Chapter 17 #3
Pennington’s jaw worked. “I … I don’t know the specifics.
Terrible things at his lordship’s command.
Things no decent man should be asked to do.
He said the jewels were payment, not theft.
” His voice dropped to barely a whisper.
“But sometimes, in his final days, when the fever had him, he’d cry out about it.
About the things he’d done. The things he’d seen.
The people he’d …” Pennington cleared his throat.
“But whatever they were, they haunted him until he died. And that”—his voice turned bitter—”that is why the Percy family owes us those jewels. ”
Frederick had never had glowing things to say about his father. The only warm regard he ever shared was a memory or two near the late Lord Astley’s death, but she’d heard stories whispered in town. Rumors, she’d thought. Of women, fraud, even … unexpected disappearances of men who’d crossed him.
Could those have been true?
“Now”—Pennington raised the shears toward her, his eyes taking on a fierceness they’d not had before—”show me the door.”
Grace shifted a step back and moved, slower than her interest suggested, to the tapestry. “Zahra said it was behind this.”
Pennington stepped around her and shoved the tapestry back.
Just as Zahra had described, a section of wall looked different from the rest. The stone was painted to match its surroundings, but up close, the edges were visible—a door disguised as wall.
And set into it, a large iron keyhole.
A thrill rushed through Grace despite the circumstances. She’d always had a girlish fascination with hidden doors and secret passageways. In all honesty, who didn’t?
Pennington dug into his pocket and drew out the key, inserting it into the hole. The key turned with a grinding sound before it creaked open, swinging inward to reveal darkness beyond.
Cold air drifted up from below, carrying with it the scent of earth and something else. Something older. Something that made the hair on the back of Grace’s neck stand up.
Grace’s throat closed a little. Not just from the idea of the narrow space, but … once they entered the tunnel, what then? Would Pennington release her once he had the jewels?
Or leave her trapped below while he escaped?
What if they didn’t find the jewels at all? What if the tunnels collapsed, trapping them both in a slow agonizing death of starvation or suffocation?
Her hand moved instinctively to her stomach. The baby. Frederick. Zahra.
No, Grace. You must not allow your imagination to run wild.
She closed her eyes, praying for God to calm her pulse. Quiet her thoughts.
In the deepest part of her soul, she was not alone. Never alone.
And one of the best defenses God had given her was her mind.
What did Detective Jack always say? Few mysteries are solved when a mind is split. Making clearheaded decisions results in clear-cut answers.
Besides, the Bible says to be anxious about nothing.
Not even dark tunnels with a desperate thieving soldier.
For I am with you …
The promise swelled up through her, steadying her breath, her racing heart.
And Frederick is on the way.
Pennington raised the lantern he’d taken from Grace and held it over the black gaping hole of the doorway. Hand-hewn steps led down into the darkness.
“After you, my lady.” Pennington’s voice held an edge she didn’t like.
“Do you know where we’re going?” She swallowed, gathering her skirts.
She sighed. Yet another adventure that would be much more practical in trousers.
Taking careful steps and keeping her balance by placing her palm against the earthen wall, she began descending the steps.
Pennington followed close behind, the lantern light throwing their shadows in distorted, shaky patterns against the tunnel walls.
“My grandfather left a hand-drawn map.” He tapped the chest of his jacket, as if identifying the spot.
How reassuring.
The passage was too narrow to walk abreast, so Grace set the pace. Slowly. Taking her time. Giving Frederick more opportunity to catch up.
Old timber supports crisscrossed overhead, some sagging from age. The quiet, steady drip of water pinged somewhere in the darkness, each drop rhythmic like the ticking of a clock.
Counting down.
To what?
“Lord Astley said that these tunnels were originally built with a plan to rescue Mary Queen of Scots from one of the nearby manor houses where she’d been held captive by her cousin, Queen Elizabeth.” Grace swallowed, the air growing stuffier the lower they went. “Did you know that?”
“Not interested in a history lesson, my lady.” He nudged her forward.
They’d made it to the bottom of the stairs, and the path moved ahead—straight, or as straight as the earthen walls and scattered fallen clods of earth allowed.
“How far?” Grace asked, looking behind them up the stairway for any sign of lights. Any hint of voices.
Nothing.
“Grandfather’s map showed the chamber about a hundred to a hundred and fifty feet from the bottom of the stairs. There’s a crevice in the wall, marked with the crown seal. That’s where he hid them.”
All right. That wasn’t so far. And the tunnel seemed stable enough—
A low groan emanated from somewhere overhead.
Both of them froze.
Dust sifted down from the ceiling, catching in the lamplight like ash.
“What was that?” Pennington’s voice shook.
Stall him, Grace. But how …
“Well, this would be the perfect kind of place for a ghost hunt, I would think.”
That certainly brought the man to a stop. “What?”
“A ghost hunt. Haven’t you ever been on one?”
He blinked down at her, towering over her with the lantern held high above them. “A ghost hunt?”
“Why not?” She waved ahead of them into the darkness. “Like I said, these tunnels were built to rescue Mary, and I’d imagine men probably died in the making of them.” She nodded, lowering her voice to a whisper. “It does seem like the sort of place where restless spirits might linger.”
Another creak from above. Closer this time.
