Temptation and Surrender (37 page)

Whoever the villain was, he’d planned well.

That thought echoed in her head as she pushed the heavy key into the lock on the cell door, turned it, then swung the door wide.

The villain’s timing was nothing short of remarkable. At this time of day, all the regular inn staff were taking advantage of the customary lull between the lunchtime and later afternoon trade. Other than Edgar behind the bar—easy to avoid—there’d been no one else she’d had to dodge.

Whoever the villain was, he knew the inn well.

Canvas bag in hand, she studied the stone box of her ancestors and thanked whatever saint was watching over her; the heavy lid was back on the box, but not perfectly aligned. There was just space enough for her to insert the end of the small crowbar they’d left beside the bench past the lid’s edge, and lever the lid sufficiently open for her to slip her hand into the box. Setting the crowbar back down, she reached inside, quickly pulling out handful after handful of coins and jewels.

Then she slowed. How could the villain know how much was in the box?

She glanced around the cell; there was no window, and if she left the lid as it was, from outside the cell no one could see if she left some of the treasure—even a lot of the treasure—behind.

Looking into the bag, then peering into the box, she decided to take not quite a quarter of the total. She would take what was roughly her share and that of the twins, and leave the rest for Henry and Issy and future Colytons. What she was taking would be enough to convince anyone who hadn’t seen the entire treasure spread out, free of the box—and the only people who had seen it like that were Lucifer, Jonas, herself, and Issy.

“He must have seen it when we opened the box in the common room,” she muttered.

Aside from all else, as she hefted the canvas bag she realized she could never have carried the whole treasure anyway.

Her decision confirmed, the canvas bag solidly full, she tied the attached cords about its mouth, then stood, swung the door to the cell shut again, and locked it.

What to do with the key?

She stared at it for a moment, then hurried up the cellar stairs and into her office. It was the work of a minute to drop the key into the inn strongbox, where inevitably, at some point in time, Jonas would find it.

Glancing at the clock, she saw she had seven minutes left to reach the Colyton mausoleum. Grabbing her cloak off the hook by the door, she wrapped the canvas bag in it, then rushed out into the tap.

“Edgar—I’m going out for a quick walk.”

From his usual position behind the bar, Edgar nodded. “Aye, miss. I’ll tell any who come asking after you that you’ll be back in a while.”

“Thank you,” she called as she hurried out of the door.

S
he reached the church and the head of the crypt stairs without seeing anyone, without having to concoct any story about where she was rushing to at that hour. She’d steeled herself to make some excuse if she met Joshua in the church, then remembered he’d gone driving with Issy.

She wondered if he’d offered for Issy’s hand. Prayed he had, and that her sweet sister had accepted him. Issy had stood at her back for years; she deserved nothing but good out of life.

Pausing in the vestry to, with shaking hands, light one of the lanterns kept ready there, she noted the key to the crypt wasn’t on its hook. Presumably the way was open, and the villain was already down there—waiting for her. Picking up the lantern, hefting the canvas bag in her other hand, she hurried to the stairs and started down.

She made plenty of noise so he—whoever he was—would know she was coming. With luck the twins would hear, too, and know she would be with them soon.

That was another point that suggested the villain wasn’t anyone as fundamentally unthreatening as her uncle; she couldn’t imagine the twins going anywhere with him again. They were young, but they weren’t witless, far from it. No matter what he’d said or promised, she doubted they would have believed him.

As for Silas Coombe, the twins, with the usual bluntness of youth, thought him supremely silly. He’d have no luck at all in luring them away.

Which meant the villain was…someone she didn’t know at all. Someone she couldn’t predict, couldn’t make plans for dealing with.

As she descended into the darkness of the crypt, lantern held before her, the only thing she did feel sure of was that whatever was to come, she would need to keep her wits about her if she and her sisters were to survive.

She slowed as she reached the last steps, looking around, swiftly scanning. The tombs and monuments blocked her view in many directions, but she couldn’t hear anyone, no breathing, no scuff of a shoe.

Holding the lantern higher, she looked toward the mausoleum’s entrance. The door stood open.

