Lord Monroe's Dark Tower: The Albright Sisters: Book 2 (18 page)

Near the top, she found a spot where the foliage thinned and she had a clear view of her surroundings. So distant its edges blurred in the afternoon light, Claire spied the towers of Bingham Hall. Gladness choked her. “Dear God, let me see him again.”

“If they’re not here, where did they go?” asked Flavian at the barn.

A little boy in tattered hose and shoes too big for his feet, wrung his hands and stammered, “That’s wot I’m in the way of worrying, my lord. The young ladies don’t come back at all.”

“Have you been here all morning?”

“Aye, my lord, and I paid extra attention, too. Old Robespierre, he’s my charge.”

“Fetch someone to saddle a fresh horse for me.” The lad darted halfway down the stable corridor before Flavian shouted again, “And get a man to round up everyone from the fields. We need to form a search party.” The boy waved in answer and then raced away.

A few minutes later, the stable yard filled with men, barking dogs, and sly cats that spied from the corner of the barn.

“Do you think my Robespierre be dead?” the lad said, wringing his hands.

“Best to bring a hay wagon, my lord, in case the old horse dropped on the road,” said a groom. He patted the lad’s shoulder paternally.

“Blast it,” Flavian fumed. “Why did I leave them alone?” Visions of the two ladies taken by highwaymen, of Robespierre collapsing on top of Claire, of jealous Abella harming — no, his Bella was a good girl. Full of tricks, but surely not dangerous … He tore further thoughts from his mind. “Where’s my horse!” he shouted. A frightened groom trotted a heavy-set chestnut to him. Throwing a leg over the chestnut’s back, Flavian joined about a half dozen men, mounted on saddled and unsaddled plow horses, carriage horses, and the few other riding animals kept on the estate. The little cadre wasn’t nearly enough.

“Can you ride, lad?” Flavian asked the boy who stood holding the reins to his father’s mount.

“He can,” the father answered.

“Then take Abella’s old pony and gallop to the house. Tell everyone to start searching the moors. The ladies are missing — possibly lost. And tell them to hurry.”

• • •

Pushing aside a thin branch high in the tree, Claire surveyed the area around Bingham Hall for landmarks indicating the lane. A straight line of shrubs grew like a fringe along what must be the road. It passed about a tenth of a mile away.

She was about to descend the tree when movement caught her eye. Whatever it was, it disappeared instantly. Seconds passed as she stared into the distance. At last it returned — a black dot moving this way. “Flavian, please let it be you.”

Her heart thudded wildly. “I knew you would look for me,” she said, as she quickly lowered herself down branch by branch. Not thinking of anything but Flavian, not of water nor of food to eat, her foot slipped. Her arms, weary from fighting the bog and climbing the tree, couldn’t compensate for the loss of balance. Down she fell, crashing through the branches, grasping desperately at leaves that tore through her fingers.

She landed hard on a bulging root, her ankle snapping to the side. She screamed in pain, and then screamed even louder knowing the ankle was bad — that she couldn’t walk — and that Flavian might ride by and never find her.

Blood coursed down her arm, her ankle turned red and swollen, and a tickle on the side of her face proved to be blood from a gash on her forehead. A dozen other cuts and bruises throbbed. Tears of pain and frustration streaked her face. “I’ve no time for this now.”

On her hands and knees, she began crawling toward the road. She willed herself to feel nothing but anger. The jab of pebbles in the duff, the slice of sharp grass, the agony of her ankle as she banged it over and over again on the hard earth — she ignored all of it. “Help!” she called out again and again. “Flavian, help, please help me.”

• • •

Fortunately, no travelers other than he, Betteridge-Haugh, and the ladies had trod the lane since morning, Flavian observed as he walked the chestnut down the road. Still, it wasn’t easy to distinguish days-old hoof prints from the ones they’d left on their way to the north pasture. Indians in America could track a rabbit over rocks, he’d heard. How he wished he had some of their skill. The morning fog had draped the roadside in gray. Nothing would have been familiar to Claire in that unbroken wall of mist.

Coming upon a straightaway, Flavian thought he saw a deep hoof print ahead. The earth had not yet dried, making the print stand out on the road. Perhaps a turning horse pivoting on one leg had disturbed the surface. He pushed the chestnut to a trot. The animal suddenly shied, bolting forward a few paces. Reining in, Flavian spun to see what had frightened the horse. In the road about fifty yards back, lay a strange beast mottled brown and green with splashes of red. The creature lifted its head. Hair stringy and dark swung about its face; something red cut a blaze down its cheek. “Dear God, Claire!”

