A Rose at Midnight (27 page)

“I’m going after her, Tony.” Her voice brooked no arguments. “Tonight.”

“And how do you intend to find her?”

“Follow the road. I presume it will lead to Nicholas’s lodge eventually.”

“That, or to a bog. Listen to reason, Ellen.”

“I’m going.”

He cursed again. Not a polite
damn
or
hell,
but something vivid enough to bring bright color to her cheeks. Without a word he shrugged into his greatcoat, wrapped his muffler about his head, and kicked the door open, knocking the steps down into the rainy night. He sprang down, shuddering as the icy rain descended on his head, and held out his hand for Ellen. “Let’s go,” he said, having to raise his voice over the din of rain and wind.

She stepped down, eschewing his hand, and the storm hit her full force, knocking her backward slightly. He made no move to assist her, merely watching as she immediately became as wet as he was. “I’m not going to the farmhouse,” she warned.

He considered picking her up and tossing her over his shoulder. He could do it—she was a big woman, but he was a much bigger man, and he could handle her. In effect he had two choices. He could walk half a mile in a downpour, a large, angry woman struggling on his shoulder, or he could walk a mile with a determined young lady walking beside him. Since the bed and the meal that awaited him at Blackthorne’s estate would doubtless be far superior to the simple farmhouse fare, he decided he might as well give in with good grace. Besides, if he carted Ellen to the farmhouse, she was more than capable of taking off through a window and continuing her quest. Leaving him to follow in her wake.

“Danvers,” he said in a long-suffering voice, “you’d best take the horses back to the farmhouse and seek shelter for yourself. Her ladyship and I will continue on to Blackthorne’s.” He glared up at Ellen. “You’re a dangerous woman, you know that?” he said, doing his best to ignore the rain that trickled down the collar of his greatcoat. “Your cook had best be all she’s cracked up to be. I expect to be well fed when we get there.” He held out his arm, waiting for her to take it.

She did no such thing. She flung herself against him, her arms around his neck, and kissed him solidly, awkwardly, enthusiastically on his mouth. “Bless you, Tony. I knew I could count on you.” She released him before he could respond. Before he could discover whether they might generate a little body heat on this cold, wet night.

“I’m an absolute saint,” he grumbled, taking her arm in his. And together they set off into the water-logged darkness.

It was more than a mile. Not that Ellen was terrifically good at judging distances, but surely the endless misery of trudging through the icy rain, the mud soaking her boots and pulling at her, the wind whipping through her clothing until she thought her very bones might rattle together, surely that had to have lasted the length of a dozen hours. Tony’s arm was strong and sure beneath hers, steadying her when she wavered, hauling her upright when she tripped, half-supporting, half-dragging her through the icy hell. Why hadn’t Nicholas stolen Gilly away to Cornwall, where the sun always seemed to shine? Why hadn’t he carried her off to Portugal, to any place warm and summery?

She sneezed once, then again, but Tony didn’t slow his steady pace, and it was all she could do to keep up with him, her shorter legs moving at a swifter pace to match his long strides. Hot chocolate, she thought wistfully Or coffee, thick and sweet and black, the way only Ghislaine could make it. If she really had become Nicholas’s light-o’-love, she probably wouldn’t be cooking. That possibility didn’t bear thinking of, in terms of either Ellen’s stomach or Ghislaine’s soul.

“We should be there,” Tony muttered under his breath. “Where the hell could it be?”

Ellen cast a nervous glance up at him. His hat was pulled low over his head, obscuring his face, but she could well imagine the truly terrifying glower on his usually affable, handsome countenance. He hated her, she knew he did. And in faith, she didn’t blame him. “Do you suppose we took a wrong turn somewhere?” she suggested nervously, her voice barely audible.

“I have an excellent sense of direction,” Tony said flatly. “And according to my directions, we should be there. But there’s nothing here but an overgrown drive and a few abandoned buildings. There’s no sign of life anywhere.”

Ellen sneezed again. “I don’t know about you, Tony, but I need to get out of this rain. If any of these buildings possess a roof, I intend to get under it.”

She waited for him to remind her that it had been her own stupid idea that they come in search of the hunting lodge. He hesitated for a moment, and she steeled herself. “Come on, then,” he said instead, and within moments they were out of the rain, inside a tumble-down building that in the dark seemed scarcely more than a hovel.

