Page 64 of The Lady’s Guide to Deception and Desire
If her mother were dead, she’d be beside herself. A rush of memory invaded, taking him back to the moment he’d heard of his own parents’ accident.
“I must go to Miss Burnell at once, Cornwort. She’s upstairs you say?”
“Aye, but the door be locked, Master Benedict, and only His Grace has the key.” The butler called as Benedict sprinted towards the stairs.
Reaching her room, he knocked three times gently, calling her name. With no reply, he rapped harder—in case she was asleep.
“Rosamund, it’s me. Don’t be cross. I must speak with you.”
The room was utterly quiet: no creaking of the bed nor sound of movement.
He tried the handle, only to find it as Cornwort had said.
What was his uncle thinking?
However upset Miss Burnell might be, he couldn’t believe she needed to be confined. No one had the right to hinder her freedom as a guest of the house.
“Rosamund, if you’re near the door, step back now.” He barged with his shoulder twice before realising his foot might be more effective. Raising his boot, he gave the wood a kick directly beside the lock. Three more and he heard something splinter. Another wallop with the side of his body and the door gave way.
“Dear God!”
There was no sign of Rosamund, nor of her little dog, and the room was in disarray—bedclothes and items from the wardrobe were strewn about the floor, and it looked as if someone had swiped the contents of the dressing table with their arm.
Was this why his uncle had locked Rosamund in her room? Her grief had made her violent? Or was this a display of temper at having been imprisoned against her will?
Several pieces of furniture had been overturned, forming a jumble over by the…
Benedict looked again.
The panel through which he and Rosamund had entered the room several nights ago was ajar.
She’d found a way to open it from this side, and made her escape into the crypt? But then, where was she now? In the chapel? Or still beneath the abbey?
A wave a fear engulfed him. If she’d tried to leave by that old tunnel, who knew what might have happened.
Pulling the panel open wider, he looked into the gloom. Hesitating only to take up a lamp, he lit the wick and entered the darkness.
Chapter 23
Rosamund dreamtshe was down a well, afloat in dark water. The sky moved from day to night and back again, but no one came. Her hands were torn and bruised from scraping at the dank, slippery walls. There were no holds to cling to. She was scared of letting herself fall asleep, of the water closing over her head, but she was so tired of fighting.
She’d almost given up when she heard a far-off bark, and a tiny head appeared in the circle of hope far above.
“Pom Pom?”
In calling out, she surfaced from the terror of that imaginary place, gasping and with racing heart—only to find she was still in the crypt, still a prisoner.
But no longer alone, for the duke had returned. He moved from candle to candle with his taper, and Rosamund saw what had woken her. A wicker basket with a latticed door held her own dear puppy, now wagging his tail and softly whining, clearly glad to find her again.
“Ah, she is with us at last, just as the moon is rising. What excellent timing you have my dear.” The duke seemed to speak not to Rosamund but towards the tomb in which the former duchess lay.
At his feet was another basket, this one round and with a closed lid, which Lord Studborne removed as Rosamund watched.
From within he drew out what Rosamund first thought to be a rope, unusual in its thickness and with a mottled pattern of black and brown upon the dullness of the hemp. Then, she noticed the broad head, gripped firmly at the throat, and yellow eyes.
“Bothrops Asper, often called the fer-de-lance,” Lord Studborne draped the creature, some six feet in length, about his neck, though he kept the head at a distance. “Highly venomous and notoriously unpredictable, though he’s sluggish at the moment, being used to warmer climes.”
The snake’s forked tongue flickered.
