Page 50 of An Earl’s Sacrifice (The Clandestine Sapphire Society #3)

T he world had fallen into uneasy silence by the time Lucius and Ashcroft left the Keep from a door as far from Rathbourne’s chambers as Lucius could locate. The change of workers was marked by a low, distant toll of the bell—the night shift had begun at the mine.

With the Keep’s staff and the duke long abed, Lucius risked only a brief glance at the darkened windows of the old castle before tugging his coat tighter and pulling down his hat. He nodded to Ashcroft.

Ashcroft carried a satchel under one arm and a lantern in his other hand. He masterfully kept its glass shielded so that only a faint gleam of light spilled onto the narrow path ahead.

Lucius kept his hand on the hilt of a sword cane, the blade hidden within its polished shaft. Old habits from London died hard. Especially when skulking about like thieves in the night.

Skirting Penhalwick’s main thoroughfare took them along a barely discernable path and up a slight hill that ran behind The Copper Kettle.

It took a good half hour to reach the old mining path that was as treacherous as it had been forgotten.

Thick mud from the earlier rains clung to his boots, and the occasional gnarled root and jagged rock caught his steps.

By mutual and silent agreement, they paused now and then to wait out some drunkard belting out a bawdy tune that echoed through the hills.

The narrow, winding trail cut through overgrown edges before curving to the backside of the mine’s office.

Mother Nature had been generous enough to provide sporadic moonlight with the passing of dark clouds moving amid a brisk breeze in the cool summer night.

Ashcroft stopped behind a copse of trees and pointed up another incline to a structure overlooking the expanse of the Perlsea Mine in the brief spill of moonlight. “That’s Thornfield’s house,” he murmured.

Lucius followed the direction he indicated. The house appeared as a silhouette against the glowing backdrop of the moon’s beam. No candles from the windows illuminated its stark gloom. The clouds did another pass, effectively rendering it nearly invisible.

In the quiet, they could have been the only two people alive. Lucius shuddered.

Ashcroft lowered to one knee.

The trees rustled and they froze.

Waited.

“It’s nothing,” Ashcroft whispered. He set the lantern on the ground and pulled the map from his satchel. The flickering light cast strange, fleeting shadows over Ashcroft’s sharp features, lending the man the air of a specter.

Already brimming with suspicion, Lucius surveyed the darkness crowding them and found his unease growing. The breeze faded to a deadened hush that was near suffocating.

Ashcroft tapped the map against the flattened side of his satchel, then traced a line. “This path should lead us on around toward the water. If there is another entrance as we suspect, the opening will be on that side.” Ashcroft’s voice was barely audible.

After an interminable amount of time that seemed hours of strained silence, Lucius said, “All right. Let’s go.” Even whispering, his voice sounded too loud against the hushed backdrop of the night.

Ashcroft replaced the map, came to his feet, and grabbed the lantern.

Lucius took the lead on a steepened path as the mine came into view. Its towering shape rose against the clouds, its beams stark and angular exposed by another bout of moonlight. From the distance, the faint clatter of carts and muffled voices of miners at work sounded.

Avoiding the main entrance, they kept low, rounding the backside of the mine property until the distant roar of waves crashing against the cliffs below echoed faintly. It was a stark reminder of how perilous the edges of the Cornish coast were.

Ashcroft moved alongside Lucius and gestured toward a narrow fissure in the hillside, half-hidden behind a thicket of brambles.

Lucius recognized its location from the map.

From all accounts, it looked like a forgotten side shaft, long disused.

But the hair at his neck raised along with chilled bumps on his skin that hinted at something infinitely more sinister.

“This must be it,” Ashcroft whispered.

“All right.” Lucius began pulling aside branches then eyed the narrow opening with another sense of foreboding. “These are just sitting here.”

“To hide the entrance.” Ashcroft set his satchel on the ground and pulled out a torch.

He lit it with quick efficiency, then handed it to Lucius before retrieving his satchel once more.

The small flame flared to life and cast flickering shadows as they crossed the threshold of the rough stone entryway.

The walls were rough-hewn, marked by the toil of countless hands. Water dripped from above, the sound irregular and echoing in the confined space.

“This shaft hasn’t been used in decades,” Lucius murmured, holding the torch high. The light caught on a faded sign near the entrance—half-rotted wood scrawled with warnings in Cornish. He frowned. “Does that say what I think it says?”

Ashcroft gave him a tight smile. “That we shouldn’t be here? I expect so.”

