The Prisoners of Wyvern Castle

Jude Knight

Published by Titchfield Press

Copyright 2016 Judith Anne Knighton writing as Jude Knight

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author, except for including brief quotations in a review.

Cover image: Portrait of a Young Man with a Violin, possibly Pierre Rode. Jacques-Antoine Vallin (1808)

ISBN: 978-1519184313

Dedication

To my readers, and especially to the winners of made-to-order stories who gave me the specifications for this and other short stories.

Table of Contents

1      1

2      18

3      31

4      36

5      43

6      58

7      69

8      82

9      91

Epilogue      95

Bluestocking Belles      99

Published books      101

Coming in 2016      105

Connect with Jude Knight      110

The Prisoners of Wyvern Castle

Rupert has been imprisoned by his wicked sister, and compelled to wed. His new wife, Madeline, has likewise been threatened into saying her vows. Forced into marriage, they find love, but can they find freedom before it is too late? The Prisoners of Wyvern Castle is a prequel to Embracing Prudence, due for publication in 2016.

First movement:

Allegro furioso

One

A

s soon as he said the last words of the blessing, the fat priest stepped toward them, a broad smile on his face. “May I be the first to congratulate you, my lord and my lady?”

The man to whom Madeline had just been joined ignored the outstretched hands and whirled around to advance on Lady Wyvern, who stood as he approached.

“Very well. I have done what you demanded. Where is she?”

“Penworth, your manners,” Lady Wyvern scolded, but the Earl of Penworth ignored her tone and spoke over the rest of her complaint.

“You promised to return her if I married Graviton’s sister. We are wed. I want her back, Lady Wyvern, and I want her now.”

Madeline was trying to make sense of it all. The earl had been forced to this marriage as well? By a threat? But to whom? Surely not… not his mistress?

She stole a look at her half-brother, Sir James Graviton, who was openly amused. “Send the boy back to his rooms, Louisa, and my sister with him. His treasure is there, is it not? Oh, do not fret, vicar. You will get your fee and your portion of the wedding breakfast.”

The earl fastened on the bit of news about his treasure. “My lady is in the tower?” He headed for the door, but walked straight into the chair in which Lady Wyvern had been sitting, sending it careening across the stone floor, and himself stumbling, arms outstretched to catch himself, until he tripped over another chair and fell heavily.

“Wait until someone can lead you, fool,” Lady Wyvern said, impatiently.

Graviton laughed out loud. “Mad, see to your husband,” he advised. Madeline ignored the hated nickname, but obeyed the command, kneeling beside the young man stretched out on the floor.

“Are you hurt, my lord?”

“Winded, a little.” The earl frowned, a drawing together of heavy brows over his clear, pale eyes. The frown didn’t detract from the youthfulness of his face. She was no judge, but she thought him her own age, perhaps younger. She stood and offered her hand to help him rise, but he looked straight past her, as if she were not there.

Graviton was chortling again. “You did not tell her, did you?” Lady Wyvern asked.

“And spoil the joke?” Graviton replied.

Madeline ignored them. “Can I help you up, my lord?”

The earl held out his hand, and Madeline reached for it. Even through her gloves and his, she could feel the strength in his hand, and he made no allowance for the difference in their sizes, so she had to lean back against the weight of him as he pulled himself up. He was tall, this new husband of hers, who couldn’t wait to abandon her at the altar. Tall, lean, and handsome. But very young.

“Thank you, Miss, ah, Countess. What is your name again? I am sorry. I was not listening.”

Madeline had been listening. He was Rupert Frederick George Arthur John Fleming, 7th Earl of Penworth and Viscount Clearwater.

“Madeline,” said Graviton, helpfully. “The family calls her Mad.”

Graviton called her Mad. Papa had called her Linnie, and she had been Miss Graviton to the rest of the world. No more. Mother was dead and Miss Graviton was gone, too, wiped out by a few words and her signature on the marriage register.

“Madeline,” the earl said, and smiled. It was a kind smile, but still he did not look at her.

“Enough entertainment.” Lady Wyvern strode to the door and opened it. “See them to the tower,” she commanded the waiting servants. “Penworth, you will find your ‘lady’ unharmed. But you will do your duty or suffer the consequences.”

She swept from the room, the priest on her heels and a grinning Graviton sauntering behind.

The servant who came into the room took the earl by the arm. “This way, my lord.” He began to lead the young nobleman towards the door, saying over his shoulder to Madeline, “If you will just follow, my lady, I will show you the way.”

Two footmen fell in behind as the servant escorted the earl along the hall. “We’re coming to the first corner, my lord,” he said, and then, “and in a few steps we’ll be on that little flight of stairs.”

At the steps, the earl felt ahead with his foot, then mounted the stairs confidently as the footman counted, “one and two and three and four. And now, a straight walk to the next turn, my lord.”

All of a sudden, Madeline realised why the earl had not looked at her. Curse Graviton. How was it funny not to tell her the man to whom she had been wed was blind?

The woman he had married—-Madeline—-had a gentle voice and soft hands. He could tell that much. And she was frightened of her brother, his hated sister’s hated lover. That was in her favour, though, of course, it did not mean she could be trusted. She might fear Graviton and still serve him and Lady Wyvern.

Well, it was done now. If she were a snake, he was taking her to his bosom. To his bed, anyway. Lady Wyvern had made it clear that his lady would be chopped into kindling if he didn’t attempt to get his new wife with child. Rupert briefly wondered what pressure had been brought to bear on Madeline. He could ask her. Perhaps she would tell the truth. Would he know if she didn’t? Rupert shrugged. It did not matter. All that mattered was his lady.

They were climbing the stairs into the tower now. Twenty steps on each flight, two flights to the locked door that gave onto the suite he’d been locked in since he and his sister had first arrived at Wyvern Castle, her island home.

“Do you know where they left her?” he asked his escort.

Morris was a Wyvern servant, assigned with the room. Rupert’s own servants had been left at Clearwater Court, and those here were Lady Wyvern’s creatures, to a man and a maid. Morris was at least respectful and not unkind.

Ahead of them, someone unlocked the door. He heard the clunk as they locked it behind, once they were within. Most of the escort stayed below, but Rupert could hear the soft footfalls of his new wife on the stone steps, smell the fragrance that clung to her. It was the first thing he’d noticed when they met in the church—the smell of a summer garden after rain, a blend of light, floral perfumes that made him wistful for the freedoms of his boyhood.

“Where is she?” he prompted Morris.

“I don’t see her here, my lord. Shall I check upstairs for you?”

He could not wait to hold her in his arms, to check that she had not been damaged. Besides, none but he should touch her. “Take me,” Rupert commanded.

His tower prison had three levels: the sitting room where they entered, locked off from below and—if his ears did not betray him—well guarded at all times; the bedchamber they were now passing, Madeline still following behind; and the room at the very top—perhaps once another bedchamber or a study or a workroom.

“She is here, Sir,” Morris said.

Now, so close to his life’s one comfort, he could hear the blood pounding in his ears, his heartbeat thumping, his breath running short, as if the stairs they climbed had been ten times as high. His head knew his sister would not have hurt his treasure, if only because of the hold it gave her, but his heart would not rest easy till he felt for himself she was whole and unharmed.

Morris led him to a table in the corner, away from the place she usually sat. Too close to the fire! His hands shook, making it hard to open the latches on her case.

From far away, he heard Madeline ask Morris a question and Morris answer. He had no attention to spare them as he lifted his lady, ran his hands over her curves and up her long neck, tentatively tested her strings. She was unharmed. Out of tune, but not damaged.

Swiftly, his fingers sure now, he tightened and rosined the bow string and tuned his violin until she sang to him in her clear pure voice, and he could tuck her under his chin and let the music that had been welled up inside him this last lonely week flow out into the everlasting darkness that surrounded him.

A violin. The earl had been forced to marry her to save his violin. Madeline could not make sense of it; he was a man, and more to the point, an earl. Who could make him act against his will? But Madeline remembered his sister’s cold eyes and shuddered. If anyone could, it would be Lady Wyvern. Why, just the fact they were here, in Wyvern Castle, the family seat of the Earls of Wyvern, showed the lengths to which the woman would go. What did Lord Wyvern think of his lady entertaining her lover under this roof?

There was a supper in the sitting room downstairs, Morris said, and Morris’s own niece waiting to attend the countess in her bedchamber.

“I will wait a while with the earl,” Madeline told him, and the man bowed his way from the room.

The earl was talented. Living retired at Graviton Manor, Madeline had not been to the concerts or musicales or other ton events she read about in La Belle Assemblée, but she had heard enough travelling musicians to know a masterly hand when she heard it.

His long, supple fingers on the bow, on the strings, coaxed forth a torrent of sound that filled the room; at first a sobbing lament, a paean of loss and pain, slowly transforming into dawning delight, and then wild joy, that set her foot tapping with the urge to dance.

She had no idea how long she sat there, lost in the music. When Morris returned to light the candles and lamps, she was surprised to realise the whole afternoon had passed, and the only light in the room came from the last rays of the sun lingering on the stones of the western windows.

His task finished, Morris started to speak, but Madeline waved him off, unwilling to break the spell, so he left the room again.

Something, though, must have disturbed the earl, for he let his hands fall with a deep, satisfied sigh. “She is well,” he announced. He crossed the room with firm, certain steps, then stood for a moment before an empty table, the violin in one hand, bow in the other.

“Her case?” he demanded. Madeline hurried to bring it to him, laying it open on the table.

He tenderly placed the violin into the waiting velvet-lined recess shaped to fit, and Madeline held the lid for him while he fitted the bow into its place.

“Thank you.”

“You are welcome,” Madeline responded.

He flashed a quick grin in her general direction, which made him look even younger. “You have been sitting here the whole time, have you not? You must be famished. I am famished. Shall we go and find supper?”

She took the hand he offered and followed his lead to the door, tugging slightly when he veered too close to the frame. He responded with another of those quick grins and let her guide him safely onto the stairs where he skimmed his free hand down the wall until they reached the sitting-room level.

Morris waited for them with a young woman he introduced as his niece, Polly Morris. She was short and wiry like her uncle, but not uncomely, her sturdy gingham gown covered by a white apron, a few strands of dark hair escaping from her neat, white cap to curl around the thin face.

She bobbed a curtsey, colouring a little when she murmured “Miss” in greeting, then corrected it to “my lady.”

“She’s a good girl, my lady,” Morris assured Madeline.

“I am sure she is,” Madeline agreed, thinking the woman no longer a girl. Polly was at least Madeline’s age of twenty-two. Most of her mind was on her new husband, the earl, who had dropped her hand and was feeling his way forward to the table where supper was laid.

“My wife and I will serve ourselves,” he announced, his hands skimming across the table and stopping to explore when they encountered a plate or a bowl. “Morris, you and the maid can wait up in the bedchamber or outside the rooms, as you wish.” He took a seat at one of the two chairs pulled up to the table, licking a finger that had explored a bowl of cream, then stood again, abashed. “I beg your pardon, Madeline. I should have waited until you were seated. Please…” He waved, and Madeline sat in the chair Morris held for her.

The earl had his head turned, clearly listening, and when Morris and Polly disappeared around the corner of the steps leading to the bedchamber, he smiled at Madeline again.

“You do not mind, I hope? I thought we should talk without my sister’s spies lurking.” He shrugged, an oddly elegant movement. “You could be one, of course. Are you? And would you mind preparing something for me to eat while you answer that? Some meat on a slice of bread would be easy. Something I can hold in my hands without giving you an utter disgust of me. I am not tidy with a knife and fork.”

The earl’s preference had been considered, with slices of bread and meat available.

“I do not mind,” Madeline said, and busied her hands while she thought about how to answer the earl’s question. Bluntly was best. “I am not your sister’s spy or my brother’s. But I imagine that is what a spy would say. Here, my lord. Lamb between two slices of bread, and I have spread a preserve on the bread.”

“Thank you. You can call me Rupert if you like. I do not think you are a spy. I do not think the Ice Dragon—my sister, I mean—cares that much what I do, as long as I do not try to escape or to kill myself. And the servants can prevent that. But why would you marry me if you are not her creature? Can you tell me that?”

“The world has no shortage of women who want to marry an earl,” Madeline retorted. She was not one of them, though. She could imagine nothing worse than living the kind of life that countesses followed, as far as she could tell from the pages of Ackermann’s Repository and The London Gazette. The London she yearned for—museums, libraries, and bookstores—was a far cry from the London such exalted ladies inhabited.

And yet, here she was.

Rupert laughed, a short, unamused bark. “A blind boy earl imprisoned by his sister and her lover? Hardly. If you sought social success, Madam Countess, you face disappointment.”

“I sought to stay at home with my books and my work in the parish,” Madeline retorted. And if she had occasionally daydreamed about marriage, it was of marriage at her own level in society, after a respectable courtship.

Her new husband echoed her thoughts. “Yet, here you are.” He took another bite of his bread, and chewed meditatively.

Madeline busied herself with her own meal: a serving of pie and some sort of ragout. She could understand Rupert’s need to know her motives, but she cringed at the thought of explaining exactly what her brother used to compel her. Perhaps it would be enough just to hint. “Graviton threatened me.”

“He threatened me, too. He and the Ice Dragon said they would chop my lady into pieces—my violin, that I inherited from my mother—if I made a fuss or refused to say the vows. What have they taken off you? I will ask for it back. They usually let me have what I ask for. As I said. She just does not much care.”

Madeline blushed. “I have it yet. But Graviton said it would be taken from me by force if I did not marry….”

Rupert frowned. “What is it? Do you have it with you? Shall we hide it to keep it safe?”

Madeline could feel the blush spreading all over her body. “I… that is, it is not that kind of a…”

Rupert looked bewildered, and well he might. She was going to have to tell him. “Graviton said he would give me to his friends to… well, to use. Without benefit of clergy. He said I would fetch a tidy sum because…” her voice trailed off.

Rupert took another mouthful of his bread and meat to hide his confusion.

To use how? For what? Whatever Graviton had in mind, it clearly upset Madeline a great deal to speak of it.

“You play very well.” His new wife was changing the subject. “I do not think I have ever met a gentleman who played the violin.”

“My mother taught me,” Rupert said. “She did not think it an unsuitable hobby for an earl.” Lady Wyvern disagreed with her stepmother on that point, and had not hesitated to make her opinion heard, but her lord overruled her. Lord Wyvern had said, “Let the boy have his fiddle. God knows, his blindness will bar him from most respectable pursuits.”

Lord Wyvern. Where was he, and what role had he played in this marriage his wife had brokered?

Madeline snorted. “Surely an earl may have any hobby he wishes?”

“Yes, so Lord Wyvern says. Madeline, was Lord Wyvern… have you seen Lord Wyvern? At our wedding or at any time since you came to the castle?”

“No, indeed, and I wondered at it! Does he not care what she does? Your sister is Graviton’s…” Madeline’s voice trailed off.

“She is your brother’s lover. They hid it in front of Lord Wyvern, but they have been lovers this last three years.” Rupert frowned. “Lord Wyvern is my guardian until I reach my majority next year. I am worried about him, Madeline. Last time I saw him, he said he would return in a sennight, and that was six months past.”

“Have you asked the servants? They usually know everything.”

“Not at Clearwater. No one there knew of anything untoward. The steward said Lord Wyvern wrote of a delay in London, but that was months ago. He has never gone even a month without visiting me, Madeline, and he always writes when he is away. I asked and asked, but they told me no letters have arrived.”

