Not the Dukes Darling by Hoyt, Elizabeth (18)

Christopher woke in the early hours of the morning to an empty bed. For a moment he lay in the darkness, winding his way between sleep and wakefulness. He patted the bed beside him. Rolled over and felt until he reached the bed’s edge.

Nothing.

He sighed and nearly fell back into that black pool of sleep, but then his mind sent a jolt, startling him awake with the knowledge that something was very wrong.

Freya wasn’t there.

He sat upright.

The sheets next to him were cold.

Tess lay before the fireplace, curled into a ball and sleeping. The fire itself was but glowing embers, which meant it must be close to dawn.

Freya wasn’t in the room.

Christopher swore and climbed from the bed, his brain seizing with horror. How the hell had she left without him waking?

He still wore his shirt and breeches, and it was the work of a moment to don waistcoat and coat. If she was merely down in the kitchens looking for a nighttime snack, he was going to take her pretty neck between his hands and strangle her.

After kissing her in relief.

He was stepping into his shoes when there came a scratch on the door.

He crossed to it and flung it open.

Outside stood Lady Lovejoy, dressed and white faced.

No.

He knew this was not good, not good at all, even before she opened her mouth.

She looked at him, her eyes wide and frightened, and said, “Miss Stewart and Miss Greycourt went to Randolph House an hour ago with my footman and they haven’t returned.”

Lord Randolph was a huge man. He had a red, pockmarked face, an overhanging brow, and a lumpy potato of a nose. His shoulders sloped from a neck so thick it almost looked deformed. His chest and belly strained at his waistcoat and his thighs were like tree trunks. He’d intimidate most in a ballroom.

In a dim cellar, with his temper out of control, he was simply terrifying.

Freya watched Lord Randolph pace and tried to control her own fear. She needed to keep alert for any sign of an opening. A way to get them all away from here.

She was aware that the likelihood of their escaping was near nil, but to give up was to die without a fight.

She wasn’t about to do that.

For a moment she saw Harlowe’s disapproving face. He would hate this if he could see it. Would want to rescue her and sweep all danger away because that was what he thought he was put on earth to do: always be the savior.

He was going to blame himself if Lord Randolph killed her.

That. That hurt the most.

She was brought back to the present by His Lordship’s bringing his ham-like fist down on an empty wine rack, breaking the thing with a terrific crack.

“Interfering females,” he shouted, kicking the pieces of the wine rack. “Stanhope told me stories about witches in the area, but at first I thought the man overly cautious.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Messalina muttered with more bravado than intelligence.

Randolph whirled on her. “What were you doing, witch? Were you going to set a curse on my lands? Hold some unholy ceremony?”

Freya didn’t like that all his attention was on Messalina. “We’re not witches, I assure you.”

Randolph sneered. “Indeed you are. Stanhope told me about you, Lady Freya. Your damnable name is well known to the Dunkelders, and I shall take great satisfaction in making sure you confess and repent of your sins before you die. I only wish you hadn’t fouled my home with your presence. This, too, is my wife’s fault, I suppose.”

He turned to glare at poor Eleanor, who gave a muffled sob.

Freya, Messalina, and Eleanor were lying on the damp floor of the Randolph House wine cellar. James was nowhere in sight, and Freya could only hope the footman was still alive. Judging from the ancient groined brick ceiling, the cellar was older than the house that now stood above it. The bricks themselves were crumbling, and the low, squat ceiling seemed to loom much too close.

Freya shuddered.

She had the awful feeling that the ceiling and all the tons of soil and house above it could come crashing down on her at any moment.

And there was nothing she could do about it. She was tied securely, her arms pulled behind her back at an awkward angle. Messalina and Eleanor were similarly bound. Eleanor’s face looked awful in the flickering candlelight, pale and shining like something that hadn’t seen the sunlight in weeks.

Because she hadn’t. Lord Randolph had kept Eleanor in this awful, cramped place for a year. It was a wonder she was still sane.

