Page 26 of The Hidden Lord
She turned her attention to the room itself, examining every surface for potential weaknesses. The door was solid oak with heavy iron hinges that showed no signs of looseness. The window was too small to climb through, even if she could somehow survive the four-story drop to the alley below. The walls were thick stone, offering no hope of breaking through to adjacent rooms.
Henri sank into the single chair, feeling the weight of her situation settle upon her like a heavy cloak. She was well and truly trapped, dependent upon Lord Trenwith’s mercy and whatever mysterious business had brought them to France.
A soft knock at the door interrupted her brooding. The key turned, and a woman entered carrying a wooden tray. She was perhaps thirty years of age, with dark hair neatly braided beneath a simple cap and the sort of pale complexion that spoke of long hours spent indoors. Her brown dress was plain but well-maintained, marking her clearly as a servant in this household.
“Bonsoir, mademoiselle,” the maid said quietly, keeping her eyes downcast as she set the tray on the small table near the window. “Je reviendrai bientôt avec des couvertures et des affaires de toilette.”
Henri’s French was sufficient to understand that the woman would return shortly with blankets and washing things, but when she tried to engage her in conversation, the maid simply shook her head and hurried toward the door.
“Excusez-moi,” Henri called after her. “Comment vous appelez-vous?”
The woman paused, glancing back with obvious reluctance. Then she was gone, the door closing firmly behind her and the key turning once more in the lock.
Henri lifted the cloth covering the tray and found simple but substantial fare. Fresh bread, still warm from the oven, a portion of beef bouillon, and a small pot of butter accompanied by a cup of wine. The aroma rising from the food made her stomach clench with sudden, sharp hunger.
Only then did Henri fully realize how exhausted she was. The past two days had been a whirlwind of fear, confusion, and physical ordeal—the threatening villain, the kidnapping, the terrifying carriage ride, the storm-tossed Channel crossing and wretched seasickness, and now this imprisonment in a foreign country. Her body ached in places she had not known could ache, and her mind felt sluggish with fatigue.
Moreover, now that the worst of the seasickness had passed, she found herself genuinely ravenous. She could not remember when she had last eaten a proper meal, and the simple food before her looked more appealing than the finest feast.
Henri ate with enthusiasm. The bouillon was hearty and well-seasoned, the bread fresh and satisfying. As she ate, she found her spirits lifting slightly. Whatever Lord Trenwith’s ultimate plans, whatever strange game was being played out around her, at least she was being treated with basic consideration.
As she finished the last of the bread, Henri heard the maid’s footsteps on the stairs once more. True to her word, the maidreturned with an armload of clean blankets and a pitcher of steaming water for washing.
“Merci,” Henri said as the maid efficiently arranged the blankets on the narrow bed. “Can you tell me where we are?” she inquired in her passable French.
But the other woman merely shook her head again, her expression stiff as she completed her tasks and departed without another word.
Alone once more, Henri considered her options. The warm water beckoned invitingly, and the clean blankets promised the first comfortable rest she would enjoy since this nightmare began. Her practical side whispered that she would need all her strength for whatever trials lay ahead.
Rest now, gather my resources, and face tomorrow’s challenges with a clearer head.
Henri moved to the washstand and began the process of making herself presentable once more. As she cleaned away the grime and salt spray of their journey, she caught sight of her reflection in the small mirror above the basin. Her honey-brown hair was disheveled, her amber eyes shadowed with fatigue, and her traveling dress was hopelessly wrinkled from their adventures.
But she was alive. She was unharmed. And despite the impossible circumstances that had brought her here, Henri found herself clinging to a stubborn spark of hope.
Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new opportunities. Today, she would rest and prepare herself for whatever Lord Trenwith’s mysterious business might reveal.
Gabriel madehis way down the narrow corridor to the small study that served as his office inLa Maison Grise, his footsteps echoing hollowly in the cramped space. Behind him, he could hear Mr. Tyne’s agitated breathing as his secretary struggled to keep pace, clearly working himself into a state of moral indignation that Gabriel had no desire to endure.
The study was spartanly furnished, containing only a simple desk, two chairs, and a small bookshelf that held the essential documents required for Gabriel’s work in Calais. He moved immediately to the desk and began unwrapping the precious cargo they had retrieved from Danbury’s estate, his hands working to secure the ancient vellum from any damage. The lunatic with the pistol had been there for the same reason as him—to claim the manuscript. Did that mean the scoundrel was part of thisDominuswho might have killed Horace? If he had not been so distracted by Miss Bigsby’s presence, he might have secured him as a prisoner so he could question the man. But it was far too late for regrets. He would simply need to study the manuscript and see if it pointed to the reason for Horace’s murder.
But, first, he reluctantly informed the panicking Tyne why he had brought Miss Bigsby back with him. Fortunately, his secretary had not seen her trussed up because she had agreed to cooperate on French soil.
“My lord,” Mr. Tyne began, “I must express my grave concerns about what has transpired. This situation has become completely untenable.”
Gabriel did not reply, focusing instead on examining the manuscript for any signs of damage from their harrowing journey. The pages appeared intact, though he noticed several spots where the binding had loosened slightly. With infinite care, he shifted it back into order, his movements deliberate and reverent.
“Do you comprehend the magnitude of what you have done?” Mr. Tyne continued, beginning to pace the small confines of the room like a caged animal. “Miss Bigsby is not some unknown provincial miss whose disappearance might go unnoticed. Her great-uncle is Reginald Wells, one of the most influential men in Westminster! And her mother, good Lord, her mother holds a royal warrant and personally services the King’s architectural whimsies. The woman built stone gewgaws for half the royal residences!”
Gabriel’s hands stilled for a moment as he processed this information. He had known Miss Bigsby came from a politically connected family, but he had not fully appreciated the extent of their influence in both governmental and commercial circles.
“My lord, are you listening to me?” Mr. Tyne’s voice climbed toward hysteria. “When word of Miss Bigsby’s disappearance reaches London, and it will reach London, there will be investigations. Questions will be asked. People will remember seeing you in the vicinity of Danbury’s estate. This entire farce is going to wind up with both of us hanging from the end of a rope!”
Gabriel finally looked up from the manuscript, his gaze cold and steady. “No one saw me, Mr. Tyne.” Not wholly true. There was the scoundrel who had intended to shoot her. “Are you quite finished with your cataloging of potential disasters?”
The secretary flinched at the icy tone. “My lord, I merely wish to point out that you have dragged me into this mingle-mangle of unprecedented proportions. I committed to assist with diplomatic correspondence, not to aid in kidnapping young ladies of prominent families.”
“And yet here you are,” Gabriel replied quietly, returning his attention to the manuscript. “Perhaps you should have given more thought to the nature of my work before accepting the position.”