She couldn’t see a thing, but fortunately Tony seemed blessed with better night vision, or at least unerring instinct. He took her cold, wet hand in his and led her through a maze of rooms, with gaping window frames letting in the storm, damaged roofs pouring rain down on their heads, until they finally found a measure of comfort and stillness in a small dark room at the back of the structure.

“Sit down,” he ordered her, his voice unnaturally loud in the sudden quiet. The sound of the storm was distant, muffled, and this section of roof held no leaks.

“Where?” she had the temerity to ask, rubbing her chilled hands together.

“There’s a bed behind you. Sit there, and wrap yourself in the covers while I see what I can do about a fire.”

“The chimney’s probably blocked,” she said, perching gingerly on the edge of the mattress she’d found by reaching around in the darkness.

“I doubt it. There are still coals.”

“You mean someone’s been here?”

“I’m afraid so. I don’t think our luck has held tonight, Ellen.” His voice sounded matter-of-fact in the darkness, and in a few moments a blaze of light billowed forth from the fireplace, dispelling some of the gloom. “Nice of them to have left some wood,” he muttered, dropping a few dry pieces onto the blaze before standing up. He looked at the mantelpiece and shook his head. “Our luck has definitely taken a turn for the worse,” he said, stripping off his hat and waterlogged greatcoat.

She was shivering, despite the quick burst of heat emanating from the fire. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, my dear, that this is the hunting lodge of the Blackthornes. There are no warm cozy rooms, no clean beds, no hot meals, and worst of all, no Nicholas Blackthorne or his hostage.”

“Are you certain?” She didn’t really doubt him, but the thought was almost too devastating to bear. All this way for nothing.

“Look at the coat of arms over the mantel. Do you read Latin? The motto of the Blackthornes is very simple:
Prospero.
‘I prosper.’ Not that Nicholas or his recent kin live up to that one, though I suppose it’s astonishing enough he’s lived this long.”

She wouldn’t cry. It didn’t matter that she was soaked to the bone, starving to death, and so cold she thought she might break apart. She’d dragged Tony out here; she certainly wouldn’t compound her crimes by crying.

He crossed the room and squatted down beside her, taking her numb hands in his. “Don’t look so distraught, lamb,” he said in his kindest voice. “We’ll find them. They can’t have been gone long.”

“You mean they were here?” She hadn’t even considered that possibility.

“I assume so. Who else would have been here recently enough to have left coals? Let me see if I can find any candle stubs around. Who knows, they might even have left us something to eat. In the meantime, why don’t you take off your cape and drape it near the fire? You’re going to want to dry it out before you wear it again.”

For a moment she didn’t move. Her hands were swallowed up in his large, warm ones, and his eyes were too kind. She wanted to fling herself against him, to absorb some of his warmth, some of his comfort. Instead she managed a shaky smile. “If you find something to eat,” she said in a soft voice, “I’ll be your slave for life.”

His eyes crinkled in a smile. “I’ll remember that promise.”

He disappeared into the next room while Ellen stripped off her cape, all the while taking stock of her surroundings. It was far from reassuring. The room was unprepossessing, with only a three-legged table, a couple of chairs, and a sagging rope bed for furnishings. There was an old carriage robe on the rough mattress, for which she thanked God. She didn’t care if it were infested with fleas, or even something worse. At least she’d find a semblance of warmth.

“We’re in luck,” Tony said as he came back in the room, his large frame throwing an even larger shadow against the wall. “There’s some stew in the bottom of a kettle, and a hunk of cheese. Best of all, I found this.” He held up a flask.

“Wine?” she asked in a rallying voice.

“Better still. Brandy. Take off your wet boots, Ellen. We’re not going anywhere for the next few hours.” He dropped down on the chair that held his steaming greatcoat and began removing his own muddy top boots.

“You don’t suggest we spend the night here?” she questioned, both aghast and not a little excited at the sheer impropriety of the notion.

“I certainly don’t suggest we go back out into the storm and retrace our footsteps, then travel an extra half-mile in this hellish weather. It’s cozy enough for the moment. Well take things as they come.”

