Once a Rake (Drake's Rakes) (34 page)

She thought her heart would burst. Tears seared the back of her throat as she looked up into those sky blue eyes that seemed to suddenly carry more pain than a man should bear. “I must love you,” she answered. “I can’t think of anything else that would get me back into these tunnels.”

His smile, when it came, was infinitely gentle, heartbreakingly sweet. The torch still held high above him, he wrapped his free arm about her and pulled her into his arms. And there he kissed her. And she opened to him, mouth-to-mouth, as if she could devour him, as if she could meld him inexorably to her, her heart racing and her throat clogged with want. It was only when he set her back and pushed her on her way that she realized that this had been their good-bye kiss.

She turned back to him, suddenly frightened. Lost. Empty. She should run to him, demand he stay, offer anything just to hold on to him here where they were both safe, both equal, both madly in love as if that were all that mattered.

She couldn’t, and it all but destroyed her.

“Remember,” he said. “Chuffy will find you.”

Remember,
she answered in her heart where it couldn’t burden him.
I will love you my whole life.

And with that, she walked into the darkness, her hand out against the rock, her head down. The darkness quickly enveloped her, reducing the world to touch and sound. She heard water dripping somewhere and the familiar chittering of bats. She prayed they would turn over and go back to sleep until she got through. Then she prayed that Ian would come himself to find her, no matter how hard that would be. She would give him up. She just didn’t want to do it yet.

Fortune was with her for the moment at least. The door out of the caves was still there, and it opened without a sound into the back of the old confessional. Someone had been using it recently. Sarah stepped very carefully through into the wooden box in which priests had once sat to forgive Ripton transgressions. Fortunately the confessional walls were not solid, but carved in fretwork, so it might be seen that the booth was occupied, but not by whom. It also helped her see out without being seen. Closing the little panel behind her and making certain to lock it against further incursion, she stepped out onto the flagged floors and looked around.

The church smelled musty and unused. Kneelers had been pushed against the far wall, and the old statues that had so terrified her as a child removed. Only the stained glass windows remained to reflect the glory of God. At this time of night, though, they were ghostly and dark.

Two chairs remained on the denuded altar. Stepping out into the echoing nave, she grabbed hold of one, dragged it in front of the confessional, and sat down. And then, just as she was instructed to do, she waited.

On the other side of the entrance from the tunnel, the Ripton Hall library sat in shadow. A long rectangle of a room walled in filled bookcases and decorated in tones of deep green and gold, it boasted a coffered ceiling, rare Persian rugs, and the mismatched furniture of generations of dukes who had seen the library more as a statement of their wealth than a sanctuary of learning.

A desultory fire crackled in the Elizabethan hearth, and a candelabra spilled a small pool of light over a hunter green armchair in the corner where Alex Knight lounged, the black mourning ribbon still around his sleeve, a half-full glass of brandy in his hand, and Barnwell’s translation of Aristotle’s
Poetics
in his lap. He was paying less attention to the tome than the steady ticking of the Percier clock on the stone mantel. He was beginning to lose hope that Ian Ferguson would make his appearance tonight. Rain had begun to patter on the windows.

He had just turned back to his reading when there was a scratching on the door into the corridor.

He lifted his head. “Yes?”

The night porter opened the door. “A messenger has arrived, my lord,” he announced in sepulchral tones that seemed to match the old pile.

Approaching on felt-silenced slippers, he bent over Alex with a salver that carried a simple folded note.

“Is a reply requested?” Alex asked, reaching for the paper.

“No, my lord. The messenger has already departed.”

Having delivered the message, the man stood at attention. Not interested in nosy retainers, Alex flipped him a coin and waved him off before breaking open the wafer.
Something from his superiors?
he wondered.
Maybe Drake or Lord Thirsk?
Perhaps a change of plans. He was still waiting on any information about another operation going on up in London, a friend who was missing.

It wasn’t from Drake. It wasn’t from Thirsk. It was worse.

We believe you would want to know,
the note read in precise, printed letters.
Your wife’s letters have been found. We are holding them for you. There is a price, of course. You might wish to come to the center of the maze to wait for instructions.

Alex found himself on his feet, the book forgotten on the floor. He suddenly couldn’t catch his breath. His hand began to shake, making the paper rustle. There could be no question what the note meant. The Lions had reached him. They had found his one weakness, and they were about to take advantage of it. With a despairing look to the bookcase where he had been waiting for Ian Ferguson to appear, he walked out the French doors and ran down the lawn toward the maze.

