Chapter Nineteen
As the carriage rumbled along the line, Michael grimaced. The jostling of the coach was making his leg ache. They were less than a quarter mile from Blagdon Hall, they had just passed through the gates when they encountered the large wagon full of hay that blocked the road. As they approached, a man began to run from behind the vehicle as it burst into flame.
“Dammit!” Spencer cursed.
“Quite theatrical,” Michael said as he produced one of his pistols and a small box containing extra ammunition and powder.
Spencer already had his weapons drawn as well, loaded and ready to be fired.
Turning the carriage around, they began the trek back to Blagdon Hall, but the gates were closing even as they approached them. Two men stepped forward. Michael recognized one as Squire Blevins. The other was unknown to him and clearly not part of the social circle that the Whitby's would typically engage with. The far door of the carriage opened and the terrified Mr. Wolcot ambled in. Even in fear, his age would let him travel only so swiftly.
“Didn't you hire other servants?” Spencer asked.
“They've never arrived... I'm afraid my instructions to Mrs. Fillings might have been too specific.”
“What the devil were they?”
Michael shrugged. “Strong, could handle firearms if need be, and no fear of spirits.”
Spencer rolled his eyes. “Good god! No wonder your wife is still laundering your shirts!”
“Can we not attend to the matter at hand?” Michael asked, peering through the narrow opening of the window. “I imagine that's the bastard they hired to kill me,” he mused.
“Shoot him first would you?” Spencer asked as he checked the crossbow he'd unearthed the night before.
“Gladly,” Michael said. They had the interior of the carriage well padded against any shots fired. Blagdon Hall's library was devoid of all books, each of them stacked and tied with ribbon to provide a buffer between the coach walls and the inhabitants within. With only a small window through which to peer, Michael leveled his shot and squeezed the trigger.
The ball found its mark. The hireling clutched his shoulder, his weapon dropping to the ground.
“Blevins!” he called out. “Give it up now, and you won't have to die here today!”
“You think taking out one man is enough to stop us? Rupert has hired dozens and they are scattered about the countryside! Hand over Abbigail and you can leave!”
“I really want to shoot him with this,” Spencer said. “Mrs. Wolcot dipped the arrow tips into horse manure to be certain that he'd die of infection if the strike itself doesn't end his worthless life.”
Michael grimaced. “Good lord. Maybe she likes me after all... If not, I definitely need to work on it. Please, feel free. I'd rather like to see him writhing in agony.”
Spencer leaned toward the window and took aim. It had been some years since he'd used a crossbow, but it was a skill he'd mastered early on in his life. The arrow grazed the heavier man, ripping through his jacket and taking a chunk out of his upper arm.
“I guess I'll have to satisfy myself with killing him slowly.”
“Do you miss it? The rush of battle and the danger?” Michael asked. Spencer had thrived in the war, finding a purpose he'd never before had.
Spencer shrugged. “At times. I never had the qualms about killing that you did... and it was exciting in a way that life here isn't. Or at least it hadn't been until recently. Thank you, by the way, for marrying into such a cracked family.”
Michael rolled his eyes. “Anytime. Glad to be of service.”
A pistol ball slammed into the side of the carriage but had no hope of penetrating the stacks of books. Spencer chuckled as he placed another of the arrows into the notch of the crossbow. He fired again and this time, it landed more solidly, piercing the Squire's other shoulder. The man fell backward and with his weight awkwardly distributed on the horse's back, the animal pranced in protest. After a moment of struggle, the Squire tumbled to the ground.
Spencer climbed out, leaving the elderly coachman inside the carriage. “I'll take the box and get us back to the house.”
“You're welcome to it,” the elderly man said, sagging against the seat as if he'd just run a race.
“Watch out the other side of the windows and at least make yourself useful,” Michael said to the man as he set himself to watching from his own side.
The carriage lurched forward, heading back toward the closed gates. He had to wonder if Blevins was telling the truth. Had Rupert truly amassed a force to be reckoned with? It didn't matter, he decided. It was time to cut the head off the serpent.
~*~*~
Abbi paced the bedroom. The gates were locked and the doors, as well. From the window, she could see smoke in the distance and knew that something had happened. It was maddening not to know what. From the moment he'd left the house, she'd regretted her concession to Michael's demands. She should have gone with them, she thought.
A strangled cry erupted from somewhere in the house. She glanced at Sarah who cowered beside the bed. “Stay here,” she commanded as she took one of the pistols Michael had left for her. She only had the one shot, so surprise would be her greatest asset. Keeping the weapon concealed in the folds of her skirt, she stepped out into the hallway.