It was an odd break in an established habit, and Madeline sounded as puzzled as Rupert when she asked. “Clearwater is one of Lord Wyvern’s estates?”

“One of mine. Ours now, I suppose. The earldom’s. My sister and Graviton came to fetch me there a month ago and brought me here. I should have refused to leave Clearwater. My own servants would have protected me, I expect. But they said Lord Wyvern had sent for me, and so I came. And here, the servants obey Louisa, not me.”

“And not Lord Wyvern,” Madeline stated, rather than asked.

“They will not speak of Lord Wyvern.”

There was a second stack of bread and meat on his plate, waiting for his questing hand. Rupert murmured his thanks and took a hearty bite. “Are you eating, Madeline?” He could not hear her moving.

“I… I am not hungry, my… Rupert. Do you know what they want of us?”

“They want me to get you with child,” Rupert’s mind had been worrying at the conundrum. “I cannot puzzle out how that will be to their advantage.”

He would have explored the topic some more, but Morris and Polly re-entered the room and began clearing the remnants of the meal.

“It is getting late, my lord,” Morris said, “Soon be time for bed.”

After helping him to strip and wash, Morris put a new shirt over Rupert’s head and helped him into a banyan.

“You’ll be wanting a shave, my lord,” he said. A shave? Rupert had been shaved that morning before his wedding. But before he could open his mouth to contradict the servant, Morris went on, “You’ll not want bristles when you kiss your lady, begging your pardon, my lord.”

No. If Madeline’s lips were as soft as her hands, bristles might scrape her skin. Whatever her role in the plot against him, and whatever that plot might be, Rupert did not want to hurt her. Rupert waved his permission, and spent the next few minutes, while Morris shaved him, considering what it might be like to kiss, to touch, the woman whose life was now joined to his. Since his mother died, he had only ever been touched by the impersonal hands of a servant.

What was about to happen would not be impersonal. He was going to… he thought of several vulgar words learnt from stable hands. The Old English Black horses bred at the Clearwater stud were the finest draught horses in the south of England, and Wyvern had insisted Rupert’s infirmity did not prevent him from personally supervising the main activity of the enterprise.

Finished, Morris conducted him to the door between the dressing room and the bedchamber, where he could hear the maid bustling around. His wife must be here, too. Ah. Yes. He could smell her fragrance; hear her catch her breath at his entrance.

“Leave us,” Rupert commanded, and waited, leaning against the doorframe, his head cocked to one side as he listened to the two servants retreating down the stairs. When he heard the heavy door between their prison and the rest of the castle shut and the external bolts being slid across, he broke the silence. “Are you nervous? I am nervous. I have never done this before.”

“Nor have I,” his wife ventured. She sounded uncertain.

“We do not have to, if you would rather not.” It was the gentlemanly offer., however much he longed to explore the mysteries he had been denied by the strict care his guardian had seen fit to place around him.

She did not answer straight away, considering the suggestion. “We could pretend, I suppose. Do you think they will know if we do not…? Only Graviton said…” Her voice dropped so that even his keen ears strained to hear her. “Graviton said if you did not put a child in my belly, he would arrange for others to do so.”

No one else would touch his countess. He would kill anyone who tried. Rupert made two attempts to speak before he could choke down his anger enough to speak calmly.

“We can wait, however, if you wish. Surely they will not know?”

“We cannot take that chance.” Madeline was clearly more frightened of her brother than of their marriage night. In truth, whatever was good for the Ice Dragon and Graviton was probably very bad for the Earl and Countess of Penworth. But what choice did they have? His decision was plain sense, and nothing to do with the stirrings in his body.

He heard her cross to the bed and climb up into it, and after a moment, Rupert straightened and came too, shrugging off his banyan.

He slid under the covers and rolled to his side facing her, reaching out both hands. She met them with her own.

“Do you know what happens between a man and a woman, Madeline?” Rupert asked.

“Not exactly.” Madeline sounded as if she were forcing herself to remain calm. “I breed dogs, but I do not suppose it is the same.”

“No, not exactly the same.” Rupert had been searching his memories of the pictures he’d found in the Clearwater library one long ago summer. He’d been thirteen at the time, and would have denied an interest, but studied them carefully and revisited them several times in the next weeks.

The man and woman faced one another in most of them, though other details of position changed. “Men and women mate with their fronts together,” he told Madeline, doing his best to sound confident. “But I imagine much else is similar.” He thought about the necessary steps when putting a stallion to a mare. “I should check first to see if you are receptive.”

Her hands stiffened in his. Her voice shook slightly, and even in the silence of the room, he had to strain to hear it. “I … women don’t come into heat. Do they?”

He was not certain, but listening to the banter of the grooms and footmen, he’d gained the impression some women were in heat all the time and others never. He hoped Madeline was not in the second category. Her tension was not a good sign. Perhaps he could soothe her, as he might a fractious mare.

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t like,” he offered, and felt her hands ease slightly. “Madeline, may I ‘see’ you?”

“I do not understand.”

“With my hands. May I touch you, so I can learn what you look like?”

Two

M

adeline was not prepared for his gentleness.

Her new husband started with her hands, tracing each finger with one of his, skimming her palms, laying one of her hands atop his own and covering it with the other. Then he began to explore one arm; tentative trails with his fingertips become firmer sweeps, caresses, even. He circled her wrists with his hand. “How fine your bones are,” he marvelled, his voice soft with awe. He brushed up the inner surface of her arm to her elbow. “Your skin; it is so soft.”

His touch soothed and made her restless, both at the same time.

As he moved to hover over her, she rolled to her back, watching his face, intent and focused, turned slightly to one side, as if listening to the silent movement of his palms. He had beautiful eyes: dark brown with flecks of green and gold. The lamp she had left burning, reasoning that it made no difference to him, and would allow her to see, illuminated the side of his face and gilded his dark hair, leaving the other side in shadow.

The calluses on his violinist fingers set tingles running in her arm and in other, more private, places. How much of her did he plan to ‘see’? She blushed at the thought, hoping the heat was not obvious to the man currently stroking high up her arms, his hands under the sleeves of her nightrail.

Perhaps he sensed her discomfort, because he slid the fabric down again, leaving her perversely wishing for the return of his touch. He moved to her face then, murmuring as he documented each of her features, and again, her skin tingled in the wake of his touch: her cheeks, her chin, her nose, one eye and then the other, the fingers gentle, barely touching the lids, her lips, once, twice, three times, and back again, until her lips twitched with the effort of not kissing the sweet tormentors.

He traced her ears, stroking up to push away the mob cap she wore over her neatly plaited hair. “One day, I wish to run my hands through this silky fineness,” he said, and she shivered at the thought.

Rupert hesitated, his fingers stopping their gentle massage of her scalp. “You don’t like the idea?”

Her own voice was unfamiliar, breathless and thready. “I do not mind. If you wish.” She could imagine it, and her whole scalp longed for it. But how could she tell him that?

“Help me, Madeline,” Rupert pleaded. “Tell me what you like and what you do not like. I cannot see your face. I guess at what you are thinking and feeling, but I cannot know, unless you tell me.”

“I…” She swallowed and tried again. “I cannot speak when you are touching me so, Rupert. I can barely think. II like it. I like it very much.” Surely, he could feel the heat of her blush, hovering over her face as he was, those magical fingers moving again down the sides of her cheeks.

Greatly daring, she put her own hand up to cup one side of his face, and he turned into it, kissing her palm and sending a bolt of sensation down her arm and into her core.

“Too much?” Rupert asked, anxiously.

“I like it,” Madeline repeated. She wasn’t sure it was true. Her skin, wherever his hands had roamed, felt thinner than it had ever been, as if his touch had stripped off several layers and left her near-raw, sensitive to slight shifts in the bedchamber’s air.

He smiled in answer and caught her hand in his, kissing the palm again, then her wrist and up her forearm to her elbow.

Abruptly, he sat back, letting one hand trail down her side, over her hip, and down her leg to her foot. Then he began as he had with her hands, exploring each foot in turn, following up past the ankle to the knee until her legs, too, were yearning. And all the time, he described how she felt to his touch, exclaiming with wonder at her softness, her curves, the chilliness of her toes, which he amended by putting them, one by one, into his mouth.

“I like it,” she managed again, when he stopped to make the query, and he continued, scraping his teeth experimentally, but gently, against the ball of her big toe. How peculiar. She felt the scrape all the way down her torso, deep inside, like an itch, but sweeter. How would it feel if he touched her there, in that private place where the sweetness centred?

Rupert was reaching further up under her nightrail now, and she shifted restlessly, embarrassed, but also hoping he would continue all the way up. But the nightrail’s billowing fullness was in his way.

“What do you call this thing?” he asked, as he tried to roll the hem. “Can we take it off? It is a nuisance.”

If she took off her nightrail, she would be naked. But her reasoning when she decided to leave the lamp lit still applied. There was no one here to see. Not even her husband, who surely had the right to remove her garments if he chose?

No. She could not do it. Not while he wore a nightshirt.

The answer was obvious.

“I will if you will,” she told him, and without a word, he sat back on his heels, pulled his shirt over his head, and tossed it behind him on the floor.

In moments, they were both naked. Madeline hardly noticed the chill of the night air bringing goosebumps to her arms as she gaped at her new husband. She had known, of course, that men were different than women. He was angular where she was curved, his shoulders broad and muscular, his chest tightly defined planes. Where her skin was smooth and bare, his bore dark hair in the shape of a rough cross, the horizontal reaching from side to side, the vertical arrowing down to…

Her mouth dried as her eyes followed to where the line pointed. More dark curls, and among them, thicker and longer than she expected, his…  Her kennel master called it a pizzle, but no dog had one that size! Of course, dogs were smaller altogether, and puppies, too, much smaller than a human child, and some people clearly enjoyed what was about to occur if the scandalous behaviour at harvest time could be taken in evidence.

Lady Wyvern, too, undoubtedly allowed Graviton… So it wasn’t just the lower orders, and why would it be? A pedigree showed no more discretion than a mongrel when in heat, and the kennel hands needed to be alert to keep a determined bitch confined so she didn’t…

He was reaching for her again, and all the words chattering on in her head tumbled to silence when she dragged her fascinated gaze upward to his intent face.

“May I?” He was asking for permission to touch her, and his courtesy was reassuring. Suddenly bold, she moved forward so his hands encountered her left arm and her right breast, and she put her own hands deliberately on his chest. Husbands could touch wives, of course. But surely wives could also touch husbands?

Rupert froze. She had her hands on him, resting softly on his body, just above his nipples. Would she move them? Would she explore him as he did her? Oh, he hoped so! He set the example, stroking his hand down her arm to the elbow and then inward, to curve around her waist and draw her nearer, at the same time cupping whatever his other hand had fallen upon. Her breast, it must be. It filled his hand beautifully, and the skin was soft, like warm satin, like the nose of a new-born foal.

The scent of citrus teased his nostrils again, and he bent closer to inhale. Yes. It was her hair. “You smell of lemons and violets,” he murmured, hardly aware he was speaking, with so much of his mind absorbed in documenting the feel of her skin, of her curves, and revelling in the slow, halting movements of her hands as she shaped the muscles of his chest, his shoulders, his upper arms, then back to his chest.

Where would she touch next? His own hand traced the flare of her hips, then reached further to curve his long fingers around one buttock, as his other hand continued to stroke the breast, brushing over the… did they call it a teat in a woman? No. Nipple. It was a nipple. He took it between two fingers and rubbed gently, and Madeline squirmed, rubbing up against him.

She spoke, her voice sounding as distracted as he felt. “My hair.”

“Mmmm?” What about her hair? He reluctantly let go of her breast and felt his way up the side of her face to run his fingers into her hair. It was silky and fine, and stray tendrils clung to his skin, escaped from the tight plait.

“I perfume the soap with oil of violets and use lemon verbena in the rinse water,” Madeline explained. His question. She was answering the question he had forgotten asking.

He let his hand drift down to her breast again, and she shivered as it ran over her naked skin. He should tell her what he wanted, but if he asked her to take his shaft in her hands, she might be offended. He should be more subtle, perhaps. “Do you like that? I like the way you are touching me.”

“I like it,” she repeated.

Coaxing her to describe what she liked, asking her specific questions, telling her how her hands felt on his chest, his flanks, his arms—it excited him further but, paradoxically, helped him to keep from flinging himself on top of her. Mating had its own rhythm, just as music did, and his wife was not a mare to correct him with her teeth and hooves if he rushed her. He would need to repeat the same motifs in all their variant forms until the symphony reached its exposition, the fulfilment of the primary melody.

At his gentle urging, she became bolder, and firmer in her strokes, her hands tending closer to what he hoped would be their goal.

As he caressed her, he formed an image in his mind. She was small, much smaller than he, and curved in interesting ways, from her soft arms to the globes of her breasts, bigger than he expected, but still small enough for him to cup with one hand. Below the breasts, her body narrowed to a tiny waist he could span with his long fingers, and then flared out again. He brushed his hand across the soft curls he found in the spot he yearned for. He had curls in the same place, but otherwise, she was completely different.

Kissing her behind the ear, which made her squirm with what he hoped was pleasure, he dipped a finger down from the curls into the one part of her body he had not explored. She was warm and wet, and he was fascinated by the folds of skin he found. Completely different.

She pushed herself against him when he found the place he would soon be filling. The part he would use was throbbing and twitching with eagerness. He would spend if he did not soon enter her, and his tutor had always assured him that spending, except as God commandedin marriage and in one’s wifewas a wicked sin that would send him to hell. Well, now he had a wife, and she was ready, surely?

“Are you ready?” he asked, just to be certain.

“Rupert,” she answered, pushing herself still harder, and he took that as a yes, lifting himself over her. He guided his tip to her entrance and then could wait no longer. With a surge, he was fully seated, and it felt wonderful. Better than he had imagined.

He had plunged several times before he realised she was not moving. With a mighty effort, he froze in place. “Madeline? Are you all right?” She was rigid below him, and though the tightness felt wonderful, he did not think she was enjoying it.

“It hurts,” she said, voice trembling with tears.

“I’m sorry.” He made to pull out, cursing the ignorance that had caused him to hurt this little wife he had somehow acquired. But she held onto him, both hands gripping his hips.

“No. It is feeling better now. I am not… Stay. Please.”

And because he wanted to, he let himself be persuaded, but held as still as he could while he kissed her, horrified to find her cheeks wet under his searching lips.

“I hurt you,” he grieved, and again tried to pull away. Again, she held him in place. “I am better, Rupert. It feels good. Please stay.”

He rested his weight on his elbows, caged her face with his hands, and covered her with kisses, trying to focus on the meeting of their lips while his hips trembled with the need to surge and pump.

She met him with her own lips, pressing little kisses all over his face, and after a long moment, he could feel the tension in her ease. Slowly, cautiously, ready to clamp the iron control back over the animal within, he eased slightly away and then back. Again. And again.

When she began tentatively lifting her hips to meet his thrusts, he could hold himself in check no longer. His body took over as his mind, his sensations, his whole universe narrowed to the heaven of the elusive, approaching, present, completed release.

Madeline could feel when Rupert finished. He took much longer than a dog, but stiffened in the same way, staying rigid for half a minute before rolling to his side, holding her, so she came with him. “Are you… I did not mean to hurt you, Madeline. Are you well?”

“I am well,” she assured him. “It only hurt for a moment. It was nothing, truly.”

“But was it pleasant for you?” he asked. This concern surprised and pleased her. He was not at all the top-lofty aristocrat she had been expecting. She responded to the anxiety in his tone and thought about his question.

