Adrian hadn’t realized until later that Duvalier’s disappearance had been a blessing. If Duvalier had witnessed him kissing Caroline with such undeniable passion, it might have spoiled all of their plans.
“I’m afraid we haven’t much choice but to leave London as soon as possible,” Adrian said grimly. “Duvalier wasn’t the only one at Vauxhall tonight. Larkin is growing more persistent. If I don’t throw him off our scent, we’re both going to end up in Newgate before the ball. And I don’t have to tell you what a disaster that would be.” He ran a weary hand over his jaw. “I have business to tend to in Wiltshire as well. I received word from Wilbury this morning. Someone—or something—has been terrorizing the villagers and slaughtering livestock in Nettlesham,” he said, referring to a small village near their home.
“It wasn’t me,” Julian quipped. “I never have developed a taste for mutton.” He averted his eyes, but not before Adrian could glimpse the shadow of doubt in them. “I know how difficult this must be for you. But you won’t give up on me, will you?” he asked, keeping his voice light to hide the cost of the question.
Adrian crossed to the stairs. Although his first inclination was to rumple his brother’s dark curls, he rested a hand on Julian’s shoulder, squeezing gently until Julian was forced to meet his gaze. “I’ll never give up, Jules. Not on you. And God help anyone who tries to stand in my way.”
Julian lifted one eyebrow. “Including Miss Caroline Cabot?”
Ignoring a keen stab of regret, Adrian replied, “Especially Miss Caroline Cabot.”
Chapter Nine
Rain lashed against the plate glass windows of the coach, obscuring everything but Caroline’s pensive reflection. She strained her eyes, trying to catch a glimpse of the passing countryside of Wiltshire, but it was no use. What the rain didn’t veil, the night did.
Lightning flashed, flooding the landscape with preternatural daylight and dazzling her unprepared eyes. For one startled blink she would have almost sworn she glimpsed a hulking shape galloping along beside the coach. Then the darkness descended once again, leaving her with only her startled reflection.
Unsettled, she drew the mahogany shutters over the window and settled back against the Morocco sleeping cushions. The viscount’s handsome coach didn’t smell of cheap perfume and stale cigars, but of leather and bay rum and some indefinable masculine presence. The gleaming brass trim and the frosted globes of the coach lamps perfectly complemented the restrained elegance of its interior.
Portia was curled up in the seat opposite her, with her head sprawled on Vivienne’s shoulder, lulled to sleep by the cozy drumming of the rain on the coach’s roof and the gentle swaying of the well-sprung vehicle.
At least she and her sisters were warm and dry. Caroline could only imagine how miserable the coachman and outriders must be. The rain had been falling steadily since the viscount’s carriage had arrived at Aunt Marietta’s doorstep to collect them early that afternoon. To Vivienne’s disappointment and Caroline’s keen relief, Kane had departed for Wiltshire a day earlier to prepare the servants for their arrival.
They’d stopped to change horses twice and had to wade through the ankle-deep muck of a coaching inn courtyard just to warm themselves before a smoky fire with a cup of tea. At this rate of travel, they probably wouldn’t reach Trevelyan Castle before midnight.
Perhaps their host had planned it that way.
Caroline shook off the ridiculous notion. Adrian Kane might exude authority from his every pore, but surely his influence didn’t extend to control of the weather.
She glanced over at Vivienne, who was patiently stitching a needlework sampler by the dim light of the coach lamps. This might be her only opportunity to find out just how strong a claim Kane had on her sister’s heart. Portia’s mouth had fallen open and her even breathing had deepened to snores.
“You must be looking forward to our visit and the viscount’s ball,” Caroline tentatively began.
“Oh, very much.” Vivienne drew the needle through the fabric without even bothering to look up.
Caroline puffed out a sigh. Coaxing information from Vivienne could be as maddening as getting Portia to stop blurting out every thought that popped into her head. “Lord Trevelyan seems to be quite taken with you.”
A demure smile curved her sister’s lips. “Then I should consider myself fortunate, should I not? He’s everything a girl should want in a suitor—courteous, intelligent, well-spoken, kind.”
A marvelous kisser.
