Chapter 2 #2
Last night she might have settled in the chair, believing herself safe. Tonight, fear stood at her shoulder, and she reached for the pistol on the mantel instead of the blanket.
Dread knotted in her stomach. She crept to the front door and scattered tacks along the threshold, as she had done every night since the first attack at her lodging house in Clerkenwell.
She knew what the blackguard wanted. The valise. He would fight to the death for it, but she had hidden it in the one place no mortal man dared to venture.
Instinct made her snuff out the candle and move cautiously to the window, keeping to the edges of the room. Her senses betrayed her: the rustle of leaves became footsteps, the groan of boughs became the creak of the back door.
Then the darkness shifted beyond the gate—subtle at first, but the shadow thickened to flesh before her eyes. A figure emerged from the night: tall, athletic, dressed head to toe in black. A beaked half-mask hid all but his mouth and the hard line of his jaw.
He had come.
Her faceless pursuer.
The devil who haunted her dreams and every waking hour between.
She turned to the African greys, resting quietly on their perch, and whispered, “It’s time for the play to begin. The countess will care for you now.”
At the clap of her hands, the birds broke into chorus, shrieking every phrase they had ever learned. “Time for an encore. Take a bow. Who’s there? Close the door. Hush now.” On and on they went as she slipped out through the back door and hurried down the garden path, every step mapped in her mind.
The graveyard loomed ahead, an eerie wilderness of stone crosses and moss-cloaked memorials. She passed through the rusty iron gate, opened earlier to silence its groan, and entered the domain of the dead.
The air smelled of damp earth and decay, yet tonight it was her sanctuary.
She made for the mausoleum, its crumbling grandeur rising like a forgotten Roman temple, and hid behind a column.
A line from Shelley came to her: here peace dwelled, wrapped in silence.
A reminder there was nothing to fear. At least, not until the devil’s call sliced through the chill night air.
“I know you’re out here.” The gate creaked, then came the measured clip of boots on the cobbled path, the cold click of his hammer. “This time, there’ll be no second chances. There was nothing but pauper’s paste in your box of jewels.”
She remained as still as those in the coffins, head bent, breathing into her chest to avoid the telltale mist in the air.
“Give me what I want, and I’ll let you live.” The voice came from her left. No, from her right. It was impossible to tell. “I know you have it.”
The irony was that she didn’t know what trinket he sought among those packed into the old leather valise. She suspected he didn’t either. The thought chilled her to the bone. What if the thing he wanted wasn’t there and he hunted her forevermore?
The sudden crack of a twig confirmed he was close.
What to do? Run? Remain rooted? Pray?
Her mind raced through every scenario, but a shadow lunged from the right. A gloved hand seized her wrapper, yanking hard, dragging her onto the path.
Her pistol discharged amid the panic, the deafening clap ringing in her ears as the shot went wide. The acrid swirl of smoke and sulphur did nothing to deter her attacker. He wrenched the weapon from her hand, flinging it aside, then closed his fingers around her throat.
“Tell me where it is.” The reek of liquor filled her nose as he squeezed tighter, thumbs pressing on her windpipe. “I know he gave it to you.”
Desperation gave her strength. She would not die here. Not tonight. She twisted, driving her knee into his groin and wrenching herself free.
He let out a guttural cry, doubling over, and she stumbled to her feet and ran. Branches tore at her sleeves. She slipped on mossy stones, but the gate gaped ahead, and beyond stretched the dark lane.
A sinister laugh followed. “There’s nowhere to run. Save your legs and your breath. I’ll wring the truth from you, even if it takes until morning.”
Though her heart hammered and defeat seemed inevitable, she hiked up her nightclothes and ran until her lungs burned. Behind her, the devil jogged, confident he would catch his prey.
Then the thunder of hooves shook the ground beneath her feet. A muscled black stallion burst from the gloom, rearing as its rider fired a warning shot into the night air.
Olivia blinked, caught between shock and wild relief.
The marquess had returned. He’d come back for her.
“Miss Woolf,” he growled, settling the beast with utter mastery. “Put your foot in the stirrup. Give me your hand. Now! Hurry!”
There was no time to protest. She reached for him as he leant down, his iron grip seizing her wrist and hauling her up as though she weighed no more than a child.
