Jenkins moved forward to lend assistance. When Poole tried landing another punch, the valet intercepted it, knocking Poole off balance.
Poole staggered back, but remained on his feet. He glanced down again at what remained of Emmeline’s body, and in a flash the potent violence inside him seemed to vanish. Visibly trembling, Poole helplessly crumpled to his knees, buried his face in his hands, and began howling like a wounded animal.
The shrill keening echoed off the thick stone walls, permeating Damien’s soul. He had never heard such cries of deep anguish and pain. Poole was delirious with grief.
“My little angel.” With a shaking hand, Poole reached out and stroked the billowing skirt slowly, lovingly. “My darling Emmeline.”
Isabella went down on one knee beside her brother. “I’m so sorry, Thomas,” she said tearfully, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. Poole appeared unaware of her gesture.
Damien watched them in silence. Poole’s whole body shook with deep, racking sobs. Damien’s vision blurred. He threw his head back and shut his eyes tightly.
The bitterness and resentment Damien had carried for so long in his heart toward his estranged wife was washed away, replaced by guilt and regret. No matter how ill suited they were, no matter how unhappy and miserable they made each other, Damien never would have wanted Emmeline’s life to end in this horrible manner.
What had happened? Had she become accidently trapped in this passageway as Catherine and Isabella were this morning? Damien felt nauseated at the idea. It was an unthinkably gruesome way to die. He shuddered, barely able to imagine how greatly Emmeline must have suffered, locked away in this cold tomb waiting for death.
What in God’s name had she been doing in here? The questions crowded Damien’s mind, and he knew regretfully they might never be answered. Yet he owed it to Emmeline to try.
“Ride over to Glendale Manor at once and fetch our illustrious magistrate, Lord Rathwick,” Damien said to Jenkins, noticing how pale and shaken the valet appeared. “I want Lord Rathwick to see Emmeline’s remains before we remove them. Perhaps he can assist us in discovering what happened to her.”
Jenkins frowned. “Are you sure you want him here? We both know Rathwick is a braying ass.”
“There is no one else,” Damien said simply.
“Do you want me to help you get Lord Poole out of the passageway before I leave?” Jenkins asked. “I doubt he will be able to walk out under his own power.”
“His reason might completely snap if I try to force him away,” Damien replied. “We will wait for the magistrate. Perhaps his presence will ease Poole’s mind.”
Jenkins left the chamber quickly, leaving his lantern behind. Deciding he wanted no further illumination of the haunting scene, Damien carefully pushed it along the edge of the wall and stood in front of it. Poole’s lantern had gone out when he threw it away in such rage, so only a single lantern kept the darkness at bay. Hunching his shoulders against the gray, gloomy atmosphere, Damien forced his mind to empty while he waited.
Isabella’s knee was numb, her back stiff, her fingers cold. Yet she did not move from Lord Poole’s side. His pain and misery had choked her tender heart with pity. She felt driven to offer him whatever compassion she could, though she doubted he was aware of it. He seemed utterly lost in his grief, beyond even the simplest comfort.
Damien stood silently in the background, his distance seemingly a calculated attempt to keep an emotional barrier between them.
“Please, Thomas, come away,” Isabella said, repeating her plea yet again, but to no avail. Lord Poole remained as he was, his eyes swimming with tears, his hands stroking the fabric of Emmeline’s gown. He seemed oblivious to Isabella’s concern.
Isabella turned to Damien helplessly and was surprised to read the frustration in his eyes. Apparently the earl was not as immune to the situation as his actions indicated.
“Jenkins has gone for the magistrate,” Damien said, with a grim stare. “They should arrive at any time.”
“Thank God,” Isabella muttered. She blew the wisps of hair that had fallen on her face from her eyes. “I doubt any of us can survive much more of this.”
“Poor devil,” Damien whispered, and Isabella’s heart constricted at the genuine sympathy she heard in his voice.
After an eternity, Jenkins arrived with Lord Rathwick in tow. Their presence relieved one problem but created another. The space was too narrow, too confined, to make a thorough investigation with so many people inside. Someone had to leave.
Bracing herself for the difficult task, Isabella tried to make Lord Poole understand. “Thomas, the magistrate has come. We must go outside.”
Several long, silent moments passed before Lord Poole slowly lifted his head. His eyes were vacant and unfocused. “We can’t leave Emmeline alone,” he whispered in horror.
“Of course not,” Isabella said soothingly, speaking in much the same manner she used when comforting Ian or Catherine. “Lord Rathwick will stay with her.”
Capitalizing on Lord Poole’s confused state, Isabella pressed her advantage, and with Jenkin’s help assisted her brother to his feet. Thomas swayed momentarily, then caught his balance and stiffened his spine. He looked neither left nor right as Isabella led him from the chamber.
Isabella’s legs felt heavy as she exited the hidden passageway, but she was so relieved to be free of the cloying chamber that she easily dismissed the pain. She took a deep breath and concentrated on retaining her composure. The rose-colored hues of the bedchamber had deepened in the afternoon sunlight, offering a comforting balm to Isabella’s fragile emotions.
She seated Thomas on the floor with his back pressed firmly against the wall at the opposite end of the room. He remained quiet and docile, and Isabella noted thankfully that the tortured look had eased from his eyes. She joined him on the floor, extending her legs out in front to stretch the stiff, aching joints.
After a short time, the three grim-faced men emerged from the passageway. Isabella rose to her feet.