“Mrs. Wolcot!” she called. There was no response, but she heard a noise from the third floor. There was no reason for anyone to be up there. Her heart pounding in her chest, Abbi climbed the stairs, staying close to the wall and moving as quietly as possible.
When she reached the landing, she saw the door to the roof and the battlements beyond was open. It swung with the breeze, banging loudly against the exterior wall. The door itself was so heavy it could not have opened on its own. Which meant that someone had gotten past the locked doors. It could only be Lavinia. Her father had once threatened to lock Lavinia in her room, Lavinia's response hadn't been what she'd expected. She'd merely laughed and told him to go ahead, that there were always ways around it.
Another muffled scream brought her crashing back to the present. Easing toward the door, she peered out but saw nothing. Stepping through the doorway, she fought back the panic and fear that clawed at her.
“There you are! I was wondering how long it would take you to find us up here!”
At the sound of Lavinia's voice so close behind her, Abbi shivered. Turning, she saw her stepsister standing near the edge of the battlements just behind the door. Mrs. Wolcot was at her feet, clutching her arm to her chest. “What have you done to her?”
Lavinia gave a breezy shrug. “It's only a broken arm. It will heal,” she said. “But that is not what I have in mind for you! You see, I knew your darling husband would try something brave and heroic. He simply can't help himself. When Rupert and our bull-headed Squire went on and on about how they were going to rid themselves of Ellersleigh and get their hands on you in one fell swoop, I knew better... he would do anything to keep you out of their hands, even leaving you behind.”
The last was sad with a lilting laugh, as if it were all some parlor game she were playing. She giggled behind her hand like a naughty child.
“You've gone completely mad! The quirks and eccentricities of your youth have given way to complete and utter madness,” Abbi said.
Lavinia's smile twisted into a grotesque mimicry of one. “Always so judgmental! My dear, sweet sister. My sister who helps the villagers. My sister who takes care of aging servants! My sister who nurses our parents through their illness!” By the end of it, Lavinia was shouting.
Abbi fired back at her immediately. “Our parents were ill because you had poisoned them!”
Lavinia shrugged. “They wouldn't let me have what I want.”
“Let Mrs. Wolcot go, Lavinia. There's no need for you to harm her any further,” Abbi urged.
Lavinia smiled. “Oh, but there is! It isn't so much fun to hurt her. She's very old and doesn't put up much of a fuss. But you watching me hurt her, seeing the awful things I'll do to the poor old dear while you are utterly powerless to stop it... That, Abigail, is too divine to pass up!”
Lavinia raised the heavy stone she'd been holding in her hand, the one she'd used to break the elderly servant's arm and the same one she'd used to smash the lock on the door. She hoisted it over her head, preparing to bring it crashing down on the woman who'd cared for them as children.
“Lavinia, stop!” Abbi shouted, even as she lifted the pistol she carried.
Lavinia sneered at her. “You won't shoot me, sister dear. You don't have the stomach for it!”
Abbi steadied her hand, took a deep breath and as Lavinia tensed, prepared to bring the rock crashing down, she squeezed the trigger.
The report of the gun was deafening, but not nearly so much as Lavinia's scream. The stone tumbled from her hands, narrowly missing Mrs. Wolcot, who scrambled away. Lavinia's hand was pressed against her cheek, blood oozing from between her fingers.
The pistol ball had done something far worse than kill her. It had taken her beauty. The ball had left a long furrow along her cheek, from the crest of her cheekbone to her ear. As she looked at her blood soaked fingers, realizing what had happened, her screams of horror and pain became shrieks of rage.
Abbi had no ammunition to reload, and no time. As Lavinia charged toward her, her hands outstretched like the claws of a beast, she moved aside at the last second. Lavinia's momentum carried her forward, over the battlements, and onto the slanted roof, but she scrambled for purchase, her hands twisting in the fabric of Abbi's skirts as she went.
Tumbling down to the slate roof, there was nothing for Abbi to grab hold of. Even as she dug for purchase, her fingernails broke against the tiles and she continued sliding, pulled downward by Lavinia's weight. As Lavinia disappeared over the edge of the roof, Abbi managed to grasp the gutter. It bit painfully into her fingers, but with by twisting to the right, she managed to press her feet against the side of a chimney, wedging herself in.
She let out a gasping sob or relief, but she was not safe yet. Lavinia still tugged at her skirt, using the bundled fabric to pull herself up. Abbi's arms ached from the strain of supporting both their weight. How long would the gutter hold?
Even as the thought occurred to her, the stone beneath her hand began to shift. The mortar was old and cracked from years of rain sluicing past. It was not intended to hold the weight of two grown women.
