Most Eagerly Yours (38 page)

“We should have stopped at Abbey Green for you to change,” he said instead. “Those satin slippers won’t survive this jaunt, and your cape and gown won’t fare much better.”

“Victoria will understand.”

The statement took him aback. The exquisite red dress was not hers. Even having learned of her double life, he hadn’t stopped to consider that everything about her, even her clothing, was part of the charade.

That she was gently born he did not question, but did having to borrow her fine clothes signify that she and her sisters had been left without a proper income? Like so many women without family, were they forced to stretch each penny and go without the niceties they should have taken for granted? Had this uncle of theirs failed to provide for them?

Galled by the thought, he formed a resolve to check into the Sutherland sisters’ finances at the first opportunity.

They started forward.

At a scratching noise, Laurel came to a sudden halt that raised a splash. She clutched his arm and pressed herself to his side. “What was that?”

“I couldn’t say. It was beyond the lamplight.”

“You know very well it was a rat. Oh, I heard it again. This place must be teeming with vermin.”

True, but he savored the feel of her against him and was silently grateful for scurrying creatures. “Try thinking of them as fat squirrels with long, skinny tails.”

She swore beneath her breath in a most unladylike manner.

Up ahead, the culvert split in two directions. One offshoot sloped away to the right. To the left, debris-cluttered steps led up to a higher level.

Reaching into his waistcoat, he consulted the map. “Left it is.”

He helped her over fallen rocks and masonry. At the top of the steps, the passage tapered to the unsettling width of a grave. Laurel clung tight to his free hand, her fingers clamping his painfully. They were no longer traversing one of the ancient drainage pipes, but a tunnel, one that had undergone recent repairs by the looks of it.

Releasing her hand for a moment, he raised the lantern and smoothed a palm along a ceiling joist. “See the paleness of this wood? This passage has been recently fortified.”

Pushing on, he steadied Laurel as she stepped over the rubble. She kept up without a word of complaint, and the lump of pride lodged beneath his breastbone swelled. They passed three more forks, each time consulting the map.

“A person could become hopelessly lost in such a maze. I do hope the lantern oil holds out.”

Aidan hoped so too.

Light suddenly burst from the darkness ahead, stopping them dead in their tracks. His heart crashing against his chest, Aidan shoved Laurel behind him and reached for his pistol. As he moved, so did the light up ahead.

“Bloody hell. It’s just a reflection,” he whispered, his voice shaking with relief as once more he wondered—if they were caught down here, would he be able to protect Laurel?

From behind him, she rested her chin on his shoulder to peer over him. “What is it?”

A dozen yards farther along, they stepped through an archway. Laurel came up beside him, her eyes growing round as she took in the chamber that opened in a cavernous expanse before them. “My word.”

Overheard, vaulted ceilings soared, braced by arches adorned with broken tiles that had once formed elaborate borders. On the wall opposite the entrance, a crumbling mosaic reflected the beams from their lantern. Niches that must once have held statuary flanked the artwork on either side. Throughout the room, chunks of stone and plaster littered a marble floor that had buckled in places and sunk in others. Masonry and shards of pottery glittered in the light.

Her mouth agape, Laurel started into the chamber. Aidan held out an arm to stop her. “Careful. The walls are half collapsed. We don’t want to cause a cave-in.”

She lifted a wary gaze to the ceiling. “What do you suppose is above us?”

Again he consulted the map. “According to this, we are practically beneath the Pump Room.”

“My goodness, Aidan, do you realize we must be standing in part of the original Roman bathhouse?” Wonderment sent her voice several notches higher.

“Couldn’t be. The Roman complex would have been crushed beneath the newer construction centuries ago.”

“But look at the tile work.” She took the lantern from him and carefully picked her way across the chamber. She shone the light on the mosaic. “I’ve seen art like this in books. And Uncle Edward had a nearly identical painting. The image depicts Minerva, the goddess of healing. Rousseau claimed his mineral water came from beneath Minerva’s temple. This must be it.” She cocked her head. “Listen. Do you hear that?”

