The reluctant cavalier (28 page)

She glanced up, expecting him to be watching her, but he was not there. Surely, he would come soon—she was almost halfway down. But when her feet reached the ground, she looked at the window above and did not see him. Why did he not come?

There was something wrong. She felt dizzy with fear, as if a fever had suddenly seized her, and her mind refused at first to work. No, surely Parsifal would look over the window now, and he would quickly descend in the same agile way he had climbed the tree. But though she willed the image of him in front of her, it faded, and there was nothing but the bedsheet rope hanging from the window.

She felt herself running, her heart pounding in time with her feet upon the hard ground. It was as if her heart led and her body followed of its own accord, for all she could think was that Parsifal had not come down, that he was in danger, and that she might never see him if she did not go to him now.

But the ache in her feet made her slow down, and as she took a deep breath, her mind became sharp and she looked about her. She was at a side door of the house, and her hand was upon the latch, pulling it. She did not remember quite how she came here—she had just run blindly. An image of Parsifal grinning and testing the bedsheet rope came to her. She could not afford to do anything foolish, not now, not when Parsifal needed her help. It was important to be careful, however impatient or afraid she might feel, and she needed to arm herself.

Annabella smoothed back her hair and dress and straightened her shoulders. When she opened the door, she saw she was in the kitchens. A white-capped maid gave a startled shriek, but Annabella made herself smile and held up her hand.

"I am sorry to have startled you. I was taking a walk about the grounds and lost my way. Could you tell me how I might find my way to the—the Yellow Room again? I need to tidy myself before I have dinner with His Grace, the duke." She hoped the maid would know which room she was talking of; for all she knew there were dozens of yellow rooms in the house.

The maid looked relieved. "Yes, miss. 'Tis out this door and across the Great Hall, and then up the staircase to the right. You'll go past the drawing room, and then it's the third door down from it, on the left. Would you like me to take you there, or find Mr. Simms, the butler, miss?"

Annabella looked at the maid, whose arms were white to the elbows with flour, and shook her head. "No, you have explained it well enough, and I do not want to interrupt your work."

The maid smiled gratefully and bobbed a curtsey, then returned to her work as Annabella left the kitchen.

She saw only a handful of servants in the house, and only a few of them looked at her. For the most part, they kept their eyes downcast, intent on their work. She made herself smile confidently at them if they looked at her, though her stomach ached with fear. She hoped none of them were aware of the duke's plans for her, or that she had been brought here unwillingly. There had been only the duke's groom who had seen her when she arrived. But she could not allow anyone to see her afraid; they must not think her presence here was for any other purpose than as the duke's ... "guest," would be the most polite word to use.

She did not know how it was, but as she hurried through the well-lighted rooms and glanced at the rich draperies and beautiful furniture, she could not help thinking the house was somehow drab and cold despite its luxury. All was in order, the chairs and tables placed precisely, and everything cleaned to perfection. It was not like Wentworth Abbey, which was just as well-apportioned, but seemed full of warmth and rich with the color of... flowers. There were no flowers in the duke's house.

A door stood ajar, and Annabella glanced within—this must be the drawing room, and meant she was almost to the Yellow Room, where Parsifal was—oh, she hoped he was still there! She began to walk past the drawing room, then stopped. What was she to do, once she arrived?

She did not know. If the duke was there, there was little she could do. He was much taller and stronger than she, and she could not overpower him—a ridiculous thought! And for all she knew, he might have a weapon of some sort. Her hands went to her stomach. She felt ill again with fear. . . but she would not allow it. It would help neither her nor Parsifal if she became ill.

Sunlight streamed weakly into the hall from the bright drawing room and gleamed on the well-polished decorations in the room. They caught the eye with their brilliance, and Annabella stared at the drawing-room hearth, trying to think of what she must do. Hurry, hurry, said her heart, and her mind flickered wildly in response. She must find some weapon ...

Her gaze fell on the poker standing next to the fireplace. She ran to it and picked it up. It was heavy, but she could lift it, and her skirts were full enough to hide the poker within' the folds if anyone saw her.

