tied the rope so tightly I can’t feel my blasted toes.”
The lady looked up and scowled, though the ugly expression did not lessen her appeal. “You cannot compare one night of agony to the six months of misery you’ve caused. You should be thankful I didn’t hit you with the candlestick when I had the chance.”
The man growled. “Why, you filthy little whore — ow!”
The punch was swift, quick, a left-handed jab that lacked the power to take a man clean off his feet. Still, the foul-mouthed rogue stumbled back as he struggled to remain upright. A pang of guilt stabbed Oliver’s chest. Never in all his years had he punched a man incapable of fighting back. And in his rebellious phase, he’d punched a fair few.
A commotion at the far end of the hall captured his attention. A woman came scuttling forward. Her slate grey hair was parted in the middle and pulled back into a severe knot that drew the skin taut across her cheeks. Her eyes were cold, empty pools. No doubt the result of a life filled with nothing but disappointment.
“What’s going on here?” With pursed lips, she scanned Oliver’s pristine attire. From the number of keys dangling from the chatelaine worn around her waist, it was obvious she enjoyed the power that came with the role of housekeeper. A deep frown appeared on her brow as she noted the rogue’s bound hands. “Baxter? What happened to you? Who tied your hands?”
“That is exactly what I am trying to establish.” Oliver was quickly losing patience. He was about to insist on an introduction when Baxter’s temper flared.
“Did no one think to come and find me?” Baxter raised his hands and gestured to the flame-haired siren hugging Oliver’s arm. “They attacked me. They tied my hands and feet and left me in that bloody room all night.”
They?
The woman’s chalk-white face turned a sickly grey.
“Did you expect us to behave like obedient children?” the lady at Oliver’s side said as she relaxed her grip on his arm and stepped away. He felt the loss of her warm body instantly. “Treat a lady like a dog, and she shall behave like one.”
“Like a dog?” The housekeeper scow
led, though it was difficult for her to look any more miserable. “Why, you ungrateful wretch. We've treated you as fair as the master allowed.”
“Then the master is an ass,” the lady replied bracing her hands on her hips in defiance.
Good Lord. This beauty had spirit by the cart load. Finding a woman with such a level of determination and courage was rare.
“Will someone untie my damn hands before my fingers fall off!” Baxter shouted.
“Silence!” Oliver roared, determined to take control of the situation.
Eyes wide, they all stopped and stared at him.
“Now,” he began a little more calmly. “Heaven knows what is going on here. But this is no way to greet a visitor.”
They continued to stare.
“Your names,” he said in the masterful tone that always commanded respect. “I fear introductions are long overdue.”
The housekeeper raised her pointed chin. “I am Mrs Gripes, the housekeeper here at Morton Manor. And Baxter has many roles — gardener, groomsman, footman.”
And village idiot, Oliver added silently.
He noted the odd glances passing between Baxter and Gripes. From the muttered whispers they shared whenever he averted his gaze, it was evident they were intent on having their own private conversation.
He turned to the lady with the most vibrant green eyes he’d ever seen. Yet they were more than jewels used to attract admirers. Beneath the glittering depths, her gaze was sharp and perceptive, with a level of intelligence he’d not admired in a woman — until now. “Would I be right to assume you are Miss Flint?”
She nodded.
“And your role here is what?” From the way the servants treated her, she wasn’t his father’s mistress or by-blow. For some odd reason, the thought pleased him immensely. Perhaps he’d get to bed the beauty, after all.
Miss Flint opened her mouth to speak, but Mrs Gripes snapped, “She’s a servant like the rest of us. But from her lofty manners, happen she thinks she’s the Queen of Sheba.”
Baxter chuckled.
Was Miss Flint just a simple maid? Did her issue with Baxter stem from a need to ward off the amorous advances of a superior? Oliver didn’t think so. Despite her uncouth outburst, she spoke like a lady and possessed an air of hauteur only found amongst those of good breeding. No. His father would not have left the property to a maid.
Suspicion flared.
Miss Flint looked at him dubiously. She appeared reluctant to contradict the housekeeper’s explanation, even though he sensed she wanted nothing more than to put Gripes in her place.
Something else bothered him, too.
Miss Flint had clung to his arm as if he were an errant knight come to rescue her from the clutches of a wicked baron. Now her wary gaze spoke of mistrust.
“And may I ask, sir, what business you have here at Morton Manor?” Mrs Gripes continued.
Oliver couldn’t wait to see the shock on their faces when he offered his name. Nor could he wait to see how they would react upon discovering Miss Flint was now their mistress. But his eagerness to bring an end to their petty squabbles, and ask questions about Rose, was hampered by the beast of a man who appeared in the doorway at the end of the hall.
“What’s going on here?” he barked as he shuffled towards them. The man was as short and solid as a beer barrel. The muscles in his shoulders bulged from his upper arm to his ear. “How’s a man to rest with all this commotion?”
Miss Flint took a step back.
“Ah, Stokes.” Mrs Gripes sneered. “It seems Miss Flint has been causing trouble again.”
“Trouble?”
Stokes took another clumsy step closer. The smell of stale sweat drifted through the air. The skin around his mouth and nose was red and flaky. Red veins littered the whites of his eyes. From the sheen of perspiration covering his brow, it was clear the man was ill.
Oliver stepped back, too. The last thing he needed was to spend a week in bed with a fever. That was unless Miss Flint was playing nursemaid.
Stokes narrowed his eyes as he examined Oliver’s attire. “And you must be Lord Cunningham,” he said. “The earl warned us you might come.”
Lord Cunningham?