From somewhere beneath them, a faint pulsing tapped out a rhythm.

“This way,” she urged.

In a wider passage that branched off from the first chamber, the ruins of what must have once been a magnificent arcade impeded their progress. The columns were cracked and shattered, some having toppled across the floor, their scrolled capitals crushed. Laurel and Aidan crawled over, ducked beneath, and stepped around the devastation. Overwhelmed by the awe of their discovery, Laurel seemed to have lost much of her earlier trepidation.

As they went, the rhythm became louder, no longer a tapping but resonating like a steam-driven piston, like those Aidan had once seen while touring a coal mine he’d invested in.

The arcade opened into another chamber, and again Laurel gaped in astonishment. Near the center of the floor, the giant head of a fallen statue, some three feet in diameter, lay on its side, its blank eyes peering at them askew.

“This must be a temple dedicated to Minerva,” she whispered as if she feared disturbing the goddess.

Aidan rapped on the tarnished statue’s surface. “Bronze. This place is a treasure hunter’s dream.”

To his surprise, Laurel shook her head. “There is much of historical value, to be sure, but only such treasure as a museum would covet. When the Romans abandoned their outlying colonies, they took with them everything of value they could carry. Remember, they departed Britain because the empire had begun its decline and funds had run short.” She pointed through the next archway.

“That way?”

He glanced at the map and nodded. Another set of steps took them deeper beneath the ruins. The rubble became denser, the way more arduous, and they saw none of the embellishments of the other chambers. The resonating thumps, accompanied now by gurgling sounds, drew them on.

The map led them to a threshold shored up by timbers resembling those in the earlier tunnel, standing out garishly new against the ancient stonework.

“I’d wager my fortune that
this
wasn’t left behind by the Romans.” Aidan raised his voice to be heard above the echoes of the watery pulsations coming from close by.

Through the doorway, they discovered a trestle table covered with laboratory equipment—flasks, cylinders, beakers—while shoved into a corner at the back of the table was the very same brazier Rousseau had used during his demonstration at the Pump Room. It was plain to see that the contraption, with its impressive coils and gears, wasn’t much used for anything . . . other than beguiling would-be investors.

A larger, quite conventional brazier hugged another of the walls. Beside it stood an assortment of casks, undoubtedly for storing the formula. A familiar sulfuric odor permeated the air.

“Rousseau’s secret laboratory,” Aidan murmured. Part of him itched to leave now, both to make his report to Micklebee and to get Laurel to safety. But they still had much to learn.

“The noise is coming from in there.” Holding a hand over her nose, she pointed across the chamber. Wisps of steam drifted through a low archway. Exchanging a glance, they ducked and continued on through.

Aidan had expected to discover some sort of mechanical pump, which would have explained the pulsations. Instead, a single structure dominated the space, a basin carved into the limestone bedrock. At the center of the pool, steaming water heaved upward as if forced from deep within the earth, forming a massive bubble that burst on the surface and spread in frothing ripples. Each bubble sent up a spray of hissing steam and resonated with the throbbing rhythm they had heard.

“The thermal spring must be directly beneath us.” Excitement quivered in Laurel’s voice. She even lowered her hand from her nose, though the stench here was nearly unbearable.

“Rousseau’s source of unsullied water.” Aidan swung the lantern in a slow arc to illuminate the walls and corners of the chamber. Seeing nothing but rough stone, he ushered Laurel back into the adjoining room. “Now let’s see if we can discover what makes perfectly reasonable individuals lose their heads.”

 

As Aidan began opening the containers lining Rousseau’s laboratory table, the echo of his words held Laurel immobile. They had lost their heads the day of the picnic. Did he view their subsequent lovemaking in a similar light? With blunt honesty he had confessed his inability—or was it unwillingness?—to offer her more than they had already shared.

Oh, but he had also made the stars dance for her.

Yes, to give her a fond memory with which to warm herself as she grew old without him.

Except for the bubbling waters in the next chamber, the room grew quiet, and Laurel snapped out of her broodings to find that Aidan had stopped rummaging through Rousseau’s supplies. He peered intently at her.

