Chapter 11
It was generally agreed that the night had been… unsettled. Dogs had barked. Livestock had stirred. More than one soul confessed to hearing sounds upon the wind for which no satisfactory explanation readily presented itself.
The countess had grown heavy-eyed by the time they finished their meal, her earlier energy fading like sunlight retreating before an advancing storm. Verity rose from her chair and moved to assist the old woman, taking her arm with gentle firmness.
“Come, my lady. Let me help you to bed.”
Lady Blackfen did not protest, which was perhaps the surest sign of her exhaustion. She allowed Verity to guide her through the connecting door into her bedchamber, leaning more heavily on the younger woman’s arm than she had the previous evening.
The bedchamber was warm, the fire having been built up by some unseen servant during their dinner.
Verity helped the countess settle onto the edge of the massive four-poster bed, then knelt to remove her slippers.
The old woman’s feet were cold despite the thick woolen stockings, and Verity chafed them gently between her palms before tucking them beneath the coverlet.
“You are a good girl,” Lady Blackfen murmured, her eyes already drooping. “Too good for this house, perhaps. But then, we Northwoods have always had a talent for acquiring things beyond our deserving.”
Verity did not know how to respond to that, so she simply smiled and drew the quilts up to the countess’s chin. Her mind returned, as it had done repeatedly throughout dinner, to Lucien. To the terrifying uncertainty of their situation.
I should find him. Talk to him tonight.
The thought was bold, inappropriate even. One did not simply demand an audience with an earl, particularly not after dark, particularly not when the subject of discussion was the loss of one’s virtue upon his study floor.
But they had made love. Surely, that changed the rules of propriety.
And with Robert Fynn lurking somewhere in the vicinity, ready to appear first thing in the morning with his lies and accusations, it seemed foolish to wait.
Better to speak with Lucien now, while the memory of their intimacy was still fresh, while the warmth of his protection still surrounded her like a cloak.
“My lady,” Verity said softly, “do you know where Lord Blackfen might be at this hour?”
The countess’s eyes fluttered open, though they seemed to focus on something far beyond the confines of the room. “Lucien? The moon is full tonight. He will be near the stables, I expect. He always is when the moon is bright. Just like his father.”
The stables?
“Thank you, my lady. I shall?—”
“Read to me first.” The command emerged with surprising clarity, cutting through the drowsy fog that had settled over the old woman. “There is a book on the table. That Radcliffe woman. I find her tales soothing.”
Verity glanced about and found a well-worn volume of The Mysteries of Udolpho. She picked it up, noting the ribbon marking what appeared to be a much-read passage, and settled into the chair beside the bed.
“Where shall I begin, my lady?”
“Anywhere. It matters not. I simply wish to hear a voice as I fall asleep. The silence in this house can be … oppressive.”
Verity opened the book to the marked page and began to read, her voice soft but clear in the firelit room.
She endeavoured to strengthen her mind by the aid of reason; to convince herself that many of the terrors she felt were the offspring of a distempered imagination, and that, if she yielded to their influence, she should only increase the evils she suffered.
She recalled the arguments she had formerly heard on the subject of superstition, and endeavoured to apply them to her present situation.
These reflections gradually calmed her spirits; but still the gloom of the surrounding objects, the silence that reigned around, broken only by the sighing of the winds, or the distant murmur of the woods, disposed her to a pensive sadness.
She blamed herself for indulging apprehensions which had no foundation in reason, and which served only to obscure her judgment and weaken her fortitude.
“All depends upon ourselves,” said she, “and our own powers; he who yields to fear, gives it power over him.”
Yet, though her judgment acknowledged the truth of this assertion, her heart did not entirely obey it.
The influence of imagination sometimes prevailed over reason, and she could not banish from her mind a thousand vague terrors, which pressed upon it with irresistible force.
Still, she resolved to struggle against these illusions; and, by exerting the powers of her understanding, to overcome the weakness of her fears.
Thus, while she felt the necessity of submitting to reason, she experienced how difficult it is to command the feelings of the heart, when they are acted upon by circumstances of gloom and solitude.
She closed the book and set it aside, watching the old woman’s face in the flickering light.
Lady Blackfen looked peaceful now, her features softened by slumber.