It had been something of an anti-climax. The size of him had made her wary. Then the wonderful sensations he had evoked while caressing her had led her to expect pleasure, so the first sharp pain had come as a shock. But once she relaxed, it had not been as uncomfortable as she had feared. On the whole, it had been rather pleasant. Strange, but pleasant.

“Yes, it was,” she assured him. “And for you?”

His voice was awed, as if he had participated in a miracle. “It was wonderful. I had no idea. Can we do it again later?”

They slept, and then coupled, then slept again. The third time, the sense of something more seemed almost within reach—but then he finished and, once again, rolled to his side, holding her against him. It was pleasant lying in his arms. She had not been held with affection since her mother had died when she was ten. The candle had long since guttered, but the dawn light showed his face relaxed in sleep. His face was all she could see, since he had pulled the blanket up to cover them. She lay studying him, as if she had to commit him to memory and would be examined on the subject after she broke her fast.

She was considering the stubble now darkening his cheeks when he spoke. “Good morning, madam wife.”

“Good morning, my lord,” she answered, a smile bubbling in her voice. He was awake and surely would not mind if she did as she wished. She brushed the beginnings of his beard. “It prickles,” she discovered.

“I will have Morris shave me again this morning,” Rupert promised.

“No need. I like the way it looks.”

“I do not wish to scrape your skin, Madeline, when I kiss you. You are so soft and tender.” He rolled again, caging her with his arms and body. “And I do wish to kiss you. Very soon and very often.” Carefully, he lowered his head and brushed her face lightly with his lips, then rubbed his rough skin gently against her cheek.

“Are you well? Are you recovered from the hurt?” He had asked her that twice in the night, each time before he took her again. She spread her legs obligingly, but he said, “No. I must clean myself and shave. And let you recover, for though you say you are not in pain, I fear you say so just to please me. Tell me the truth, Madeline. Are you well? Do you still hurt?”

She thought about it. She ached a little, the ache of exerting little-used muscles. And she was sticky. She, too, would welcome a wash. But she could tell him honestly, “I do not hurt, Rupert. I would like a bath, though.”

“It is a messy business, is it not?” he said, cheerfully, shifting to lie beside her, her head cradled on his arm.

“What do you wish to do today? I shall practise a little, of course, but we could… I do not know your interests or how you normally spend the day.”

“At home, I manage the household, see to my dogs, read, sew or knit or practice my music.”

His face sharpened with interest. “You sing? Or you play an instrument?”

“The spinet. I play the spinet and sing a little.”

“Then we shall ask for a spinet, so you can practise. I will ask, but I think they will not let us have your dogs, Madeline. I am sorry. Are there books here in the tower for you to read?”

She had seen none. “I do not think so, Rupert.”

“Then we shall ask for books, too, or permission for you to go to Lord Wyvern’s library and choose your own.”

“Surely now you are wed… Rupert, you are the Earl of Penworth. You do not need permission, do you? And now that you are wed, you are considered of age.” Or so the author had claimed in the horrid novel she had read just a few weeks ago. “How old are you, Rupert?”

“Twenty. I shall be twenty-one in a few months. But it makes no difference, Madeline. Lady Wyvern and Lord Graviton rule here, and we are their prisoners.”

“She is your sister. Surely she does not mean you harm?”

Rupert’s response was bitter. “Half-sister, and she has hated me all my life. She would harm me if it were to her advantage, but while I live—and with Lord Wyvern absent—she has the whole earldom at her command.”

The thought that flashed into Madeline’s mind was so Gothic she hesitated to give voice to it, but Rupert’s mind had clearly gone in the same direction. “While I live…” he repeated.

“If we have a child…”

“If he is a son…”

Madeline turned into him, stretching her arm across his chest, as if she could shield him from the malice. “Then we must avoid making a child.”

He returned the hug, kissing her hair. “It will not answer, Madeline. Perhaps Graviton might hesitate to carry out his threathis own sister, after all. But the Ice Dragon will not care who fathers my heir, as long as someone does. We cannot trust your brother to protect you.”

She shivered. “Half-brother. And he has hated me all his life.”

“Well, then.” He gave her a squeeze and another kiss. “We have time. They will keep me for my stud services until they have a boy child. Two, if they are wise.”

She scooted up, so her return kiss could reach his lips. “We will find a way to escape, and we will go to the king!” They would have a year. Or perhaps two or three years. Surely, in that time, they could foil their captors?

“Or Lord Wyvern might return,” Rupert said, hopefully, but Madeline did not intend to count on that chance.

Three

W

hen they went downstairs to break their fast, Rupert proclaimed himself keen to show Madeline the smoothness of his freshly shaven cheeks, and she found herself sitting on his knee, popping pieces of fruit, bread roll, and bacon into his mouth, or her own, in between kisses.

How strange at this time yesterday, she and Graviton were on the mainland, in a carriage to the wharf, where a boat waited to bring them to Wyvern Island. She had not even met Rupert! She could scarcely believe they were so comfortable with one another in such a short time.

She spoke her thoughts out loud, and he agreed. “I only thought of keeping my lady safe,” he confessed. “I never thought of what marriage would mean.”

Madeline blushed, thinking he meant their intimacies. She could not have imagined how peculiar and awkward the activity would be—nice though it was.

Rupert, though, had another pleasure in mind. “I have not had a companion of my own age since the accident when I lost my sight,” he confided. “I think we shall be friends, Madeline. I would like that.”

She blushed still more, and hid her hot face against his neck. “I would like that, too. I have never had a friend. Except for my dogs.”

They were interrupted by the sound of bolts being drawn back on the door below them. Madeline wriggled, and Rupert let her out of his arms to take her own seat, next to him, around the corner of the table.

Lady Wyvern swept into the room, Graviton sauntering behind her. “Well, Penworth? Did you do your duty?” she demanded.

Under the table top, Madeline slipped her hand into Rupert’s, and he pressed it reassuringly.

“You are early, sister,” he said, his chin lifted and jaw rigid.

“No need for concern, Louisa,” Graviton soothed. He smirked at Madeline and Robert. “Our newly-weds are holding hands under the table. It is rather sweet.”

Lady Wyvern was not amused. “But did he bed her, James? Holding hands won’t fill her belly.”

“He did, my lady.” It was the maid, Polly, shrinking a little as she drew the attention of everyone in the room.

“Explain,” Lady Wyvern demanded, and Polly shrank still further, looking around as if for support. Her uncle spoke for her. “Blood on the sheets, my lady. He popped her cherry, right enough.”

Lady Wyvern glared, and her voice was cold, “You will speak to and of the earl and countess with all due respect, Morris, or I will replace you and your niece.”

“Beg pardon, my lady.” Morris said something else, but Madeline was not listening. Turning to Rupert as the grip on her hand tightened, she found his face white. “I made you bleed?” he asked, in a low voice meant for her ears only.

But Graviton heard. “No need to fuss, Penworth. She’ll be fine next time.” Madeline blushed and instinctively turned to Rupert, searching his still-anxious face. Graviton began to snigger. “Ah. Next time has been. From the looks of my dear little sister, Louisa, he bedded her several times.”

“Curse you, Graviton.” The earl’s voice was harsh and imperious, making him sound much older. “Hold your tongue. You are being offensive.”

Madeline flinched. Graviton’s temper was uncertain, and though Rupert was tall, Graviton had a man’s full growth. But Graviton only laughed. “The puppy thinks he is a man, now,” he observed.

“Do not tease them, James,” Lady Wyvern commanded. “We are pleased, are we not? You shall have a reward, Penworth, you and your countess. I shall instruct the servants to make your stay here comfortable. You may ask for anything, within reason.”

“Our freedom,” Rupert said, but that made Lord Graviton chortle still harder and Lady Wyvern frown.

“Within reason, Penworth. Music, perhaps, so you don’t have to pick out your own on your infernal violin? The countess has been trained to read music, James, I take it?”

“Mad has been trained as a lady, Louisa; of course she reads music. She plays tolerably well, too.” Madeline had had the best of teachers while Papa was alive, though nothing these last five years. Graviton had fired them all, saying he had no intention of parading her on the marriage market, but would place her where suited him best.

“There, Penworth. You shall have some sheet music, and your little wife shall play for you. Come, James. We do not wish to miss the boat.”

As the couple started to leave, Rupert stopped them with a word: “Wait.”

Lady Wyvern turned back, slapping the gloves she held in one hand impatiently against the other. “Well? Be quick, Penworth.”

“Lady Penworth’s spinet, access to Lord Wyvern’s library, Lady Penworth’s favourite dog, a walk outside in clement weather. And the music.”

Lady Wyvern exchanged looks with Graviton. “The countess may have her spinet. You and she shall not leave the tower. A servant shall fetch whatever books she desires. I have already agreed to the music.”

“And the dog?” Rupert insisted.

“James? What think you?”

Graviton was shaking his head. “No, Louisa. A dog in this tower? With those stairs? We would not wish any harm to come to the earl.”

“Maera would never trip my husband,” Madeline protested. “Never.”

“No dog,” Lady Wyvern decreed. “Morris, we will send the other things. See to it the earl and countess are treated as befits their station.”

She left as abruptly as she had arrived, and Graviton followed her, turning in the doorway to grin at Madeline. “You were worth keeping after all, Mad,” he said. “I did think about selling you when Father died, but this is much better.”

Second movement: Adagio

Four

T

he tower was a comfortable cage. Sometimes it seemed to Madeline she had lived here forever, talking with Rupert for hours on end, reading to him from the books Polly collected in bundles from the library—or at least from those books that were suitable, since Polly was just as likely to bring an account book or something in a language Madeline did not know—making music and making love. Rupert was nearly as startled as Madeline when she reached her first climax, but he quickly learnt how to play her body with the dedicated attention to detail, and the flair, that he applied to his violin.

Her world, always limited to the estate of Graviton Manor and the nearby village, had shrunk to the three upper floors of this tower.

At Graviton, she been surrounded by people: servants, villagers, neighbours. Here, had it not been for the occasional voices of guards when the doors were opening for Morris or Polly to come or go, or the sight of people crossing the courtyard in view of the tower windows, she might have thought she and Rupert and the two servants were the only people in the world. And the tower ghost, of course, the White Lady of Wyvern.

The White Lady was something of a joke between them, since they had seen no hint of the lost and bewildered lady who had purportedly died here, bricked up by her jealous husband who had, a few months later, tripped down the stairs into a dungeon cell and broken his neck. He was there yet, the servants whispered, trapped forever in the dungeons, and never able to reach and make amends to his wronged lady in the upper reaches of the castle they had shared.

At Graviton, Madeline had often been lonely. Here, she never was. She and Rupert were rarely apart, even by the length of a flight of stairs. They loved the same music. They largely agreed on the types of books they liked, and had fun arguing when they disagreed. They shared stories of their childhoods, which were remarkably similar.

Both were only children of second marriages, with mothers resented by the adult children of the first marriage. Both had been raised in the country, separated by their noble status from neighbours of the same age, surrounded by adult servants. Both had lost their mothers when they were ten.

Rupert’s father had died in the same epidemic of ague that killed his mother. At least Madeline had kept her father until her eighteenth year. He had indulged his daughter with tutors and books, but kept her largely isolated until he died, at which point, she became a dependent of the new baronet, her half-brother, Sir James Graviton, who spent most of his time in London and largely ignored her.

Rupert, on the death of his parents, had become the ward of his half-brother, the new earl, who had also lived in London—with occasional visits to Clearwater for the hunting. Rupert had been most often confined to the nursery wing, while the earl filled his house with friends and hangers-on, ignoring the unwanted younger brother.

And then the 6th Earl of Penworth had died. Rupert could not tell Madeline the details. He had been injured in the same accident, suffering such a blow to the back of his head that he was also expected to die. “Nobody knows why I was with my brother in the phaeton. He had never before invited me to drive with him. And I cannot remember.” Rupert was found, unconscious, thrown clear of the crushed remains of the carriage that had failed to take the turn at the gate. The earl was dead in the wreckage.

After days hovering between life and death, and months of headaches, Rupert recovered his senses, but not his sight. This did not deter his new guardian, his father’s best friend and his sister’s husband. Lord Wyvern set about training the young earl in the duties of his new position.

Rupert spoke of his guardian with respect and affection, but Madeline thought his life sounded very regimented and constrained. He was educated according to his station, memorising his lessons, since he could not write them. When not in the schoolroom, he was expected to attend to the business of the earldom, at first listening as Lord Wyvern explored the options and made decisions, and slowly taking over one small part of the work of one estate, then more and more.

Lady Wyvern seldom accompanied her lord to Clearwater, where Rupert had grown up, and paid her sole remaining brother little attention when she did.

“These last few years, she usually had your brother with her when she came,” Rupert said. “Why did Lord Wyvern allow it?”

“Were they lovers even then?” Madeline asked.

“The servants thought so.”

They were in the upper part of the tower. Since the day Rupert imperiously banned Morris and Polly from setting foot inside the topmost room, it had become their favourite place. Madeline kept the place tidy and dusted, much to Polly’s veiled amusement. Rupert overheard her calling Madeline ‘the countess of cleaning,’ but she showed no open disrespect, and was endlessly willing to fetch books, wool, or most other things Madeline requested, so Madeline ignored the remark.

Polly became her devoted handmaid the day Madeline realised the eclectic array of books were a symptom of Polly’s inability to read, and offered to teach the maid her letters.

So, Polly willingly obeyed the ban on entering the music room, and Morris did so with a smirk, whispering to Polly that the couple wanted privacy for ‘making them babies her ladyship wants.’ “And none of her ladyship’s business what the poor lambs do,” Polly retorted. “I’ll not spy on them, and you shouldn’t neither.”

The servants were not entirely wrong about why Rupert and Madeline wanted privacy. They were currently reclining on the large, comfortable sofa, resting after making love, which, in turn, followed a particularly vigorous practice session on a new concerto that had been in this month’s sheet music bundle from London.

Soon, Rupert would dress and fetch the tray of food that was, undoubtedly, by now out on the landing, on a table set there for the purpose. Then Rupert would practice again, and Madeline would knit.

The knitting was the primary reason for the ban. From time to time, Madeline would bring down a completed pair of gloves or stockings for her wardrobe or Rupert’s, or a baby’s singlet or shawl or mittens, to be carefully wrapped in paper and set into a slowly filling chest.

She had no idea who received her written requests for different colours, types, and quantities of yarn, but—so far, at least—whoever it was had not thought to question Polly about the garments that appeared downstairs, or to calculate the difference between the quantity of wool that went into the upper room, and the quantity she used.

That difference was a multi-coloured, multi-textured ladder, slowly growing from between her needles.

She and Rupert had trialled it, tossing it over the rafters that supported the tower roof, and hanging on it to see how far it stretched, so they could measure the length needed. In four months, the ladder had grown nearly long enough to reach the ground in the courtyard.

Perhaps, in another week, it would do? And, of course, they would need the right weather and tides to steal a boat and safely cross to the mainland. The island had once been accessible at low tide, Rupert told her, but the half-mile causeway had washed away centuries ago, and storms could close the channel for days at a time.

They would also need to wait until the courtyard was empty. The seaward side of the tower was too dangerous, they had decided, with a sheer cliff to breakers below.

Rupert dropped a kiss on the top of her head. “Are you hungry, madam wife?”

She nodded. She was always hungry now, making up for the few weeks when food would not stay down.