Freya glanced at the man restlessly roaming the small cellar and wondered what would happen when he stopped ranting.

Nothing good.

“Why did you lock Eleanor up, my lord?” Freya called, hoping to distract him or keep him talking or really just anything.

It was torture being held helpless with the knowledge that this man was most likely going to kill all three of them when he stopped talking.

Freya hadn’t expected Lord Randolph to actually answer her, but he whirled at her question. “She’s mad, can’t you see? Kept arguing with me, saying she wanted to leave me. Leave? She’s married to me. A woman can’t leave her husband. I only put her here to save her from humiliating both herself and me.” He glared at Eleanor as if it were her fault he’d had to imprison her. “I should’ve just killed her, but I was too kindhearted to do so.”

Beside her, Messalina cleared her throat. “I think it time you let us go, my lord. After all, my uncle will inquire about me should I not return.”

“Be quiet,” Lord Randolph snapped at her without turning his attention away from Eleanor. “Whyever did I marry you? You’ve caused me nothing but trouble since our wedding day.”

Eleanor closed her eyes wearily. She’d said very little since they’d found her, and Freya had the awful feeling she might’ve been punished for speaking in the past.

“Let us go,” Freya said calmly. “We’ll take Eleanor far away. No one will ever know she’s alive. She’ll never bother you again.”

Lord Randolph stared at her. He leaned down and suddenly slapped her hard across the face.

Freya’s head whipped back, hitting the wall behind her.

“I don’t believe you, witch,” Lord Randolph said through the ringing in her ears. “And I’ll not let you befoul my wife any more than you already have.” He turned and left.

Taking with him their only light.

Messalina was swearing with a shocking versatility and Eleanor was softly sobbing.

On the whole this did not look good, and Freya had a brief vision of Harlowe as he had appeared last night in her bedroom. Calm. Caring. Certain.

Of her.

If something did happen to her, if Lord Randolph carried out his threats and killed her and the others, Harlowe would mourn for her.

She knew it in her bones, and with the acknowledgment something came loose in her breast. Her last barrier—pride, stubbornness, or simple cynicism—fell and she knew. She loved Harlowe. Truly and forever.

She wanted—desperately—to live to see him again.

They needed to get away before Lord Randolph got back.

“Can you move your hands?” she asked Messalina. She kept her voice soft in case Lord Randolph hadn’t gone far.

From what she remembered when Lord Randolph’s footmen had dragged them in here, the cellar seemed to be a long corridor with rooms or bays on either side. They were in the last bay, at the end of the corridor. Here the footmen had bound them—though not without a fight—and tied their hands to iron rings in the wall.

Eleanor had already been chained to the wall when they arrived. By the sores around her ankles, she’d been held this way for quite some time.

“No,” Messalina said grimly. “The rope is too tight. I don’t think I can feel my fingers.”

Freya frowned at that but still turned to Lady Randolph. “Can you reach Messalina, Eleanor?”

“No.” Her breathing was loud in the blackness. “I can’t. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Messalina muttered fiercely. “None of this is your fault.”

Eleanor’s only reply was renewed weeping.

“Perhaps if we pull on the iron rings,” Freya said, trying to keep all their spirits up against overwhelming odds.

She yanked at the iron ring she was tied to. It gave a screech, but didn’t move. It felt as if her bonds were tighter now.

She rested her head on the nasty, cold wall.

Eleanor sounded as if she might’ve fallen asleep, though it was hard to tell if she was snoring or simply breathing heavily.

“I think my mother might’ve known about the Wise Woman,” Messalina whispered suddenly.

Freya blinked in the darkness. “Why do you think that?”

She carefully twisted her wrists, trying to get an idea of how the ropes were tied. She thought she might feel a slight give in the rope.

“I don’t know. Well, that’s not true,” Messalina corrected herself. “After that night, Lucretia and I were sent away. The very next morning, in fact. We went to live with a distant cousin of Mother’s.”

