The Earl's Captive Page 14

  Emmett applauded his feat with slow handclaps. “You've opened the chest, now let's see the treasure!” he quipped.

  “No! How dare you?” Lucy protested as Hardcastle plunged his hand inside her dress.

  “Mmm, mmm,” murmured Emmett, making a loud sucking noise on the plum and taking another from the bowl.

  “Put those fruits away, these are sweeter,” joked Hardcastle.

  “Please, sir, you're hurting me!” How she hated feeling so powerless. At moments like these, she loathed the male sex. If only all women could rise up and band together and turn the tables, and torment men the way they mishandled women!

  “Please, sir, you're hurting me,” mimicked the odious Emmett, in a falsetto voice. “'Please, sir, hurt me' – that's what you'll be begging in a minute! You love it, you little minx. Look at you, giving him suck like a wet nurse! I've got something I'd like you to suck …”

  Lucy wished she could stop her ears to protect herself from his crude words. Hardcastle was worrying her breast with his teeth like an unruly puppy, scraping the tender skin. She didn't dare try to pull away from him in case he bit her even harder.

  Emmett, still reclining on the damask-covered chaise-longue, was languidly stroking his fingers up the inside of his thigh, caressing himself, although his features betrayed not one trace of arousal.

  As Hardcastle fumbled with his britches, Lucy discovered that she possessed an ability of which she had not previously been aware. The only way she could describe it to herself was as a feeling of being detached from what was happening to her; as if her body were doing things but she herself were not involved. It was like the sensation she experienced just before falling asleep or collapsing in a faint; a dream-like feeling, as if it were all happening to somebody else.

  “There, my little maid. Be a good girl and –”

  Lucy had guessed what he was about to say, but before she could react, there was the sound of footsteps approaching the door.

  “Quick – it might be my wife! Over here!”

  Hardcastle bundled her behind a screen to one side of the fireplace and Lucy could hear men's voices and a clinking of glasses as a servant provided fresh victuals. She also discovered the reason for the screen – it hid a chamber pot which was already half full of malodorous liquid.

  Lucy quickly sidestepped it and stumbled. As her shoulder touched the oak paneling behind her, she heard a whirring sound and found herself tumbling backwards into what felt like empty space.

  Stifling a scream, she flung out her arms and found she was in some kind of narrow passageway. In the orange glow from the fire and the library's lamp and candles, Lucy spotted the first two in a flight of wooden stairs leading up and away from the library.

  Without a second's hesitation, she began to climb, knowing she had no time to lose, for Hardcastle would soon summon her back. She prayed that he would be too fat and drunk to mount the steep narrow staircase in pursuit.

  She could imagine Emmett's affected drawl informing Hardcastle that there were “plenty more Hetties.”

  The shaft of light from the library was soon far behind her. She had no idea how many steps she had climbed, fumbling for each one with her foot to make sure she didn't fall into some yawning chasm or come up against a blank wall. At least the passageway was dry, although the stone walls were freezing cold and festooned in spider webs and in some places the ceiling was so low that she had to bend and duck.

  Suddenly, she heard the sound that she feared – Hardcastle's distant, drunken bellowing.

  “Lucy? Lucy! Come back here. Confound the girl!”

  She heard a mumbled conversation between Hardcastle and Emmett, then the sounds dwindled as she climbed even higher, feeling her way up and up. She wished there had been some way of securing the panelling behind her to hide the secret of her escape route. It would have been far better if he had thought she was a witch who had rendered herself invisible or flow away on a broomstick! Wherever this stairway led, it would be of no help to her in the future, now that Hardcastle had discovered it.

  She raised her foot to take the next step and found that the regularity of the treads had ceased. She prodded the darkness with her toe and examined the walls with both hands, her fingers encountering a thick cobweb that made her shudder. The passageway was now taking a turn to the right. Fumbling her way round the bend, she readjusted her steps as the stairway began to ascend once more.

