Kindred Spirits

by Allison Lane

  She nodded her understanding. “Just keep her safe, Colonel.”

  His stomach clenched. His instincts had known that Marianne was in danger. Her inheritance trust would revert to her in a fortnight. But he’d been so caught up in atoning for the mistakes he’d made twelve years ago that he hadn’t considered Barnett an enemy until last night.

  Only the most honorable paragon would agree to place a fortune in the hands of an untried, mentally fragile female. Even decent men would find a way to supervise her affairs so she couldn’t squander her inheritance.

  Today’s actions proved that Barnett was far from decent. And his motives went beyond preserving her inheritance. By declaring her insane, he could take charge of everything she owned. Chancery Court might assign a judge to audit the records every year, but with a lord involved, they might not exert even that much control.

  He bade Mrs. Hastings farewell, then called for his horse. Hopefully, Marianne’s exercise program had restored the stamina he would need. By his calculation, Barnett had at least a four-hour lead. It would be dark before he could catch up.

  Chapter Seven

  Ignoring the throb in his thigh, Jack slid silently into the shadow of a rhododendron and studied Carey’s asylum. One window was lit – the one next to the front door, which raised hope that Carey employed a night porter. It was past midnight, so the day porter should be asleep. Jack didn’t want to meet that fellow again.

  It had been painfully easy to track Barnett’s carriage. Everyone who had seen it reported screams, moans, and wails coming from inside. It made his blood run cold. He had heard of people losing their reason with far less provocation. Marianne must know that Barnett meant to incarcerate her for life – once he took over her inheritance, he could never let her go.

  Jack had pushed his leg to the limit of endurance, arriving at Carey’s less than two hours behind Barnett. The place was a converted manor house, dark, isolated, and brooding. Even in sunlight, it was melancholy. In cold rain or creeping fog it would be intolerable. The employees must risk madness themselves if they remained for long.

  But as cold and unwelcoming as the building seemed, the porter had been worse.

  “No visitors allowed,” the man had repeated to Jack’s third demand for admittance. A heavy chain prevented the door from opening more than a few inches.

  “You don’t understand,” Jack had insisted desperately. Every refusal had increased his fear. “I am her husband. She was abducted by an unscrupulous relative who is demanding a fortune in exchange for her freedom.”

  “No visitors allowed.”

  “Must I fetch a magistrate and charge you with conspiring in an extortion scheme?”

  “No visitors allowed.”

  Jack had finally given up. The man outweighed him by at least four stone and had the look of a bruising fighter. Breaking the chain would be difficult – and useless; three equally hulking staff members had passed through the hall during his confrontation with the porter.

  After promising to return in the morning when the doctor was available, Jack had left. Not that he had given up. Every minute that Marianne remained in this place increased the risk of permanent damage. But Wellington had taught him that a tactical retreat was sometimes necessary if one hoped to win the war. So he would return at night.

  He used the hours to rest, eat, and devise a tale he hoped would win cooperation. Victory demanded that he wait until everyone was asleep, for there was no way he could overpower multiple attendants.

  Again he berated himself for not questioning Marianne when he’d had the chance. He should have demanded facts instead of assuming that her problem was a lack of confidence. If he’d used the last month to address her real problems, perhaps she could have handled Lord Barnett.

  Taking a deep breath, he clamped down on guilt and concentrated on logic. Battle required a clear head.

  But he could not forget Marianne’s nightmares. Save them!

  Napoleon had arrested every Englishman he could find after the peace collapsed in 1803. Some were eventually released, though not in a timely fashion – despite having diplomatic immunity, Lord Elgin had not reached England until 1807, for instance. Many died during their years of mistreatment. Others had remained incarcerated until Napoleon abdicated in 1814.

  French mobs had carried out the arrest orders with the same zeal they’d shown during the revolution – and with much the same result. While many Englishmen landed in prison, others met their fate on the guillotine or worse. Jack had seen the results of two such frenzies as he made his way to the coast. Had Marianne survived another? It was too easy to picture a mob raping English prisoners before hauling them before the authorities. Marianne might have escaped in the confusion, and the shock would explain her silence.

