Mists of Moorhead Manor Read online

  Borrowing a bit of army vocabulary, I silently castigated myself for a bloody fool. For all my common-sensical analysis of the situation, this afternoon would be treasured in my memory as a golden moment, a blissful bask in the company of the most delightful gentleman I had ever met. Even though I knew quite well that in his eyes I fit somewhere between doing a kindness for the poor companion and a natural affinity for the feminine sex, an easy admiration that did not leave me uneasy, as Lord Norvelle’s effusions did.

  I determined to make the most of this very special afternoon, savoring each moment as we rested ourselves and the horses at the summit, Exmere’s touch as he gave me a leg up, the quiet companionship of our mostly walking pace back to Moorhead Manor, as if he too were reluctant for the afternoon to end. But the October sun was dipping toward the sea, and all too soon my idyll was shattered. As we approached the house, a rider could be seen coming towards us at a good clip from the direction of the home farm. The young man met us just as we were turning into the stableyard.

  “Exmere, well met! I don’t hesitate to tell you I wasn’t anxious to knock up the house.”

  “Trouble, Tom?” the viscount asked, his face suddenly more solemn than I had ever seen it.

  “’Tis Nell. She’s gone missing. We’ve been searching all day, and with night coming on, we’re desperate. As you can well imagine, since Pa’s sent me to Moorhead to beg for help.”

  A wave of the viscount’s hand dismissed the young man’s concern. “I daresay we can turn out at least eight men. Where do you want us?”

  “At the house as soon as you can manage.”

  As the young man rode off the way he had come, Exmere said, “I apologize for the lack of introduction, but the moment didn’t seem right. That was young Tom Ridgeway. Nell is his sister. There has been awkwardness between our families for some time—enough that I’ll keep this from my father if I can. But help we must. Come quickly, I’ll count on you to ask Davy Tremaine to join us, while I recruit the others.”

  We dismounted, handed over our horses to the stableboy, and rushed toward the house, as an ominous dark shadow descended on my glorious half-day.

  Chapter Seven

  In response to Lord Hycliffe’s demand to know why we were sitting down a mere three for dinner, I ignored the fear in Lady Emmaline’s widened eyes and explained the absence of the four young gentlemen. And of Lady Vanessa as well, for with David Tremaine off to join the search party, there was no one else she trusted to carry her down the stairs.

  My voice trailed away on the final words as I noted the earl’s body stiffen, his azure eyes taking on the gleam of an icy pond. I understood, of course, that relations between the two houses must be strained. How could they not be when the earl’s wife had run off with Mr. Ridgeway’s brother? But I had not realized the true depths of the animosity until now.

  A seething silence accompanied the remainder of the meal. Lady Emmaline, wiser than I, kept her eyes on her food and made no attempt at conversation. As soon as the earl, still scowling, signaled for his bottle of port, I went straight upstairs to Lady Vanessa’s apartments. Where, after an hour or so of desultory conversation in which we carefully avoided the yawning chasm of David Tremaine’s absence, I helped Miss Scruggs move Vanessa into bed before bidding them goodnight. And then—my mother always said I must be part cat—I succumbed to my innate curiosity and went downstairs to the bookroom to await the homecoming of the searchers. I might never have met Nell Ridgeway, but I had no difficulty picturing the terror of a young girl alone on the moor at night. Or the many possibilities for an accident that lurked there.

  I had no idea how old she was. Twelve, fifteen? My age? It did not matter. She was lost and night was upon us.

  I waited, the words of the book I was reading blurring into a jumble dancing across the page under the flickering candlelight.

  Ten o’clock. Eleven. The hands on the bracket clock sometimes seemed to stand still. Stubbornly, I refused to give up and go to bed.

  At nearly midnight I heard the creak of the front door opening, the stamp of booted feet. I rushed into the entry hall to find all five men, their faces grim. Though, oddly enough, none of them appeared surprised to see me. Perhaps they were simply too weary. Exmere shook his head. “We did not find her. We’ll go back out at first light.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I offered, knowing as I said it how inadequate my words were. I turned toward the stairs then paused, unable to resist adding, “How old is she, my lord?”