Chapter 18

Sarah wasn’t certain how long she waited in that relic of a church. She thought at least two or three hours. It seemed like years, each second weighing down the one before it until she felt caught in a morass of fear and loss. How dare Ian make her sit here alone in the dark with nothing but the memory of the last few hours to keep her company? How dare he not return to her, so she at least knew he was safe? So she could say a formal good-bye and escape before she made a fatal error. She swore she had never spent such agonizing hours in her life.

Only once did she think she had been discovered. She heard the secret panel rattle at the back of the confessional. Her heart seized, but the rattling stopped, and nothing else happened. She changed her position for one by the door, opening the warped, scarred wood a few inches into the old cloister and looking out into the darkness.

It only made her more anxious. She should have gone with Ian. She should have faced her brother, even if having her brother see her would do Ian no good.

Again, she shuddered. That was if Ian was still there. She could see the east wing of the manor from the chapel, and no general alarm had gone out. No soldiers came thundering up the drive. The house remained dark and stubbornly silent.

She couldn’t stand it. She had to get inside that house. She could only think of one reason Ian hadn’t sent Chuffy out to her. And that was that Ian had never reached him. He was in trouble. She could feel the certainty of it thicken in her chest.

She had to find Chuffy Wilde. Chuffy would know where to look for Ian. It was the only thing she could think to do. She just had no idea how.

She couldn’t use the tunnel. She had no idea what waited on the other side. No more could she walk in the front door. She was wrinkled and dusty and smelled of horse. No butler worth his salt would allow an unknown tatterdemalion across his threshold in the middle of the night, much less invite her to speak with the daughter of the house.

Sarah closed her eyes, trying to remember what Lizzie had said about her bedroom. A corner room. Sarah remembered because Lizzie had spoken of being able to see her mother’s gardens on one side and the stone gazebo out the other. Which meant the back corner of the west wing. The duchess’s gardens stretched from the parterre at the back of the house, and the gazebo graced the side knot garden. Sarah smiled. Now all she had to do was sneak over there and figure a way to climb three stories.

The grounds remained silent. Not even a guard dog or gamekeeper. Thankfully, the rain had passed, making her way easier. Sending a little prayer for luck, Sarah slipped out of the chapel and ran through the damp grass for the deeper shadow at the back of the house. Her palms were sweating and her mouth was dry. She thought her heart might just tumble out of her chest. She had spent more than one terrifying moment in her life. This, she decided, was the worst.

It took her ten minutes to circle the house, all the time alert for noises. At one point she almost changed her plans. There was a light on in the library. Her hands itched to open the window and peek in. Ian could be so close. He could be hurt, or need help.

No. She couldn’t think of that. She had to move on. She had to get to Lizzie and pray she would help. Oh, lord, what she would give for an overgrown trellis.

Her prayers went unanswered. There was no trellis. No convenient vine meandering over the pale stones of the Ripton walls or trees growing branches that brushed the third floor windows. Not even a conveniently left ladder.

The lights in the corner bedroom were out, of course. They were out in all of the bedrooms. It was late even by London standards. Or early.

Sarah tilted her head, assessing her chances. There were no fortuitous vines, but there were balconies. They weren’t directly above each other, but with luck they might be close enough to traverse. All she would have to do would be to climb onto the giant flower urns that bracketed the parterre to reach the first floor, then climb on top of that railing and reach up for the next. Pull herself up and repeat. So what if she would have to jump from the urns to reach that first balcony, and then leap again to the next without slipping on the wet stone and crashing to the ground? She could do this. She
had
to do this.

Finally,
she thought with a rather frantic grin.
All of my tussling with Willoughby will pay off. I should have the strongest arms in Devonshire. Maybe when this is over, I shall hire myself out to a circus.

She did waste a few moments contemplating the idea of tossing gravel at Lizzie’s window. It seemed to work in gothic romances. If someone was in that lit library, though, they would hear it as easily as Lizzie.

Ah, well, nothing for it but to try. Wishing she had a bit of rope to tuck her skirts up, she wiped her hands along her dress and scrabbled atop the three-foot stone urn that graced the corner of the house. It took her a minute to gain her balance. Her half-boots insisted on slipping.

Praying nobody could hear the scuffling noise she was making, she reached up to find that the first floor balcony was just within reach. It opened from the green salon, if she remembered correctly, the site of more than one uncomfortable presentation. Taking a deep breath, she curled her hands around the balustrades. The stone was cold and rough and damp against her palms. Out in the woods, a small animal screamed, almost sending her over on her nose. Her heart would never recover from this.

