Taking the Earl (Heiress Games Book 3)

by Sara Ramsey

  She had walked away without saying goodbye. She’d avoided him the rest of the day, and she had seated him as far from her as possible at dinner. Now, after dinner, she still didn’t acknowledge him.

  He would never kiss her again. He would never hold her. He would never be able to fully explain how he felt — how much he loved her, and how desperate he was to save her from the risks of a life with him.

  He would never forgive himself.

  Ferguson still stood next to him, examining Max with his quizzing glass. “When I mentioned drawing and quartering, I didn’t expect to render you mute,” the duke said.

  “I’m practicing having my tongue cut out,” Max replied.

  Ferguson laughed. “I can see how you managed to survive the streets and make something of yourself. It’s admirable, really. Are you sure you don’t want to play along with my game? You’re more suited for it than I’d guessed.”

  Max looked at Lucy again. She was resolutely focused on her conversation with Emma, but he was sure she knew that he was watching her.

  “You’re too late with your move, your grace. I already realized I love her. I already did something stupid. There’s no hoping for a happy ending with this story.”

  The duke sighed. “I was afraid there wasn’t.” Then he slipped his quizzing glass into one pocket and pulled a note from another. “I have a message for you from the inn at Salcombe.”

  Max took the piece of paper. The message merely said, My lord - A magistrate named Mr. Durrant arrived this afternoon. Yours most sincerely, Barker.

  The paper was unsealed. Ferguson had already read it. “Interesting that there’s a London magistrate in the neighborhood,” the duke said, examining his nails.

  “Indeed,” Max said. “Why did you have my note?”

  “Claxton thought I should know that you were getting reports from the village.”

  He and his siblings might be in as much danger from within the abbey as they were from Durrant. Max kept his tone neutral. “I like to know my surroundings.”

  Ferguson gave him a look that suggested he knew more about Max’s business than Max had guessed. But he clapped Max on the shoulder, dropping his questions. “Lucy loves you. Don’t know why, but it’s obvious she does. Don’t do anything else that might be considered stupid. Give her a happy ending and your other problems could disappear.”

  Max nodded. Ferguson walked away. That last statement was odd — it almost sounded like Ferguson was offering to help him.

  But Max barely knew the duke. It was too much to believe that Ferguson could threaten execution with one breath and then offer to help him with the next. If Durrant was willing to be seen openly in the village, it could only mean that the magistrate wanted Max to know he was there. If Max did anything at all out of line, Durrant would make him pay for it.

  No one else approached him — no one else wanted him there, other than Lucy, and she was studiously ignoring him. He checked his watch. He still had three hours before his rendezvous with his family.

  He made eye contact with Cressida, who was sitting across the room with Lord Anthony and his friends. Max flashed three fingers. She nodded once.

  It was rude to leave before Lucy retired for the night, but he couldn’t bear to watch her anymore. So he left, strolling through rooms and corridors that might have been his in another life.

  He was doing the right thing by leaving. But that didn’t make him feel any better.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Late that night, Lucy awoke in darkness. She’d been dreaming of storms and shipwrecks, duels and disasters — the kind of nightmares that had plagued her in the months after Chapman had betrayed her and Julian was killed.

  She lay still, curled up in a ball with her head pillowed on her arm. Maidenstone Abbey was silent around her, but she felt uneasy. She hadn’t had a nightmare in months. It didn’t take a great deal of intuition to guess the cause.

  She knew she was going to lose Max. She thought she’d already accepted it. But her Briarley heart still whispered mine — as though love was enough to overcome the obstacles between them.

  One would think that her heart would’ve learned its lesson by now.

  She’d awoken in this same bed before, with the same knowledge of betrayal, the same feeling of abandonment. She would survive. She still had Julia; she would rebuild her life no matter what happened with Max, or with Ferguson’s decision about the Maidenstone estate.

  Her room was too quiet. She’d never feared Maidenstone’s ghosts — never really believed in them, even though she knew most of the legends by heart. Tonight, though, she felt like she was being watched.

  It was superstitious to think the house would care about her. It was a house, not a person. Maidenstone was a pile of stones and tiles, dressed up with paint and panelling, impressive but entirely incapable of thought.

  But she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being warned about something.

  She couldn’t sleep anyway. Her nightmares had been too vivid. Now that she was awake, her thoughts of Max were too chaotic. She threw her covers aside. A candle and tinderbox waited on the table near her bed. With every strike of the flint and every shower of sparks on the tinder, she felt more foolish for waking up.

  The sparks took hold. Lucy dipped her candle into the tinder, letting the wick catch flame before shutting the tinderbox. She thought of finding something in the library to read. The walk there and back would remind her that there was no danger here. She probably wouldn’t even need to start reading the book before she felt calm enough to sleep again.

  But as she placed the candle on the table so that she could retrieve her dressing gown, she caught a glimpse of something out of place.

  She raised her candle again. There was a rose on her dressing table.

  Her stomach clenched.

  She walked over to it. The rose sat atop a folded piece of paper.

  No ghost had left this. She almost wished one had.