She landed hard against him, swamped by his size and the solid breadth of his chest. His arm locked around her waist, holding her steady as the stallion surged forward.
Her attacker roared behind them, the crack of a pistol splitting the night. The ball sang past, harmless, yet close enough to make her flinch against the marquess’ coat.
“Get down!” Lord Rothley barked, forcing her to shrink lower against him as the horse thundered along the lane. “And for heaven’s sake, hold on.”
She clung to him, cheek pressed to his chest, arms locked tight about his waist. The fierce rhythm of his breathing reminded her how close she had come to dying.
“What made you come back?” she asked, afraid she might never let go of him, knowing she owed him her life now. He could ask anything and she would have to agree. She was forever in his debt.
“A sick feeling in my gut,” he said, cursing her attacker and promising to end the man once he was caught. “It was as if I felt your fear calling me. If I’d ignored it … if I hadn’t turned back …” He muttered another profanity.
“It helps not to dwell on what might have been.”
A mirthless laugh escaped him. “I’ve spent my entire life failing to do exactly that. It’s the bane of my existence.”
“We’re alive. That’s all that matters.”
“Yes, but not free of the torment.” He paused, the next words almost apologetic. “I may have led him here. In coming to offer sanctuary, I almost lost you in the process.”
Lost her? He made it sound like they were star-crossed lovers, bound by fate, as if nothing mattered but finding each other. If she were not careful, this man might slip past her guard.
“None of this is your fault.” What mattered now was where to go and what to do. “I’ll need to ask the countess to take care of the birds while I devise a plan.”
She felt the weight of his gaze before he spoke. “Rest now. We’ve a long ride ahead. We’ll discuss this once we’re home.”
“Home?” She swallowed the lump in her throat. The only home she had known burned to the ground when she was fourteen. She had not stayed in one place longer than six months since.
“Studland Park.” He gave her no chance to protest. “My offer still stands. Let me help you escape your past. In turn, help me escape mine. I’ll afford you every freedom. You have my word.”
She sat with that thought, trying to imagine how a marriage of friendship might work, but every problem she could conceive surfaced. “I wasn’t raised to hold such an elevated position.”
“Yet you’re the most graceful woman I know.”
Oh, this conversation was more dangerous than pistol fire. “Says the man accused of keeping a harem of women in his cellar. People don’t invent such things without reason.”
“That’s something you must judge for yourself. We’ll discuss it over a late supper, in the safety of my drawing room.”
They reached the King’s Road tollhouse, a modest brick cottage not unlike the one she had left behind. Even now she pictured the felon rifling through drawers and cupboards, desperate to uncover the item that eluded them both.
“We need to rescue the birds tonight.”
“I’ll have my coachman ride out,” the marquess said, drawing his stallion to a halt at the tollgate. He slid his hand between them, his fingers brushing her body with a husband’s familiarity, and drew a coin from his pocket. “Trust me, no one wants to meet Kincaid on a dark road.”
A shutter opened, the gatekeeper’s face ghostly in the lamplight. Rothley passed him a penny without a word. The man ducked his head, raised the bar, and they were away again.
“You have a house in town. Can we not rest there?” The plea was born of a need to put some distance between them, to gather her wits.
“I can protect you better at Studland Park.”
“How far is it?”
“Six miles. An hour’s ride, if I keep a steady pace.”
An hour pressed so close she could feel each breath and shift of muscle? An hour to decide how to repay her debt to him without risking her heart? It would feel like a lifetime.
Even this late at night, they drew looks from those souls still abroad. What must people think? “The gossip will be rife tomorrow. They’ll say you kidnapped a maiden in her nightclothes and paraded her through the city.”
“You’ll be the latest addition to my non-existent harem. I can add devil and despoiler to my litany of sins.”
Sadness crept into her heart. He had saved her life and did not deserve their censure. “The only name that springs to my mind is hero.”
His sharp intake of breath matched her own. It was a foolish thing to say. Now he would think … she didn’t know what he would think, and so held her tongue all the way to Islington.
She must have closed her eyes, for she started at the sound of his deep, steady voice. “We’ve arrived at Studland Park, Miss Woolf.”
They were already halfway up the long, sweeping drive when Olivia raised her head and almost slipped from the horse in shock.
