Page 53 of The Lady's Guide to Marrying a Viscount
Geneviève didn’t need anyone else. She was in love with him.
And yet, Mallon couldn’t help but worry.
Taking the stairs double-quick, he laid his hand on the doorknob to the drawing room. He’d just pop his head in. The main business would be over by now, wouldn’t it? He might offer Hugo his shoulder or a word of advice. Whatever was needed.
He turned the handle, only to find that the door wouldn’t open. Someone had locked it. Someone didn’t want him to come in—or anyone else.
The muscles in his neck tensed. There was nothing to be concerned about, was there? No need to check up on them? Mallon merely wished to know how things were going…and it was somewhat galling to be locked out. He held his ear to the door but could hear nothing beyond the murmur of voices. That was something, at least. A fellow couldn’t get up to much while maintaining a steady conversation.
He considered, briefly, going outside to peer through the window but chastised himself immediately. He was turning over a new leaf, allowing himself to give his trust. Without that, what sort of man would he be?
Nevertheless, he could do with some air. It might calm his nerves and stop him from dwelling on these wayward thoughts.
It was damnablycold with a fine sleet falling, and Mallon immediately regretted not having grabbed his coat. All those years in the Arabias had made him soft! These moorland winters would take some getting used to again.
He’d take a turn about the immediate grounds. As long as he walked briskly, he’d avoid becoming too chilled.
With breath pluming, Mallon came around the corner and was surprised tosee the butler’s shuffling form disappearing into the stables. Following the social whirl of the past few days, Marguerite had given most of the staff a few hours off before they began preparations for the caroling of Christmas Eve and the lighting of the Yule Log.
It seemed most strange that Withers would spend that precious time outside in the cold. Mallon could think of no reason for him to be frequenting horse boxes. Was the old chap losing his marbles, wandering about without knowing what he was doing? If Withers was off his rocker, Mallon would need to intervene before he hurt himself.
Entering the stables, Mallon was relieved at how much warmer it was. Horses were hot-blooded beasties, and the boxes were well insulated against the winter bite. As Mallon walked further in, six equine faces popped into view, looking for a nose rub or a carrot, or anything else that might be on offer.
Perhaps Withers wasn’t so mad. There were worse places to run off to, after all. Mallon made a mental note to retreat out here next time he was feeling exasperated or if he needed to escape one of Marguerite’s tea parties.
Strangely, Withers was nowhere to be seen. Mallon checked each stall and found no sign. However, approaching the far end, he noticed the rungs of the hayloft ladder were mud-smeared and slightly wet. Someone had been climbing up, and very recently.
Mallon stared into the gaping recess above.
He thought he heard a voice.Two voices.
“Anyone there?” Mallon’s call was met with silence,though the horses turned to look at him, wondering what he was about.
Surely Withers wasn’t hiding up there! Would he even be able to manage the ladder? The man seemed hardly able to walk.
Still, Mallon was sure he’d heard something… and the only way to find out was to climb the ladder himself and take a look.
Reaching the top, he peered through the darkness.
Indeed, he’d been right. There was someone. Looking back at him was Withers—his expression filled with fear—and, next to him, another Withers, except the second looked as if he’d been to the devil and back, so gaunt and ghastly was he.
“Silas?” Mallon felt his stomach drop.
Has he been here all this time?Dear Lord, the man looks fit to drop.
“Come along now,” Mallon called through the gloom. “It’s going to be fine. I’m going to help.”
The second face leaned forward, and its owner began crawling toward the light. His voice was rougher around the edges than that of his brother, in the way a man’s voice might become if he’d failed to use it a great deal. Hoarse, too, as if fighting past a lump in his throat. “Master Mallon?”
As Silas reached him, Mallon extended his hand. Questions would come later. For the moment, only reassurance was needed. Mallon squeezed Silas’ fingers.
“I’ve got you,” he said simply.
All thoughts of Hugo,and even of Geneviève, vanished as Mallon helped Withers and his brother descend from the hayloft.
It seemed incredible. Silas was alive!
His face had been among those that had haunted Mallon through the years. He’d suffered under the cold hand of the late viscount, just as Mallon had—but with far more horrifying consequences. Mallon had been powerless to act all those years ago, but mightn’t he have stirred himself to Silas’s defense before now? Had it really taken his father’s death to bring him home? The knowledge shamed Mallon. In too many ways, he’d taken the easy path.