~*~*~
The carriage halted in the courtyard before the house. Michael was out of it, moving forward as quickly as he could, leaning heavily on the can. He heard the scream and stopped. Looking up, he scanned the roofline and his heart stuttered in his chest. He would never get to her in time.
“Spencer, go!” he shouted. “Get her!”
“What about Rupert?”
Michael's lips firmed into a harsh line. “If he's here, I'll deal with him.”
Spencer rushed past him then, up the stairs and towards the roof. Michael moved more gingerly, entering the house and heading for the library. Light flickered beneath the closed door and he knew that Rupert would be in there, gloating over his perceived victory.
Inside the room, Rupert sat behind the desk. Two men stood behind him having the large chests and well muscled of arms of laborers, they were probably ill-trained in fighting techniques, but no less menacing for it. He smiled as Michael entered, the expression chilling.
“I knew you'd find it, Ellersleigh,” he said pointing to the map tucked beneath Michael's arm.
“For that victory, you'd need to thank Abigail,” Michael replied. “I had nothing to do with it.”
Rupert chuckled softly, the sound rasping. “Hand over the map, Ellersleigh. If my friends here have to take it from you, it won't be pleasant.”
Michael realized that his illness had progressed over the last week. The other man's face was gaunt. Dark hollows had formed beneath his eyes and cheekbones. His skin was so white it was nearly translucent, but his eyes were yellowing. The medications he'd been using to keep the consumption in check were damaging his other organs.
Hoping to keep Rupert occupied, he goaded the man. “What's the ultimate goal here, Whitby? Why all the theatrics and the witchcraft in the woods?” Michael watched the faces of the two guards as he asked the question.
“Why should I tell you? You're not a believer!” Rupert protested.
Michael moved forward, easing into the chair as he placed the map on the desk. It would be easier to aim the pistol hidden in his coat pocket if he weren't distracted by the pain in his leg or leaning on his cane. “You have no idea what I believe, Whitby. I've encountered many things in my time here on this earth, things that defy explanation... Did you know that the former Duchess of Briarleigh was haunting Briarwood Park? She would inhabit the body of the new Duchess and speak to Lord Brammell... It was quite disconcerting. She even threatened to take over the new Duchess' body permanently.”
Rupert's head came up then, a strange glint in his eye, as he unrolled the map, his fingers touching the old parchment reverently. “Really?”
Michael leaned forward as nonchalantly as possible, under the guise of massaging the aching muscles of his leg. In that position, his coat had fallen open, the pistol only inches from his hand. “Quite. I don't know if such a thing is possible, but if this plan you've cooked up doesn't quite work out for you, that might. It's obvious your current mortal coil won't last very long.”
“You're a fine one to talk... Sick as I may be, you'll be shuffling off the trappings of this earth before I will.”
Michael laughed. “Then what possible harm could there be in telling me what you've planned?”
“I don't suppose there is any harm,” Rupert reasoned. “After all, you should know what fate will befall your pretty little wife.”
~*~*~
Spencer reached the rooftop, but spared not even a glance for the weeping housekeeper who sat hunkered inside the door. He could hear the struggles beyond.
Stepping out onto the battlements, he looked over the side and felt true panic. Leaning down, he held his hand out to Abigail, who clung to the failing gutter.
“Take my hand!”
“I can't let go!” she cried. “There's too much weight!”
He knew that she was speaking the truth. She barely had the strength to hold herself there, much less to support her weight and Lavinia's. A choice had to be made, and Spencer made it as coldly as he had on the battlefield. Climbing over the battlements, he eased down beside her, bracing his feet against the chimney. When he was close enough to reach her, he pulled a small dagger from his pocket and began to cut away the fabric of her skirt.
Lavinia screamed, her foul shrieks splitting the air. With each slice of the fabric, it began to shred further, ripping away from the rest of the skirt. The last swipe of the blade freed Abigail from Lavinia's grasp. The other woman's scream echoed, growing more distant until it stopped abruptly.
Spencer leaned back against the roof top. “Well, now the question remains... how the hell do we get up from here?”
Abbi gave a watery chuckle in response. “I haven't the faintest clue.”
At that moment, the gutter finally gave way. Abbi screamed as she began to slide along the slate roof. Spencer grabbed her wrist, holding on tightly. With his feet braced against the chimney, they were relatively safe as long as it held, but given the general state of disrepair at Blagdon Hall that was a slim chance.
