“I’m in search of a volunteer,” he told them. “Someone to serve as a lady’s maid to Mrs. Bannock.”
Luke had read two novels about life in country manor houses and a reference book about domestic chores, trying to understand how Eastwell Park should operate. Danielle and her mother had hired a housekeeper, and they’d promoted Abbott to butler. They’d installed a cadre of maids and footmen. It was a start, but the mistress of Eastwell should have a proper lady’s maid. Danielle had always had her mother to assist her, but not tonight.
“I can do it, sir,” said one of the maids, raising her chin. Luke studied her. She was young but she had a light behind her eyes. And she was eager. Talent often distinguished itself as courage early on.
“What’s your name?” he asked the girl.
“Jules, sir.”
“Very good, Jules. You’ve just been promoted. If you can make yourself useful to Mrs. Bannock without being in the way; if you can be of service to her wardrobe and toilette; if you can keep her rooms neat and learn her schedule and her preferences; if she likes you and you like her, then the job of personal attendant is yours. If, ultimately, the position doesn’t suit Mrs. Bannock or yourself, you will return to your work as maid. Is this agreeable to you?”
“Yes, sir, Captain Bannock, sir,” assured Jules, shoving her dusting cloth into the hands of her colleague. “Never you fear, Captain Bannock. I’ll see to it, just as you’ve said.”
“Thank you. Your work begins tonight. Mrs. Bannock wishes to retire. She’ll need help getting undressed. We... encountered overgrown hedges in the labyrinth and her gown may require some repair. She’s refused supper, but perhaps you can tempt her with a little something on a tray, will you? If she questions your service, tell her I’ve assigned you to assist her. You might as well know, keeping this job will be contingent on how very invaluable you make yourself to Mrs. Bannock. However, wheedling her about staying on will do the opposite, I assure you. My advice is to make yourself so useful, she cannot imagine life without you.”
“I understand, sir,” said Jules. “I can do it.”
“Off you go, then,” Luke said. “And find a footman for me. I’ve an errand.”
The trio dispersed, and Luke left the library, trudging miserably to the bedroom formerly belonging to Baron Langston. Danielle’s room connected through a door; undoubtedly locked this moment, undoubtedly locked forever more. If the staff was meant to see him as landlord, he must occupy the baron’s bedchamber, and Danielle must occupy the baroness’s adjoining suite. What went on behind those doors—that is to say, nothing at all—would remain a mystery.
“You sent for a footman, sir?” A young man in ill-fitting livery rushed up behind him.
“Yes,” Luke said and sighed tiredly. “I want a bottle of whiskey and a fire in the baron’s chamber. When the girl called Jules settles Mrs. Bannock in bed for the night, please alert the staff that we are not to be disturbed.”
“Very good, Captain Bannock, sir,” the footman said.
Danielle was awakened in the night by a shout. She sat up in bed, heart pounding, eyes wild. The room was unfamiliar, ceiling too high, walls too far, bed too large. And shouting? Who was shouting? Before she was fully awake, she heard it again—another shout. It was loud, and raw, and furious.
Her memory came back in a flash, the drapes of her mind opening on the glare of yesterday. She was in the baroness’s suite at Eastwell Park. She’d been married. To Captain Bannock. He would leave here without her. Her parents were in their snug cottage in New Bridge Road, and she was alone in this cavernous room, in this wide bed—
“No!”The shout came again, and Dani hugged herself, clutching the covers to her chin. A dying fire cast the room in a dim orange light, and she squinted into the gloom. Her eyes settled on the door to the corridor. It was closed now, but was it locked? She had no idea. A young maid called Jules had appeared to help her remove the wedding gown, prepare a bath, and build up the fire. When Dani was bathed and dressed in her new chemise, Jules had brought a simple meal of bread and cheese on a tray. After Dani had eaten, Jules had snuffed the candles and bid her good night. But had the girl locked her inside? Dani had no idea.
Dani looked to the window. Silver moonlight projected a grid of light on the rug. But the shouting had not come from the garden, the shouting was inside the house. With shaking hands, Dani drew back the covers and swung her legs to the edge of the bed. She was just about to slide to the floor and look into the corridor when the shout rang out again. Dani went still. The words were unintelligible—a pleading followed by a wail. She looked over her shoulder. Unless she was mistaken, the sound seemed to punch through the wall that adjoined her room to the baron’s bedchamber. The suites were divided by a shared wall and connected through a door. This door, Dani knew, was unlocked. When the maid’s back had been turned, she’d quietly tested the knob. Now she stared at the small, connecting door. Moving again, she slid from the bed and padded toward the sound.
“You won’t!” Another shout. “Stop!” The words were dampened by the wall, but understanding dawned. This was Bannock’s voice. He was either fighting another man, raving to himself, or in the clutches of a nightmare.
Ignoring the wrapper laid out by the maid, Dani pressed her palms to the cool wood and leaned her ear to the door. She heard rustling. There was a faintNo, no, no.Then—loud again—a fourthNo. The sound was incredibly tortured, the pitch more animal than human, and far removed from the way he usually sounded. Even so, there was no denying it was her husband’s voice. When he cried out a fifth time, Dani grabbed the knob and pushed into the room.
The baron’s suite was larger than hers, bright from a dozen dripping candles. She blinked and scanned the room. She saw discarded boots in the middle of the floor, a crumpled overcoat and waistcoat on the back of a chair. The fire in the grate had not yet burned out, and the jumping flames were reflected on a half-empty bottle of whiskey and overturned glass.
But where was—?
“You’ll die for this...” The words cut through the room, low and deadly. Dani spun. She saw movement—or thrashing, more like—in the large bed between the windows. Dani crept forward, her heart in her throat.
Bannock. His body was contorted in the center of the mattress; a sheet tangled about him. He was arced like a fallen man being kicked; head thrashing, arms flung, fingers clutching a handful of bedcovers. He was shoeless, shirtless, his breeches barely clinging to his hips. When he rocked, his giant shoulders flexed, the tendons in his neck pulled taut; veins popped in his forearms.
“No,”he roared, and Dani skittered back. “No.” This time, it was a sob.
“Bannock?” Dani called, inching to the bed. “Luke?”
He thrashed to and fro, mumbling. What haunting, she wondered, allowed him to be so very controlled and measured in the light of day but tortured to delirium in the night?
While she eyed him, Dani gathered up the heavy fall of her hair and plaited it into a braid. She gathered up the voluminous fabric of her chemise and came to the edge of the bed. Now she could see his face; eyes clamped shut, expression cinched into a painful grimace, his skin slick with sweat.
“Please,” he moaned, the entreaty followed by a string of curses Dani had never heard. His accent was different, less cultured.Cornish, she realized.
She took another step up. “Bannock?” she tried again. He didn’t hear. His eyes were closed. Whatever he saw in the landscape of his dream must have been very terrible indeed. His face was a mask of pain. He ceased the thrashing and dug his heels into the mattress and pushed himself, scooting up the bed. With no warning, he flipped, landing facedown, arms wide like a man jumping from a bridge. His face was buried in the sheets.
