Page 26 of A Scoundrel in the Making

Chapter Eight

Reade held the torch out as he stepped from the final stair onto the stone floor. He tightened his grip on Abigail’s hand until she stepped down onto the floor. She pulled free and stepped up beside him.

The torchlight illuminated the glint in her eyes. “How often does one get to see a thirteenth century castle dungeon?”

He smiled. “Not often, my lady.”

Her brows rose. “After what just passed between us in the hallway, I’d say you should probably call me Abigail.”

“Abigail,” he murmured.

She started forward. “Come on.”

They walked single file down a narrow corridor that opened into a chamber with six cells, all of which had been converted into storage. Open sacks of potatoes, turnips and carrots sat on waist-high tables. Dried black hellebore and barley meal were scattered around the tables, clearly intended to keep mice out of the food. Jugs he would wager were filled with wine sat on platforms and tables. Barrels of ale filled one room.

“At least, Mr. Russell hasn’t locked anyone in the cells,” Abigail said.

“No treasure room, either,” Reade said.

“There must be a secret room somewhere.”

He frowned. “You have a penchant for secret passageways, I see.”

She shrugged. “They are perfect for hiding things like the crown jewels of Scotland.”

“Where do we begin?”

“I doubt the room filled with barrels has a passageway. The barrels are pushed up against the walls. I would begin our search in the wine room. There are fewer tables and barrels against the walls.”

They started their search there and Reade was impressed with her methodical search. She instructed him to hold the torch low to the floor as she examined the wall. In the right-hand corner, he glimpsed scratches on the stone floor as she said, ‘Ah ha!”

Abigail felt along the stones, a tiny click sounded, and she pulled open a section of the wall large enough for even him to step through, if he ducked.

She looked at him and grinned. “If a lord wanted to visit a particular prisoner without anyone knowing, he could put him in this cell and visit him through this passageway.”

“I wager the lady of the castle could do the same,” he said.

“Why, Lord Reade, it’s easy to see where your mind is,” she said in a dry voice.

His mind was on knowing that a lord might imprison his lady’s lover, and that lady might take advantage of that passageway to cuckold her husband. He and Lady Fenella had known one another for ten years, and two years ago, after he’d returned from the navy, he’d begun to think they had an understanding they would one day marry.

If anything good had come of Robert’s indebtedness, it was the revelation of Fenella’s character. Within a day of Reade selling his property outside Inverness, she’d been seen riding with Baron Hines. Any lingering doubts about her feelings had been dispelled when Reade encountered her at a party two nights later and she’d informed him that there had been no betrothal between them and could never be. She had an obligation to marry into a good family.

At first, Reade had blamed himself for allowing their ‘understanding’ to remain unofficial. What woman would wait two years for a man to offer for her? Afterwards, however, he recognized his good fortune.

“Shall we?” Abigail nodded toward the passageway.

Would this woman care that his main source of income was the gaming table? She wouldn’t give it a thought, for she wouldn’t give him a thought. Lady Abigail Buchman liked being a spy. He saw it in her wide-eyed excitement.

He bowed. “After you, my lady.”

She curtsied prettily, giving him an unexpected view of the rise of her breasts over her bodice. She looked up at him from beneath her lashes. His cock pulsed. One way or another, Lady Abigail Buchman would get him into trouble.

Reade grasped her arm and pulled her upright. “Enough of the coquettishness, my lady.”

She arched a delicate brow. “I thought that’s what you liked.”

“You have spent far too much time in ballrooms.”