Persistent Earl : Signet Regency Romance (9781101578841) (19 page)

He wondered,
How bad will it get?
He had seen opium-eaters in the army go through terrifying physical and mental agonies when deprived of their drug; it was how he had become aware of the problems of taking it. Over the past weeks he had slowly reduced his dose to a small amount, so he hoped to be spared their fate. He could tolerate what he was feeling now. He just hoped it would get no worse.

At length he succeeded in finding the door and locating the lower hinge. He held a rock awkwardly between his hands and whaled away at the metal until a corner finally began to project enough to help him. He settled himself into a position he thought he could maintain for some time, and began the tedious task of fraying his bonds.

As he worked, his mind reeled off questions: How long had he been here? What had Brodfield been doing since he left here? Would Phoebe be clever enough to elude Brodfield's clutches? Would Phoebe guess what had happened to him? Or would she lose faith in him, thinking he had abandoned her, insulted her, by his failure to honor their engagements?

Phoebe had just begun to cautiously open her heart, he was sure. Even if she never loved him, she might have found someone to share her future with. If that incipient trust, that small beginning, was destroyed by what Brodfield had done now, Devenham would count it as another murder against the villain's record.

Angered by the thought, Devenham pulled hard against the metal, letting the pain in his wrists override all his other discomforts. Quite suddenly the ropes gave way, bringing his chest and face hard against the door from the force of his efforts. He uttered a sharp cry of pain and surprise, then straightened and rubbed his nose.

“Blast and confound it!” he said, feeling a bit foolish as well as vastly relieved. He began to rub his wrists to restore circulation. Now he could . . . He stopped in mid-thought. Somewhere behind him he had heard a noise—a small noise, or several small noises, that chilled his blood. Paralyzed, he could only crouch by the door, listening for more, straining his ears for the squeak and the rustle he wanted desperately to believe he had not heard.

Bats! The fear attacked his body, wracked already by the opium effects. He felt tears on his face and a wrenching self-disgust. Was he finally to be defeated by a passel of small animals and the ghost of his brother? Had he no more control than this? Brodfield would laugh to find out it was so easy. And what of Phoebe? Did she not deserve more than this? Was not her future at stake as much as his?

The thought of Phoebe acted like a powerful charm as it had earlier in the carriage with Brodfield. Devenham struggled through his fear to reach her, like a drowning man who sees the shore and suddenly finds he can touch bottom.
I will not submit to you, Jeremy
, the earl declared, defying the memory of his brother's habitual cruelty.
You are dead. I have enemies who are alive.

He knew the bats were not his enemies. Only Brodfield was. If he could overcome his fear, could not the bats be his allies? Bats would not live in a tomb that had no exit. He had thought to try to break down the ancient door he had come in by, but it was thick and heavy, and there was the added risk that Brodfield might have left a guard. However, Brodfield's struggle to open the door told him that it normally stood closed. That meant there had to be another way out. If he was extraordinarily lucky, it might be a way that a man could use as well as a bat.

Devenham felt around him on the floor and picked up several pieces of stone. He wished there was at least a little light. Once he disturbed them, the bats would likely fly out in a rush. He closed his eyes and clenched his fists to steady his nerves, thinking of the fluttering wings and terrifying sound the bats' sudden exit would make. He would have to follow, and follow quickly, or he would lose his chance.

He moved a little way along the wall away from the door, to give himself a head start. Then, considering the possibility of a guard outside, he began to shout words that would not betray his plan. “Is anyone out there? Release me this instant! Blast you and damnation!” Blindly, he threw stones at the ceiling, hoping he would frighten the bats without bringing down any of it on his head.

He was rewarded with the sounds he had never thought he would be anything but terrified to hear. A wave of alarmed squeaking began near him and swept through what must have been a huge colony. He felt and heard the first few bats take wing, moving away from him. Keeping one hand on the rough surface of the wall, he moved that way, too. The sound of flapping wings grew louder around him as more and more of the bats joined the general exodus.

