Dark Surrender (10 page)

She banged on the locked door loud enough to deafen anyone in a ten-mile radius. It immediately swung open.

Mr. Waldegrave’s manservant—what was his name? Mr. Roper?—stood at the ready. His surprise at discovering her unaccompanied was as clear as his disdain for her state of disarray.

“Where is the master?” he demanded, without stepping aside to let her pass.

“With Miss Lillian,” Violet panted, desperate for clean air. She squeezed past him into the blessedly well-lit hall.

Mr. Roper stared down his nose at her, suspiciously. “Why are you alone?”

“Why am I—” She tamped down a bubble of hysterical laughter. “Do you think for a moment that I
wished
to be alone in the catacombs?”

His brows lifted. “There is no need to take a tone with me. I have nothing more to say until Master arrives.”

“A tone?
A tone?
I’m surprised I can speak at all. Your ‘master’ left me behind!”

He simply gazed down at her as if she’d deserved to be abandoned, and had half a mind to toss her back into the tunnels. Dismissively, he turned to close the door to the catacombs.

Recognizing that her panicked outbursts were not endearing her to her employer’s manservant, she closed her eyes and forced deep breaths until her heart rate returned to normal.

“Please,” she said quietly, as soon as she had somewhat calmed. “I would very much like to return to my bedchamber to tidy up. Would you be so kind as to accompany me?”

His gaze was impassive. “No.”

She stared at him. “No? Why on earth not?”

“You are not my master.” He leaned against the closed door as if he did not quite trust the locking mechanism. “He asked me to wait for him here. This is my post, until he says otherwise.”

Violet was starting to see why Lillian had resorted to kicking people. “In that case, may I please borrow your key so that I can get
in
my bedchamber?”

“Absolutely not.”

Grinding her teeth, she glared right back up at him. “Let me guess . . . Because I am not your master?”

He lifted a brow. “If Master wanted you to have a key, you would have a key.”

She supposed the logic was sound, but he didn’t have to look so smug about it. As if he enjoyed thwarting her. As if her distress made him feel superior. Well, he wasn’t superior. He was a member of the staff, just like her. A human being, just like her. The disgrace here wasn’t the state of her day dress but rather his utter lack of empathy.

“Mr. Roper,” she said, keeping her voice as bland and sincere as possible. “I understand your position. Do you think, this once, it might be acceptable to—”

He turned to face the other direction.

Her jaw dropped. Had she just been
cut?
By a fellow servant? Did such absurdities even
happen?

Eyes narrowed, she pushed away from the wall. He didn’t want to loan her his key? Fine. He didn’t have to. She would simply take it.

“Very well,” she said aloud. “I shall wait quietly at the door to my bedchamber until some random soul happens by to let me in.”

His scarred chin lifted slightly, as if he found that to be a splendid idea indeed.

He would. She brushed past him and stumbled, taking care not to land upon her swollen ankle.

Reflexively, his arms shot out to steady her. She rested against him for a brief second, ostensibly to regain her equilibrium. Then she continued down the hall with her head held high.

His snort of derision was just audible.

Not until she rounded a corner did she finally slow. She uncurled her fist to reveal a thin brass key nestled inside. Mr. Roper might fancy himself the most uppity manservant in Shropshire, but he hadn’t a lick more sense than the uppity fools who fell for the oh-pardon-me stumble in London alleyways.

Violet allowed herself a small smile. She’d apologize later. First, she needed a bath. An hour’s solitude sounded divine. Her limbs practically melted at the sight of her door. With trembling fingers, she fit the key into the lock, and—

Fit the
key
into the
lock
, and—

Oh, God help her. She’d nicked the wrong bloody key.
Now
what?

She sagged against her stubbornly locked door and sighed. Nothing else for it. She’d have to return the ill-gotten key to that prig Roper and admit defeat.

But he was no longer there.

She hopped down the empty corridor in disbelief. All his palaver about his sacred duty to lounge against a locked door, and the man had up and left not ten minutes later. Perhaps he hadn’t been driven by a manic desire to cleave to the letter of his master’s word after all. Perhaps he simply despised
her
.