Stepping down to the crypt’s stone floor, she went toward the gaping maw of her family’s communal tomb.

Treasure or curse?

How ironic if, after all her searching, she found her family’s treasure only to die prematurely because of it—in the family vault.

She shook aside the morbid thought; she wasn’t going to die, not if she could help it.

Her gaze went to the mausoleum’s door; the key—the crypt key—wasn’t in that lock, either. Which presumably meant the villain had it and could therefore lock her—and her sisters—in the vault.

If that happened…luckily, if they survived the encounter only to be locked in the vault, Jonas, once he found her note that night, would know where they were. That eventuality, at least, she’d guarded against.

There wasn’t anything more she could do to prepare. She had to go down and face the villain.

Drawing in a deep breath, she lifted her chin, lifted the lantern, raised the canvas bag, and stepped forward onto the narrow steps that led down to her family’s tombs.

She didn’t rush, but took each downward step deliberately. He had to know she was coming; there was no reason to rush blindly forward.

The lantern light played over the various monuments and effigies, setting monstrous shadows leaping over the walls. There was no other source of light in the vault—no sign of the lantern normally left in the crypt. The villain had to have it if he’d come down here ahead of her; the crypt, and even more the mausoleum, would be…as dark as the grave without the saving light of a lantern.

Perhaps he was behind her?

The thought made her whirl on the last step and look back. Her heart thudded, but even straining her senses, she could detect no hint of movement, no sound to suggest there was anyone in the crypt or even on the stairs leading down to it.

Turning back to the mausoleum, she swallowed her rising panic—partly expectation over who she would shortly meet and what might happen, and partly born of her irrational fear—and doggedly stepped down to the roughly hewn floor.

When she’d been there before, she’d been with others—others she trusted. She hadn’t, then, been all that aware of the eerieness of the place, of the oppressive pressure of the hovering dark. Now her nerves were screaming, instincts on high alert, a primitive sense of impending doom urging her to flee—back to the light, out of the dark.

She swallowed again, forced herself to hold the lantern high and look around. She was sure she’d see someone—someone evil—but increasingly the sense of being alone intensified; she was alone with the dead.

She reminded herself they were
her
dead—Colytons all, her ancestors. If anyone had anything to fear there, it was he who wanted to steal the family legacy.

Remembering the villain’s instructions, she slowly made her way to the tomb of her many-times-great-grandmother, she who had been farsighted enough to hoard the treasure and hide it so cleverly.

Reaching the tomb, she raised the canvas bag and set it down where the treasure box had previously been, letting the coins and jewels clink loudly.

The noise echoed in the dark. She waited, wondering, senses stretching in an attempt to locate the direction from whence danger might spring. She slowly pirouetted, and still she saw no one.

“Emily.”

Her name reached her as a ghostly whisper; at first she wasn’t sure the sound wasn’t a figment of her imagination.

But then it came again, more insistent, faintly taunting. “Em—ily.”

The voice was coming from the nearer of the two dark holes in the wall, the tunnels leading deeper into the heart of the limestone ridge.

“Em—ily.”

More insistent still. A man’s voice, definitely not her half sisters’, yet not a voice she recognized.

She hesitated, then picked up the canvas bag and went to the opening. She held the lantern high—prayed she would see the twins—but all that met her eyes were the walls of a narrow passage leading away.

Leading into pitch blackness.

“Emily.”

There was a chiding, almost disapproving note in the voice now. Clearly she was supposed to go forward, into the tunnel.

Panic was a wild, fluttering bird in her chest. Just the thought of what she was about to do sent the blood draining from her face.

But she couldn’t swoon, couldn’t faint—couldn’t back away. The twins were relying on her; she was their only hope.

Dragging in a short, too shallow breath, struggling to calm her galloping heart, she tightened her hold on the canvas bag, clenched her fingers even tighter around the handle of the lantern, and, holding it aloft, stepped into the abiding dark.

I
t was late afternoon before Jonas headed back to the Grange. He’d searched high and low for both Silas and Potheridge, and found neither. However, according to Miss Hellebore and Mrs. Keighley, who did for Silas, both men were in the village, or at least were returning to their beds there every night.

