Chapter Sixteen
Abbi was in the library, reading the letter that Michael had discovered. Recalling how her stepmother had suffered and then her father, she couldn’t fathom that Lavinia could have been so cruel. She’d thought that it was Rupert who had negatively influenced her stepsister, but given the timing, she had to wonder if perhaps the reverse weren’t true. Which of the two was really the mastermind?
She had hoped that reading the letter or looking through the ledgers her father had kept in the day to day running of the Hall would help to stir her memory in regards to the map. But it was not to be. She’d never seen the item they referred to, certainly never realized that her father had owned anything that would be considered valuable enough to kill for. Another thought had crept into her mind while reading it. What if Lavinia had already found the map? What if, she thought, in the confusion after her father's death and with Allerton taking over the estate, that he'd already turned the map over to her? It was something she'd have to discuss with Michael.
Frustrated and more than a little disappointed, she closed the journal and leaned back in the chair, contemplating the strange turn of events. It wasn’t just the revelation regarding her father and stepmother’s death. Part of her strange mood could be laid squarely at her new husband’s feet. She didn’t understand him. Charming at times, bullish and domineering at others, then sweetly tender, he left her reeling and she didn’t like the feeling of being so off balance.
The door to the library opened. Michael entered with Spencer close behind him. They were dressed for riding.
“Where are you off to?” she asked, having a sneaking feeling that Michael was once again trying to shield her from perceived dangers.
“We're going to the stone circle,” Michael replied, evenly. “And before you ask, no, you are not going with us.”
Abbi shivered. She didn't want to go there. The place had always been unsettling, but in light of recent events, the place was even more intimidating than usual. Frowning slightly, she replied, “Be careful what you say... don't mention it where Sarah might overhear.”
Michael nodded. “Of course. We will be quite discreet... no arguments about accompanying us?”
Abbi smiled sweetly, but her glare was icy. “No. I do not argue for argument's sake and I have no wish to go to that foul place. I had thought to remain here and see what I can find out about this map they are so interested in.”
“Come on! Let's get this over with,” Spencer said. “I'm sure Lady Ellersleigh will be quite relieved to be rid of us for a few hours.”
“Certainly, she'd be glad to be rid of you... I've managed to work my way back into her good graces.” Michael turned to her then, a wicked gleam in his blue eyes. His lips curved upward ever so slightly as his gaze roamed over her in a knowing fashion. “Haven't I love?”
Abbi felt the blush heating her cheeks. Of course, Lord Wolverston couldn't see how Michael was looking at her to know just how inappropriate he was actually being, but that did nothing to ease her embarrassment. “Go. Now. Please. And do not feel compelled to hurry home.”
Michael chuckled as he leaned over the desk and pressed a kiss to her cheek. He whispered softly in her ear, “And yet last night you urged me to hurry... quite vehemently.”
Her response was uttered low and between clenched teeth. “It is utterly impossible for you to behave appopriately!”
He relented then, offering her his most charming of smiles. “You are entirely correct. It is impossible... and when I return, I shall endeavor to show you just how enjoyable inappropriateness can be.”
Abbi was still pretending not to be amused by his scandalous behavior as the two men left the library to seek out answers in the woods beyond the estate. Determined to find answers of her own, Abbi decided to tackle some of the upper rooms that had been closed off the longest. She could search and clean.
~*~*~
Michael worked quietly in the stable, saddling his horse as Spencer did the same. He watched the other man surreptitiously. Spencer was still an ass at times, dogmatic and pompous, but he was a good friend. The years of animosity between them weren't simply forgotten, but the rift was slowly mending. “It's bloody ridiculous!” he said. “Remind me that I need to see to hiring some lads to take care of the stable. We have a servant here, but he's old as Methuselah... Also, he doesn't like me much.”
Spencer cocked an eyebrow at that. “Blagdon appears to be rife with people you can't charm. Or perhaps you're losing your golden touch?”
