The Viscount's Counterfeit Wife (61 page)

He inserted the key in
the lock and turned. It screeched with rust, echoing loudly against
the stone walls.

A frisson of fear
snaked through her at the eerie sound, imagining Monsieur stuck in
this hellhole for days... weeks... on end.

Victor pulled the door
open and, gripping her arm hard, ushered her in. She tried to hold
back, poking her head in to see if anyone was there, but suddenly, he
thrust her forward, pushing her hard on the back, and she went flying
onto the floor. Next thing she knew, the door was creaking closed.

She’d never even got
the chance to use her gun!

She leapt to her feet
and rushed to the door. “Mr. Dubuc! Victor!” But all she heard
was the pounding of footsteps disappearing upwards and a triumphant
crow of laughter cascading down from above and then a loud slam.

The devil was gone!

She leaned against the
door for a moment, stunned at the speed with which catastrophe had
occurred. “You waited too long, you simple-minded fool!” Why had
she thought he’d give her the time to see if…?

Monsieur!

Turning quickly, she
gazed around the room. There! A small cot against the far wall. A
body was huddled on it in a fetal position. It looked lifeless!

Oh
my God! Please no. Monsieur!

She rushed across the
room, heart racing with alarm. Almost afraid to look, she forced
herself to crouch down and grab the wrist to feel for a pulse.

“Thank God!” She
almost fell backwards, her relief was so great.

But there was no time
to waste. The beat was faint and she had to get him… It was
Monsieur, wasn’t it? She turned the head to see and almost cried at
how his dear face had withered and thinned. “Monsieur! Monsieur
Moreau!”

He moved and muttered.

That was encouraging.
He hadn’t lapsed into complete oblivion.

She fetched her sketch
bag from where it had fallen on the floor, and withdrew the small
flask Foster had handed her as she left. “For Monsieur,” he’d
said. “He might need it.”

How prophetic he’d
been!

She removed the top,
then reached behind Monsieur to lift his head up high enough to
dribble a few drops of brandy into his mouth.

He choked and coughed
up a little of it. Setting the flask aside, careful not to spill it,
she held him with both arms and patted him gently on the back. Her
heart ached at how little he weighed. His body was all angles now.
The slight paunch he’d acquired with age was gone. He was mere skin
and bones. “Oh, Monsieur. What has your nephew done to you?”

His head lolled weakly
toward her.

He’d
heard her!
She reached for the flask and dribbled a little
more of the restorative alcohol into his mouth. This time his lips
closed on it. So she drizzled a little more. His mouth moved on the
flask, searching for more. She leaned it further and one of his hands
lifted and shakily tried to hold it against his mouth.

“Careful. You don’t
want to drink it too fast.” She pulled it back and lay the man down
gently. Putting the stopper back in the flask, she placed it at the
bottom of the cot.

It was frigid in here!
Monsieur was shivering so hard she feared he’d swallow his teeth
from their unceasing chattering. She looked around and spotted a
small fireplace with barely an ember left to light the scant wood and
kindling sitting beside it. Monsieur had become too weak to care and
those men hadn’t the decency to light a fire to keep the old man
alive. He’d been here for several weeks! How strong he must be to
have survived this cold for so long.

Her fingers fumbled as
she tried to remove her pelisse too fast. Finally, she had it open
and pulled it off to place it around his emaciated body. He groaned.
She hoped in thankfulness and not in pain.

She knew better than to
offer him food yet. Earlier, she’d noted several plates of
congealed food sitting by the door, untouched, but they didn’t look
at all appetizing. She rubbed his shoulders and back gently to get
his blood moving and hoped it was also offering him a measure of
warmth and comfort.

She could have used
some of that herself.

While thankful Monsieur
was not dead, she shuddered at the thought of what was to come. Would
she live her last moments in this cell, with her dear teacher’s
dead body decomposing beside her? For the first time, a feeling of
hopelessness crept in. Her rescuers would never find this place! Even
if her sketches brought them as far as the Abbey, they’d see the
ruins and never imagine anyone could be beneath them.