Both, it seemed, were playing least in sight.

Which left the possibility open that one, or even both, knew something about the attack on him.

He was increasingly certain the man who’d struck him hadn’t been Silas, and the stealth of the attack made him doubt it had been Potheridge; the man was corpulent and heavy on his feet. Jonas doubted he could move silently on a clean stone floor, let alone on a woodland path.

But Potheridge was a bully, one Em had thwarted; from what she’d let fall her uncle was one of those for whom spite alone was sufficient motive for violence. And Silas might be in sufficiently desperate straits to make the treasure simply too good an opportunity to pass up. Neither might have been the man who’d struck him, but he wouldn’t wager that one or both hadn’t hired a thug and told him where to wait.

Indeed, hiring someone to do their dirty work was a trait he had no difficulty at all crediting to both Silas and Potheridge.

He returned to his home via the front drive. Rather than bother Mortimer, he circled the front porch and went in through the side door. Reaching the front hall he headed for the library, just as Gladys came through the green baize door.

“There you are! Just the person.” Bustling forward, she waved a folded note. “Jenny, the upstairs maid, found this on the desk in your room. It wasn’t folded then, but she can’t read, so she wasn’t sure if she should clear it away or not, so she brought it down to me. I didn’t read it either—not my place—but I did see it’s from Miss Emily, so I thought you’d want it.”

Jonas took the note, unfolded it. Started to read.

Gladys headed back to the kitchen. “Mind you, I’ve no idea how it got on your desk—no one came in this morning that I know of.”

Her voice faded as she passed through the baize-covered door, and it swung shut behind her.

But Jonas was no longer listening. His eyes locked on Em’s panicked scrawl, his mind was captured, riveted by what she’d written…the latter part of the letter would have filled him with joy to see her love for him so clearly stated,
but
his eyes, his mind, immediately returned to the first few lines.

He could barely believe what they conveyed.

She’d gone into danger alone—by herself was trying to deal with a kidnapper—Potheridge?—and rescue the twins. She was going to hand over the treasure, the family future she’d worked so hard to secure, hoping to survive—it was patently clear from her tone that that last was only a hope.

“Damn it!” Jaw setting, he shoved the note into his pocket. She’d promised—
promised
—to tell him of any problem, to share it and allow him to help. True, she’d written, but she clearly hadn’t expected him to find the letter until later…

He glanced at the clock. He’d left her at two; it was now just past four. Allow her time to hunt for the twins, find the kidnapper’s note, come there and get the key, then gather the treasure and take it to the church…he couldn’t be far behind her.

Before he’d completed the thought he was striding for the back door. Pushing through it, he started to run; when he hit the tree line and the path through the wood, he lengthened his stride and raced.

The fastest way to the church was via the inn.

Chill fingers touched his nape; icy dread bloomed and wrapped about his heart. He knew she would pay the ransom, that she’d hand over the treasure to save her sisters—as would he. But kidnappers were inherently desperate, and especially desperate to conceal their identity, and how would the villain do that once she—and the twins—had seen him?

The answer was obvious; he ran faster, his boots pounding along the track in time with his heart.

To have his love returned only to have her snatched away—
no
. That wasn’t going to happen. He would give anything, including his life, to keep her safe.

E
m felt as if the mountain had swallowed her. The narrow passage led on and on, barely wide enough for a man to pass through, sloping gently downward. The dark beyond the circle of lantern light was so intense it seemed to swallow reality; the only piece of the world that existed was contained within the glowing sphere of light.

Abruptly the front edge of the lantern’s glow diffused and softened. She slowed, then realized she’d reached the end of the passage. She halted on the threshold of…a cavern? Holding the lantern high, she peered through the gloom, but the light didn’t illuminate any walls or ceiling. It didn’t illuminate anything at all except the floor before her.

That floor was uneven, pocked and fissured; playing the light further afield, she saw bright white columns, rough and irregular, formed by water dripping from the roof she couldn’t see.

“Emily.”