Freya frowned. “That doesn’t sound particularly suspicious.” If she could just get her thumb under one of the loops…

“No,” Messalina agreed. “But it was the person Mama chose to escort us. She was a tall, almost gaunt woman I’d never seen before or since. She barely spoke to us for the entire journey, but I do remember that she had the oddest name. Crow.”

Freya felt a thrill go through her. Like Macha, the name Crow was handed down to each new woman in the position. Messalina and Lucretia had been guarded on their journey to safety by the Wise Women’s Crow at the time.

“Did your mother say anything about the Wise Women?” she asked.

“Nothing,” Messalina said, and Freya couldn’t quite make out what she heard in her voice. “She died very shortly after we left. Perhaps a day or two. She was ill, remember?”

“Yes.” Freya swallowed. She did remember now—how had she forgotten? Mrs. Greycourt had spent most of her time in a chair or in bed, her face thin and sallow, her hands shaking. But she’d smiled—a sweet, wide smile—whenever she’d seen Freya. “I think you’re right: the Wise Women helped your family.”

Messalina sighed in the darkness. “How do you become a Wise Woman?”

Freya relaxed for a moment, trying to ease the strain on her shoulders. “Mothers who want to bring their girls into the Wise Women usually do so a year after they first bleed. That’s when the girls learn the secrets of the Wise Women. You were probably too young still to be initiated.”

“Then how did you become a Wise Woman?” Messalina asked. “Your mother…”

Freya’s mother had died in childbirth with Elspeth. “I was too young when Mama died. But my aunt Hilda took care of us girls after the tragedy. She was the one who taught me and my sisters about the Wise Women.” She sighed, remembering that indomitable woman—all the indomitable women who had come before them. “I’m sorry about your mother. I didn’t know when exactly she died. We didn’t attend the funeral, of course, and there was no one to bring the news. I would’ve liked to…”

What? Help mourn the woman who had been so kind to her when her own mother had died? Given her sympathies to the family that had destroyed hers?

It was all so mixed up—so awful—and she was weary of the whole mess.

“I know.” Messalina’s soft words interrupted her thoughts. “I would’ve liked to have been with you when your father died. I would’ve liked to have been with you through all of it. I wish we’d remained friends. I wish…”

“We never really had a choice, did we?” Freya murmured. “It was all taken away from us.”

“But we have a choice now,” Messalina whispered, and even in the dark Freya could hear her smile. “I’m glad we found each other again and made up. I’m glad I’m your friend, Freya.”

Freya opened her mouth to reply, but the sound of approaching footsteps stopped her.

Lord Randolph loomed into view with his footmen. “I think it’s time to end this, don’t you?”

Christopher cocked his pistol and placed the barrel against the back of Lord Stanhope’s head. “Where are the women?”

They stood in the Randolph House kitchen, which was eerily deserted. Christopher had two brawny Lovejoy footmen at his back—good men who had helped him get inside the house. There they’d run into luck: the viscount lurking by himself in the kitchen.

“You’re too late,” Stanhope said.

Christopher sneered and knocked the barrel of the pistol against Stanhope’s skull. “Tell me.”

The viscount darted a malicious glance at him. “They’re in the cellar.”

Christopher stared at him. Stanhope had given the information entirely too easily.

Christopher turned to the footmen. “Search the rest of the house.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” the elder of the two said, and they ran from the kitchen.

He looked back at the viscount. “Show me.”

Stanhope shrugged and led him to a low doorway on the far side of the kitchen. Beyond the doorway the cellar was black.

“We’ll need a candle,” Stanhope said.

Christopher felt sweat start at his lower back. God, he hated this. Hated that Freya was down there in the dark. Hated the thought of descending into that black pit.

But if Freya was down there, he would go down.

For her.

“Then light a candle,” Christopher growled.

He watched as the viscount picked up a single candlestick and lit it from the fire, then looked at him inquiringly.

Christopher impatiently motioned to the cellar stairs.

Stanhope grimaced and went down the spiral stairs with Christopher following close behind.

“She’s a witch, you know,” Stanhope said, his voice echoing. “It goes back centuries in her family.”

