Lost Lords: No Longer A Gentleman Part 3

"The housekeeper died early on, but she was old and sickly already. I don't think anyone else is in mortal peril, but this winter's influenza makes a body weak as a kitten for days." Madame Bertin sipped the hot broth appreciatively. "I kept the fire from dying and managed to make this broth, but now I'm too tired for anything else."

Seeing an opportunity, Ca.s.sie asked, "Would you be willing to pay a bit for some help, madame? I could carry trays of bread and broth to the servants who are ill, and perhaps do some ch.o.r.es around the kitchen."

"'Twould be a real blessing. Let's see, who lives in ..." The cook thought. "There are six maids in the attics and two men in the stables. The stairs are just through that door, but it's five long flights of steps to the attic. Can you manage that much?"

"I'm spryer than I look. I'll be happy to help out. When people are ill, they need something warm." She stirred the broth with the ladle. "And I'll be glad to earn a few coins, too. Where do you keep the bread? Cheese would also be good. Strengthening."

"The pantry is there." Madame Bertin pointed. "A good thing Citoyen Durand isn't here. He'd be raging and whipping people to do their jobs even if they're too ill to stand. But what is going to happen in a quiet place like this in the dead of winter? We can all rest a day or two until we're ready to work again."

"Fortunate," Ca.s.sie agreed. She filled mugs, cut bread and cheese, and carried a tray out to the stables, where she was gratefully received. After returning to the kitchen, she prepared more trays for the maids. With six of them, she needed to make two trips up the narrow stone stairs. No wonder Madame Bertin hadn't even tried.

As the cook said, no one seemed at death's door, but all the servants lay limp in their beds, weak, tired, and very glad for sustenance. Ca.s.sie made a silent prayer that the thieves' oil would protect her. Becoming that ill while traveling would be very bad.

She returned to the kitchen, where the cook was drowsing in her chair by the fire. Ca.s.sie tucked a knee robe around her. The time had come to learn if there really was a dungeon with prisoners. "Is there anyone else I should take food to?"

Madame Bertin frowned. "There are the guards and the prisoners in the dungeon. The head jailer, Gaspard, usually sends a man up for food, but one is ill, Gaspard is off somewhere, and the one there now wouldn't dare leave his post."

"So the guard and the prisoners need feeding? How many prisoners are there?"

"Only two. With everyone ill, they're being neglected." The cook crossed herself. "One of the prisoners is a priest. 'Tis very wrong to lock up a priest, but Durand would be enraged at the impertinence if anyone told him so."

"Shocking!" Ca.s.sie agreed. "What is the other prisoner?"

"They say he's an English lord, though I've never seen him, so I can't say for sure." She shook her head sadly. "No doubt an Englishman deserves a dungeon, but surely not the priest. He is old and frail and needs hot food in this weather."

"I'll take food down to all of them." Ca.s.sie started to a.s.semble a tray. "You say you've never seen the prisoners. They are never brought up for exercise in the yard?"

"Oh, no. Citoyen Durand is very strict about his prisoners. They are never released from their cells, and the guards never enter. Food is put through a slot." Madame Bertin crossed herself again. "The poor devils must be half mad by now."

Ca.s.sie's lips tightened as she prepared the food. After ten years of uncertainty, Kirkland's search might be about to end. But his long-lost friend might be broken beyond any chance of mending.

Chapter 8.

Castle Durand, 1805 Grey regarded the sparrow that perched on his sill. "Enter, Monsieur L'Oiseau. I've kept a bit of bread for you. I hope you appreciate what a sacrifice this is." The bird c.o.c.ked its head, undecided, so Grey whistled his best imitation of sparrow song. Rea.s.sured, it glided from the sill to the floor and pecked at the bit of bread Grey had saved.

He enjoyed talking to the birds. They never contradicted, and he was amused by their saucy willingness to approach. "Cupboard love," he murmured, tossing another crumb. "Not so very different from being an eligible prize in the marriage mart."

