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“We have to catch him first,” Cutberth responded.
With a sigh, Truman lifted his light to see a few feet down each of the tunnels that branched off from here. With four men murdered, he was so afraid of what he might find he could hardly move. Did Wythe have Rachel? Or had he killed her, too?
“You take the tunnel heading to Number 8. I will go this other direction, to Number 10,” he told Cutberth.
With a muttered curse against Wythe, the ex-clerk left his dead friends.
Truman stood as he hurried past. “And Cutberth?”
His lamp cast shadows on his face as he turned. “Yes, my lord?”
“Be careful. He is obviously not right in the head.”
“You be careful, too. I would guess you are more of a target than I am. He won’t get any bloody title from me—pardon my language.”
“Maybe not.” Truman nudged Thornick’s foot. “But he will kill anyone who gets in his way.”
Cutberth indicated the pistol Truman had given him. “I’ll shoot if I have to.”
As Cutberth ran off, Truman pulled out the other pistol, which he’d slid into his waistband for the ride down. “Rachel?” he called. “Rachel, answer me!”
There was no response.
“Wythe, if you hurt her, you have no idea what I will do to you. You will never inherit a halfpenny. Do you understand? But if you give up and bring her to me, I will do whatever I can to help you.”
He paused to listen, but only his own voice bounced back to him. He couldn’t even hear Cutberth now that the man had hurried down the other tunnel.
“Rachel?” It felt hopeless, but he kept calling to her as he searched. He felt as if he had been everywhere before the miners started to arrive for work. Then they all searched. They were so angry over the deaths of Thornick, Greenley, Collingood and Henderson that he didn’t have to offer them any incentive to take the task seriously. But it wasn’t until an hour later that word finally reached him: She had been found.
He wanted to ask if she was alive, but he didn’t dare. He had already seen too much loss in his life, knew he couldn’t bear the answer if it was no.
“Take me to her,” he said instead.
Rachel lay on the damp ground, tossed to one side like a used rag. She was shivering and covered in something damp and sticky. She didn’t know if it was the grime of the mine or if it was blood. Twice she had tried to call out but couldn’t seem to find her voice. Or maybe she had managed it, because she’d drawn someone’s attention. Cutberth was nearby. She might have been afraid of him, but he was being careful not to spook her. He called out that he had found her, then remained crouched to one side, keeping his distance because every time he tried to touch her she gave a frightened cry.
“Rachel, thank God! Are you badly hurt?” The earl came rushing toward her, his voice filled with fear. She was so relieved to see him she couldn’t even speak. He was alive. They were both alive.
But where was Wythe? She wanted to get up and look around, to prepare for another assault, if there might be one coming, but she didn’t seem to have her usual strength. Her fingers sought her throat, where she could remember his hands… squeezing the life out of her.
“Truman,” she managed to croak. “I thought I might never see you again.”
He dropped down beside her and wiped the tears that streaked down her face. “I’m here, Rachel. I’m here with you. And I won’t ever leave you again. Tell me you will survive.”
“I think—I think I will be fine.”
“What happened?” His voice was as gentle as a caress when he pulled her into his arms.
“I’m not… certain,” she admitted. “I-I thought my life was over. I thought he was going to kill me. And then… I heard footsteps. Men hurrying past me, calling my name. I was afraid I was dreaming, that if I dared answer he would come back.”
“My poor Rachel,” he said. “He can’t harm you now. I’m here. And I will never let him or anyone else harm you ever again.”
It was difficult to swallow. Her throat hurt too badly. But she was grateful for the pain. It was the only thing that convinced her that this moment in his arms might be real, that the earl was with her again, after all.
“Is he still here in the mine?” Cutberth asked.
Her memories were too foggy to be able to answer that. “I’ve tried to piece it together,” she managed to say. “I slid my hands out in search of him, but he didn’t seem to be lying close by.”
“Over here,” someone shouted. “I’ve found Mr. Stanhope.”
Cutberth went to see. Truman looked over but he didn’t relinquish his hold on her. “Is he alive?” he asked.
“No, my lord. I think he bled out. He’s got a chest injury. It looks like he tried to get up, maybe to stagger out, but… he didn’t make it far. He’s lying in a pool of his own blood.”
“Get a wagon and take him to the surface,” the earl said. Then he pressed his lips to Rachel’s forehead. “Thank God I found you,” he whispered and carried her to the cage.
“It’s over,” he promised and soon they were out of the mine and squinting against a beautiful, clear dawn. “It’s all over.”
When Rachel opened her eyes, she saw a large painting propped up near her bed. She studied it for a second, wondering why it was there and why it looked so familiar. And then she realized. It was Landscape with the Fall of Icarus! With a small gasp, she tried to sit up, but Truman was there, and he gently pushed her back.
“Not so fast,” he cautioned. “Dr. Jacobsen just left. He said you are to take it easy for several days yet.”
“But you found it!” She studied the farmer and the plow and the ship he’d told her about. It was beautiful. “You found the Bruegel you were looking for.”
“I found all of the missing paintings. Well, they were recovered,” he corrected. “As soon as Madame Soward learned that Wythe was dead, she came out of hiding and contacted Mr. Linley, eager to trade them for the reward.”
“When was this?”
“Yesterday.”
“But…” She remembered nothing about that. “Where was I?”
“In a laudanum-induced sleep. Jacobsen said you would recover more quickly if you gave your body a chance to get some rest before facing the emotional trauma of what you experienced.”
