Victorian Dream (29 page)

Fighting hard, she turned her head from side to side, her heart pounded painfully in her chest, and her arms and legs were weak and rubbery. She clawed at the fabric and his hands—desperate for a breath of air. Then the sickeningly sweet odor over-powered her, and she floated into the blackness.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Dusky shadows eased closer to Royston Hall, but nothing eased the panic threatening to overtake Walker’s mind. At wits’ end, he raked his hand through his hair and paced the length of the dayroom.

“I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened,” Penelope repeated, swiping at the tears on her cheeks. “Like I said, when Jeffery and I returned to the booth, Laynie was gone. It was a madhouse with all the crowds and gaiety. We asked, but no one saw anything suspicious. She just wasn’t there.”

Wynona slipped her arm around the young woman and gave her a hug. “It’s not your fault, dear. Come along to the kitchen.” She glanced at Walker, and at his nod of consent, led the girl away. “We’ll get you some tea and a bite to eat.”

Walker clenched his jaw to keep from howling in frustration. As he turned and headed for the door, Sam Colt blocked his path and shoved him back into the room.

“Settle down,” Colt advised. “Now’s the time for straight thinkin’ and straight shootin’, not acting crazy and going off half cocked.”

Thank the Lord that Sam was still in London. Unplanned, but as promised, he’d dropped by this morning to give Abigail a shooting lessen. Then the missive proclaiming trouble at the docks had arrived. Sam and he had gone to check things out, but it had been a red herring. Nothing was amiss. Upon their return, they had found Penelope in her present condition, and Trelayne gone missing.

“Where can she be?” Abigail clutched at her bosom and eased down onto the settee. “Do you suppose Spring Heeled Jack could have gotten to her? He was seen in the area the night before.”

“That doesn’t seem right,” Merrick put in. “He mainly strikes at night. Besides, the depraved creature is being blamed for everything from folks taking ill to hens not laying. We mustn’t fall pray to the same hysteria.”

“I agree. My money’s on Lanteen,” Walker ground out. “The business down at the wharf today was a diversion. There wasn’t any trouble brewing there, but it kept us occupied for hours. I’m guessing, in a depraved bit of irony, he sent the note claiming an emergency just like the one I sent to spirit Trelayne away from him at the Bond.”

“So where does that leave us?” Sam put in. “We went by the scoundrel’s flat on the way back from the docks, and by the looks of things, he’s clean gone out of there.”

“If he gave up his lodgings,” Walker concluded, “I don’t think he is still in London. He might not even be in England.” That realization increased his panic. “He could be anywhere, with the whole world in which to hide.”

As he took to pacing again, he smoothed his mustache in a habit of worry and contemplation. There had to be a connection between Trelayne’s disappearance and Lanteen vacating his premises, but in which direction would he head? It was anybody’s guess.

“What is this place?” he asked, halting before a painting on the west wall.

“It’s Amberley Abbey,” Abigail explained. “The property belongs to Trelayne, or rather to the both of you now. My father willed it to her.”

He’d never before taken note of the artwork. It was a small landscape, painted, by all appearances, by someone in the family. Although viewed from a different angle, the resemblance struck home, the connection unmistakable.

“Where is it exactly?”

“Approximately 30 kilometers northwest of Brighton.”

“That’s where she is.”

“But why would you think such a thing?”

“Lanteen had a similar painting at his place.”

“It’s rather a famous site for artists. It could be a coincidence.”

“I don’t think so. It was hung with near shrine-like reverence. And one of the Brighton river rats who tried to kill me said Lanteen had a place near there where he holed up. A warehouse or monastery. This has to be it.

“Come on, Sam. Time to saddle up and hit the trail.”

As he headed for the door to the room, everyone leapt into action.

“I’ll have Jeb ready two horses,” Merrick said, and hurried off.

“I’ll help Cook pack food for the journey,” Abigail offered.

He and Sam took the stairs two at a time. Reaching his and Trelayne’s room, Walker flipped up the lid of a large beleaguered trunk and dragged out clothing and accouterments. In a matter of minutes, he was outfitted in his long black duster, two Colt revolvers, his new knife, and his big black hat. Sam grabbed up similar attire. The clothes were a little big on his friend, but they’d do.

