The reluctant cavalier (27 page)

Geoffrey grinned. "You've become less tedious lately, and you know how I detest bores. As for your prospects, why, it's only this: I wouldn't wish the Duke of Stratton on a whore, much less your sweet Annabella. He's a worse man than I, and that makes for a bad man indeed." He rubbed his back and grimaced. "I think I shall wait a while before I try that bay of yours again."

Parsifal stopped and stared at him. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, don't be so precious. I'll admit you were right—I should not have tried the horse so soon."

"No—the duke. What do you mean he's a bad man?"

Geoffrey shrugged. "I don't expect you to believe me. Why should you? But for all his fine reputation, the man's laid with more whores than I can count. I hear he's turned to virgins now—when he can find 'em. Gave me a nasty turn the last time I visited Sally Hawkins—and don't look at me like that, you know I stay near home for my pleasure. I'm not that careless with my health, especially now that the duke's been at Sally's. But it stopped me dead when I recognized him there; you know his reputation—you'd think he'd been gelded, the way he's supposed to be so virtuous. But he isn't—far from it."

It was not more than most gentlemen did, Parsifal knew. He'd heard of men who had visited brothels, but who seemed upright and decent men in public. But a cold chill passed over him at his brother's words, nevertheless. "You can't be serious. And what do you mean, 'especially now the duke's been at Sally's'?"

Geoffrey frowned and kicked at a stone. "The French disease—the pox has put its stamp on him. Poor Sally. She didn't know how to refuse the man one of her girls—she likes to keep them healthy as she can. But she'd heard it from one of her friends, and it was true, or so one of her girls said. All he wants are virgins now, to cure himself of it." His expression grew cold and still. "And he's got no cause to love either of us brother, so beware. He nearly killed one girl when he found out she wasn't a virgin, and looked fit to kill me when I pulled him off her."

Parsifal stared at his brother, horror choking him. Surely Geoffrey was lying ... but there was no reason for him to do so, and though he'd been blunt and harsh, he had never been devious. Everything made sense now—the duke's watchfulness, the reports that he'd met with Sir Quentin— though Parsifal had discounted it, because of the man's spotless reputation.

"Once he finds out you're to marry Miss Smith," Geoffrey continued, "well, I'm just glad you've had her so well guarded. I'd watch your own back if I were—"

"Go get Lord Laughton, quickly!" Parsifal leaped upon the bay horse, and his fists clenched tightly on the reins before he loosened them. His mouth went dry with fear for Annabella, and his heart beat painfully. "He must go to Stratton's house—now!"

Geoffrey stared at him gape-jawed. "What the bloody—"

"Annabella has gone in his carriage—to tell him she'll not marry him. Now go, damn you!"

Parsifal dug his heels into the horse's flanks. The bay shot off into a gallop, fast, but not so fast as Parsifal's racing mind. He hoped he was right that the duke had taken Annabella to his house and not elsewhere. Where else but his house if he wished to keep his actions secret? A million images of Annabella struggling in the duke's diseased grasp flitted through his mind, and his stomach lurched. God, oh, God. He hoped the duke had not touched her; he hoped she was not hurt.

The wind blew at his face, almost taking his breath away, and he ducked his head low. The horse galloped faster at his movement, hooves pounding the ground as fast as Parsifal's own heartbeat. He took the short way, through the woods that bordered both their properties. He'd be coming up behind the house, and he believed it was better than demanding entrance. The duke's servants were known to be well trained, and if they were so well trained as to obey the duke utterly, they'd hardly give him access to the house. Parsifal grimaced. He'd hardly be any better off looking for her himself.

He could see the great house now, and he slowed, just at the edge of the woods, though his concern for Annabella made him want to dash out from the trees immediately. But he might well put her in more jeopardy if he did that; it would be best if he thought out what he needed to do. He could see the stables from where he stood, and various outbuildings surrounded them. If he was careful, it might be possible for him to go from one to another, fairly unseen. Clouds had gathered, making the afternoon dark, and he hoped it would help conceal him. For once he was glad he wore dull-colored clothing, close in hue to the trees and buildings. It had concealed him in the woods, and it would help conceal him here. He dismounted and tied the bay to a tree; well out of sight of the house.