As he followed, the way became rougher and narrower, the ceiling lower. He put his hands above his head to protect himself as the bats and he moved through what must have been some sort of passage. He prayed it would not become too small to admit him. He continued to follow as long as he sensed any bat still in flight to guide him. When the last one had left him behind in silence, he offered a prayer of thanks. There was a glimmer of light at the end of the passage ahead of him.

Chapter Seventeen

Phoebe glared at Richard from her seat opposite him in the landaulet. He had made a mockery of being courteous at first, speaking and acting as if nothing at all were amiss, complimenting her dress and expressing delight at her company. He gave up the attempt after a few minutes, and the rattle of the carriage, the pounding of hooves, and the jingle of the harness were the only sounds. At length, her angry silence seemed to wear on him, however.

“It was never my design to have to resort to such measures as these, Phoebe,” he said harshly. “In time, you would have come to me of your own free will.”

His comment so astonished her, she blurted out a reply. “To what purpose?”

“Why, to live with me, of course.”

She could hardly believe he had made such an offensive statement so casually. “I would never have come to you! You must be mad to think so.”

He laughed as if she had made some delightfully clever remark. “The scandal that you survived before will seem like a puff of wind compared to the tempest that is brewing around you at this moment. I don't believe your reputation is sterling enough to withstand even another small puff, my dear, especially now that you've been associating with Devenham. Such notorious company, dear Phoebe!

“Besides him there's the long list of my friends who would swear that they've also been bedding you, as long as I promise them a true chance to do so. Oh, you would have come, once you had nowhere else to turn, once everyone you depended upon had turned their back on you. Once they all believed the worst of you, you would have come, begging and grateful, on your knees.”

“Never,” she whispered.

He looked less amused now, as if he regretted the lost opportunity to see her so reduced. But what he said made no sense. Phoebe knew that Judith and Edward would never have abandoned her.

“You may thank your meddlesome friend for precipitating this rather drastic turn of events,” he continued. “People quite rightly believe me capable of a great many unsavory deeds, but I could not, after all, allow the two of you to present a case adding murder to the list. My burning desires do not include being displayed on the gallows.”

The hard knot of fear in Phoebe's stomach tightened. “I don't know what you are talking about, Richard. After I met Mlle. Gimard, it simply occurred to us that more of the scandalous doings laid at Stephen's feet might have been yours.”

Richard studied her. “You really do not know, do you? Poor little Phoebe. Devenham guessed. I am not certain when, or even how, but he knew that Stephen did not kill himself.”

Stephen did not kill himself.
The words seemed to hang like dust suspended in the air of the carriage. Phoebe was so shocked she could barely comprehend them. She thought of the way Stephen had died and the place, and she still did not understand. “But . . . then, how?” Her trembling hands framed the question in front of her.

“So innocent, dear Phoebe. You cannot begin to imagine, can you? There are so many worlds outside of Polite Society. You will be getting your education from a master.”

He reached across suddenly to touch her chin. When she twisted her head away, he flashed her a smile so evil she thought it must have come straight from hell. “You had gone to the theater with friends that night, do you remember?”

Of course she remembered. She would never be able to forget that night.

“It was a simple matter to lure Stephen to Covent Garden. He had such weaknesses, really, he was an easy mark.” Richard paused to look at her, and then he laughed. “They were not what you are thinking! I did an excellent job of ruining him in your eyes, did I not? Even now, you know not what to believe.”

The pleasure and excitement in his face were like a child's. Cold dread wrapped itself around the knot that had moved into Phoebe's heart.

“Stephen's love for you and his distrust of me were his greatest weaknesses,” Richard announced. “One made him madly jealous and overprotective, and the other made him believe the most unlikely things, as long as they involved me. When I sent him word that I had taken you from the theater and brought you to the cat house in Covent Garden, I knew he would respond like an enraged bull. He never thought to check the story first. How I laughed when I heard later of the way he came barging into the nunnery demanding his wife! I was waiting outside when they threw him out. It was easy enough to make it look like a suicide. I had taken the pistol from his desk.”