Pennington didn’t respond right away, his eyes darting to the sagging timbers overhead. Then he gave his head a shake. “There aren’t any ghosts.”
“Perhaps not.” Grace tilted her head, listening. “But there may very well be old supports, Mr. Pennington. And they may wish to make ghosts of us.”
His face paled in the lamplight.
“Then you’d better stop talking and move faster.” But his voice had lost some of its certainty.
Grace moved forward, but not much faster. Every step deliberate. Every pause calculated.
Somewhere behind them—distant, but real—she thought she heard something.
A popping. Muffled and in quick succession, and … Grace froze. Gunfire?
Pennington stilled too.
Where was it coming from? The ruins? Was it Blake and … whoever he was fighting?
Oh God, be with him!
Another successive popping happened, knocking loose a light film of dirt from the ceiling. How close were they to the ruins now? Did the tunnel move in that direction? She swallowed. Beneath it?
“Keep moving,” Pennington said, nudging her forward, even as the gunfire continued. Nearer, somehow. Above them? And each time, a bit of dirt loosened from somewhere.
Something thumped in the distance, like a crash or fall.
Could the ceiling have collapsed farther down the tunnel? Or was it something else?
They continued deeper into the darkness, the lantern light barely pushing back the shadows. Pennington may be desperate, but he wasn’t evil. He’d even attempted to catch her from falling on the uneven ground.
He didn’t want to hurt her.
Which meant she might be able to reason with him once they found the jewels—or didn’t find them, which seemed equally likely after twenty years.
The passage opened suddenly into a larger chamber, perhaps fifteen feet across. Ancient timber supports crisscrossed the ceiling like the ribs of some massive creature. Stone walls rose on all sides, slick with moisture and age.
And there, on the far side, about five feet up the wall, Grace could see it—a narrow crevice with the faint outline of a crown roughly carved into the stone above it.
“There,” Pennington breathed, pointing with a shaking hand. “That’s it. Just as Grandfather described.”
Despite everything—despite the danger, despite being held here against her will—Grace felt a thrill of discovery rush through her. The jewels were real. The hiding place was exactly where Crawford said it would be.
If she weren’t pregnant, this would feel exactly like a novel.
But she couldn’t remember ever reading a story where a pregnant woman experienced adventures like this.
Pennington was already climbing onto a pile of fallen stones beneath the crevice, reaching up toward the opening.
The tunnel stretched a little farther ahead before it came to a complete stop, blocked by an avalanche of earth and timber. Grace’s breath quivered.
How long ago had that happened? She swallowed. Recently?
Pennington stretched, his arm disappearing into the shaft, but he released a curse. “I can’t … My arm won’t fit far enough back. I can feel something—fabric, maybe a bag?—but I can’t reach it.”
Grace took a step back. Pennington was occupied. The tunnel led directly to the surface. She could feel her way through the darkness without the lantern and perhaps make it up before he caught her.
“You try,” Pennington said, jumping down from his perch on the rocks.
His movements seemed to inspire another strain of sound from the rafters.
“We should leave, Mr. Pennington.” She sent a meaningful look up to the ceiling. “Those jewels aren’t worth your life.”
“I don’t have a life if I leave them.” He took her by the arm and steered her toward the opposite wall, steadying her as she climbed up the stones he’d just vacated.
The crevice was narrow, barely wide enough for her arm. She had to turn her shoulder and press her cheek against the damp stone wall just to get the angle right.
“If I can reach the jewels,” Grace said quietly, “will you let me go? Will you leave Havensbrooke and never come back?”
Silence.
“I … yes,” he answered, his hand tightening on her waist as he steadied her. “Yes, my lady. I give you my word.”
She believed him. This was his way of making amends. Much like Grace had wanted to try once she’d discovered her father had fallen into bankruptcy and tricked Frederick out of her full dowry. Money that would have saved Havensbrooke outright came to only half of what had been promised.
But these jewels.
Frederick’s family jewels could have remedied that.
Her breath stalled. If she kept a few of the jewels, then she could repay some of what her father had taken from them.
Restore what Frederick had lost.
For his dear Havensbrooke.
She stretched farther, the stone scraping against her shoulder. Her fingers closed around the edge of what felt like an old leather bag. “I’ve got something.”
Pennington moved closer, teetering a little as he did and grabbing a nearby timber for balance. It groaned.
Dust sifted down from the ceiling in a heavier stream.
Grace froze. “What was that?”
“The supports.” Pennington’s voice tensed. “Hurry.”
Grace adjusted her position, reaching deeper. The bag was wedged tight, but if she could just work it free … Her fingers found what felt like a tie or strap. She tugged. The bag shifted slightly.
A few small items rolled from the bag. Hard. Cold. Falling into her palm.
She closed her fist around them—whatever they were. Faceted edges.
Could they be jewels?
She reached again, the bag refusing to give.
Another rumble, louder this time.
Grace pulled her hand free. “We need to leave, Mr. Pennington.”
“No! We are too close.” He slammed his palm against the wall, hitting the beam.
And something cracked.
“Grace!” Frederick’s voice carried down the tunnel.
He was here?
“Frederick?” she called, just as another crack broke through the air, shaking the chamber with the certainty of a collapse.