Page 18 of An Earl’s Sacrifice (The Clandestine Sapphire Society #3)

Nothing. Relief crept over him, taking him aback with the force of its sudden release.

There was nothing. He started to turn back the way he’d come when the most ungenteel curse word hit his ear.

Quiet relief shifted abruptly to outrage.

New determination soared through him, and he quickly spun about, stalking through another long-forgotten hallway, stepping over pieces of fallen plaster and creases in ill-fitted rugs.

He rounded the corner where light spilled into the corridor.

He blew out his candle and set it on a hall table.

Then, on stealthy steps, forced himself to move through a double-door entrance into a room that hadn’t been touched in years, bracing himself for a fight he couldn’t avoid.

Glancing about, Lucius found his wife standing on a rickety chair, reaching for something on the top shelf of a rotting bookcase.

The effect was dizzying. The smell of must and decay saturated the air.

It was impossible to see through the windows.

The thick coat of grime, even that of an elusive sun in the height of the day, couldn’t have penetrated, let alone eight o’clock in the evening, highlighted wooden shelves that didn’t appear strong enough to hold the line of cracked, leather-bound books stacked there.

Lucius felt as if he’d stepped back in time. Even his wife’s dowdy frock of dark gray looked as if it belonged to that of another time.

It took a moment to register that Ashcroft was nowhere in sight.

He nearly staggered beneath the unbidden rush coursing through him.

He sauntered forward, stopping short of touching distance.

But, oh, how his fingers tingled with want.

“Might I be of some assistance?” His voice groused in a low husky resonance he barely recognized as his own.

She let out a yelp, her arms flailing about haphazardly.

Lucius jumped forward and caught her before she could hit the floor, but the move knocked him off balance.

He twisted, securing her in his hold but landing hard into the bookcase.

The shelves collapsed under his weight. Plaster showered their heads from the ceiling, and to his dismay, the bookcase teetered dangerously before falling away from them in a crash that reverberated through the wood planked floor.

She lay sprawled atop him, her head tucked into his shoulder. With one arm wrapped about her waist, Lucius cupped her head, doing his best to protect her from the raining debris. A board dug into his lower back, and he let out a groan.

“Good heavens,” she breathed. She scrambled off him, which did nothing to alleviate the pain from that cursed board digging into his back. “Are you dead?”

“Not from lack of trying,” he retorted. “Help me sit up.”

He half expected her to shun his request, considering the animosity between them, but she moved to his side and slipped an arm beneath his shoulders. “Of course.”

A huge miscalculation on his part. The move brought her face too close to his.

The subtle scent of violets made him flinch, reminding him of the bath he’d stolen from her three days ago.

He closed his eyes, but it didn’t block the fragrance.

The request was a ridiculous one on many levels.

To his amazement, she was stronger than she appeared.

He tightened the muscles in his stomach and gritted through a sharp stab of pain to help with the process.

He opened his eyes to see her lips puckered after her efforts.

Just a whisper’s breadth and he could capture them with his own.

But as quickly as she’d shifted to assist him, her arm fell away and she leaned back, kneeling.

The sense of loss was too shocking to be believed. It couldn’t be fathomed. His insides trembled from the… the… fall. It was the fall, he assured himself.

With care, he slid from sitting on the broken wood to the cold floor. He looked into her face but the wonder he saw there was not directed on him. Instead, her focus was over his shoulder. He tried to turn, but that proved an impossible feat, stealing the breath from him.

“Oh, my.” In a graceful sweep, she rose from her position on the floor.

“Damn it, what?” he demanded.

“It’s a hidden room. There was mention of something, but I never dreamed,” she breathed.

The breathy tone feathered his skin in another bout of awareness of which he was wholly unprepared. “Wait, what do you mean ‘mention’? I don’t understand.”

Her slippers whispered over the floor. One bookcase remained standing, and she went over and removed a couple of books to one concealed behind those. She opened it and thumbed through a few pages, then returned to his side and handed it to him.

Lucius looked down at the open page.

2 July 1758. Preparations for tonight’s gathering are set. The Keep appears to be the most logical place to convene. The need for confidentiality is vital and will remain secure within these ancient walls.

“There’s another note too,” she said. Her excitement reflected the light from an oil lamp on a table that enhanced her moss-green eyes. “An invitation of sorts. But no signature.”

He couldn’t pull his gaze away from her. “What?”

She snapped her fingers nearly catching his nose.