Phoebe closed her eyes and put her hands over her ears to shut out Richard's stream of hateful words.
Stephen had loved her. He had not killed himself.
She felt cold and numb and far away from the sound as Richard continued talking, but she still heard his next words.

“Once Devenham is dead, do you think there's a hostess who would dare to still receive you? You'll be amazed at how quickly the doors will slam shut upon you. Not that there'll be any hint of suspicion. Devenham's death from an overdose of opium will be as blameless as poor Stephen's suicide. You knew he was still taking laudanum, didn't you? I imagine he is in considerable discomfort right now, since he has been without it for so many hours. I doubt very much if he'll notice the strength of the solution when I finally give him some relief. Permanent relief.”

Phoebe was vaguely aware that she was rocking, ever so slightly, and not from the motion of the carriage. Richard had killed one man she had loved, and now he would kill another. She realized that she did love Devenham, no matter how much she had fought against it. Now she must lose him, too? Despair so total it felt physical was pulling her downward, sucking her into a black void, when suddenly she heard the earl's voice, as clearly as if he sat beside her.

Fight back.
They were the words he had spoken to her that day in St. James's Church.
You should be angry. Fight back.

Her eyes flew open in surprise.

Richard was still talking. “Of course, in some quarters the scent of danger about you will only increase your allure,” he said. “There are compensations for the kind of future I am offering you, you know.” He inched forward a little on the seat. “I could make you the most sought-after courtesan in London, with your beauty. We could both become very rich.”

Phoebe lowered her hands. Beneath all her pain, beneath her despair, she had found a seed of anger that, shorn of all the layers that had hidden it, was now beginning to swell.

Richard did not seem to notice any difference in her. His look suddenly became sly, as if he guessed his first inducements held no appeal. “Or, there is something else I can give you, sweet Phoebe—something Stephen never could provide. You always wanted children, did you not, Phoebe? I'll give you babes, as many as you want.”

“No!” Phoebe could not conceal her horror when she heard him say this. Had it always been Stephen's failing—is that what he was telling her? Their childlessness had not been her fault, and Richard had known! For two years of marriage and another year and half of grief, she had believed she was barren. She had believed that her failure had driven Stephen to secretly gamble and drink and bed other women while pretending that he loved her and did not mind her barren state.

How she had wronged him in the months since his death! She had been blaming herself for the wrong crime. But her own sin was nothing compared to Richard's. Richard had orchestrated it all so deliberately. She felt her anger swell some more.

Richard smiled cruelly. “Ah, but I forget. You did not know, did you? Stephen always thought something would change.”

He moved forward on his seat another inch, and Phoebe hoped a sudden lurch of the carriage would bounce him off it to a more painful one on the floor.

“I offered to service you for him, you know. It seemed like the brotherly thing to do. But do you know what he said? He said he'd kill me if I ever touched you.”

Richard laughed, sending shivers along Phoebe's spine. “A hasty boast, that. I turned the tables on him nicely, I think. Do you suppose he sees us, Phoebe? How do you think it makes him feel?”

“He sees and feels nothing, Richard,” she said in a curiously flat voice. “Stephen is dead.”

It was the wrong thing to say. She knew it the moment the words left her mouth. She saw at last what no one had ever realized—that Stephen's half brother was mad. She could see it now in his eyes as he spoke to her of the way things would be now that he and she were together, as if he truly believed such things could be. He did not seem to take any account of the fact that he had committed grave crimes to achieve his ends or the fact that Phoebe even now would never go along with his plans.

Perhaps he had always teetered on the brink of madness, she thought, driven by jealousy of his brother and overindulged by his mother. Phoebe could remember witnessing violent fits of temper in the house on Charles Street and arguments between the two half brothers that had made her tremble. But she had never been as afraid of Richard as she was now, scarcely knowing what direction his mind would take next.

She was not prepared when Richard suddenly launched himself upon her.

