Page 29 of The Etiquette of Love (The Academy of Love #7)
P limpton looked up from the latest progress reports from the builder. “I think the delay will be longer than the two weeks the thatcher is projecting,” he said to Edward Cocker, his bailiff.
Cocker nodded. “Aye, Your Grace. So do I.”
“Keep a close eye on him when I have gone and let me know immediately if he asks for another extension. The rains will be coming soon, and this delay could prove disastrous.”
Cocker nodded and made a notation and then turned to another sheaf of papers. “About the fence dispute, Your Grace.”
A deliciously cool breeze tickled the hair at his nape and Plimpton glanced at the partially open window. Fluffy clouds were scudding across the blue sky, bringing down the temperature until it was quite pleasant.
He made a sudden decision. “The fence dispute will have to wait until tomorrow, Cocker. I promised Her Grace that we would have a picnic at the maze days ago, but the weather has been too stifling. I think today would be perfect.” It would also give him an opportunity to make amends for his abrupt behavior at breakfast that morning. Winifred was justifiably concerned about her brother, and Plimpton had allowed his worry for her safety to overset his equilibrium. In short, he had been rude, and she deserved an apology.
Cocker smiled in a way that said, ah, newlyweds. “Of course, Your Grace.” He began shoving papers into his battered leather satchel, but then paused. “I doubt Her Grace has returned from her ride, but perhaps you can—”
“Her ride?” Plimpton repeated. “What ride?” She had ridden with him that morning.
Cocker recoiled at Plimpton’s sharp tone. “Er, when I arrived half an hour ago young Jeb was giving her directions and helping her into the saddle.”
Plimpton lunged to his feet, the cold, hard knot in his belly grew to the size of a fist. No. She would not dare.
Oh, yes she would.
“Directions to where?” he barked at his gaping servant.
“I believe she wanted to go to Luto—”
“Damnation!” Plimpton strode toward the door as fury and something else—fear?—flooded him.
“What is it, Your Grace?” Cocker asked, his eyes wide.
“Gather two of the brawniest servants you can find and meet me at Luton’s estate as quickly as possible.”
“Go to Luton’s with servants? But—”
“Just do it, man!” Plimpton shouted, the sick dread inside him threatened to choke him as he strode from the library.
If he was wrong and dragged Cocker and his employees over to Landford’s for no reason, then he would look like a fool.
But he would rather look like a fool than be mistaken.
Plimpton cursed himself for his willful blindness. He had seen the glitter of resentment in Winifred’s eyes this morning when they’d discussed Baron Luton. Damn it! Why hadn’t he paid attention?
By the time Plimpton reached the bottom of the stairs, he was running.
***
Freddie swallowed down the sudden lump of fear in her throat and forced a smile. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Lord Luton.”
“The pleasure is all mine,” the baron corrected in a low, pleased purr, taking her hand and holding it in both of his, no gloves to separate her fingers from his cool, moist flesh.
Revulsion traveled up her arm and she tugged, gently at first, and then harder, until he released her.
“To what do we owe the honor of your visit?” He moved closer to his mother and set his corpse-white hand on her shoulder.
The baroness flinched and blurted, “Her Grace’s brother was a friend of your father’s.”
Luton’s eyes widened, but he looked anything but startled. He looked… furious. “Is that so, Your Grace?”
Freddie eased back a step and forced a light chuckle. “My brother Wareham mentioned it in passing and I recalled the name when I found myself in the vicinity. I decided to pay my respects. But I fear I have overstayed.” She turned to the baroness. But the other woman looked right through her, as if Freddie was not even there. “I will come back tomorrow, my lady. Or—or perhaps the day after, if you are amenable,” she said in an unnaturally high voice.
“Must you leave so soon?” the baron asked, his gentle tone ill-matching the dark glitter in his eyes.
“I am afraid so. You needn’t show me out,” she assured him hastily when he released his grip on his mother—whose body sagged with relief—and strode toward Freddie.
“Nonsense, I will walk with you.” He took her arm in a grip that felt light, but the tension in his almost emaciated form told her it would be unbreakable.
“You are so kind,” she murmured, her mind racing as he nattered on about the upcoming Honey Festival, the weather, and other pleasantries.
Freddie must be imagining the menace—another symptom of her condition. Why would he want to hurt her? After all, what did she know? And it would not have been this Baron Luton who had killed Meecham as he would have been far too young.
Her thoughts snapped to the present when she saw he was not leading her toward the dusty, gloomy foyer, but in a different direction. “This is not—er, where are you taking me?”
“To the stables.”
“But—”
“This is a shortcut,” he assured her.
“You need not walk me all the way.” She began to pull away, but his hand tightened like the vise she had expected. “You are holding my arm rather tightly, my lord. Would you please—”
“I want to show you something,” he said, his hand like a manacle around her arm when he stopped and fished a ring of keys from his pocket with his free hand.
“I would love to see whatever it is some other day, but I’m afraid— help me! ” She shrieked when he opened the door and pulled her inside.
