Page 81 of The No Good Irresistible Viscount Tipton
Oz abruptly nodded, not pleased by her answer but not pressing her. “Of course. I will knock on your door early and we will have this out. Agreed?”
She kissed him on the cheek. It was an apology and a farewell. “I will see you in the morning.”
***
No one at the stables questioned her request for one of their horses to be saddled. While waiting for the task to be accomplished, Devona rummaged through the items in the hidden compartment under the seat of their hired coach. The wooden box she removed contained a pistol. Noting that the box also contained the implements to prime it, she closed the box and tucked it under her arm. She had no idea what to expect upon her arrival. Bringing the weapon seemed prudent.
The directions and markers committed to memory, she rode off into the night with the full moon to light her path. To her amazement, the night journey did not frighten her. Numbness had overcome her and it was a blessing. Was this how her husband lived? Did he go through life seeing the world through unemotional clarity, which permitted his ruthlessness? Poor Tipton. Empathy and forgiveness were out of reach when one felt nothing at all.
The silhouette of the house rose up before her. She did not know the history of the abandoned great house. The owners could have perished without an heir to birth another generation of descendants. Or perhaps they had been penniless and could not repair the section of the house consumed in the long-forgotten fire. Its reasons for vacancy mattered little to Devona. Still, clutching her boxed weapon, she halted the horse and slid off the saddle. She tied the reins to a nearby branch. The horse seemed content to remain to nibble at the leaves.
It was time. Devona set the box on the ground and knelt before it. Flipping the latch, she opened the lid. She lifted the pistol, frowning at the weight. This was made for a gentleman’s hand, most likely Oz’s, although he had never mentioned the weapon. He probably had not wanted to frighten her. The metal gleamed in the moonlight as she examined it. Oz had underestimated her once again. She understood the necessity of protection. Violence provoked violence. It did not negate it. The question was could she aim the pistol and pull the trigger?
The surrounding insects’ lulling buzz concealed the awkward sounds she made while she prepared the weapon. Her unpracticed efforts took longer than they should have, but when she stood, the pistol was primed to fire.
Instead of walking through the front door, she made her way around to the back. The pistol level, she used the walls of the house to keep her from stumbling. She discarded the notion of entering by way of the burnt wing. The floors could be crumbling or nonexistent. It was too risky to guess under the moonlight. She continued, following the back wall until she came to a pair of doors. They were locked. Devona wiped a pane of glass with her hand and peered. The reflective moon on the glass prevented her from seeing beyond the blackness.
There was no light or signs of life within the dead house. Perhaps this had been a cruel prank or a clever ruse to lure her away from Tipton? Doubt bathed over her like moonlight, leaving her cold in its wake. She trembled despite the relative warmth of the evening. Brace yourself, Devona. You have come this far. If it is a ruse, then touring an abandoned house is nothing.
She went back to the gutted wing and began searching the grounds. Devona was not certain what she would find, but if it was thin and long it would suit her needs. It took her ten minutes to find the rusted piece of metal. Holding the L-shaped piece up against the moonlight, she judged it thin enough for her purpose. Moving back to the locked doors, she shoved the metal into the small crack between the two doors. It would have been easier to break the glass. Nevertheless, until she could prove her midnight jaunt was a hoax she intended to be careful.
The rusty metal resisted, then slid into the crack. Devona changed her grip, and then pulled the metal upward. As she had hoped, her makeshift tool caught and popped the inner latch. Her lips pulled into a humorless smile. What would Papa think of his daughter turning into a housebreaker? What of her husband?
Oh, Rayne. I know you desired me. I felt worshiped every time you pulled me into your arms. You had learned to take what you wanted at such a young age. Was there any limit to the lengths you would go to to maneuver me into your bed?
She abruptly closed her mind to the answer, keeping the anguish at bay. The moonlight only lit her entry a few feet into the room. She silently moved through the room. Thankfully, it was tidy, so if she avoided the darker shadows of covered furniture she was less likely to trip. Along the wall to the left was a long table. Devona slid her hand across the dusty surface until she felt the recognizable shape of a candlestick. Placing the pistol on the table, she pulled out the wide, shallow drawer, looking for a tinderbox.
