Trondelaine Castle (3 page)

He continued to stare at her. “I meant what I said.
You will not succeed in whatever it is you intend. I plan
to have you well watched.” He paused at the sound of a
car. “That will be Dr. Witter.”

In the growing darkness, the two continued to
regard each other warily. They turned away only as
another figure came into view. He was tall. Much taller
than Lord Pellen, with dark hair and eyes. He seemed
to be about Lord Pellen’s age and carried a medical
bag.

“Hello, Richard!” he called jauntily. “What’s wrong
here? Charles said a young lady had hurt herself.”

Lord Pellen waved a disdainful hand at Wendy.
“Good evening, Roger. This is the girl. One of the
tourists. Hurt her foot in the tower.”

Every inch of Wendy’s twenty-three-year-old frame
bristled at the appellation “girl.” Roger smiled as he
noted her anger. He crouched down to examine the
foot. “Does it hurt here? Here? What about here?”

“Yes. No. Yes, Doctor.” Wendy winced.

For several minutes the doctor was silent. Lord
Pellen became impatient. “Is it broken? Will she have
to be taken to the hospital?”

The doctor frowned. “Certainly not the hospital. But
she’ll have to come to my clinic for X-rays. I want to be
sure nothing is broken. If it is, I can set it there.
Unfortunately, I haven’t any spare beds at the
moment.”

“Not to worry,” Lord Pellen said grimly, “I’ve
already arranged for her to stay here at the castle.”

Something in Lord Pellen’s tone made the doctor
glance at him sharply. “Yes, well, we ought to be going.
It’s late.”

Wendy put an arm around the shoulder of each man
and they eased her upright. They managed her easily
between them as they walked to the doctor’s car. When
she had been eased into the seat, Lord Pellen said, “I’ll
drive over to the clinic later. Someone will have to
bring her back to the castle.”

The doctor nodded and got into his car. As they
pulled away from the castle, he asked Wendy, “How
are you feeling?”

“All right. Rather shaky. My foot hurts, of course.”

Dr. Witler nodded. “What I expected. Richard-Lord Pellen, that is-seems to have taken quite a
dislike to you.”

Wendy grimaced. “He thinks I’m either a burglar, a
journalist, a con artist, or a gold digger. He thinks I
hurt my foot on purpose to stay at the castle.”

“Did you?” the doctor asked conversationally.

“Of course not!”

The doctor laughed. “Well, you mustn’t blame
Richard too much for being suspicious. Ever since he
became the Earl two years ago, he’s been pursued by such people, using all sorts of tricks. Especially
women!”

Wendy’s mouth opened and shut. There was really
nothing she could say to that. They drove for a while in
silence, the doctor once risking a quick glance at her
face. It seemed innocent, but how could one be sure?
Finally, they drew up in front of a large building. Roger
honked the horn once.

“My clinic,” he explained to Wendy. “Reasonably
modern for this-this nowhere. X-ray machine,
laboratory, hospital beds-all full now-examining
rooms, and delivery room. The nearest hospital is some
distance away, you see. By the way, I’m Dr. Roger
Witler.”

“I’m Wendy Pratt.”

They were interrupted by the appearance of a nurse
at the car. “Kay, she’s hurt her foot,” the doctor said.
“We’ve got to get her into the clinic and then take some
X-rays.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

The petite nurse was much stronger than she looked.
Once she helped Dr. Witler take Wendy inside the
building, she pulled out a long official form. “Name?
Date of birth? Official address?…” she began, and
Wendy answered her questions.

By the time the form was completed, the doctor was
ready to X-ray her foot. In half an hour, he was looking
at the exposed pictures.

“Nothing broken,” he assured her, “just some pulled
tendons. You’ll have to stay off the foot for several
weeks. I’ve a pair of crutches I can lend you. I’ll tape
your foot first.”