It was a valid point, Michael realized. He'd used charm most of his life because it simply made his life easier. Abbi wasn't immune to his charm, but she wasn't overly swayed by it either. Mrs. Wolcott eyed him as if he'd come straight from Hades. Her brother wasn't much better. “I'll take that into consideration...In the meantime, we've work to do.”
Spencer placed the saddle on his horse's back, positioning it just so. “What are we looking for exactly?”
“There's a stone circle in the woods, an ancient place, where apparently the Whitby's and their cohorts are carrying out these barbaric rituals. We need to scour that area for anything that might tie them to the crimes... Also for any indication of what their ultimate goal might be.”
“Is it safe to leave Lady Ellersleigh here alone?”
Michael had worried over that. “I don't know what we'll encounter in the woods—or who. I think having her remain in the house is the best option. Mrs. Wolcot is there. No one will get into Blagdon Hall unless she lets them in and she's been instructed the premises are off limits to everyone but us. It may be the only order I've given her that she will actually comply with.”
“And yet you haven't sacked her and sent her packing,” Spencer observed. “Do you still have that odd menagerie of strays at your London house? The pickpockets and prostitutes rescued from the gutters and rookeries and turned into the worst servants in Christendom?”
“What of it?”
Spencer chuckled. “I always thought it odd... a rakehell to end all rakehells, and yet you played nursemaid to the impoverished and destitute. Why?”
Michael mounted his horse, swinging easily into the saddle. “Why not?”
Spencer climbed atop his own mount. “Why not, indeed... though it hardly fits your profligate image.”
“And mooning over a young girl who's reputation hangs by a thread is hardly fitting to your image... Is that why you're reluctant to pursue her? Because of what happened to her at Lord Moreland's hands? Surely you can't hold her accountable for that!”
Spencer's hands tightened on the reins. “Will you not leave this alone?”
Michael shrugged, one eyebrow quirking upward in challenge. “You've made free to meddle in my romantic relationships. I don't see why I shouldn't be permitted the same privilege.”
Spencer sighed wearily in response. “No. I will not pursue Larissa, but it has nothing to do with Lord Moreland. My reasons for not pursuing her are my own.”
Michael noted the tightened jaw and the tension in his friend. “But you do have feelings for her.”
“Even if it's true, nothing can come of it. Just leave it be, Ellersleigh... Haven't we enough to occupy our time? Or should we forgo looking for evidence of murder in order to continue discussing my romantic affairs or lack thereof? Perhaps afterward we can discuss my tailor and compare notes on how to tie a cravat!” By the end of his rant, Spencer's voice was caustic and overly dry, a sure sign that he'd been goaded to anger. Anything that rattled Spencer's enviable control was of note.
Michael chuckled. “Fine. The matter is dropped, at least from me. But if Abbigail noticed, then Emme will have, as well... Be prepared for the meddling of others, my friend.”
Spencer ignored the comment and instead directed his horse toward the woods behind Blagdon Hall. Michael fell in behind him wondering at what appeared to be tormenting his friend.
They rode on in silence, Michael taking the lead as they entered the woods. There was a trail, albeit not much of one. It didn't take to reach the clearing, but it was dark in the woods. The thick overgrowth of trees blocked out much of the weak winter sun. Dismounting, he tethered his horse to a low hanging branch and Spencer followed suit.
The stone circle was just ahead of them. Approaching it on foot, Michael was uneasy. The place felt wrong. He searched for a better word to describe it, but nothing else came to mind. A dark pall hung over it and it was no stretch of the imagination to picture wicked deeds occurring within the ancient ring.
“Well, this is cheerful,” Spencer mumbled under his breath. “God's blood. Why the bloody hell would anyone want to spend time here?”
“Bloody hell could be their ultimate goal,” Michael replied with more nonchalance than he felt.
Michael walked the area carefully, looking for anything, any sign of who had been present or what had taken place there. As he paced the perimeter of the stones, he ignored the uneasy feeling that settled on him. It felt as if a thousand eyes were upon him. The weight of it, the oppressive heaviness of the area dragged at him. His blood raced in his veins and he felt much as he had on the eve of battle. The surge of energy in his body, the prickling awareness of danger—it was all too familiar.