  “Seventeen,” Huntley Wetherington replied. “Tom, Nell, Van, and I played together as children.”

  I felt every thought left unspoken as I murmured goodnight and left them to the bookroom’s ample supply of port and brandy. If so many searchers had not found her, it meant that she was unable to call out. That she was badly injured. Or dead.

  I gripped the banister hard as I made my way up two flights of stairs. Sleep did not come easily.

  The next day, it became more painfully apparent that coping with Lady Vanessa’s needs, as well as her crochets, without the aid of the amiable David Tremaine was more of a task than either Maud Scruggs or I had anticipated. Even though David, well aware of her fragility, had told her the men were searching for a missing child. By late afternoon my determined good nature had reached the breaking point. When I caught a glimpse of the men riding up the lane toward the house, I seized on the excuse of discovering the news and escaped, unrepentently abandoning Miss Scruggs to Vanessa’s sharp tongue.

  I skidded down the two staircases, arriving on the front steps in time to be greeted by faces no less grim than the night before. “Nothing,” Huntley burst out, his words filled with disgust. “Not hide nor hair. It’s as if some giant swallowed her up.”

  “A bog, more like,” snapped his cousin Kenrick, clearly possessed with little patience for Huntley’s fanciful description.

  “She was born here,” David Tremaine countered. “Never would Nell be so foolish as to blunder into a bog.”

  “Either that or she’s run off,” Kenrick declared.

  “Don’t be daft!” Huntley scoffed. “Nell run off when she’d been promised a month in Bath to add a bit of polish before a London season? I think not!”

  Considering the rift between the two houses, I couldn’t help but wonder how Huntley came by this information.

  “A most unfortunate occurrence,” Lord Norvelle pronounced, surprising me by stepping into the role of peacemaker. “Perhaps we have been searching in the wrong place and she ventured as far as the shore.”

  “She was afraid of the sea,” David said. “Called it a great booming monster and wouldn’t go near it.”

  “And the coast is all of four miles from the Ridgeway’s,” Kenrick added in the tones of a London gentleman to whom a four-mile walk might as well have been forty.

  “Surely not a long walk for a countrywoman,” I offered.

  “She would never—

  David’s protest was cut off by Lord Exmere, who swore and begged my pardon, before allowing his shoulders to droop into reluctant resignation. “Tremaine,” he said, “my sister is likely having a fit of the vapors over your loss.” Turning toward his brother, his cousin, and his guest, he added,. “But if any of you care to join me before we lose the sun and the mists come in . . .”

  “They must have ingrained noblesse oblige in that silver spoon you ate from as a babe,” Kenrick drawled, “but I doubt my seat can be any more sore than it already is.” He heaved an elaborate shrug, while Huntley declared he always knew his cousin to be a paltry fellow. Lord Norvelle groaned dramatically, but his steps lagged only slightly, as he too turned and followed Lord Exmere out of the courtyard and back to the stables.

  I was dressing for dinner when I caught a glimpse of a horse and rider galloping up the lane from the cliffside—Huntley, I thought, though the light was nearly gone. I sat down abruptly on the edge of my bed. Try as I would, I could find little encouraging in his pace. It was possible the mess
age was that Nell had been found, injured but alive, but I somehow I did not think so. No sound from the hall far below—Huntley had not stopped but was most likely headed for the Ridgeways.

  Our meal was even more strained than the night before. I believe all three of us felt the scythe of the grim reaper hanging over our heads. The turmoil in my stomach intensified as I heard the tramp of boots coming toward the dining room. I ceased pushing food around on my plate and stared as Huntley entered the room—damp, disheveled, and struggling to keep the expected stiff upper lip.

  “They’ve found her,” he said. “The tide went out and there she was . . .” He shuddered, visibly gathering himself before continuing. “They’re bringing her up now—a stiff climb down and far worse coming back up. I went for Ridgeway and Tom . . . they’re bringing a wagon . . .” He gulped and added distractedly, “I must go back now to help.” With that he plunged out the door and was gone.