Her feet swinging in the air, her dress belling out, her shoulders screaming with the strain, she pulled herself up hand over hand. She managed to get her shoulders above the railing and then strained to get a foothold. There. Narrow, but solid. She took a breath, recovered, then a lurch upright and over the railing to flop onto her back.

Lying there gasping, she stared at the lowering clouds for a bit. Willoughby, she decided, deserved a special treat. She never would have had the strength to get this far without her constant tug-of-war with him.

The next balcony was harder. She had to leap out into empty air to reach it. This time she was certain someone had to hear her as her knee connected with the stone wall with a crack and pain shot up her leg. She gritted her teeth and held on, knowing that if she slipped, she would definitely break something. Her fingers were cramping and her lungs were screaming for air. And her poor heart. It simply wouldn’t survive.
Please, Lizzie,
she thought as she began the tortuous process of inching up the balcony.
Be in this room. And don’t scream when you see me.

Oh, and let the windows be open.

Not that it really mattered anymore. She would get those windows open if she had to smash them in with her head. She was taking too much time. The sky was beginning to pale to the east, and soon the staff would rise and catch her hanging off the balcony.

The thought must have distracted her, because suddenly she lost purchase. One hand slipped completely away. Instinctively, she shrieked and made a grab for the railing. She couldn’t quite grasp it, and her other hand was weakening. She swung her feet hard, but she wasn’t in a position to get a foothold. And she had too good a view of the patio she was about to fall onto. Her heart in her throat, she struggled to stay calm. She had a distinct image of herself lying broken on that stone.

“Don’t…fall,” she muttered, looking up.

She reached up again, throwing her whole body behind it. Success. She caught the balustrade and wrapped desperate fingers around it. For a moment, she just shut her eyes and held on, trying not to sob with relief. She wasn’t completely successful. Oh, sweet lord, that had been close. She wanted to rest her head against her arms. To take a moment before trying again. She didn’t have the time. Focusing on her hands, she climbed. One hand. The other. Her leg, curled up beneath her, scrabbling for a hold.

With another ungainly lurch, she caught a foothold on Lizzie’s balcony. She was sobbing with the effort, but she caught hold of the railing and threw herself over. And lay there, unable to do anything but gasp for air. She must have closed her eyes again. She was so shaken she wasn’t sure. She just knew that it wasn’t until she heard the window click open that she knew she had company.

She should jump to her feet. She should crouch in readiness. She should . . .

“Saint Swithin’s sweet tooth.
Sarah?!
”

Sarah lay there like a lump staring up at the phantasm waving a large brass candlestick over her head. “
Pippin?
”

Sarah blinked. She blinked again. Lizzie. It should be Lizzie standing there.

Lowering the candlestick, Pippin crouched down next to her, her white cotton nightdress floating around her like a cloud. “My God!” she gasped. “It
is
you. What are you doing here?”

“Me?” Sarah retorted, still not moving. “What are
you
doing here? You’re supposed to be in Ireland. And isn’t this Lizzie’s room?”

Pippin actually cast a quick look over her shoulder. “
Ssssh.
You don’t want to give her away. I came to the house party, of course. Ireland had begun to pale.”

Sarah blinked. She felt completely disoriented. She had to get up. She had to find help for Ian. But she couldn’t comprehend what her other friend was doing here. As for Pip, she looked like a fairy child, her white-blond hair floating in a nimbus of curls around her piquant little face. She was smiling. But then, Pip was always smiling.

At least she was smiling until she took a look over the balcony.

“You
climbed
up here?” she demanded, her voice raising. “Are you mad?”

“Hush yourself. No one can know I’m here.” Gathering her returning strength, Sarah pulled herself all the way up to her feet. “Where is Lizzie?” she asked, helping Pippin up as well. “I need to speak with her.”

Gaining her own feet, which put her head at Sarah’s shoulder, Pip took another look over her shoulder. “Well, in point of fact, I’m not
quite
sure. Can I help?”

Sarah shook her head, completely flummoxed. “What do you mean you’re not sure? Pip, please. This is important. A life is at stake.”

Pip shrugged. “She asked me to cover for her for a few hours. I decided I could do that better from her room. I have no idea where she is.”

Sarah thought she might weep. What did she do now? “Do you know a man named Chuffy Wilde?”

Pip laughed. “Oh, everyone knows Chuffy. Come inside before you catch your death of cold. You’re all damp.”