Within the hour, they were on the road, but as darkness fell, so did the rain, slowing them down.

“Damn English weather,” Sam groused. “Ain’t seen the sun shine more than fifteen minutes in a row since I’ve been here. You sure your gal’s at this abbey place?”

“I’m sure.”

He considered Trelayne’s recent nightmare. It fit in perfectly with the image inspired by the painting. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind Lanteen had taken her to that medieval stronghold. The man was a lunatic, a dramatic but dangerous lunatic. He would even execute evil with flair.

What if Trelayne’s dream came true before he could get there? Trelayne had given him another chance at love, another chance at a life worth living. He couldn’t lose her.

He gripped the fanciful English saddle tighter with his thighs, and kicked the horse into a canter. On this trip south, speed took precedent over sparing his mount.

****

Trelayne opened her eyes and cringed.

In the dim room, the light from the candles seemed brighter than the center of the sun. Pain pounded in her head, and her stomach felt queasy. Whatever they’d used to knock her out produced the most wretched lingering effects. Lord, she felt awful.

Lying motionless on the small cot, she shifted her gaze, and fear, hot and liquid, raced through her veins. This was the chamber in her dream. She sobbed, and wanted to scream, but she knew no one would hear her.

In her nightmare she was up and walking around. Maybe if she remained prone nothing would happen. But that was no good. She had to find a way out of this room, had to figure out where Lucien had taken her.

What time was it? How long had she been unconscious? Everything was all turned around in her mind. As the nausea subsided, she eased upright onto the side of the raised pallet. Her stomach gave a healthy rumble. Several hours must have past for her to be this hungry.

She gained her feet then froze. Someone was outside the room. The latch rattled and the door creaked open, the sound rending the silence of the small chamber.

“Ah, you’re awake.” Lucien stepped inside and closed the door at his back.

“What is this place?” she demanded, probing for information relative to escaping.

“Don’t recognize your own landholding? We’re at Amberley. I see by your shocked expression you never discovered this room. How fitting that I should know of it and not you. I love this ancient relic more than you ever did, and had such glorious plans for it.” There was a far away look in his eyes. “It should have been mine. But all that is ruined now.”

“You must let me go, Lucien.”

“Must I? I don’t see why.”

“I’m married to Captain Garrison. I belong to him. You’ve no right to keep me here.”

“No right?” Ruddy spots of anger highlighted his cheekbones. “I have every right. I am the one who has done your bidding year after year, showering you with gifts as I listened to you prattle on and on about the poor underclass and orphans. You spared them more attention than you gave to me. And I am the one who stood humbly by while your father treated me like a mere employee and never a suitor with possibilities. Now, I am your only possibility.”

“But Walker will not rest until he finds me. What purpose does it serve to keep up this charade? We all have dreams, but sometimes they are not fulfilled.”

At least she hoped this one would not be.

“I doubt he will look for us in France.”

“France…the country is one step away from revolt. Paris is in turmoil.”

“All the more exciting. And the more easily one can become lost in the crowd.”

“Or crushed in the rush—even killed. This is madness. I won’t go with you.”

“But you will. Either upright and awake, or unconscious, a repeat performance of your journey here. The choice is yours.”

Anger renewed her fighting spirit. If she were a man, she would show him another choice, one with well-aimed punches. “This is unworthy of you, Lucien,” she said, fists clenched at her sides

“No,
you
are unworthy of me. But although you are now used goods, the devil take me, I still want you.”

“The devil take you indeed. What you’ve done to my family and me cannot be overlooked. You have overstepped every boundary and committed unforgivable acts. I shall hate you forever.”

He glared at her. The feral brightness in his eyes played off the blue ice as a menacing smile creased his face. Walker was correct—Lucien was demented. Swallowing hard, she held her ground.

“I see you need more time to reflect upon your situation and limited options. We’ve still a few hours before the crossing.”

