Dark Surrender (24 page)

Perhaps this was a good opportunity to rouse Miss Smythe. Wait—what was the hour? Half six? No, no, he ought to let her sleep. A bit, anyway. The more brains the merrier but he needed her rested, not sluggish. Or coffee-addled. Not the best mind frame for critical thinking, as he could attest. He really shouldn’t have had that last cup of tea. Although his guests might appreciate some, he supposed. He strode to his office to ring the bell for breakfast service and gather a few key volumes of medical and scientific thought.

“Master?”

“Roper! Did I ring you? I meant to call the kitchen. In any case, that was exceedingly prompt. I’ve scarcely had a moment to collect my wits, much less—”

“Master,” Roper said again, this time with no small amount of empathy and amusement glimmering in his eyes. “Your first guests have arrived.”

“Oh, have they?” Alistair said innocently, peeking over Roper’s shoulder to verify they weren’t right there, right now, witnessing him prattle like a madman. “Which ones?”

His manservant brandished a pair of calling cards. “Doctor Hughes and Mr. Colin Knightly.”

“Splendid. Please show them to their chambers and ring for anything they might need. Let them know I’ll have the kitchen bring refreshments to the dining area for whenever they’re ready.”

“As you wish.”

As Roper left to oversee the guests’ comfort, Alistair replaced the pile of books in his arms back atop his desk. Had he truly been about to force anatomy and disease theory upon his guests before they’d had a single moment’s repose? Not only would there be plenty of time for discussion after breakfast, his guests were, by design, far more knowledgeable in their subjects than Alistair would ever be. He ought not let his enthusiasm and his hubris impede their genius.

In fact, instead of spine-creased tomes and technical drawings, what he should bring to the table would be blank parchment and plenty of ink for note-taking. With the quantity of brilliant insights about to bandied across his dining table, he’d best concentrate on committing every one of them to paper.

“I promise you, Lillian,” he murmured as he gathered his portable secretary and a vial of ink. “This time, I will not disappoint.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

By mid-afternoon, Violet was crawling out of her skin.

She hadn’t left the safety of her bedchamber since arriving within its protective walls the night before. The last of the fire’s embers lent the windowless chamber a sensation more of a crypt than a sanctuary. And despite the fragile state of her nerves, for the first time since arriving at Waldegrave Abbey her empty stomach was in danger of consuming itself out of desperation.

For the hundredth time since waking, she pressed her ear to the locked door. Just as before . . . nothing. No footsteps, no voices, no indication that she was anything but alone.

None of which meant anything, of course. The abbey was large enough to house the entire population of the Livingstone School for Girls and still have plenty of empty prayer rooms to spare. Most likely, the esteemed guests were offered more distinguished accommodations in another area. But where? And for how long?

Her forehead thumped against the solid wooden door. She had no idea. She couldn’t risk being seen—not if her face was posted on bills from Lancashire to Cornwall—but another day or two without fire, food, or water, and prosecution would be the least of her worries.

She stood there a long moment, listening to the silence and her own uneven breathing. She pushed away from the door and picked her way through the darkness to the bell pull. As a glorified servant herself, ringing for a maid made her feel hypocritical, not special. Particularly since she’d already rung it once this morning, in the hopes of summoning Mrs. Tumsen.

No one had heeded the call.

She warred with herself, then gave the cord a firm tug before she could change her mind. Above all, she had no wish to be seen as the spoiled governess incapable of waiting her turn, but above even that, she’d rather be the obnoxious entitled governess than the incarcerated waif set to hang for murder.

An hour passed. Then another.

Violet’s nerves frayed. This was not like Mrs. Tumsen. This was not like any of the staff at Waldegrave Abbey. Which could only mean that the promised company had in fact arrived, and the servants—sufficient in quantity to keep up the abbey, but bare bones with regard to guests—were currently overwhelmed with preparing meals and heating water for baths and attending to carriages and had not a moment to spare. If they were racing about as frantically as Violet imagined, they weren’t ignoring her at all. More likely, they were all so busy that no one had even been within earshot of the bell when it had rung. Or so many had sounded at once that it had been impossible to discern which summons came from where.

