The Earl's Captive Read online

  As if he were talking to his hound, Philip snapped, “Go to your room!”

  Almost missing her footing on the stairs, so blinded was she by her tears, she fumbled her way back down to the solace of her bedroom, sobbing brokenly. She would never forget the way in which that skeletal body had levitated from the pillows, the way the clawing fingers had reached towards her, the insane look in the hideous eyes.

  It had been his dying shout mingled with her screams that had roused Philip from his bed and sent him dashing into the room brandishing a sword, expecting to have to beat off robbers, or else Hardcastle come looking for his deeds.

  When he had seen Lucy standing there in her nightshift, a dripping candle wavering in one hand, he had flinched in shock, then brushed hastily past her and gathered up his father in his arms. He was too late. The old man's spirit had already fled to rejoin his beloved wife's in some trysting place for faithful souls. All that was left was a brittle shell, which death had drained dry.

  Trembling, Lucy had slunk from the room to allow Philip some privacy for mourning his dead father. But, rather than keep watch by his father's corpse, he had chased after Lucy, seized her arm and bundled her into his own room, where the tirade of questions and accusations had pelted her like stones.

  Now, she lay huddled on her bed, her knees drawn up into her stomach protectively. Her right hand spasmodically gripped and released a corner of the goose feather pillow as the spasms of sobbing shook her. For it to end like this, before it had even begun! Before she had had a chance to tell Philip of her growing love for him!

  It seemed so unjust. She was fated, doomed to wander the earth, keeping neither friend, lover, nor roof over her head, until … until what? Until she died on the moors and her bleached bones were found, years hence, with nothing to identify them as being the mortal remains of Lucy Swift? Or until her wanton, uncontrollable desires led her to perish of some unmentionable disease in a city gutter!

  She would throw herself on the mercy of the reverend sisters of some convent and become a nun, she decided. That was the only thing that would save her from her own wayward nature.

  But, even as the idea formed, Lucy knew she was fitted neither by religious upbringing nor temperament to become a docile nun. As her sobs faded into weary gasps and her body started to sink into an exhausted sleep, she knew that it was her destiny to go home, back to Prebbledale and the grey stone farmhouse; back to her thankful mother and the calculating mind of her devious father.

  * * *

  Martha, dressed in sombre black as befitted a household servant in mourning, her usual white apron replaced by one of dull grey, woke her with a summons to join the new Earl in the library directly.

  Lucy had completely forgotten that Philip would naturally inherit the title. How should she address him now? Sir? My lord? Obviously the casual 'Philip' of the previous months would no longer do at all. For a time, they had pretended to be friends and equals, but now he was elevated to a rank far above her own. She could no longer meet and speak with him as openly and carelessly as before, even if the old Earl had died in different circumstances.

  It doesn't matter now, she thought bitterly. The old Earl is dead, long live the new Earl, and could somebody please give me some assistance to travel speedily home.

  However, Philip had his own plans and they went far beyond the wildest bounds of Lucy's imagination to conjecture. As she walked into the library slowly and respectfully, wearing the homespun dress of Martha's and carrying her own old, torn dress wrapped in a bundle, all ready for a hasty and no doubt ignominious dismissal, Philip, from his seat at his father's magnificent mahogany desk, barked, “And where, pray, are you going, miss?”

  “N-nowhere,” stammered a dumbfounded Lucy, remembering to add, “Sir.”

  “I may be Earl Darwell now, but there is no need to address me like a snivelling servant girl addressing her master. We are partners, you and I, in crime if nothing else.”

  The way he stressed the word “crime” made Lucy look at him fearfully. Had it all come back to this? Did he view her now as he had viewed her when she first arrived at his door to deliver a useless mare? As a felon and a miscreant?

  His next words substantiated her worst fears.

  “There is more than one crime I could get you hanged for now.”