Every nerve and sense were on edge as Parsifal moved from bush to tree, from tree to wall. He was next to the stables now, and though he could hear no voices within, he could hear the quiet "shush, shush" of a brush, as if someone was grooming a horse. He hoped there was only one man—he could hear nothing else within—and that he could find the needed information from him. He'd have to overpower him, and with any luck the man would know what happened to Annabella.

He slowly looked around the threshold of the stable and was relieved to find that the groom—it looked like one of Stratton's grooms—had his back to him as he brushed the horse in front of him. Parsifal crept carefully in, his feet making no more noise than they would in the woods.

The servant had only time to let out a breath of air before Parsifal twisted the groom's arm behind him and clamped his hand over the man's mouth.

"If you cry out, I will break it, be sure of it," Parsifal hissed. He hoped he would not have to, and it made him ill to think he might, but he made himself sound as fierce as possible. "Do you understand me?"

The man nodded slowly.

"No tricks. The magistrate will soon be here, and if you tell me what I want to know, I will let him know you had no part in it."

The groom's body stiffened, and he let out a sob beneath Parsifal's hand. Clearly, the man knew something ... perhaps something in which a magistrate would be keenly interested. Parsifal's stomach tightened with dread. Annabella must definitely be here, and this man no doubt at least suspected why.

"I will remove my hand, and you will tell me what the duke has done." He moved his hand down to the groom's throat. "And if you lie or cry out, you will certainly be the worse for it."

"Please, sir, I didn't do it... the duke only had me move the body—He was the one—Ah, God, he'll kill me if he knew I said anything about it."

Pain squeezed Parsifal's heart, and his vision dimmed. He shook his head to clear it. No. Not Annabella. Grief, hot and angry, made him clench his hands. He could hear the groom choking and realized he had squeezed the man's throat. He loosened his hand.

"
I
will kill you if you do not tell me. Where . . . where did he put her?"

The groom coughed, then said: "Her? You mean Miss Smith, not Sir Quentin? He—the duke—always puts the women—ladies—in the Yellow Room—it overlooks the stables, just above here, or so the maids tell me."

He had misunderstood—the groom had spoken of Sir Quentin and that it was
his
body he'd removed. Perhaps, perhaps it meant that Annabella was still alive.

"Is she alive, then?" he asked and closed his hand more firmly around the groom's throat.

The groom made a little groan of terror. "I... I don't know. She was but a short time ago. His—His Grace likes to take his time about his ... his business."

Nausea rose in Parsifal's throat. He could not delay any longer. Quickly, he spun the man around—Peters, it was, the head groom—and the man had only a moment to register surprise before Parsifal knocked him out with a left to the jaw.

"I am very sorry," he whispered to the unconscious man as he tied his kerchief over his mouth and bound his hands and legs with rope. "I regret hitting you, but you must admit I have more important things to which I must attend without possible interference from you." He
did
regret it, for clearly the groom was afraid of his master and was in fear for his own life. Who would believe a mere servant if he brought witness against the Duke of Stratton?

Parsifal crept out of the stable and looked about him. There was no sight or sound of any other servant. He looked up. There above him was the room Peters had spoken of... or, at least, one of those rooms. A tall oak tree reached almost to the window—it was a young tree, and the branches were not thick near the top. He was not certain if he could reach the right window—whichever one it was— without breaking a branch. He supposed he would soon find out.

He began to climb. A window was slightly open, just below one high branch. Perhaps that was where she was. He hoped so. He eyed the branch above and across the window. It was thin and not strong, though it was fairly close to the house, and would bend under his weight. If he managed to gather the slim branches above and below it, the combined strength of the branches might bear his weight quite well and make it possible for him to swing himself to the window and climb in. He'd done that once as a boy ... but he was not sure how well he could do it now. He shrugged. He'd just have to try, that was all.

Parsifal climbed a little more until he was directly in front of the window, lying on the branch. He looked up and felt almost dizzy with relief. A very feminine profile appeared framed in the window, and a slim white hand pushed the window open wider. Annabella—and she was alive!