  For the first time, he pondered Francine’s exact words – they are gone. It was he who had assumed that meant they were dead. But it could also mean that they’d been arrested. Maybe Marianne’s nightmares grew from uncertainty.

  He kicked himself for jumping to conclusions – another failure of honor, especially if his assumption had left them languishing in a French prison.

  Save them! What if she had known they were under arrest? Jack had told Lady Barnett that Marianne’s family was dead. If Lady Barnett had been the first to tell Marianne, it would have further distressed her, for the harridan would not have broken the news gently. Marianne would blame herself for abandoning them.

  His gut twisted at the thought that he might have left her family to rot in jail because he’d been too busy saving his own neck to ask the necessary questions. How had he dared call himself honorable? His life had been a lie long before Waterloo.

  For now he could only pray that Marianne could talk about it once she escaped. He had to know the full story if he hoped to help her. Freedom was merely the first step. She would not be safe until she was out from under Barnett’s thumb, which meant convincing the Chancery Court to rescind his guardianship.

  But that was for later. He checked the asylum’s windows one last time. The bars and locks designed to keep patients inside also kept intruders out, and the building was large, making his job more dangerous. The unbarred wing probably housed the doctor. And the servants and staff doubtless slept in the attics – those windows also lacked bars. But that left three floors of two wings to be searched. And since he could hardly enter through the doctor’s quarters, he must pass the porter.

  All he could do was pray that no one else was awake.

  He glanced over his shoulder to verify that his horse remained out of sight. Renting a carriage in Bere Regis would have been easier for Marianne than riding pillion, but he needed the flexibility of an overland escape. His route would depend on how quickly the asylum staff organized a pursuit.

  Just do it!

  Exhaling, he wrapped his cloak around his uniform, then strode to the door. As expected, it was locked.

  He knocked, loudly. If anyone but the porter was awake, he was in trouble.

  The door creaked open. “No visitors allowed.”

  “I’m not a visitor,” swore Jack. “Lord Barnett forgot to give the doctor some vital information.”

  “Come back in the morning.” The porter pushed on the door.

  Jack shoved his foot in the crack to keep it open, then flinched as the weight of the door pinched his toes. “Lord Barnett insisted that I deliver his message immediately. It’s not worth my life or yours to thwart him.”

  “Life?”

  “Lord Barnett does not tolerate delays.”

  The porter frowned. “Dr. Carey doesn’t like interruptions,” he countered.

  “Perhaps not, but a lord wields more power than a country doctor.”

  Silence stretched, ending in a heavy sigh. “I’ll fetch him.” The porter sounded resigned to a tongue-lashing.

  “Can I wait in the hall?” asked Jack. “It’s cold out here.” He held his breath while the porter again paused. The man’s thought processes were slow. It g
ave Jack an advantage.

  “I suppose,” the man grumbled, unfastening the chain.

  Jack hid his relief. Keeping his posture humble, he took the proffered chair. The porter hesitated outside the day porter’s room, then shrugged and turned toward the hall.

  Jack flung his cloak aside as he sprang. Covering the porter’s mouth, he delivered a blow to the neck with the side of his other hand – another skill he’d learned from that Chinaman.

  The porter slumped, unconscious.

  Silence settled over the hall. Jack shut the front door, leaving it unlocked and unchained – he might need a quick exit – then dragged the porter into the lighted room. The man was older than he’d seemed in the darkness – thin gray hair, furrowed face, arthritic hands roped with bulbous veins. Nothing like the bruising day porter.

  Jack stifled guilt. Attacking a harmless old man was the only way to find Marianne. And the porter was merely unconscious. He would recover in an hour or two.