Why in heaven’s name would Cunningham want to visit such a dismal place as Morton Manor? His father had no business with the pompous lord.
“Warned you?” Oliver scoffed, deciding to play along with the charade. “And did he also advise you to treat a gentleman with such disrespect?”
Stokes beckoned Baxter to his side, and the fellow scuttled over like an obedient pet. “Oh, he told us how to deal with you, my lord, have no fear.” Stokes set about untying the rope.
As one can predict an imminent storm from the earthy smell and the sudden charge in the air, Oliver noted Stokes’ heavy breathing, noted the tension pressing down upon them.
“I’d think carefully before attempting anything foolish.” Oliver flexed his fingers in preparation. An uppercut to Stokes’ jaw needed the power of a hundred men behind it if he had any hope of silencing the oaf.
With his hands now free, Baxter rubbed the red skin at his wrists and then whispered something to Stokes.
“You bloody idiot.” Stokes snarled and swiped Baxter over the head. “How many times ‘ave I told you? Women ain’t to be trusted, especially not the pretty ones.” His cold, sharp gaze found Miss Flint. “I’ll deal with you once I’ve thrown the nabob out on his ear.”
“Oh, I’m not leaving.” Oliver clenched his fists at his side. He was a boxer not a brawler — the loser of a bout was the one who failed to contain his anger. “I’ve only just arrived.”
Stokes growled. Despite his failing health, he lunged at Oliver. While most men froze at the sight of an ugly brute looming large, Oliver stepped back, looked for the opening and punched Stokes hard on the jaw.
Miss Flint gasped at the sharp crack.
The man staggered back, shook his head and came at Oliver again. “It will take more than a dandy’s punch to take me down.”
With flaring nostrils and a few blasphemous curses, Stokes tried to grab the lapels of Oliver’s coat. Oliver swerved to the left and hit Stokes on the temple, and the beast crumpled to his knees.
Baxter charged, but it was Mrs Gripes’ whip with her chatelaine that caught Oliver’s cheek and knocked his hat off his head.
“Damn and blast,” Oliver cursed, knocking Baxter to the floor with a backhanded swipe. He turned to Mrs Gripes, to find Miss Flint wrestling the keys from the housekeeper’s grasp.
“You’ll pay for this girl, mark my words,” Mrs Gripes cried through gritted teeth. “The master will have your hide for what you’ve done.”
“I highly doubt it,” Oliver said, dabbing the tips of his fingers to his cheek and examining the spots of blood. Damn. The last thing he wanted was an ugly scar. “Your master is dead.”
A stunned silence filled the room.
Stokes groaned as he came to his feet.
“And you are mistaken in your assumption that I am Lord Cunningham,” Oliver continued arrogantly. He picked up his hat, dusted it off and placed it back on his head. “My father died three weeks ago. Consequently, you are addressing the fourth Earl of Stanton.”
With mouths open wide enough to trap a family of migrating geese, they all stared at him.
“Dead? The earl is dead?” Mrs Gripes shook her head as the keys fell from Miss Flint’s limp hand. “But he can’t be. He owes us a month’s wages.”
“Then you must be Rose’s brother, my lord.” Miss Flint’s beaming smile illuminated her face. Evidently, she was the only person who took pleasure in his announcement.
The mere mention of his sister’s name caused a jolt of excitement in Oliver’s chest. “You’ve seen her? Is she here?” He glanced at the staircase, wondering if the young lady he remembered had altered in the last two years.
“She was here,” Stokes said with a sneer of contempt. “Don’t blame us. The earl paid us to look after Lady
Rose, but Miss Flint here helped her to escape last night. Isn’t that right, Baxter?”
“Look after her!” Miss Flint cried. “Since when is keeping a lady prisoner and forbidding her to leave considered good for her well-being. Next, you’ll say it was for her own protection.”
“It was,” Stokes snarled. “And if anything happens to Lady Rose, you’ll be the one held responsible.”
Oliver ignored the spat. “Is Stokes correct, Miss Flint? Did you help Rose escape from this house?”
Miss Flint pursed her lips. She looked damn attractive with guilt flashing in her eyes. “Rose left last night. She was desperate to return to London, to find Lord Cunningham.”
“Cunningham? What the hell has he got to do with this?” If Cunningham had ruined his sister, Oliver would string him up from the Dead Man’s Tree and leave him hanging.
Miss Flint stepped forward. “Rose is in love with Lord Cunningham. It’s the reason your father sent her here.”
“And the earl hired you to look after her,” Stokes snapped, “not send her off into the night without a penny to her name.”
“She has food and money,” Miss Flint countered, “and will probably be in London by now, safe in the arms of her one true love.”
Her one true love?
Lord Cunningham loved no one but himself. Miss Flint was a hopeless romantic it seemed. Such a foolish notion was the reason some ladies ended up as spinsters. Or ruined by a rogue whose idea of love amounted to nothing more than finding a place to bury his manhood.
“Stokes has a point, Miss Flint,” Oliver said as the hair on his scalp prickled to attention. “Helping Rose to escape may not have been in her best interests. Should she seek Lord Cunningham out before she hears news of our father’s death, I fear the gentleman may attempt to turn the situation to his advantage.”
Water filled Miss Flint’s eyes, and she inhaled to stop the tears falling. “Know I would never do anything to place Rose in danger.” Her voice cracked on the last word spoken. “All I want is her happiness.”
“Then the onus is on you to help me find her.” There was little point dashing about the countryside now. An hour spent asking a few questions at the coaching inn, coupled with a keen eye fixed on the road, was all they could do. But he could not leave Miss Flint at the manor. He’d witnessed the depth of the rogues’ depravity first-hand.