Against his better judgment, Michael breached the perimeter of the stones and walked towards the larger one at the center. As he neared it, he noticed something odd. The closer he came to it, the more uneasy he felt.
A cold sweat broke out on his skin, and a sick feeling settled in his stomach as he stared down at the pocked surface of what could only be an altar. There were deep crevices in the rock, cracks and fissures that provided a natural path for any liquid that would fall upon its surface. Each of these crevices bore a dark stain.
Removing a small blade from the pocket of his waistcoat, Michael dug into one of the deeper fissures until the darker substance began to flake off. Transferring those small flecks to his handkerchief, there was no mistaking the identity of the substance.
“I think we know where Lord Harding's youngest son met his end,” Spencer noted.
“This isn't young Mr. Harding's blood. It's too fresh. I'm afraid someone else has fallen victim to their games,” Michael noted.
“Damn. How many victims have these bedlamites claimed?”
Michael shook his head. “Allerton, Harding, and the torment they inflicted upon poor Sarah... Abbigail's father and stepmother. Who knows how many others?”
Spencer let out a weary sigh. “At the risk of sounding missish, I don't like this place. It feels... haunted isn't exactly the word, but I don't have another one.”
“Powerful,” Michael said. “It feels powerful. And like any power it can be abused.”
“You don't actually think they can resurrect some ancient god or goddess, do you?”
“No, but I think they are drunk on their own power and drunk with the power of this place. Reality is a fluid thing, Spencer. You remember what happened in the tower at Briarleigh... Was Elise actually there or did Eleanor just believe that she was?”
Spencer shook his head. “I don't know. I don't care to know. I prefer to put that night as far from my mind as possible and keep it that way... What else are we looking for?”
Michael moved to the other side of the clearing. “Any indication of frequent foot traffic between this clearing and Whitby Hall. Perhaps in the post orgiastic haze one of the participants might have dropped something that would identify them.”
“Not bloody likely.”
Michael nodded his agreement. “At the moment, I'm afraid it's all we have.”
Stepping free of the stone circle, Michael instantly felt better, as if a weight had lifted from him. Perhaps it was that which prompted his carelessness. He walked quickly towards his horse, eager to be free of the place entirely. With little regard for his surroundings, it was only Spencer's quick thinking that saved him.
As the loud crack of gunfire split the morning air just as Spencer shoved Michael to the ground. The ball whizzed past him, taking a sliver of fabric from his coat, and burrowing into a tree beyond. The horse reared, rising on it's hind legs in an impressive display. The hooves came down, pawing at the earth as Michael rolled out of the way. One caught his shoulder regardless, the searing pain had him cursing, even as he rolled again to avoid another encounter with the massive hooves.
Spencer had caught the horse by the bit, struggling to hold the animal as Michael pushed himself back out of the way. With his back to one of the larger of the standing stones, Michael's hands were still flat on the ground. It was only that which allowed him to find the piece of evidence they would have missed otherwise.
The watch fob was small but quite elaborate. It was also quite unique. It bore a gold insignia that the elder Lord Harding had copied from the seal of a tomb in Egypt. He knew this because he'd been present when Harding had shown the fob to his father.
“Bloody hell!” Spencer uttered as the horse finally stilled. Both man and beast were sweating from their exertions. Michael was fairing little better. His shoulder throbbed, and there would be a few other injuries that would make themselves known later, he was sure.
“I don't want to be shot again, Spencer. It hurts like the devil... but if I have a choice between that and being trampled by that bloody horse, I'll take the pistol ball.”
Spencer snorted. “The horse got your shoulder... that pistol ball was meant for your head. Empty as it is, I can't imagine it would do much damage.”
Michael tucked the watch fob into his pocket. He didn't want to give too much away when there was a chance of them being overheard. “We need to get back to the house. Do you think our sniper is gone?”
“Sniper my arse!” Spencer sneered. “If his bloody aim had been any worse he probably would have shot me!”