  To prevent him from sounding an alarm if he awoke too soon, Jack tied and gagged him, laying him on a bed in the corner. The one drawback of this plan was that unconscious men could not reveal information. He had no idea where Marianne was. Nor did he have keys – an asylum would lock the patients’ rooms.

  But the staff would need ready access, and he doubted that everyone carried rings of keys. Either the keys would be in the locks, or a single key would open every door. Tugging the key from the porter’s door, he locked it behind him, then headed upstairs, moving as quietly as possible.

  The key worked, though the first three rooms held only sleeping strangers. The fourth made his skin crawl, for the occupant was crouched in the corner, naked, dark eyes glittering in the moonlight flowing through the barred window. The man’s muscles tensed as though to spring. Jack shut the door so fast it banged.

  He waited until his heartbeat returned to normal, but the man made no sound, and no one came to investigate the noise.

  The next room was empty. Another was so full of dolls that he nearly missed the occupant. Another empty room. Two men, one of them strapped to the bed. A locked door that did not accept his key. It probably led to Carey’s apartments.

  Fighting down a growing sense of urgency, he climbed to the next floor.

  Three rooms with women, an empty room, two more women, an unlocked—

  His fists clenched in fury. Marianne lay tied to the bed, a gag in her mouth. But she had again fallen into catalepsy. Despite open eyes, she did not move. It was worse than that last day in France.

  A man stood over her, unbuttoning his breeches as his free hand fondled her breast. With a feral growl, Jack whirled the man around and landed a solid kick to the crotch.

  The man howled.

  Jack jerked him up by the hair, slapped him twice, then planted a fist in his jaw to knock him cold.

  Shoving him aside, Jack untied the knots that held Marianne’s hands and feet. “Sweetheart, can you hear me?” he whispered. “It’s Jack. I’ve come to save you.”

  She didn’t move.

  “It’s all right now,” he murmured, removing the gag. She wore only a thin shift. “You are safe. No one will ever hurt you again.”

  The room contained only the bed, a chair, and a small table. There was no wardrobe and no sign of her clothes.

  “Damnation,” he muttered. He could hardly take her outside in a shift. She would freeze in an hour. The wind had veered while he’d tracked her down, bringing icy air from the north.

  “Marianne, sweetheart.” He massaged her wrists where the cord had cut into the flesh. “Wake up.”

  He thought she flinched, but that was her only movement.

  He was running out of time. For all he knew, they had poured laudanum down her throat to stop her from screaming.

  Wrapping her in a sheet, he set her gently by the door, then heaved the attendant onto the bed, replacing the ties and gag so he couldn’t raise an alarm. Cradling Marianne against his chest, he locked the door behind him, then hurried downstairs.

  The porter remained unconscious.

  Jack closed Marianne’s eyes, then dressed her in a shirt and breeches from the porter’s chest. Shoving her feet into oversized boots stuffed with extra stockings so they wouldn’t slide off, he wrapped her in a cloak and carried her to his horse.

  At least he could touch her for the moment without igniting terror. Her traumatic day might leave her unable to tolerate him.

  He suppressed a new burst of fury. To achieve victory, he must stay focused on the battle plan. The next step was finding a refuge.

  He had intended to take her to Seacliff, but that was now impossible. He had stupidly given his name to the day porter. The man might already have reported the encounter to Carey. That would be the first place the doctor would look when he found her missing.

  An inn would likewise be impossible. He could not change their appearance enough to escape recognition. And the bustle of an inn could push her into real madness.

  If she isn’t there already.

  “No,” he said aloud. “She’ll be fine.” He would see to it – as he should have done twelve years ago.

  For now, the asylum remained silent, so he stayed on the road, holding Marianne in front of him with his cloak surrounding them both. He needed a refuge by dawn. His thigh was protesting the fifteen miles he’d already ridden that day, and even his warhorse would eventually tire from its extra burden. Changing mounts would leave a trail Carey or Barnett could follow. His uniform was too obvious.

