Page 56 of Return of the Viscount
Talbot gave a brief nod.
“I am more than content with my decision.” He only hoped that someday Cecilia would say the same.
Before dawn the next morning, Cecilia congratulated herself for getting out of the Hall before the sun was even up. Surely she was safe in broad daylight, out among her people. She needed a walk to help her think, and she couldn’t do that with Lord Blackthorne dogging her heels. It would be a long day, much of it spent answering more of Lord Doddridge’s questions before welcoming a large party of guests for dinner.
The old man was as genial as always, and she received the usual pats on the head for a job well-done, as if she were his favorite pet who performed all the right tricks. He did appreciate her work because, of course, it left less for him to do, but he was so very patronizing.
Her thoughts wandered as always to Lord Blackthorne, who’d attempted to seduce a decision from her on their marriage. He wanted her to trust him, and often she felt like she couldn’t trust anyone but herself. She remembered her panicked suggestion that perhaps he should visit his family. He wasn’t going to do that. So last night, she’d realized she could bring his family to him and had written a letter to his mother, sending it the half day’s journey this morning with a footman. She was still congratulating herself.
As the gray light gave way to the first rays of the sun, she waved to gardeners and grooms, dairymaids and plowboys. Farther from the hall, she followed her usual path along a creek and into a dense copse of woodland. She could smell the falling leaves of oak and sycamore, see the muted colors of autumn mixed in with the green. Leaves already formed a dense carpet across the path, and she kicked at them, trying to summon up her usual optimistic start to the day.
Suddenly, the ground seemed to give way before her. She’d been moving so quickly, all she could do was flail her arms as she fell forward, where leaves now trickled between branches that had been laid as a distraction. She crashed through them and down into a hole, landing hard on her side, her breath knocked from her to leave her gasping. Dazed and shocked, she tried to roll onto her back, and it was as if every bone in her body had been realigned in the fall, and now protested painfully. For what seemed like endless moments, she gaped up at the overcast sky glimpsed between treetops. Crisp leaves continued to fall gently on top of her, along with the faintest drops of a light mist.
The cool wetness seemed to make her brain function again, and she slowly pushed herself into a sitting position. The ground oozed with mud, her filthy skirts were twisted around her. And although it hurt to take a deep breath, she hadn’t hit her head. Her limbs seemed to work, and there was no blood. She’d been so lucky, she thought, hugging herself.
And then she realized she’d walked this same path yesterday, and the hole hadn’t been there. Why would someone dig in the middle of a little woodland? It wouldn’t be for a well—there was no cottage nearby, and the creek was so close that moisture continued to ooze slowly into the hole.
Holding on to a root protruding from the earthen wall, she got to her feet—and realized that she couldn’t reach the top of the hole. Standing on her tiptoes, she tried over and over, but only managed to dislodge dirt that fell into her eyes and mouth, making her cough and gag, even as her eyes ran.
She was trapped.
Fear shot through her, and she crouched against the edge of the hole, as if someone would start shooting down at her, as if she were a deer with a broken leg—or something equally expendable.
Had—had someone done this deliberately?
No, she told herself. It had to be an accident. If deliberate, the person would know she walked this way nearly every day, had done so only yesterday. Everyone would be able to find her, especially Lord Blackthorne, who surely knew her customary paths by now.
There might be people who would think he had motive not to find her, but she refused to believe it. Whoever put her there knew she might be found soon, which meant they only wanted to harm her—or did they think the fall would kill her?
She hugged herself, feeling the cold mud surrounding her bare stocking. Somehow she’d lost a shoe, she thought a bit wildly.
And then she started to scream for help.
She walked these paths every day, knew how desolate they could be—especially in bad weather, she realized bleakly, as rain began to fall in earnest. So she screamed louder, reminding herself thatsomeonein her household would miss her and come looking.
Michael stood in the breakfast-parlor window, staring out at the bleak landscape through the rain that ran in rivulets down the diamond-shaped panes of glass. His jaw ached from all the clenching he’d done since the moment he realized Cecilia had left on her walk without him. He’d known in his gut he had to accompany her everywhere, and now something was wrong. She hadn’t returned in her normal time.
He pivoted about his cane and saw Lord Doddridge calmly eating his bacon and mushrooms, buttering a muffin, his lined face unconcerned as he squinted at theTimes.He was a short man, but his posture was unbowed, as if he met the world squarely and was confident in his ability to handle anything. Did he think that everyone was just as capable as he was, leaving him unconcerned about Cecilia?
Or was he unconcerned because he was in on some sort of plot?
Appertan lounged almost regally in his chair, watching Michael, then rolled eyes. “She got caught in the rain and is waiting it out somewhere. You don’t need to be so worried.”
And then he looked away, because he damn well knew why Michael was worried. Did he look away out of guilt?
The uncertainty was the worst part—whether or not someone was trying to kill her, and if so, who it was. But that didn’t matter right now, so much as finding her and making sure she was all right.
“I can’t wait here any longer,” he said, limping swiftly toward the door.
Doddridge glanced up at him with curiosity. The old man hadn’t said much when they met this morning, only arched a brow when Appertan had introduced Michael as Cecilia’s husband, looking him up and down without stating his conclusions. He shook his head and went back at his newspaper.
“You’re going out in this?” Appertan demanded. “She’ll laugh at you when you find her—or she’ll be angry that you didn’t trust her to handle herself.”
“I’ll accept any of that as long as I know she’s well.” He glanced at Talbot, who was looking relieved. “Can you send someone to the stables to prepare my mount while I retrieve my cloak?”
A half hour later, Michael was riding across the grassy park, feeling like himself again on his horse. He followed Cecilia’s usual path, asking the occasional tenant or servant if she’d been seen. She had, but then most pointed to the dripping sky and said they had gone indoors and hadn’t seen her return. After an hour, the sick feeling in his stomach seemed to be spreading, clenching his heart, bringing an ache that battered the inside of his skull. She meant so much to him already. Her sunny letters to India had never failed to cheer him even though he knew they’d masked pain. He’d been a stranger to her, someone she didn’t have to care about, but she’d taken the time for him. But then, she took care of everyone residing on their estates, believed she could make the world right for her younger brother though he was a grown man and should have been taking care ofher.She thought the best of everyone—yet someone might be trying to kill her, and she knew that, and was trying to deal with it on her own.
Michael slowed his mount when he reached the woodland. She could be lost within the trees, her ankle twisted, looking for shelter. “Cecilia?” he shouted, as the rain trickled beneath his collar like a cold brush of reality. He slowed his horse to a walk, feeling that old stiffening in his neck that he’d always trusted. Some men felt it in their gut, but he trusted his neck. “Cecilia?”