Lucius let out a low snort. “Encouraging.”

The passageway narrowed as they pressed deeper within. Loose stones crunched and echoed beneath their boots, and the air felt colder with each step. Something about the stillness of the mine—untouched by human hands for so long—felt wrong. Ominous.

“Here,” Ashcroft said, pausing at a fork in the tunnel. He consulted the map again, his brow furrowed. “The back portion we’re looking for is farther ahead. But the layout isn’t consistent with the rest of the mine. It’s almost as if—” A faint sound interrupted him.

Lucius stiffened, his hurt arm twinging as his hand went to the hilt of his cane sword. It was distant, but unmistakable: the scuff of a footstep on loose stone.

“We’re not alone,” Lucius murmured, his voice low. For a moment, only the sound of their breathing filled the space. Then, from somewhere deeper in the mine, came a barely discernable creak—the groan of shifting timber.

Lucius’s grip tightened. He had the distinct feeling they were walking into more than just a forgotten part of the mine. Seconds later, the narrow passageway opened into a cavernous room.

Slowly, Lucius and Ashcroft edged toward an open pit in the old mine shaft and held up their lights—Lucius the torch, Ashcroft the lantern. The ebony gloom seemed to swallow much of the illumination.

The metallic tang of tin and damp earth hit his nostrils. And something else.

Something unspeakable.

Rot. Sour and cloying, it seeped into the lungs, choking his every breath. The kind of smell that stuck to the back of one’s throat.

The smell of… death.

*

The fire crackled faintly in the hearth, its warmth doing little to soothe Meredith’s frayed nerves.

She paced the length of her sitting room, her hands twisting the lace handkerchief she held until it threatened to tear with her intermittent stops at the window.

Once the lantern had disappeared completely from view, sporadic moonlight filtered through the thin drapes, casting silvery patterns over the thick rug.

Docia was splashing about, moaning with aggravating delight from Meredith’s bathing chamber.

“I don’t know how you keep from spending every spare moment in here,” she called out. “I vow, you’ll wear a path into the floorboards if you don’t stop your pacing.”

“And if you utter another single word, I vow I shall hold you under the water,” Meredith muttered.

“I heard that.” Docia’s voice was light, amused, as though Meredith’s unease were an overreaction to some minor inconvenience.

Meredith shot the door a glare. “Lucius and Ashcroft could be in danger this very moment, and you think I should sit down and read? Embroider?”

The door from the bathing chamber opened and Docia stood in the arch, her blonde hair darker from its dampness.

She hugged a wrap about her. “They’re grown men, Meredith.

They can manage a walk in the dark without you hovering.

Besides, I hardly see how working yourself into a frenzy will help anyone. ”

A faint noise reached Meredith—a dull thud, coming from her bedchamber. The scathing retort she was set to deliver died in her throat. “Did you hear that?” she whispered, turning toward her bedchamber.

“Hear what? The sound of your overactive imagination?”

Unease roiled in Meredith’s stomach. She dashed to the adjoining door and pushed it open, her gaze sweeping the dimly lit room.

Her heart stopped.

Agnes lay sprawled on the floor near the bed. Her face was pale and contorted with pain. The vial of hemlock lay beside her, its stopper rolling slowly to a stop against the edge of the rug.

“Agnes!” Meredith rushed to her maid’s side, dropping to her knees. She shook the girl gently. “What have you done?”

Agnes moaned, her eyes fluttering open. Tears streaked her cheeks, and her lips moved as though she were trying to speak but couldn’t form the words.

“Good heavens, what happened?” For the first time, Docia’s voice sounded with concern.

“She’s taken something—” Meredith’s voice broke as she reached for the vial. “The hemlock! She must have—”

Docia, still wearing her dressing gown and clutching a towel, appeared in the doorway, her earlier languor replaced by genuine alarm. “Fetch the cook or the housekeeper! Isn’t there a remedy for such things? Charcoal, or—”

“She didn’t drink it,” Meredith said, her voice trembling. She held up the vial, noting that most of the liquid remained inside. “She must have only tasted it. But she’s unwell all the same.”

Agnes began to sob, her hand clutching at Meredith’s sleeve. “I didn’t mean to, milady—I swear I didn’t mean to—”

“Didn’t mean to what?” Meredith demanded, her voice both soft and urgent. “When did you return? You were supposed to be with your mother.”

“I overheard them—” Agnes coughed violently, curling in on herself.