  He pressed Marianne’s head against his shoulder as a gust of wind slammed into them. His plans hadn’t anticipated her being unconscious. Where could they go? Renting a cottage would take time and cause talk. Deerchester Hall was forty miles away – but Jack would never beg asylum from his family, especially with Marianne in tow. Deerchester was too corrupt to ignore so tasty a morsel.

  Wyndhaven.

  Of course. Devall Sherbrooke, Marquess of Blackthorn, was a friend from his school days. Even after Jack had bought colors, he and Devall had stayed in touch – until Waterloo. His dishonor made facing friends impossible, so he’d not opened recent letters. But Marianne was more important than his pride. And even if Devall scorned Jack, he would still help Marianne. Devall had long aided victims of abuse. His wife Angela was equally fierce when protecting innocents. They would spring to Marianne’s defense in an instant.

  Devall’s estate was twenty miles away. It would be a hard journey, but his horse could manage it at a walk. Jack would have to force his thigh and arms to hold out. October nights were long enough that they should arrive before dawn, but only if he kept moving.

  “We are going to Wyndhaven, Marianne. You will be safe there. And I guarantee that you can trust Devall and Angela. They would never harm you.”

  He repeated his assurances every step of the way, reminding her often who he was and that she was safe. But when he staggered up Wyndhaven’s front steps, she remained unconscious.

  God, he hoped it was laudanum!

  Chapter Eight

  “How is she?” asked Devall when Jack limped into the library an hour later.

  “Sleeping – I think.” Jack rubbed his gritty eyes and accepted the wine his friend offered.

  He’d been right to bring Marianne here. Devall had taken one look at her white face and led the way to a bedchamber. No questions. No raised eyebrows because she was dressed in male garb or traveling alone with a man. He hadn’t even mentioned the eight unanswered letters lying on Jack’s desk.

  Jack had been grateful. He’d wanted to settle Marianne before she awoke, lest his touch do further harm. Taking the time to explain first might have made that difficult.

  He also needed to be with her when she awoke. She would be disoriented enough without having to deal with strangers. And without him she would assume she remained at Carey’s. But before he could closet himself with her, he must talk to Devall.

  He drained the glass, hoping wine would soothe his throat,
which was hoarse from murmuring reassurances for six hours without pause. “I asked your housekeeper to remain in Marianne’s room. She will fetch me if Marianne begins to stir.”

  Devall frowned. “Aside from propriety, you need rest yourself.”

  “It can wait.” He caught Devall’s glance at his leg. “It is improving. The limp only returned because I pushed it too hard. But that is merely weariness.”

  “Very well. Now suppose you tell me what is going on.”

  “I don’t know.” He accepted more wine. “I have a few facts and many suspicions, but until I can talk to Marianne, I won’t know whether my guesses are correct. And talking may take time. Something in the past terrifies her. Yesterday’s trauma will make her more fragile than ever.”

  “Let’s start with the facts.” Devall stretched his legs toward the fireplace.

  “Twelve years ago I met a woman and child trying to escape France. The woman was a French émigré who’d taken a position as a lady’s maid. The child was her employer’s twelve-year-old daughter – and the family’s sole survivor.”

  “What happened?”

  “I didn’t ask. I assumed that they had died of disease – there had been an epidemic in Paris a month earlier. Now I suspect that they were either arrested or killed when the peace collapsed. But I won’t know until I talk to Marianne.”

  “I presume you escorted them back to England.”

  Jack nodded. “I delivered the child to her uncle, Lord Barnett, took the maid to relatives, then went about my business. The next time I saw Marianne was a month ago. She owns the estate next to mine.”

  Devall’s eyes gleamed with speculation. “Convenient.”

  “It’s not like that,” snapped Jack. When the gleam intensified, he swore under his breath. But he could not tell Devall about his plans. “The little she revealed raised alarms. Her nightmares had disturbed Barnett’s family, and she apparently fell into hysteria whenever a stranger approached. To reestablish peace in his household, Barnett banished her to her own estate a month after her return, setting guards to prevent any callers.”