“Sit up, then,” her husband said, “and I will fetch the tray.”

She watched him cross the room and go out the door. No onlooker would have believed him blind. He walked with confident ease in this space he knew so well. As long as she made sure everything remained in its place, he had a mental map of their entire three-floor domain, and he needed no help to move freely around it.

Once they were free, she would train a dog to go everywhere with him, like the dog she had seen leading a blind gypsy at a fair. He would be able to go anywhere, then.

He was back quickly, placing the heavy tray on the table where they ate their meals.

“Come here, Madeline,” he said, “and feed my son.”

“Or your daughter,” she reminded him. She hoped the baby was a girl. A girl would win her husband a reprieve. But it would not come to that. It could not be allowed to come to that. She would keep knitting until the ladder was long enough, and they would escape.

Soon. Soon they would make their bid for freedom. Before the storms of winter. Before she was too bulky to climb down the twisting, turning concoction of threads on which they had hung their hopes.

Soon.

Third movement: Allegro

Five

B

efore they could put their plan into action, Lady Wyvern and Lord Graviton returned. The castle had been unsettled for several days, with more boats than usual crossing to and from the mainland, and a veritable army of maids coming and going from the tower on the other side of the courtyard. They were cleaning, Madeline concluded, watching one staggering in through the door under a yoke of buckets.

Morris, when asked, denied anything was different, and Polly giggled, her usual response to a question she was forbidden to answer.

When their captors arrived, Madeline and Rupert were in their sanctuary, Madeline knitting while he played his violin. The sound of more than two pairs of feet on the stairs alerted Rupert to the danger.

“Madeline, hide the ladder,” he hissed, an urgent whisper, not ceasing his playing, and she scrambled to thrust it into the chest beside her, regaining her seat with another set of needles and a half-finished baby bonnet just as Lady Wyvern and Lord Graviton enteredwithout first knocking.

Rupert glowered as he kept playing. Madeline’s first reaction was to stand, but she reminded herself she outranked them both, and remained seated. The knitting helped keep her hands steady, and her voice was deceptively calm as she said, “Lady Wyvern, Graviton.” She inclined her head graciously, as she imagined a countess ought to do.

Lady Wyvern’s nostrils flared, but she returned the greeting: “Lady Penworth.”

“Please be seated,” Madeline managed, moments before Lady Wyvern sat without invitation. Graviton, though, prowled the room, picking things up and putting them down. How dare he invade their space and handle their things? Madeline commanded her body not to shake, her trembling now as much anger as fear.

Rupert was on the second and final movement of the piece he had been playing. Lady Wyvern regarded him with open dislike, then turned her frown on Madeline, talking loudly to be heard over the music. “Morris informs me the two of you spend most of your time up here. How can you stand the racket Penworth makes?”

“His Lordship is very talented,” Madeline replied. “I am privileged to hear him.”

“Hmm.” Lady Wyvern did not sound convinced. The smile she plastered on did not reach her eyes. “You are fortunate to find it so. What is that you are knitting, countess? Something for the baby?”

Madeline did not believe the pleasantries for a moment, but she responded in kind, holding out the half-finished cap, knitting needles and all. “A cap, Lady Wyvern.”

Lady Wyvern gave it a cursory glance. “Yes. Very nice. Very suitable.”

Graviton leaned against the back of Lady Wyvern’s chair, brushing her neck with his fingers. “Yes, yes. I am sure we all want to sit around all afternoon being entertained by your brother and admiring my sister’s industry, while the King’s man snoops to his heart’s delight.”

Rupert kept playing, but Madeline, who had heard this particular sonata many times, caught the slight misstep that indicated he had heard.

“The King’s man is thinking of nothing but his bath and a rest before dinner, my dear James,” Lady Wyvern scolded. “We have time to coach Lord and Lady Penworth in their part. And Penworth will not give us his full attention if he is not allowed to finish.”

Graviton pushed away and circled the room again, pacing with short, jerky steps, as if he could not contain his energy.

“How long?” he barked at Madeline. A matter of seconds, as it happened. Rupert was on the final bars, as anyone whose ears were not made of cloth could have heard. Not that she would say that. In their few encounters since her father had died, most of them on the journey here to Wyvern Castle, Madeline had learned to be wary of her brother’s reaction when anything touched his pride.

Rupert drew the bow to a lingering halt and stood, letting the vibrating strings fill the room with the last, sweet notes of the motif. Then, still seemingly ignoring their visitors, he crossed to the table where the violin case lay.

“Sir James shifted the case several inches to the right and rear, my lord.” Madeline would not call her husband by his personal name in front of these invaders. Rupert, who was lowering the violin over the table, changed his stance and swung it to the new position, fumbling very little as he fitted it into the shaped lining.

“Thank you, my lady.” Rupert crossed to sit on the chest beside Madeline, where he could hold the hand she slipped into his, and also prevent Graviton’s restless explorations from disclosing Madeline’s knitting.

“Very well, Lady Wyvern. What do you want of us?” Rupert’s voice was calm. Only the stickiness of his palm betrayed his emotions.

“Straight to the point, Penworth? No greetings for your sister?”

Rupert raised his eyebrows, his head turned in the direction of Lady Wyvern’s voice, for all the world as if he could see her.

“You like me as little as I like you, Sister.” He almost spat the last word, lip curling with disdain. “So let us not waste time on meaningless social niceties.”

Graviton returned to his post at Lady Wyvern’s shoulder, chuckling. “He has you there, Louisa. Damned if I don’t almost like the boy!”

Lady Wyvern scowled, though Graviton gave no sign of noticing. Madeline gripped Rupert’s hand a little tighter. His blindness gave him some advantages.

“Very well. If you will insist on being barbarians. We have a visitor. Lord Morpeth. We need the two of you to attend dinner with him this evening and meet with him tomorrow. Perhaps more than once. Graviton or I will always be present during such meetings, and we will instruct you on what you are to say.”

“And what you are not to say,” Graviton added.

Rupert remained silent, leaving Madeline to ask, “What is the purpose of Lord Morpeth’s visit?”

For a moment, she thought Lady Wyvern would not answer, but after exchanging glances with Graviton, the older woman condescended to explain, “I imagine you will hear it from Morpeth. Very well. Now that Lord Penworth is twenty-one, the king has decided to find out whether he is fit for his duties to the earldom, given his blindness. Your condition will help us, countess, though I could wish the babe born and a son.” She shrugged. “Still, what we have in mind should suffice.”

“And if I am unfit?” Rupert asked.

“Then you are of no more use to us,” Graviton hissed, low and vicious. “If you are unfit, we have no more need of you. And accidents can happen very easily to a man without sight.”

Madeline clutched convulsively at Rupert’s hand, though she tried to show no other sign of her alarm. He was lying, of course. They did not need Rupert to run the earldom they had already taken from him. Rather, they needed him, and Madeline, to provide heirs to legitimise their trusteeship of the estates.

“Accidents can happen even more easily to a violin,” Lady Wyvern purred. “You are fit to be earl, Penworth, or so my husband assured me. You will parade your knowledge of estate management, the interconnections between noble families, and the wellbeing of the kingdom, and you will not, by any word or action, alert Lord Morpeth to any irregularities in your situation. Your current accommodations are comfortable, but they could easily become less so. You have your violin and the company of your wife. That will change, I assure you, if you do not cooperate.”

Rupert made a derisory noise. “By ‘irregularities,’ you refer to the fact you are keeping me and my wife prisoner, and have—in effect—stolen my estates? That you intend to keep me at stud until you have a child to make earl in my place?”

Graviton laughed again. “You said he was smart, Louisa. Yes, my lord,” he gave the title a sarcastic twist. “That is precisely what we mean by irregularities.” His smile gone, as if it had never been, he leaned forward, enunciating each word precisely. “Make no mistake, Penworth. Appealing to Morpeth will do you only harm. He would be easy to convince that your accident left you mad. Wyvern’s protectiveness has done you no favours there. No one knows you. No one can speak for you. And if your grieving sister reluctantly concedes that you must be locked up for your own good and the estates held in trust for your heir, well, who is to know or care, after Morpeth leaves, whether your prison is this tower or Wyvern’s dungeons? Or worse?”

The servants, Madeline thought. But they are Lady Wyvern’s creatures.

Lady Wyvern stood. “You will be escorted to dinner when it is time, Penworth, countess. Come, James. We should bathe and change for dinner.” She stopped on her way to the door. “Lord Wyvern will not be joining us this evening, but you may prepare yourself to see him in the next few days, once he is able to entertain visitors.”

“He lives?” Rupert dropped Madeline’s hand to start after his sister, who curved her lips though her eyes remained cold.

“Oh, yes. He lives. He has been ill, Penworth, but he lives.”

“He is more useful that way,” Graviton observed, “for the present.”

Rupert had time for a hurried consultation with his wife before they separated to place themselves in the hands of the servants to be, as Madeline put it, transformed into an earl and countess to impress the King’s man. They would need to comply with their jailers’ commands, at least until they saw a chance to convince Morpeth of their plight. If they could. Lord Wyvern had not taken Rupert to meet his peers, but Rupert had been expected to learn all about them. Lord Wyvern had described the Earl of Morpeth as both conservative and stupid.

Escorted to the parlour by Morris and a phalanx of strapping footmen, Rupert was able to form his own judgement. Morpeth, on being presented to Rupert and Madeline, immediately turned to Graviton to gush, “But she is charming, my dear baron. Charming.”

And then, to Rupert, “I must congratulate you, Lord Penworth. I imagine you do not know how fortunate you are. Young men so often do not appreciate their wives as they should, I find. Now, let me help you be seated, Penworth.” He insisted on taking Rupert by the arm to lead him to a chair, turning him and pushing at his hips. “Sit, Penworth. Sit. I have you safe.”

“Once the ladies are seated, my lord,” Rupert insisted. “Lady Penworth?”

In the past four months, her lack of training for this role had not mattered, but unexpectedly, they were in company, and she was the highest-ranked lady in the room, Rupert’s title being older than Wyvern’s. He smiled in the direction he had last heard her, trying to project his confidence in her.

“Please be seated, Lady Wyvern, gentlemen.” Her voice sounded calm and assured. Rupert’s smile broadened. She would manage.

Morpeth demanded his attention again. “Charming,” he repeated. “Such a lovely young woman. And Lady Wyvern tells me she is already doing her duty to the title and to you, Penworth. You must be very pleased.”

Rupert was tempted to tell the fussy, old bore to mind his own business, but he murmured something bland, and soon, Morpeth was chattering about happenings in London and abroad, managing the conversation so well by himself that Rupert could pay only half attention, listening all the time to hear what the Ice Dragon and her lover were saying to Madeline.

Commonplaces about the weather, it seemed, and not for long, as the butler appeared at the door, making only the faintest of sounds to alert Rupert before Madeline said, “Dinner is served my lady, gentlemen. Shall we go through?”

“A nice problem,” Morpeth commented. “Four gentlemen and only two ladies. Do two men each escort one lady, Penworth? Hey?”

“I will exercise the privilege of a man yet on his bridal tour, and take in my own wife,” Rupert said firmly. “See that we are seated together, please.”

“Penworth, you will disrupt my table,” Lady Wyvern complained.

“Indulge me in this, Sister?” Madeline asked, sweetly. “My lord and I have not been parted by as much as a table length these four months.” She crossed the room and placed her hand in the one Rupert held up to receive it.

“How delightful.” From the sound of his voice, Morpeth was beaming. He was, as Lord Wyvern had described, a sentimentalist, as well as a bombastic fool.

“Yes. Very sweet.” Lady Wyvern was anything but pleased, but the orders she gave to the butler were in her best interests, too. With Madeline at his side to direct him, he could creditably manage a meal he could not see, and with him to advise her, she would conduct herself as a countess should.

“You said four gentlemen, Lord Morpeth,” Rupert said, once they were seated. “A fourth gentleman has not been presented to me?” He made the last sentence into a question, and Morpeth stumbled over an apology.

“An oversight, I assure you. Only my secretary, Penworth. May I present Mr Davin Umbra.”

“My lord.” The secretary’s voice came from beyond Madeline, who sat to Rupert’s left. It was low, slightly husky, and definitely amused. At Rupert? At the man’s master?

“Mr Umbra, my dear,” Rupert said to Madeline, taking some pleasure in discomfiting Morpeth for neglecting to present the man to them both.

“An unusual name, Mr Umbra. It is Latin for ‘shadow,’ is it not? Yet, you sound English?” Madeline said.

“I am indeed, my lady, although I have some Italian blood on my father’s side.”

“You understand a little Latin, countess?” Morpeth asked, both incredulous and condescending.

“Lady Penworth has a superior understanding,” Rupert told him, which made Morpeth chuckle.

“It does my heart good to hear you say so, Penworth. It does, indeed. When the King told me you were wed, and asked me to come see if there were anything suspicious about it, well, I do not mind telling you I wondered what I would find. But it is easy to see she dotes on you, and you on her.”

This was true, Rupert thought, but hardly to the point. Obedient to his sister’s command, though, he did not comment.

“No, Lord Morpeth,” Madeline said firmly, interrupting whatever Morpeth was about to say next. “You will allow me to serve my husband, although you may hold the dishes, if you will. Lord Penworth, let me explain what is on offer.”

She proceeded to describe each dish and serve a portion of those Rupert selected. Each time, she told him where he would find it on his plate, using the clock-face analogy they had developed together over many meals. “Your large spoonful of ragout is at three of the clock, next to the mashed parsnip and carrot at five of the clock.”

With the mental picture she helped him form, he had no need to run his hand over the plate, but could confidently use his cutlery to eat like a gentleman.

Morpeth was very impressed and exclaimed over their system, but was soon diverted into speaking of London gossip with Graviton and Lady Wyvern. When he applied to Rupert for an opinion, Rupert told him, “My wife and I have not seen a newspaper these four months, Lord Morpeth.”

Morpeth chuckled. “More important business, hey? More important business. Never you mind, boy… I mean, Penworth. You have been applying yourself with some effect!”

Madeline’s hand crept onto Rupert’s knee under the table, and he put his own hand down to give hers a squeeze. What a rude old man.

“Wyvern Castle is an unusual place,” said Umbra, breaking the subsequent tense silence. “It must have been easy to defend in the old days.”

Rupert seized the change of topic. “There was a causeway until the sixteenth century. You can still see some remnants at spring tide.”

“Now, the only access is by boat,” Lady Wyvern complained. “And not at all in a storm.”

“The causeway was only accessible at low tide,” Rupert told her. Lord Wyvern had told him the history of the castle many times.

“It was never taken by an enemy force from without, though it has twice been lost by betrayal from within,” he went on. Once in the Civil War, and once—if he was not mistaken—this last year, when Lady Wyvern took it from its rightful lord to bestow on the man cuckolding him.

Umbra asked Rupert for the story, and Rupert told him about the betrayal during the Civil War.

By the time he had finished, encouraged by questions from Madeline, Umbra, and even Morpeth, the meal was over. As the ladies stood, so did the gentlemen, Rupert a beat behind. He realised, almost too late, that allowing the ladies to withdraw would leave Madeline alone with the Ice Dragon.

“Lady Penworth, Lady Wyvern, given we are so few at table, may I beg your indulgence for the gentlemen to join you immediately?” he said.

Morpeth gave another patronising chuckle. “The newlyweds cannot bear to be parted, it seems.”