“I will pray the waters are too rough for setting sail.”

He chuckled as if privy to a jest that bespoke of her foolishness. “The temperament of the sea will not inhibit our excursion.”

Turning, he opened the door to leave. She raced across the room—too late to hold him back or squeeze through to freedom. Slumping in defeat, she heard the latch fell back in place—declaring her once more a prisoner.

There had been a glimmer of light in the passageway. It must be morning. She had slept the entire night away. What difference this made to her situation was moot, but somehow it helped to organize her thoughts.

Ignoring another protest from her empty stomach, she walked the perimeter of the enclosure, running her hands over the cold stone wall, seeking another door or passageway. How odd no one knew about this secret room. Leave it to Lucien to discover the macabre chamber, secrets and subterfuge being his specialty. Standing dejected in the middle of the room, she wrapped her arms across her chest for warmth. He could have at least allowed her to keep her cloak.

A tear trickled down her cheek. Had it only been yesterday morning Walker had given it to her? Having it near would have meant more than warmth. It would be his love surrounding her.

****

Beatrice snuggled the burgundy wool about her. It was cold on the parapet, but the view was breathtaking, and Lucien had bid her wait here for him.

She wondered if Bart was all right. She missed him already. He’d left this morning for the coast, and by now was well on his way to Paris by ship. He would insure their baggage and household items arrived safely, and secure suitable accommodations.

With a contented sigh, she pictured a cozy flat in the heart of the foreign city. One with tall ceilings, sunlight filtering in through leaded glass windows. Maybe a flower box on a little wrought iron balcony. Oh, it was going to be wonderful. She had never been happier. She’d make Lucien a good wife.

But what about
her
?

What a surprise when Lucien forced Trelayne to come along, rather than saying goodbye like he promised. This boded ill, and her old feelings of hatred for the woman flared hot and well remembered. Maybe he wanted to teach her a lesson for running off with the Captain. Maybe just frighten her and give her a bit of torturin’ then let her find her own way back to Royston Hall. What other reason could there be for her to be here? The trek home would be a long and dangerous one. Maybe she would die along the way. That thought cheered her. If nothing else, it would be a cold walk without her expensive cloak.

She petted the fine wool and felt for the necklace hidden beneath the fabric of her dress. After Lucien’s proposal, she’d taken to secretly wearing the heart locket, pretending he had given it to her as a token of his love. A smile softened her face. Just think of all the beautiful Parisian fashions soon to be hers. Lucien said they would be leaving shortly. She hoped he knew what he was doing.

****

Bolstered by anger, Trelayne ripped the threadbare tapestry from the wall and draped it around her shivering body. Then she stared in open-mouthed wonder at the partition revealed. Rather than stone, it was damp moldering wood. She moved closer to examine the find. What was on the other side? If she could break through the barrier, she might escape before Lucien returned.

Flinging aside the tapestry, she grabbed one of the tall wrought iron candleholders, and using it as a battering ram, attacked the planking. A section of the panel splintered, and the glass drip cup shattered, sending shards spiraling through the air. Not having expected such a volatile reaction, she dropped the twisted iron, stumbled backward, and covered her head with her arms.

Reflected in the light of the other candle, the twinkling fragments mirrored her dream. Something terrible had been set in motion. Stunned and shaking, she held her breath, waiting for what was surely to come next. A slab of wood broke loose at the top of the partition and crashed to the ground. Then what had been held back for centuries by the rotting timber came pouring out. Dark and red, it gushed through the opening, pooling on the floor, filling up the small chamber.

The depth of the foul liquid was already knee-deep. In a panic, she lunged toward the door, but her foot caught on the abandoned candleholder, and arms splayed wide, she fell to the floor. The putrid liquid was rising quickly. She tried to lever upright, but her hand slipped sideways landing her flat on her back. The wave of red horror sloshed over her, covering her face, stifling her breath, and her screams for help.

Thrashing about in three feet of thick crimson liquid, she floundered into a sitting position, sobbing and gasping for air. As the initial deluge tapered off, the flood reduced down to a trickle. She wasn’t going to drown after all.