The Lady’s Guide to Marrying a Viscount (The Lady’s Guide to Love #8)

Chapter 16

CHAPTER 16

Withers drawing back the curtains allowed the mid-morning sun to enter. “Pardon me, m’lord. I thought it best to wake you.”

Mallon’s head was pounding. He couldn’t remember how much he’d drunk but, as he shielded his eyes from the sudden flood of daylight, other events from the past evening pulled into focus.

Retiring to his bed, his blood had been fevered. Geneviève had made a fool of him, or he’d made one of himself. Either way, it was a damnable situation.

They’d each spoken their mind, and there would be no more lies. He knew exactly what sort of woman he was dealing with, and she was no better than his mother. Too bold with her sensuality, too inclined to act on impulse, too adept at concealment. Like his mother, she was a breaker of hearts—and Mallon had no intention of placing his own on a salver, as his father had done, to be sliced into pieces.

He could never forget those years of his father’s embittered, cold detachment. Mallon’s childhood had been a cruel lesson in betrayal—not just on his mother’s part, but his father’s, too. They had both let him down.

The thought of becoming like his father both repulsed and terrified Mallon. He’d never inflict that on any child of his own. Better to remain a bachelor and avoid such tangled pain.

Mallon had spent most of the night counting the chimes as the hours passed, all the while debating how he could permit the countess’s continued presence.

It would be awkward in the extreme. As for Hugo, the poor fool might think himself besotted but he had little idea about women—and none at all about Geneviève, who would never be content with an innocent like Hugo. Mallon would wager she’d have a string of lovers before the first year of marriage was out.

“I’ve brought a tray, m’lord, seeing as the main breakfast has been cleared.”

With a sigh, Mallon poured from the coffee pot. The kipper he pushed aside.

“Thank you, Withers. I’ve meant to ask how things are on the estate. I must meet with Scroggins, to find out about the cattle.”

“Aye, m’lord. He’ll be glad to talk to ye. He’s gathered ‘em safely in the shippon, what with the snow coming. Take a care going in, as we’ve the ram tethered by the door and he’s in a foul mood at losing his liberty. We’ve plenty of hay stored in the loft above, an’ Scroggins has put up the rowan sprigs to keep the beasties safe.”

“Ah yes! Excellent!” It had been some time since Mallon had heard mention of that custom—rowan to keep away the roaming imps and witches of the winter moor. Nonsense, of course, but it was not for him to interfere.

“And how are you, Withers? Keeping well?”

The butler had been around since his grandfather’s day. At some point, Mallon supposed, he’d have to broach the subject of a well-earned retirement. He’d be welcome to stay in the house, of course. Mallon had no intention of turning anyone out. Wulverton Hall had been Withers’ home for a lifetime; it was unlikely that he had alternative plans.

The man was staring vacantly out of the window and was looking every one of his eighty years. Was it more? Mallon could hardly begin to say.

“Lost in your thoughts, Withers? Hope you’re not out of sorts.”

“Sorry, m’lord. Just looking at the ravens. They gathered about the hall before the passing of your father, and Master Edward. They’re still about.”

Mallon took another gulp of coffee. He knew what Withers was getting at. The raven was an ill omen, a harbinger of death. If he didn’t get some Seltzers inside him soon, it might be his death the ravens were cawing for.

“If that’s all m’lord.” Withers shuffled back toward the door. “I’ve left some hot water in the pitcher.”

“Thank you. Nothing for now.” Mallon stirred himself to sit up, holding his head gingerly.

Except there was something else. Mallon needed to ask Withers about his brother. He hadn’t known the escaped convict was Silas until one of the farmers had mentioned it yesterday. With everything that had happened, he’d not had a chance to take Withers aside. No wonder the poor man was talking of ravens and gazing onto the moor. He must be worried sick, imagining his brother out there alone.

It was his duty, as viscount, to look out for those in his care, the tenants on his land and the servants in this house. Hangover or not, certain things had to be dealt with.

However, for now, he needed to catch Hugo, and he’d better get a move on.

What time was the hunt setting off?

Eleven?

“More muddy footprints!” declared Marguerite, looking at the hearthrug in Hugo’s room. “With guests in the house, it’s really too much!”

Mallon stood in the doorway, watching his sister-in-law scuff her slipper against the marks. Despite the success of her entertainments, she didn’t appear in a very festive mood. It was hard, he supposed, coping with everything on her own. She had, after all, been running the house single-handedly since Edward’s demise, and that of his father.

She began plumping the cushions on Hugo’s sofa. “I’ve been letting the dogs prowl about, with this dreadful convict on the loose, but they’ll have to stay in the kitchen if they’re going to bring this filth with them. ”

Marguerite didn’t know, then, that it was Silas who’d escaped. Before her time, of course. It pained Mallon. To her, he was just another ne’er-do-well.

Muttering about table settings and making sure luncheon would be served promptly, she swept out.

She’d been talking about her late brother’s vineyard the other night. It might do her good to have a bit of sunshine. Now Mallon was back, there was nothing to stop her from going. He’d encourage her to make the trip, once all the hubbub of Christmas was dealt with.

Mallon sighed. His plans to speak to Hugo would have to wait. The young swain had set off already, along with the others taking part in the hunt.

As he made to leave, pulling the door closed behind him, something caught on Mallon’s brogue. The carpet was fraying, and he’d stepped into a stray loop. Like rather many things at Wulverton, it was in need of attention, the rod having come loose, leaving the threads to unravel.

He stooped to free himself, and it was then the piece of paper caught his eye. A laundry list, or some such, dropped by one of the maids, which had found its way under the carpet’s edge.

