Chapter Fourteen
The journey back to Blagdon Hall the following day was a tiresome one and it was late afternoon before they arrived home. An accident on the road blocked their path for much of the day, necessitating taking a longer and more circuitous route.
With both men recovering from their excesses and Abbigail trying to process the information that Michael had shared with her the night before, they were quiet inside the coach. She couldn’t imagine that he would have willingly imparted such information had he not been so deeply in his cups. Michael was a natural protector and it frequently frustrated her that he seemed determine to keep information from her simply because he thought it was in her best interest. Being ignorant of pertinent facts, to Abbi’s mind, was never in anyone’s best interest.
She spoke quickly to Mrs. Wolcot about the arrangements for dinner and the fact that new servants would be arriving from London over the next few days. She had no idea where they would put them, but it was a matter of necessity. The Hall needed a thorough cleaning and Mrs. Wolcot herself was simply unable to do so alone. Michael and Spencer had gone to the library, undoubtedly to hide out and recuperate from their night of excess.
Abbi felt unsettled. There were too many secrets being kept by her husband. She didn’t like it, but short of airing her grievances in front of Viscount Wolverston, there was little enough to be done about it. Deciding that some crisp, clear air would help to clear her head, Abbi said, “I’m going out to the garden, Mrs. Wolcot. I’ll see if there are any vegetables or herbs that can be salvaged for dinner.”
The old woman nodded sagely, offering a knowing look. Abbi ignored it. The last thing she wanted was to get lulled into discussing her marital issues with the housekeeper.
Donning her smock and grabbing one of the baskets from the hook by the door, she headed into the garden. She’d pull a few weeds while she was out there and perhaps work out some of her frustrations.
~*~*~
Michael pinched the bridge of his nose, attempting to alleviate the pounding of his head. It didn’t help. Of course, he had consumed more ale the previous night than he had since his days at Cambridge. “Remind me to never do that again,” he said.
Spencer nodded then winced. “If you’ll promise to do the same. Did we actually get any useful information? I can’t recall.”
“Apparently that whatever activity, cult or otherwise that is taking place in the stone circle in the woods between Blagdon and Whitby Hall is not a new thing. It’s been going on for decades if not centuries.”
Spencer sighed. “I don’t mean to be insulting when I say this, but it bears considering. I understand that Lavinia is beautiful and that she shares in Rupert’s perversions. Those are fine reasons to choose her for a mistress or lover. Those are not reasons to choose her for a wife, specifically if Lord Whitby’s coffers are as depleted as we’re imagining.”
Michael didn’t take offense, though he understood that Spencer’s assessment of the Whitby’s marriage in some ways mirrored his own marriage. Abbi was far enough beneath his station that had he chosen not to marry her, it would have been accepted. Some eyebrows might have been raised and he would certainly have been cut by many hostesses but not by everyone. “No offense taken. It’s a valid. Perhaps Lavinia had something beyond her beauty and proclivities to recommend her?”
Rising from his chair, Michael moved toward one of the larger bookcases. Retrieving the older account ledgers that had been kept by Abbi’s father, he returned to the desk with them. “Artifacts, any antique texts that might relate to their activities… That’s what we’re looking for.”
Spencer picked up one of the books but fumbled it. The ledger fell to the floor and the binding split. “Dammit.”
Michael looked down at the book. “It’s no matter. I don’t think these books have been very well maintained. The entire house is coated with a layer of dust, possibly the housekeeper, as well.”
Spencer retrieved the damaged book, and when he picked it up, a piece of paper hidden behind the front endpaper had become dislodged. Tugging at the corner, the letter slipped free. “I’ll let you take a look at that. Someone went to great lengths to hide it.”
Michael opened the folded letter and scanned the contents. What he read left his blood cold. “This is not good.”
Spencer frowned at him. “What is it?”
“It’s a letter from Rupert. Claiming that the illness that befell Abbigail’s stepmother was in fact poison. The antidote will be provided only if he is given an antique map of the area that includes points of supernatural power.”
“How would Rupert have poisoned his mother in law?”
Michael shook his head. “He didn’t. It would have been Lavinia. And if it’s true, Abbi said her father died of the same illness that took her stepmother… She has no idea that Lavinia and Rupert may very well have murdered her parents.”
