The Heart Denied (31 page)

Thorne took the east hall with long pounding strides, stopping at the great hall so abruptly that Arthur nearly ran over him. There most of the servants were gathered, Dame Carswell at center, and all eyes were suddenly upon the master.

"You've searched every chamber and hallway? Every wardrobe, every privy closet?" he barked at the housekeeper.

Never had she looked so flustered, and ordinarily he might have enjoyed it. "Aye, M'lord. There is no place left to search." She curtsied.

"No place. You're certain."

"Quite, M'lord. Except for the tower...shall we search there as well?" If her tone was overly ingratiating, Thorne's was downright scathing.

"And why search the tower, Carswell? It requires at least two strong men to budge the door--how should Lady Neville manage such a feat?"

"But...M'lord." She advanced warily, and murmured for his ears alone. "Milady knows of the secret entrance above stairs."

Thorne felt the blood drain from his face. "How? How does she know?"

"She inquired, M'lord, one day not long ago, if there was another entrance to the tower, one which wouldn't require assistance to access...and I told her yes, I knew of such a doorway, that it was above stairs in the chambers directly opposite hers...whereupon she asked that I show it to her, and naturally I did her bidding-"

"You fool, do you know what you've done?"

There was a collective gasp from the servants, but Thorne paid them no heed, instead wheeling about to find Arthur behind him. "Come with me!" he rasped, and turned for the east hall, then murmured to himself, "No, 'twill be faster from the stairs," and, reaching them on a run, bounded up three at a time.

He could not even feel his legs moving, so numb was he to everything but the panic that threatened to engulf him, and he found himself in the northeast corner chambers without any memory of having traversed the long east gallery. Dimly he heard raised voices below, and was faintly aware of pounding footsteps on the great stairs. His hands shook; his fingers were stiff with fear as he ran them along the hidden seam in the carved wood panel, frantically searching for the tiny niche that would indicate the door's triggering mechanism. Almost unaware, he let go a hoarse stream of words that might have embarrassed the most seasoned of sailors. And then the panel gave way.

He was through it at once. The dank, sour odor of the tower assaulted him with nauseating strength. But his panic quickly asserted itself, becoming a driving force that sent him racing up the winding steps like a madman until he reached the door that opened onto the battlements. The thought that Gwynneth might be below, secure inside the keep itself, had barely formed before being replaced by a more hideous certainty.

He crashed through the door and sprinted toward the parapet, a silent scream already roaring in his head. His lungs sucked cold mist in deep, harsh spasms as he sprawled across a crenel and stared at the flagstone terrace far below.

For decades to come, until the last of those in the Neville household that day went to his eternal rest, there would be whispered accounts of the tortured, bloodcurdling, almost inhuman howl that went up from the battlements of the tower at Wycliffe Hall on Christmas Day, the year of our Lord 1728.

"That you give him sanctuary," Hobbs said hoarsely, "and make him welcome in your bed, for naught in return...it kills my soul."

"You haven't a soul, Toby, you sold it to the devil long ago." Caroline smoothed the lace tiers on her sleeve. "So, you'd have me charge him as if I were a common whore?"

He snorted. "Nothing common about you."

"Apologize, this minute," she said sharply.

"Why should I? You're only common by birth--and you pay me to forget that."

"I'm no one's whore, Toby. And Thorne Neville wouldn't stoop that low."

"Maybe he should have, instead of bullying his wife." His shoulders sagged. "She carried
my child
, Caroline. And she wanted me to take her away, far away from his tyranny...but I refused." Feeling the rare sting of tears, he flung himself into a chair, a hand shielding his face.

"Thorne is no tyrant, Toby. Nor was he a cold husband. He may not have loved her, but he was once very fond
of her. You don't know the hell she put him through! Her constant complaining, preaching, refusing him her bed, her body-" Her lip curled. "Of course, Thorne never tried it your way. He has a strange propensity for
asking
a woman-"

"Enough!" Hobbs slammed fists down on the arms of his chair, then sprang up from the seat, his face flushed. "She deliberately goaded me into a rage that night, and I bloody lost control...God knows I'd kept my hands off her as long as I could." Caroline flinched slightly as he leaned over her and shook a finger in her face. "So say no more of what
his bloody lordship
would or would not have done," he snarled. "I hate the man. I hate his fortune, his rank and his holier-than-thou ethics, and by God, I'd sooner slit his bloody throat than set eyes on him for the hell he's put me through!"