She was starting to hate that voice; it definitely held a note of taunting smugness. Assuming the beckoning call to mean she should go forward, she did. Moving slowly across the cavern floor, picking her way through clumps of fragmented rock, through dips and over small rises, slipping past numerous slimy whitish columns, she moved steadily, cautiously on, keeping the lantern directly in front of her and following its guiding beam.

The cavern, if cavern it was, seemed enormous. She was about to halt, to force the disembodied voice to speak again, when she heard…something.

She swung the lantern beam this way and that, then stopped, held her breath, listened for all she was worth—and made out soft muffled thumps and thuds, and what sounded like muffled cries…

Fixing the direction, she grabbed up her skirts, held the lantern high, and hurried toward the sound. “Gert? Bea? Are you there?”

The muffled thuds increased in vigor—more like drumming. The girls were drumming their heels on the rock floor.

She hurried on. A stand—more like a coppice—of white columns rose before her. She dodged them and saw a low wall—a place where the rock of the cave hadn’t worn down as much as the surrounding areas; the sound of drumming heels was coming from beyond. Rounding the wall, she beamed the lantern behind it—and saw her terrified half sisters bound and gagged, lashed together with their hands behind their backs.

“Thank God!” She rushed forward. Setting the lantern down, she fell to her knees and hugged both girls to her. “I’m here—you’re safe.”

Releasing them, she pulled down the scarf around Gert’s mouth, then turned to do the same for Bea.

“But we’re not safe,” Gert hissed, her voice the merest whisper. “He’s here—he called you in.”

Bea nodded vigorously, eyes round, as Em tugged off her gag. “He has to still be here.”

The sheer terror in Bea’s voice refocused Em. They were right. But…“Who is he?” She’d already untied the rope lashing them together; she urged Bea around and started untying the ropes securing her wrists.

“Mr. Jervis!” Gert hissed.

When Em looked her confusion, Bea blurted, “Mr. Jerry Jervis—Mama’s gentleman friend from York.”

“York?” Em couldn’t place any such gentleman. “But—”

“He was Mama’s
especial
gentleman friend, but he was a sailor and had to leave on some ship—we haven’t seen him in ages.” Gert wriggled around so Em could get to the ropes about her wrists.

“He told us Mama had asked him to look in on us and he’d finally found us at the Red Bells.” Bea pressed close, keeping her voice low. “He asked us to go for a walk with him on the common—”

“We told him about the treasure.” Gert pulled her wrists free. “He asked us to show him where it had been hidden…” She met Em’s eyes in the dimness. “We didn’t think there’d be any harm in that, but—”

“He caught us”—Bea grabbed Em’s arm—“and he tied us up and left us here.”

“Why?” Gert’s face was all puzzled hurt. “Why would he do such a thing?”

Em remembered the treasure, glanced at the sack lying beside her. She’d found the girls, but she still had the sack.

The lantern started to flicker, then fade.

Her fear of the dark, until then held at bay, rushed in, rolled in like a wave threatening to swamp her, to drown her and sweep her away…

She sucked in a breath, focused on the girls—saw their eyes grow round with fright.

Then they screamed and pointed behind her.

“Hello, Emily.”

She swung around just as the lantern died, plunging them into darkness.

For an instant, she couldn’t breathe, felt smothered, suffocated—then she remembered the treasure and reached for the sack.

It whisked past her fingertips, already seized.

The air about her swirled as someone large, standing very close, swung about. He didn’t try to mask his footsteps, but walked confidently away through the dark.

For a moment, panic and surprise held her silent. She rose uncertainly to her feet; the girls scrambled up, clinging on either side. She couldn’t understand how the man could walk so easily through the dark over such terrain—then her eyes adjusted, and as he drew further away she saw a narrow shaft of dim lantern light playing before the faint silhouette of a largish man.

Chill desperation gripped her. “Wait! You can’t leave us here!” Gathering the girls, she stepped out from behind the low stone wall.

He paused, turned his head. “Yes, I can.” A moment passed. “You’ll either find your way out, or die here. Regardless, I’ll be long gone, and for my pains I’ll be rich beyond my wildest dreams.”

