Chapter 4 #3
Sucking in a few deep, steadying breaths, she peeped over the stair rail.
Some grand houses kept a night footman in the hall, for security and in case of unexpected callers.
Such a footman, however, would have a lamp.
The hall of Walgrave House lay dark beneath her, apart from a pale shaft of moonlight from the fanlight above the door.
Elf crept downstairs, testing each step for squeaks before putting her full weight upon it.
Each was solid as rock. Hardly surprising. Until six months ago, this house had belonged to the old earl—the Incorruptible. He’d been a stiff-rumped old tyrant who would no more let a stair squeak than he’d let his daughter marry against his wishes.
Even so, she sighed with relief to step onto the cool tiles of the hall floor. Now she could think clearly.
Outside, there might be waiting assassins. Before leaving the house, she must find a weapon.
Aided by the weak moonlight, she methodically checked rooms until she found the one she wanted—Walgrave’s study, where she had the best chance of finding pistols.
The curtains were drawn, so she had to take the risk of opening them, wincing at the rattle. That gave her light enough to search the room. In some drawers beneath a bookcase she found a pistol case containing two beautiful dueling pieces.
From his spot in the shadows in the lane between Walgrave House and its neighbor, Kenny watched the curtains in one window draw back.
Unfortunately, his head was a few feet below the windowsill, so he couldn’t see into the room.
A rum do, though. The servants were surely long since in bed, so it must be the earl.
Rum. Very rum.
If Kenny had that round-heeled wench in his power for the night, the earl wouldn’t be wandering around the house fiddling with curtains.
Kenny shared his leader’s suspicion of the haughty earl, and this business didn’t seem right. He wished he had something to climb on so he could look into the room.
He hadn’t, though, so he shrugged and went back to picking his teeth, keeping even closer watch.
In the study, Elf thanked heaven for a twin who’d liked to teach her everything he knew.
Taking up one pistol, she poured in the right amount of powder, dropped the prepared ball into the muzzle, and rammed it home.
Then she filled the pan with fine priming powder.
When it was ready, she settled it carefully in her right-hand pocket and prepared to face the outside world.
Peering through the window, she saw it looked out onto the narrow lane between the houses, a promisingly pitch-dark area. The sill was a good eight feet off the ground but she should be able to drop that far without injury.
She hesitated only because of the night doorman who surely sat outside the main doors.
She didn’t give much for her chances of scrambling out and landing so silently that he didn’t hear.
She also had the pistol to think about. In theory, it couldn’t go off until cocked, but gunpowder was chancy stuff.
No, she’d have to ignore the tempting lane and take her chances with the servants’ quarters.
Mack slouched against a wall in the lane leading to the mews. Lanterns glimmered outside the nearby stables whose lofts were full of sleeping grooms and coachmen, but the mews lane itself lay dark and silent.
Mack leaned back, watching the gardens of Walgrave House, but he was having a hard time staying awake. He’d been up all last night, dicing, then tumbling a wench or two, and he’d rather be in his bed asleep.
Waste of time anyway, this was. If the earl hadn’t wanted the titty, he’d have taken her somewhere else. He wasn’t going to change his mind an hour later and throw her out.
In Mack’s opinion, Michael Murray worried too much.
Truth to tell, Mack didn’t have much feeling over this business. He was heart and soul for the Stuarts, who by God-given right should be kings of Scotland and England. He’d inherited that from his father and grandfather, who’d both fought for the cause.
But he wished he’d been born in a time when a man could prove it with sword and blood. Instead, here he was, sneaking around London spying and pilfering, and yawning against a rough wall in the dead hours of the night.
Elf eased open a paneled oak door at the back of the hall and found herself, as she expected, in the much plainer servants’ quarters. She made herself wait and listen, but when she heard no trace of movement, she went through and closed the door gently behind her.
With the door open, she had seen a corridor. With it shut, she stood in pitch darkness. Again, she moved forward cautiously, trying to use other senses to guide her. The darkness pressed, and she began to imagine the walls closing in to smother her.
She stopped and sucked in a deep breath, forcing control.