Which meant what? She could not stay locked in her bedchamber until the cabal came to a close. And yet she certainly could not risk showing her face before the guests, despite having promised Mr. Waldegrave to do precisely that.

Lily! Lily was the answer.

The sanctuary was the one place in the entire abbey guaranteed to remain undiscovered by prying eyes, whilst also ensured of being brought fresh food and water throughout. Violet hurried across her room and yanked the mantle from her bed. Folded, it would make a serviceable enough pallet to sleep upon. She’d certainly made do with less. She tossed a nightrail and a fresh morning dress in the center and tied the whole with the rope from the curtain dressing. There. Perfect.

At this hour, she could only assume that Lily had already eaten, but Violet could wait no longer. The only solution was to slip into the kitchen, toss as many provisions as she could into her satchel, and then keep Lily company until every guest had left and the danger of discovery had passed.

Carefully, Violet unlocked her door and waited. No footsteps sounded. Nothing moved. She creaked the door ajar and listened. Silence. She took a deep breath and stepped into the open corridor.

Without a candle to guide her way, the passage was black and thick as India ink. She would have to rely on memory alone . . . which, after a lifetime of having survived on her wits, was fortunately still the one thing she could rely on.

As she made her way through the tunnels toward the pantry, she began to draw comfort from the unending darkness. After all, the guests must necessarily be
somewhere
, and as long as she stayed hidden betwixt unlit corridors, she was likely to remain undetected.

Sconces flourished and noises grew louder as she drew closer to the kitchens. Clinking, clanking, shouted commands and the scent of smoked fish increased the sense of culinary chaos. From the sound of it, all the guests were sequestered in a separate outbuilding. The distance helped facilitate their privacy—and hers—but complicated logistics for the kitchen. The cook staff and scullery maids tripping over each other served as its own distraction, enabling Violet to slip in and slip out without raised brows or unanswerable questions.

Almost.

As she was retying the cord about her satchel, she caught sight of a strange boy in an unfamiliar livery staring from the bustle across the room. Just as their gazes clashed, he turned and dashed down the corridor.

She hesitated only briefly, then gave chase.

She caught up with the boy just as he neared one of the servants’ exits. She tossed her satchel to the floor and leapt into his path, spinning them both until she had him pinned, wide-eyed, against the wall.

“Who are you?” she demanded. “Why are you spying on me?”

“I—I deliver ice,” he stammered, his voice cracking. “I saw ye taking bread and cheese.”

“I wasn’t stealing!” She loosened her hold in relief. “I
live
here.”

“And you
eat
?” the boy asked in awe.

“Of course I eat. What kind of question is that?”

“I mean . . . ” The boy’s voice wobbled from high to low, and he flushed. “I mean, you live here, and you’re not dressed as a servant, and you eat.”

Violet stared at him.

“Real food,” he added helpfully.

She released him and rubbed at her arms as if his evident madness might spread on contact. “What the devil are you on about?”

“The facts. I’m from Shrewsbury, mum, and I ain’t ever seen your face. All the schoolboys know about Waldegrave Abbey. We know old man Waldegrave’s a vampire and that everyone who lives here and don’t go into the sun is bound to be one, too.”

Violet nearly choked. She wasn’t sure if she was more horrified that an attractive man at most five years her senior had just been referred to as “old man Waldegrave” or that part of the neighboring town believed him a dangerous bloodsucking monster.

“Stuff and nonsense,” she answered, once she’d found her voice. “Vampires do not exist.”

The boy’s skyrocketing eyebrows indicated he was less than convinced.

“Banbury tales.” Violet stepped back from the boy and crossed to the servants’ exit, which had been temporarily propped open for his delivery. “Watch this.” She tugged the door open fully. Sunshine spilled in, warming her skin and half-blinding her in the process. A brisk wind filled the corridor, lifting her curls from her neck and ruffling her skirt. The scent of summer flowers blended oddly with the scent of smoked fish, but she hoped it at least proved her point. “See? I eat bread. I like the sun. I’m not a vampire.”

The boy’s thin hand latched about her wrist, his voice urgent. “Then you’re in danger. Come with me, mum. Get out whilst you can. For if you don’t, you’ll soon be a vampire yourself . . . or his next meal.”

