But when her grandmother left her, her head sank back on the pillow. It was unlikely anything Lady Slade’s daughter could say would change her father’s mind. She must find an answer herself. Perhaps she could trick Lord Montgomery into revealing his true nature within her father’s hearing. She closed her eyes and considered how it might be done.
The following day, with a plan in mind to prevent the wedding, Diana felt better as she came downstairs for luncheon. She found her father in the dining room buttering bread, a joint of ham, bread, and salad on the table before him.
“There you are. Your grandmother tells me you have been unwell. Are you feeling better now?”
“Yes, Papa.” She took a breath. “I thought perhaps…”
“Sit down and have something to eat. You look too pale.” He smiled. “Lord Montgomery has requested we bring the wedding date forward, and I have agreed. The ceremony is to be held in the chapel at Ashburnham Hall in three weeks’ time. I have ordered my secretary to arrange for invitations to be sent and a notice placed in the morning newspapers. Your grandmama will assist with your trousseau.” His gaze dared her to argue. “That should give you adequate time to prepare, Diana. You may have an attendant if you wish and all the trimmings you desire.” He took a bite of the bread and ham and chewed thoughtfully as she slumped in her chair. “You will come to see the sense of this,” he said, leaving her speechless.
It was too late for Grandmama to do anything to prevent it. Too late for Ballantine to help. She lowered her head and bit her lip, having lost the will to argue.
*
It was darkerthan midnight inside the tunnel, and airless. Damian took a rushlight from his pocket and struck a flint against the stone wall. A flickering flame caught the tallow-soaked rush. The feeble glow revealed the ceiling of stone, not far above his head, and walls that seemed to close in on him. At the far end of the tunnel, a short flight of steps led upward. He climbed them and stood before the oak door at the top, wondering what he’d find should he go through it. Was he about to make his presence known to the guards? No sound penetrated the solid, old abbey walls. With a deep breath, he grasped the brass latch and eased the door open, praying it wouldn’t groan. When it opened smoothly, he feared it might be in use. Did they know about the tunnel and had set a trap for the unwary? He had no answer to those questions that flooded his mind, so he pushed the door wider and stepped into a tiny room.
Holding the rushlight aloft, he found it was a storeroom, the shelves stacked with urns, pottery, wooden utensils, and metal plates. He opened the door and stepped out into breathless silence. The room he found himself in was a cavernous space stacked with wine barrels. Smelling smoke, he snuffed out his rushlight with his fingers. He passed through an archway into a long corridor lit by flaming torches. Cells encased in iron bars lined one side of the walls. The door to one stood open, the others empty. To the right of them, a flight of stairs snaked away up into the heart of the abbey.
Damian retreated out of sight around the corner, where he settled down to wait. An hour passed, making him curse under his breath. They had to leave before daylight. Where was Crow?
At the crunch of heavy boots on the stairs, Damian stood, ready for flight. Soldiers’ voices, jesting and laughing, echoed throughout the dungeon. He chanced a quick look. Two guards dragged a limp man down the stairs. A big, beefy fellow followed, who must have been the turnkey. They hauled the semiconsciousman through the cell door and threw him roughly down. The door clanged shut. The turnkey hastened forward. A key rasped as it turned in the lock. Then the three climbed the stairs.
Damian emerged and ran over to stare into the stinking cell. The fair-haired man lay where they’d left him, eyes closed. Was he Halcrow? Damian gripped the bars of the door and rattled it. It didn’t budge, and there was no key in the lock. “Crow?” he murmured softly.
In the flickering light, the man raised his head. Foggy-blue eyes stared at him. “Am I dreaming? Can it be you, Beau?”
Damian nodded with relief. “’Tis I. Here to get you out.”
Crow chuckled weakly. “How do you propose to do that? The French are here in great numbers. Eager to see a hanging. It’s set for tomorrow at sunrise.”
“Then they’re doomed to disappointment.”
He straightened his back and groaned. “Save yourself, Beau. Go now. Before they discover you.”
“I need to open the cell door. Where do they keep the key? Does the turnkey carry it?”
“On his belt. Big bruiser, he is, too. Sits in that chair down at the end of the corridor. He’ll be back soon. Snores like the very devil, along with other disgusting habits.”
Clomping boots sounded on the stairs. “Might have to disappear for a bit. Get ready to run.”
Crow chuckled again. “I’d like to oblige you, good fellow.”
“No bones broken?”
“No, but I’m at least an inch taller.”
Wondering if Giles could stand, let alone run, after enduring the rack, Damian slipped back out of sight and waited, hunkered down in a dark corner. The jailer’s heavy footfalls filled the chamber, then a scrape and a protesting groan from the chair as he sat on it. Damian attempted to calculate how many hours of darkness they had left. At a guess, two, or three at the most. Theyhad to leave soon, or Pole might not wait. He urged himself to be patient, pulling his knees up and wrapping his arms around them, the chill of the stone floor seeping into his bones.
Minutes passed and turned into twenty. Then, heavy snores, loud enough to rattle the rafters, filled the chamber. Damian risked a look. The big fellow slumped in his chair, with his brawny arms hanging loosely at his sides. He had propped up a rifle against the wall beside him, and an empty bottle of wine lay on its side on the floor. Snorts and wheezes emitted from the turnkey’s thick lips, the big, rusty key hanging invitingly from the belt around his big belly.
Damian pulled the knife from his boot and crept toward the sleeping man. Crow had moved close to the door and was gingerly stretching out his legs. He raised a fist, urging Damian on.
Glad to find Crow ambulant at least, Damian gripped the knife, aware of the need to silence this brute swiftly—before the mob heard him and swarmed down the stairs.
The man’s bloodshot eyes flew open, his hand grasping for his rifle. He opened his mouth to yell. Damian punched him hard in his soft stomach. The guard grunted and the air hissed through his lips, but his strength proved as strong as a bull as he grappled with Damian for the knife. Struggling to his feet, he came at Damian, but the wine had made him clumsy. Damian slipped a foot behind the man’s knee and pushed him off his feet, finishing the move with a fast slash to his thick neck. Then Damian bent and grabbed the key from the man’s belt and ran over to the cell.
“Neatly done,” came a fierce whisper from Crow. The door unlocked, Damian supported him, an arm around his shoulders, and they hastened to the storeroom as voices sounded somewhere above them, growing louder.
Damian eased Crow into the small space and shut the door behind them. He shifted to open the other door into pitch dark. The rushlight had crumpled to dust. “Careful,” he whispered. “There are five steps down.”
