Page 6 of Too Wanton to Wed
What had once seemed an improbable boon—a timely rescue by a kindhearted religious community—now felt much less auspicious. Violet would eat her boots if that gnarled old woman was a nun.
Which meant what? Who lived in a ramshackle medieval abbey in the middle of nowhere ifnotvirginal nuns and godly monks? Violet swallowed hard. Had she been rescued... orabducted?
By the time a second knock struck the prayer room door, she had worked herself into a shivering ball of nerves. She took a deep breath, forcing her muscles to relax and her frenzied thoughts to slow, then swung open the door.
A different servant stood in the darkness, this one even less monk-like than the old woman was nun-like. The flickering of his candle sent distorted shadows dancing across his face. A well-muscled build bespoke hours of daily exercise and the scars slashing one cheek indicated he had survived a knife fight. All in all, not the most calming visage to emerge from the shadows.
“Come. The master wishes to speak with you.”
She shrunk back. “Wh-who?”
Surprise fluttered across his face before the servant’s blank expression returned to mask it. “Master Waldegrave, miss. You’re in Waldegrave Abbey.”
Well. That answered one question, at least. And spawned a dozen more.
The manservant retrieved the brass key from the prayer room door and beckoned her to follow him into the shadows.
She sent one last glance over her shoulder into the gilded prayer room, with its boarded-over stained glass and wooden tub of bathwater next to the altar, then followed the servant into the gloom.
He slowed to match her pace. “Are you injured?”
“A turned ankle,” she murmured, hating to confess any weakness. She preferred to appear strong. She preferred tobestrong. One never knew when one might need to run. Resting had helped, but it would take at least another day before her ankle could fully withstand her weight.
The manservant offered his arm without further comment. After twisting down a murky passageway, he paused to unlock a dark-paneled door before gesturing for her to enter.
Panic crept over her once again as he pocketed the key rather than offer it to her. “No. You’re not locking me in any chambers.”
Once again, the heavily muscled servant seemed surprised at her refusal. “There are those who would say it’s for your own safety.”
Doubt and more than a touch of fear sent gooseflesh rippling beneath her threadbare gown. If this huge, strong man feared for his safety... She glanced at the scars crisscrossing one side of his face. Had that been donehere?Had whatever caused his disfigurement also caused the deaths of the women in those graves? What kind of godforsaken place was Waldegrave Abbey?
She slowly turned around, taking in the unsettling dimness of her surroundings and admitting the even grimmer reality of her situation. She had nowhere else to go. In her weakened condition, even the five minute walk through the tall, windowless corridors had made her dizzy from exertion and half-nauseous with repressed hunger and pain from her swollen ankle.
As if her physical deterioration weren’t bad enough, she needed coin to flee to London, and a king’s ransom to pay for a barrister capable of saving her neck when the lawmen inevitably caught her. Exhaustion, hunger, and poverty aside, she needed to hide until the search for Percy Livingstone’s murderer began to wane. Anywhere she could.
With a slow, measured breath that did absolutely nothing to calm her nerves, she rolled back her shoulders and stepped into the chamber. The servant followed in her shadow, closing the door behind them with such speed that she wondered if there were monsters creeping closer on the other side.
They had entered what appeared to be another prayer room. Once upon a time, this room also must have boasted floor-to-ceiling stained glass. Now, the artistry had been defiled with layers of thick planks nailed across every single inch. A lit candelabrum stood atop a fat altar, scattering light and shadow in equal measure about the darkly glittering room.
A man sat in the front pew, his back to the locked door, his head bent in what Violet assumed to be prayer. Perhaps this Waldegrave was a holy man after all—anunconventionalholy man, to be sure—and his servants merely indulged their master’s efforts to keep out the devil.
He rose slowly. His clothing, like hers, was years out of fashion and hung a bit loosely on his frame, as if the superfine material had been tailored during a time when food had been less scarce. But there the similarities ended. Where her shabby gown was of the best quality three months’ teaching wages could afford, this man’s ill-fitting attire had been the first stare of fashion... ten years ago. Although the seams were off in places, the height and length were perfect, leading her to suspect that when he’d first been fitted for his wardrobe, Mr. Waldegrave’s musculature had rivaled that of his burly manservant.
When he finally turned his face in her direction, however, her first impression was:white.
Mr. Waldegrave wasn’t merely pale; he was translucent. The depth of which was made even more striking by the inky blackness of his hair and brows and eyes. Had the man never been out-of-doors in his life? Toffs had long believed that the flush of the summer sun was a faux pas only a peasant like her would court, but Mr. Waldegrave’s pallor appeared more deathly than lordly.
Even so, the fine bone structure chiseled beneath his improbably handsome face and the regal aura of his bearing beneath his once-fine vestments spoke to the blue blood undoubtedly coursing beneath his pale flesh. Whether he’d ever seen the sun or not, this was a man well used to getting what he wanted. Those powerful eyes alone held her in something not unlike thrall. When she wrenched her gaze from the spellbinding weight of his, her trembling knees finally buckled beneath her.
The manservant caught her by the shoulders. “She suffers a turned ankle, master.”
Mr. Waldegrave stepped closer. “Ring for bindings. Mrs. Tumsen can assist.”
With a nod, the manservant led her to the closest pew.
She gathered the strength to perch on the outer arm rather than allow herself to be seated in its ranks. She wasn’t frightened, she told herself for perhaps the hundredth time since the lock had automatically clicked home behind her. She was merely weak from lack of nourishment.
But she had learned long ago to trust no man.
