Mary Blayney (38 page)

18

M
ICHAEL DID NOT NEED
directions to Pennford Castle. It was on a rise north of town, impossible to ignore. The descriptive “castle” suited it perfectly. It had probably been sited on the rise to protect the land that made up the baron’s domain. Those barons might have been Pennistans for all he knew.

The castle consisted of two buildings attached to each other but significantly different in age. The original keep, which faced the town, was round, surrounded by a moat that was now more of a lake. A square building was attached to the back of the keep where it met the land. The newer part had the same crenellation on a similar flat roof, with several turrets as opposed to the single one in the old castle. The bricklike stonework was comparable, but the stone of the square building was newer, with many more windows.

While the exterior of both buildings was well maintained it was easy to see that the original keep was no longer in use. It was dark, with few openings. Those had no glass reflecting the last light of the day.

The newer square building was bold with light on all levels. The duke’s flag flew over the castles, an old tradition, and it made Michael decide then and there that the duke valued the old ways and was not inclined to change.

Michael turned from the road that led to the new building. Lady Olivia was safe, but he would still make his own reconnaissance of the area and see what he could find.

He took a trail that led south around the moat, effectively approaching the occupied part of the castle from the blind side. The water in the moat was currently covered with bits of leaves and twigs. He imagined someone would be about to clean it when more important damage had been dealt with.

The trail was littered with small branches, but he could see beneath the storm’s mark that someone on horseback had used it. The hoofprints were old and hardened, so they had not been made recently.

Once he rounded the old building and moat he was sure that he was unobserved. Michael passed through a stand of trees that were carefully tended to look as though they had been allowed to grow wild. The hand of an artist was at work here. None of it had been compromised by the storm.

A doe, full with fawn, moved across the path and into the trees, following her own trail.

Nudging Troy off the path, Michael found a huge tree that would hide him and most of Troy. He dismounted and waited to see if anyone else was afoot. Speed was the enemy of a successful reconnaissance. His old colonel’s voice echoed in his head. Michael had never agreed with that. To his way of thinking each scouting mission called for its own pace. He was in a hurry, but not such a hurry that he would ignore precautions.

It was not a friendly evening even though the rain held off and the sky was clear. There was a breeze building to a wind. Again. He pulled his gloves from his pocket and remembered who had last used them.

Lady Olivia and Mrs. Blackford made a handsome picture. Olivia’s fairer hair and pale complexion were as effective a contrast to Mrs. Blackford’s silver-streaked black hair as was the housekeeper’s tall thin frame compared to Olivia’s small compact body.

Every time he held her he was reminded of the lovely curves he had done his best to ignore as he brushed the dirt from her flesh and folded his greatcoat around her.

That was hardly a memory to be entertaining moments before seeing her brother. It would be wiser to use this time to consider what version of the truth to tell the duke. How to frame it so that it would best serve Olivia.

No matter what kind of brother the Duke of Meryon was, Michael felt certain that his sister’s reputation would be a concern. Whether the duke saw her as an asset in his pursuit of alliances, a nuisance to be married off or a half-forgotten sibling, the idea that men would use a woman under his protection in their own game would be seen as a test of his power.

Far down the list was the chance that the duke loved his sister, and cared about her enough to be worried for her well-being solely because of it.

Michael pulled off his glove and did his best to wipe the fatigue from his face. With a pat on Troy’s neck and promise of “dinner soon,” he mounted.

If no one had found him lost in thought and half into a doze, there was no one about but him.

Michael came up the circle of the drive from the west as it wound around the hill and his mental games were displaced by the scene before him. The castle was lit by the rapidly setting sun.

The old stone was lit golden, the glassed windows reflecting the light like jewels. It was at once welcoming and mysterious, the way he felt when he claimed a lover: At last, at last, this woman could be the one that filled the emptiness, the one that made him forget the others. But it was never true. No woman had ever come close.

The sun slipped behind the peak and Michael Garrett was sure this palace of pleasure and power would be no more his saving grace than the woman he had held in his arms. He pressed his fingers to his mouth and laughed a little at the memory of that smallest of kisses.

There was a gatehouse, but the mammoth stone-supported wrought-iron gates were open so he saw no reason to stop.

At the end of the rising drive the castle loomed. The sunset moment of golden glory was gone, replaced with a forbidding gloom that would convince a nervous man to forgo his business. Michael left his horse and a coin with a groom who came running from one of the outbuildings and went to the door.

The word
door
did not do the opening justice. Like the gates, the entry was oversized, great wooden panels large enough to admit a man on his horse.

He raised the knocker and let it fall. Immediately a servant came out of a small opening to the right of the ceremonial entrance. This door was made to blend in with the stone and was barely noticeable.

