Page 18 of The Viscount Needs a Wife (All for Love #2)

A nnis remained in her room for the rest of the evening, claiming a headache and having a tray brought to her room, which she was unable to touch. Her state of turmoil was such that food was the last thing she could think about.

The viscount’s proposal was a bittersweet thing in the face of what she had to accomplish tonight, and should she survive the night, she would deal with it tomorrow.

She wasn’t entirely sure how or in what fashion, but first and foremost she needed to ensure her own survival.

Once she had dealt with that, she could consider what to do about the viscount.

Time dragged interminably toward midnight. At half past eleven, she left her room, dressed in a cloak and stout boots, with a small sharp knife in her reticule and determination in her heart. She was never gladder of her lessons in knife fighting than now.

She crept down the servants’ stairs to the rear entrance and made her way around the house toward the ruins. There was intermittent moonlight between the scudding clouds to light her way. The air was cool and damp, the wind tugging at her cloak.

Her heart thudded hard in her chest as she approached the black outline of the ruins.

Terror stiffened her limbs and threatened to make her teeth chatter.

Everything in her willed her to turn tail and flee.

I should go to the duke, throw myself on his mercy, and hope that he will not dismiss me for lying about my birth and my past. Or the viscount?

Can I... no, I cannot! The man has enough troubles. Embroiling him in mine is unthinkable.

But seven years of unrelenting fear made her push on past her doubts. It would end tonight. She would no longer live her life in fear.

If I am free of this, perhaps I can consider the viscount’s offer, my birth notwithstanding.

The notion strengthened her resolve, and she came to a cautious halt beside the tower, looking around for her assailant.

A shape separated itself from the shadow of the tower, and she gripped the knife in her reticule. She wished she had been brave enough to steal one of the duke’s pistols.

The figure stepped slowly toward her. He seemed of a different build than the figure in her memory, more slender.

She seemed to recall the man who had terrorized her mind for seven years as being bulkier, bigger.

But then he could have lost weight, or perhaps he had just loomed large in her recall because she was so afraid of him.

Like her, he wore a cloak, and his face was hidden.

A shudder of fear raced through her body.

He stepped close. “You brought it?” he asked.

His voice was not as deep as she recalled, but again, perhaps her memory was faulty.

He stepped closer, holding out a hand. “Give it to me!”

Slowly she extracted her hand from her reticule, the knife clutched in it, and she struck with all her might, bringing the knife upward under his ribs as she had been taught.

He cried out and staggered. “You bitch!” he gasped.

She pulled the knife free, but contrary to her expectation he did not go down.

Instead, he tried to grapple with her. She brought the knife up again, and it scraped across his cheek, making him howl with surprise and shock.

He staggered then, falling to his knees, and she turned and ran.

She glanced back once but could discern no pursuit.

She reached the house, panting and faint with horror.

She went in via the servants’ entrance and staggered up the stairs to her room, trying to be as quiet as possible.

Her hands were shaking so much she had difficulty unlocking her door.

She finally got the key in the lock. Shutting the door of her room, she inspected her clothes and person for blood.

Sure enough, there were splatters on her gown.

If there were any on her cloak, they were not visible against the dark cloth.

With unsteady hands, she washed the knife in the bowl of water and spent some minutes rubbing the stains from her gown.

She then emptied the bowl of bloody water out the window and sank down with shaking legs upon her bed, her head in her hands.

Have I killed him? I can only hope so, or he will come after me again.

She shuddered. Surprisingly she shed no tears. She was beyond tears at this point. She had crossed the Rubicon. She was a murderess. She would never be the same again.

My letter to the viscount! She started up.

It is more imperative than ever that I retrieve it!

She left her room silently, slipped into the servants’ stairs and emerged again in the viscount’s dressing room.

The room was in darkness, and she crossed on silent feet to open the curtains slightly to let in a little light.

She paused, getting her bearings, and headed toward the wardrobe.

Groping in the darkness, she finally found the satin evening jacket and inserting her fingers into the breast pocket she extracted her little package. Exactly where I left it!

Relief coursed through her. As she closed the wardrobe door, however, she half expected the viscount to appear and catch her red-handed.

Perhaps I even hope that he might? However, the door to his bedchamber remained shut.

She crossed to the window and twitched the curtain back into place.

She paused to listen, but there was no sound from the next room.

She could only conclude he was asleep. With a wrench, she resisted the temptation to look at him while he slept and crept back to the servants’ stairs and to her room.

The fire was banked. She stirred it up, removed the ring from the envelope, and threw the letter into the flames.

She watched the paper catch fire, crinkle, and turn to ash in moments.

Letting out a deep sigh, she sank down once more on the bed, rethreading the chain through her ring and fastening it round her neck.

She sat a few minutes with her eyes closed, clutching the ring and fought the tears.

Finally, she gave in and sobbed. She must have been mad to think she could go to the viscount after this.

I am a murderess! She couldn’t remain here, under the duke’s roof, teaching his innocent sisters and pretending she wasn’t a black-hearted sinner.

She deserved to hang, and if she were caught, that was what would happen.

Why did I think this would solve all my problems?

They will find the body in the morning. I can’t face it. I will give myself away.

When the tears had run their course, she rose and began packing a bag. She would flee to London and lose herself there. She could change her name and earn her living as a seamstress. But what to tell my employers to stop them pursuing me?

She penned another letter, this one much shorter than her one to the viscount.

Your Grace, I do beg your forgiveness for leaving in this fashion. I have received bad news of my aunt, the woman who raised me. She is dying, and I must go to Bath to attend her.

Yours sincerely,

Annis Pringle

There, that was sufficiently vague to prevent them finding her, and by the time they realized that she wasn’t in Bath and wasn’t coming back, it would be too late to find her in London. And hopefully her disappearance would not be linked with a body in the grounds, either.

The fact that her aunt had died some years ago might come to light if they asked questions, though.

The duke would know from her original references that she was raised by Janet Pringle of the Pringle Academy for Young Ladies in Bath.

But he would likely have to search through his records to find that information. All of which would take time.

With any luck, they would not realize she was missing for several hours.

No servant would come to her room if she didn’t ring for one.

If she left a note in the servants’ hall for them to inform the young ladies that there would be no lessons in the morning as she was unwell, no one would trouble her for some time.

Pleased with this stratagem, she crept downstairs, left the note for the servants and let herself out of the house for the second time that night. She would have to walk to Leicester and hope that the stagecoach would arrive before anyone came looking for her.