He didn’t wait for the horse to stop before he leapt from the saddle. Cradling her head in his arms, he brushed her mud-filled hair back from a cut on her face. She couldn’t speak, only lay in his arms like something dying. “My love, my love, what has happened to you?” Claire only closed her eyes. Her chest heaved with rasping breaths, and one hand drifted about her face as if it were seeking something to hang on to.

He tore off his coat and laid it over her. From his saddlebags, he dug out a flask of ale. Holding her close, he poured it slowly into her mouth. She swallowed, and her eyes fluttered open. “Drink more.” Cracked lips opened, and he administered more of the ale. It was as if he poured life back into the dead. With each swallow her strength seemed to grow.

“Bless you,” she said, a tear dripping down her cheek. “Bless you for finding me.”

“Let me clean your face a little or the cut may go septic.” He pulled his cravat off, used ale to dampen it, and wiped the mud away from the wound. “You’re a mass of cuts and bruises. What happened to you? Where’s Abella?” he asked, but she’d drifted out of consciousness.

“Dear God, look at the blood,” he said, rattled to the core at the sight of a slash through the flesh of her upper arm. How many men had he witnessed torn limb from limb in battle, yet seeing Claire in this state sent a bolt of fear through him unlike anything he’d ever known — more terrible even than coming upon poor Valencia.

“Let me bind your arm and get you home.” There was no time for modesty. In one swift maneuver, he pulled his shirt over his head and applied the white lace cuff to the oozing wound.

“I will kill the man who did this to you.”

“Abella,” she whispered, as he took her into his arms, propped her on the saddle, and mounted his horse.

“Did he attack her, too? Is she alive, do you remember?” he spurred the chestnut to a gallop. “I swear he shall die by my hand.”

Then he thought she said, “Murderess,” but the wind and the sound of the galloping horse drowned out her words.

The next day, Claire sat in bed with her back propped against a mass of pillows. Hands bandaged, sprained ankle elevated, she balanced Sir Walter Scott’s novel,
Waverly
, on her knees and tried to read. Her mind refused to settle on the words, listening instead for a knock on the door. Flavian had promised to come see her. She could not forget the stricken look on his face yesterday when she told him what his ward had done. Bolting from the room, she’d heard his boots pounding through the house as he yelled, “Abella!” Shortly, he had returned, and hollow-eyed, told Claire the girl had run away. Her jewelry, certain of her clothes and toiletries were missing along with Flavian’s ditty bag from his days in the Royal Navy. The brooding, haunted look in his eyes had deepened.

She had not let him rest in his sorrow, however. Robespierre would die of exposure when the sun set. “Find him,” she’d pleaded.

Apple Bess had chased Flavian from the room as she rounded the privacy screen and added another kettle of hot water to Claire’s bath. “Hurry,” Claire had called, hearing his footsteps retreat.

A faint knock now came on the door, but it was Betty’s voice asking to enter. The lady’s maid came in with the breakfast tray. “Oh, it’s a blessing you’re awake. His lordship is so anxious. He’s been in and out of your room all night.”

“I didn’t hear him.”

“You were as asleep as the Regent on his throne,” the maid said, handing Claire a cup of chocolate.

“What of Robespierre?”

“Mr. Betteridge-Haugh says it’s a blessing the girth of that saddle was good leather. His lordship swim into that ’orrible muck and fasten some ropes to old Robespierre. They hooked a team to ’im, and dragged the poor devil out, with his lordship, keeping that ’orse’s head out ’a the water. Mr. Simmons says Robespierre just lay there while a lad feed ’im bran mash. Warmed ’im with fires and blankets and such, till around midnight, the beast kicked ’imself to a stand.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful news.” Claire couldn’t wait to visit the stables when her ankle allowed.

A firm knock sounded. She slapped the covers of
Waverly
together. “Come in and see me.”

Flavian entered. His smile, though tired and troubled, beamed in her heart like a gold piece. “You look well this morning.”

Claire snuggled into the pillows. “Everything is so comfortable.”

“Let’s get the hard part over with quickly then.”