  “No!” The word burst from Lucy's lips. He had no right to resurrect this old threat. She had already paid for her first crime … more than paid for it, if being abused by Hardcastle could be counted as evidence in her favour. The only crime of which she stood guilty now was the crime of having succumbed to her desire for a particular man, the one who now sat in judgement on her.

  “Be seated, Lucy.”

  His calm, imperious tone both terrified and infuriated her. It would be so easy simply to tell him her real reason for wandering the house so late at night. So easy – yet so utterly impossible. She would never let Philip Darwell know how close she had come to crawling into his bed like a common slut.

  Obediently, she perched on the very edge of a hard wooden chair, still clutching her bundle. Philip's keen gaze cut into hers, his eyes hard and opaque as flint.

  “Never has one wrongdoer been given so many chances to redeem herself.”

  Whatever it was, she couldn't do it. She wouldn't. How could she perform any task for him now, knowing that all she would receive at the end of it would be, not his gratitude and pleasure, but a cold dismissal and the knowledge that he felt nothing for her but distrust and withering contempt?

  Yet she knew she had to do it, whatever it was, because of the terrible hold he still had over her, now more than ever. What judge would ever believe that she, a girl of no means, had entered an elderly Earl's bedchamber at dead of night for any purpose other than that of crime? As for murder, creeping into the chamber of a man known to be haunted by visions of his dead wife, dressed in white like a ghost and bearing a single candle, would be all the evidence the law would need.

  Philip had her cornered and, once again, she hated him for it. Yet the undeniable power that emanated from his stern presence set something deep inside her quivering. She loathed him, detested him, but she wanted him, too. It was too conflicting for her to comprehend.

  “What I want you to do for me now is far less difficult than your last task, even though, God knows, the crime you have committed is far greater.”

  Lucy bit back the retort that sprang to her lips. She would never tell him the truth about her nocturnal ramblings. Never! Let him think whatever he wished.

  “This time, the most difficult part of the task will be performed by myself.”

  She looked up in astonishment. Whatever did he mean? What was the catch?

  “For heaven's sake, girl, drop that bundle. You look like a gypsy selling clothes-pegs.”

  The insult stung her and she placed the rolled-up gown on the faded library carpet with deliberate, insolent slowness. If she could not protest at his treatment of her in words, then she would do it with actions.

  Philip appeared not to notice. “My father's death was a shock to me in more ways than one. After Matthew and I had laid him out, I spent the rest of the night going through his papers and boxes and I received more than one unpleasant surprise.

  “I told you about my father's gambling habit, how he foolishly let that damn rogue Hardcastle rob him of all we possessed – the Manor, which you know about, of course, our fortune and my mother's jewels.”

  Lucy nodded and he continued: “I knew some of the jewels had gone, stolen by that … that vermin over at Rokeby Hall, but I never guessed that my father had let them all go, even my mother's priceless emerald ring that had been handed down through the generations!”

  He paused and stared thoughtfully down at the papers that were spread all over the table. The pause grew into an uncomfortable silence which made Lucy wish that she could escape from the room by melting invisibly into the walls. Maybe here, as in Hardcastle's library, there was a secret door by the fireplac
e. Lucy turned her glance speculatively towards the oak panelling, but Philip's voice recalled her wandering thoughts.

  “Saturday next. That is the night of the great ball at Bidstone House which Lord and Lady Bellingdon are giving on the occasion of their younger daughter Pamela's birthday.”

  Lucy felt her mouth grow dry. Surely Philip would not expect her to go to the ball? Why, she had nothing to wear except one of Lady Eleanor's extremely outmoded gowns! Besides, the Hardcastles could not fail to recognize her.

  As if reading her mind, Philip announced, “Naturally, the Hardcastles will be attending, especially since our dear Lord Emmett will be in Manchester on business and will doubtless allow Rachel to feast her grasping little eyes on his esteemed and manly personage.”

  Despite the turmoil her thoughts were in, Lucy found she had to stifle a giggle at the thought of the unpleasant twosome the couple made, Rachel, with her pale eyes, stringy hair and flat body and the preening, lisping, effeminate Emmett, about as attractive as an earthworm.