She let the door close. “I am not in danger—”

“You’re in
mortal
danger. You’re a prisoner, mum. He’ll kill you and eat you and maybe not in that order. You’re a canary in a cage. A sheep waiting to be slaughtered. A—”

“I am not a prisoner. Don’t you think I’d know if I were being held against my will?”

“If you’re not, then prove it,” the boy insisted, casting nervous glances over his shoulder. “Let me help you escape. Come with me. Now, before they notice you’re gone.”

She wrested her arm from his grip. “This flimflam has gone on long enough. Listen to me. I can leave anytime I choose. I simply don’t choose to. I’m hardly a sheep waiting to be—”

“What’s going on here?” came a deep voice, followed by heavy footsteps.

The boy’s eyes widened in terror.

“Mr. Roper!” Violet exclaimed in relief. “I was just explaining—”

“What’s this?” He lifted Violet’s abandoned satchel and loosened the cord. The tip of a loaf of bread peeked out of its cloth cover. “You caught him stealing?”

“No.” Violet reached toward the bundle. “It’s not his. It’s mine.”

“She’s coming with me!” the boy cried, tugging desperately at her skirt. “Hurry. Come now!”

At that, Mr. Roper’s face hardened. “She’s not going anywhere.”

Before she could begin to comprehend the sudden change in his demeanor, she’d been hefted over his shoulder as if she were no more bother than a sack of laundry.

“Miss!” the boy yelled back as he darted out the open door. “I’ll be back for ye!”

“Let me down!” She struggled to slide free of the burly manservant’s unyielding grasp. The delivery boy was young and foolish, but his very real panic had managed to unsettle her. And now this! She was an employee, not a prisoner . . . so why was she being forcibly prevented from exiting, slung over a silent lackey’s shoulder as if headed to a dark dungeon? “Mr. Roper! Mr. Roper!”

As he turned a corner past the kitchen, Mrs. Tumsen stepped from an adjoining corridor. “Charles? What are you doing?”

Mr. Roper’s grip barely loosened at the sound of his given name, but it was all Violet needed to slip free. She twisted, rolling off his shoulder like a stone down a mountain. She landed hard against the marble floor, but was up and running into the darkness before anyone had a prayer of catching her.

Panting, half-shogging and half-hobbling with her heart racing faster than ever before, she finally collapsed against a wall and sank to the floor. With neither food nor water in her belly, her body was incapable of much more exercise. And without an explanation for Mr. Roper’s manhandling—and forcible detainment—her brain was incapable of coming up with a plan.

She rested her forehead upon her bent knees and concentrated on emptying her mind until her breathing returned to normal. Now more than ever, she could not return to her chambers. Although she had lost her satchel in the altercation with Mr. Roper, the sanctuary still seemed the wisest choice . . . if she could determine how to get there from here. Without a candle, or any reliable recollection of which direction she’d fled, she had no idea where in the abbey she might be.

She pulled herself up and forced her feet to move, slipping noiselessly down corridor after corridor. She was concentrating so hard on finding a path to the sanctuary that she almost missed the small sound coming from behind a door just to her left. She froze in her tracks to listen. Tiny, arrhythmic scratches came from the other side of the door, as if someone were locked inside and trying desperately to claw their way out.

Her heart nearly stopped.

She knelt to peer through the keyhole. Blackness. She could see nothing. If there was someone inside, they had been left there without a candle.

“H-hullo?” she called softly through the keyhole. “Is someone there?”

The scratching stopped.

The only sound in the entirety of the murky corridor was that of Violet’s own heart, and nothing more. She held her breath. Silence remained.

Perhaps she’d imagined it.
Surely
she’d imagined it. Despite the unquestionable appearance of being kept in the abbey by force, she had arrived here of her own free will. She carried a skeleton key, for goodness sake. If she were not meant to leave, this was surely a recent mandate. Mr. Waldegrave was hardly the sort to go about abducting and imprisoning young girls, despite what the villagers claimed.

Right?

She pulled herself to her feet and stared at the silent door. She reached forward, closed her fingers about the handle, and gave it a twist.