  Panting with exertion and fear, Lucy at last reached the very top step and founded herself up against another expanse of panelling in total darkness. Somewhere on it, there had to be a release catch which would open a door, if only she could press or twist the right spot.

  But where would she find herself when she got out? Would she fetch up in some deserted store room, long boarded up, the only exit from which would be back down the passageway and straight into the triumphant arms of the men she sought to escape? What if she found herself in, say, Rachel's bedroom or that of one of the servants? Particularly if the inhabitant was male!

  Then she reminded herself that they would all be attending the party and if she didn't show her face there soon, there would be mutterings that the new lady's-maid was too hoity-toity and above herself to attend. That must not be allowed to happen. She dare not risk drawing attention to herself in any way. It was vital that she should find a way out of this cramped, cold, cobwebby passage as soon as possible.

  Starting at the top left-hand corner, her fingers systematically examined every panel, tapping over the surface from corner to corner, left to right, top to bottom. Nothing. She began again, but still there was no welcome click of a catch or sign of any indentation in the obstinate wood.

  Tired and thwarted, she slumped down onto the top step – and as she did so, her hip caught against a lever of some sort which was sticking out of the wall. With a great grating and creaking, as of a rusty castle portcullis being raised, a complete section of wall opened up.

  With a gasp of relief, Lucy practically fell out. Her feet met thick carpet and she was aware of the dull glimmer of a window somewhere to her right. No abandoned room, this! It was obviously in frequent, if not daily use.

  She paused for a moment, listening. No voice or footfall came to her, but she noticed a shaft of light gleaming from beneath a door and realized she must be somewhere in the main part of the house. If this was so, she had no time to lose. At any moment, the occupant of the room might return and she would be discovered.

  Wishing that she had a candle to see by, Lucy sought for some means of closing the entrance to her secret tunnel. As she prodded and pushed, she remembered the conversation she had had with Philip on that very subject. Now, her childhood dream had come true; she had stumbled on a secret passageway, but there had been no leisure time in which to seek for treasure, no time to feel thrilled and excited.

  She pressed something which looked like a knot in the wood and, to her relief, the panel slid shut with another protesting creak. Now, all that remained was for her to leave the room as unnoticed as she had entered it.

  First, she knotted the broken lace on her bodice and pulled it tight, making herself as tidy as she could without a glass to aid her. Next, she took several bold strides in the direction of the door and had almost reached it when something made her turn back. There was something nagging at the back of her brain, something she had remembered, or else noticed, about the room she was in.

  She traced her thoughts back. The first thing she had seen had been the window. She turned her eyes towards it. There, below it, was the bulky outline of a large wooden chest. An oak chest, by a window. Why should that seem familiar to her? None of the rooms at home had contained a chest in such a position, apart from the settle in the window of the drawing-room. Perhaps that was what she was thinking of.

  Her hand reached for the door latch, yet still the uneasy memory plagued her. She was standing by a carved wooden bureau. Behind her was a four-poster bed with a dresser next to it, bearing a water bowl and
jug. The positioning of all these objects seemed so familiar.

  Lucy's hand flew to her mouth. Of course they seemed familiar! She had seen them before in her mind's eye, their shapes and positions having been suggested by a diagram drawn in wine on a table-top. She was in the bedroom of the very devil whose attentions she had so recently fled, George Hardcastle!

  Lucy's heart thumped in panic. Did he already know where the secret staircase ended? Was he, right now, waiting on the landing to pounce on her as she emerged from his bedroom door, thinking herself safe? Was he – and here a pang of horror stabbed through her – was he already in the room, smiling sardonically to himself as he watched her blunder around in the gloom?

  She probed every shadowy corner with her eyes. No, there was nobody there. She did not have that prickling sensation of being watched that she had experienced in the Darwell Manor ballroom. Taking courage from the knowledge that here, at least, she was alone, she walked over to the oak chest and lifted the lid.

