Prelude for a Lord (43 page)

“Get Forrow,” Bayard barked. “Did anyone see Alethea in my study?”

Ian slipped out of the room.

“Ord, where did you see Kinnier?”

His servant studied the map and pointed to a spot perhaps three quarters of a mile from the inked X. “He was heading in that direction, all right,” Ord said, nodding to the X.

“That’s the old gamekeeper’s hut,” Raven said. “Your father whipped us for playing there because it was too dangerous.”

“Those men’ll be prepared,” Ord said.

“I shall speak to my gamekeeper,” Bayard said. “If anyone asks, we shall be gentlemen in the woods, doing a little shooting.”

The hut was completely still, no light and no sound. Bayard approached slowly, watching for movement, careful not to step on twigs or rustle the undergrowth. Shadowed by the trees, the air was damp and stinging with cold, but the weather had made the leaves wet and silent. In the dimness he could see footsteps around the front door.

Then a sound whispered on the wind, a feminine . . . grunt. “Blast it!”

“Lucy!” Mr. Collum rushed forward.

“Wait!” Bayard said. They did not know if she was alone.

But it was too late. Collum had pushed open the wooden door and entered the hut. Bayard followed.

Collum knelt on the dirt floor, his arms around a small figure. The hands clasping his back were unnaturally white, the fingers curled and shivering violently. When Collum released her to take off his coat, Bayard saw that it was Lucy.

Her hair tumbled around her face, and dirt streaked her forehead. There was also a bruise at her lower jaw that made Bayard’s jaw harden. She had no cloak, only her dark dress. Collum swept his greatcoat around her and she clasped it to her.

Bayard knelt before her. “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head, and her teeth chattered. “You must find Alethea.”

“Where is she? Where is Kinnier?”

“Why did they take you?” Collum said.

“To ensure Alethea would come willingly,” she stuttered. “Mr. Golding stole her from the house and brought her here, but when
she saw me, she threw her arms around me. They had tied my hands behind my back.” She showed her wrists, which had the deep red and purple marks of a rope. “They pulled her away from me, but not before Alethea slipped a penknife into my hand.”

Bayard took the knife from Lucy. It was his, the one he had lent to Alethea that day at the stream.

“Mr. Kinnier arrived soon after, and they left me alone.”

“Which direction did they go?”

She nodded to her right. “They left in that direction. They were already several yards away, and I think they believed I couldn’t hear them. One complained of the cold and wanted to go back to the inn, but Mr. Kinnier said he needed both men as sentries. He said, ‘Two sides are clear fields, but there is forested area to the north and west, and I need you both to be in place to ensure Dommick comes alone.’ ”

“That’s the cemetery, milord.” His gamekeeper shouldered his hunting rifle. “Poachers like that forested area since it’s thickest.”

Bayard rose. “Collum, take her to the house.” He hesitated, then said, “And would you speak to my butler? Have him gather the footmen and watch over my family.”

Collum nodded. “I shall ensure they are kept safe.”

“Thank you.”

The rest of them hurried out, heading to the cemetery. It was possible that Kinnier was not expecting them so soon and that they could ambush them.

Bayard prayed they were not too late.

Alethea sat upon the wooden bench and shivered so violently that she made the uneven legs rock against the ground. The rickety seat was marginally warmer than the stone bench where Kinnier sat.

He regarded her with cold, impassive eyes. “I suppose a gentleman would offer his greatcoat,” he said.

“Then it is fortunate you are no gentleman,” she snapped. She had refused to ask him for covering against the cold, and even should he offer it, she would fling it in his face. She did not want the scent of his skin, perfumed with an under-thread of rotting wood, upon her body, surrounding her.

He sighed as if bored and looked away, fingering the pistol in his lap. He had one shot in that gun. She had no wish to die, but she had no wish for that shot to kill Bayard. If the gun discharged, someone nearby may hear and discover them, ruining Kinnier’s plans to entrap Bayard. Kinnier was far enough away from her that even if he fired upon her, she may be able to dodge the bullet. She simply had to make him fire.

“The servants will know I am missing,” she said. “You should release me and escape while you have time.”

Mr. Kinnier gave a short laugh. “My dear woman, no one will notice you are gone. No one cares.”

The words burrowed easily into her, for the cold had made her weak and her fear had cut holes in her armor. She had been lonely for so long, the feeling of isolation came to her like a familiar friend, whispering words that made her colder than the winter wind could chill her body. Bayard did not love her. She did not know if he could ever love her. She curled in on herself, not for warmth, but to assuage the pain in her heart.

And then a small voice spoke words that were not words. She heard the bubbling of the stream, smelled the ferns and the damp earth, felt peace settle about her like a blanket.

Yea, I have loved thee with an everlasting love.

The remembered Bible verse was like fire to the ice around her heart.

The Lord thy God in the midst of thee is mighty.

She was not alone.

God
loved
her.

God would take care of her.

She straightened in her seat. “If truly no one cares for me, then Lord Dommick is hardly likely to respond to your ransom note and bring my violin to exchange.”

“Oh, he will. I have insulted his honour, and he will want to challenge me to regain it. Just as he has insulted my honour.”

What honour?
“What has he done to you?”

“What has he not done? Because of the accolades heaped upon his mediocre talent, the gods have cursed me with this creative desert.”

