Chapter Twenty-four
Damien had known fear. He had led men across the field of battle with sword drawn and fear pumping through his veins.
He had faced down charging regiments of French cavalry, their eyes glazed with hate and vengeance.
He had heard the thunder of cannon, seen the grass suddenly explode beneath the feet of unsuspecting soldiers, helplessly listened to their agonizing screams of death.
He had smelled the thick smoke and blood of war.
Yet as Damien stood staring down at the skeletal remains of his wife, a wrenching cold invaded the deep recesses of his chest beyond any prior feeling. His mind and body were rendered motionless.
“Why have we stopped, Saunders? Have you found your bloody treasure?”
Poole. The tightness in Damien’s chest leaped to his throat. He swallowed hard, struggling to dislodge it. A whispering touch on his forearm startled him. He jerked away reflexively, then turned and found himself looking into Isabella’s wide violet eyes.
He saw her concern and her unspoken support. The tightness in his chest eased a fraction. Her comforting presences was a flickering light inside his tormented darkness.
“Get Poole out of here,” Damien muttered through clenched teeth, exhaling in relief when Isabella nodded in understanding.
“I want to turn back,” Isabella said in a voice that sounded high and strained to Damien’s ears. “Thomas, will you please escort me?”
For a split second, Damien thought Poole was leaving without protest, but fate refused to be so merciful.
“What is it? What have you found?” Lord Poole’s voice was riddled with suspicion as he charged forward, seeking to wheedle his way into the confined space.
Damien moved to block Poole’s advance, but Poole ignored the earl and pulled Isabella ruthlessly aside and successfully wedged himself into the small space she had previously occupied.
Damien watched with sickening dread as Lord Poole lifted his lantern shoulder high, further illuminating the gruesome scene.
“Damn. It’s a body,” Poole said with surprise. He squatted down for a closer look. “I think it’s a woman. These clothes look as though they might have once been a riding habit. Could it be Lady Anne?”
Damien forced himself to gaze down dispassionately while Poole continued his exploration. He knew that eventually Poole would recognize, as Damien had, the heavy gold signet ring still starkly in place on the bony hand. After all, Poole had given Emmeline the ring on her wedding day.
“The flesh has long since rotted from the bones, but ’tis strange to see her riding bonnet so perfectly placed on her head,” Lord Poole remarked casually.
Damien winced when Poole impersonally fingered the hem of the velvet skirt.
“I suspect that if we remove the hat, we will find her hair still neatly coiffed.”
“Don’t touch it!” Isabella screeched. “Please, Thomas, come away from there.”
“There is nothing to be afraid of, Isabella,” Lord Poole said soothingly, flashing her a superior smile. “This poor creature cannot possible harm you.”
“Please come away,” Isabella pleaded. She tugged insistently on his shoulder.
Lord Poole furrowed his brow and looked again at the corpse. When Damien saw the mild curiosity flee from Poole’s eyes and a wild hysteria burst forth, he knew the other man had realized it was not Lady Anne’s, but Emmeline’s, pitiful remains that were so grotesquely displayed.
“Mother of God, what have you done, Saunders? What have you done to my angel? I’ll kill you for this, you bastard!”
Poole threw his lantern to the floor, leaped to his feet, and lunged for Damien with both hands extended.
“Thomas, no!” Isabella stepped between the two men and Poole crashed into her. Damien felt the woosh of Isabella’s breath as she was crushed against his chest.
Crazed with fury and grief, Poole struck out with clenched fists. He swung fiercely, aiming for Damien’s head, but Damien, braced for the attack, ducked, pulling Isabella down with him so she wouldn’t be hurt.
“I am as shocked as you are, Poole. I never believed Emmeline drowned in the lake. These past years I have firmly believed she was alive,” Damien insisted, having difficulty dodging Poole’s blows in the confined space.
“Lies, all lies!” Poole shouted with a raging snarl.
Jenkins moved forward to lend assistance. When Poole tried landing another punch, the valet intercepted it, knocking Poole off balance.
Poole staggered back, but remained on his feet.
He glanced down again at what remained of Emmeline’s body, and in a flash the potent violence inside him seemed to vanish.
Visibly trembling, Poole helplessly crumpled to his knees, buried his face in his hands, and began howling like a wounded animal.
The shrill keening echoed off the thick stone walls, permeating Damien’s soul. He had never heard such cries of deep anguish and pain. Poole was delirious with grief.