  There, just as Philip had predicted, was the ledge and on it a single key. Should she pocket it now? No, Hardcastle might miss it and raise an outcry before she had had a chance to secure the other key, the one which opened the drawer inside the bureau. Closing the heavy lid, she tiptoed to the door. There was nobody around. Breathing a sigh of relief, she stepped out into the corridor.

  As she descended the back stairs that the servants used, she heard a woman's voice call her name. Composing her face so as to show no traces of anxiety or guilt, Lucy looked over the banister. There, standing at the foot of the stairs, was Maud.

  “Where on earth 'ave you been? I've searched everywhere. We've all started without you, I'm afraid, but, if you come quick, there'll still be some left.”

  Lucy smiled at her gladly. “I was on my way when the master called me and then I had a duty to perform for Miss Rachel.” That would explain what she was doing on the first floor.

  Maud looked at her suspiciously. “But Miss Rachel has gone over to visit the Squire, accompanied by Lord Emmett.”

  “I know,” Lucy lied glibly. “But she had spilt some powder in her room and wanted me to clear up the mess.”

  Maud accepted this explanation and rolled her eyes in sympathy. She, too, had borne the vituperative force of Rachel's tongue in the past and didn't in the least envy Lucy her position as Rachel's personal maid.

  “Come along with me now. You won't escape this time. There are several nice young men all dyin' to meet you!” She sneezed and mopped at her nose.

  “Bless you!” exclaimed Lucy. Although she'd only known the older housemaid for a few days, she was already fond of her. Broad-faced and plain, she loved her work in the big house and, while allowing herself to exchange badinage and gibes with the male servants, readily admitted that she preferred to keep her own company, having, in her own words, “twice the nous” of any of the males who had ever paid her court.

  As Lucy followed her into the servants' dining-room, a wave of heat and a cheerful hubbub greeted her and she felt herself beginning to perspire beneath the heavy stuff of her gown. She had had no idea Rokeby Hall employed so many servants. There seemed to be scores of them, the familiar house servants plus coachmen, gardeners and stable boys.

  She already knew several of them by sight, including the cook, Mrs Ramsbottom, a huge woman with arms like sides of beef; the butler, Hawkins; the little scullion, Teresa, or “Tree” as she was nicknamed; and Hardcastle's personal manservant, Jamieson, whom Lucy had hated on sight almost as much as his master, owing to his expression that was permanently set in a sneer, and his flat, shiny hair, so sleek and dark that it looked as if it was covered in boot blacking.

  Maud, snuffling and coughing from her cold, introduced her to the head groom, who was named, most inappropriately, Adam Redhead, in spite of his mop of brown curls. Then there were the two stable boys, Davey and Jim; Dickon the gardener, a grizzle-haired elderly man; his young assistant Tom, a lad of about Lucy's own age and finally, the coachmen, brothers Nat and Josiah.

  So many names and faces made Lucy's head whirl as if she had partaken of too much ale. Indeed, a great deal of it had already been consumed by everyone else, leaving Lucy feeling far too sober to enter into the spirit of the occasion.

  She lingered with Maud and Daisy, until the latter slumped into a snoring heap across the table, to the great amusement of all. The food which Mrs Ramsbottom had provided was plentiful and delicious. Lucy ate slices of pheasant and venison and dainty pieces of spiced pie, and sipped at a tankard of ale which Maud thrust into her hand.

  She could sense the eyes of the other women on her gown. No doubt they were wondering how she came to be in possession of such a grand, if old-fashioned and dusty, garment. Let them think what they wished. She would not be here much longer and their tongues could wag all they liked once she was safely back at Darwell Manor.

  Gnarled old Dickon produced a wooden flute from his pocket. He proceeded to play a merry tune and some of the servants started to dance. Maud, in spite of her cold, was pulled to her feet by Nat, the elder of the two coachmen and whirled round the table in a fast jig.

  Lucy sat there in the steamy room, mind roaming, idly drumming her fingers to the rhythm. Was this what Christmas used to be like for the servants of Darwell Manor, in the days when Lady Eleanor was alive and Philip still unborn?