There was something about his voice…She frowned. “Hadley?”

The man laughed. “Good-bye, Emily Colyton. It was…rewarding to have known you.” He chuckled, was about to walk on, then paused once more. “It’s a pity, really, that you wanted Tallent. If you’d been amenable to wanting me, I might have taken you with me, but then again, like Susan, you’d never have left those brats behind.”

Em could just discern the mocking flourish he made her.

“So farewell, my dear—I doubt we’ll meet again.” He resumed his steady march out of the cavern.

Leaving pitch blackness behind.

“Hadley!”
Even she heard the terrified desperation in her voice, but the rest of her appeal died on her lips as, in a brief strengthening of lantern light, she saw Hadley outlined as he entered the distant passage.

The light faded, and he was gone.

The darkness thickened.

Em looped an arm around each girl, holding them to her, and fought to steady her racing heart. She swallowed. Dragged in a breath, then another—forced herself to exhale. “We have to get out of here.”

“But we can’t see,” Bea whispered.

“No.” Em pushed herself to speak in a normal, reassuring tone. “But I know which way the passage is from here.” She did know that much; she was facing the passage entrance. “Come along. We just have to put one foot in front of the other, and we’ll reach the passage.”

She took one step, and her shoe brushed the empty lantern. “Wait.” She stooped and picked the lantern up; it was a sturdy one with a solid iron base. It was no longer of any use in casting light, yet just having it in her hand made her feel marginally better. “Right, now—you stay on that side, Gert, and Bea stays on the other. Hold on to my skirts tightly—you’ll be able to follow where I go. Just walk with me—think of it as one of your games.”

“All right,” Bea said. “But I don’t like the dark.”

Em
hated
the dark, abhorred it, was all but terrified of it—but she didn’t have time to indulge that old fear. Their lives—all their lives—depended on her keeping her head. So she would.

They now had full lives to live, and people they loved who loved them; all she cared about was ensuring both continued, and that meant finding their way out of the cavern and back to the light of day.

“Come along—let’s go.” Not even her old fear was going to keep her from seeing Jonas again, from lying in his arms, from kissing him, from being held by him—from being protected and cherished and loved by him. She put one foot directly in front of the other, then repeated the exercise. One hand held out before her to keep from running into the columns that lay between them and the passage—how she would navigate around even one and then get back to their correct course she’d yet to work out—she determinedly went forward.

One foot in front of the other.

They reached the coppice of columns about twenty footsteps along. She was trying to remember how many there’d been, and how they stood in relation to the passage entrance, when a breath of cool air played over her face.

Just the veriest waft, the merest caress, but the air was otherwise so still and even-temperatured, the cool touch was distinctive.

She halted, wondering if her imagination was inventing answers to her prayers, but then the cool waft came again, increasingly clear to her dark-sharpened senses. Despite everything, she smiled. “Girls—can you feel the breeze?”

An instant passed, then she felt them both nod.

“It’s coming from the passage.” She
thought
it was coming from the passage; there were other possibilities, but she saw no benefit in dwelling on those—as far as she could tell, the gentle flow was coming down the passage from the mausoleum. The chill, clammy clasp of her fear eased a notch. “All we have to do to find the passage is keep walking into the breeze. Come along.”

With a great deal more confidence, one hand waving wildly before her, she led them around the coppice of slimy columns, then got them back on track, walking into the faint breeze.

Their progress was still painfully slow; although the breeze gave them their direction, they still had to feel for every step—both girls as well as she. The floor of the cavern seemed much more rocky and broken, the dips and rises much steeper, in the absolute dark.

Regardless of her resolution, the dark still weighed heavily on her, like a smothering blanket that threatened to steal away her next breath. She still had to battle for every breath, to push back the fear that made her lungs seize.

Hope kept her moving forward—that, and Jonas—the fixed, immutable conviction that she had to be, needed to be,
would be
with him again, that her destined place, her ordained future, was at his side in the daylight, not there in the suffocating dark.

So she pressed on, one step after another, carefully placing one foot before the other, keeping the faint breeze on her cheeks.