In the blue drawing room, Lady Wyvern presided over the tea tray. The men all refused a cup, instead, accepting a port from the decanter Graviton carried from the dining room. Madeline took her own fragrant cup of Oolong to a seat beside Rupert, and listened as Morpeth began a searching interrogation about affairs of state. Rupert, veteran of thousands of such discussions with his tutors and Lord Wyvern, was only too happy, and soon was eagerly questioning Morpeth about the progress of the war, the impact of the death of William Pitt, and the policies of Grenville, the new Prime Minister. Umbra was drawn in when Morpeth referred several questions to him, and then, Graviton and Lady Wyvern. Madeline—who had her knowledge of such matters from newspapers and books—listened, enthralled, as the other five talked about people whose decisions shaped the world she knew.

“But we are boring Lady Penworth,” said Morpeth, after a while. “You would rather hear about the latest fashions, I have no doubt, my dear,” he told her, smiling indulgently.

“I am finding it interesting, my lord,” Madeline told him. “And I will need to know such things to be the countess my husband needs, will I not?”

“No, no, I know what you young ladies like. You will want to know that the sleeves in evening gowns this autumn are quite full, and square necks are quite the rage. I daresay you should be surprised, Lady Penworth, at the length some ladies wear their dusters—why, I have seen a train of several feet! One has to be most careful where one steps. When you go up to London, you shall…”

Morpeth continued for several minutes, seeking support for his comments and opinions from Lady Wyvern, who soon looked nearly as impatient as Madeline felt. “But now we are boring the gentlemen,” Lady Wyvern said. “Penworth, perhaps you and your wife would favour us with some music. I had Morris bring your violin.”

Sure enough, the familiar case was on the pianoforte in the corner of the room. Madeline squeezed Rupert’s hand. He did not allow the servants to touch even the case of his precious Lady, and would be deeply indignant about Lady Wyvern’s presumption. But, though his face was white and mouth pinched, he managed to control whatever protest welled behind his gritted teeth.

Madeline stood, and he came with her, gripping her hand until it hurt.

She had not practiced on a pianoforte for months, though she played the spinet daily. She preferred the richer, more complex sound of the pianoforte, but would her fingers remember what was required of them? She had no doubt Rupert would adapt and make them both sound good.

Rupert checked his violin, calming as he did so, while Madeline looked through the folder of music that had also been retrieved by some intruder into their tower sanctuary. She took a deep breath. Calm. She, too, needed to be calm.

A low-voiced consultation on which piece to play and they began, soon losing themselves in the joy of handing the music back and forth, supporting one another, making something beautiful together that was greater than either could create apart.

Morpeth had tears in his eyes when Madeline looked up after the final notes died into silence. “That was beautiful, my lord, my lady. Beautiful. May I prevail upon you…?”

“Perhaps tomorrow evening, Morpeth, if you would be kind enough to allow us to take our leave.” Rupert told him.

“Thank you for your kindness, Lord Morpeth, but I am sure the company will understand I need my sleep.” Madeline coloured, but her implication had the desired result, Lord Morpeth assuring her he understood entirely, and his own dear wife was much the same when she was… “Ahem.”

Lady Wyvern’s lips thinned, but she made no motion to stop their progress to the door, so Madeline was unsurprised to find Morris and several sturdy footmen waiting in the hall immediately outside. Rupert ignored them, turning towards the tower with his violin case in one hand and Madeline’s hand in the other, walking so fast Madeline had to hurry to keep up.

The escort left them at the door, and Rupert sent Morris and Polly away, too. “My wife and I will serve one another,” he said, too firmly to permit argument.

As they prepared for bed, and while lying in one another’s arms, they pooled their impressions of Morpeth and his secretary. Was it good or bad for them that Morpeth seemed willing to be convinced Rupert was both capable and sane?

Madeline drifted into sleep, praying they would have an opportunity on the morrow to speak to one or both men alone.

Six

T

hey spent an anxious morning trying to follow their normal routine, then two stout footmen arrived with a message from Lady Wyvern, commanding Rupert’s presence, and he reluctantly left Madeline and allowed himself to be escorted down to the castle’s library.

“Ah, Penworth. Graviton has been showing me the earldom’s ledgers. Very impressive. Very impressive. You placed your trust in the right man in Graviton.” Lord Morpeth clapped Rupert on his shoulder, and Rupert swallowed to ease the rigid muscles of his jaw.

“I have been pleased to be able to give my sister and her husband a few months of leisure,” Graviton demurred. “Lord Wyvern wanted it so, of course, but with his illness…” Graviton let the words trail off.

“Shall I read out loud the passages you wanted His Lordship’s comment on, Lord Morpeth?” That was the secretary.

Rupert rather enjoyed the next hour. Anything Morpeth asked that related to the business of the earldom before his incarceration, he answered with ease. And he took pleasure in grilling Graviton when the questions turned to more recent activities and events. He had to concede, however reluctantly, that Graviton had done a fair job as steward of the estates, just as Morpeth had indicated. Which was all to the good, of course. He would not wish his people to suffer. But it irked him, nonetheless, to find a virtue in the man.

Finally, Lord Morpeth pronounced himself satisfied, and suggested they join the ladies.

Rupert knew Madeline was in the drawing room as soon as he entered, before she crossed the room to tuck her hand under his elbow.

“Are you well, Wife?” he asked. Has my sister hurt you or threatened you, he wanted to know, but she seemed calm.

“I am,” she assured him. “And you?”

“Well,” he confirmed. “I have been going over our books with Lord Morpeth. Your brother has done a good job while we have been here, but it is time we ran our own estates, my lady.”

Graviton sounded smug. “It has been my pleasure, Penworth. And I’ll continue happily for a while yet. You need not concern yourself, I assure you.”

“How delightful,” Lord Morpeth said, “to see such amity. It is not always so at Court. Now, Lady Wyvern, once I have seen Lord Wyvern, I believe our business will be concluded. I shall be taking good reports back to the King, you may be certain.”

“I am just awaiting word that Lord Wyvern is awake and able to meet with visitors,” Lady Wyvern said.

Madeline grasped Rupert’s arm, silently offering her support, and he covered her hand with his own. “I, too, am anxious to see Lord Wyvern,” he said, and was pleased at how calm and even his voice sounded.

“You shall see him shortly, Penworth.” Lady Wyvern said shortly, and her lover broke in, explaining to Morpeth, “When Lord Wyvern took an ague, His Lordship thought it best not to visit, lest he put my sister and the babe at risk. It must be… why, two weeks since he last saw his father’s old friend. Is that not right, Penworth?”

“It feels like six months,” Rupert replied, and Madeline squeezed his arm again, as Graviton turned the remark off. “The impatience of youth. Of course, Lord Wyvern has been a father to him these last ten years.”

“Indeed.” Lady Wyvern agreed. “I feel more his mother than his sister.” Her voice suspiciously maudlin, she added, “His own dear mother was my closest friend when we were young together. Did I not love him for our father’s sake and my own, I must love him for the sake of poor, lost Emmaline…”

Lord Morpeth gave a deep sigh.

“How charming, my lady. You and the former countess made your debut together, did you not?”

Rupert had pieced together the story from servants’ gossip and his sister’s occasional vituperative remarks: two reigning beauties, rivals rather than friends, one an earl’s daughter and the other, the only child of a viscount. At the end of the season, the viscount’s daughter was married to the earl, while her rival was the centre of an unspoken scandal, saved from complete disgrace by marriage to her father’s closest friend.

“We did, Lord Morpeth,” Lady Wyvern agreed.

“The toasts of London, or so I hear, though I cannot believe, my lady, it was long enough ago for your friend’s son to be a grown man. Why, you look scarcely older than Her Ladyship, here.”

“And the two friends became sisters,” Madeline cooed. “How sweet.” If anyone else caught the sarcastic edge to her voice, they did not remark on it, but it cheered Rupert. The Ice Dragon and her lover could force their compliance, but could not divide them.

“Ah,” said Graviton. “Here is the nurse. Your patient is ready, Miss Tyler?”

The nurse must have given some nonverbal signal, because Lady Wyvern said, “Come, Lord Morpeth. You and I shall lead the way.”

The nurse reeked of the sickroom—an odour Rupert remembered from his own convalescence. Sweat was part of it, and dust. His nostrils flared at the sickly stench of opium. Was Lord Wyvern in such pain, then? Under it all, he could detect perfumes that must be the nurse’s own, from her soap or perhaps her clothes. Rosemary, and some more floral note; carnation, perhaps.

Their procession led to the tower across the courtyard from Rupert’s and Madeline’s.

“We have moved him to an upper room, Lord Morpeth,” Lady Wyvern was saying. “The doctor assures us it is for the best. The breezes at this height will carry away the noxious odours that cause disease.”

But when they came into the tower room, which smelt almost airy and fresh, if one ignored the undercurrents of opium and illness, Lady Wyvern turned on the nurse. “Close the windows and curtains, woman. Do you wish to kill His Lordship?”

“The breezes will keep the room fresh,” the nurse replied, calmly. Her voice, thin and quavering, sounded old, which surprised Rupert, who had thought her young by her smell.

The voice from the bed drove everything else out of Rupert’s head. “Rupert, my boy,” he thought Lord Wyvern had tried to say, though his voice was slurred and rusty with disuse. Rupert crossed the room, barely conscious of his wife guiding him around obstacles, to kneel at his mentor’s side and cover his hand with kisses and tears. Until this moment, he had not allowed himself to either hope or grieve.

“You p-p-omized.” Lord Wyvern was stern, and Rupert winced. He had broken many promises by allowing himself to be imprisoned. But Lady Wyvern answered, “Yes, my lord. I promised that you should see Penworth today, and here he is. And you shall have many more visits with him, dear husband, if you but take care not to over-exert yourself or bother your head about business, which you can safely leave to me and to Sir James Graviton, here.”

The hand Rupert held jerked convulsively. “Keep… boy… safe.”

“Yes, you can see for yourself Penworth is perfectly safe, and will, we devoutly pray, remain so.” Lady Wyvern’s voice was soothing, and Rupert doubted Morpeth could hear the smug message underlying her words.

“Now, Wyvern, Lord Morpeth has a few questions, and then tomorrow—if all goes well—you shall have a short visit with Penworth and his little wife.”

“Just two questions, Wyvern,” Morpeth said, his voice hushed and gentle, as if he spoke to a child rather than an invalid. “I would not ask, but—duty to the King, you know.”

Lord Wyvern made a noise Morpeth must have interpreted as consent. “Would you say Rupert Fleming, Earl of Penworth, is capable of undertaking the duties of his high office?”

Wyvern made the same noise, and Morpeth nodded, smiling. “Yes, I think so, too. A very able young man. And now, my dear sir, will you confirm Penworth married with your consent? I have seen the marriage licence, you understand, signed by the bride and groom, but Penworth was still a minor. I must be able to assure the king the marriage is valid.”

Lord Wyvern’s hand convulsed in Rupert’s, and Rupert felt Madeline come up behind him and rest her hand on his shoulder. What would Lord Wyvern say? How could Rupert convey to his old mentor how much Madeline meant to him? If Lord Wyvern repudiated the marriage, Rupert would simply marry Madeline again, but surely, Lord Morpeth would repeat such a juicy piece of scandal the length and breadth of the ton, which would embarrass her. Somehow, he and Madeline would get out of their current predicament, and he wanted his wife to be comfortable in London society.

What could he say?

“Sir,” he said, “although, when this marriage was first suggested, I was reluctant, I could not be better pleased with my dear wife. She is my cherished companion and partner, and will soon be the mother of my child.”

Lord Wyvern’s hand convulsed again, then he made the same affirmative noise as before.

“Excellent,” Lord Morpeth said. “Excellent. Wyvern, my dear fellow, we must let you rest. I see your good nurse glaring at me from the shadows.”

Lord Wyvern clung to Rupert’s hand, letting go only reluctantly when Lady Wyvern repeated that they would be allowed a visit tomorrow.

Back down in the courtyard, she turned to Morpeth, saying, “You will be anxious to leave, Lord Morpeth. The next boat sails with the tide at three of the clock.”

Lord Morpeth was cheerfully unconcerned. “One more night makes little difference, Lady Wyvern.”

“It is unlikely to be just the one night,” Graviton offered.

“Unfortunately, Sir James is correct,” Lady Wyvern agreed. “The weather is expected to close in tomorrow, and our boats may be stuck in the harbour here until the storm passes.”

“My wife and I will farewell you from the dock,” Rupert said. Perhaps he would have a chance to talk to Morpeth or his secretary alone, or—at worst—perhaps they could simply jump onto the boat as it pulled away from the dock.

“No, Penworth. I am confident Lord Morpeth will not wish to take up any more of the time you and the countess have together. Your duties will come between you soon enough. Say goodbye to His Lordship now, if you please.” Though she tried to make it sound like a suggestion, still, it was a command.

Well then. This was his only chance. He could trade his own safety and the survival of his violin for the safety of his wife, and stated in those terms the decision was easy.

“Take the countess with you, Lord Morpeth, I beg you. She is not safe here. Lady Wyvern and Graviton have been keeping us prisoner, and they mean her harm.”

Lady Wyvern tried to brush it off. “Such a joke is in poor taste, Penworth.”

“I beg you, Lord Morpeth,” Rupert repeated. Madeline had both her hands on his arm now, and he covered them with his free hand to calm their shaking.

“Alas,” Graviton said mournfully, “Louisa, I fear his illness has returned. He has spells, Morpeth, but he has been so well since his marriage…”

“The blow to his head, you know, in the accident that killed my brother,” Lady Wyvern explained. “The last two days have been too much for him, I fear.”

“I am not sure…” Morpeth began.

“Sir, you have examined me. You know I am sane.”

The secretary interrupted, “Lord Morpeth, we must be on our way, or we shall miss the tide. I am certain Lady Wyvern will take good care of her brother.”

“No,” Morpeth declared. “I know my duty. We will have to stay, Umbra. I must investigate these charges.”

“What a nuisance,” Lady Wyvern sighed. She must have made some signal, for immediately he heard scuffling, and hands seized his shoulders and arms. Madeline was clinging hard, but being pulled away.

“Be careful with the countess, you fools,” Lady Wyvern commanded. “She is carrying the future Penworth!”

“Rupert!” Madeline screamed his name as her fingers were pried from his arm and she was carried away. He reached out for her. “Madeline! Madeline!”

“Rupert!” Her voice calling his name echoed in his mind long after the sound faded, as he was hustled along in a phalanx of hard-handed men, across the courtyard and down a flight of stairs into the oldest part of the castle. Then more stairs. The dungeons. Of course.

He was hurled down into what he knew to be the first of a series of cells and had not picked himself up from the floor before first one man, and then another, cannonaded down after him. Morpeth and Umbra, by the shape and odour, and they confirmed it immediately, Morpeth cursing vigorously and Umbra apologising, as he lifted himself off the pair of them.

From the top of the stairs, Lady Wyvern spoke. “You fool, Penworth. What did you hope to achieve with your dramatics? Now you have written a death warrant for our visitors, and for yourself, unless the child is a daughter.”

“You treacherous bitch,” Morpeth spluttered, but Lady Wyvern just laughed, a sound cut off by the slamming door, the bolts outside screeching as they were shot home.

“That could have gone better,” Umbra said quietly. He was fumbling about, and Rupert heard a repeated tapping, and then some soft, huffing breaths.

“Thank God,” Morpeth breathed devoutly. “Light.”

“The room has been used recently,” Umbra said. “By an invalid, I would say. Lord Wyvern, perhaps?”

“Surely not,” Morpeth objected. “We saw his room!”