“Tony, there’s only one bed,” she felt forced to point out.

“That’s all right, love,” he said cheerfully. “I trust you.”

She had to laugh. “At least no one is going to know about this,” she said, unfastening her damp boots and kicking them toward the fire. “Even if they did, they wouldn’t believe it of two sober creatures like ourselves.”

He glanced over at her. “I don’t know that you’re at all sober, Ellen Fitzwater. As a matter of fact, I think you’ve had a sadly debilitating effect on my sober nature. Too much time spent in your company and I’m becoming quite alarmingly madcap. Have some brandy.”

She glanced at the silver flask he held out to her, too bemused by his bantering tone to quite remember that drinking brandy was definitely not the thing. She’d had some once before, with Gilly, and she’d gotten so silly that her friend had informed her with some severity that she had no head for spirits and should avoid them at all costs. She reached for the flask.

“I shouldn’t be drinking this,” she said, still hesitating.

“There’s nothing better for a chill,” he said. “Don’t worry—if you drink too much you’ll simply fall asleep. Nothing shocking in that.”

It seemed to her that her previous excursion into the world of spirits had involved a great deal of giggling, a fair amount of dizziness, and even a surfeit of tears. At least she hadn’t cast up her accounts. If she was spared that ignominious complication, then she could certainly take just a sip or two with equanimity. After all, Tony had heard her giggle before.

It burned all the way down her throat, forming a nice warm pool in her stomach, spreading out her limbs and then back up into her brain. “It’s very nice,” she said politely, tipping back the flask to take another solid gulp. She cast a surreptitious glance at Tony, wondering if he was going to warn her about the dangers of imbibing excessive brandy. He didn’t make a move, merely watched her from his seat nearby, an unreadable expression on his handsome face.

So be it, she thought, taking a third gulp. “Are you certain you don’t want any?” she asked politely.

“Were you planning on drinking it all?” he countered lazily.

“I was considering it.” She said it with some dignity. It seemed to her that dignity was called for. She was sitting on a bed out in the middle of nowhere, her stockinged feet curled up underneath her, her hair tumbling down around her shoulders, and no respectable person in sight, except, of course, for the very respectable Sir Antony Wilton-Greening. She told him so.

“I can’t imagine why you keep informing me how staid and respectable I am,” he murmured, not the slightest bit incensed by the thought. “You’ve gone out of your way to mention it to me on several occasions. Why?”

Ellen was feeling very warm indeed. Her bright silk gown was a demure enough affair, with tiny buttons reaching up to her neck. She unfastened the first two, stretching her long legs out on the bed. “Don’t you think you’re respectable?”

“Not particularly. A trifle set in my ways, but they are my ways, not society’s. I do what I please.” He leaned back in his chair, watching her out of faintly hooded eyes.

“I wish I could,” she said mournfully, taking another sip of the delightful brandy before reaching for her hair. Since it was already escaping its pins, she might as well let it down completely. After all, she had no witness but Tony, and he certainly wouldn’t care. “Would you?”

“Would I what?”

“Care if I let my hair down.” She was already intent on doing so, an intricate enough affair to manage with one hand, while the other held on to the flask. Binnie had used an inordinate amount of pins that morning, causing Ellen to suffer the headache through most of the day. One more pin, and her hair was free, falling over her shoulders in a silken wave.

“Not at all,” Tony said politely. “Where did you put the hairpins?”

“In the bed.”

“I was afraid of that. I imagine Miss Binnerston has put a curse on them. If I forget myself in my sleep and offer you an insult, they’ll probably come to life and attack me.”

Ellen giggled. “I doubt it.”

“Doubt what?”

“Either. That you’ll offer me an insult or that they’ll come to life. I’m completely safe with you,” she said happily, sliding down into the sagging bed, the flask of brandy still clutched in one hand.

He rose then, crossing the room to look down at her, and his face was in shadows, unreadable. She could imagine his expression. Benign, tolerant, parental. “I think you’ve had enough of this,” he said, plucking the brandy bottle from her hand. “I have never seen anyone get quite so drunk quite so fast.”

Ellen giggled. “Shameful.”

“I disagree,” he murmured, kneeling down by the bed, and his face swam into her vision. “You’re quite, quite shameless.”