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Chapter 5
It was nighttime, and the house that had seemed so still was now suddenly alive with unseen dangers. The darkness around her could easily hide the watching eyes of strangers, and every creak was a footstep. Antoinette closed her eyes and forced herself to be calm. She was alone, everyone else was in bed, there was nothing to be afraid of. That was why she had waited to lea
ve her chamber until after the long case clock on the landing struck midnight—to be certain she would not be seen.
“We keep country hours,” Mrs. Wonicot had announced in that bullying voice when she finished serving supper in the dining room downstairs, as if daring Antoinette to disagree with her. Which meant, Antoinette assumed, that the servants were about to retire and she should, too.
Antoinette, used to friendly chatter and smiling faces and a house full of warmth, was already feeling isolated by life at Wexmoor Manor. Now she faced the prospect of a long evening sitting silently in her room. She hadn’t even packed a book to read, and she was certain any letters she might write would be pocketed by the servants or sent on to Lord Appleby.
“Is there a library?” she asked, reluctantly rising to her feet.
A tight-lipped Mrs. Wonicot showed her the library, but stood waiting while Antoinette chose a book. She took her time perusing the titles, expecting Mrs. Wonicot to go away. The collection was a jumble of classics and educational tomes. One volume, bound in tooled leather with gold leaf, purported to be the History of the Langleys of Devon. There were books about British birds and plants, about traveling to exotic locations, and on the higher shelves—placed out of reach of young hands—a number of somewhat dubious titles. Antoinette was just stretching for a book called Nights in the Sultan’s Harem when Mrs. Wonicot’s voice made her start. The cook was still there.
“Sir John was very fond of his books.”
Surprised, Antoinette looked up, and saw a tear in Mrs. Wonicot’s eye. “Sir John?”
“He spent hours in his library. Forgot to eat some days, bless him.”
“Who was Sir John? Did he live here?”
Mrs. Wonicot seemed to catch herself, metaphorically closing the door on her innermost thoughts, her expression once more forbidding. “Have you finished now, Miss Dupre? I have to be up early in the morning and I need my sleep.”
“Yes, thank you, I’m finished.”
But what Mrs. Wonicot didn’t know was that Antoinette had filed the library away for later reference.
Now here she was, back again, alone in the darkness. Even the oil lamp up on the landing did little more than dribble a faint line of light over the first few treads of the staircase. The silence was eerie. But, she reminded herself, she had no choice. The safety of the letter was paramount.
She was certain that Mary Cooper, the maid who unpacked her luggage, had used the opportunity to go through her personal belongings. Of course, unpacking required a certain amount of handling of one’s private items, Antoinette knew that, but there were things there was no need to rummage through—such as her writing case—and Antoinette was sure its contents had been searched. The ribbons that held the case together were tied differently and the papers were not quite as neat as usual.
It was possible Mary was simply nosy, but Antoinette believed the explanation was more sinister than that.
The sooner she hid the letter, the safer she would feel. As her insurance for the future, it was her most important possession.
The leathery smell of the library was strangely comforting, and she wondered again who Sir John might have been. One of Mrs. Wonicot’s previous employers? Maybe she had a soft spot for him? Had he broken her heart when he refused a second helping of her jam roly-poly pudding, forcing her to flee to Devon and marry Wonicot?
Antoinette giggled at her own silliness and then put a hand to her lips, startled at how loud the sound was in the silent house. Sober now, she ran her hands along the shelves and found the position she’d memorized earlier, then drew out her chosen book. It took a moment to slip the letter between the pages and return the book to its spot. Antoinette straightened the spines, covering any sign that they had been disturbed. Now the only thing to do was to pull a book at random that she could use as an excuse, in case she was seen.
With a satisfied little smile, Antoinette closed the library door softly behind her. There! It was done! It was as she turned that she sensed a change in the atmosphere. As if…she was no longer alone.
Her eyes scanned the shadows, trying to pierce their secrets. Was…was there someone near the parlor door? Her heart beat harder. She would have waited until daylight to come down here, but all day long she had been followed about, first by Wonicot and then by the groom with the revolting table manners. Whenever she went outside the house, either one or the other of them would be nearby, pretending to be busy with some job but in reality keeping watch on her. And when she went back inside the house, there were Mary and Mrs. Wonicot, popping up unexpectedly, peering over her shoulder. Antoinette was constantly, frustratingly aware of being observed. Spied on.
She’d actually been relieved, when she crept out of her bedchamber after midnight, that no one was sleeping across the threshold. Apparently Lord Appleby’s spies needed their rest as much as she—or maybe they didn’t expect her to be brave enough to venture out onto the gloomy landing and down into the darkness of the hall.
The shadowy figure by the door hadn’t moved. Antoinette seemed to recall noticing some sort of bureau there when she passed by during the day. That must be it. She was simply imagining things. Boldly she took a step toward the staircase, reaching out for the newel post.
A strong arm came around her waist, another closed over her mouth, stifling her scream. She dropped the book. The next thing she knew she was lifted bodily and carried backward. A door opened and closed, and any light from the lamp went with it.
Darkness so thick it seemed to press against her eyes, enveloping her face, making it hard to breathe—or was that his hand? His chest was a hard wall against her back and his arms like iron bands restraining her. The backs of her thighs, in her thin nightdress, were resting against the front of his, and she felt the muscles in them shift and tighten as he stepped backward against the wall.
For a moment, all she could think was that he was so big, so strong, and she felt so small. She would never escape him.
But she wasn’t a child. She was a woman with a great deal to live for, and a heartbeat later she was fighting her captor, twisting and turning in his arms, and clawing at his gloved hand as she struggled to scream.
His whisper brushed her ear. “Be still and I will let you go, little sparrow.”
Her highwayman!