Since his soldiering days, he’d not been able to abide disorder. The hearth embers were sufficient to burn a scrap of paper; he could simply toss it in. However, it wasn’t just a piece of paper but an envelope—and bearing Hugo’s name, in an extravagant hand.

It was still sealed.

Mallon fought with his conscience only briefly. Tearing it open, he read:

My darling,

I must see you. Find a way to leave the hunt and come to me.

I’ll be waiting at Fox Tor.

Yours, with love and anticipation,

G.

She certainly hadn’t wasted any time. Mallon crushed the note angrily in his fist. When had she pushed it beneath Hugo’s door? Early that morning? Mere hours after offering herself to him.

He’d thought she might abandon her aspirations regarding Hugo, considering last night’s events. Clearly, he’d underestimated her. Were Hugo to deliver a proposal, it would be much harder to persuade him to break it off. The boy was honorable and would be loath to break a promise—whatever the circumstances.

Fortunately, it appeared that Mallon still had time to intercede. Hugo had never seen the note. The countess would be waiting at the tor in vain.

He threw the papers into the fire, where they curled and flared.

Geneviève had learnt to ride at Maxim’s insistence. She’d soon become proficient, and the resulting freedom had been a revelation. Her happiest hours had since been spent on horseback.

From the bottom of the hill, the tor stones were barely discernible against the slated clouds. The palette was sombre in comparison to the azure heavens she’d left behind, and the vibrant yellows and pinks of the flowers growing around Chateau Rosseline. Nevertheless, the moorland landscape invigorated her.

Reaching the summit, she tethered her pony beside lichened boulders engulfed in the smell of earth and age. There were no trees this high, barely a bush even, and a low mist was closing in, filling the air with dampness, still and quiet—the cold breath of the moor on her cheek.

Hugo had set off with a cheery wave, calling that he’d see her soon. Purposefully, she’d held back, to make it easier to peel away from the other riders. Was that the far-off cry of the hounds she could hear, and the horn of the master huntsman? From further down, she thought she discerned a shout, or was it merely the caw of a passing crow? The mist, curling and rolling, seemed to deaden sound. Meanwhile, her own breathing appeared much louder than usual.

Geneviève shivered. She was quite distant from the chapel, but she thought of what she’d seen there, just the day before—or what she’d thought she’d seen. Again, she had the feeling of being watched by unseen eyes. She’d been a ninny, conjuring ridiculous terrors. Her imagination had been seized by reading The Hound of the Baskervilles and by the legend of the devil’s Wisht Hounds. She ought to feel ashamed of herself. A grown woman and so impressionable!

Of course, there were other things to be afraid of besides ghostly hounds and piskies. The convict was out here somewhere, wasn’t he? Alive or dead? He might even be hiding nearby, among the rocks.

She glanced over her shoulder at the great monoliths behind. Lord Wulverton had spoken of him with tenderness, but this Silas was a stranger to her, and he’d been locked up all this time. Who knew how that affected a man? Even those who went in entirely sane must emerge half-demented after years of deprivation and constraint. She’d rather die than endure it herself.

I might ride back to the hall .

Geneviève could barely see more than a few feet ahead. Heading toward the boulders where she’d tied her mount, they sprouted an arm, shaking it at her, causing her to scream, but it was only the pony, tossing its mane. It gazed at her stolidly, through eyes long-lashed, before returning to its steady grazing.

She placed her hand on its side. He, at least, was real. There was comfort in his soft snorts and his warmth. Strange to feel more afraid of what you couldn’t see than what you could, but there was something chilling about the immensity of the moor and its cloaked vastness.

Was that a horse? She swore to hearing hooves. Wasn’t Lady Howard’s coach pulled by horses—headless ones? What were you supposed to do if you saw them? Closing her eyes tight, she leaned her forehead against the pony’s flank. If she didn’t look, they’d pass by. Devilish things only consumed those foolish enough to invite their interest.

She pinched herself. Her imagination was running away again. If she could hear a horse, it must be Hugo. He was riding a white dappled mare and would be invisible until he was right upon her.

“Hugo! I’m here.” Her voice sounded thin.

There was no reply, but the hooves were growing louder, beating rhythmically across the turf. Whatever creature it was, the beast was snorting heavily. With numb fingers she began to untie her mount. Better to take the saddle again. She’d feel safer on horseback, though the pony was skittering, eager to get away.

The approaching force loomed out of the mist, galloping toward her. Not white but black; a huge stallion, its eyes rolling in its head, rearing up so close that her own pony cowered in fear. She’d barely gotten her feet in the stirrups when her mount bolted.

Terrified, there was nothing she could do but hold on tightly and pray. They weren’t racing back the way they’d come but to the west, the pony leaping rocks and splashing through small streams crossing the hillside. Still, she could discern nothing, the mist being just as thick lower down as it had been at the tor.

From behind, a deep voice called to her to stop. As if she’d do that when some demon had been conjured to pursue her!

The ground had levelled out and the pony was slowing to a canter, its panting ragged. Still, she could hear the hooves of the demon rider.

“Keep going!” she urged, giving the hardest kicks she could muster. The pony whinnied in protest, but took to the gallop again, carrying them swiftly across the moor. Too late, she saw the sheep—perhaps ten of them, standing close together, their pale wool disguising them in the mist.

Jerking the reins, she pulled the pony’s head round. It seemed to twist in mid-air and the world began to spin. Even as Geneviève felt herself flying, she heard the voice commanding to go no further. Then, the mist rose up to consume her.