“He was moved there this past week,” Rupert observed. “My wife watched it from the window.”

He was prowling the room, confirming his childhood memories of its size and dimensions. This was the cell purported to contain the ghost, and so, had been of unending fascination to his younger self.

Morpeth was still objecting. “Lord Wyvern was not himself, but surely, if he had been kept here, he would have made a complaint!”

“Lord Wyvern was drugged. At a guess, I would say with opium,” Umbra informed his master. “And undoubtedly, Lady Wyvern and Graviton threatened harm to Lord Penworth if Lord Wyvern tried to alert you to their plotting.”

“Such wickedness! Her own husband!”

“And her own brother,” Rupert reminded the man. “And his own sister.”

“Indeed. Indeed. Umbra, you see how wrong you were to insist we leave.”

“To be fair, Lord Morpeth, it was probably too late by then. But had you said nothing, Lord Penworth, and had we been allowed to leave when I suggested it, we could be organising a rescue by now. You were not to know that, of course, my lord.”

“You knew we were prisoners here?”

“I suspected it,” Umbra confirmed, “and when I saw Lord Wyvern’s condition, I was certain.”

“Tell me,” Rupert commanded. “He has lost weight. I could feel how thin his hand was. And his voice… so frail, and so hard to understand. He is very ill? Is he… is he dying, Umbra?”

“I do not know, Sir. We will need to get him away from that pair. We can trust his nurse to do what she can for him, but I cannot give you any assurance his condition will improve without knowing what is wrong.”

“Never mind Wyvern,” Morpeth burst out. “What about us? You heard Lady Wyvern. They intend to kill us!”

Seven

Madeline, locked back in the tower, took refuge in a hearty bout of tears. It was, in part, genuine; she could not help but worry about Rupert, though she thought—she hoped—the Ice Dragon and her lover would not hurt him till they were sure of the baby. Mostly, though, she wept to confound her jailers.

Madeline thought Polly would probably support her, left to herself, but Morris was Lady Wyvern’s man through and through. He must be led to believe Madeline was defeated. She could do nothing until after dark, in any case, and it was pleasing to hear Polly fretting to Morris about the possible impact of her grief on the health of the child she carried.

In the end, Polly left and came back with Graviton, who was at first impatient, and then inclined to be worried. As Madeline had hoped, he was reluctant to use force on her, and harsh words only made her cry harder. In the end, he resorted to bribery and threats.

“Nothing will happen to your earl as long as you behave, Mad. If you keep weeping like this and harm the baby, why, we’ll have to hurt him in some way. Some way that won’t prevent him from making another. We could cut off a finger, perhaps. Oh, hush that noise, you fool. We won’t hurt him if you are good.”

Madeline allowed her wails to subside to smothered sobs, with the occasional great, shuddering gasp, for effect.

“There, that’s better. Now, let Polly here put you to bed.”

“But I need my husband,” Madeline wailed. “I cannot sleep without my husband.”

Graviton was looking decidedly hunted. “Louisa won’t allow it, Mad. But perhaps I can talk her ’round. Just give me some time.”

Madeline did her best to look grateful. “P-p-please? I will try not to cry. But it is so h-h-hard.”

“If you stop crying, I will talk to Louisa,” he agreed. “It won’t be immediately, mind. But if you are good, and the earl is good… Yes, I think we can manage something.”

Madeline nodded and blinked rapidly, so the tears in her eyes spilled down her cheeks.

“I will try,” she said again. “Thank you, Graviton.”

He left, and Madeline allowed herself to be washed and changed for bed, responding dully and without interest to Polly’s ministrations. After the maid had tucked her into bed and asked for the fourth time if, “Your Ladyship wants anything at all,” she finally left, whispering as she departed, “I am certain there will be good news in the morning, my lady.”

Madeline was out of bed as soon as Polly was out the door, and from the top of the stair, she heard the maid talking to whomever let her out of the tower. “I don’t feel right about leaving my poor countess alone, and that’s the truth.”

“We heard her,” one of the guards commented. “Thought it was the White Lady!”

“Poor dearling,” Polly said. “She is that grieved! It is wicked, separating her from the earl. Just wicked. But she will not have me stay by her…”

The voice faded as the door shut, and Madeline hastened back to her dressing room to change into something that would allow her to climb. A pair of Rupert’s knee breeches, in the darkest colour she could find, with a morning gown over the top. It fastened at the front, so she could button herself up. She tucked the gown into the breeches and slipped on a pair of soft shoes that would give her a good grip. A shawl, in case it was cold? Lady Wyvern had said a storm was coming.

Next, she hurried upstairs to fetch three great skeins of knitted ladder from their various hiding places, fumbling for them in the gloom—she would not risk attracting attention with a light. The darkness meant she could not see Rupert’s violin. How she wished she could take it with her! But Rupert and the baby must come first.

Back down to the lowest level of the prison where she had been so happy these past months. It was the work of minutes to firmly tie the three pieces to form one long ladder, and then to fasten the two long arms of the top piece around the largest, heaviest piece of furniture in the room: a grotesque armoire that must have been built in place, since it could never have been carried up the winding tower stair or hoisted through the narrow window.

She leant out the window. She could see no movement in the courtyard below, nothing in the tower opposite or any of the other rooms that overlooked the courtyard.

Climbing down was harder than she expected. The ladder blew in the wind, and every rung had to be felt for, then turned, so she could put her foot firmly in place. As soon as she had her weight on a knitted rung, it would stretch, pulling the sides closer together, so she could not put the other foot beside the first, but needed to either dangle, gathering her strength, or reach further down for the next rung. Her weight also pulled her against the rough stone of the tower, bruising and grazing her knuckles and toes, even through her gloves and slippers.

She kept going, one rung at a time, refusing to be discouraged, refusing to think about how far she had come or how far she could fall.

Then, all at once, it was over. Her foot stretched and touched the cobblestones of the courtyard, and just like that, the climb was done.

As soon as she took her weight from the ladder, the wind whipped it into the air, and she imagined it streaming out from the tower window far above her head. Hidden in the shadows, she let her gown back down around her feet.

Several minutes passed, and all remained quiet. This might actually work! First, she needed to find a boat small enough for her to handle. Hugging the walls, keeping to the shadows, she began to circle the courtyard toward the deeper darkness that signalled the passageway through the walls. Beyond, the road led down to the docks.

She was nearly there when a woman’s voice spoke behind her. “Do not be alarmed, Lady Penworth.”

Madeline spun around, one hand to her chest to hold her pounding heart in place.

“Who is it?” She could see a vague shape in the darkness, but no details.

“A friend.”

It was not Lady Wyvern, nor—from the accent, which was aristocratic—one of the servants. As she froze, trying to decide whether to run or speak, she heard footsteps and voices approaching from the other end of the passage.

“Quick. This way.” The woman took her hand and pulled her through a doorway, into the room beyond. Just in time. Pressed against the wall inside the door, she could hear them clearly: several men arguing in hushed voices.

“It was the White Lady, I tell you.”

“Rubbish.”

“She was coming out that window. I saw her with my own eyes. It was like a long coil of smoke, twisting in the wind.”

“A long coil of smoke. Listen to him. Next, you’ll be telling us she’s off to join her husband in the dungeon.”

A chorus of guffaws.

“You’ve heard what the islanders say, same as me,” the first voice insisted.

“Yes, and right fools they are, too.”  The speaker pitched his voice in a falsetto. “Ooooh! Moaning in the dungeon. It must be the ghost!” Then, reverting to his own low rumble. “Silly tossers. A good thing Her Ladyship sent the whole lot of them packing.”

The first voice began, “If you ask me…”

Another man interrupted. “You can stand around talking about ghosts all night if you want. I’m for the kitchen and a tot of something hot and strong. Securing those boats was cold work.”

She could make out no more. They were across the courtyard and… yes, they had gone down the steps into the servants’ area Rupert had pointed out from their window.

“Come,” her companion said. “Lord Wyvern is awake and wishes to speak with you.”

“Let me go,” Madeline pleaded. “Now, while the courtyard is clear.”

“I will help you, my lady. That is why I am here. But first, we need to share information. Come with me and see Lord Wyvern.”

“Who are you?” Madeline asked, but the woman gave her no answer, just moved away, surefooted in the dark.

After a moment, Madeline followed her. They climbed the stair until they reached the room where Lord Wyvern lay, propped up on pillows, looking—by the light of the lamp at his bedside—more alert than he had earlier in the day.

The light allowed Madeline to recognise her companion. “You are the nurse. Miss Tyler. You work for Lady Wyvern.”

“I work for Lord Wyvern,” Miss Tyler corrected. “I am here to rescue him, and you and the earl.”

“Lady Wyvern took the earl away. I don’t know where.”

“Dun… jin,” Lord Wyvern said, and Miss Tyler nodded. “They were keeping Lord Wyvern in the dungeon when I was brought here to care for him. I expect that is where they have your husband and the other two men.”

Lord Wyvern was a frail shadow of the hearty man Rupert had described, and pale enough to have been in a dungeon these six months. Madeline didn’t understand how his own servants could have allowed such a thing.

“Why did your people let it happen?” she asked him, but it was Miss Tyler who answered.

“His Lordship had an apoplexy. Lady Wyvern saw her moment and removed anyone who might object to her regency while he was ill. Then, when he began to recover… well, she made sure to keep him bedridden. And she hid him, so those loyal to him would not know what she was doing.”

“How could the Ice Dragon hope to get away with it?”

Goodness. She was so used to Rupert’s name for his sister that she said it without thinking. But Lord Wyvern was laughing silently, and even the nurse was smiling.

“A good name for her,” Miss Tyler said. “She is an arrogant woman, Your Ladyship. She makes her plans and assumes the rest of the world will fall into line. She must have been horrified when the King sent Lord Morpeth to see what was happening here, but she and Sir James decided to bully their way through.

“They sent most of the islanders away, to keep complaints and rumours from reaching Lord Morpeth’s ears. That may yet work to her disadvantage, since they are now on the mainland and will be talking to all their friends and relatives. Word will reach the ears of the gentry sooner or later, and people with authority will start asking questions.”

“I cannot wait for that,” Madeline said. “I need to rescue the earl now.”

“Plan?” Lord Wyvern asked.

“Yes, my lady. What was your plan? Do you have a helper? Somewhere to go?”

Madeline shook her head. She and Rupert had no one to help them. But they had a plan, of sorts, and she intended to carry it out.

Miss Tyler saw her hesitation. “Lady Penworth, you are wise to be cautious, but you can trust us. Lord Wyvern, as you know, is as much a victim of the conspirators as you and your husband. And I have been sent by the earl’s godmother to find out what is happening and help if I can.”

“How did you come to be His Lordship’s nurse?” Madeline asked. Perhaps the woman’s explanation would suggest how to proceed.

“Pure chance. I travelled on the same coach as the woman they had sent to nurse Lord Wyvern into sufficient health to meet the King’s man. And when I found out where she was going, and the job for which she had been hired, I persuaded her to let me take her place.”

Madeline looked at Lord Wyvern in some consternation. If this were his improved condition, how sick had he been?

“Go-w-d,” he said.

“Yes,” Miss Tyler agreed. “Gold. I paid her double the fee she had been promised and sent her back to London, to my employer.”

Madeline made up her mind. In truth, she had been worried about how she would manage without another pair of hands.

“I was heading for the harbour,” she said, “to the boats.”

“No!” Lord Wyvern tried to sit up, but failed. “Storm!”

Madeline put a hand on his to reassure him. “Just to let a boat go, Lord Wyvern, so they think I have escaped that way. Not to actually set sail.”

“Very clever.” The nurse nodded. “And then hide while they chase after you, yes?”

“That was what we planned. But now I need to find Rupert.”

“Tide,” Lord Wyvern insisted. “Wait for tide. Tide take boat out.”

The two women exchanged glances. “Do you know what time that will be, my lord?” Miss Tyler asked.

“I do.” Madeline remembered the exchange with Lord Morpeth. “Today’s tide was ebbing at three of the clock, so will it not ebb again around the same time in the night?”

“A little later, perhaps, but yes. That is good. We shall let the boat drift out to sea on the tide.” Miss Tyler checked a timepiece that lay near the lamp. “We have two hours to wait. Shall we see if we can find the gentlemen?”

She turned to Lord Wyvern. “Let me see to your comfort before we go, my lord, and we shall return as soon as we can.”

Lord Wyvern shook his head. “No. Leave me. She find you here.”

Miss Tyler frowned.

“Yes!” Lord Wyvern insisted. “Get earl safe. Wife, too. Come back later.”

Was his speech growing clearer, or was Madeline just becoming used to it?

“Rupert will not leave you, my lord,” she assured him.

“Get later,” he commanded. “Tell Rupe… Tunn’ls. Go through tunn’ls. Boy knows.”

Miss Tyler’s quick mind leapt ahead. “Another way out of the dungeons, my lord?”

Lord Wyvern nodded. Yes.

They discussed their options as they helped Lord Wyvern to a drink, and then to relieve himself. (Madeline blushed and looked away, but Miss Tyler seemed untroubled.) Miss Tyler settled him on his pillows and gave him a carefully measured spoonful of medicine from a bottle that stood ready.

His eyes asked a question, and she said, “The diluted version, my lord. We shall taper you off, never you fear. And I have in mind a use for the extra we have saved.” She took another, almost identical, bottle and secreted it somewhere about her person. “Come, my lady. Fare thee well, my lord. I shall return as soon as I can.”

Madeline stopped to kiss Lord Wyvern’s papery cheek, for Rupert’s sake, then followed Miss Tyler out of the room and down out of the tower.

The courtyard was empty, nothing moving except a few weeds tossing in the wind in neglected corners.

Miss Tyler led the way to the steps into the service area, where the party from the harbour had entered not long before. “This is the quickest way,” she whispered.

The door let onto a narrow passage with several doorways on either side, some dark and some lit. “Keep your shawl over your head, my lady, and be ready to duck out of sight,” Miss Tyler advised at a whisper.

But no one emerged from the kitchen, where they could hear conversation and laughter, nor from any of the other rooms. Miss Tyler led Madeline to a door near the end of the passage. “We need to go through here, but I have an idea to deal with the guards. Wait out of sight. I won’t be a moment.”

When she returned, several minutes later, it was with another servant, who courteously opened the outside door for her, since her hands were occupied with a tray containing a tankard and a plate of bread and cheese. Madeline shrank back into the shadows, hiding her face with the edge of her dark shawl, but the servant returned to the kitchen without looking her way.

The outside door reopened, and Miss Tyler returned, putting the tray on the sideboard at one side of the hall. Madeline joined her as Miss Tyler retrieved two smaller tankards from the shelf above, poured into each half the contents of the bottle she’d brought from Lord Wyvern’s sick room, and topped them up from the larger tankard she had fetched in the kitchen.

Madeline watched with admiration as Miss Tyler then transformed herself into a maid, washing her face to remove the lines that had given her the appearance of age, hiding her hair under a mob cap she pulled from a hidden pocket, and fetching a tablecloth from within the sideboard to tie around her waist as an apron.

“In the kitchen, they are nervous,” she told Madeline as she worked her metamorphosis. “They have gone along with your imprisonment, but most of them did not know about Lord Wyvern, and they are unhappy with what they’ve heard of his treatment. Casting the King’s man into the dungeon has them running scared. Several are nearly ready to flee, or even turn on Lady Wyvern and your brother.”

She picked up the tray. “I will take their refreshments to the guards in the dungeon,” she told Madeline. “Follow me, but stay back, so they don’t see you.”

