Chapter Nineteen #3
Marcus watched, concealed by the evening shadows among the trees, as the seventh carriage that night passed through the iron gates of Price Ardsley's mansion.
The crunch of gravel beneath the carriage wheels grew fainter until the high and low seesaw pitch of cricket music again filled the quiet.
Marcus's horse shifted beneath him and he gave the animal a soothing stroke.
Steven's horse nickered softly, nuzzling his companion's nose, and Steven patted his shoulder.
Marcus looked at him. “What time is it?”
Steven pulled a pocket watch from the breast pocket of his suit. “Nearly eight,” he whispered, and slipped the watch back into its place.
Marcus returned his attention to the mansion. “Is that the last of them?”
“Unless Brentley rode with one of the other board members, no.”
“You are sure your vice-chairman will attend?”
Steven grunted. “Price would be glad not to have Brentley attend. Brentley is a thorn in his side. But Brentley has been chairman since the inception of the company and the other members would not attend a meeting of such importance without him.”
Steven peered down the road and they lapsed into silence. The cricket symphony abruptly halted and, an instant later, the faint clop of hooves and turning of carriage wheels sounded on the public road up ahead. Marcus squinted until the outline of a coach took shape in the darkness.
“Brentley,” Steven said.
The carriage passed through the gates and the darkness, once again, closed in around it. The nightlife sprang back to life. Still, Marcus waited several long moments, acutely aware of his companion's impatience before saying, “Now, Brother,” and urged his horse from the cover of trees.
They slowed their horses through the gates and onto the gravel of the private lane.
The cool air of fall brushed across Marcus's face, then snaked its way between his collar and neck in chilled fingers.
The road wound through the grounds until, at last, a faint glow lit a beacon through the thick trees to the left.
The road made a sudden left turn and the mansion came into view, two gas lights blazing on each side of the doors.
No servant waited to greet them. All expected guests had arrived.
Both men dismounted at the base of the stairs and hurried to the door.
Steven entered with Marcus close behind.
A butler appeared from a door at the end of the hallway carrying a tray laden with decanter and glasses.
“Sir!” he cried, rattling the tray.
“Simons,” Steven replied, and started up the grand black walnut stairway to his right.
“Sir,” Simons called again as Marcus followed Steven up the staircase.
“I'll see myself to the second floor,” Steven called over his shoulder.
The tray was set down with a clatter and was followed by the light tread of feet on the stairs behind them.
“Simons is persistent,” Steven said in a low voice, taking the stairs two at a time.
The staircase followed the wall straight up to the second floor. The landing turned sharply left at the top. Marcus strode down the corridor alongside Steven, who stopped at the fifth door on the left.
“Sir,” Simons called from the landing.
Steven reached for the doorknob and Marcus saw his hand shake.
“Lad,” he said, gently.
“Sir!” Simons cried, his voice nearly hysterical. “You know how Mr Ardsley does not like strangers upstairs.” Simons had nearly reached them.
Steven looked at Marcus, gave a single nod, then said as he pushed open the door, “He's no stranger, Simons; he is my brother-in-law.”
The words “brother-in-law” rang in the silence of the bedchambers.
Simons hit the doorframe with an audible slap. “Mr Ardsley, sir,” he said between heavy breaths, “I tried stopping them.”
Marcus locked gazes with the powerfully-built golden-haired man who stood nearest the bed.
He looked to be about ten years older than himself.
He outweighed Marcus by twenty pounds, but his fit frame testified that he wasn't a man given to excessive drinking or any such habits that would quicken the infirmities of age.
Cold blue eyes stared back at Marcus. Here, at last, he understood what Elise so feared.
“I am—” Simons began, but Price Ardsley said in a quiet voice, “Go along, Simons. We're fine.” Price shifted his gaze to Steven. “Steven, I wasn't expecting you.”
“I am sure,” Steven remarked.
Ardsley focused on Marcus, and said, “Sir?”
His tone was quizzical, but Marcus understood the flicker of expression that had said, Lord Ashlund, you are a surprise.
“Pardon me, Gentlemen,” Marcus said, and brushed past the men who stood in stunned silence.
He felt Price's eyes settle on him as he sat on the bed beside the woman Price claimed was Elise.
Marcus took her cold, limp hand in his and lifted it to his lips.
“Elise,” he said in a choked whisper, then gently lay her hand upon her breast. Sliding his arms beneath her, he lifted her, bed covers and all, from the bed.
A chorus of protests sounded as Marcus turned toward the men gathered in the room.