Michael rolled his eyes. “Get me on that damned horse and you can give the bastard lessons!”
“You'll not be getting on this horse... The bullet took a bit of his hide along with your coat. Take mine and I'll walk him back. Stay in the trees and off the path. No need in making yourself more of a target.”
Michael crouched low and made his way back towards Spencer's horse. Rather than mount the horse immediately, he waited until he was in the protection of the trees. The trees offered some cover, but not nearly enough. As he clamored onto the horse's back, his movement hindered by his all but useless left arm, another shot rang out. The ball hit its mark this time, embedding itself into his thigh. Blood soaked through his breeches and the horse, already spooked by earlier events and the malevolent undercurrent of their surroundings, reared.
Michael once again landed in the dirt. This time there were no hooves crashing down upon him. The horse fled in panic.
The weakness was already settling in. He was losing blood too quickly. Tugging at his cravat he managed to get the piece of linen loosened, but his fingers stopped working, becoming clumsy and useless as he attempted to pull it free. He knew that if the wound wasn't bound, the blood loss would take him. But the means were simply beyond him at that point. His body was betraying him. Blackness had claimed him before the curse escaped his lips.
~*~*~
Abbi had finished polishing the desk in a small room on the third floor and had moved to the large armoire in one corner. It was the one piece of furniture in the house she'd never considered selling off because there was no one capable of moving it. Looking at the elaborate carvings on the top, she knew it would require a significant amount of work. She eyed the small chair at the desk dubiously. If she attempted to stand on it, the chair would not be the only thing that wound up broken.
It was only the second room she'd managed to tackle and she was already filthy and exhausted from her efforts. Still, it had to be done. The servants would be arriving before weeks end, or so they had been told. Something told her that Michael's household was not the most efficiently run.
It might seem counterintuitive to clean for the people who would be cleaning for her, she didn't have it in her to allow them to arrive a decade's worth of dust and cobwebs. Regardless of their origins, she thought somewhat perplexed. Michael's servants, now hers, were the motley crew that Spencer had labeled them. Not a one of them appeared to be well trained in their positions.
Opening the doors of the armoire, Abbi placed one foot carefully on the bottom of the large cabinet. The wood was solid, not giving at all beneath her weight. Sighing in relief, She brought the other foot up. Standing on her toes and clinging to one of the doors, she could just reach the uppermost point of the elaborate pediment.
Carefully, she began to clean within all the nooks and crannies. A scratching noise caught her attention and she turned to see the blasted cat poised on the edge of her bucket, smacking at the water.
“You vile beast! Don't you dare! Get away from there.”
The cat ignored her, continuing to bat at the water, splashing it about and making a mess of everything. “Oh, how I hate you!”
Abbi let go of the door and attempted to shoo the cat away. It continued in its pursuits as if she weren't yelling at it and waving her arms like a madwoman. Shifting her weight slightly, one of the armoire's doors begin to swing shut. Attempting to keep the heavy door from smashing her fingers, she grabbed at it but succeeded only in losing her balance.
Pitching forward into the darkened interior of the cabinet, Her shoulder connected painfully with the back panel. She heard a loud crack and felt searing pain in her arm. Hoping it was the cabinet that was broken and not her, she moved her shoulder gingerly. It ached and would undoubtedly leave a nasty bruise, but at least it was intact.
The cabinet was another matter entirely. Extricating herself from the large piece of furniture, she stepped back to survey the damage. Her eyes widened in surprise. The cabinet itself was still intact. Only the false back inside it had broken. Behind the splintered wood was an rolled up piece of parchment.
“The map,” she whispered.
Turning to look at the cat, Abbi frowned. It was gone. “No,” she said aloud. “We have one two-legged ghost inhabiting Blagdon Hall. That is more than enough.”
Reaching inside the cabinet, she retrieved the map, hoisted her bucket in her other hand and began to make her way toward the study. She didn't know how long Michael and Spencer would be out, but she was eager to show them what she'd found.
Stepping out into the hallway, she felt the chill immediately. Looking over her shoulder, she saw the Gray Lady. She stood in the center of the hall pointing towards the window and the woods beyond.