“Can I not be a maid, too?” Madeline asked.

“Not in a silk gown, Your Ladyship.” Miss Tyler went to pick up the tray, then stopped. “Can you shoot a pistol, by any chance?”

Madeline nodded, and from that same mysterious source Miss Tyler produced a small gun with a chased design in silver and a carved wooden handle, and a pouch of ammunition to load in it. Quickly, Miss Tyler unscrewed the barrel and poured black powder into the chamber. She added a bullet and replaced the barrel.

“Do not shoot unless we are threatened. I would prefer the guards have their supper and go peacefully to sleep. It will be quieter and less messy. But if they attempt to raise the alarm, I will need you to silence one while I deal with the other.” She frowned slightly, examining Madeline. “Can you do it? Can you shoot someone, Lady Penworth? I will not think less of you for being honest, if you cannot.”

“I can shoot any person that threatens harm to my husband, Miss Tyler,” Madeline said, hoping it were true. She had learned to use firearms so she could train her dogs not to be afraid of the noise, but she had only ever fired at targets. Her throat tightened at the thought of shooting a human being. But she must have sounded convincing, because Miss Tyler nodded, collected the tray, and led the way to the dungeon stairs.

Eight

M

orpeth was fretting, and had been doing so for hours. Rupert wished he would stop, or at least fret in silence. Instead, he repeated a litany, always the same, starting with the excuses he should have given the King, passing through all the things he should have noticed (or that Umbra should have pointed out to him), and ending with speculations about the time and manner of his death, before beginning again with the excuses.

Umbra, who remained unaccountably cheerful, ignored him after the first round, and recommended Rupert do likewise. But Rupert was afraid that several hours in a dungeon with Morpeth would achieve what the weeks alone before his wedding could not: drive him mad.

He resorted to imagining the fingering and bow movements for the concerto he and Madeline were currently learning. Deep inside his own thoughts, rehearsing a particularly tricky passage, a sound outside caught his attention.

“Quiet.” The peremptory order stopped Morpeth mid-complaint. Rupert sank to his knees beside the door, pressing his ear against it. It had been made from one massive piece of oak, but over the years, it had dried and twisted slightly, leaving a sliver of gap between door and frame where sound from without carried more or less clearly, at least to ears as acute as Rupert’s.

In some part of his brain, he registered Morpeth asking questions and Umbra silencing him in a manner nearly as abrupt as Rupert’s. All Rupert’s attention was on the conversation outside.

“Miss Tyler?” he asked no one in particular. “What is she doing here?”

“Good girl!” Umbra remarked, unsurprised.

“She is giving the guards something to eat and drink,” Rupert reported. “They are being lewd. I hope she knows what she is about.”

“Trust her for that,” Umbra said, but with an undertone of concern that suggested he was not as confident as he wished Rupert to think.

But the guards’ crass remarks were already becoming more slurred, less forceful, and they soon ceased entirely, replaced by snoring that was crass in quite a different fashion.

“I think she has given them something to make them sleep,” Rupert said.

“Probably some of Lord Wyvern’s opium.” Umbra suggested.

“You expected this?” Morpeth was inclined to be indignant.

“I expected Miss T would do something. I did not know what.”

Rupert was still listening. “Miss Tyler is talking to someone. I cannot hear the reply, but she does not sound distressed.”

In the next moment, he straightened, beaming. “It is my wife!”

They all heard the key turn in the lock, and Madeline was first through the door when it opened, walking into Rupert’s waiting arms, clutching him as if they had been separated for weeks, rather than hours.

“Madeline,” he murmured into her hair.

“If you would move out of the doorway, my lord, my lady…”

Rupert shifted sideways at Miss Tyler’s voice, but did not let go of his wife, nor she of him, ignoring the movements of the others in and out of the cell, until her presence in his arms eased the hard knot of tension of which he had not even been aware.

“Would you give the gun to Umbra now, please, countess?” Miss Tyler asked. Ah. That must be the hard object his wife was holding clutched in the hand pressed into his back. It disappeared.

“A gun, Madeline?” Rupert asked.

“I am glad I did not have to shoot it,” Madeline confided. “I learned to fire a gun to train the dogs, but I have never killed anything.”

“You did very well, my lady,” Miss Tyler said. “Lady Penworth climbed from the tower on a ladder she had knitted, Umbra.”

“It worked? Well done, Madeline.” Rupert clutched her still closer at the thought of her dangling, precariously, sixty yards above the hard stones of the courtyard. He had always intended to go first, and had imagined a dozen different ways to make it unnecessary for her to try it at all. But it had worked, and she was here, and his foolish heart did not need to pound as if she were broken at the foot of the tower.

“I wish I could have released the ladder when I was down,” Madeline said. “The Ice Dragon will know how I escaped.”

“Yes, it is a pity. Perhaps…” Miss Tyler did not finish that sentence, but instead went on, in a brisker voice. “We need to complete this escape before we do anything else. Lord Penworth, Lord Wyvern suggested you lead us out of here through the smugglers’ tunnel. I suggest we then release the boat, as you and the countess had planned, and take refuge in the tower with Lord Wyvern.”

“A smugglers’ tunnel, eh? That gives me an idea.” Umbra sounded as if he were grinning. “Confusion is an excellent thing in one’s enemy, do you not agree, Morpeth?”

“What have you in mind?” Miss Tyler asked.

“Put the candle back in the cell, and I shall lock the door and return the key to the guards. Let them puzzle out how we managed to walk through solid walls!”

Miss Tyler grinned. “Perfect. The guards are unlikely to admit they fell asleep on the job, and the one who should be at the door, but is instead toasting his toes at the kitchen fire, will assure Lady Wyvern no one passed him by. And he will be right.”

“But we cannot go into these tunnels without a light,” Morpeth objected.

“Lord Penworth does not need a light.” From the sounds, Umbra was suiting action to words. “There. Done. Lead on, Lord Penworth.”

Rupert had not been in the tunnels for years, but the key was simple enough. One left, two right, two left, one right, and repeat—and a cross symbol cut into the lintel of each correct tunnel. He had grown since the old days of exploration. He no longer needed to stretch to reach the confirming sign.

They walked in a chain: Madeline holding his hand, then Morpeth, Miss Tyler, and Umbra bringing up the rear. Morpeth had stopped complaining after the second command from Umbra to keep quiet, lest echoes travel up through the complex of caves and alert someone in the castle.

Morpeth and Umbra were sounding less and less like master and secretary. Who was Umbra, really? Lord Wyvern had told Rupert of men who served the Crown in various guises, giving up their own identitiesand the virtue of honestyfor the sake of the nation. Was Umbra one of those? Was Miss Tyler? He had never imagined women as spies, but how useful to be a spy nobody would imagine!

There. If he remembered correctly, this was the last tunnel. One long curve would bring them into the back of a cave, with a single right-angled turn to the shore.

Sure enough, moments later, those behind him commented on the light. “Relative light,” Umbra corrected. “It is only light by comparison with the cave. Well done, my lord.”

“Thank God,” Morpeth breathed. “Now, how do we get off this island?”

“First, let us see what we can do to confound pursuit,” Miss Tyler suggested. “Umbra, Lord and Lady Penworth intended to set a boat adrift to confuse the trail. Would you and Lord Morpeth do that? And I shall see if I can remove Lady Penworth’s ladder.”

“Morpeth and I can deal with the boats, Miss T, but how will you get into the tower?” Umbra asked.

“The guards were about to perform the changeover when I was in the kitchen, and the man who is there now was most vocal about the danger of killing a noble, and a King’s emissary at that. I think he will take little persuasion to let me in, and to let me out again once I’ve dealt with the ladder.”

“What of us?”  Rupert asked.

“Would you and the countess wait here, my lord? You can retreat into the tunnels if someone comes searching, and Lady Penworth and the baby will be safe.”

“I do not like sending you to do the work while I hide,” Rupert said.

“Nor is it wise,” Madeline pointed out, “to leave Lord Wyvern vulnerable.”

Umbra was quick to see the point. “Lady Wyvern could use him to make us surrender. One of us needs to defend his tower.”

“Give me the gun,” Madeline suggested, “and the earl and I shall go. We shall barricade ourselves in the tower with Lord Wyvern and come to no harm.”

“A blind man, a woman, and a bedridden invalid?” Morpeth said. “It sounds like a disaster in the making.”

“It sounds sensible to me,” Umbra countered. “If they barricade themselves in, only an axe will get them out. And any assailants will have to come up the stairs one at a time. Lady Penworth, you said you use guns in your dog training. Do you know how to load this one?”

“Yes,” Madeline said.

Umbra handed her the gun, and Miss Tyler gave her the pouch of ammunition and powder, saying, “We will come as quickly as we can, and if we cannot reach you, one of us will go to the mainland for help. Hold out, and this will all be settled today.”

Umbra and Lord Morpeth went around the rocks towards the harbour, feeling their way in the dark. The others took the narrow path up from the small beach to the castle, Rupert leading the way, the two women close behind.

He stopped just below the main path down to the harbour.

“What is wrong?” Miss Tyler asked.

Rupert shushed her. Some people were coming down the path, arguing in hushed voices. In moments, they were close enough to make out the words.

“I tell ’ee, we should stay and demand our pay,” said one.

“Demand? From Her Ladyship? You’d get paid in bullets like enough, or enough rope to hang you with.”

“Harry’s right. Her Ladyship has run mad. No, we’ve taken her silver, and that will have to be our pay.” A dull clunking advertised the presence of a bag full of metal objects. The departing servants had clearly looted as they left.

“Them idiots what stayed?” said a woman’s voice, “if ’er Ladyship don’t get ’em, and the ghosts don’t get ’em, I reckon the King’s soljers will.”

The group had passed now, perhaps eight or nine men and women. Rats deserting the sinking ship, but Rupert was glad of it.

“Wind’s getting up. We need to be across the water before the storm.” The voices faded as the group hurried down the path towards the harbour.

Rupert and his companions resumed the climb until they reached the castle and hurried through the passageway into the courtyard.

“I’ll leave you here,” Miss Tyler said at the doorway to Lord Wyvern’s tower. “Prepare Lord Wyvern to be moved. Either Shadow or I will be back as quickly as we can to fetch you.”

At that moment, the door opened. “My lady!” It was Polly, Madeline’s maid. What was she doing here? Rupert opened his mouth to ask, but the maid forestalled him. “I have been that worried, my lady. I thought for sure you would have gone to the dungeon where they were keeping Lord Penworth, but the guards said no one had been. But,” Rupert could hear the frown in her voice, “here is my lord? Well, never mind; you are both safe.”

Madeline had dropped Rupert’s hand. “Polly,” she said, “you must not tell Lady Wyvern we have escaped.”

“Not I, my lady. Never. I haven’t told about the knitting, have I? And got you as much wool as you wanted? I cut the ladder, my lady, and brought the pieces away. And I shut the window. Her Ladyship will never know how you got out.”

“Well done, Polly.” Madeline’s voice was warm with relief.

“I serve you, my lady. Uncle is crazy to think Lady Wyvern won’t be taken up for what she has done. You won’t let them hang me, will you, my lady?”

“Take your maid with you, countess, and I will return to see how Shadow and Morpeth are doing,” Miss Tyler said.

‘Shadow’ again. That was the meaning of the name Umbra, of course. Rupert was more convinced than ever that Miss Tyler and the so-called secretary served the King in that secret world Lord Wyvern had mentioned.

“Come,” he said, and led the way into the tower. Madeline and Polly followed, and they were soon explaining themselves to Lord Wyvern.

Madeline and Polly helped Lord Wyvern to dress, while Rupert barred the doors at each level of the tower. He then had to unbar them again some time later, to let in the other three, their task complete.

“Now, we wait,” said the man known as Shadow.

Nine

M

adeline settled herself for a long wait, sitting as close to Rupert as was decent in company. The early dawn was lightening the horizon, but it could be hours before anyone noticed the Earl and Countess of Penworth were no longer in their respective prisons.

“Food,” said Miss Tyler, producing a kettle and a toasting fork. She and Morpeth’s supposed secretary bustled about, preparing a pot of tea and toasting bread over the fire, and soon they were sharing around butter and jars of jam and honey.

“I do not have enough plates,” Miss Tyler apologised, handing those she had to Lord Wyvern and Madeline.

Polly was persuaded, with some difficulty, to sit down with the gentlefolk and have a slice of toast.

“Miss Tyler calls you Shadow,” Rupert observed. “You serve the king as a…” he did not want to say spy, least the man be insulted.

The man who had been presented to Madeline as Davin Umbra grinned. “I have the honour of serving the king in this instance, my lord. He employs me from time to time when he wishes discreet enquiries to be made. And my friend here is known as Mist in my world, my lord.”

“The king sent you both?”

“No,” Mist replied. “As I told my lady, I was sent by your godmother, the Duchess of Haverford, when she had no reply to her last five letters.”

Rupert’s face lit with his smile. “She writes every month, and I dictate my reply every month. But I told the Ice Dragon Aunt Eleanor expected no reply. I hoped she would become concerned.”

“Thank goodness she did,” Shadow commented. “We would have found it challenging to extract ourselves from the dungeon without Mist.”

“Polly,” Mist said, “we saw a number of people on the path from the castle to the shore. They were leaving the island. Are many of the servants unhappy with Lady Wyvern’s rule?”

“Most of them, Ma’am. Most have left already. The islanders have been coming back by night all week, taking off a party at a time.”

“But you have not left,” Shadow commented.

“I could not leave my lady, Sir,” Polly said, moving a little closer to Madeline—whether to guard or be protected Madeline did not know. “Sam—my friend—wanted me go a week ago, but I would not go without my lady, and the rest of them said they’d not take the earl and countess till the last load, or Lady Wyvern and Lord Graviton would find out and maybe stop us. But when I went to get my lady tonight, she had gone.”

“You said nothing.” Rupert was not convinced, clearly. But Madeline believed Polly. “Polly, when will the boats come again? Tomorrow night?”

“Them that want to go have all gone, Ma’am. But my friend Sam said he’d wait for me till dawn.”

“Will he take Lord Wyvern?” Mist asked.

Polly nodded eagerly. “And my lady and my lord. And you, Ma’am, and the other gentlemen, too. But we will have to be quick, Ma’am. The sun is coming up.”

“Go and tell him to wait, Polly,” Shadow told her. “We’ll follow with Lord Wyvern.”

Shadow contrived a conveyance by tying broom handles to a chair, so that four of them could carry it. They gently bound Lord Wyvern to it with several cravats, and covered him with a rug against the chill of the morning. Then, they carried him down the stairs and across the courtyard, Mist taking one end of a pole and Madeline hurrying ahead to check no one was about.

They made it to the harbour without any trouble and boarded the small fishing boat, where the islander crew were shocked to see their lord in such a condition. But there was no time for lengthy discussions. The rising sun was racing the approaching storm. They needed to be on the water.

Shadow and Mist, who had been talking together in low voices, announced they would be staying.

“The king will expect a report on Lady Wyvern and Sir James Graviton,” Shadow said firmly.

“We must go now sirs, madams.” Polly’s Sam was apologetic but firm.

Madeline hovered over Lord Wyvern, wrapping the rug up higher to keep the wind-blown rain from his face, but still, she watched the two they left behind as the boat scudded swiftly away from the island dock. They didn’t stay for long, soon turning to re-climb the road back to the castle.