He blinked.

“It’s an invitation with no signature,” she said slowly, enunciating carefully.

He glanced back down at the journal, surprised he still held it. “Who, er, penned it?”

Her excitement reasserted itself. “It took me a while to find it, but I did. It was the Marquess of Aylesbury.” Her melodic tone echoed through the chamber. He lifted his gaze and watched as her steps once again whispered over the bare wood planks.

“He was my grandfather. My mother’s father.

” Lucius’s side throbbed, but he loathed to bring an end to this unexpected amicability.

“My brother and I never met him. He was already ancient by the time Noah and I were born.” Slowly, he worked himself around, doing his damnedest not to breathe too deeply.

The fallen bookcase had, indeed, exposed a hidden chamber that reeked of dust and age.

More cobwebs draped so thickly in the corners that he suspected them of acting as insulation.

The heavy air was proof to its having been untouched in decades.

Rough stone walls were partially covered by faded and worn tapestries.

Scenes that might have once depicted vibrant colors now only hinted at their former beauty.

His countess stepped over the threshold onto a floor of flagstone that was uneven and cracked in places. “Stop,” he barked, terrified that something more dire could topple. “It’s too unstable.”

“But—”

He gentled his tone. “No. If anything untoward happened, I—” He closed his eyes, hating to admit the obvious. Then opened them and said firmly, “If something happens, I can’t help you. In fact, I believe I require your help.”

He followed her gaze to the bookcase that had been halted by a heavily built table. From his position on the floor, he could only see a portion of it and that was littered with papers though some had fluttered to the floor in the aftermath.

She glanced over her shoulder at him, revealing the stubborn glint in her eye he was beginning to recognize, but after a long pause, her shoulders fell and she walked back over to him. “All right. How do you propose we get you out of here? And, with the light.”

“Help me to my feet.”

“Of course.” It was a struggle but once he was upright, she handed him the oil lamp and he was able to shuffle from the dank room using the wall.

With her assistance, she led him out. She took him from the tower via a different path than from the one he’d initially followed.

They reached a wide, main stairway for this dilapidated tower, and with gritted teeth, Lucius handed the lamp back to her, preparing himself for a painful journey down.

Clearly, thankfully , he hadn’t snapped his blasted spine. But he wagered it was bruised enough that riding his horse anytime soon was out of the realm of possibility. “I’ve a quick question for you, my lady.”

The lamp’s light gave her face a spectral quality that sent a shiver over his aching body. “What?” she said with some impatience.

“Did you invite your father to Perlsea?”

“Heavens, no. I haven’t spoken to him since…”

Even in the low light, he detected the dark flush that colored her pale skin. An indication of long suppressed fury, he suspected.

A smile touched him in spite of the pain. “Since our wedding?”

“Yes,” she bit out.

“Interesting,” he murmured.

She gave him a disdainful sniff. “I don’t know why that should interest you.”

“Ah. I suppose in all the excitement I forgot to mention he’s stormed the Keep.”

“Your sense of humor leaves much to be desired.”

“I thought as much. In any event, where do you propose to house him?”

His wife’s expression was one of shock, disbelief, dismay. “You aren’t jesting.”

“I’m afraid not,” he said grimly. “The question is why is he suddenly on our doorstep?”

“Why, indeed. Did you say anything to him?” Her full lips pressed into a tight line and her nostrils flared. “The fact that he’s arrived without prior word is especially troubling. I’ve been here three years, and he’s never visited. Not once.”

“How odd. No, I said nothing to him. In fact, I have no desire to speak to the man. I do, however, have an urge to wrap my fingers about his neck.”

She shot him a black look. “That is not amusing.”

“Nor is it intended to be. There is only one man I detest more, and he’s dead now. Why is Rathbourne here?”

“I-I don’t know.” She plopped down on the top step and looked up at him.

He wished he could do the same but feared if he did, rising again would be impossible.

“You said he told you I was with child.” Her voice grew contemplative.

“What of it? You’ve since convinced me otherwise.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” she said with a bite of sarcasm he decided to take on the chin. “Could he somehow have learned you were here to secure an annulment?” Worry filled her darkened eyes. “If that is the case, I fear your life is in danger, sir.”

He grinned, but no humor accompanied the feeling. “Then we shall just have to convince him otherwise, won’t we?” Another, irritating thought had his grin fading. “Perhaps your Mr. Ashcroft notified him?”