Fists at her sides, she cast her incredulous gaze down one side of the corridor, then the other. Now what? Hunt down Mr. Waldegrave? She tugged on the handle to the door his manservant had allegedly been guarding, then attempted to fit the stolen key into the lock.

It refused to budge. Lovely.

She couldn’t return to the catacombs without a working key. Nor could she return to her chambers. She couldn’t even ring for help without a key, because all the bloody bell pulls were locked inside rooms, not dangling about the passageways.

Had she thought the Waldegraves lived a life of privilege? They lived a life of utter madness, is what they lived.

Perhaps she could find the kitchen, if it were located in this structure. A crust of bread, a dram of milk, a spot of water to dab the ink from—oh, who was she fooling? Her stained fingers would eventually fade to normal, but nothing at all could save her dress. The fabric was barely even sticky any more. It just happened to boast the world’s largest inkblot.

She paused when she reached a two-way intersection at the end of the corridor. Neither of the attached corridors was lit, and she had no candle with which to light her way.

Of course, the only working sconce behind her was the one beside the locked door leading to the catacombs. She supposed she could wait there for Mr. Waldegrave, but what if he
had
returned while she was attempting to break into her own chamber? That would explain Mr. Roper’s mysterious disappearance. There was no sense standing around waiting for the arrival of someone who wasn’t en route.

The passageway did stretch the other direction, of course, and branched again. Not to say that one way was more likely to lead to success than any other, given she hadn’t the first clue where to find the scullery.

Then again, any room with a bell pull would do. Which meant all the corridors were equally promising. Or unpromising. With that cheery thought in mind, Violet turned down the closest corridor and began to make her way through the murky shadows. At least there was wainscoting. Without dust and dirt and corpses, this darkness was at least bearable.

She ran her fingertips along both walls for balance, taking care to try the handles of every door she passed. True to Mr. Waldegrave’s word, all the bolts were securely locked. And the key fit into none of them. Why on earth would a manservant carry about a key that didn’t unlock any doors?

After a series of unproductive turns, she began to suspect she would’ve been better off waiting by the door to her bedchamber as she’d sarcastically suggested to her employer’s manservant in the first place.

Then there was light. A single sconce, a small one, with a tiny flickering candle—but light nonetheless.

Close on delirious with relief, she rushed forward as quickly as her ginger ankle allowed.

The passageway dead-ended against a lone door. Violet paused to examine her surroundings. She saw no one. Heard nothing. But there was flame on that candle, which had to mean she was in a populated area. She tried the handle. Locked. Of course. No longer imbued with optimism, she fished the useless key from her pocket and slid the brass teeth into the aperture.

Click
.

The mechanism caught and turned as if the key had been forged just for this lock. Giddy with relief, she twisted the handle—and then hesitated.

Her stomach was uneasy in the same way as when Mr. Waldegrave had handed over the two gold sovereigns and her first wary thought had been that the money was cursed. She’d learned long ago to place full confidence in the uneasiness of her stomach. And yet . . . why be alarmed? It was just a door. Just a room. And her only opportunity to call for help.

Ever so quietly, she eased the crack wider. Enough light spilled in from the sconce for her to realize this wasn’t an empty prayer room, but rather a furnished bedchamber. Which meant there
had
to be a bell pull inside. Ensuring she still held the key firmly in her grip, she allowed the door to close tight behind her.

The dim lighting remained.

Blinking in confusion, she stepped further into the room. Windows! This bedchamber had
windows
. Covered with not one but two heavy curtains, only the tiniest sliver of light shone in a narrow line across the ceiling and between the hem and floor. Just enough for her to be able to discern the outline of a bell pull on the other side of a large four-poster bed.

What if the prickles along her skin were because there was someone
in
the bed? Someone who would be less than pleased to discover ex-street urchin Violet Whitechapel trespassing in his bedchamber?

And yet . . . what were her options? Make herself known, and hope she didn’t get brained with a poker? Cross the room to ring the bell pull anyway, and risk whomever slept in the bed being startled out of their mind? Tiptoe outside, and enjoy another hour roaming the corridors in search of someone with a key?