“He is watching us, and I know how it makes him feel, Phoebe! I want you to feel it, too.” The weight of his body pressed her back against the squabs, and his legs were straddling her. He was fumbling with her dress.

For a moment shock and nausea threatened to overcome her. She fought to keep her head clear. In the moving landaulet, his balance was precarious, and if she could only push him at the right moment, he might topple off her. She knew that she would have to jump from the carriage.

In an instant the right moment came as the vehicle lurched over a sizable bump. She shoved Richard with all her strength and slid out from under him toward the door. She had got the door unlatched and open before Richard hauled her back by the arm with a vicious oath.

“No!” she cried, kicking and fighting him. The open door swung crazily with the motion of the chaise. “Stop the carriage!” she tried shouting, but she doubted if it would do any good.

“Not ready, are you, vixen? We'll see about fixing that.”

He had not yet managed to pinion her, and she was still aiming punches and vicious kicks in his direction. For an instant it looked as if they might both tumble out of the carriage door. Then the vehicle began to slow. Hope bloomed in Phoebe's heart, only to die seconds later. Richard glanced out the door and announced, “So, we have arrived.”

In the split second that she was distracted, Richard managed to get his arms around her. “Do you know where we are, my dear?” he said with a wicked light in his eyes. “You may not have come willingly as I wished, but I am quite certain that you will stay. We are at Beau Chatain. It is kind of you to share it with me, sweet love, although I'm certain many will find the arrangement beyond shocking. Who would have guessed that your tastes were so depraved?”

He laughed and pushed her toward the door. His two henchmen waited below.

“Here,” he said callously, shoving Phoebe out. Her cry of alarm was cut off by the impact as she landed against the larger man, who instantly imprisoned her in his own arms. “Shut her in the root cellar for now,” Richard instructed. “Her first lesson is to learn that I am master here. She must learn to obey.”

To Phoebe he added, “You may scream if you wish to. There is no one to hear you who will care. The only servants I keep here are ones who are well used to my little amusements. They have heard it all before.”

The cold, casual way he dropped this information chilled Phoebe more than her fear of what he would do to her. He had done this to others? But who? Why?

***

The root cellar was cool and darker than any place Phoebe had ever been. It had been dug into the side of a grassy slope a little way from the house, its walls reinforced with stone, and it smelled of the damp earth. The tiny cracks in its old wood plank door admitted only enough light to show Phoebe they were there. Except for that, she might as well have been blind.

The darkness was frightening, but far less so than Richard. Even this impenetrable blackness was nothing compared to the darkness of Richard's soul. Phoebe knew she would rather die than live the life of degradation he was offering her. She was outraged by all that he had done and planned to do. He had robbed her of love and had robbed Stephen of his very life. What he was planning for Lord Devenham filled her with horror. Tears of grief sprang to her eyes as she thought of all that might have been.

She did not shed them, however. What had been done in the past could not be undone. Nothing could bring Stephen back or give the love they had shared a second chance. But
she
had been given a second chance at love and had nearly squandered it. She dashed the tears aside and gave full vent to the anger that had been building inside her. The sound that came from her throat was more like a battle cry than a scream. The rage in her heart gave her new strength and determination. Devenham was still alive. She was still alive. There was still a chance for them, if they could fight Richard and win.

Her imprisonment suddenly seemed a God-sent respite from struggling with her demented brother-in-law. She needed to think. Her only chance of escape would be the moment Richard or someone came to let her out of the cellar. She would have the advantage there in the darkness. She would have to make whoever it was come in to get her, and then—what?

She had no weapon. She thought of the stones that lined the walls and wondered if any were loose or could be loosened. Only the intensity of her anger would give her the strength and the will to knock a man out with one, but she believed she could do it. She searched in the darkness for the walls, moving cautiously with her hands outstretched. Her biggest fear as her eyes strained in the darkness was that she would touch something other than air or wall. She had given no thought to spiders, or rats, until that moment.