Caroline bit her lip, feeling a sharp pang of guilt as she remembered the persuasive heat of Kane’s mouth on hers.
She stole another glance at Portia to make sure her little sister wasn’t peeking through her eyelashes. “So tell me, Vivienne—I can’t help but be curious—in all the time you’ve spent together, has the viscount ever tried to take any…um…untoward liberties?”
Vivienne finally lifted her gaze from the sampler. A flush seeped into her cheeks, a startling contrast to the white rose tucked behind her ear. She leaned forward, earning a tiny snort of protest from Portia as her sister’s head lolled back on the cushions.
Oh, no, here it comes, Caroline thought. She was about to learn that Kane spent all of his free time kissing inexperienced young women insensible.
“Once,” Vivienne confided in a near whisper, her blue eyes enormous, “when we were disembarking from his carriage, I stumbled and Lord Trevelyan rested his hand on the small of my back to steady me. Given the circumstances, I felt I had no choice but to forgive him for the indiscretion.”
Flooded with an emotion that felt dangerously like relief, Caroline snapped her gaping mouth shut. “That was very magnanimous of you.” She chose her next words with even more care. “Has he ever spoken to you of any previous romantic entanglements?”
Vivienne looked taken aback. “I should say not! He’s far too much of a gentleman.”
Caroline was wracking her brain for a less inflammatory question when she noticed a glint of gold. She leaned forward and tugged at the chain encircling her sister’s throat. A delicate cameo of a woman’s profile framed in a lacework of gold emerged from Vivienne’s bodice. Caroline studied it, puzzled. When he had evicted them from the main house, Cousin Cecil had laid claim to all of their genuine jewels—even the pearl earrings Caroline’s papa had given her on her sixteenth birthday. Since then the girls had worn nothing but paste.
“This is a lovely piece,” Caroline said, turning it toward one of the carriage lamps. “I’ve never seen you wear it before. Was it in the trunk from home?”
Vivienne lowered her eyes, looking as guilty as Caroline had felt when she remembered the viscount’s kiss. “If you must know, it was a gift from Lord Trevelyan. I was afraid to tell Aunt Marietta for fear she would make me return it.” She lifted her beseeching eyes to Caroline’s face. “Please don’t scold! I know it’s improper to accept such a personal trinket from a gentleman, but he seemed so pleased when I agreed to wear it. He’s a very generous man.”
“Indeed he is,” Caroline murmured. She frowned at the cameo, her gaze drawn to the ivory gleam of the woman’s long, elegant throat.
A sharp crack of thunder sounded, jolting Portia awake. The cameo slipped from Caroline’s fingers. Vivienne quickly dropped it down the bodice of her gown, where it would be safe from other prying eyes.
“Whazzit?” Portia muttered. Rubbing her eyes, she peered around hopefully. “Was that gunfire? Have we been set upon by highwaymen? Are we going to be abducted and ravished?”
“I’m afraid not, pet,” Caroline replied. “We’ll have to save that adventure for another time.”
Portia yawned and stretched, nearly poking Vivienne in the eye. “I’m starving. Did you save any of those little iced tea cakes from the last inn?” As she bent down to fumble for the brocaded valise sitting at Caroline’s feet, Caroline swept it out of her reach.
Portia straightened, giving her a wounded look. “There’s no need to be so selfish, Caro.
I wasn’t going to eat them all.”
“I do believe we’re stopping,” Vivienne said as the coach’s rocking slowed. “Do you think we’ve arrived?”
Grateful for the diversion, Caroline rested the valise carefully on the seat beside her. “I should hope so. If we travel much farther, we’ll drive right into the River Avon.”
Vivienne’s question was answered when a liveried footman swept open the coach door and said, “Welcome to sunny Wiltshire!”
No one could question the man’s sense of irony. Rain still spilled from the sky in wind-driven gusts, its uneven patter accompanied by sullen growls of thunder.
Suddenly reluctant to abandon the cozy haven of the coach, the sisters spent an inordinate amount of time gathering up gloves and adjusting the hoods of their cloaks. When there was nothing left to collect, Caroline descended from the coach, clutching the valise beneath her arm.
