Scandal's Bride

by Gibson, Pamela

  Exactly like the one on the button.

  He rushed back to talk to the vicar, but the vicar’s door was firmly closed. The angle of the sun told him he was late. Gwen would be wondering where he was.

  Excited to share his news, he ran outside and climbed into the cart. Gwen would be astounded at what he’d discovered. He could hardly wait to tell her.

  Chapter 22

  Gwen looked up as John entered the bookshop. His wide smile and flashing eyes told her he had something to share. “Are you ready to depart?”

  She handed both books to John and nodded toward Mr. Smythe. “Thank you for the recommendation. I am enjoying the book immensely.”

  “Glad to be of service, my lady.”

  She followed her husband out of the store, and after he assisted her, he climbed up into the cart. “What recommendation was that?”

  “A delicious gothic.”

  “You like reading about beastly humans?”

  “Only darkly handsome brooding ones in distressing settings.” She batted her lashes and settled her skirts as the cart jolted forward. “The author has done an excellent job setting the mood. I like his frightening descriptions.”

  “If you like mysterious places, you will like my news.” He drove carefully around a curve and let the horse break into a trot. “I visited the churchyard when I finished talking to the vicar. There’s a mausoleum there—quite imposing—dominating the center of the burials.”

  “La, I’ve never thought of a churchyard as being mysterious. Sad, perhaps, depending on the circumstance. Many of the headstones denote people who died far too early. It breaks my heart to see inscriptions for children.”

  His hand left the reins and crept over to squeeze hers. A tiny gesture, but one that put her in charity with him.

  “You are far too compassionate, my dear. But sympathy for others is one of your endearing qualities.”

  She viewed their clasped hands. “What caught your interest about the mausoleum?”

  “The name—Hawksbury—and the engraving under the name. It was the visage of a bird.” He squeezed her fingers, then returned his hand back to the reins.

  Excitement bubbled over into a squeak. “I wonder if it is part of their crest. We’ll have to make enquiries. We still don’t know how a button with a Hawksbury emblem found its way into our damaged east wing.”

  “Nor do I know who the Hawksburys were or if there are any still about.”

  Gwen mulled over their conversation, sure now she’d seen the emblem somewhere else. She’d have to think about it later when she had time to retrace her activities in her mind. Perhaps when she took her walk to the tower.

  When they arrived home, John headed for the study. “Did you wish to join me?”

  “I believe I will write our acceptance to the Livesley’s dinner, and then inspect the garden. Mrs. Bertram has asked for a few different herbs, and I must decide where to put them. Then I’m going to walk a bit.”

  “I’ll be glad when we finally bring on a gardener. You’re doing too much.”

  “Nonsense. I’ve never shunned good English dirt.”

  “I’m relieved because we certainly have a lot of it.” He chuckled as he went into the study.

  Gwen found ink and a quill in her writing desk and sent off her note. Even if she found Lady Livesley difficult to like, she was quite fond of the vicar and his wife. Surely, they would be there.

  After finishing her task, she put on comfortable walking boots, traded her good bonnet for an older one, and donned a serviceable spencer. The kitchen garden was almost through bearing for the season, but a few hearty plants still provided vegetables. Unlatching the gate, she made her way to the path leading to the ruins.

  The tower was her private place. She’d had one of the footmen put a chair and small table there, and a fat candle in case she wanted to read. Remembering the forbidding descriptions of the gothic beast in her novel, she’d not brought the book with her.

  The afternoon was chilly, but her brisk gait warmed her as she walked quickly through the wooded area and out toward the ruins. The tower stood tall and imposing. Her mind turned to the past. Why hadn’t she brought the other book, the one about the abbeys? That would have been a delightful book to read in this place. Instead she’d carried Emily Sinclair’s latest letter with her. She hadn’t read it yet.

  She sighed and climbed the circular stairs embedded in the wall, around and around, winding upward, until she reached the top. She stood before one of the arched windows, letting air blow over her face. The scene before her was so beautiful. This place had wormed its way into her heart, and she couldn’t imagine living anywhere else now.

  Settling into her chair, she sat back and tried to think about where she might have seen the Hawksbury emblem. Perhaps she was imagining something similar. She shook her head and took the button out of her pocket to study before the light faded. Was the design etched into stone or perhaps a piece of crockery? It wouldn’t have been a painting. The only artwork she’d studied had been in one of the shops that carried curios as well as unusual household items.

  Why can’t I remember?

  She opened her friend’s letter and relaxed. Emily remained in the country, but her letters were full of the latest gossip—generally supplied by her mother who lived in London. They also contained wonderful descriptions of balls and fetes her mother had attended. She thought she might have a pang of regret when she read about the latest fashions. She loved a new gown now and then. But even a story about Lydia tripping as she reached the top step of the entry to the Cranston’s ballroom didn’t make her want to go home.

  She loved it here, and she’d never want to be parted from John.

  She reread the letter, thought of what she might say in response, and stood at the window to watch the clouds in the sky turn orange as the sun set in the west.