“Michael,” Abbi whispered.
The Gray Lady lowered her arm and gave Abbi a sad but all too knowing look. Abbi clutched the map to her chest, letting the bucket and it's contents spill over the floor as she ran down the stairs. Something terrible had happened.
~*~*~
He should have paid more heed to Larissa's warnings. Covered in Michael's blood and his own sweat, Spencer raced through the woods. Unconscious and draped over his shoulder, Michael never stirred. Panic seized the breath in his lungs as he finally burst through the garden gate.
The kitchen door flew open and Abbigail was there, her face pale with fright. “Oh god!” she cried. “Is he—?” She didn't complete the question. She didn't need to.
“No... but it's very bad,” Spencer managed, moving past her. “I need a bed for him.”
“M'room is through there,” Mrs. Wolcot spoke up, pointing one bony finger toward a narrow door off the kitchen. “Put him on the bed and we'll see what needs doing.”
Spencer placed Michael on the narrow bed. His skin was pale and waxy, the flow of blood from the wound slowing, but he didn't think that was necessarily a good sign. In fact, it signified something far worse in his mind. He turned to the small, ancient woman who was barking orders.
Abigail had moved forward and was brushing the hair back from Michael's pale forehead. The injure man stirred, his eyes fluttering lightly. His lips parted and one word escaped. “Melisande.”
Spencer saw her flinch as if she'd been slapped. She moved away from the bed, from the man lying upon it so gravely injured. It had hurt her deeply, but there was no time to explain the situation. Other things required their immediate attention.
“Perhaps I should go to the village and fetch the physician,” he offered.
“You'd have to go a might further than the village,” she said as she pulled a knife from her apron. “Make yourself useful and start cutting the cloth away from his leg. Don't pull it if it's stuck! You'll only make the bleeding worse. Just split the fabric to his hip. Miss Abigail, now isn't the time to fall apart. Go get your sewing basket. You move faster than I do and heaven knows your eyesight is better.”
Abbi did as she was bade, and while her expression was still shuttered, she moved with haste.
Spencer eyed the blade dubiously. “Madam, surely a doctor—.”
“Would set the leeches on him and take blood he doesn't have to give!” Mrs. Wolcott said, dismissing Spencer's concerns as if they were of no import. “The water is boiling. You fetch it while I get these clothes off him.”
Spencer did as he was bade. The woman was more than likely correct. Michael had thought the use of leeches barbaric and unclean. While many other battlefield surgeons had used them, Ellesleigh had forsworn the practice and instead used precious whiskey as an antiseptic. It hadn't always worked, but by and large, he'd lost fewer men than the other physicians had.
Fetching the kettle of boiling water, he moved back into the room and found the woman leaning over Michael's naked form, prodding at the wound.
“Are you going to finish the job?” he demanded.
The old crone continued her study, ignoring him and Michael's pained protests. Finally, she spoke. “The ball's still in there. 'Twill have to come out. I don't have the eyesight for it and we'll need you to hold him, lest he pulls away and makes the damage worse.”
Abbigail entered the room then, carrying her sewing kit and clean linens. “How bad is it?”
Mrs. Wolcot sighed. “He's young and healthy, but it's an ugly wound and has bled too much. You'll need to dig the ball out.”
Abbigail blanched her face draining of all color. She swayed lightly, but righted herself immediately. Squaring her chin, she nodded. “Let's get him cleaned up so we can better see what we're doing.”
Spencer watched as the women washed their hands with scalding water and then cleaned the angry wound. Michael grimaced but made no sound. His skin was nearly as white as the linens he had been laid upon.
“We'll need you now,” the housekeeper said.
Bracing himself for what was to come, he moved toward the bed and placed his hands firmly on his friend's shoulders. Mrs. Wolcot had brought in a set of tools that looked more akin to torture than medicine. “Why do you even have these things?” he asked, horrified.
The old woman kept her eyes trained on Abbigail, but answered his question. “My mother was a midwife. Those were her things.”