Whatever strange fancies occupied her waking mind, they did not seem to trouble her dreams. The countess’s breathing was slow and even, her hands folded upon her chest like a marble effigy in some ancient church.
Verity rose quietly from the chair, her movements careful and deliberate so as not to disturb the sleeping woman. The fire had burned low, casting long shadows across the bedchamber, and the wind had picked up outside, moaning softly against the windowpanes like a lost soul seeking entry.
You cannot simply wander the halls searching for an earl in the middle of the night.
The thought arrived with all the stern propriety of a governess’s admonishment. A respectable young woman did not go roaming about a gentleman’s estate after dark, seeking out her employer for conversations that could not possibly wait until morning.
And yet Verity was already reaching for her cloak, her fingers moving with a will of their own as she fastened it securely at her throat and stepped into her half boots.
The corridors of Blackfen Castle could be treacherous after dark, full of unexpected drafts and uneven flagstones, and she had no desire to catch her death of cold or break an ankle in pursuit of a man who might not even wish to be found.
She slipped out of the countess’s apartment and into the darkened hall beyond.
The sconces had been extinguished for the night, leaving only the pale moonlight filtering through the occasional window to guide her way.
She moved carefully, one hand trailing along the wall for balance, her footsteps whispering against the ancient stones.
Perhaps he has already retired. I should check his chamber first.
She set out with no clear plan beyond movement. The house lay hushed around her, steeped in that peculiar silence belonging only to great estates at night. A silence that seemed not merely empty of sound, but watchful.
Verity paused at the first junction, uncertain.
By day, Blackfen Castle had felt imposing yet navigable.
By night, it became something else entirely.
Corridors stretched into shadow. Staircases emerged without warning.
Moonlight spilled through tall windows in pale, shifting bands that illuminated one stretch of carpet while abandoning the next to darkness.
She chose a passage at random.
Her half boots made no sound upon the runner, yet the air felt charged with the faintest suggestion of trespass. Every door she passed seemed to hold its breath which she opened with great caution. What if she woke a servant? What explanation could she possibly offer?
Still, she pressed on.
A turn led her into unfamiliar territory. Narrower, colder, the windows fewer. The house revealed its layers grudgingly, like a thing reluctant to surrender its secrets. She descended a short staircase, only to find herself confronted by a blank wall and a tall cabinet.
Suppressing a sigh, she retraced her steps.
Time stretched oddly. Minutes dissolved into uncertainty. Direction became conjecture rather than fact. The hall seemed designed less for habitation than bewilderment.
Her hand closed upon another handle.
The door opened inward with gratifying silence.
Then—
Verity froze as the figure of a man came into view.
Moonlight slipped past her shoulder, glancing off steel. A suit of armor loomed from the corner, its vacant visor turned toward her in mute accusation. Her breath caught painfully before reason asserted itself.
Not a man.
Not a ghost.
Only decoration.
She exhaled shakily and withdrew, pulse fluttering.
Yet something had changed.
The corridor beyond was broader now, the ceiling subtly higher. The air carried warmth, refinement. Even in the muted glow of night, the difference was unmistakable. Richer carpets. Finer paneling. The quiet authority of privilege.
Understanding dawned with a curious mixture of relief and apprehension.
This was no guest wing.
This was his domain.
She moved more slowly, suddenly conscious of every step. The doors here stood heavier, more deliberate. Presence seemed to emanate from the very walls.
At last, she stopped before one that required no guesswork.
Heavy oak. Carved panels. A door that did not belong to uncertainty.
Verity lifted her hand.
Hesitated.
A respectable young woman did not wander the house at midnight seeking a gentleman’s bedchamber. A respectable young woman did not knock upon such a door.
But then, respectability had long since abandoned her.
She knocked softly.
Waited.
Silence.
After a moment’s hesitation, she tried the handle.
The door yielded without protest.
“Lord Blackfen?” Her voice emerged scarcely louder than breath. “Lucien?”
No answer.
She stepped inside.
The chamber lay vast and dark, the moonlight insufficient to conquer its corners. A great four-poster bed dominated the space, its velvet hangings deep as shadow. A fire stood laid but unlit, the chill of the room curling immediately around her.