He sat in a chair beside her. “Give me your hands. Let’s change these bandages.” She held them out. With utmost care, he peeled off the old dressing and held a basin of water for her to wash in. “Your salve is doing a lot of good. Look at that,” he said, tracing a nasty gash where she’d split her palm during the fall from the tree.

“I don’t want laudanum. I can do without it today.”

“My love,” he murmured, stroking her arm. “I’m not sure that’s wise. Give your body the rest it needs.”

Tears stung Claire’s eyes. His concern toppled her exhausted emotions. To recover, she said, “How is Robespierre today. Have you seen him?”

Flavian smiled. “Do you know that old horse once saved my mother’s life and now yours? His reward is to die in his pasture, not in a nasty bog or the knackers’ yard.”

“Lady Monroe come upon a wild boar when she was out riding,” Betty said, using the chocolate pot as an imaginary Robespierre. “That horse kicked that boar, but gentle-like so her ladyship don’t fall off the sidesaddle. Brought her home in one piece, and he’s a sweet old dear to boot. All the staff’s fed him carrots and apples today.”

A rap at the door interrupted Betty’s story. “My lord,” said Marlow, standing at the threshold, “there’s a thief-taker below stairs. I thought you might like to meet with him right away.” The butler passed a disapproving eye over Betty, who set the chocolate pot back on the tray.

“You’re hiring someone to look for Abella,” said Claire. The question came out flat and grim, more like a statement than the expression of concern she intended.

“Oh, you got to find her, before she hurts someone else,” Betty blurted.

A deep line formed between Flavian’s brows and his shoulders knit together. “Then she’s done this sort of thing before?”

Betty looked trapped and uncomfortable, but she pulled up the sleeve of her dress revealing a hideous scar. “I never thought it fair us keeping it from you and all. This be from a candle, my lord. When you tried to stop the collecting, Abella told me to lie and say she were at the lake with her pony. I told her, ‘No, I won’t fib to the master.’ That night, she come to my room in the attic, and while I asleep, she set me on fire.”

Flavian’s hand went to his mouth. “But why didn’t you report this to me?”

Looking at the ground, Betty murmured, “We were instructed not to.”

“That’s preposterous! How in God’s name would not telling me benefit anyone?”

Betty shrank back. “I dunno, my lord. It ain’t my fault.”

For a moment, Flavian sat at the bedside as if he were going to explode out of the chair or remain glued to it for the rest of his life. Lips tight, he shook his head in disbelief. He pressed his fingers to his brow as if the pressure were the only thing holding his mind together. “How often did incidents such as yours occur?”

“Daily, my lord, till we all fell in line with what she wanted.”

He sank into himself then, as if his broad shoulders couldn’t bear up under the weight. “Would you excuse us a moment, Betty?”

The maid bobbed a quick curtsey and fled the room. Flavian turned to Claire. “When you told me Bella claimed to have … trapped others in the bog, I didn’t believe you … but we dragged it this morning. Bodies were found … all women.”

The sound of footsteps running down the hallway halted his narrative. “Miss Abella killed Sarah Pincus-Smith!” they heard Betty scream. “She murdered them all!”

• • •

As Flavian read, he paced the floor of the library. “He believes he’s found her,” he said, snapping a piece of cheap stationery with the name of the thief-taker printed at the top. “There was no record of her riding rented horses because she joined a troupe of strollers. He believes they’ll continue following their usual circuit west to Poole. Strollers stop in every little hamlet, so she couldn’t have gone far.” Claire’s hands clenched involuntarily. She forced the fingers open and adjusted a throw pillow behind her on the chaise.

“Ha! He says Abella brought notice to herself the very first time she sang with the actors.” A smile crossed his lips — the very opposite of the dread Claire felt.

Two blissful weeks had passed, weeks of peace and intimacy with Flavian. She tried to deny that her happiness stemmed from Abella’s absence, tried to fear for the girl and worry that she would fall victim to unscrupulous men, but her usual self-discipline failed. Life at Bingham Hall now seemed not just tolerable, but joyous.

Heart thudding, she said, “When she’s found, what will you do with her?”

“She will never harm you or anyone else again, I promise it.”

“But you’ll bring her here?”

Flavian touched her cheek, careful to caress far from the scab that still ran from brow to chin. “There’s nowhere else for her to go.”