He sent his nurse for the crutches and, when she
returned, started coaching Wendy in the proper use of
them. By the time Lord Pellen arrived, she was able to manage reasonably well. Dr. Witler repeated his
diagnosis for the Earl, who grimaced and said to
Wendy, “Come along, then.”

He turned and strode out of the room without
looking back to see if she was following. Dr. Witler
frowned. He walked beside Wendy, encouraging her.
When they came to the clinic steps, the doctor lifted her
and carried her the rest of the way to Lord Pellen’s
waiting car. It was Lord Pellen’s turn to frown.

“Good night, Dr. Witler,” Wendy said, “and thank
you.,,

“Good night, Miss Pratt,” he replied. “I’ll look in on
you in a couple of days. Good night, Richard.”

He stood watching as Richard’s car pulled away.
Lord Pellen did not speak as they drove back to the
castle. That suited Wendy perfectly. A male servant
was waiting when they arrived.

“Carry her to her room,” the Earl ordered. To
Wendy he said, “You are on the ground floor.”

Then he strode away leaving Wendy to the care of
the servant. “Easy, Miss,” he said as he lifted her.

The room assigned to Wendy was in the east wing.
Her small case from the bus was there, and Wendy saw
that her few things had been put away for her. Her
wrapper and nightgown lay on the bed, with the
slippers nearby. Because it was the simplest thing to do,
the servant set her down on the bed.

“The bath is through there.” He pointed to a door.
“Breakfast will come on a tray in the morning at nine. If
you have need of anything, the red button beside the
bed is connected to the servants’ quarters.”

“Thank you very much,” she answered with perfect
frankness. “I’m sorry to be such a bother.”

His face was impassive. “No bother, Miss. Good
night.”

Then he was gone and Wendy was left alone. She
pulled herself upright on the crutches and looked in the
mirror. Her blouse was dirty, but no more so than her
face. Her hair was horribly tangled and she had three
broken fingernails.

She sighed and said aloud, “I think I’d better wash
up!”

After doing so, she felt much better. But, for the first
time, she realized she was hungry. She had not eaten
since tea and that had been a rather hurried affair. But
Wendy was not brave enough to summon a servant and
request a meal. Oh, well, she thought, breakfast will
probably be hearty. Her stomach protesting, she
undressed, turned out the lights, and tried to fall asleep.

Wendy came awake slowly. At first she didn’t realize
where she was. Then, a careless movement of her right
foot brought pain and immediate recollection. She was
in a guest room at Lord Pellen’s castle, Trondelaine. A
glance at her watch reassured her. It was barely eight
A.M.She would have plenty of time to wash and dress
before one of the servants brought breakfast. But
dressing wouldn’t be easy on crutches.

When that was accomplished, Wendy looked
around the room. The walls had been replastered at
some point, but nothing could make them look
modern. The furniture was old but sturdy, and
plentiful. Aside from the bureau, wardrobe, dressing
table, and easy chair, there were two bed tables and, of
course, the bed.

One wall held several bookcases and at one end of
the room was a small round table with chairs. There
were curtains and heavy rugs, but no pictures or
tapestries. It was, concluded Wendy wistfully, much
more comfortable and much larger than her room in
London.

She noted, with a smile, the candelabrum on the
fireplace mantel. It probably meant the power
sometimes failed. It was unfortunate that the bookcases were empty, but perhaps Lord Pellen would not
mind her using the library. A tap at the door
interrupted her reverie.

“Come in!” she called.

It was a maid with a large tray. “Morning, Miss. I
trust you slept well. Lord Richard will see you in the
library at ten.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Miss.”

That was all and the maid left. She had set the tray
on the round table, and Wendy sat down and began
examining the various dishes. There was tea and milk
and sugar; toast and marmalade; two eggs and some
thick British bacon.

Wendy’s stomach reminded her that it had been
some sixteen hours since her last meal, and she ate
eagerly.