“Shut up.”

Stanhope’s laughter floated up to him from farther down the stairs. The viscount had turned beyond the central pillar, and his light was a mere flicker on the walls.

Christopher felt the sweat slide down the small of his back. He should’ve brought his own candle. He rounded the pillar and almost ran into Stanhope, standing at the bottom of the stairs, his face lit from below by his candle.

He looked like every child’s nightmare bogeyman. “They fuck the devil, you know. Witches do.”

“You’re insane.” Christopher had had enough. The stale air was pressing against him, making him think he couldn’t catch his breath. “Where is Miss Stewart?”

But Stanhope wouldn’t be moved from his subject. “They hold midnight masses and sacrifice newborn babes.” His eyes glittered. “They drink the blood of the innocents.”

Christopher raised his eyebrows. “You’ve seen this yourself, have you?”

He looked past the viscount’s shoulder. The cellar appeared to be a long room with smaller rooms off it.

The end disappeared into darkness.

He glanced back at Stanhope. The man had bright spots of color on his cheeks, as if he were feverish. “Where is Lady Randolph?”

Stanhope blinked. “Lady Randolph? Do you want to see Lady Randolph?”

“Yes,” Christopher said.

Stanhope pivoted without a word and marched into the darkness.

Christopher followed him warily.

At the end of the corridor the viscount disappeared into one of the rooms.

Christopher stopped.

“Are you coming?” Stanhope asked, and his words echoed in the empty cellar.

“What do you have in there?” Christopher growled.

“Come and see.”

Christopher smiled grimly. “Oddly enough, I don’t trust you.”

“You don’t trust me?” Stanhope barked a laugh. “You consort with witches.”

“Miss Stewart isn’t a witch,” Christopher said. The ceiling was so damned low. He could touch it without extending his arm fully above his head. The thought made his breath come faster. “There’s no reason for me to come in there. If you’re only playing games—”

There was a thump and a muffled scream.

Christopher rounded the corner.

To find Lord Randolph aiming a dueling pistol at him.

Christopher instinctively ducked.

But Randolph didn’t shoot. “You coward. You should’ve seen your face just now.”

“Where is Miss Stewart?” Christopher asked. Messalina and Lady Randolph were tied up at Randolph’s feet, both gagged.

Stanhope stood in the corner, looking wary.

Messalina looked like she wanted to kill someone—most probably Randolph.

Christopher dragged his gaze away from them. He needed to keep his attention on Randolph and his pistol. “If you shoot me, I’ll shoot you.”

That seemed to amuse Randolph. “Oh no. Stanhope has told me all about your fondness for the witch. You deserve to see each other before you both die. In fact I’ve a mind to kill the witch in front of you before I shoot you.”

Christopher stiffened, but kept his face expressionless. He needed Randolph to show him where he’d hidden Freya.

“That way.” Randolph waved his pistol toward the doorway behind Christopher.

“Which way?” Christopher asked, turning so that he could keep his pistol on Randolph as he backed to the corridor.

“To the right,” Randolph said.

Christopher raised his eyebrows. The passage to his right led to the dead end of the corridor. He obeyed, though, conscious all the time as he sidled sideways down the corridor that there was a pistol pointing at him. He kept his own pistol leveled on Randolph as he moved.

But it wasn’t entirely a dead end. As Christopher neared and the single candle Randolph held lit the way, he could see one more room, although room was perhaps too generous a word.

It was more like a cubbyhole.

Bloody hell. He could feel sweat on his brow as they neared, the beginning of the awful panic beating its wings in his chest.

The flickering candlelight reflected on a face close to the ground.

Freya.

White faced, gagged, and bound.

Christ.

Christopher cleared his throat and said, “I don’t see anything.”

“No?” Randolph laughed derisively, striding forward. He swung his pistol away from Christopher and toward the cubbyhole and Freya. “Perhaps you’ll see this.”

Christopher shot him in the head.

The candle clattered to the floor and the cellar descended into blackness.