A second footman hastened forward to take it from her. “No, thank you! I can manage!” she shouted over the howling of the wind. At least she hoped it was the wind.
As Portia and Vivienne descended behind her, Trevelyan Castle loomed up out of the darkness. The towering fortress of weathered stone might be modest by the standards of Wiltshire’s more famous castles, but it hadn’t been allowed to fall into ruins like nearby Old Wardour Castle. Numerous renovations throughout the centuries had cunningly blended the medieval, the Renaissance, and the Gothic. The castle boasted all of the gargoyles and flying buttresses the viscount’s town house had lacked. It also looked quite capable of sporting a fully equipped dungeon, complete with manacles and iron maiden.
As Caroline lifted her gaze to the ramparts to watch a stream of rain pour between a snarling gargoyle’s jagged teeth, foreboding seized her. What if she’d made a terrible miscalculation in bringing her sisters here? One that couldn’t be corrected by re-adding the numbers in a ledger?
Before she could order them back into the coach and demand that the driver make a mad dash for London, the castle’s iron-banded oak door swung open and they were ushered inside.
They stood dripping on the flagstones in a massive entrance hall. A centuries-old chill seemed to permeate the air, making Caroline shiver. A mounted stag’s head glared down at them from the far wall, a feral gleam in its glassy eyes.
Portia tucked her small hand into Caroline’s before whispering, “I’ve always heard a house should reflect its master’s personality.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Caroline whispered back, eyeing the ancient tapestries with their vivid scenes of bloodletting and mayhem.
Some depicted ancient battles in all of their violent splendor while others glorified the savagery of the hunt. In the tapestry nearest to Caroline, a snarling hound was leaping up to tear out the throat of a graceful doe.
Even Vivienne looked a little doubtful when she peered around and said, “I’m sure it will be quite lovely by daylight.”
They all jumped as a butler with a slightly hunched back and a startling shock of white hair emerged from the shadows, gripping a candlestick in his gnarled hand. He was so old Caroline could hear his bones creak and pop as he shuffled toward them.
“Good evening, ladies,” he intoned, his voice nearly as rusty as the ancient suit of armor lurking in the alcove to Caroline’s right. “I gather you would be the sisters Cabot. We’ve been expecting you. I trust you had a pleasant journey?”
“Simply divine,” Portia lied, bobbing a sprightly curtsy.
“My name is Wilbury and I’ll be at your service during your stay at the castle. I’m sure you’re more than eager to be out of your damp things. If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to your chambers.”
The butler turned to shuffle toward the broad stone staircase that led upward into darkness, but Caroline stood her ground. “Pardon me, sir, but where is Lord Trevelyan? I had hoped he would be here to greet us when we arrived.”
Wilbury turned to give her a withering look from beneath his snowy white brows. Long stray hairs poked out from their bushy depths like a cat’s whiskers. “The master is out.”
Caroline stole a glance at the enormous arched window over the door just as a jagged fork of lightning split the sky and a fresh gust of wind rattled its panes.
“Out?” she echoed dubiously. “In this?”
“The master has a very vigorous constitution,” he intoned, looking insulted that she would dare suggest otherwise. Without another word, he started up the stairs.
Vivienne made a move to follow, but Caroline touched a hand to her sister’s arm, staying her. “What about Master Julian? Is he also out?”
Wilbury turned again, heaving such an exaggerated sigh that Caroline almost expected to see a puff of dust emerge from the creaking bellows of his lungs. “Young Master Julian won’t be arriving until tomorrow night.” Portia’s face fell. “Unless you’d care to stand here in the entrance hall and wait for his arrival, I suggest you accompany me.”
Caroline’s gaze followed the shuffling path of the butler to the first landing. She supposed he was right. Unless they wanted to stand there all night, shivering in their wet cloaks and awaiting the onset of lung fever, they had no choice but to follow him into the shadows.
Wilbury left Portia and Vivienne nestled in adjoining chambers on the second floor. By the time Caroline had followed the wavering light of his candle up three more long flights of winding stairs, her legs had begun to ache and her spirits to sink. The stairs finally ended in a narrow door. Apparently, Kane planned to punish her for imposing upon his hospitality by banishing her to some airless attic even more devoid of charm than Aunt Marietta’s.