She vacillated for a long moment, unsure of the wisest course. Then she unlocked her frozen muscles and silently picked her way toward the head of the bed. If Mr. Waldegrave had entered the classroom at noon, as he had promised, then by now it had to be at least two of the clock. The gentry were infamous slugabeds, but surely by this hour, even the laziest had to have arisen to greet the day. The bed was likely to be vacant.

She tilted her ear as close as possible to the thick tester without disturbing the fabric. Nothing. No snoring, no movement, no signs of life. She backed up until she reached the fold where the edge of one falling section of fabric overlapped the other. Should she? Could she . . .?

Holding her breath, she slid a shaking finger between the layers of cloth and slowly, gently, pulled them apart.

Empty. The bed was empty. Thank God.

The bed was made, but the covers rumpled, as if someone had recently lain atop the layers of blankets. Unable to help herself, she reached out a hand and smoothed out the largest of the wrinkles. The mattress was so thick. The blankets were so soft. The pillows . . . smelled of Mr. Waldegrave?

Violet leaned her face closer and took a deep breath. She hadn’t registered the fact that she’d somehow memorized his scent until she realized the pillow smelled exactly the same. Soap, sandalwood . . . something else, something she couldn’t place.

Oh, Lord, what was she doing standing about sniffing the man’s pillow? Mr. Waldegrave must not always sleep in the sanctuary. She was in his bedchamber! She had to leave
right now
.

Abandoning the idea of tugging the bell pull and summoning witnesses here, of all places, she straightened the tester about the bed and turned back toward the door—and caught sight of an open wardrobe. Satin dresses. Silk gowns. A pale pink riding habit.

If this was Mr. Waldegrave’s bedchamber, she’d eat the matching pink hat.

She returned to the bell pull and, this time, gave it a decisive tug. There. Someone should be along shortly. In the meantime, she was dying to see if there was a view. As far as she could tell, this might be the sole unboarded window in Waldegrave Abbey.

Recognizing her folly, she clucked her tongue in self-annoyance. The telltale swaths of light should’ve told her it wasn’t Mr. Waldegrave’s bedchamber. He was far too controlled. Despite the pair of impossibly thick curtains, she doubted a man as threatened by the sunlight as he was would take any risks.

She pulled back a section of the heavy fabric. She reeled backward with a grimace, momentarily blinded by sunlight. When her eyes adjusted, her jaw dropped at the view. She had to be gazing directly upon the sanctuary that housed Lillian and Mr. Waldegrave.

The “sanctuary?” Hardly.

The huge, expertly crafted building stood in a pool of direct sunlight. Even the layers upon layers of crisscrossed boards couldn’t hide the beauty in every line of its architecture. Back when the sun’s rays had danced across the exposed panels of stained glass, this bedchamber must have had the best view in the entire abbey.

She closed the curtain, careful to overlap the fabric just as she’d found it. How long would it take a servant to respond to her call? Her fingers drummed against the bedpost. A room such as this would surely be close enough for maids to answer promptly. Someone would arrive any second.

Drawn by morbid curiosity, she found herself crossing to the open wardrobe. The clothes were not his, but the scent upon the pillows indicated her employer enjoyed a fair amount of time within these walls. What kind of woman was it, with whom he apparently spent his nights? Better yet,
who
was it? His wife? Where was she now?

Violet paused. If there were a missus, she would not only have been presented to her long before now, but the wife would most likely have been the decision maker with regard to hiring a governess in the first place. Therefore, there must not be a Mrs. Waldegrave. The gentry were not plagued with the careless abandonment suffered by the lower classes, which further meant that Mr. Waldegrave must be a widower.

It wasn’t until this conclusion settled the nerves dancing along her intestines that Violet realized a small part of her had actually been concerned about . . . about what, exactly? Competition? She stifled a snort. He was so far above her status as to make even the daydream absurd. Yet she could not like the idea of him keeping a mistress. The roiling sensation returned to her stomach.