“Michael Garrett to see His Grace the Duke of Meryon.”

“Your card?” The fellow was surely no more than a porter but spoke with all the arrogance of the estate steward.

“No card.”

“His Grace does not receive callers at this hour.” The man stepped back through the door and closed it firmly.

Michael used a few words that Lady Olivia would definitely not approve of and turned away. No point in knocking again. He knew this type, one of those petty tyrants who wielded his power when it did not matter and was too easily overcome when it did.

It did matter now, but Michael was trying to be discreet, to spread as little gossip as possible. To that end, he began to circle the building. The sun was gone but he had grown used to the dark and could find his way easily.

Michael moved slowly, careful not to make a sound, watching for a night guard patrolling the grounds. If there was one, a fact he doubted, the guard’s circuit around the buildings would take the better part of an hour and be easy to avoid.

A place this size should have one, but there had been no guard at the gatehouse, so it was possible they had only the night porter at the door with some minion to walk the halls inside.

A mistake. If the duke relied on his name and power to protect him, he had not read the papers during the French Revolution. Position gave power, but it also made one a target for thieves, murderers. As well as kidnappers.

With no sign of a guard, Michael moved along the wall of the castle, checking the windows of the darkened rooms. He found one unlatched on his third try. That made the porter lazy as well as arrogant.

Pulling off his greatcoat, Michael leaned through the open window to drop it onto the floor inside. He followed it, pulling himself up on the ledge and working his way through the two-foot opening. The floor was carpeted, and he fell onto it in complete silence. Nice to know that lack of practice had not lessened his skills at entering illegally.

He was in some sort of nondescript parlor, and made his way into the hall without seeing a soul. He was walking purposefully to nowhere when a maid carrying a basket came along. Her screech was understandable. The hallway was lit only every twenty feet or so.

“I thought I was the only one in this wing.” She dropped the basket and began backing away from him.

Any second, he thought, she would turn and run.

“I do beg your pardon, miss. I am so ridiculously lost.” Michael tried for his most suave voice, while ostensibly ignoring her panic. “I must see the duke and I cannot find my way to him.”

“You’re to see the duke?” The maid picked up her basket of linens and put it on a nearby chair. “That porter is a fool. He should have accompanied you.”

Michael nodded. It was the absolute truth.

“Then again, he is often too busy unless you are someone the duke knows by name.”

So the staff had the measure of the man’s failings, too. That would mean he was as ineffective as he was lazy.

“His Grace is in his study with Lord David. It is—” she began and stopped with a shrug. “I had best take you there myself or you will wind up in the old castle with only the ghosts for company.” She gave him a wink, and Michael was not sure if she was flirting or showing him that she meant the mention of ghosts as a joke.

Time was he knew by instinct. Not tonight, he realized, thinking back to those moments with Olivia. Lady Olivia. He had been toyed with by an amateur and fallen right into the trap, not thinking with his brain at all.

Sweet-looking though this maid was, Michael was not interested in what she was offering. As she led him down the hall, he was sure she was doing her best to walk with a provocative twist to her step. He followed her and thought only of how much to tell the duke and how much to hold back, trying to decide what would be in Olivia’s best interest.

They were crossing the cavernous entry hall, when the night porter caught up with him. “You! Both of you! Stop!”

“Just ignore him,” the maid whispered. “The duke’s study is up these stairs to the left and down the hall.”

She turned back to the porter, leaving Michael to manage on his own. “Really!” Her words carried back up the stairs. “You are the most irritating man. How many times must I tell you that my name is Patsy?”

“That man. Who is that man? Did you let him in?”

Michael did not need to hear any more to know that he would be followed. As he rounded the corner, two footmen stepped away from a door, clearly the entrance to the study where he would find the duke.

“What is your business, sir? Why are you unaccompanied?”

Before he could answer them the porter came dashing down the hall. “Stop him! That man broke in!”

19

T
HE FOOTMEN SEIZED HIM
by the elbows and held him as the porter ran toward them. The porter paused barely a moment before pummeling Michael with his fists. “You lying, thieving bastard. I told you to leave.” He spoke between jabs Michael was able to avoid despite being restrained by the footmen.

Eventually the porter managed to land a couple of punches that hurt. Michael counted that long enough to wait for the duke to take notice of the commotion outside his study. With a twist he broke free of the footmen and tripped the porter. He was reaching for the door handle when it swung open. Michael stepped back and the porter fell, face-first, into the room at the feet of the duke.

The duke ignored the porter and gave Michael his complete attention. Michael sensed a man pushed to the limit of his patience, a man who would like nothing better than to land a few punches of his own.

“Announce the caller,” the duke told one of the footmen.