He'd been old enough to experience some of that in London before his disastrous decision to visit Paris. Kirkland and Ashton, who paid more attention to politics, had both warned him to keep his trip short since peace wouldn't last, but he'd characteristically brushed them off. He was the golden boy, heir to Costain, to whom nothing evil could happen.

Two years later, here he was, slowly going mad with boredom and grateful for the fleeting companionship of a sparrow. But at least he was stronger and more fit than before, and his singing voice had improved.

He tossed another crumb. The sparrow seized it, then c.o.c.ked its head for a moment before flying up and out the window. Grey watched the bird leave with an envy so deep that it was pain. Oh, to be able to fly free! He'd wing his way over the channel and home to the beautiful hills and fields of Summerhill.

Since his company had left, he rose and began running in place, calling up images of his childhood home. Those had been happy days at Summerhill, which was blessed with a mild south coast climate. Fertile fields and plump, happy livestock. He'd loved riding the estate with his father, learning the ways of a farmer without even thinking about it. His father had been a good teacher, challenging his heir's mind and curiosity.

The earl had also talked government and the House of Lords and what would someday be expected of Grey when he became the Earl of Costain. But that had been unimaginably far in the future. His parents were young and vigorous, and Grey would have many years to sow wild oats before it would be time to settle down.

Which was the att.i.tude that had led him here. Tiring, Grey slowed his pace to a walk before settling on his rocky chair. He placed it so that the sunshine would fall on him. What subject would he contemplate today? Natural history, he decided. He would try to recall every bird he'd ever seen in Dorsetshire.

His list had reached twenty-three when he heard sounds in the pa.s.sage. It was too early for dinner. He stared at the door, wondering if Durand was paying one of his brief visits. The minister no longer taunted his captive face-to-face, not since Grey had thrown his captor to the floor and almost inflicted lethal damage.

He'd have succeeded if Durand hadn't had a guard with him. Grey had been beaten savagely, but it had been worth it. Since then, Durand contented himself with sneering through the window in the door. The coward.

Grey prepared himself for whatever might come, but the steps stopped short of his cell. Snarling voices, a bang of the cell door next to his. Then retreating footsteps and a return to silence. Good G.o.d, could there really be another prisoner only a wall away? If only Grey could speak to him!

But the wall was too thick for sound to penetrate. Perhaps it was possible to stand at the door and shout, but the door was also thick and its two openings were covered from the outside. If Grey shouted, he would attract the evil attentions of Gaspard long before he could make himself understood by the new prisoner.

He paced the common wall restlessly, running his hands over the solid surface. If only there was some way to communicate! He wanted to howl with frustration.

He dropped to the floor, his back against the common wall, fighting the temptation to bang his head against the stone. And heard a voice, soft and low and regular. He froze, wondering if he really was losing his mind.

No! The sound came from the sewer hole in the corner of his cell. With rising excitement, he knelt beside it and listened. Yes! The words were clear now. Latin. A prayer? The cell next to him must have a similar hole that joined with his and allowed wastes to fall into some subterranean hole.

Frantic with hope, he called, "Monsieur! Monsieur, can you hear me?"

The Latin stopped and a soft, cultured voice said in French, "I can. You are another prisoner?"

"Yes! In the next cell!" Grey swallowed hard, fearing he might dissolve into tears. "My name is Grey Sommers and I'm English. I've been here over two years. Who are you?"

"Laurent Saville. I'm called Pere Laurent."

Father Lawrence? "You're a priest?"

"I am." A note of dryness entered the calm voice. "My crime has been to love G.o.d more than the emperor. And you?"

"Durand ..." Grey hesitated, uncomfortable with admitting his sins to a priest. But priests were supposed to be forgiving, weren't they? "Durand found me with his wife."

"And you live?" Laurent said in amazement.