Minutes later she had the candle lit and the pistol back in her other hand. There was an open door to her left. The candle allowed her to move more confidently as she searched room after room.
Forty minutes later, her breath was uneven and her dress clung to her from perspiration. She made her way down to the first landing. Relief was making her feel giddy. Empty. No one was in the house. Devona sat on the last step, depositing the candleholder and the pistol on the upper step. Wisps of hair had loosened from her coiled braid. She was dirty, tired, and her nerves had been rattled. Yet she was alone. She covered her face with her hands, resisting the urge to cry out her relief. To give her hands something to do, she smoothed back the loose strands of hair and tucked them behind her ears.
The sudden sound below froze her actions. Devona held her breath and listened. Silence. A rat. Or maybe an old tomcat prowling for his meal.Thump-thump.Hands trembling, she picked up the candle and fumbled to get the proper grip on the pistol. She had thought she had checked the entire house. She must have missed a storage room or root cellar or at the very least an accessible crawl space. Common sense told her to leave, but she refused to give in to her fears. Besides, it was just a cat; she was certain of it.
Retracing her steps to the back of the house, she rechecked the rooms. If there was an entry to a cellar, she would find it. She started in the kitchen. Nothing. She moved on to the pantry, then on to the dining room servery, which was a connecting hall more than anything else. The next door was the dining room. No, it would not be there.
Perplexed, Devona pivoted to recheck the pantry. One foot stepped into a bucket and it was enough to unbalance her. She pitched forward, reaching out to break her fall. The white cloth cover she grabbed puffed, then floated down to cover her after her cheek struck the floor. Stunned, she sat up. The candle, still lit, was burning an impressive brown hole into the cloth. Spit and flour! She picked up the candle and immediately slapped at the glowing edges with her hands. The last thing she needed was to set the house on fire.
A flash of light caught her peripheral vision and she shrieked at the sudden movement. The frozen figure stared back at her. She barely recognized her disheveled image. A mirror. The cloth she had pulled down on herself had covered a mirror. Her mind had accepted it, but her pounding heart would not ease. Pulling herself up, she set the candle on a wooden press so she could cover the mirror. Devona winced when she put her full weight on her ankle. It hurt, but it would not prevent her from getting out of this house. Picking up the covering, Devona limped to the mirror. She pulled the heavy frame toward her to secure the cloth in place. Her hand felt air instead of the wall she had expected. The mirror concealed a doorway.
It was impossible for her to lift a mirror that size. Maybe she could drag it. With the help of the covering and sheer willpower, she rotated the mirror 180 degrees until it rested against the wall. Swiping at the cobwebs sticking to her face, Devona reached for the candle. The light revealed another hall with two doors on each side. She tried the first door, expecting it to be locked. To her surprise, it twisted easily in her hand. She pushed the door. It creaked as it swung wide.
Holding the candle high, she stepped into the room. Her nose twitched at the terrible stale odor. It was some sort of storage room, she decided, walking around a large covered cupboard.
“Help.”
The weak plea raised the hairs on the back of her neck. Frantically she realized she had left the pistol on the floor in the servery. Fool! The candle lit an aura around her, making her an easy target for her new companion. He, however, was cloaked in the dark shadows of the room.
“Who’s there?” she sharply inquired.
“Here,” the disembodied voice beckoned.
As she stepped farther into the room, the light threw menacing shadows on the walls. There was rubbish everywhere, and the fetid smell was getting stronger. Putting her hand to her nose, she moved closer to the man. He was sitting on a bed, his head bowed. His greasy light brown hair gleamed in the light. She noticed his wrists were manacled and a heavy chain connected his arms and one cuffed leg to the bed. The man was chained like an animal and from the looks of him had been left to starve.
“Who did this to you?” she demanded.
Filthy and weak, the prisoner lifted his head and flinched at her weak candlelight.
Regardless, Devona would recognize the man in any condition. She staggered backward. “Oh no. It cannot be true. Doran.”