There. A ticking clock! That had to be the kitchen. She groped toward the sound, feeling along the wall until she found a door. She should have paused. She should have been careful, but her need to escape the suffocating darkness drove her. She turned the knob and went in.
Light.
It was only the glow of the banked fire, but it seemed like bright sunlight after such blackness. She gasped for breath, trying to do it silently, for she’d already seen the humped shapes of at least three servants on mattresses on the floor.
A shape stirred.
Her calming heart scurried again.
A cat meowed.
It came over to weave around her ankles, threatening to trip her. She scooped it up and stroked it, making subdued soothing noises.
None of the servants seemed to have woken. Working morn till night, they’d not rouse easily from their rest. She just had to be careful not to bang anything, and here that wasn’t so easy. Certainly she had the firelight to help her, but the room was full of furniture and utensils.
She didn’t dare put down the cat, which lay heavily contented in her arms, so she couldn’t manage her wide skirts and cloak.
Oh well, she could see a small window and a door beside it. More than likely that door led to the outside. If she woke anyone, she’d make a run for it.
She began to thread her way between bodies and furniture, forcing herself to go very slowly. Three-quarters of the way to the doorway, a servant heaved over with a mumble.
She froze.
The man settled to sleep again, still muttering.
Elf risked putting the cat down, and ignored its brushing warmth against her ankles as she went the last few steps and turned the knob.
The door didn’t move!
It took a few moments for common sense to overrule panic. Of course they’d keep the house locked.
Grasping the heavy iron key, she tried to turn it gently, but the lock was too stiff. In the end, she had to use all her strength and the click-clunk of the lock echoed through the room.
She froze again, pointlessly holding her breath.
One servant half sat up, muttering, “Wha—?”
Elf stayed statue-still, though she felt her thundering heart must be audible.
After a moment, the man settled down again, but she couldn’t be sure he’d returned to deep sleep. She made herself count slowly to two hundred before she risked turning the knob again and easing open the door.
For a blessing, the door didn’t squeak but opened silently into a small yard. She went through, eased the door shut again, then leaned against the high stone wall, shaking.
Oh, how she wished for a magic wand to waft her out of this situation.
Adventure was actually no fun at all!
She wanted to be safe in her luxurious bedchamber, with servants to attend to every wish. She wanted her brothers, and their protection solidly around her. Instead, she had escaped an imprisoning house only to be out alone in the middle of the night with murderers quite likely hovering nearby.
Her teeth were chattering, surely loud enough to be heard if anyone was nearby.
But then she managed to control the panic. She didn’t have a choice, and as the old saying went, “What can’t be changed, must be endured.”
And she was a Malloren.
With a Malloren, all things are possible.
She’d come to think that the bane of her life, being a Malloren.
It meant every act was of interest to society.
It meant having four brothers determined to protect her from every hurt, and well able to do so.
It meant she stepped with care through life because she didn’t want men out at dawn trying to kill one another.
She’d learned that lesson at eighteen when she’d foolishly encouraged a dashing young rake, underestimating his intentions. When she’d resisted his seduction, he’d tried to force her. He’d been lucky. Rothgar’s sword had merely disabled his right arm.
Permanently.
Though Scottsdale had deserved his punishment, Elf had learned her lesson. She’d put no more men in danger, especially her brothers. After all, there must be swordsmen in the world even more skilled than the Mallorens.
She’d seen Walgrave fence and knew he was good, though not as good as her brothers. He’d apparently been training hard since Cyn beat him, though. He’d almost managed to force her brother Bryght into a duel last year. Presumably he’d love to confront Brand or Rothgar over rapiers, over her.
Elf had no intention of being the cause of more death or maiming, so she’d have to get out of this entanglement by herself.
Taking a deep breath, she forced her heart to calm a little more. Thus far, she was living up to her Malloren name. She’d succeeded in the first stage of her escape.
Clearly no one lurked in this small yard, which by the smell contained only the privy and some slop buckets. She couldn’t hear any nearby sounds of movement, which meant no one was coming to investigate the noises she had made.
So where could she expect to find watchers? One at the front and one at the back? Which direction should she choose?
“Oh, the pox on it!” she muttered, borrowing her twin brother’s language, hoping to get his confidence, too.