Annabella ran as quickly as she could to the room the maid had directed her to. The door was slightly ajar, and she could hear voices within. She crept close.

"One way or another, I shall have her, you know," the duke was saying in a pleasant, conversational tone. She peered within. The duke stood with his back to her, and she saw Parsifal facing him, near the window. Annabella felt ill again. The duke sounded as if he were making an amiable call upon a friend.

"You do not speak," the duke continued. "No matter. I do not usually make conversation with intruders."

Why did not Parsifal try to escape him, or attack him? She pushed the door open, slowly, soundlessly. It was a good thing the duke kept his house so well ordered and his door hinges so well oiled, she thought, and almost let out a hysterical giggle. She put her hand tight against her mouth, and the hysteria she pushed down made her fell ill again. She hoped that Parsifal would not betray surprise when he saw her.

The duke stood, one hand on his hip. The other held a pistol. Annabella's mouth went dry. She was not at all sure she could hit him well enough to disable him—and what if the gun shot Parsifal when she tried? She moved from behind the duke and pulled the poker from amongst her skirts.

For one moment Parsifal's gazed flickered to her, then moved quickly to the other side of the duke. He looked as if he were looking for some escape, and she would almost have thought he had not seen her, except that she knew she was in plain sight of Parsifal. A grim look was on his face, still and cold. His hands clenched briefly, then opened again, his fingers slightly curled and stiff. His dark hair had come loose from his queue, and it framed his face in a shaggy mane; and his eyes when he had glanced at her were hot with anger, gold now, not hazel. A feral creature, Annabella thought, ready to spring upon prey.

The duke chuckled. "You will not escape here alive, you know. Trespassers and poachers on my grounds have, on occasion, been shot. Perhaps
I shall have you left in the woods for someone to find, and if questioned, I shall say
what a pity it is that you dressed as shabbily as a common thief, and how sorry I am that you were mistaken for one and killed."

Perhaps it was the cold fury that had descended upon Parsifal, a frozen storm of anger that cooled his mind into a sharp, tingling awareness of everything around him. He looked at the duke, at his emotionless eyes and smiling mouth, and hated him as he never hated anyone in his life. His hatred was a wolf in winter, a thing that made his mind sharp and hungry for ways to escape or kill.

He stared steadily at the duke, but his eyes took in everything around him: the gun in the duke's hand, the amount of space between them, and Annabella clearly frightened but watchful and silent behind him. Parsifal had wanted to groan when she appeared from behind the duke. But there had been a determined look about her set chin, and she had brought out the poker from behind her, and a fierce exhilarated pride for her courage rose instead. She had given him a chance at escape, and he would take it.

He watched the duke carefully and saw the man's other hand tremble slightly on his hip. Was the duke afraid? He looked into the man's empty eyes again and decided not. Perhaps it was the disease that made Stratton's hand shake so. Parsifal had heard that it affected the functioning of the limbs after a while.

"If we are to speak of trespassers, Your Grace," Parsifal said, "what am I to think of how you trespassed at Wentworth Abbey and deposited Sir Quentin's body in my garden?" He shifted his feet. The duke's body tensed slightly, and Parsifal stilled himself.

"You know of that, do you?" Stratton frowned. "I had Peters do it, if you must know. Sir Quentin bled too much when I killed him, and I do not like blood like that. It might have touched me, and it would have been an unclean thing from such a depraved man."

He is mad, Parsifal thought. There is no telling what he will do. "I suppose I should have kept my garden locked," he said, making his voice conversational. "I do not care much for blood, myself, you see." God, what an insane conversation! But perhaps it would keep the duke talking until he saw a way to escape without getting killed.

An interested light came into the duke's eyes. "You do not like it either? I have had some engrossing thoughts upon the properties of blood—tainted and untainted."

Parsifal met Annabella's eyes, and she lifted the poker slightly, as if suggesting that she hit the duke now. Parsifal gazed at the duke and saw how the pistol was trained quite steadily upon him. He turned his head slightly in negation, and she lowered the poker.

"How . . . interesting," Parsifal murmured politely. "I imagine Sir Quentin's blood was quite tainted?" The duke held the pistol in his right hand, and he was sure Annabella would swing from that side also, since she held the poker to her right when she raised it.