  Philip, however, did not show a trace of humour, even if he felt it. “Hardcastle will inform Adam of the time they mean to depart, so that he can ready the horses for the journey. Adam will have this information in the morning and will then send a messenger here.

  “That will be the signal for you to set out on a fast horse for Rokeby Hall. I know what an excellent rider you are, so you can take Redshanks, my bay. How good is your memory?”

  He shot the question at her so fast that Lucy found herself spluttering. “Well, I … it depends what you mean. I –”

  “Can you remember how to mix that unguent that your expert friends used when they wished a horse to appear lame for a while?”

  The sneer in his voice as he said “expert” set her seething with indignation. “I think so,” she said stiffly.

  The mixing of the ointment had to be most precise, as did the timing. Apply too little, or mix it too weak and the animal would merely stumble slightly, then recover. Mix it too strong and the creature would fall to its knees, unable to rise until the effects of the paralysing drug had worn off. What could Philip have in mind?

  “Excellent. Today is Thursday. You have two days in which to find the ingredients and mix your potion. Then, my little witch, you will fly on your broomstick over to the stables of Rokeby Hall and apply a good, strong dose to the hooves of two of the carriage horses. I think the ointment takes about an hour to penetrate the muscles and become fully effective?”

  “Yes. That is correct.”

  How did Philip know this? Perhaps he had studied the activities of her erstwhile companions more closely than she had imagined.

  “How will I know which horses to pick?”

  “It will be the greys. They are the best lookers and the ones Hardcastle always chooses when he wishes to impress.”

  “How am I to enter the stables unobserved?” she asked, feeling that it was, in truth, a most risky business and fearing for her skin, if not her life, if Hardcastle or Rachel should observe her.

  “It is all arranged. It will be almost dark by the time you reach the Hall. You should approach across the fields by a route which I will describe to you. A line of trees will shield you from the rear windows of the Hall. I have arranged with Adam for the gate leading to the stable yard to be left unlocked.

  “He will be in the coach-house, engaging the coachmen and grooms in conversation. He will keep them there as long as he can, but I would reckon you have no more than ten minutes in which to enter the looseboxes, pick out the correct horses, apply your fiendish mixture to two of them and get clear of the yard.”

  “Why two? Surely one lame horse would be sufficient? In any case, what is your purpose? Simply to prevent the Hardcastles attending the ball?”

  “No, you silly goose. What good would that be to me? I couldn't give a damn if Rachel finally manages to lure Emmett into proposing. It's just the kind of thing she would do in order to upstage her friend at her own birthday party. And equally well, what care I if Hardcastle spends the whole night whoring with some silk-clad slattern? I just don't want them to do it with my mother's jewels on their pox-ridden bodies. Surely my plan is clear to you now?”

  Lucy thought that it was, but she had no desire to hazard a guess. She wanted Philip to explain it himself, because she was enjoying his colourful descriptions of the Hardcastles and their extraordinary habits, so she continued to gaze at him in wide-eyed silence, inviting him to continue. Listening to him talking like this, she could almost forget that she was once more his prisoner, subject to his every order and whim.

  “The ball begins at eight. Bidstone House is an hour's fast ride from Rokeby Hall. As Rachel is bound to make them late with her grumbling and her preening, my guess is that they will take the shorter but more hazardous moorland road, rather than the less direct one through the valley and round the hill. I asked you to apply your physic to two horses because I could not take the risk of your picking the one horse in the entire world which was unaffected by your medicine.”

  “But will they not think that something suspicious is afoot if two of their best horses go lame at the very same moment?” Lucy's doubts about the scheme were increasing with every moment that passed.

  “They will not have time, I assure you. They will have something far more important than collapsing horses to occupy their minds – the appearance of a fearsome, armed highwayman!”

  “You mean you are going to rob them of your own jewels? You, an Earl, act as a common thief?”

