Chapter 37
Clara placed David down in the crib. Then she rushed to the door.
Locked, of course. She tried the other door on the far side of the room and found it gave.
Relief flooded through her, and she hurried through into what turned out to be a dressing room.
A second door led out into the hall. That one, too, was locked.
She pressed her hand to her mouth. What was she supposed to do?
She could not simply sit and wait for rescue.
Whoever owned this house had to be a relation or friend of the Devereau family so distant that even his own cousin did not know of its existence, which meant in all likelihood nobody would ever think to look here.
She forced a breath out slowly, willing her heart to stop racing.
If she wanted to save David from his horrid father, she would have to find a way out herself.
She tried the windows. Each was shut fast. She looked out into the dark.
A flash of lightning lit the grounds for a fraction of a second, just long enough to confirm what she had already feared: they were very high up.
She had wondered whether there might be a portico below, something a person might lower herself onto, but there was nothing.
A straight fall of two floors. Neither of them would survive it, and even if she did, she would have to crawl, presumably with broken legs, through the night with nowhere to crawl to.
She had no idea where she was. Was there a village nearby? Would anyone help if there were?
Sebastian Devereau seemed certain that Arabella would come. Knowing her friend, she very likely would. But that would do none of them any good. Even if Arabella signed every paper he wanted, there was no way he’d let them go. Not now. They would meet a grizzly end if she did not find a way out.
No. She was not going to wait here for rescue. That much had become entirely clear. She had to find her own way out, and then she had to find some way to stop Arabella before she walked into the same trap.
The scandal sheets, she thought suddenly. The moment she was free, she and Julian would have to take the entire truth to the papers—the marriage, the child, all of it. She could not allow this man to harm anyone else.
Perhaps Julian will find me yet. Perhaps he will work it out.
No. She shook her head firmly. She did not know why that particular hope kept rising in the back of her mind, but she pushed it down.
Julian was not coming, not for her. If he came at all, it would be for David, because David was his blood in all the ways that mattered now, and not for her.
Or if he did come for her, it would only be out of obligation.
He did not love her. He had said as much, near enough, to Nathaniel.
He does not love me. No one is coming to save me. I will have to save myself.
She walked back to the crib where David lay awake, making contented little gurgling sounds. He reached his small hands up towards her, and she shook her head gently, laying one hand on his stomach. “Not just now, sweet love. I must find a way out first.”
She opened every drawer and every armoire in both rooms, hoping for a key.
There was nothing. She pressed her ear to each door in turn, hoping to hear a servant she might appeal to—surely if Giacomo had despised this man enough to help Arabella escape, there had to be others who knew exactly what sort of man he was.
But beyond the doors, there was only silence.
After the better part of an hour searching both chambers and finding no way out, she sat on the edge of the bed beside the crib and lay back.
This could not be happening. She had not survived everything she had survived only to be trapped now in someone else’s fortress, and she was certainly not going to give up her own life, or David’s, to a man like Sebastian Devereau.
She sat up sharply and leaned back against the headboard, scanning the room once more, and then she saw it. Directly across from her, behind the heavy armoire, something cut a thin line through the wall, visible only by the light from the fire that sat in the corner opposite. She tilted her head.
She crossed the room and ran her fingers along the gap. Could it be...
She pushed gently against the wall and heard a soft click. The panel gave a fraction.
A jib door.
Quickly, she set about moving the armoire, which proved more difficult than she had anticipated. It was solid mahogany and refused to budge at first. Then it scraped against the floorboards with a sound that made her gasp and freeze.
She waited several long minutes, listening, but nobody came. She returned to the armoire, this time emptying it of everything inside to lighten it, and she finally managed to shift it enough to clear the door.
She took up the candle she had been using to search the chamber and stepped through.
It was a long, dark passage, and dust caught in her throat. She walked its length, judging it ran roughly the distance of the hallway outside, running her hands along the wall as she went, but it appeared solid the entire way.
Her heart sank, and she turned back and tried the other direction instead.
There, she had better luck. She remembered her grandparents’ house, once a monastery, had several rooms with two doors apiece—not a common feature, but one many older houses retained from earlier purposes.
It was that memory that had given her the idea to look for one here at all.
She pushed against the panel and peered carefully through the gap before stepping out into a darkened drawing room, every piece of furniture shrouded in white sheets.
The house, clearly, saw little use. She moved carefully through it and into the next room, a music room, equally covered, and through a third, until she found an unlocked balcony door.
She stepped outside. The wind tore at her gown at once. She leaned over the railing and saw a flat section of roof below, the covering over the front entrance. She studied it and realized she could climb the railing and lower herself onto it, and from there reach the ground.
Then she could run. But David.
She could not carry him and climb at the same time. She would need both hands free.
Perhaps she could get herself down first then re-enter through the front door or the servants’ entrance, find her way back to the chamber and bring David out that way. No. That door was locked. That plan would not serve either.
She looked back into the dim room. This route would not work for both of them. She needed another way.
Perhaps she could simply carry David through the house itself, down the main stairs, and slip out through the front door directly. That, she decided, was likely her only real option. There was no way to manage both the climb and the child.
She would have to trust that David did not cry out as she carried him through this strange house and down whatever stairs she found.
At this hour, the house was very likely locked up tight, especially given that they were keeping prisoners inside it.
But the servants’ quarters were probably her best route out—servants came and went more often.
There would likely be windows low enough to manage even with a child in her arms. It was the only way, and she meant to find it.
She turned, picked up the candle again, and made her way back through the three covered rooms and through the connecting door, pausing for a long moment to make sure nobody had entered the chamber in her absence.
Then she hurried to the crib. To her relief, David’s eyes were already open which meant she would not have to risk waking him and setting off the wailing that so often followed an unexpected disturbance.
She lifted him against her chest and took up the candle once more.
“You must be very quiet, David. Please promise me you will be quiet. I am going to take you out of here, and then we shall find your mama. I promise you. All you need do for me is stay quiet.”
To her relief, he nuzzled against her, his small head settling on her shoulder, as though he understood every word.