"He thought death too merciful." Grey's words tumbled over each other. "Tell me about yourself. Where are you from? Where have you studied, what subjects do you know? Please, talk, anything!" Fists clenched, he forced himself to stop. "I'm sorry. It has been so long since I've had a normal conversation with another man."

The low chuckle was deeply soothing. "I was born and raised near here. We will have all the time we need, I'm sure. Tell me what life is like in Durand's dungeon."

The priest was right. They had plenty of time to talk. Till one of them died.

Though Grey valued the occasional exchanges with the servants, having a regular companion made a huge difference. And he couldn't have done better than Pere Laurent, who was kind and wise and learned, and as willing to share his knowledge as Grey was to learn it. Sometimes they sang together.

The food improved, too. Grey guessed that someone up in the kitchen was a good Catholic who thought a priest deserved to eat decently, and Grey benefited by that.

Laurent was older, his health more fragile. One terrible winter, he seemed on the verge of dying from lung fever. That was when Grey learned to pray.

Father Laurent survived. And together, they kept each other sane.

Chapter 9.

France, 1813 Since the guard and prisoners weren't known to be ill, Madame Bertin provided a hearty sausage stew rather than broth. Carrying three meals, Ca.s.sie carefully descended the treacherous stone steps. She didn't want to break her neck when she was so close to an answer.

The stairs ended in a short corridor with a door at the other end. A locked door. Since her hands weren't free, Ca.s.sie kicked the door. "Monsieur? I have your dinner!"

A key rattled in the lock and the door was opened swiftly by a burly man. "Come in, come in! I was wondering if I'd been forgotten." Getting a look at her, he said suspiciously, "I don't know you."

"Everyone else is ill with the influenza so I'm helping out," Ca.s.sie explained. "Shall I put the tray on your table?"

The guard nodded and stepped back, relaxing when he saw that his visitor seemed to be a fragile old lady. "Gaspard will be back soon, but we're under orders to never leave the prisoners unguarded, so I couldn't come up to the kitchen."

It said much for Durand's temper that he was obeyed even when he was a hundred miles away and his guard was hungry. As she set the tray on the end of the table, she surrept.i.tiously studied the guardroom. There were several chairs and cards on the other end of the desk, where the guard had been playing some form of solitaire. This job must be insanely boring.

As soon as Ca.s.sie set a steaming bowl down, the guard sat and dug into the stew. She poured wine from the decanter she'd brought. "I have meals for the prisoners as well. Are they through that door?"

The guard nodded and slurped some wine. "The cells are there, but don't worry. Leave the tray and I'll take their food in after I've eaten." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "If there's any left after I eat! I'm that hungry, I am."

So if he was feeling greedy, the prisoners would starve? Concealing her anger, she said amiably, "If you need more food for them, I'll bring it down when I come back for the bowls. And maybe a little more wine for you, eh?"

The guard gave her a gap-toothed smile. "You understand what a man needs, grandmere." He ripped off a piece of the bread and dipped it into the stew.

A ring of keys hung from a nail by the door that led to the cells. Though Kirkland had sent Ca.s.sie only to verify his information, there would never be a better chance to free Wyndham if he was here. Even if he wasn't, Ca.s.sie would release any other poor devil languishing in this h.e.l.lhole.

The guard was paying no attention to her, so Ca.s.sie stepped behind him and applied hard pressure to two carefully chosen spots in his thick neck.

"Merde!" As the blood flow was cut off, the guard jerked and started a protest, then slumped forward into his dinner. Ca.s.sie maintained the pressure long enough to ensure that he was thoroughly unconscious.

After releasing the hold, she efficiently bound his wrists and ankles and gagged him. Another moment to stow him behind the desk so he wouldn't be immediately visible if anyone entered, and then she s.n.a.t.c.hed up the key ring. If Gaspard was going to be back soon, she needed to move fast.

It took a few moments to find the right key. The door swung open, and she was almost flattened by the stench in the pa.s.sage on the other side. Dear G.o.d, what was it like to go ten years without a bath?