"Of course it was," the duke said, his voice scornful. "He was a depraved and evil man. I could tell from his actions."

"Ah, yes," Parsifal replied. "Certainly his character was obvious to me when he attacked first Miss Smith and then Lady Smith at the masquerades."

"Of course. I could not allow myself to seduce Miss Smith, you see, so I had Sir Quentin do it, just in case she was impure."

Anger threatened to heat the cold watchfulness of Parsifal's mind, but he tamped it down. "Oh?" he said, hoping that his voice sounded interested instead of on the edge of rage. "I imagine if she proved impure, you would not want to mix your blood with hers—in marriage, that is?"

"Exactly!" A slightly pleased look entered the duke's eyes, and his gaze upon Parsifal was almost approving. "You see, it is important to me to keep my line pure—there must be no tainted blood in it."

Parsifal watched the duke's hand relax slightly on the pistol. There would be only an instant between the moment the duke pulled the trigger and when the gun fired, and if Stratton let down his guard, it would take that much more time for him to lift it and shoot. It might, however, be enough time for Parsifal to dodge the bullet, especially if Annabella struck the duke. He hoped that the pistol was of the highly expensive, accurate variety, for then he could predict the direction in which the gun would shoot. But he could not be sure of that; it could very well shoot to the left or high.

"A sad thing if the Stratton family should have tainted blood, certainly," Parsifal said. "You truly do not know what a burden it is to have wildness in the family."

The duke nodded almost sympathetically. "A trial, I am sure. Which is why I eventually found it convenient for Miss Smith to stay at your house, as it turned out. How better to see if she were truly tainted than if she were to be amongst those who were tainted as well? Like attracts like, you know. If she was repulsed, then I would know she was pure. If she were not, then she was impure. I watched her carefully. Do you see how simple it is?"

"You followed her, you mean."

"As best as I could. But she is a sly thing and escaped me from time to time." The duke frowned, his gaze inquiring. "But you, Mr. Wentworth. You puzzle me. Are you pure, or impure? I would think, with the reputation your family has that you would be as tainted as your brother. And yet, I have heard nothing disreputable about you, and I have always paid strict attention to your family's habits."

The damned gun still held steady. He wondered how long this deranged conversation would go on before the duke would lower it even the slightest. Parsifal let his gaze drop modestly, though he kept his eyes on the pistol.

"You, er, embarrass me, Your Grace. This is hardly something that is appropriate for discussion between neighbors." And
not
something he wished to discuss in front of Annabella, who was looking at him with raised eyebrows, clearly curious about it.

"I know, I know," the duke replied and waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. "But your answer is a deciding factor in whether I will kill you now or later." The hand holding the pistol lowered a little. "So, Mr. Wentworth, tell me: have you had sexual congress with Miss Smith or any other woman?"

A mix of anger, insult, and embarrassment made Parsifal look the duke in the eyes. The gun was as low as it was going to be, and he could wait no longer.

"It is none of your business."

"In which case, I will kill you now." And the duke's hand tightened and lifted the pistol.

"Bella!" shouted Parsifal as he dove for Stratton's knees. Annabella swung the poker, which hit the duke hard on the shoulder—it was enough. The shot rang loud in the room, and a searing pain scored Parsifal's left arm. The duke tumbled to the floor, but the pain in Parsifal's arm slowed him and gained the duke enough time to rise to his feet. Parsifal looked up to see an avid smile on the man's face when he turned toward Annabella, the butt of his pistol raised to strike. The pistol fell from his hand instead; Annabella had struck the duke again. Parsifal rolled away, gasping at the pain in his arm. He rose to his feet in spite of it and seized the duke.

For one moment there was fear in the duke's eyes, and Parsifal was glad. His fist shot forward, connected with Stratton's jaw, and the duke fell unconscious to the floor. Parsifal stared at the fallen man and wished he were still conscious, for he could not bloody the man's nose when he was down. He breathed heavily, feeling a little dizzy, and put out his hand to gain some equilibrium.