He jerked her around to face him and Freddie hunched her body, expecting a slap or even a punch. Be Luton just chuckled. “You can scream all you like. I dismissed the servants—such as they are—when I discovered who had come poking around.”
“I do not understand what you mean.” She jerked on her arm. “You are hurting me, my lord. Let me—”
“Quit trying to get away and it will not hurt,” he responded reasonably. “As for not understanding, you know precisely what I mean. I want to show you the chess pieces. Isn’t that why you came?” He strode to the window, easily dragging her with him, and reached for one of the badly faded drapes. For a moment she thought he was going to draw them back. If so, she could smash the glass. Surely somebody would notice if she broke one?
Instead of the drape, he grabbed the faded gold cord and gave it a vicious yank, filling the air with dust motes that made her cough.
“Terrible, isn’t it?” he asked in a conversational tone while his hands moved deftly to tie her wrists. “One gets accustomed to it after a while,” he assured her. “Quit squirming, Your Grace, or I will be forced to make you stop.” The words were uttered in the same gentle tone, but the expression in his eyes was a petrifying combination of grim determination and maniacal obsession as he stared down at her.
“There now, that is much better,” he said when fear froze her in place.
“What are you going to do to me?”
“I told you; I am going to show you the chess pieces.”
“I don’t think you understand what your father did to get them, my lord.”
He laughed. “Of course I do.”
A chill settled in her bones. “My brother was wrongly accused of the murder and has run all his adult life. You could help clear his name with very little effort.”
“Why would I do that?” he asked, looking genuinely confused.
Freddie gaped at him.
“My father told me all about Cantrell; he said the man was a bastard and a gamester. Why shouldn’t he take the blame? He and Meecham were going to split up the set, they did not value it at all. My father had to rescue them.”
“Rescue them?”
“Yes, rescue .” The expression in his eyes was that of a religious zealot ready to face death for his cause. “They cannot be separated; it is a crime.” His lips tightened. “I thought my father understood, but he didn’t.”
“Wh-what do you mean?”
“I mean he began to sell them.” Luton scowled. “I had to stop him before he did irreparable damage.”
“Stopped him how?”
He pursed his lips and gave her an exasperated look. “How do you think, Your Grace?”
Freddie recoiled in horror. “You killed your own father?”
He did not appear to hear her. “He sold three of them.” The flames in his eyes leapt higher. “It has taken me years to locate them and bring them home.”
“You purchased them?”
He cut her a haughty look. “I certainly did not steal them.”
Hysterical laughter bubbled up in her at his insane moral parsing. “But—but your house is falling down around your ears. Why would you spend money on game pieces?”
He sneered. “That stupid question just proves how unworthy you are to even look at them, not to mention take them away from me.”
“I was not going to take them—I just—”
“I am not a fool.”
She swallowed at the menace in the quiet words and changed tack. “My husband will expect me soon. We were to meet after I had paid a quick call. If I do not—”
“There is no point in lying. I am sure you came alone to do your spying. Plimpton is not the sort of man to allow his new wife to wander around prying into theft and murder, is he?”
“He knows I am here.”
Luton shrugged. “I will tell him—and my mother will confirm—that you never arrived.”
“The stable lad who took my horse—and the maid—”
“Finding a good position is not easy for a servant these days. And it is getting harder all the time,” he said, shoving her down in a chair. “Please stay put, or I will have to tie your ankles as well.” He waited until Freddie nodded, and then turned.
She glanced around the study, which was as faded and neglected as the drawing room.
The baron went to the nicest piece of furniture she had seen in the house, a desk that looked ancient, and unlocked one of the drawers.
There were windows on one wall and just the one door. Freddie could not jump out the window without risking damage to her baby. But she might be able to reach the door.
The baron rummaged in the drawer and Freddie slowly pushed to her feet, grimacing when the chair creaked.
His head whipped up. “ Ah, ah, ah ! You promised, Your Grace.”
She sank back into the chair. “You will not get away with this. My husband will—”
“He will search and search and search and never find you.” Luton grimaced with effort, as if he were pulling something in the desk, and the room suddenly echoed with the sound of a bolt being thrown. He glanced up at Freddie while dropping to his haunches and flinging back a threadbare carpet, causing another cloud of dust. “There are some benefits to poor housekeeping.” He sneezed and then shoved against the desk. “I suspect I should oil it more often, but the last thing I want is somebody sliding it open by accident.” The huge desk began to slide in an arc.
“What on earth are you doing?”
He smiled at her. “Clever, is it not? Luton Priory is actually older than Sweet Clover, but it is in such poor repair it never gets the attention in the guidebooks that your husband’s house does.” He stopped pushing and dropped into a crouch again, feeling for something on the floor. A moment later, he stood, lifting a thick wooden slab with him. “But there are some benefits to not being lauded in guidebooks and one of them is that Luton has retained her secrets. You see, my ancestor leveled the priory walls but left what was beneath them.” He laid the heavy panel on the floor with a grunt and then stood and paused to massage his lower back. “I now understand why my father was so lazy as to leave the hatch wide open when he went down to gloat. If he hadn’t…well, I might never have found the treasure.” He strode toward her. “Who discovered it was my father who killed Meecham? You or your brother?”