  She tried to picture Philip in his father's place, as Earl and head of the household. Somehow, she couldn't see him as a benevolent master, or even as a gentle, loving husband who would grieve over the loss of his wife to the point of driving himself demented, as the old Earl had obviously done.

  Leaving aside the incident in the stable, her subsequent knowledge of Philip had only strengthened the first impression she'd gained of him at Pendleton Fair, as arrogant, self-opinionated, intelligent and cold. Though there were odd moments when he said something humorous, or behaved in a kinder way, so perhaps there was a warmer, more sensitive spirit lurking inside the chilly exterior. She hoped there was.

  She gazed vacantly at the gyrating figures who were laughing, tripping, seizing mugs of ale as they passed the table, and listened with half an ear to the reedy music. If Rory had been here, he would have transformed the whole room with his larger-than-life personality, his singing, his joking, his ability to hold a group of people spellbound with his stories. She would not have had to return to her room lonely and uncomforted, for he would have held her close, murmured compliments to her beauty, assured her that she was loved and desired.

  To have been married for so short a time, a marriage with so much potential for happiness, and have it end so abruptly – why, it was like crushing a chrysalis and depriving a beautiful butterfly of life! Already, Lucy was beginning to forgive her dead husband for his infidelity.

  Something on his mind had been worrying him for some time, she had seen that, and it certainly wasn't the tavern slut. He had told Lucy he hadn't visited Pendleton for a year, and that bloated hussy certainly wasn't the sort of girl a man would have on his mind for twelve months.

  No, something much more important than that must have been eating away at him, and it seemed so unbearably cruel that now, she would never find out what it had been. She would never be able to soothe him, love him, bear his children, a thing they had often talked about.

  No other man would ever blaze with Rory's fiery zest for life, nor awaken the searing flames of desire deep within her which he had awoken. The vague stirrings she had felt when Philip touched her were nothing in comparison.

  These dancing, happy, carefree people – how she envied them! They looked as if they had never known loss or heartache. Yet how could one ever tell?

  “Why so sad, Lucy?”

  The pleasant male voice with its soft local accent shattered her introspection. Men! Why wouldn't they ever leave her alone? Couldn't they see that she wasn't interested in them? That, for her, love had died along with Rory?

  She found herself looking into the green eyes of Adam Redhe
ad, the man in charge of the Hardcastle horses and couldn't even bring herself to smile.

  “Are you homesick because it's Christmas? You don't come from these parts, do you?” he persisted.

  She sighed. He seemed determined to engage her in conversation, so she would have to show some semblance of friendliness if she didn't want to be described as stand-offish behind her back. Later, when she was alone, she would have time enough for her memories.

  “No. I come from further west, Prebbledale way. That's where my parents live.”

  “D'you like it here at Rokeby Hall? I've heard Miss Rachel is a handful.”

  This was one topic on which Lucy could wax most eloquently. She proceeded to tell Adam about some of the things Rachel had said and done in the few days she had been working for her. When she had finished, she found Adam gazing at her in admiration.

  “You must be a girl of spirit and determination, to put up with that. Did she give you that mark, the one on your cheekbone?”

  Lucy put her hand up to her cheek and felt the hard, dry ridge of a scab. Of course! It was the place where Rachel's emerald ring had caught her. She had quite forgotten about it but, as she pressed it gingerly, it felt quite sore. She told Adam how she had incurred the wound and his brow furrowed with concern.

  “That one girl could so mar another's beauty! She's probably jealous of you because you are so much finer looking than she is.”

  Was he being impertinent, or had he got too much drink inside him? Lucy withdrew a little and refused to respond to the compliment.

  Adam appeared not to notice. “Come and dance. That'll soon cheer you up and put you in the Christmas spirit.”

  Lucy declined, pleading the fact that she was far too hot, but still the man would not leave her alone. Maud caught her eye and winked at her. Doubtless there would be gossip and innuendos the following day. She wasn't sure if she could stand it.

  “If you won't dance, at least have a Christmas drink with me, Lucy. Here, give me your cup.”