As the butler swept open the door, she braced herself for the worst.
Her jaw dropped. “There must be some sort of mistake,” she protested. “Perhaps this room was intended for my sister Vivienne.”
“My master doesn’t make mistakes. Nor do I. His instructions were quite explicit.” Wilbury deepened his voice to a creditable impersonation of Adrian Kane. “‘Miss Caroline Cabot is to be housed in the north tower.’ You are Miss Caroline Cabot, are you not?” He squinted down his blue-veined nose at her. “You don’t seem to have the shifty air of an imposter.”
“Of course I’m not an imposter,” she retorted, taken aback. It was impossible to tell if the twinkle in the butler’s eye stemmed from mischief or malice. “I just wasn’t expecting…this.” Caroline waved a hand at the chamber before them.
While her sisters’ accommodations had been both cozy and charming, they bore little resemblance to this opulent nest situated at the very peak of the castle.
A fire crackled on a hearth framed by a mantelpiece of dove marble, its cheery glow reflected in the leaded glass of the mullioned windows. Slender wax tapers in iron sconces ringed the circular room. The stone walls had been whitewashed and painted with a border of entwining ivy. A towering four-poster dominated one wall, its graceful canopy draped in hangings of sapphire silk.
As Wilbury took his leave, promising to send a footman with her trunk and a maid to assist with her evening toilette, Caroline ventured into the chamber, still clutching her faded valise. Beneath one of the windows a ceramic wash basin and a pitcher of steaming water sat on a half-moon table inlaid with satinwood. An overstuffed wing chair had been drawn up before the hearth, where a tray of meat and cheese rested. An emerald dressing gown of cut velvet had been draped across the bed, inviting her to peel off her chill, wet garments and slip into its seductive warmth.
No comfort for the weary traveler had been spared. Every aspect of the chamber had been designed to make its occupant feel both welcomed and cherished—a sensation Caroline hadn’t enjoyed since her parents died.
Her gaze wandered to the pair of French doors on the opposite side of the room. After tucking the valise safely beneath the bed, she pried one of the candles from its sconce and moved to unbolt the doors. Just as she’d suspected, they opened onto a rain-drenched stone balcony. Although the river was nowhere in sight
, the gusting wind carried a hint of its metallic tang.
Her gaze searched the cloud-tossed sky. Was Kane out there somewhere, all alone and drenched to the skin? And if so, what desperate errand would drive a man to brave such a wild and perilous night?
The candle flame fluttered, threatened by both the wind and her sigh. She cupped her hand around it and drew the doors closed, securing herself in the cozy nest her host had provided for her.
Battered by the storm, Adrian drove his horse through the night. His oilskin cloak did nothing to stop the wind from hurtling chill gusts of rain into his face or the damp from sinking its fangs deep into his bones.
He had ridden all the way to Nettlesham only to discover that the mysterious creature that had been terrorizing the villagers and ripping the throats out of their livestock was nothing but a mangy cur—half wolf and half dog—that had been driven completely mad by cruelty and starvation. Adrian had been left with no choice but to dispatch the poor beast. In the moment before he’d planted a pistol ball in its brain, he’d gazed into its savage and lonely eyes and felt a startling flare of kinship.
As he topped a steep scarp blanketed in gorse, Trevelyan Castle came into view. He wished his heart could have quickened at the sight as it once had, but ever since he and Julian had taken to wandering the world one step behind Duvalier, the castle had become little more than a cold hunk of stone, devoid of warmth or welcome.
He had nearly reached the courtyard wall when he realized the castle wasn’t as bereft of warmth as he’d supposed. Blinking the rain from his lashes, he gazed up at the north tower. The window facing him was aglow with candlelight. That fragile glimmer seemed to beckon him home, promising him respite from the wild and lonely night.
Tugging the horse to a halt, he slid to his feet beneath the dripping branches of a gnarled old oak. The mare tossed her head, nearly jerking the reins from his hand. Despite her exhaustion, she still snorted and pranced with a restlessness Adrian recognized only too well.