Trying to ignore the rank scent of unwashed bodies, she headed down the ill-lit pa.s.sage. The right wall was plain stone; the left had four doors. Her nose confirmed that the occupied cells were at the far end. Which one held the man she sought?

As she paused, she heard the sound of a male voice behind the last door. She blinked. He was singing! He had a fine baritone.

She listened to the words, and smiled involuntarily when she realized that he was singing a French song so scurrilous that even she didn't know all the obscenities. Probably not the priest, then.

Now to find out if it was Wyndham. Hoping to G.o.d he hadn't been driven mad, she found a likely key and attempted to open the cell on the far end. It took three attempts to find the right key. She opened the door and found herself face-to-face with a monster from a nightmare with filthy hair and beard falling over ragged garments.

They both froze in shock, staring at each other. Was this Kirkland's golden boy? The prisoner was broad shouldered and gaunt as a starving wolf. Hard to tell what color his hair was under the filth. Not really dark, but certainly not blond. His only distinctive feature was startlingly intense dark-ringed gray eyes.

The moment of surprise ended-and he launched himself at her with murder in his crazed gray eyes.

Chapter 10.

In a world of endless monotony, even small changes were instantly noticeable. Grey was running in place when a key in the lock brought him instantly alert. The door hadn't been opened since the time he'd come close to killing Durand. Ever since, Durand had spoken through the little window when he came to taunt Grey with stories of great French victories and predictions of the imminent defeat of the British.

But if Durand or Gaspard were visiting, they would know what key to use. A guard? No one else was allowed down here. Grey approached the door, every muscle in his body taut. Beside the door were ten years' worth of neat scratches to mark the days. Thousands of marks measuring endless days. If there was even the remotest chance he could escape, he'd attack.

The door swung open to reveal a woman. The shock temporarily paralyzed him. Dear G.o.d, a woman, the first he'd seen in ten years! She was old and drab and forgettable, but unquestionably female. The sheer wonder of that held him immobile.

He recovered from his surprise when he realized this was his chance to escape this d.a.m.nable cell. She'd never be able to stop him, especially since she didn't even hold a weapon. He charged toward her.

He was grabbing for the keys when she tripped him, caught his outstretched arm, and used his own speed to sling him to the floor with his arm twisted agonizingly high behind his back. He lay on his belly gasping. Years of constant exercise and an old woman could flatten him?

"Are you Lord Wyndham?" she asked in a swift, low voice. "I come from Kirkland to help you."

She spoke in English. It was so long since he'd heard the language that it took him a long moment to interpret the words. Wyndham. Kirkland. Help?

She said in French, "So you're not Wyndham. No matter, if you want to escape, I'll help you if you promise not to attack me again."

He replied in the same language, "I am Wyndham. Haven't spoken English in years. Wasn't attacking you, just trying to escape. Let me up?"

She released his arm. He scrambled to his feet, feasting his eyes on the sight of another human being. Better yet, a clean, normal woman. He impulsively wrapped his arms around her and crushed her warm body into an embrace, his heart pounding.

She swore and shoved at him.

"Please," he said, his voice shaking. "I've been so ... so hungry for touch. Only a moment. Please!"

She relaxed and let him hold her. Dear G.o.d, she felt good! A warm, breathing woman with a sweet old-lady scent of lavender that made him think of his grandmother. He never wanted to let her go.

After too short a time, she pushed away. "Enough," she said, her voice compa.s.sionate. "We must leave. Almost everyone in the castle is ill with influenza, so I think we can walk right out if we're careful. I have a pony cart where you can hide till we're away. Do you have anything to take with you?"

He gave a bitter laugh. "Not a single d.a.m.ned thing except for Pere Laurent in the next cell." He took the keys from her and began fumbling through them.

"Try this." She touched a key. "It's similar to the one that opened your cell. Can the priest move quickly?"

"He's been ill. I don't know how much longer he'll last in this beastly place."

The woman frowned. "That could jeopardize our escape."