“I need to reach him, Pip,” Sarah said, following her inside and shutting the window behind her. “Do you think I can trust him?”

Pip turned from where she was lighting a spill in the embers of the fire. “Chuffy? Of course. After we get a bit of sleep, I’ll introduce you.”

“No. Now. Please, Pip. It is vital.”

Instead of answering, Pip lit a lantern. Then, reaching up, she hugged Sarah hard. “I’ve missed you.”

Sarah hugged back, suddenly desperate for her friends. “I have too, Pip.”

Giving Sarah one last pat, Pippin picked up the lantern and led the way into a small sitting room, where she plopped down on a straw-colored settee. The room had to be Lizzie’s, Sarah thought, distracted. Decorated in celandine and straw, it was restrained and elegant, decorated with simple lines and still lifes. Sarah was surprised by a wash of homesickness. Not for a place. For her friend.

Her
sister.

“Now,” Pip said, curling her feet up under her. “What brings you here in such dramatic fashion? You frightened five years of growth from me.” Her grin was sudden and sweet. “And as we know, I can’t waste a minute of that.”

If it had been anyone else, Sarah would have hesitated. But this was Pippin, who had kept Sarah laughing all through the grim years of school. Pip who had organized forays with the younger girls into the countryside in search of fairies, who had painted the headmistress’s room bright purple and convinced the local vicar that gruel was a worse punishment than the birch rod. She was the one who had saved the students at Last Chance Academy by finally getting someone to look beyond the facade of gentility to see the rot beneath. Because of Pip, Last Chance was now an excellent school.

Sarah wanted to curl up and lay her head in Pippin’s lap. She wanted Pip to make her laugh. Instead, after divesting herself of her cape, she sat and gave Pippin as quick a recap as she could of recent events, ending with a plea for Ian’s safety.

Pippin didn’t close her mouth for five minutes. “
Fiona’s
Ian? Really? Blessed Barbara’s Bathwater. We thought he was…well . . .” She kept shaking her head. “My brother Alex is here. We’ll get Alex.”

“Ian said I had to find Chuffy,” Sarah said. “He did not say Alex.”

Jumping up, Pippin waved away her concern. “Don’t be silly. Alex is perfect. Besides, I need him to wake Chuffy. If we’re found in my brother’s room at four in the morning, that’s one thing. But if we’re caught in a bachelor’s quarters, Ian won’t be the only one in trouble.”

Sarah had to accept the logic. Besides, she needed all the help she could get. Surely she could trust Pippin’s older brother.

Pulling open the door, Pippin snuck a peek into the darkened corridor. “Good thing nobody knows I’m here,” she said.

The corridor was empty, the only light coming from a night candle at the stairway. “An adventure,” Pippin whispered, and stepped out into the hall. “Excellent.”

With another wave of her hand, she led Sarah down the hall all the way to the vaguely seen window, and then right through a portrait gallery Sarah had never seen. She wasted no more than a fleeting wish to see the family portraits before realizing that these people weren’t her family. The portraits she should put in her own gallery would be of Pippin and Fiona and Lizzie. She didn’t know if she would have the courage to include a painting of Ian. It would hurt too badly, she thought.

Ian.
Oh, where are you?

Reaching another hallway, obviously the guest wing, Pippin tiptoed to the third door on the right and scratched on the door. There was no answer. Taking another look over her shoulder, she turned the knob and pushed the door open. Sarah wasn’t surprised to see that she was grinning. Pippin adored high adventure.

“Huh,” Pippin breathed, striding across the room to where a canopied bed rose before them. Empty. “Why, that sly dog. I wonder whose bedroom he
is
in?”

“There was a light in the library,” Sarah suggested, staring at the tidy line of untouched bed linen.

“We don’t have time,” Pippin said. “We’ll have to breach the defenses of Chuffy’s sanctuary.” She flashed another grin Sarah could barely see in the dark. “Gird your loins, Lady Clarke. We are about to do something quite scandalous.”

Sarah scowled. “Pip, I have been kidnapped by a man wanted for treason, hidden with him in a barn, and climbed a wall in a dress. I think I left scandalous back at Fairbourne.”

Only Pip would giggle.

Repeating the procedure of checking for witnesses, she slipped back into the corridor.

“You are having fun!” Sarah accused on a whisper.

Pippin shrugged. “I haven’t been involved in a good clandestine activity since school. Of course I’m having fun.”

“Pippin, this is deadly serious.”

“You won’t think so when you see Chuffy.”