The crew fought the wind and the sea the full half-mile between the island and the mainland, and an hour had passed before they were all safely at harbour and in a dry, warm suite in the village’s one inn.

Madeline was happy to leave Lord Wyvern to the care of Polly and the innkeeper’s wife, since they both seemed to know what they were doing. She came into the sitting room of the suite just in time to hear Lord Morpeth call out from where he stood by the window.

“There’s another boat putting out from the island.”

She and Rupert joined Lord Morpeth at the window. Squalls crossed between them and the island, obscuring the view, but then they cleared, and there was the boat, fighting its way not towards the land, but up the channel toward the open sea.

“It is a boat, Rupert, and it is in trouble. The waves are so high, and it is trying to run sideways to the wind.”

Another squall crossed before them, and when it passed, the boat was nowhere to be seen. No. There it was, hull sideways to the wind, tipping and falling. They lost visibility again, and when the squalls cleared again, the boat was gone.

“The boat has sunk, Rupert. Whoever it was, they have gone down with the boat.”

Rupert hugged her close and kissed the top of her head. “I feel certain it was them, Madeline. Your brother and my sister. They will never plague us again.”

Rondo

Epilogue

M

adeline shifted restlessly. This late in her pregnancy, she found comfort hard to come by. Rupert joked that she was carrying a couple of Old English Blacks, or possibly an elephant, but as long as he did so with his hands on her belly, his face filled with awed delight as the baby moved, he could tease as much as he wished.

Lord Wyvern murmured in his sleep. He spent much of the day in a chair by the fire, Madeline’s dog, Maera, asleep at his feet. He was much improved, able to speak slowly and clearly, and to feed himself with one hand. But he tired easily.

Several hours ago, Rupert had ridden over to Clearwater Village with Simon Moreton-St Clair, Lord Wyvern’s grand-nephew and heir, who was staying with them while he learned the business of his uncle’s earldom.

Maera raised her head and listened for a moment. Were they coming, then? No. The dog put her head back on her paws and closed her eyes again.

“Soon, Maera. Soon.”

The baby kicked vigorously, turning inside Madeline with many a push and wriggle. Soon, Baby, soon. She smiled up at the portrait of Rupert in his formal robes, painted when he was in London to obey the Writ of Summons and take up his seat in the House of Lords. Soon, she would know whether she carried the heir to the earldom, or merely his older sister. Rupert said he did not care. He was happy to help her make as many as she liked, he said, as he was rather fond of elephants.

“I loved his father, you know.” Lord Wyvern was awake, watching her admire the portrait of her husband.

“He was your friend, I know,” Madeline said.

“I loved him from the time we were boys together at Harrow,” Lord Wyvern said. “That is why I married Louisa when she was disgraced; for Pen’s sake, to spare him the shame. I did her a disservice, Madeline.”

“What she did was not your fault, my lord. You cannot blame yourself for her choices.”

Lord Wyvern shook his head. “Perhaps, if I had not offered, Pen could have found her a younger husband, one who shared her appetites and could have kept her satisfied. After a while—especially after Pen died—I let her go her own way.”

“She chose to hate Rupert. She chose to poison you with opium and to keep us all prisoner.”

“She was frightened, Madeline. When I became ill, she saw Moreton-St Clair would inherit, and she would lose all.”

“Yes,” said Madeline. They had discussed this before, and had worked out Lady Wyvern’s motivation. An infant earl without a father would most likely be given in wardship to the mother’s brother, and through Graviton, Lady Wyvern would rule the earldom. “She would not have been left destitute, my lord. She was not forced by desperation. She chose to make a grab for power.”

“And died for it, in the end.” Lord Wyvern shook his head sadly, but Madeline felt little sympathy. They had had the whole story from Mist two days later, once the storm blew out. Taunted with the escape of their prisoners and the imminent arrival of soldiers to arrest them, Lady Wyvern, Sir James Graviton, and their remaining servants had chosen to brave the sea rather than wait for the king’s justice.

Even in death, Lady Wyvern had been a nuisance, taking over a week to wash up from the capsize, during which Lord Wyvern and Rupert had insisted on staying in the village. Graviton’s body had never been found, and they had eventually left to return to Clearwater.

Maera lifted her head again, and this time uncurled and stood, then paced to the door.

“They are returned. It does my old heart good to see how you glow, Madeline. You love him, do you not?”

“I love him,” Madeline confirmed, blushing.

Rupert entered and came straight to where she sat, led by the young dog, Sirius, she had been training. He leaned over to place a kiss on the cheek she presented, then turned her face with a gentle hand to kiss her on the lips.

“Rupert, you will embarrass our guest,” she admonished, looking shyly at Moreton-St Clair, who had entered behind her husband.

“I am an earl, Madeline. I set the fashions; I do not follow them. And I am setting a fashion for being very much in love with my wife.” Rupert kissed her again.

THE END

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Bluestocking Belles

The Belles are seven very different writers united by a love of history and a history of writing about love. From sweet to steamy, from light-hearted fun to dark tortured tales full of angst, from London ballrooms to country cottages to the sultan’s seraglio, one or more of the Belle’s will have a tale to suit your tastes and mood.

The Belle’s blog, The Teatime Tattler, publishes at least twice weekly, with exclusive news, interviews, and scandals set in and around the Regency.

The Belles have committed to publishing at least one box set per year. Proceeds from some of the Belles’ joint projects go to the Malala Fund, to support education for young bluestockings around the world.

Find the Bluestocking Belles online:

www.BluestockingBelles.net/

Friend us on Facebook:

www.facebook.com/BellesinBlue

Follow us on Twitter:

@BellesInBlue

Malala Fund

The Bluestocking Belles have chosen the Malala Fund as the charity we support, and to which we donate communal royalties. Periodically, we take on projects intended to directly support this cause, which exemplifies our personal values and intentions: the right of girls and women to do whatever they choose with their lives.

For more information about the Malala Fund and the founder, Malala Yousafzai, winner of the 2014 Nobel Peace Prize, go to  www.Malala.org

Holly and Hopeful Hearts

When the Duchess of Haverford sends out invitations to a holiday house party and a Twelfth Night ball, those who respond know that Her Grace intends to raise money for her favourite cause and promote whatever matches she can.

Seven assorted heroes and heroines set out with their pocketbooks firmly clasped and hearts in protective custody. Or are they?

Jude has two stories in Holy and Hopeful Hearts: A Suitable Husband, and The Bluestocking and the Barbarian. They will be published as stand-alone stories in 2017.

Jude’s published books

See the excerpts page on Jude’s website for first chapters of all the following stories. http://judeknightauthor.com/excerpts/

Candle’s Christmas Chair

When Viscount Avery wants a chair for his invalid mother, he finds that the best invalid chair maker in Bath is Minerva Avery, who has been haunting his dreams for three years since she rejected his courtship. He has until she finishes the chair for his mother to convince her to change her mind. If he says it with flowers, will she understand?

Min is a carriage-maker’s daughter, educated beyond her station. Once, she dreamed of stepping into the fairy tale world of the ton, only to have her dreams crushed when she found the handsome guardsman was courting her for her fortune. Now the man she cannot forget is back, handsomer and more charming than ever, and he seems determined to raise those false hopes all over again. But she only has to hold out until she finishes the chair he has commissioned.

Farewell to Kindness: Book 1 of The Golden Redepennings

Hidden from the earl who hunts them, Anne and her sisters have been accepted into the heart of a tiny rural village. Until another earl comes visiting.

Rede lives to avenge the deaths of his wife and children. After three long years of searching, he is closing in on the ruthless villains who gave the orders, and he does not hope to survive the final encounter. Until he meets Anne.

As their inconvenient attraction grows, a series of near fatal attacks draws them together and drives them apart. When their desperate enemies combine forces, Anne and Rede must trust one another to survive.

A Baron for Becky

Becky is the envy of the courtesans of the demi-monde - the indulged mistress of the wealthy and charismatic Marquis of Aldridge. But she dreams of a normal life; one in which her daughter can have a future that does not depend on beauty, sex, and the whims of a man.

Finding herself with child, she hesitates to tell Aldridge. Will he cast her off, send her away, or keep her and condemn another child to this uncertain shadow world?

The devil-may-care face Hugh shows to the world hides a desperate sorrow; a sorrow he tries to drown with drink and riotous living. His years at war haunt him, but even more, he doesn't want to think about the illness that robbed him of the ability to father a son. When he dies, his barony will die with him. His title will fall into abeyance, and his estate will be scooped up by the Crown.

When Aldridge surprises them both with a daring proposition, they do not expect love to be part of the bargain.

Hand-Turned Tales

Dip in, and try my writing for free: four very different tales with a variety of heroes, heroines, villains, and settings.

In The Raven’s Lady, Felix returns home in disguise after 13 years. He plans to catch a smuggler then take up his viscountcy. He does not expect the smuggler to be Joselyn, his childhood sweetheart. (Short story: 5,500 words)

In Kidnapped to Freedom, Phoebe is stolen away from her plantation by a handsome masked pirate. But all is not as it seems. (Short story: 5,100 words)

All that Glisters is set in New Zealand in the 1860s, a time when gold miners poured into the fledgling settlement of Dunedin. Rose is unhappy in the household of her fanatical uncle. Thomas, a young merchant from Canada, offers a glimpse of another possible life. If she is brave enough to reach for it. (Short story: 13,000 words)

The Prisoners of Wyvern Castle is a gothic historical romance set in the world of my novels and novella. Rupert has been imprisoned by his wicked sister, and forced to wed. His new wife, Madeline, has likewise been threatened into saying her vows. Forced into marriage, they find love, but can they find freedom before it is too late? The Prisoners of Wyvern Castle is a prequel to Revealed in Mist. (Novella: 23,500 words)

Gingerbread Bride

Lieutenant Rick Redepenning has been saving his admiral’s intrepid daughter from danger since their formative years, but today, he faces the gravest of threats–the damage she might do to his heart. How can he convince her to see him as a suitor, not just a childhood friend?

Travelling with her father’s fleet has left Mary Pritchard ill-prepared for London Society, and prey to the machinations of false friends. When she strikes out on her own to find a more suitable locale to take up her solitary spinsterhood, she finds adventure, trouble, and her girlhood hero, riding once more to her rescue.

Gingerbread Bride is a novella in The Golden Redepennings series

Revealed in Mist

Prue's job is to uncover secrets, but she hides a few of her own. When she is framed for murder and cast into Newgate, her one-time lover comes to her rescue. Will revealing what she knows help in their hunt for blackmailers, traitors, and murderers? Or threaten all she holds dear?

Enquiry agent David solves problems for the ton, but will never be one of them. When his latest case includes his legitimate half-brothers as well as the woman who left him months ago, he finds the past and the circumstances of his birth difficult to ignore. Danger to Prue makes it impossible.

Coming in 2017

A Raging Madness: Book 2 of The Golden Redepennings

Ella survived an abusive and philandering husband, in-laws who hate her, and public scorn. But she’s not sure she will survive love. It is too late to guard her heart from the man forced to marry such a disreputable widow, but at least she will not burden him with feelings he can never return. She prays he will learn to tolerate her.

Alex understands his new wife never wished to remarry. And if she had chosen to wed, it would not have been to him. He should have wooed her when he was whole, when he could have had her love, not her pity. But it is too late now. She looks at him and sees a broken man. He hopes she will learn to bear him.

Locked in a marriage of convenience, Ella and Alex soon discover they are more well-matched than they thought possible. But then the couple’s blossoming trust is ripped apart by an enemy determined to destroy them both. Two lost souls must together face the demons of their past to save not just their one hope of love but their very lives.

Concealed in Shadow

The story of Prudence and David continues in Concealed in Shadow.

When Prue disappears with David’s half-brother, he is determined she must have met with foul play, whatever interpretation Aldridge might put on it. But finding her again may mean choosing between his country and his woman.

Here are the first three paragraphs.

***

The ship had been at harbour for four days now, after a stormy passage from London. The sailor who brought their daily allocation of food and drink would not answer questions, but Prue guessed they were docked somewhere in Ireland. Certainly, the polyglot shouting that filtered into the ship's hold had been flavoured these last few days with the musical lilt of Gaelic, and of Irish-intoned English.

She and Gren were shackled to the same wall bolt, with enough play in the chains that they could reach the narrow bed, the bucket that did for amenities, and the food and drink their jailors periodically sent.

They had not seen those jailors since the day of their capture. Were Wharton and Jo Palmer still aboard? Had Aldridge raised the alarm? Would David be able to find trace of them? Prue fretted away the long hours wondering.

A Suitable Husband (first published in November 2016 in Holly and Hopeful Hearts)

As the Duchess of Haverford’s companion, Cedrica Grenford is not treated as a poor relation and is encouraged to mingle with Her Grace’s guests. Perhaps among the gentlemen gathered for the duchess’s house party, she will find a suitable husband? Marcel Fournier has only one ambition: to save enough from his fees serving as chef in the houses of the ton to become the proprietor of his own fine restaurant. An affair with the duchess’s dependent would be dangerous. Anything else is impossible. Isn’t it?

The Bluestocking and the Barbarian (first published in November 2016 in Holly and Hopeful Hearts)

James must marry to please his grandfather, the duke, and to win social acceptance for himself and his father’s other foreign-born children. But only Lady Sophia Belvoir makes his heart sing, and to win her, he must invite himself to spend Christmas at the home of his father’s greatest enemy.

Sophia keeps secret her tendre for James, Lord Elfingham. After all, the whole of Society knows he is pursuing the younger Belvoir sister, not the older one left on the shelf after two failed betrothals.

With Mariana Gabrielle

Never Kiss a Toad

[A Victorian romance continuing family stories begun in the various Regency books of Jude Knight and Mariana Gabrielle.]

David "Toad" Northope, heir to the Duke of Wellbridge and rogue in the mold of his infamous father, knows Lady Sarah "Sal" Grenford, daughter of the once-profligate Duke of Haverford, will always hold his heart.

But when the two teens are caught in bed together by their horrified parents, he is sent away to finish school on the Continent, and she is thrown into the depths of her first London Season.

Can two reformed rakes keep their children from making the same mistakes they did? The dukes decide keeping them apart will do the trick, so as the children reach their majority, Toad is put to work at sea, learning to manage his mother's shipping concern, and Sal is taken to the other side of the world, as far from him as possible.

How will Toad and Sal's love withstand long years of separation, not to mention nasty lies, vicious rumors, attractive other suitors, and well-meaning parents who threaten to destroy their future before it has begun?

(Never Kiss a Toad is being published one episode at a time on Wattpad, and will be published complete as an ebook later this year or early next.)

Connect with Jude Knight

Jude Knight writes stories to transport you to another time, another place, where you can enjoy adventure and romance, thrill to trials and challenges, uncover secrets and solve mysteries, and delight in a happy ending. Meet strong determined heroines, heroes who can appreciate a clever capable woman, villains you’ll love to loathe, and all with a leavening of humour.

Follow Jude on Twitter: @JudeKnightBooks

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Table of Contents

Candle’s Christmas Chair

Farewell to Kindness: Book 1 of The Golden Redepennings

A Baron for Becky

Hand-Turned Tales

Gingerbread Bride

Revealed in Mist

Coming in 2017

A Raging Madness: Book 2 of The Golden Redepennings

Concealed in Shadow

A Suitable Husband (first published in November 2016 in Holly and Hopeful Hearts)

The Bluestocking and the Barbarian (first published in November 2016 in Holly and Hopeful Hearts)

With Mariana Gabrielle

Connect with Jude Knight