  A whimper of sound forced my stunned gaze to Lady Emmaline, whose pale cheeks were streaked by a steady stream of tears. I excused myself, coaxed her up from her chair, and escorted her to her bedchamber, where I left her in the competent care of her maid. And then I charged back to my bedchamber, settled onto the windowseat, and stared out toward the sea, which I could hear but barely see.

  With all too much clarity my mind conjured a picture of what was happening at the cliffs. The climb down by lantern light would be devilish, the ascent back up with the body rising to nightmare proportions. And I knew who would be leading the dangerous trek. As difficult as it was to picture that frivolous flirt, Exmere, doing anything even remotely heroic, he was the heir, his father’s representative. And down he would go, hopefully calling on well-remembered childhood exploits on those very cliffs to keep him safe.

  For several minutes my prayers were shockingly selfish. Keep him safe, dear Lord, keep him safe. Then, thoroughly ashamed, I whispered aloud, “Forgive me, Lord,” and amended my prayers to include the other rescuers and, most importantly, Nell and her grieving family. My guilt was so great, my prayers so fervent, I didn’t hear the pounding on my door until it reached a thunderous pitch.

  “Come quickly,” Maud Scruggs gasped. “My lady has worked herself up to one of her hysterical fits.” She grabbed me by the hand, tugging me across the corridor. The screams and sobs from Lady Vanessa’s bedchamber were so loud I could only wonder how I had not heard them earlier. Once again, shame struck me like a blow. My thoughts had been with Exmere—with the tragedy on the cliffs when my duty lay but a few feet away.

  “She was furious when David left her again, “Maud declared, bristling with righteous indignation. “Him dashing away the moment he heard the gentlemen were off to search the cliffs. Threw her fork at me she did, when I tried to get her to eat and been working herself up ever since.”

  By this time we’d passed through the sitting room into Vanessa’s bedchamber, where she sat before her dressing table, pounding her fists against the arms of her chair. Pieces of her looking glass lay shattered on the table and carpet, her carved and gilded hairbrush lying, a likely culprit, among the debris. Her screams continued, unabated, except for an occasional hiccup to catch her breath. How she could keep up the effort without collapsing from exhaustion was a mystery.

  “Oh, my lady,” Maud cried, staring at the broken glass. “For shame!”

  I heartily agreed. Hastily, I found a small towel to protect my hands and began picking up the shards of glass before Vanessa could get any worse notions into her head. Miss Scruggs evidently had the same idea as she quickly moved Vanessa’s chair to the far side of the room. I could not help but wonder as I dropped potentially lethal bits of glass into a wicker basket, if Lady Vanessa was quite sane. Perhaps this display was to be expected from an overindulged invalid frustrated by the vision of endless days tied to her chair, but I was shaken, wondering if I would ever be able to do any good in such an unpromising situation.

  After three doses of Cook’s special brew, well-laced with valerian, ended up on our faces, our clothing, the chair, and the carpet, Miss Scruggs simply held Vanessa down while I poured an admittedly nasty tincture, which included laudanum, down her throat. The whole scene was so appallingly distasteful that only later did I realize that during the height of her struggles Lady Vanessa had given me a bruising kick to the ribs before we finally wrestled her into bed.

  Feeling more than a little ill-used, I returned to my seat by the window, looking out toward the sea, where the incoming tide boomed inexorably against the rocks. Exmere? Huntley, Kenrick, Norvelle, David? How did they fare? As for the Ridgeways, I had no doubts. Their numbing grief I knew all too well.

  At long last my wait was over. The moon was bright, easy enough to count heads as the sad cortège came up the lane. Nell’s father and brother and the dark shrouded form in the bed of the wagon, with the four men from Moorhead riding dirge in the rear. I watched until the last rider disappeared from sight around the side of the house.

  It was once again well past midnight when I climbed into bed, having learned a salutary lesson. Not all the suffering in the world belonged to the military. There was, it seemed, enough tragedy in this world to encompass even the most innocent.

  After breakfast the next morning, I sought out Lord Hycliffe in his study. But as I took a seat in front of his desk, my spirits quailed. It was quite likely I was overstepping the boundaries of my position, thrusting myself into something that was none of my business. Yet how could it not be when my life was so closely bound to Lady Vanessa?