“I just realized what I said.” A stride brought him to her. His arms went around her. “Damn. I didn’t mean it as it sounded.”

Standing tall, she refused to yield to his embrace, or to her own unquenchable desires. “Yes, you did and you are correct. Rousseau’s elixir did cause us to lose control.”

“Ah, but not every time, Laurel.”

She looked at the ground. “Once unleashed, passion tends to take on a life of its own. That is why society adheres to such strict rules. We should not have broken those rules.”

“I don’t believe that—” He stopped short, tension coursing through his body and into hers. He lowered his arms and stepped back. Very softly, he said, “Perhaps you are right.”

She nodded, the constriction of her throat too great to allow for words. Blinking moisture from her eyes as she walked past him, she went to the table. Choosing a vial at random, she held the vessel beneath her nose. The odor made her whisk her head aside. “Oh, that’s bitter! What is it?”

He took the vial and ventured a whiff. “Wormwood.”

“I don’t remember Rousseau naming that as one of the ingredients.”

“He didn’t.” Aidan selected a flask. “Smell this.”

“Licorice?”

“Aniseed. There is also juniper, fennel, dittany . . .” He hefted a jug from beneath the table, pulled the stopper, and sniffed. “Alcohol.” His nose pinched, his lips whitening with anger, he said, “I know what the bastard is doing.”

“Then please enlighten me—”

Muffled voices reverberated along the tunnel walls. A cry lodged in Laurel’s throat but went no farther.

“Quickly!” he urged. They replaced the containers in their original positions. Reaching for Laurel’s hand, Aidan hurried her back out into the main passage.

There he paused to lower the lantern’s wick until only a droplet of orange lit the way.

“We can’t go back the way we came,” Laurel whispered.

“I never intended to.”

She started to question him, but he shushed her with a look that warned her not to make an unnecessary sound. When she expected them to make a hasty retreat, he instead turned into the first doorway they came to.

Here, the floor sloped sharply upward, and as Laurel climbed into the tunnel, she realized this was due to the partial collapse of the ceiling. Her scarlet silks and rich velvet cape snagged on the jagged rubble. With a hand at her bottom Aidan assisted her progress, and together they crouched and crawled along the debris. When they could go no farther, they wedged themselves among the rocks to keep from tumbling back down into the central corridor, perhaps into the path of the intruders.

Aidan drew out his pistol and blew out the lantern.

The profound blackness threatened to suffocate her. Upon entering the culvert tonight, she had nearly begged him to take her back out into the cool, open air. It had felt too terrifyingly similar to the tunnel in her nightmare, when the crackling flames had driven her and her governess to the tunnels beneath the house and the horror of being buried alive had dogged her every step.

For Aidan, she had shoved those fears aside. Now, only the press of his body as he settled beside her anchored her senses.

“Not a sound,” he breathed.

She nodded, understanding. Echoes traveled far in this place. As easily as they had heard the others coming, so would they have been heard making their escape.

Perspiration stung her eyes and trickled maddeningly down her sides. In vain she attempted to close her ears to the creatures scampering among the ruins. When something tickled its way across her hand, she bit the sides of her mouth to keep from crying out.

A glow wavered on the ground outside in the main passage. The sound of footsteps rebounded along the walls, along with a curious rapping. Every few steps it came.
Rap
,
rap
, like something striking the wall. They were close, so very close, only yards away. The voices came intermittently, garbled by their own echoes and the thump-thump of the thermal spring.

Yet through the distortion, Laurel perceived the drawl of a French accent.

Against her, Aidan went rigid.

Though they could still hear the voices, the footsteps stopped. Whoever it was must have reached the laboratory. Laurel and Aidan waited, then waited some more. Then, slowly, Aidan began to move. First he struck a lucifer, the sound so loud in the silence that Laurel thought surely they would be discovered. He relit the lamp, turning it as low as it would go without extinguishing the flame. Making his way over the rubble with painstaking care, he helped Laurel down as he went.