“I beg your pardon, good sirs, Moulay,” he said gravely, “but a most urgent matter has arisen which requires the presence of Master Doyle.”
Mongrave was a seasoned butler of the most impeccable type; he would not interrupt for all but the most urgent of matters. That he did so with the regal tone he imparted was all showmanship: Doyle immediately intuited that something quite terrible had happened, and in his heart he felt it must have to do with Lina, though he could not say why.
Blackstone, who had grown quite annoyed with Laroui, seemed to sense the same. He glowered at Mongrave for a moment, as though appraising whether the time-honored traditions of Mongrave’s family might have suddenly evaporated in fecklessness, and having concluded that such behavior was impossible, he said, “Mongrave, Dr. Doyle is unfortunately quite occupied, as he is the linguist of the two of us and must remain here to interpret for the Moulay. Are you quite certain this matter requires only the attentions of Dr. Doyle, or can I not attend to it?”
For the first time in Doyle’s recollection, Mongrave was at a loss for a few moments. But he recovered quickly. “Sir, I believe such a decision should be informed by your own discretion, but I assure you that one or the other of you is required most urgently.”
Doyle glared at Blackstone as he left, but knew enough of Mongrave’s discretion and training to conclude that a scene should not be made, and the man had faithfully communicated that only one of them should attend to the matter. Naturally, Doyle concluded with his sharp mind that something must be happening which in some way involved Laroui, and he only hoped it was not something damaging to the Moulay’s mood or means of transport, for Doyle was quite anxious to rid the estate of this guest as soon as possible.
* * *
“It is Miss Blanchet, sir,” Mongrave told Blackstone as soon as the two had walked briskly to a landing far from the study, where they could not be heard. Mongrave, impassive as stone, betrayed no emotion as he spoke. “I’m afraid the stable hand was asked to saddle a horse for her and was concerned that something inappropriate might perchance be taking place, as Miss Blanchet requested that one of Moulay Laroui’s horses be prepared for her to ride.”
Blackstone furrowed his brow, finding he had nothing, immediately, to say.
“And of course, it is very dark,” Mongrave added.
Blackstone could scarcely believe what he was hearing. Doyle had conveyed to him that the afternoon had been lovely with Miss Blanchet, that she seemed very content and spoke continuously about how happy she was.
“And where is Miss Blanchet now, Mongrave?”
Mongrave, who could not hide the glimmer of a prideful smile for his own discretion and forethought, bowed slightly. “I instructed the stable hand to take his time preparing another horse for Miss Blanchet, until you or Master Doyle arrived to speak to Miss Blanchet. They are, as such, in the stable.”
Blackstone could not help himself, for he had not always been a wealthy man, and he had spent so much time as a soldier, that he occasionally forgot his position and those of other men. He tapped Mongrave lightly on the shoulder twice. “Good man,” he told him.
The butler, ever the bastion of refined behavior, did not react. Blackstone would not have known, however, for he was making his way down the stairs two at a time to see about Miss Blanchet.
* * *
She knew he had cometo the stables before she even saw him. It was as if everything in the stables, from the horses to the bales of straw, sensed his imposing presence and bent to his will. A hush fell over the place.
She didn’t bother calling out to the stable hand; his treachery was now making sense to her. He had been so willing to help her, so trustful of her story. He had just needed to send someone back to the house for something, and then he had been so incompetent and slow. Of course, he had only been stalling, keeping her busy, waiting for someone to alert Mr. Blackstone.
And now, she realized with an ever-sinking heart and a coldness that was flowing through her veins like icy springtime water, she was trapped, and he was coming for her.
She waited, her hand on the magnificent horse she had chosen to steal. He was the only light-colored horse in the stable and had somehow seemed more friendly and easy to handle than all the enormous black horses that filled the other stalls.
The enormous black beasts, however, ceased their stomping and unease as the footsteps of Mr. Blackstone neared the stall where she remained, her breath caught in her throat, with her hand on the steel-colored horse. She saw his hand reach out to one of them, and the horse nuzzled his palm as he passed.
But still. Still, she reminded herself. He really was a monster, and so was his “friend” Doyle, and she was not going to be passed about to foreign men. On this matter she was resolute, no matter how hurt she was, she would not show him, and she would not bend to his will.
He was suddenly in the light of the stable, his face stern, caught in a window of light instead of the shadows as he had always presented himself to her. She jutted out her chin, furious with him, and furious with Doyle, ready to tell him to go straight to hell.
But his blue eyes, though she knew it was a trick of the light, looked tender, and it caught her off guard. The hot tears she so desperately wanted to be anger spilled from her eyes and she knew, when they did, that she was hurt. She didn’t want him to see that, so she let them spill without wiping them away. These, she told herself, were tears of defiance and anger and she would not wipe them away.
The words were trapped in her chest, but she was pushing them up, forcing herself to say them.
But Mr. Blackstone spoke first.
“Lina.”
His voice was not what she had expected, even if she could not be certain of what she expected at all. It was all that he said, dripping with tenderness, and it broke her apart into a million pieces. A sob left her throat, and she could not hide her misery. She knew he would hear it, and she wanted to hide it from him, hide her foolishness for having loved and trusted him so absurdly—and for being, at this moment, so capable of retreating to that same love and trust.
But she knew what she had heard, and so her weak desire made her angry enough that she was she was able to spit:
“I willnotbe passed around like a whore, Mr. Blackstone, I shall have you know. And now I am leaving, and there is nothing you can do to stop me!”
Even as she said this, she was aware that it was untrue: Mr. Blackstone, whose strength she had felt so often, could easily stop her from leaving. But he could not stop her from leaving in the abstract sense. She would leave in her mind and seek a way to escape forever. She would not be a fool again.