At first all they saw of Chuffy was a lump on the untidy bed. Navigating by the dull glow of a dying fire, Sarah followed Pippin into his room. Pippin put her finger to her lips and climbed the stool by the bed.

“Chuffy,” she whispered, shaking the lump. “Chuffy, wake up.”

For a moment, Sarah thought they were going to fail. Nothing happened. Pippin repeated her command. She was just bending a third time when suddenly the bed seemed to explode in bedspreads and limbs and shrieking bear cubs.

It was the only way Sarah could think to describe Chuffy Wilde. A bear cub in a nightcap and bright yellow nightshirt.

“
Ssssh,
” Pippin commanded, her hand over the man’s mouth. “Nobody can know we’re here.”

His eyes huge, Chuffy pulled her hand away. “You
can’t
be here!! Ain’t decent. Ain’t decent at all, Pip. You could get me caught hard in parson’s mousetrap, and I’d never forgive you. Don’t want to marry. Not in the petticoat brigade. You know that.”

“I do, Chuffy. This is something else. Were you told to meet Ian Ferguson?”

He not only reacted, he came right off the bed, all but knocking Pippin on her bottom. And there he stood, his skinny legs sticking out from beneath yards of yellow wool, his nightcap slipping over his ear, looking all around him as if enemies were approaching from the corners.

“You can’t know about that.” He waved his hands at her. “Shoo! Go away before somebody finds out. End up in prison
and
leg-shackled.” He actually shuddered. “Don’t know which would be worse.”

“The leg shackle,” Sarah said without thinking.

Chuffy jerked as if he hadn’t seen her. “Who the devil is
that
?”

Pippin reached over to his bedside table and picked something up. “Here. Put these on. It will all make more sense.”

He fit a pair of spectacles over his ears and peered through the darkness at Sarah. “Don’t make a bit more sense. Don’t know her. Don’t want to marry her. Go away.”

“We need your help, Mr. Wilde,” Sarah said, immediately liking him.

“Baron Wilde, actually,” he said with a drawing room bow. “And you are?”

“Not important.”

“Is if I have to marry you.”

“Well, you don’t. You have to help Ian.”

Again Chuffy jerked around, as if he’d back up against a galvanizing machine. “Stop saying that! Nobody can know.”

“
I
know. I’m the one who has been hiding him. My name is Sarah Clarke.”

Chuffy actually took another look around. “Where is he?”

Sarah’s knees almost gave out on her, his words stealing her last hope. “You don’t know? He was supposed to find you. He is here somewhere in the house.”

“Can’t be.” He gave his glasses a quick shove and scratched his nose. “We met? I know an awful lot of people. Don’t think I know you.”

“Saint Simon’s scissors,” Pippin snapped. “This is a rescue, Chuffy. Not an at-home.”

He shook his head. “No. Alex. He’s in the rescue line. Not me. I’d muck it up.”

Sarah was becoming frantic. “We tried to find him. He isn’t in his room.”

Chuffy nodded. “In the library waiting for Ferguson. His night. I take tomorrow. Why I’m sleeping.”

“Can you go down and look?” Sarah asked. “Please. I led Ian through the Fairy Steps to the library at least three hours ago, and I have yet to hear from him. He said he would send you to me to let me know everything was all right.” Tears welled, but she forced them back. “It can’t be, can it? You don’t know where he is.”

Chuffy was frowning. “Not right,” he said, considering. “Alex there. Must be.”

“Ian would have fetched me,” Sarah insisted, wanting to shake him. “I have been waiting for hours.”

“She had to climb up the wall to my bedroom,” Pippin said.

Chuffy gaped at Sarah. “No you didn’t. Can’t.”

“Can,” Pippin answered. “Did. Get dressed, will you? Go see if Ian is all right.”

Chuffy started looking around again when somebody else knocked on the door. Sarah and Pippin spun around. Chuffy scowled. “Like Hyde Park around here. What?”

“You all right in there, old man? Heard you yell.”

Sarah froze, her heart skidding. Dear God. She knew that voice. He couldn’t find her here. She didn’t realize she had grabbed Chuffy’s arm until he patted her hand.

“Fine, Duke!” he called. “High bed. Fell out.”

Sarah heard a chuckle. “You all right?” her brother asked.

“Bruised dignity. Prefer not to mention it.”

“My lips are sealed, old boy. Good night.”

“Was that the duke?” Pippin asked. “What is he doing in this wing?”

Chuffy gave her a look of disbelief. “House party. Could end up anywhere.”