  I’ve stayed too long again, and I shall be late for dinner.

  She hurried down the steps and stopped at the bottom. The door, always propped open, was firmly closed. Had she somehow dislodged the rock holding the door open? Shrugging, she pushed outward, but it didn’t budge.

  The door had long since lost its latch, but the rock holding it open had been huge. It couldn’t have rolled away by itself.

  Icy fear clawed the back of her neck. Last time she came here she was sure someone hid in the heavily wooded part of the path, watching her. Did that person return today and tamper with the doorstop?

  I heard nothing.

  The dim light quickly faded into total darkness. She shivered and made her way back up the stairs. Someone would miss her and come to find her.

  She wished she’d told John she was coming here, but if he knew how often she came here alone, he would not approve. Even though the tower was part of the ruins, it was sturdy. It was also close to the lane used to approach the house. But no one came this way unless they had business at the manor.

  A faint sound made her huddle in her chair. A baby’s cry?

  One of the cats must be out hunting.

  She lit the candle, grateful she’d had the foresight to keep one here. On drizzly afternoons, the light was too dim for reading. The candle helped brighten the interior, but in the dark, it cast ghostly shadows on the wall.

  Again, the premonition of evil made her shudder. Mama would say someone had walked across her grave, but Mama believed in old wives’ tales and often expounded on them.

  A sob, this time closer.

  There is no ghost. I shall not succumb to cowardly vapors. ’Tis the wind.

  She stood, hoisted the candle, and stood by the window. Perhaps someone would see it and report it to John. Where was he? Surely he’d noticed her absence by now. Sadie would be waiting with her dinner gown.

  Should she take the candle and go b
ack down? The thought of traversing the narrow steps in a dim light was daunting. No, she’d stay right here and wait. It was the safest thing to do.

  As long as I don’t believe in ghosts.

  A shadow moved against the wall. She clutched her chest, willing her heart to stop beating so hard. Her imagination was running wild. It was her own movement that caused the candle to flicker and her own body casting the shadow on the wall. Wasn’t it?

  She wrapped her arms around herself.

  Please let someone find me.

  It was going to be a long night.

  ~ ~ ~

  John slapped the ledger closed and finished his notation. A rumble in his stomach made him look at the clock. Long past their usual dining time. Gwen must be starved.

  Surprised she hadn’t come to get him, he made his way to the dining room where dishes and cutlery were laid out for their meal. Candles were lit, and a footman stood ready by the sideboard.

  “Is Mrs. Montague waiting for me in the drawing room?”

  “No, sir.”

  Odd. Gwen loved her meals as much as he did. It was one of the other things he liked about her. No dainty dining for his Gwen.

  He took the stairs two at a time and let himself into her room. Sadie sat mending next to the fireplace and looked up when he came in. “I’m trying to find my wife, but I see she is not here.”

  An alarmed look came over Sadie’s face. “She’s not with you? I thought you two were in the study. I’ve been waiting for her to change for dinner.”

  A tendril of fear curled in his gut. The fire had been too recent. The conclusions they’d drawn about someone wanting to do them harm rose in his mind.

  “I must find her.” He ran from the room, down the stairs, and burst into the kitchen, startling Mrs. Bertram. “Have you seen Lady Gwen? She said she was going to inspect the garden, but that was hours ago.”

  “I did see her out there earlier, but I thought she was in the study with you, sir. That’s why I’ve been holding off dinner. Usually she tells me when to serve.”

  He ran out back, but she wasn’t there. Grabbing a lantern with a fresh candle, he went to the stables and found the groom. “Did my wife take her horse out?”

  “No, sir. Her mare is here.”

  “I’m going to the steward’s cottage to see if she’s there. If not, I’ll be back at the manor, and we’ll organize a formal search.

  “Yes, sir.”

  He saddled his horse and galloped down the lane. Where did she say she was going? To write a letter, then to the garden, then on a walk? She liked to walk, said it was healthy to exercise, and had many favorite spots on the property. She wouldn’t have walked as far as the stream, and it made no sense for her to be in the woods. She must have stopped to visit Mary and stayed overlong.

  He wanted to be angry with her, but he couldn’t. She was too important to him. Bat wings fluttered in his stomach. Gwen was too trusting, too good. She was also smart. She wouldn’t have done anything foolish.

  That was what worried him most.

  She could be injured.

  He stopped at the cottage and dismounted. Mary and Lionel would have ended their duties for the day but would not yet be abed. He pounded on the door, and it was immediately opened.

  “My lord. Is something wrong?”

  “Is Lady Gwen here? She’s missing.”

  Mary bustled into view. “She’s not here. When did you last see her?”

  “In the afternoon. She said she might go walking, but she didn’t say where. Does she favor a particular path?”

  He was embarrassed to ask because he should know the answer. He pushed errant hair off his forehead and waited for her response.

  Mary’s hand flew to her mouth. “The ghost.”

  “What?”