His voice belied the tension Michael sensed.

The porter stood up, straightened his clothes.

“He asked to see you, Your Grace. He had no card and was not dressed in a manner that was appropriate. It is late in the day for callers, so I sent him away.”

“What is his business?”

“He did not say, Your Grace.” The porter’s demeanor was so meek that Michael wondered if there could possibly be two men inhabiting one mind and body or if, which was more likely, the porter knew better than to present his superior attitude around his betters.

“He was not asked, Your Grace,” Michael volunteered.

They all looked at him. All except the other gentleman in the room. He was well dressed with the same blond hair and blue eyes as the duke. One more of Olivia’s brothers, Michael guessed.

That gentleman came out of the room and stood behind Michael, just beyond his line of sight. He was the only one of the five that made Michael at all uncomfortable. He had a feeling this man knew how to fight.

“Your Grace,” Michael began with a significant bow, “the vicar asked me to bring you a message.”

The duke did not react in any way, though somehow his gaze grew even more intense.

“Your name?”

“Garrett. Michael Garrett.”

The duke
did
react to that. His hand curled into a fist. “You could have given that message to the porter, but since you are here I will have it from you personally.”

The duke turned his back on all of them and went into the study, not stopping until he was standing behind his desk.

“The rest of you, be about your business,” the duke’s brother ordered. He waited as the group scrambled to obey. The footmen straightened their clothes and took their stations again on either side of the door. The porter moved down the hall and Patsy, with another wink at Michael, followed.

“You. Inside.” This terse command from the duke’s brother.

Michael did not need the direction, but went in ahead of the younger Pennistan, whose ill humor was barely concealed. He reminded Michael of Gabriel, the Pennistan he had met in France, but this one’s inclination to hotheadedness had not been cooled by a wife and a ready-made family as Gabriel’s had.

The blow to his gut was a complete surprise. Michael stumbled back, doubled over, unable to do more than try to catch his breath and wait for the next clout to knock him unconscious. The dungeon would be next.

“You bastard,” Olivia’s brother hissed. “Tell me where she is before I beat you to a pulp.”

“David, control yourself.” The duke’s voice came from somewhere over Michael’s head. There were no more punches and Michael thanked God for the mercy.

“I am far more even-tempered than my brother,” the duke said, his voice even closer now. “When you can speak again, I am inclined to hear your story before I have you drawn and quartered.”

This was not the first time Michael’s actions had not been appreciated. Once again, England did not appear to be all that different from France. Michael took his time recovering, searching the room for a weapon as he pretended to stumble to a chair. As he straightened his clothes he was relieved to see that the duke’s brother was doing the same.

The room was a good size but not so big it needed a fireplace at each end, though it would add to the comfort. There were doors on three walls, five in all, but he had no idea where they led to. He could make his way out the window. Or would he wind up in the lake? He could swim.

As the silence drew out, Michael turned his attention to the duke. He was dressed in black, his white shirt and cravat a stark contrast to the dark wool of his jacket.

He wore the medal of some order. Was he expecting someone he thought to impress or did he wear it all the time? As controlled as he appeared to be there was enough rage, helplessness and mistrust in the air to be shared by all three of them.

“She is safe, my lord.” Michael bowed ever so slightly to the man who had hit him. He turned to the duke and spoke, with another, more profound, bow. His last. “Lady Olivia is quite safe and is indeed at the vicarage, Your Grace.”

“Why did she send you as her emissary?”

“Mrs. Blackford and Reverend Drummond think it best that she stay with them overnight. She is tired and was coughing when I left.”

“Tell me what you know,” the duke commanded, still not sitting down, but standing alert behind his desk.

“I will, Your Grace, but I hope that in return you will share what information you have.” Michael knew better than to wait for an answer and recounted his meeting with Olivia, his efforts to save her life. He avoided the more personal moments and looked the duke straight in the eye as he spoke.

“I found her wandering in the woods. She was on the verge of death by freezing.”

Despite the duke’s nod, Michael could not tell if he was convinced. Meryon raised his hand and turned to his brother. “David, I know you were calling on a friend but I ask you to delay that and find Olivia’s maid. Have her gather a change of clothes and a warm cloak, but do not let her accompany you. Take the carriage and bring Olivia home. If Annie objects tell her that we both know that Olivia will be safer here.”

Interesting, Michael thought. The least important item of interest was that Lord David had any friends at all. Of more passing interest was the duke’s reference to Mrs. Blackford as Annie, and most interesting of all was that the duke wanted his sister home so that she would “be safer.” Meryon did not think her entirely free from danger any more than he did.

Another fact struck him: The duke knew she needed clothes. Michael had deliberately not described how she was dressed when he had found her.