“Good god! They're ancient!”
She looked at him sharply. “Hold him and hold your tongue.”
~*~*~
Abbi took a steadying breath and willed her hands not to tremble. It wasn't the first time she'd treated a wound, but it was the first time the outcome had been so dear to her. Steeling herself, she probed the skin around the wound until she could feel the resistance of the ball beneath his flesh. He groaned in protest, and Abbi's heart lurched in her chest. What was to come would be so much worse.
“You must hold him... Tightly. He can't move about at all.” Glancing up she met Spencer's gaze and didn't proceed until he gave her a curt nod.
With her heart in her throat and her stomach rolling in protest, Abbi pressed her hand firmly over the ball and inserted the small instrument into the wound.
He screamed, his back arching and his body tensing as he struggled against them. Spencer held him firm, keeping him fully pinned to the bed.
“Do it quickly, girl,” Mrs. Wolcot urged.
With the blade of the instrument pressed beneath the ball and her hand above it, pressing, she worked it forward. Relief swept through her as it moved, slowly, one perilous inch at a time toward the opening. By the time the ball was close enough to the surface for her to grasp it and remove it, she was sweating. Every part of her was tense.
She glanced up to see that Michael had lost consciousness altogether, for which she was thankful.
“Now what?” she asked.
“Whiskey,” Mrs. Wolcot said. “Some for the wound and some for you, Miss. You've a need of it.”
Abbi allowed Mrs. Wolcot to pour the liquid over the wound. The liquid beaded on his skin, tinted pink with his blood before rolling onto the linens below.
“Inspect the wound... make sure there's no bits of dirt or cloth still in there.”
Grimacing, Abbi did as she was told. Clearing away any debris, she used more whiskey to clean it thoroughly.
“Now, pack the wound with these herbs,” Mrs. Wolcot instructed handing her a small bottle filled with a mixture that was familiar to her. Yarrow and plantain would staunch the bleeding. “Once that's done, we'll stitch it.”
It seemed like hours though in fact it was only minutes. The drag of the needle through his flesh, pulling the jagged edges together as she sewed, was a far cry from the embroidery that she'd always despised. At that moment, she would have gladly embroidered a thousand handkerchiefs than pierce his flesh once more.
When it was done, Abbi sat back while Mrs. Wolcot wrapped clean bandages around his leg. She began to shake then, the tremors wracking her from head to toe.
In all of it, she hadn't allowed herself to think, to examine what might happen to him. She was not so foolish as to think he was safe. The ball was out, the bleeding had slowed, but he'd lost so much, and then there was the risk of infection. If he developed a fever—she shied away from that thought.
How foolish it had been of her to think she could avoid falling in love with him! All her initial efforts to keep distance between them had failed so miserably. His charm was difficult enough to resist, but it was the other side of him, the parts that he kept so carefully concealed from others that had swayed her. His tender care of Sarah after she'd been attacked, his concern for her and his attempts to keep her safe, infuriating as they were—she'd stood little chance of keeping her heart steeled against him. The futility of that effort seemed laughable.
“You should rest,” Mrs. Wolcot suggested. “If a fever sets in, 'twill be later and you'll need to watch over him then.”
Abbi shook her head. “No. I need to clean myself up and then I'll come sit with him. I don't want to leave him.”
Mrs. Wolcot muttered under her breath about the foolishness of love as she began gathering up her implements and the other items.
Abbi turned to Spencer. “Will you stay with him until—.” She broke off and simply made a sweeping gesture over her blood-soaked clothing. Although as she took in Lord Wolverston's appearance, he'd fared little better. The blood was drying stiffly on his clothes. “Perhaps, you should get cleaned up first.”
“No,” he said. “You go and I'll sit with him. Once you've returned, I'll deal with this.”
“I'll hurry,” she said. It was as much for Lord Wolverston's benefit as for the fact that she didn't want to be away from Michael. She knew that Mrs. Wolcot was right and that it would be hours before they knew whether or not a fever would set in, but she still feared that something else would happen.