Page 9 of Secrets of a Duke's Heart
A few minutes later, a grumbling Cadan Bulloy had granted begrudging permission for the disliked Riders to stay for one night, meals and care for their weary horses included.
“Bloody highway robbery,” Montague grumbled as they picked their way through a crowded alcove used as a storeroom. It was little wonder that a man had been able to hide himself in the gloomy depths.
“Regretting your generosity?”
“Immensely.”
Clearly, Montague had money, but he wasn’t above having to think about his spending. Her pulse ticked up a notch. She still couldn’t quite figure him out. While it was uncouth and impolite to ask about one’s wealth, there were a hundred tiny indications that usually allowed her to accurately peg a man’s social status quickly. His clothes, his mannerisms, his interactions with his inferiors, and who he deferred to socially, all pointed to a man’s position in highly regimented English society.
She hadn’t developed this skill out of avarice, but out of necessity. The Prescott family had been nearly bankrupt when Nathaniel inherited the viscountcy, and financially, they were still relying on him to bring them out of debt. She wished he would marry an heiress and get it over with, but she supposed that was easier said than done. No matter how young, titled, and handsome Thaniel was, hard-pressed men with expensive country estates to maintain outnumbered rich young ladies.
She had not been monied. While she had caught the eye of a coveted younger son, he had thrown her over in favor of a richer, younger, less challenging lady. Clarissa refused to think about him ever again. Starting now.
At the back of the alcove were boards nailed across a jagged hole in the wall. Mr. Montague unlocked the chain holding the makeshift door to a bolt embedded in the stone and picked up the lantern Derwa had given them.
“Ladies first,” he said.
What gallantry, Clarissa mused apprehensively as she picked up her skirt and descended the rough stairs into the depths.
CHAPTERFIVE
Apart from the slight knitting of her brows, Miss Penfirth displayed no hesitation descending into the rather terrifying rough-cut stairs. The steps had been hacked and chipped into the stone, steep and uneven, prompting him to wonder how ladies managed in long dresses. He supposed they were accustomed to managing such impediments.
A lesser woman would have shrieked the first time a stiff ocean breeze blasted up the naturally formed cavern, moaning like a sea monster. His hackles rose. Miss Penfirth stopped.
“This must be where the smugglers stash their smuggled goods.” Unperturbed by strange noises, she peered into a naturally-formed niche too low to stand up in. There was nothing inside except for an empty wooden box, but when he thrust the lantern forward, the dust revealed footprints and a blank spot where a large object had recently been stowed. A trunk of lace, perhaps. Or a tub of uncut brandy.
“You are admirably composed,” he said when the eerie moaning sound came again.
“I do not believe in ghosts or old wives’ tales,” she said crisply.
“Not even will-o’-the-wisps?”
Her nose wrinkled adorably, and she sneezed. “Especially not will-o’-the-wisps.”
“What do you think they are, if not spirits that lead travelers astray?”
“Gasses rising from the marshes,” she answered.
“How mundane.”
They continued downward. It was mostly a straight shot. If one knew the passageway well, he could understand how a grown man could navigate the steps while carrying an unwilling woman. He refused to believe that Harriet had run off deliberately. The first time he’d been down here, immediately after her kidnapping, he had been too anxious to notice details like a dark alcove.
A sick feeling sank to the pit of his stomach and lay there. Was she all right?
“What are you grumbling about?” asked Miss Penfirth.
“I was thinking that if the smuggler has harmed Harriet in any way, I will personally hunt him down and kill him with my bare hands.”
“You truly do care about your niece, don’t you?”
A lump formed in his throat. “Yes.” A thought occurred to him. “I suppose I ought to let Lucarran know that his bride has been stolen.”
“Wait a day or two. If we recover her unharmed, their wedding can proceed as planned. Once they are married, this Irish earl will have every incentive to protect her reputation.”
“Do you know of Lord Lucarran?”
“A little. He isn’t well-liked. He’s also quite old, as I recall. Nearing sixty?”