Reed silently motioned
to Mason. They dismounted and began leading their horses through the
woods that flanked the ruins, rather than take the drive. He was
thankful they’d made it here before nightfall. It should make
finding Tally or, at least, finding a good vantage point to view the
situation, much easier.

“While you secure the
horses, I’ll go see if there’s anyone around.” Mason said as he
took off into the trees.

Reed calculated the
others would be more than a few hours behind them. He had no
intention of waiting for them before acting. He was too worried about
what could happen to Tally in the interval. Foster had recognized the
urgency. Indeed, his last words to them had been to “fly like the
hounds of hell!”

There was no doubting
the butler’s devotion to Tally. Back at the Inn, while Mason was
arranging for fresh horses, Foster had explained how she had come
under his care.

“I promised her Great
Aunt Ida I’d take care of her, and now she’s been kidnapped!”

“She’s a strong and
resilient young lady. Look at how she shot me!” He kept his own
fears well buried, while he tried to encourage her stalwart servant.
It was good to hear Foster give his signature cackle.

Reed hoped he was right
about her ability to save herself, because if anything happened to
her, it was going to break the old man’s heart. He dared not think
what it would do to his own!

Now he understood
better how Foster and Tally’s bond had been forged. It was solidly
built on trust and love. She certainly loved the old coot, and it
appeared that his crotchety old heart melted for her. Like a
grandfather’s for a beloved granddaughter.

A rustling of branches
snapped him back to attention. Mason signaled that the way forward
was clear and Reed forced his mind to focus on their present
circumstances. He had to find her and quickly.

They moved quietly
ahead and crouched behind the wild shrubbery near the trees. Any
activity in this deserted part of Cranridge’s vast estate must be
taking place in the old stone barn off to the left and at the back of
the ruins that made up the Abbey now. It appeared abandoned, but a
plume of smoke rose above the barn’s old chimney. They’d
encountered numerous ‘do-not-trespass’ signs, as well as hedges
and closures meant to keep interlopers out. It was certainly not a
welcoming place and the innkeeper in the nearby village had warned
them that the steward was very unfriendly and even threatened those
who wandered there, with his rifle.

He had to give Dubuc
credit for choosing the almost-perfect hiding spot to conduct his
illicit undertakings.

Reed wasn’t prepared
to wait much longer and was about to suggest they go have a closer
look, when the barn door opened and a small man walked out, carrying
some kind of open wooden box. The careful way he was holding it
suggested he had something in it that he didn’t want to spill.

“I know, I know.”
He yelled back. “Open the door and just slide the box in. Don’t
go in!” He muttered to himself. “I got it. Don’t ya worry, I
ain’t gonna touch her. Women are just a whole bunch of trouble.”

“The man may not be
as dumb as he appears,” Reed couldn’t help quipping.

He couldn’t tell if
the sound Mason made was appreciative or disapproving of his poorly
timed wit.

They watched the squat,
coarse-looking man head for the ruins. A city ruffian if ever there
was one. Reed’s opinion was confirmed the next moment, when the
thug jumped with fright, twisting his head around with fearful eyes,
at the sudden, raucous call of a woodpecker.

He seemed to be headed
straight for a heap of rocks beside part of the medieval abbey’s
crumbling tower. Where the hell was he bringing what looked to be
food? Reed’s unfinished question was soon answered. The man shoved
his arm through a gap between a clump of bushes and pushed. The
creaking of a door that sounded like it hadn’t been used much in
recent times, was almost shocking.

What
the hell?
He and Mason looked at each other, incredulous.

Then the man
disappeared. They heard the echo of his footsteps clomping down
stairs.

“I hope she’s not
afraid of the dark,” Reed muttered quietly.

Mason nodded his
agreement.

Reed forced himself to
wait while the man made his delivery. He wanted to rush down there,
beat the man to within an inch of his life, and carry Tally to
freedom. But that would be foolish. They had no idea how many men
were guarding the place. If they were feeding her, she wasn’t near
death yet and patience would win the day.