  “My lord,” I began, sitting tall and straight in my chair, “as you are likely aware, Lady Vanessa suffered a bout of hysteria last night.” Solemnly, he nodded. “She was not best pleased when Mr. Tremaine joined the search along the cliffs.” A wave of the earl’s hand urged me on. I squirmed—every so slightly, I hoped—and asked, “Was Lady Vanessa acquainted with Nell Ridgeway?”

  A shadow crossed his face. Sad memories of better times, I suspected. “Fast friends for years,” he told me. “Until the–ah–awkwardness that split our families apart. Even then I suspect the girls continued to meet in secret.” Lord Hycliffe drummed his fingers on his desktop then leaned back in his chair, drooping eyelids guarding his inner emotions. “I have reason to suspect that since Vanessa’s accident, Nell may have been smuggled into the house more than a time or two. So, yes, your concern is warranted, Miss Ballantyne. I should have thought of it myself.”

  Greatly relieved not to be chastised for my temerity, I said, “My lord, any suggestions you might have on how to handle the situation would be most welcome.”

  “If you had not already thought of the only possible solution, you would not be here.”

  I bit my lip. The miserable man was going to make me say it, when I’d hoped he would offer the plan himself. “Last night’s bout of hysteria has to be a crushing setback to Lady Vanessa’s recovery,” I ventured. “Adding tragedy on top of it could be dangerous.”

  The earl looked me straight in the eye. “So you believe we should keep Helen’s death from her.”

  “At least until she regains some of her strength, my lord.”

  Silence stretched while Lord Hycliffe gazed at his steepled fingers, mulling the problem. “Putting a muzzle on a volatile household will not be easy, Miss Ballantyne. Do you believe we can manage the thing?”

  “The staff is loyal, my lord, and the young gentlemen too intelligent for a mis-step.”

  “Then I leave you to inform Lady Emmaline, Miss Scruggs, and Mr. Tremaine. Allard, and I shall take care of the rest.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” I stood, offered my best curtsy, and scurried back upstairs. Lady Emmaline, though quiet and unassertive, was no featherbrain, accepting the concept of withholding news of Nell’s death without a qualm. I extracted Maud Scruggs from the still-sleeping Vanessa’s side with a wave of my fingers. She too nodded grimly, looking considerably relieved, as I outlined our deception.

  And then I plunked myself down in an arm
chair in the corridor directly outside the door to Lady Vanessa’s sitting room and waited for David Tremaine to descend from his room on the floor above. In a matter of minutes, there he was, striding down the hall, perhaps not as striking a figure as Lord Exmere, but his darker, more rugged good looks were enough to make any young lady sit up and take notice. I was aware of a hitch in my breathing as I stood up, intercepting him before he could fling open the door to Vanessa’s apartments.

  “Mr. Tremaine.”

  His purposeful strides skidded to a halt, but he revealed no other sign of surprise as he returned in his calm baritone, “Miss Ballantyne.”

  He frowned as I told him of the plan to conceal Nell Ridgeway’s death. “But what happens when she finds out?” he demanded. “Will it not be worse when she discovers we have deceived her?”

  “It is quite possible,” I admitted, shaking my head, “but I am convinced that the damage has to be less than telling her now when last night’s hysterical episode has totally depleted her strength.” I detailed the events in Vanessa’s bedchamber while the men were out searching the cliffs.

  Mr. Tremaine had the grace to look just a wee bit guilty. “Hycliffe has agreed to this?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  David mouthed a couple of words I should not have been able to lip-read before finally nodding his assent. “Very well, I’ll go along with it, for I can see you may be right. Now is not the right moment to tell her.” Abruptly, he turned away and let himself into Vanessa’s sitting room.

  I was about to return to my bedchamber for a much-needed chance to catch my breath when footsteps sounded on the wooden floor. Purposeful steps. I looked up to see Exmere bearing down on me, a riding crop held tightly in one hand. Not the charming gallant who had dished up breakfast with a smile or the dashing young gentleman who had swept me off to the village for the most wonderful afternoon of my life. This was Exmere the Avenger, ready to ride at the head of his own personal Crusade.