“My brother?” she repeated pressing back against the flat stuffing of the chair as if she could get away.
He took her elbow and easily lifted her to her feet. “You are a truly beautiful woman, Your Grace, but you are a terrible liar. I know it was Piers Cantrell who came to see me in London, even though he claimed to be a Runner.” Luton grinned. “He is not the only man who can spy and bribe people. He should have covered his tracks better, but I suspect he truly believed what I told him.” Luton’s pupils shrank as he stared down at her. “You should have left well enough alone.” He began to pull her toward the black hole in the floor.
“No!” Freddie cried, digging her heels in, but skittering hopelessly.
“If you do not quit that right now and—” he stopped and cocked his head, like a bird listening.
Freddie heard it, too. The sound of baying.
Langdon scowled at the insistent wailing, which was getting louder and louder. “What in the world—”
“ Winifred!”
It wasn’t baying; it was Plimpton!
“Good God!” Luton snarled, pulling harder.
“ Plimpt —”
Luton wrapped an elbow around her throat, cutting off the word and her breath along with it.
“Oh no you don’t,” he grunted, and then began dragging her toward the hole again.
Freddie’s head grew hot, but she fought like she was fighting for her life. Her hands were useless, but she flung her head back, earning a gratifying crunch and howl of pain.
“You bitch !” Luton punched the side of her head with a closed fist and stars exploded behind her eyelids.
Pain vibrated through her skull and precious second slid past before she realized he’d loosened his hold on her neck to strike her.
“ Wyndham !” she screamed. Or at least she tried to, but the word was weak and reedy.
“I don’t think so,” Luton muttered.
A hand landed on her back and shoved.
Freddie tried to dig her heels in, but he was too strong and she skittered dangerously close to the hole before having the sense to drop to the floor like a sack of rocks, earning a painful knock on her tailbone for her efforts, but stopping her progress.
“ Goddamnit! Move!” Luton drew back his foot.
Freddie curled into a ball, protecting her stomach and gritting her teeth against impact.
But instead of a kick, an enraged Winifred ! came from somewhere very close by.
Freddie risked peeking and was just in time to see the door explode. The room filled with the sound of splintering wood and the maddened roar of an animal.
No. Not an animal, but Plimpton. Her husband moved like a blur, charging toward Luton, who was slack jawed and still poised mid-kick.
The duke picked up the other man up as if he were a toy and then flung him into the dark hole in the floor.
“ Nooooooo !” Luton’s bloodcurdling scream was accompanied by a series of muffled thuds .
And then silence.
Freddie only realized she had squeezed her eyes shut when hands like grappling hooks closed around her upper arms and lifted her to her feet.
“Winifred?”
She stared up into eyes that were even more demented than Luton’s. Gray eyes—not cold or distant—but bulging with fury, terror, and…fear.
“Are you hurt?” Plimpton asked hoarsely. “Winifred!” he repeated, his fingers biting into her flesh when she merely gawked up at him.
“No, no, I am not hurt.” It was a lie; his hands were crushing her. But it didn’t seem like the time to point that out as he still looked at least three-quarters mad. “I am fine, Wyndham, I promise.”
The sound of his name seemed to jolt him.
“Truly, I am fine,” she insisted. “You came just in time. He—he was going to kick me and—”
“I saw,” he growled. And then he yanked her against his chest and wrapped his arms around her so tightly that she saw stars for the second time in less than five minutes. His palm spanned the back of her head and held her against his heart, which was pounding so violently that Freddie could not believe he had not passed out. “Winifred.” Tremors racked his body as if he had a fever.
“I am fine, Wyndham. He did not hurt me—or the baby. You saved us both.”
But his arms would not loosen, and his shaking did not subside.
Only when his bailiff, Cocker, hurried into the room with two footmen and a groom, did Wyndham finally release her, although he still kept her close.
The room, which was suddenly crowded with bodies, was eerily quiet. All eyes were on the duke, who was unrecognizable.
“Your Grace?” Cocker said.
But the duke did not seem to hear him.
Freddie took her husband’s face in her hands and stroked his cheeks until he stopped shaking. “I am unhurt, Wyndham.” She kissed him gently on the mouth, not caring how many people were watching.
Slowly, like ice melting, the blank look leaked from his eyes. He swallowed and set his hands over hers, lightly squeezing them before lowering them, lacing the fingers of one hand with hers and turning to Cocker.
“Luton is down there,” he said gruffly, pointing to the hole without looking. “He is either stunned or unconscious.” He paused and then added, “Or dead.”
Cocker nodded carefully. “I will see to it, Your Grace,” he said, and then turned and murmured quiet instructions to the servants while Wyndham led her from the room.
When Freddie gasped he immediately stopped and accused, “You are hurt!”
“Just my ankle. It is not broken, it is just—”
He lifted her in his arms, cradling her, his grip almost uncomfortably tight and his eyes still wild as they stared down at her. “I am taking you home.” He spoke challengingly, as if she might argue.
Freddie smiled up at him. “Yes, Wyndham. Take me home, please.”