~*~*~
Rupert leaned forward and with the tip of a wicked looking dagger, tapped against the map. “Here, in the mine shafts and caverns beneath our homes, there is a mystical spring... the true Elixir of Life and not that nonsense the alchemists boast of creating! It has healing properties, but it cannot simply be consumed... Unless you have the blessing of a god, it will only bring misery and death!”
Michael nodded as if he were taking in the drone. “I see. And where does Abigail fit into your plan?”
Rupert chuckled again, his chest rattling feebly. “She's the sacrifice. I have sought the favor of my own god... Bacchus. The Greeks called him Dionysus, but we all know they are the same. I have devoted my life to his efforts after all.... drinking and whoring my way through the ton. Not so different from you, really!”
“So you mean to sacrifice Abigail to an ancient Roman god in an underground cavern that you clearly don't have the breath to reach on your own? All in the hopes that you'll receive his blessing, drink from a magical spring and be cured of consumption.”
At the word consumption, the two men guarding Rupert began to look truly panicked. Michael smiled. “Didn't he tell you that? The man is obviously dying. I hope he paid you in advance because not only is he at death's door, he's poor as a church-mouse... The last person he owed money to, a shopkeeper I believe, wound up with his skull cracked open. Or did Lavinia do that? She's handy with a rock, as poor Allerton could attest if she hadn't murdered him already.”
“Protection if what we was 'ired for!” One of the men protested. “I never agreed to do no murder! I'm not a killer!”
“He is,” Michael said. “How many young women have you sacrificed in those woods? All in your quest to obtain mystical artifacts that would extend your miserable life?”
Rupert shrugged. “A few. Offering those games encouraged collectors to part with their toys in exchange for participation... It was a more affordable option than outright purchase.”
.Michael knew that the hirelings had heard enough. Rupert's insanity would have become more than clear to them by that point. Addressing the beefy men, he said, “I mean to kill him. The question, gentlemen, is whether you remain in his questionable employee or in mine? He would pay you to stand by while he commits atrocities. I will pay you to simply walk away... and any others who might be lurking about. Gather them all, leave this house, and you will be rewarded.”
“How do we know you're telling the truth?” the second man demanded.
Michael's smile broadened. It was the opening he'd been waiting for. “You don't, but you're more likely to get the truth from me than from a man who believes in magical water and ancient gods that haven't been worshiped in thousands of years.”
“Come on, 'Arry! I never liked the 'toff anyway,” the first man said. “We'll be at the tavern in the village. There's twelve of us all together and 'e promised us each a sovereign.”
“Then a sovereign you will get. I'll send them to the village this evening.”
“No! You can't leave me here with him!” Rupert screamed, but it was too late. The men were already heading toward the door. To Michael, Rupert said, “You think you've won, don't you?”
Michael eyed him coldly. “It isn't about winning. It's about surviving... and you've done so for far too long, already!”
Without another word, Michael drew the pistol from his jacket and fired a killing shot. The ball entered Rupert's chest. A single trickle of blood ran from his thin, cracked lips, but Michael didn't linger to see it. He was up, moving toward the stairs, climbing them with all the speed he could manage.
Midway up the second flight, he felt the stitches in his leg give way completely. Blood seeped from the wound, but he ignored it, limping on.
At the top of the stairs, he saw Mrs. Wolcot. She was holding her injured arm to her chest. “We need rope. That chimney won't hold forever!”
Michael didn't ask what she meant, he simply opened the door closest to him and stepped inside. A narrow bed stood in the corner, the mattress rolled up, the rope supports bare. As quickly as he could, he loosened two of the longest pieces that ran the length of the frame.
Once he had them in hand, he made his way through the door to the roof beyond. Spencer held Abbi's wrist in a bruising grip, her feet dangling over the edge of the roofline.
Tying the lengths of rope together, he created one continuous piece that would reach her. He added a loop to the end, he tossed toward her. “Put your hand through the loop and wind it about your arm so I can pull you up!”
She managed to grasp the loop with her free hand, and did as he told her to. Slowly, hand over hand, Michael hauled her up. When she reached the battlements, he grasped her upper arms and hauled her over. Blood now flowed freely from the wound at his thigh, all the stitches having given way. Tying the rope around one of the stone pillars of the battlements, he tossed the looped end back to Spencer, who grasped it and began to hoist himself up.
“Rupert?” Abbi asked.
“Dead.”
“And the Squire?”
It was Spencer who answered that question. “He will be soon enough, courtesy of Mrs. Wolcot's underhanded deeds. Let's get the lot of you downstairs and sort out the merely painful injuries from those that require actual treatment.”
Michael grimaced as he stood. “How did you manage to come away completely unscathed?”
“I'm better at all this than you are,” Spencer answered succinctly.