Only now did she realize Kinnier had the melancholy, tempestuous attitude of Poseidon, god of the sea—quick-tempered, passionate, but volatile. It had probably stood him in good stead when he was happy and producing music, but now, in the depths of his frustration, he had lost his muse and was desperate to tempt her to return. “Do you believe the violin will restore all this to you? It will not.”

“What do you know of it?” he flung at her. “There is power in that instrument you could never comprehend, much less harness.”

“How would you know?”

“I know all about that violin, a gift from the countess to her beloved husband. He played it when he missed her, after her death. That violin has been imbued with all his emotional power.”

Or all his sorrow. “You are placing too much significance to an inanimate object.”

“Be silent!” His sudden outburst made her start, but he immediately reverted back to his calm, impassive self.

She had poked a stick at the beast and had not enjoyed its reaction. And yet she must poke him more, induce him to do something unplanned. “How did you know I had the violin?”

“Your Lady Arkright made my life a living hell,” he said. “I could not discern her married name no matter how I tried to trace her when she left Italy. It was by pure chance I came across the inquiry made by your cousin, Lord Trittonstone, when he inherited. He wanted to know what Lady Arkright had bequeathed to you, and the violin was described and deemed not very valuable.”

“She could hardly know you were trying to steal it,” Alethea said.

“It belongs to my family. If Sondrono had not sold the land where the wood was grown and the new owner cut down all the trees . . . if his idiot heir had not sold the violin to a peddler after Sondrono died . . .”

So that was why Stradivari had never produced another violin with the same wood.

“You should have simply sold it to Mr. Golding.” Mr. Kinnier nodded toward the tree line, behind which the solicitor sat huddled in the cold, keeping watch for Bayard to respond to the ransom note being delivered by the cadaverous man at this moment.

“He was not persuasive,” Alethea said. “He simply made me curious to know why the violin was so coveted.”

“If Dommick had not made those inquiries about the violin, and if people had not begun talking about it, none of this would have been necessary,” Kinnier said.

“Or if your men had not botched the kidnapping at the concert. You really must hire better minions.”

His face grew hard at her dig, but he did not explode at her again.

“You are too heavy-handed,” she continued in a conversational tone. “You cause people to be desperate, and so they resort to desperate measures.”

“Such as your marriage to Dommick?”

“I am surprised you did not sign a betrothal agreement with Wilfred sooner than you did.”

He gave her a nasty smile. “I had wanted to explore other avenues before resorting to such a
desperate
measure.”

She supposed she deserved that.

“In the end, it doesn’t matter. If I had married you, you would be equally as dead.” His face was frighteningly calm.

“Bayard will not bring the violin, and in the end, you will have killed us both for nothing,” she said. She fought the panic rising in her. Too much time had passed. She needed to induce him to do something before Bayard received that note and arrived with the violin.

And died.

No, she had to trust God to take care of them both.

And at that moment, she saw him.

“No,” she moaned.

Bayard approached the cemetery wall from the road. He opened the gate and entered, walking slowly. He carried her violin case.

“I received your note. However, Mr. Collum took exception to the blow your grey man delivered to Miss Purcell, so they have detained the man at the abbey.”

“She was putting up too much of a fuss,” Mr. Kinnier said in a conversational tone. “I am impressed you found her before she froze to death.”

“I have brought your violin.” Bayard held the case aloft.

In a flash, Kinnier was at Alethea’s side and had yanked her to her feet. The cold had numbed her limbs so that she could not feel her toes, and she wobbled.

Kinnier pressed the gun to Alethea’s side. “I require all your compatriots to reveal themselves.”

Bayard had stiffened, and his eyes were fierce upon the pistol. His gaze darted to the forest beyond them.

Lord Ian and Lord Ravenhurst slowly walked from the trees.
They held their shooting rifles, but kept them pointed to the ground. Their eyes were equally wary as they moved to stand beside Bayard.

“Your servant as well,” Kinnier said. “Did you think I would forget him?”

The bushes rustled, and Ord appeared. He also held a gun, but it was aimed at Mr. Golding, whose V-shaped mouth was a flat line. Ord prodded him with the tip of the rifle, and Mr. Golding stumbled forward.

“Let Alethea go,” Bayard said.

Kinnier gave a bark of laughter. “Are you really that stupid? Put the case on the ground and open it, facing me.”

Bayard was only a few yards away, so Alethea saw the violin when the case lid was removed. It looked like hers and not the fake.

“Play it,” Kinnier said.

Bayard hesitated.

“Play it or I shoot her.” He shoved the pistol hard into her ribs.

She hissed, not from the pain but from the nervousness of his casual handling of the gun. She hoped it did not have a hair trigger.

Bayard removed the violin and lifted it to his shoulder. He looked directly at her with serious eyes, as though trying to tell her something, but she did not know what. And then he began to play.

It was her violin. The tone echoed through the cemetery with low, deep notes that seemed to make the tree roots rumble in the depths of the ground. The song captured all the chill of winter, the dead of the leaves, the bite of the frost. It was melancholy reverence for the harshness of nature and the end of life.

She felt rather than heard Kinnier’s sigh as Bayard finished playing. “You defile it by playing it,” he hissed to Bayard.

“Let her go.”