"'Twas
Gwynneth
who put you through hell, Toby," Caroline chided softly, as he stood over her, his chest heaving with each harsh breath. "Just as she did him. Yet he's grieved for her these two months since, and he will always grieve for the waste of her life, and for what might have been. So mark my words, Toby, and mark them well--Thorne Neville will hie you to hell if he ever learns his wife was carrying your child. I've seen a dark side of your brother, and I think he's quite capable of killing under certain circumstances."

I have seen murder in his eyes...as will you
. The words, like the woman who'd spoken them, were fresh in Hobbs' memory. He pushed away from Caroline's chair, turning his back to her.

"Thorne is not a man who advertises his feelings," Caroline said somewhat defensively. "It took him a long time to admit his marriage was less than perfect."

Hobbs spun around with a sneer. "And how long was it before he 'advertised his feelings' for
you
?"

"There now, Mister Hobbs, that will be
quite
enough." Caroline shot up from her chair, her dark eyes snapping. "You will leave my house now." She swept across the room and threw open the double doors. "Good day and good riddance!"

"Well and good, Mistress Sutherland. Do convey my greetings to your lover and my brother when he returns." Jamming his hat upon his head, he secretly counted himself fortunate to escape without bodily injury--all too soon. She delivered a well-placed kick to his shin as he stalked past her.

Swearing, he bent over to rub the throbbing limb: too late, he heard her ominous little snicker behind him. The drawing room doors were slammed directly into his buttocks, then bolted from the inside as he pitched to the floor.

* * *

"Good afternoon, M'lord." Gilbert held the door open as Thorne tossed the rain out of his tricorne into the hedges, then took the hat and laid the water-beaded cloak precisely over one arm while Thorne extracted a posted letter from its pocket.

The sender, he'd already noted with curiosity, was Doctor John Hodges.

"Mistress will be with you presently in the drawing room, M'lord. Do make yourself at home."  

"Thank you, Gilbert." Thorne broke the letter's seal on his way up the wide staircase and disappeared into the drawing room.

"Was that the door, Marsh?" Caroline asked, poking her perfectly coifed head into the hallway.

"Aye, ma'am." She nodded toward the upper gallery. "His lordship awaits."

"Excellent! Order up a brandy for us, and tell him I'll be with him presently."

With another "aye, ma'am," Marsh trudged off to the kitchen.

When the brandies were delivered, Thorne was sitting in a chair and holding a sheet of parchment, his face like chiseled stone as he stared blindly into the crackling fire, all but oblivious to the maid's presence. The sound of the closing door brought him to awareness again. Willing his hands to loosen their death grip on the paper, he perused its seemingly innocuous and well-intentioned missive for the second time.

Dear Lord Neville,
it began,

I have refrained from writing until now, as I feared you would not have the heart to read it. In truth, I scarce had the heart to write it.

It has been two months now, time enough for me to collect my thoughts, hence I make no more excuses. If this proves painful for you to read, I apologize with all my heart, but it must be said.

I am heartily sorry for your tragic loss, as much as for the world's loss of such an innocent, endearing and admirable lady. She surely was the light of your life, and a blessing to you and your household. I pray that someday I shall find someone, if not as sweet and good as Lady Neville, then at least with many of her fine qualities.

Now to that portion of my message over which I truly labored, not being a very superstitious man.

It is widely known that your wife was found at the base of the tower. You might recall your conversation with me on the day of your wedding, when you took me to task for minding a patient's account of some malicious force atop Wycliffe Hall's tower. Please do not lose patience with me now, but what I have to say is in some measure relative to that subject.

It is my sincere belief that Lady Neville did not take her own life, for by that time she was guardian for a life far newer and more vulnerable than her own. Though according to her maid she had not found a suitable occasion to tell you of it, Lady Neville would soon have given you the news that she was approximately eight to ten weeks with child. I tell you of this only after considerable deliberation, the crux of which was my determination that were I in your place, I should indeed want to know of it.

There was more, but Thorne had no use for Hodges' posthumous thesis on why Gwynneth would never have considered leaping from the tower. In fact, for the first time, he began to see just why she had.

* * *

"Well!" Caroline exclaimed aloud, to no one but herself. She'd entered the drawing room only to find two poured glasses on a serving tray. Neither had been touched.

"Thorne?" Her frown evolved into a quirky smile; at times the man could be quite playful. Then she noticed the folded sheets of parchment, lying on a fireside table as if carelessly tossed aside. Swooping down on them like a hawk in a swirl of cinnamon-colored silk, she snatched them up and quickly scanned their fastidious script; with each paragraph, her jaw dropped a little more.

"God's blood and bones, he's taken to horse, if I know him at all! Oh, Toby, I pray you're riding hard...oh, God help me!" She whirled in place, tears rising; she blinked them back with instinctive discipline. "Think. You must
think
!" With trembling fingers she folded the letter and shoved it inside her bodice.