The duke did not speak even when they were alone in the room. With a silent stare the duke took stock of one Michael Garrett. It was a full minute or more before he spoke again.

The duke pulled a basket out from under his desk and spread the contents on his desk: a dark blue cloak streaked with dirt and a bonnet with its velvet brim crushed. “You neglected to mention what she was wearing when you apparently found her in the woods.”

“Someone brought you this.” Michael stepped close enough to touch the cloak. Wool, a fine wool with trim that was an intricate braid in shades of blue. Not sophisticated, rather simple and very well made. It told him as much about Lady Olivia as her brother had. At the bottom of the basket was a long, brown length of hair tied with a blue ribbon stripped from the bonnet. More than the dirty cloak and ruined bonnet it brought a knot of fear to Michael’s gut and then anger at the violation. He could easily imagine how the duke must have felt. To not know if she was dead or alive. One more example of hell on earth.

Michael looked at the duke, who was watching him.

“Yes, Your Grace, they cut her hair. It upset her greatly. More than any other aspect of her captivity, I would say.”

The duke barely nodded and poked at the basket with his finger.

“This basket was on the seat of my chair. I have no idea who put it here or when.”

Michael could hear the anger in the quiet words and wondered how the footmen had escaped with their lives. He wanted more details but reminded himself that Michael Garrett was not in charge here, nor likely to be. He would tell the truth, though it was possible he would not leave with all his body parts working.

“Lady Olivia was in her shift when I found her, Your Grace. And she was barefoot.”
Tell the truth, Michael,
he lectured himself,
and have it over with.
“I had to undress her completely. The shift was wet and was adding to the chill.”

He tried to speak as matter-of-factly as possible, but when he looked from the duke’s unrevealing eyes to his fist, the knuckles were white with the effort to control his anger.

Michael realized why the duke had given Lord David an errand. The mere discussion of his sister’s state of undress would certainly have earned him another punch.

“She was near strangled, but the bruises around her throat were the only injury I could see.” He did not add “or feel.” That would be asking for trouble.

“I believe you, Mr. Garrett, though I do question your motive for being honest.”

There was a scratch at the door and someone opened it without waiting for permission. One of the footmen came in with a satchel.

“The courier has only just arrived, Your Grace.”

The duke accepted the bag with a nod and opened it without comment. There were newspapers, magazines and a flood of letters. He sifted through them until he found the one he was looking for. The duke unfolded it and sat down to read. His expression did not change but he seemed to relax. The man was worried about more than his sister.

Michael sat in the nearest chair, though he had not been invited to, and watched.

The duke picked up another letter and read it through. Was it a letter from the duchess? His mistress? Minutes passed as he read it and another. The tension radiating from him built again until the duke closed his eyes and rested his head in his hands, his elbows on the desktop.

One set of papers floated to the floor and Michael stood and picked it up. It was a child’s painstaking effort at a letter. “Dear sir,” it began, and told Michael all he needed to know about the relationship between the two. Formal at best. Strained at worst.

Michael set it back on the desk.

“I should be in London.” The duke spoke out loud before he remembered there was someone else in the room with him.

Not that Michael needed a reminder he was of less account than the footmen at the door.

Pushing the satchel and papers to the side of his desk the duke resumed their conversation as if there had been no interruption.

“Mr. Garrett, the fact that Olivia was injured at all is both insult and worry. Whether she was raped or not hardly matters. No one will believe she was left untouched.”

If he was upset, the duke did not show it in his face or his eyes or his voice, only in the way he held his hand. As though he could keep all his sensibilities in his fist and crush them there.

“Surely, Your Grace, you came up with a credible explanation for her absence.” Michael stepped back from the desk.

“I let it be known that she had gone to the vicar’s and been taken ill and was staying with him until she was fully recovered. Something she ate. It would not be the first time. I was vague about what it was and how long she would be there.”

“I can see that I will have to stand in line behind Lady Olivia, you, and your brother when the men who did this are apprehended.”

“Once David is finished with them, you will have only to head the burial detail,” the duke said.

“Lady Olivia guessed the story that you would spread. That is why she insisted that she be taken to the vicar’s and not brought directly home.”

The duke nodded. “Now I do not see how that explanation will work. Not if she has bruises on her throat and her hair is shorn. No illness causes those symptoms.”

“The bruises are already fading.” Michael turned away, not wanting the duke to see the anger he could not hide. “Her maid will have some explanation for the new hairstyle.”

Michael rubbed his face with his hand. “You are talking about her as if she was some sort of rarefied legal problem.” He wheeled back around. “She is a woman. Your sister.”

“What is she to you?” The duke’s question was laced with suspicion.