“My little angel.” With a shaking hand, Poole reached out and stroked the billowing skirt slowly, lovingly. “My darling Emmeline.”
Isabella went down on one knee beside her brother. “I’m so sorry, Thomas,” she said tearfully, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. Poole appeared unaware of her gesture.
Damien watched them in silence. Poole’s whole body shook with deep, racking sobs. Damien’s vision blurred. He threw his head back and shut his eyes tightly.
The bitterness and resentment Damien had carried for so long in his heart toward his estranged wife was washed away, replaced by guilt and regret.
No matter how ill suited they were, no matter how unhappy and miserable they made each other, Damien never would have wanted Emmeline’s life to end in this horrible manner.
What had happened? Had she become accidently trapped in this passageway as Catherine and Isabella were this morning?
Damien felt nauseated at the idea. It was an unthinkably gruesome way to die.
He shuddered, barely able to imagine how greatly Emmeline must have suffered, locked away in this cold tomb waiting for death.
What in God’s name had she been doing in here? The questions crowded Damien’s mind, and he knew regretfully they might never be answered. Yet he owed it to Emmeline to try.
“Ride over to Glendale Manor at once and fetch our illustrious magistrate, Lord Rathwick,” Damien said to Jenkins, noticing how pale and shaken the valet appeared. “I want Lord Rathwick to see Emmeline’s remains before we remove them. Perhaps he can assist us in discovering what happened to her.”
Jenkins frowned. “Are you sure you want him here? We both know Rathwick is a braying ass.”
“There is no one else,” Damien said simply.
“Do you want me to help you get Lord Poole out of the passageway before I leave?” Jenkins asked. “I doubt he will be able to walk out under his own power.”
“His reason might completely snap if I try to force him away,” Damien replied. “We will wait for the magistrate. Perhaps his presence will ease Poole’s mind.”
Jenkins left the chamber quickly, leaving his lantern behind.
Deciding he wanted no further illumination of the haunting scene, Damien carefully pushed it along the edge of the wall and stood in front of it.
Poole’s lantern had gone out when he threw it away in such rage, so only a single lantern kept the darkness at bay.
Hunching his shoulders against the gray, gloomy atmosphere, Damien forced his mind to empty while he waited.
Isabella’s knee was numb, her back stiff, her fingers cold.
Yet she did not move from Lord Poole’s side.
His pain and misery had choked her tender heart with pity.
She felt driven to offer him whatever compassion she could, though she doubted he was aware of it.
He seemed utterly lost in his grief, beyond even the simplest comfort.
Damien stood silently in the background, his distance seemingly a calculated attempt to keep an emotional barrier between them.
“Please, Thomas, come away,” Isabella said, repeating her plea yet again, but to no avail. Lord Poole remained as he was, his eyes swimming with tears, his hands stroking the fabric of Emmeline’s gown. He seemed oblivious to Isabella’s concern.
Isabella turned to Damien helplessly and was surprised to read the frustration in his eyes. Apparently the earl was not as immune to the situation as his actions indicated.
“Jenkins has gone for the magistrate,” Damien said, with a grim stare. “They should arrive at any time.”
“Thank God,” Isabella muttered. She blew the wisps of hair that had fallen on her face from her eyes. “I doubt any of us can survive much more of this.”
“Poor devil,” Damien whispered, and Isabella’s heart constricted at the genuine sympathy she heard in his voice.
After an eternity, Jenkins arrived with Lord Rathwick in tow. Their presence relieved one problem but created another. The space was too narrow, too confined, to make a thorough investigation with so many people inside. Someone had to leave.
Bracing herself for the difficult task, Isabella tried to make Lord Poole understand. “Thomas, the magistrate has come. We must go outside.”
Several long, silent moments passed before Lord Poole slowly lifted his head. His eyes were vacant and unfocused. “We can’t leave Emmeline alone,” he whispered in horror.
“Of course not,” Isabella said soothingly, speaking in much the same manner she used when comforting Ian or Catherine. “Lord Rathwick will stay with her.”
Capitalizing on Lord Poole’s confused state, Isabella pressed her advantage, and with Jenkin’s help assisted her brother to his feet. Thomas swayed momentarily, then caught his balance and stiffened his spine. He looked neither left nor right as Isabella led him from the chamber.