  Philip gave a hollow chuckle. “I shall only be reclaiming what is my rightful inheritance. As for turning thief, it seems a very easy thing to do, which rests lightly on my conscience.”

  The way he looked at Lucy through half-closed lids, a calculating expression on his face, made her cringe inside. Whatever he thought, she was not a natural born wrongdoer. It did not come easily to her, as he was implying. She hated it. She feared the risk of discovery and the chance that she might forget her instructions and make some mistake.

  And yet there was a certain thrill about cloak-and-dagger activities which appealed to some wild streak in her, the same streak that had caused her to fall in love with Rory – and now, very regrettably, with Philip, too.

  “But when the horses recover … what then?”

  “Matthew is a countryman born and bred. His predictions about the weather never fail. He says it will be misty on the moors these next few nights, and I believe him. When I appear, I shall be intoning some jiggery-pokery which they will take for a spell. Then, when I have left with my booty and the horses have miraculously recovered, they cannot fail but to believe that they met with a magician, who cast some enchantment which caused their horses to stagger and fall at the very spot where he materialized.”

  A silence fell between them. Lucy shuffled her feet nervously, her mind filled with a thousand reasons as to why this latest of Philip's plans was too dangerous to undertake, for him as well as her. She had to speak out, tell him what was on her mind, even if he thought her a 'silly goose'.

  “Surely your position with Hardcastle is dangerous enough already? He must have boasted to his cronies about having won this house from your father. If challenged, how will you explain the fact that you now have the deeds back in your possession?

  “And as for the jewels, many people will have seen Rachel and her mother wearing them, and I cannot believe that Hardcastle and his family will not tell of their theft by this strange highwayman. You will be in possession of stolen property. You could be hanged yourself!”

  The irony of her statement was not lost on Philip, who smiled wryly before replying, “I think not, Lucy Swift. You see, for all his faults, Hardcastle is a cautious man. I doubt that anyone has been told the true circumstances of how he acquired the deeds to Darwell Hall. For him to have bragged of that would have scared off the other gamblers he is planning to cheat.

  “I believe he would have kept silent about the house and taken possession of it on m
y father's death, of which he has no knowledge yet, of course, with the pretence that he had purchased it from me. To have admitted that he had won it at cards would have been too alarming for his future dupes.

  “As for my mother's jewels, I shall certainly have to avoid showing them off in future. I may even have to sell them abroad to raise money to keep the estate going. But remember that Hardcastle is hated in Cheshire, Lancashire and far beyond. Most of the well-to-do families around here have lost small fortunes to him, and were he to challenge me and accuse me of theft, and were I to denounce him as a cheat and a swindler, it would be I who would be supported.

  “People do not like to admit to their gaming losses, Lucy. If Hardcastle accused me of theft, I would make him admit precisely how much he had won from my father. Others would begin to realize that it was not they alone who had lost all to the wretch, and my own counter-accusation of his cheating at cards would ring true, especially I happen to have in my possession a pack of his marked cards, obtained for me by Adam.

  “It is my belief that Hardcastle will keep silent about his losses and look for other ways to wreak revenge on me. That, I look forward to eagerly, as another opportunity to crush him!” Philip smiled grimly.

  Lucy had to admit to herself, albeit grudgingly, that the plan seemed flawless. If only she could be there to see the expression on Rachel's face as the two horses fell, halting the others and tangling the traces and necessitating that the whole Hardcastle family leave the coach and stand in the mud and mist in all their finery!

  She felt sorry for Rachel's mother, that sad, ineffectual woman whom she had no desire to harm. Philip was correct, though. The jewels were his by right and had been unfairly won from his weak-witted father. She could only applaud his imaginative efforts to retrieve the Darwell inheritance.

  However, there was one thing that she could not tell him, for fear that not only her future freedom, but her very life would be in jeopardy, and that was the fact that she had never actually mixed the numbing potion herself. She had only watched Smithy gathering herbs, boiling them into a juice and adding a white powder which he had purchased from an apothecary. She had no idea which herbs and what powder.