When she had finished, she felt much better. She
glanced at her watch. She had half an hour before she
must face Lord Pellen. Raising herself on her crutches,
she checked her image in the mirror. Washed and with
combed hair falling in curls, she looked much better
than she had the previous night. She was dressed
simply in a fresh print blouse and a sea-green skirt.
Sensible, flat sandals completed the picture.

It felt a little silly to be wearing a sandal on the foot that never touched the ground, but she couldn’t very
well go barefoot in a castle. It would have to do. She
had only expected to be gone two days and this was all
she had thought to bring: one change of clothing. Well,
no doubt Lord Pellen would send her packing in a day
or two, and her lack of wardrobe wouldn’t matter.

She wore no makeup, disliking it except for formal
occasions, although she had brought some. Lord
Pellen would probably accuse her of trying to entice
him if she put any on her face. A few minutes early,
Wendy started for the library. She was still clumsy on
the crutches and not sure she could find her way. And
she certainly didn’t want to be late.

As it turned out, the library was easy to find, the last
room on her left as she came down the hall toward the
main section of the castle. The library door stood open
and Lord Pellen was waiting for her. As she came in, he
indicated a chair for her and he closed the door. Then
he sat on the desk, facing her.

“You will please answer a few questions for me,” he
said calmly, picking up a pen and pad of paper. “Name?
Address? Place of birth? Occupation? Name of
mother? Name of father? Address of parents? Name
of-er-fiance?”

Wendy clutched the arms of the chair and tried to
keep her temper as she gave him all the information. He
seemed surprised to hear she was a translator at
Beckworth and Brothers, the publishing company.
Lord Pellen wrote everything down, including her
father’s California address and the fact that her mother
was dead.

Then he looked at Wendy. “You know, of course,
that I will have all of this checked. Would you care to
change any of the answers you’ve just given me?”

She shook her head and he continued, “You may prepare yourself for a long stay. I do not intend to have
you leave before your foot is quite healed. Otherwise, I
am sure I would find myself involved in a lawsuit. I
suggest you write someone in London-perhaps your
fiance-and request him to prepare a valise for you
with all the necessary articles. If he gives it to the tour
company, they will deliver it on Friday when the next
tour comes through. You will find paper and pens in
your room in one of the bed tables. One of my servants
will mail it for you. You may go now.”

Slightly dazed, Wendy stood, irritated at the
brusque dismissal. With as much dignity as she could
manage, she retreated from the library. Lord Pellen
held the door for her and she heard it close behind her.
In her mind, Wendy hurled all the abuse at him that she
felt. What would she do about her job? If the Earl
insisted on this nonsense, perhaps her boss could send
the material she had been working on. Did Lord Pellen
have Spanish and Russian dictionaries? She would
have to have Kevin send up hers if she stayed. She had a
good job and she wanted to keep it.

As she opened the door to her room, Wendy stopped
in surprise. During her brief absence, someone had
made the bed, taken the breakfast tray, and removed
her dirty clothes. Lord Pellen’s servants were obviously
efficient.

As Lord Pellen had said, there were writing
materials in one of the tables. Wendy seated herself at
the round table, not at all sure what she would write to
Kevin. Would he be angry! She was glad she wouldn’t
have to see his face when he read her letter. Wendy
paused to remove her right sandal. She had loosened
the toe and heel straps to allow for swelling, but it still
was not very comfortable.

Her irritation at Lord Pellen grew. He really had no
right to dictate to her as he had. Soon, Wendy was no
longer in doubt as to what to write Kevin. She would
ask him to drive out to Trondelaine and get her. Lord
Pellen could scarcely keep her here forcibly. Her
mouth twisted into a wry smile as she mentally
composed the letter. What should she write? That she
was being held prisoner in a castle by an evil Lord?
Actually, the letter read:

Dear Kevin,

I’ve done something very stupid. While visiting
the first castle on the tour, I managed to hurt my
foot. I am now on crutches, staying at Trondelaine. It is owned by a rather nasty fellow called
Lord Pellen. Can you come rescue me? The tour
agency can give you directions how to get here.