Spencer appeared utterly horrified. “I don’t envy you the telling of that.”
Michael cursed. “Keep looking. See if you can find any other references to the map.”
~*~*~
In the garden, Abbi worked furiously. After unearthing some parsnips and leeks, she began weeding. It was hard work. Her hands, even in the thick work gloves she’d donned, were filthy, but she felt she was making progress and that was always welcome.
Between the weak winter sun and the enthusiasm with which she’d attacked her task, she’d grown quite warm. Stopping for a moment, she removed her gloves and wiped the sweat from her brow, sweeping back the damp tendrils of hair that had escaped her chignon.
The unsettling feeling of being watched crept over her. The hair at the nape of her neck stood on end and the sweat that trickled between her shoulder blades cooled as a chill swept through her.
Turning her head, she peered over her shoulder toward the woods beyond the garden. She could see nothing. Rising to her feet, she moved toward the garden gate and then beyond it.
“Is someone there?” She hated that her voice trembled as she called out.
There was no answer. Not quite able to dismiss her earlier feelings as just a foolish flight of fantasy, she moved closer to the edge of the woods, peering between the trees. It was then that she heard it—the barest of whispers asking for help.
Recalling the horrible damage that had inflicted on poor Sarah, Abbi dropped her gloves and scrambled over tree roots as she went in the direction she believed the voice had come from.
Through the thick tangle of oak and rowan trees, she emerged into a small clearing. On the ground, there was a scrap of white cloth. Stooping to pick it up, she noted the blood that dotted the fabric.
The sound of breaking twigs elicited a gasp from her. Turning, she scanned the woods but again saw nothing. Immediately, she realized that she’d been lured into the woods. She was alone, unprotected and no one knew where to look for her. Moving quickly, she made her way back toward the small opening in the trees. Before she reached it, a figure emerged from within the trees, blocking her exit.
Clad in a green robe, the face hidden behind a golden mask, she couldn’t tell who it was, only that the figure was male. Dodging to the left, she tried to go around him, but a pair of strong arms closed around her, hauling her backward and down toward the hard packed earth. The wind rushed from her lungs and the back of her head connected painfully with an exposed tree root.
Her vision dimmed, but Abbi battled it back. She couldn’t lose consciousness. Her only chance would be to fight, to run. Rolling onto her side, she crawled a few feet away. The man chuckled, the sound muffled behind the mask. His hand closed around her ankle, dragging her backward.
Abbi reached into the pocket of her smock and retrieved the small spade she’d been using in the garden. Keeping it concealed until he’d dragged her close enough to him, Abbi turned quickly, driving the spade into the soft flesh at the bend of his knee. The man howled, falling forward. Scrambling to get away, Abbi left him there, moving quickly through the trees and toward the safety of Blagdon Hall.
~*~*~
Spencer had retreated to the hall’s only guest chamber, the room that had once been Abbigail’s. The fact that a night of ale consumption and local gossip had put both of them under was a testament to the fact that age was catching up with them.
Mrs. Wolcot was in the hallway, polishing a piece of furniture. “Where is Abbigail?” he asked
Mrs. Wolcot, who was still obviously not quite sure of him, gave him a hard look. “She was in the garden,” the old woman finally said.
For some reason, the news instantly left him unsettled and worried. Quickening his steps, Michael moved toward the kitchen and stopped immediately. The Grey Lady stood in the doorway, her face a mask of tragic sadness. She extended one hand in that familiar gesture, but she wasn’t pointing toward the garden, but to the woods beyond.
Fear coiled inside him. Moving past the apparition, ignoring the cold chill of the air where she stood. He’d just reached the garden gate when Abbi staggered from the woods. Her clothes were dirty and torn, and she appeared none too steady on her feet. But she was alive and unharmed, at least for the most part.
Michael stepped forward, catching her as she stumbled. “What happened?”
She shook her head, gasping and breathless. “Someone was in the woods.”
“Are you hurt?” he asked, lifting her up into his arms.
“He was wearing a mask,” she said.
Michael didn’t ask any more questions. Abbi’s eyes had fluttered closed, her head lolling to one side. Blood had begun to dry just behind her ear. Alongside the fear that still bubbled inside him, anger burned in equal measure. It would end. Whatever Rupert and Lavinia had put into motion, it would end.