  She picked up the rose. It was white, like the roses the tenants had thrown at the mausoleum — had it really only been the day before? The white of death and loss, but stripped of its threat — whoever had left it had taken time to cut the thorns away so she wouldn’t prick herself.

  That small gesture broke her heart.

  She set the rose aside and picked up the note. Her heart beat faster. When she unfolded it, fear made her skim over it before she could read it in full.

  The words that popped out were ones like sorry and thief and farewell.

  “No,” she whispered to herself.

  She grabbed her dressing gown. She shoved her feet into the first pair of slippers she could find. She kept the note in one hand and took her candle in the other, unlocked her door — a door that a thief could apparently unlock without waking her — and dashed across the hall.

  She opened Max’s door without knocking. The room was dark. It was also silent — no one breathed there but her.

  She held her candle up. The bedclothes were intact. Max had never gone to bed.

  The jade figurines on the mantel were missing.

  “No,” she said again, louder this time. She left his door open and ran down the hall to Cressida’s room.

  It was as empty as if no one had ever slept there. Claxton had said that the lady’s maid had slept in Cressida’s dressing room. Lucy checked. The sheet and blanket on the servant’s cot were neatly folded. And the spoon Claxton said he’d found there was placed on top.

  Lucy didn’t know what message that was supposed to send. At the moment, she didn’t care.

  She ran down the stairs to the main entryway. Around her, clocks began to chime. It was three in the morning. This was the only time when Maidenstone really slept. The guests had finally retired and the servants wouldn’t stir for another hour.

  But Maidenstone wasn’t sleeping. She felt like every Briarley watched her progress as she ran through the halls to the Tudor wing. Her candle died as she ran, but there was enou
gh moonlight in the main wings to keep her going.

  When she reached the Tudor kitchen, though, she had to stop and relight her candle. She didn’t want to.

  She didn’t need to. She knew what she would find.

  The trapdoor to the strongroom was closed, but there were several sets of footprints in the dust. She pulled it open, wanting to vomit as she did. She almost fell down the ladder, moving too fast for caution.

  The strongroom was locked. But her chatelaine lay in the dust in front of the door, wrapped around another rose.

  That gesture made her blood boil. Flowers weren’t an apology, but men always tried to buy forgiveness with roses. In this case, her roses. She grabbed her chatelaine, grinding the rose under her heel as she unlocked the strongroom.

  A single candle was enough to see that the Briarley rubies, along with all the other jewels on that wall, were gone.

  “No,” she said again. This time, it was loud enough to echo in the strongroom — loud enough to sound like a curse.

  She didn’t bother running for the stables. She knew what she would find there — precisely nothing. She hadn’t met Max coming out of the strongroom, so it would be too late to catch him outside.

  She was too late.

  Bad timing was the story of her life, really. If only she hadn’t seen her parents die. If only she hadn’t crossed paths with Chapman before she’d had too much champagne. If only she hadn’t walked into a garden and seen Chapman kissing Octavia.

  If only she’d had time to help Max feel more secure before he’d decided to leave.

  She pressed her fist against her mouth. She wouldn’t cry over this. She would come up with a new plan. There had to be another way to save Maidenstone and get what she wanted.

  But Maidenstone wasn’t what she wanted anymore.

  She wanted Max.

  She sank to the floor. The note was still crumpled in her left hand. She opened it, holding her candle up so that she could see the words.

  His script was as bold and unadorned as his prose.

  My dearest Lucy —

  The first salutation was scratched out. The second one said:

  My love —

  “Bastard,” she whispered aloud. It wasn’t an insult she usually used, for obvious reasons. But how dare he call her his love?

  My love —, the note said. When you read this, I’ll be away from Maidenstone. I’m sorry for it — more sorry than I can tell you. There’s nothing to excuse my behavior. I’ll regret it for the rest of my days.

  I’ll miss you even longer than that.

  But I’m not an honorable man. I’m a thief. You need someone who can give you what you deserve. Happiness and love. More children with your Briarley eyes. And someone who can keep you safe.

  I would have given you everything I could give. But safety was never something I could promise you.

  Be happy, my love. Farewell.

  His signature was scrawled underneath it. Maximus Vale, not Briarley.

  It would never be Briarley.

  She’d vowed not to cry. Tears slipped down her cheeks anyway.

  Was this what her life was meant to be? Always left behind? Discarded? Never enough to meet someone else’s needs? Never enough to deserve someone else’s love?

  The strongroom was, as always, completely silent — until she started crying. The tears came upon her in harsh, jagged waves. Her echoing sobs reverberated in her ears, surprising her. She was ashamed of how animal-like she sounded. Her sniffles and moans were too dramatic.

  She put the candle aside and buried her face in her knees, trying to muffle the sounds….

  Wait.

  Why was she trying, even now, to be perfect?

  Why couldn’t she grieve over losing him?

  Why couldn’t she let herself be a bloody mess for five minutes?

  Suddenly she felt like a little girl all over again — trying to bite down and pretend she hadn’t seen her parents die, when inside, she was screaming. She’d thought she’d buried her screams. She’d been proud that she had buried them.