Studland Park rose from the darkness, a vast palace of pillars and pediments, built for gods, not mortals.
It stood as a monument to irony. With its countless sash windows, one might expect clarity, yet for a decade the marquess had battled in the dark.
Candlelight spilt from every room, though the chambers lay empty.
He rarely entertained guests. Few people were welcome here.
The house was nothing but an illusion.
A gilded cage.
A prison masquerading as his sanctuary.
“Don’t be alarmed,” the marquess said, sensing her unease. “Like its master, the house is far less intimidating than it appears.”
Strange that a man so perceptive couldn’t see what was plain to her.
Sadness clung to these majestic walls as it did to the air about him.
He didn’t terrify her. He intrigued her, as a line of poetry did, a mystery begging to be unravelled.
What lay beyond these walls and his words fascinated her more than it should.
“Things are never as they seem.”
“Including you?” he said.
“Including me. You would be wise to return me to World’s End.” It was only right she should give him fair warning. “The last thing you need is another burden. The wrong company won’t ease your loneliness.”
He snorted. “Is that what you think I am? Lonely?”
The hollow look in his eyes spoke of a man more isolated by wealth than enriched by it. “Yes, and so tethered to the past, you’re in danger of ruining your future.”
He offered no quip, only brought the stallion to a halt before the grand entrance, its columns soaring skyward, too vast for mortal hands to have raised. A footman hurried down the steps, livery gleaming, his buttons as polished as his bow.
The marquess made no move to dismount. He kept her locked between his powerful arms, bent his head, and whispered, “I need you to cut the tethers. I need to leave the past behind. We both do.”
He spoke with finality, as if he believed this moment might determine the course of their lives. How did one change such a stubborn man’s mind? How could she explain she was no one’s saviour?
“Help Miss Woolf down, Albert. Take her arm. An hour in the saddle can unsettle anyone.”
The footman bowed low. “My lord.”
He moved swiftly to her side, supporting her as she slid to the ground. But aching muscles were not the problem. The chill breeze tugged at her nightclothes, and she found herself longing for the solid warmth of Lord Rothley’s chest.
Dismounting with ease, the marquess patted the stallion’s neck and stroked his nose. “Tell Lumsden to take extra care of Hector tonight. We’ve put him through his paces. There’s a discharged pistol in the saddlebag. See it’s cleaned and returned to my case.”
“Yes, my lord.”
And then the marquess’ hand was at her back, guiding her up the broad staircase towards the great oak doors. “I know it’s late. But we must come to an understanding before we retire tonight.”
Perhaps he might come to his senses. Perhaps she might persuade him that marriage was a foolish endeavour. That the solution to one problem might well ruin their lives.
They entered the hall, and she almost lost her footing.
She didn’t know where to look: at the gleaming marble floor, a mosaic of cream, black and gold, at the Roman statues standing in silent judgement in their grand alcoves.
It was magnificent, yet left her cold. Beneath the splendour, she felt only sadness for the man who called this place home.
“Thank goodness you’re back, my lord.” A slender, dignified woman of middle years hurried forward, a lace cap set neatly over dark hair. “I’ve been pacing the hall for half an hour.”
The marquess arched a brow. “I’m not a boy in shorts, Mrs Boswell, though I am glad you’re not abed.” He glanced at Olivia. “Miss Woolf will need a room prepared, and we’ll require a light supper in my private drawing room. A simple collation will do.”
Mrs Boswell paled. She cast a glance at the door to her left, as though the Beast of Blackwall were locked inside. “My lord. There’s something you should know. You must prepare yourself.”
“From your grave expression, I take it disaster has struck. Speak, Mrs Boswell.”
The woman pressed her hand to her chest. “You have a visitor, my lord, waiting in the antechamber.”
The marquess frowned. “A visitor? At his hour? Is it Daventry?”
Mrs Boswell’s gaze flicked to Olivia, softening in silent apology. “No, my lord. It’s … It’s—”
“Spit it out, Mrs Boswell.”
The poor woman never had the chance. The antechamber door opened, and a vision of golden hair stepped gracefully into the hall.
Her beauty struck like a blow. When she smiled, the world seemed to hold its breath.
She dropped into a deep curtsy and said, with devastating familiarity, “Hello, Gabriel.”