Page 59 of Dare it all for Love

Florence nodded, fear glittering in her eyes. “We must warn Henry. I don’t know why Susan started this, or what she or Mr Oak believe him guilty of, but I think he’s in real danger.”

Louis and Evie exchanged a glance, but silently agreed not to tell Florence that Henry had already left in pursuit of her just yet. Evie did not know if Mr Oak or Joe Foster had been involved in this, but either or both of them could be on their way here now. They needed to leave.

The church was empty, as far as the men could tell, and there was no sign of anyone in the graveyard.

“Damnation.” Gabriel ran a hand through his hair. The poor man was clearly on the edge, terror for his daughter making him sharp with everyone. “Where is she?”

“We’ll try the vicarage,” Jasper said. “Come on, Gabe. The vicar will know where Foster lives, or where his usual haunts are. We’ll track him down, don’t you fret.”

Gabriel nodded, his expression grim. “The bastard will wish he was dead when I get my hands on him. Heaven help him if he’s laid a finger on Florence.”

Not if I get to him first, Henry swore silently. His body ached and his head was splitting and none of it registered. There was nothing else, no thought in his mind past finding Florence and getting her to safety. “I’ll stay here and keep an eye out, just in case,” he said.

Gabriel sent him a look of disgust but did not disagree. Henry wasn’t about to make excuses or beg forgiveness. If anything happened to Florence, he would hate himself far more than Gabriel could ever manage. Damn it, but Florence had known, she had warned him from the very beginning that he was not taking the threat seriously enough and he’d dismissed her. Worse, he’d belittled her in front of everyone, and no matter that he’d apologised for it the knowledge made his throat ache with regret.

Please God, let her be safe.

He had been much struck by Helena too, who would be with them now if Gabriel hadn’t put his foot down. It was clear to see where her daughters got their spirit from. She’d demanded the earl’s duelling pistol and told them in no uncertain terms that Joe Foster would speak to her if it was the last thing he did. Gabriel had not bothered to calm her down, but had sworn to her that Florence would be back safe and sound before lunchtime, and with such certainty even Henry had believed it. When Gabriel Knight said something was going to happen, it was impossible to believe it wouldn’t be just as he said.

Henry walked the edges of the graveyard that surrounded the ancient church, keeping to the shadows as far as he could. The scent of freshly turned earth reached him and he paused as he looked past a large, crumbling statue of an angel to see a newly dug grave. The spade was stuck in the loose earth. So, Joe Foster had been here today, was still here, for a fellow didn’t leave his tools lying about if he wasn’t coming back. Henry darted behind the gnarled trunk of an ancient yew tree, watching for movement. Nothing moved. There was no sign of anyone, but there was something, a sound. It was distant, as if it were far off or… or below ground. Like someone pushing something heavy against a stone floor.

Henry crept forward.

“Oh, my darling, my darling, thank God!” Lady Helena cried, holding Florence tightly against her.

“Thank Louis… I mean Monsieur le Comte. He saw Susan running away from the house this morning and took us straight to where Florence was being held,” Evie said, as their mother wept and covered Florence’s face with kisses.

It made her feel as if she was six years old all over again and was very welcome. She hugged her mother tightly for a moment before pushing away.

“Mama, where is Henry?” she asked. For as much as she was relieved to be back to the safety of Holbrook House, this was not yet over. “I must speak to him.”

“Oh, my word, Henry! Your father too, they went with St Clair to the church to look for you. Henry was attacked last night at his home… oh, he’s well, darling,” she added, as Florence made an exclamation of alarm. “Thankfully, he has a thick head, but he believes the gravedigger, Joe Foster, is somehow involved in all this.”

Florence stared at her mother in shock. Joe Foster? Was that the unpleasant man she’d thought had been watching her in the churchyard?

“The devil,” she whispered, a cold, sick sensation swirling in her guts. Perhaps it had not been Mr Oak after all, or perhaps… perhaps they were in it together?

“Whatever do you mean?” Mama said, one hand pressing to her heart.

“Oh, Mama, we must leave at once,” Florence said, grasping her mother’s hand. “I think Henry may be about to walk into a great deal of trouble.”

It had to be a crypt. Of course, it had to be a crypt.

Henry stared at the steps that led down, and down, into utter darkness.

“Hell,” he muttered.

The stench of things long dead wafted up, the air cold and unsettling, sliding over his warm skin as he descended towards the earthly remains of generations of Stanhopes. It reminded him of Egypt, of the tombs he’d visited. It had bothered him, the way the archaeologists had scrabbled in the sand, picking over the bones of the long dead and uncovering their treasures. Not that it hadn’t been fascinating—the treasures had been marvellous things, glimpses of a world it was hard to comprehend—but for many of those adventurers and treasure seekers it had been all about the gold, and there had been little reverence for the dead. He almost felt like offering an apology now, as he saw the coffins of long-dead relatives arranged neatly on their stone shelves. An expression of regret was due for disturbing their slumber, was it not?

He bit back such foolish thoughts. No doubt Pippin and Mrs Dharani had got into his head with their talk of witches and revenge. There were no such things as ghosts, certainly no such things as witches. It was all nonsense. Yet the hair on the back of his neck was standing on end and he had the very strong sense that something was wrong. As he reached the bottom of the crypt he noticed the stink of scorched fat that mingled unpleasantly with the ancient dust of the decayed dead. Then he saw a small stack of tallow candles and a tinder box. Well, that was reassuringly substantial. Ghosts did not need to light a candle to see in the dark, of that much he was certain. He couldn’t speak for witches, but he was content to assume whoever was down here was merely flesh and blood.

Human, he could deal with. Hopefully.

After a couple of attempts he got the tinder lit and, in turn, lit a candle. Ugh, he hated tallow candles, smoky, filthy things. It explained the greasy, burned meat smell though. The flame flickered wildly as a breeze fluttered through the shadowy confines of the crypt. Henry turned towards it, away from the entrance. There was another opening. Moving as silently as he could, he saw the small door. It was open now, but that must have been the sound he’d heard, of stone sliding against stone. It was a large plaque emblazoned with the family crest, and had been pushed to one side to reveal a rectangular opening, just large enough for a man to go through if he stooped low.

Bloody marvellous, a secret tunnel. As a boy, such a discovery would have delighted him. Right at this moment it was a little less appealing, especially as his head was still throbbing after his last encounter with whoever had clobbered him. It must be the same person, or people. Whoever it had been had vanished from the room before his servants had appeared, and not one of them had seen anyone else. This tunnel must somehow lead to the bedroom adjoining his own. Well, well, Great-great-grandfather Stanhope had been a canny old bastard and no mistake.

With deep misgivings, he ducked through the opening, discovering the tunnel had been worked through a large seam of chalk. He followed it as it went down and down and then levelled out. Much to his relief it was taller here and, though he still had to tilt his head, there was a bit more space. The revolting smoke from the candle was overwhelming in such a confined area, and Henry covered his nose with his lapel as the urge to cough became too strong. Suddenly the passage opened out into a wide area. The white walls gleamed a sickly yellow in the smoky candlelight, illuminating the pieces of broken barrels and opened boxes. The smell of brandy lingered, evident even over the stench of the tallow, and Henry could not help but imagine the smugglers here, toasting another successful run as they evaded the excise men. There was no time to linger, though, and Henry crossed the space to the where the tunnel carried on again. It seemed to go on forever, though it must only be the distance from Saxenhurst Hall to the church, which really wasn’t that far.