  But those screams had never come out. They’d wrapped around her insides, stiffened her spine, enforced her posture. They’d built a cage for her, turning her skin into iron bars and her mouth into a lock that nothing could open. She’d been perfect, precise, controlled — but contained. Imprisoned.

  So afraid of everything she couldn’t control that she’d accepted the bleakness of perfection in exchange for keeping the screams at bay.

  She was still sobbing, but the realization made her gasp. She coughed, trying to regain equilibrium. But it was all too much. Her past and future were intertwined, waiting for her to do what she always did — waiting for her to fix the current moment by vowing to forget it.

  She would have to forget Max. She would have to turn this pain into another lock on her prison, one that was strong enough to keep even this disaster buried deep in her memory.

  But how could she forget Max? How could she lie to herself and say he’d meant nothing? Say she was better off without him? Say she was happy to return to the life she’d finally realized was nothing like what she wanted?

  She’d thought that Max could rescue her. She realized, now that he was gone, that she had believed his fairy tale — that she’d felt, all this time, like a trapped princess. She’d started to believe that he would be the one who set her free.

  She rubbed her forearm across her eyes, dashing away some of her tears. They were immediately replaced with fresh ones.

  Max had left. He wouldn’t be the one to rescue her. But even if he had stayed, even if he had married her and made all her dreams come true, he never could have fixed this. She was the captured princess — but she was also the dragon.

  For once, she gave herself time to cry. She let herself sit on the floor of the strongroom until her tears ran out. But as the tears eroded some of the prison bars, she caught a glimpse of a different life. One in which she sought happiness even if it wasn’t perfect. One in which she fought for what she wanted, rather than assuming others would never find her worthy of it.

  She’d let herself stay trapped at Maidenstone. The thought of doing anything else was deeply frightening.

  But for once, following her old plans might be worse. She couldn’t stay imprisoned forever.

  And the only person who could save her was herself.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Dawn broke over Plymouth Harbor. The sky was streaked with red and gold, highlighting towering masts and furled sails. The port bustled with activity. Two ships were departing with the next tide. Passengers and crew alike were making their final preparations.

  Max stood next to Antonia and their trunks. She’d left off her maid’s costume at Maidenstone, wearing a dress that fit her new role — a wealthy woman preparing to emigrate. Their trunks looked like the worldly goods of a rich merchant and his family, if one didn’t notice the mismatched monograms. They’d stolen a few trunks from Maidenstone’s baggage room to cart away everything they’d taken.

  This should have been his moment of triumph. It was the best job of his life, carried out flawlessly. As soon as they were on a ship — any ship — they’d be safe. They would also be richer than any of their wildest imaginings.

  But he kept looking over his shoulder. He half expected Durrant to appear on the docks at the last minute.

  He half hoped to see Lucy riding up to stop him.

  Lucy didn’t know he’d gone to Plymouth, though. It might be a logical guess — it was less than thirty miles from Maidenstone. But she might assume that he would return to London first.

  He resolutely returned his gaze to the ships. Lucy wouldn’t come after him. If she did, it would be with a revolver.

  At least he’d be out of his misery if she shot him. As it was, he’d bought safety for Lucy and for his siblings — but he suspected he’d ruined his life to do it. Sure, he’d felt a bit of the old familiar thrill when he’d held the Briarley rubies — he was still
a thief, no matter what love had done to him. But there weren’t enough jewels in the world to quiet the voice in his heart that said Lucy was his.

  And he’d given her up.

  He was beginning to think he’d stolen the wrong treasure.

  “Having doubts?” Antonia asked, her voice low.

  “It’s a little late for doubts.”

  “I have them too, if it makes you feel any better.”

  He turned his head to look at her. Antonia had been quiet in the coach from Maidenstone to Plymouth — but then, she was always quiet. He hadn’t noticed anything amiss.

  She had her reticule back now that she was no longer a servant. Her hand was firmly tucked inside it. She kept a handgun there. Max had never had much use for weapons, but they’d always comforted her.

  “What are you worrying about?” he asked.

  “Durrant.”

  “We’ll be safe once we’re gone,” Max said, trying to reassure her.

  But it was hard to sound reassuring when he felt the same dread — like a storm was gathering and would break on their heads. He doubted that Durrant would catch them. They’d be at sea before anyone at Maidenstone would think to check the nearest ports. The only way they could be caught was if someone had followed them — in which case they should have already been arrested.

  His sister was worried about Durrant. But Max was more worried about Lucy. Had she awoken yet and found his note? It was beyond stupid of him to leave a signed confession — none of his siblings knew just how stupid he’d been with her. But a signed confession wouldn’t make much difference in the end. It would be blatantly obvious who had committed the crime. They’d hang for it if they were caught, confession or not.

  Antonia craned her neck, looking behind them again. “Where’s Titus? He should be back by now.”

  “It takes time to sell a carriage and a team of horses. Especially when you care about horses more than the rest of us.”

  Antonia didn’t laugh at his attempt at humor. “We need to go. Durrant won’t be happy that you’ve thwarted him again.”