  “The butcher’s boy brought a delivery an hour ago and was shaking like he’d seen the devil. He said he passed the tower, and a faint light shone from the windows. Lionel gave him brandy and sent him on his way.”

  “The tower?”

  “Yes, it’s milady’s favorite place.” Mary’s hands twisted in front of her. “You don’t suppose she’s there?”

  “Thank you.” He untied his horse and climbed into the saddle. The road to the ruins was dark. Ominous clouds, thicker now, had hovered all afternoon, hiding the sun. Soon it would rain. But Mary was right. A tiny light shone from the upper windows of the tower.

  He stopped below and cupped his hands.

  “Gwen!”

  The light moved, and a face appeared.

  Bloody hell. What’s she doing in there?

  He jumped off the horse and hurried around to the door. It was firmly closed. Footsteps clattered inside.

  “John?”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes. No. I can’t get the door open.”

  He tried it, but it was stuck. “Stay back. I need to find something to break it down.”

  A large rock, looking suspiciously like the one that once held the door open, had been rolled to the side. He reached down and picked up a smaller one, barely able to lift it. Hoisting it above his head, he threw the heavy rock into the door, splintering the brittle wood. Reaching through the hole, he tugged until the door finally sprang loose.

  Gwen rushed into his arms. He held her trembling body while she sobbed.

  “You’re safe, love. I’ll never let anything hurt you. But damn, you scared me.”

  She nodded against his shoulder.

  Tightening his hold, he kissed the top of her head. “Let’s go home.”

  Chapter 23

  Dinner was somber. As hungry as she’d been earlier, she could only pick at her meal. She’d told John about her previous visits to the tower, the accoutrements she’d had installed, and her enjoyment of the solitude it provided. Despite her calm recitation, her hands still trembled when she tried to take a bite. The experience had thoroughly shaken her.

  Leaving her dessert untouched, she put down her fork and went into the drawing room. John followed her.

  “Instead of tea, why don’t you try a glass of port. It will help calm your nerves.”

  She took the glass from his hand and sipped the drink. Smooth and sweet, it slid down her throat, the bouquet lingering on her tongue.

  “It’s good.”

  “Have you not had port before?”

  “Papa let me try it once. But Mama insisted ladies did not drink anything but tea after dining. It was my only experience.”

  He slid closer to her on sofa and took it from her hands. Setting it down, he put his arm around her and drew her to him, resting her head on his shoulder. “Did you hear anyone at the tower at any time?”

  “I was engrossed in the letter, and then I drew out a volume of poems and read for a while.”

  “There was no sound?”

  There had been, but its description would sound foolish to John. She considered answering in the negative but remembered their conversation about honesty.

  “The baby cried.”

  “The one supposedly taken away from its mother?”

  “Yes. I heard a cry. I thought it was one of the cats, but it was distinctive.”

  “It still could be a cat. Or another animal.”

  She drew back and glared at him. “I’m not making this up. You know I don’t believe in the story. It could have been a night bird or even a human mimicking a baby’s cry. But why, John? Why are these bizarre things happening to us?”

  He tugged her close again, kissing the top of her head. “I wish I knew. It is evident someone rolled the stone away from the door and closed it. I don’t think it was an accident. Someone wanted to lock you in the tower.”

  She shuddered, and John reached for the port, h
anding it to her. She took a sip, and then another. When she finished the glass, she rose. “I’m going to bed.”

  “You’ve had quite a day.” He rose with her, his warm hands cupping her face. Leaning down, he brushed her lips with his own. “Promise me one thing.”

  She touched her lips with her finger, wishing for more. “Yes?”

  “Do not read about any mad monks tonight.”

  He was good at coaxing smiles, and she obliged. “I won’t.”

  She climbed the stairs to her bedchamber where Sadie waited with Gwen’s nightclothes. “Do you wish anything else, milady?”

  “No. I’m going to sleep soundly tonight. John gave me a bit of his port, and I feel quite mellow.”

  “As good as a tonic, I say.” She helped Gwen undress, picked up the discarded gown, and went quietly out of the room. Gwen blew out the candle and climbed into bed. The window curtains were firmly closed, but she left her bed hangings open.

  She couldn’t believe anyone would want to frighten her, but that was what someone had done. Whoever did this must know John would search for her. If he hadn’t found her, he would have called Trevelyan, the groom, and others on the estate to help.

  Someone wished them ill, and they had no clue as to who it could be. Caulfield was too far away, not that she’d taken his threats seriously. And John had not dwelled here until his marriage. He couldn’t have annoyed anyone to the point of malice.

  A puzzle for sure, but one they had to solve before anything else happened.

  She must have drifted off to sleep because she awoke to the windowpanes rattling as a thunderstorm raged outside. The wind howled, sending rain pelting against the glass. A bolt of lightning lit up the room, followed by a loud crack of thunder.

  Gwen had never liked thunderstorms, and she cowered beneath the covers. Sadie knew about this fear, but she was the only one. Gwen had even kept it from Mama who thought she knew everything about her daughter. And Lydia, who only pretended to fear everything, would have laughed at her.