A long length of white cloth tied in knots crept down the side of the building. Parsifal grinned. It was probably made from bedsheets—how resourceful of her! He hoped it was securely tied to something inside the room. He would have need of it.

Annabella looked up then, and he saw her turn pale and cover her mouth with her hand. He put a finger to his lips in a cautioning gesture. He did not want to risk their voices attracting any notice, in case there was anyone near. As he pointed to the makeshift rope, he mouthed the words: "What did you tie it to?"

She looked puzzled at first, then nodded her head. "The bedpost," she mouthed back.

"Is it firm?"

She nodded again and tugged at the bedsheet rope as proof. He smiled at her and gauged the distance between the branch and the windowsill. It was short enough, if he climbed to the branch above, and he prayed that if he grasped enough of the thin ones, they'd hold his weight well enough. Slowly, he crept up along the branch, trying to rustle the leaves as little as possible, then grasped the branches above and below the one he held. Carefully, he lowered himself so that he hung from them. He glanced at Annabella and saw she had put her hands over her mouth again, her face pale. He gave her a reassuring grin, then slowly began to swing backward and forward until he gained the momentum he needed.

Just as he gained the right height in his swing, he felt the branches cracking beneath his hands. He let go, hoping desperately that he'd timed it right. A broken neck would be
very
inconvenient right now.

A laugh escaped him at the brief exhilaration he felt as his feet met the window frame. Hands seized his shirt, and sweet lips met his, pulling him into the room. They parted, and he stared at Annabella's pale face and angry eyes.

"You stupid man! You could have been killed!" she hissed, her voice fierce. "Why did you not use the bed-sheets I put out of the window?"

"Hush!" He glanced at the chamber door. "I did
not know if the bedsheets were secure enough. A great deal of good it would have done if I had gone to all that time and trouble to climb down only to find that one tug brought your creation down upon me." He went to the bedpost upon which the sheets were tied and gave a sudden tug, then examined the other knots.

"You didn't trust me!"

Parsifal grinned at her. "Now I do. You tie a very good knot. Few people I know do. I'm glad you did this—it makes our escape all that much faster than without." He gave her a kiss and touched her cheek. She flinched from his hand and looked away.

He pushed aside the hair from the side of her face. A large bruise marred the skin below her ear, just above her jaw.

For one moment his vision dimmed, as if a red haze had come before his yes, and a hot rage choked him.

"He hit you."

Annabella looked at him, but said nothing. It was not necessary: her teeth biting her lower lip and the beginning of tears in her eyes told him it was true.

The heat within him faded, for ice had taken its place, and he wanted very much to kill the duke. He had never wanted to kill anyone before, but it was an oddly pleasant thing to think about right now.

"It does not matter, Parsifal." Annabella's voice cut into his thoughts, and he focused upon her again. "We must leave."

Another day, then. Another day he would hurt the duke as badly as he deserved, but for now they must escape this house. Parsifal nodded, and then peered out of the window. "Come. There is no one about, and we must hope that we will be undetected as we descend. You must go first, since I am not at all sure someone will not come through that door soon."

He could see the fear clearly in Annabella's eyes, and she nodded and went toward the window. But sudden footsteps outside the door made her freeze, and she stopped and stared at Parsifal.

"Hurry, go!" he said. "I will follow."

Quickly, she went to the window, sat upon the sill, and swung her legs over it. She took a firm grasp on the bed-sheet rope, and before she disappeared from his sight, she gave him one last smile.

Parsifal heard the door lock click, and he turned to see the door slowly open. It was too late to follow her. He took a deep breath and hoped that Geoffrey had sent for Lord Laughton.

Whatever happened, he would remember Annabella's smile, and for now, it would be enough.

Parsifal's reassuring smile was the last thing Annabella saw before she let herself down the bedsheet rope. She stared at the brick wall in front of her, determined not to look down. For one moment her hands shook on the cloth she held, and she stopped for a moment, but only a moment. She had to descend as quickly as she could, for Parsifal would follow, and she did not want to delay him.