Toby had at least a two-hour start on Thorne; but what if he'd stopped in some tavern, dallied with some maid or other, before setting out for Wycliffe Hall?

And what if he hadn't? One way or another Thorne would eventually overtake him--what then?

He will kill him, is what. Kill him without a second thought
.

Caroline strode onto the gallery, heels pounding the floor. "Marsh!" she bellowed, and when at last the old servant showed her ruffled white cap below, ordered, "Send to the livery for my roan hunter, and hurry! Tell them I want a man's saddle." With that she flew up the stairs, calling for Ashby to assist, and was soon outfitted for riding. As she drew on leather gloves, Ashby pulled the hood of her red-wool cardinal over her firmly pinned tresses for her.

"If Mister Sutherland could see you, he'd turn in his grave," she fretted.

"Hush," Caroline said grimly. "Even he couldn't stop me. This is a matter of life and death."

"Then take the livery boy with you, there might be highwaymen lying in wait 'twixt hither and yon!"

"Not before dark. And if there are, I'll trample them."

"Not if they shoot you first...or shoot the horse and ravish you and steal your jewels and leave you for dead!"

"You know very well I'm not wearing jewels." Caroline bustled through the foyer and out the front door to where the livery groom awaited.

"Aye, but
they
don't know it!" Ashby had trailed her as far as the threshold, and watched from the doorway, arms akimbo. "Besides, they'll be happy enough with your money--I know you've some hid on you--and they'll leave you just as dead!"

"Hand me up, boy," Caroline urged, hiking her skirts up well above her booted ankles. As he obliged, she grasped the pommel and threw her right leg over the saddle. Settling into it easily, she wondered why women hadn't the sense to ride astride as a rule.

* * *

The sun was setting when Nate looked up to see a horse and rider approaching on the Northampton road at full gallop. At first he assumed it was Hobbs, but as they drew closer, silhouetted by the western sky, he noted the horseman's long black cloak, and the tricorne from which streamed a long tail of dark hair.

His heart beat faster. Wycliffe Hall's master hadn't come home since the mistress leapt--since nigh on two months, he amended the thought uneasily, and watched, openmouthed, as horse and rider cantered through the open gate into the stable yard, the former coming to a frothing halt just outside the doorway.

"Rub him down," he was ordered without so much as a nod of greeting. "My horse is at Wolverton, I've borrowed this one. Mind his left foreleg, 'tis strained and will need binding." Thorne jumped down. "Where is your master?"

"He's to London, M'lord. He'll be back soon."

Already striding to the stables, Thorne turned sharply about. "Tend the horse quickly then, and lead him 'round to the front
of the house. Tether him there. I don't want him within sight of the Northampton road. Then be off, it's time you were home." He gave Nate a look that brooked no nonsense just before ducking through the stable doorway.

A few minutes later as Nate led the beast up the lane, he pondered what solitary business the baron might have in the stables. Reaching no conclusion, he shrugged his shoulders and began whistling a tune, tugging a little harder on the tired horse's halter. The sooner he tied it up, the sooner he'd be off to enjoy an unexpected evening of leisure, knowing Master Hobbs couldn't be cross with him for abandoning his duties by order of Lord Neville himself.

* * *

At the center of the tack room, Thorne stood looking about with a mixture of grim purpose and deliberate detachment, then shed his cloak and began a methodical search of every nook and cranny, shelf and cubbyhole. As gut wrenching as it might prove, he hoped to find some evidence that might associate his late wife with the stable master.

On the highest shelf on an interior wall, his long reach netted a small box that had the look of a spice container, and was in fact labeled "cayenne." He frowned slightly, wondering to what possible use it was being put in the stables, and slipped it impatiently into a pocket.

Finding nothing else of any consequence, he seized a lantern from its hook and hastened down the narrow passageway at the rear. The door to Hobbs' quarters opened with a grating whine.

Thorne observed his sparse surroundings. There seemed little to search until he used the toe of his boot to flip an edge of a worn rug. Stooping for a closer look, he noticed a misaligned seam in the floor, and a loose board, which he carefully pried up and laid aside.

Within the exposed cavity lay a worn leather pouch, containing money and some promissory notes signed by individuals unknown to Thorne. Apparently Hobbs was a small-scale moneylender. Thorne tossed the pouch aside, then realized he'd uncovered something else; he pulled out a small apothecary jar.

He pulled the stopper out, and for a long moment only stared at the yellowish-black crystalline powder inside, his eyes narrowing. He poured a few grains into his hand, wet a fingertip and placed it in the powder, then brought it to his tongue.