The man emerged from
the bush, pushed the door shut — no sign of him locking the door,
that was good — and scuttled back to the barn. Reed was willing
every furry animal known to these forests to come out and give the
wretch apoplexy.

Mason had gone to have
a look in the barn and reported four men, counting this one. Dubuc
was nowhere to be seen, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t around. He
might even be down there with Tally!

That was enough to get
Reed on his feet and moving. But he knew it was folly to attract the
attention of the guards, so he forced himself to wait another ten
minutes until darkness blanketed the area. By then, they could hear
the men playing cards and laughing boisterously. Alcohol was clearly
involved.

“Let’s go.” He
led the way to the place where they’d seen the little man go and he
thrust his hand in to locate the door. That done, he pulled a small
container from his pocket and squirted dobs of oil onto the hinges.

“I see you’ve done
this before,” whispered Mason.

“It only took one
squeaky door to ensure I always carry a little lubrication oil with
me on such ventures.” He opened the door, slowly, lifting it up at
the same time to prevent it from dragging on its sagging hinges. “I
hope you’re watching in case they see us.”

An impatient sound
indicated what the investigator thought of Reed’s questioning of
his abilities.

“Fortunate they don’t
bother to lock it.” The door was so well hidden, the thugs were
confident no one would find it.

It wasn’t going to be
this easy at the bottom of the rickety old stairs, he suspected,
otherwise Tally would have already made her escape. Unless she’d
been knocked unconscious or was tied up! The very idea had him
hastening, lantern in hand, down the stairs.

* * *

“You need to build up
your strength, Monsieur, so you’ll be able to walk when we get out
of here.” Tally fed more of the broth to Monsieur.

“
Pas
la peine de
…” he began in his native tongue. “Ah
cherie
, such hope I
no longer have. That scoundrel has thrust you into the middle of it
and the only end to this is ours. He will make sure we cannot carry
tales of his treachery out of here.”

“But I haven’t come
completely unprepared,” she said. “I have a pistol and my knife.”
She pulled the gun out to show him.

Astonished, he said,
“But why didn’t you use it before he threw you in here with me?”

“Because I needed to
see that you were here first. And then he surprised me by shoving me
in and to the ground and then shutting the door before I had the
chance to use either my pistol or my knife.”

“There are several
men guarding us. Even if you kill one of them, the others won’t
allow us to escape.”

Monsieur believed there
was no hope, but Tally wasn’t ready to give up yet. She had built
up the fire as much as she could with the little wood there was. It
didn’t give off much heat, but allowed her to light the candles
they’d left, so that they weren’t in total darkness. Monsieur
seemed to take heart from seeing her and from their conversation and
it comforted her too.

“How many men are
there?”

“Three or four,
perhaps.”

“Have they hurt you?”
What if they decided to attack her, physically? Her jaw firmed. She’d
shoot at least one and knife another, see if she didn’t!

“No, they’ve left
me completely alone. I guess they figure an old man like me will soon
perish from the cold, so there’s no need to starve me.”

Hmmm. She wished she’d
worn her warmer pelisse, but the blue one held her pistol pocket, so
she hadn’t had much choice.

It was freezing and
Monsieur had been imprisoned down here for close to a month. She’d
have liked to be able to offer him something better to warm himself.
She stood and began to move around, rubbing her arms briskly with her
hands.

No
use wishing for impossibilities, Tally. You have to work with what
you’ve got.
Her fear was that any rescuers who might
come, would never find them even if they made it to the Abbey. How
would they ever discover the hidden door?

So, it was up to her.
She had to contrive a way to get them out of here.

She could shoot the
door lock, but the blast would bring those men running. Tomorrow
she’d get a better look at it, if her hands ever stopped shaking.
They were so cold! She’d sit on them, to warm them, if she had to.
She was hoping that, through the decrepit rocks and debris above
them, bigger cracks than the slitted windows above them, would send
shards of daylight below, allowing her to see better so she could try
opening the door with her knife.