“Then I must accompany you,” Lord Poole declared. “Pass me a candle.”
Damien snorted, but did not protest. Jenkins handed Lord Poole a lit taper while Damien propped open the panel with two of the large stones he had brought expressly for that purpose. Extending his arm forward, the earl held his lantern aloft and illuminated the dark cavity. Isabella moved behind him and peered around his arm. Dozens of spider webs overhung the passage, and the oddly shaped stone walls caused the lamp to throw strange shadows.
Ignoring the twist of dread that clenched her stomach, Isabella forced herself to take a small step forward. Her lit lantern dangled at her side. A steady stream of cool air emanated from the passageway, and Isabella wrapped her free arm tightly around her waist to ward off the cold. The utter quiet was eerie and foreboding, and she was certain all three men could hear her heart pounding.
“Watch your heads,” Damien commanded, crouching low.
The passage opening was only a few feet high. Crawling on his hands and knees with his lantern thrust before him, Damien entered the tunnel. As he disappeared, Isabella's heart rose to her throat. She thrust her arm out blindly, groping for his hand, but he was already too far ahead. Mercifully, she managed to catch the edge of his coat.
Holding on tightly with nerveless fingers, Isabella took a lung-filling breath, bent low, and followed the earl. Lord Poole immediately took up the position behind Isabella, and Jenkins brought up the rear.
Something briefly scurried into the glare of Isabella's lantern light, then darted into the shadows. She shuddered violently. As terrifying as the dark had been, it was almost preferable. The lamplight seemed to be awakening mysterious creatures that in Isabella's opinion were better left undisturbed.
“Drat! My candle has gone out,” Lord Poole exclaimed.
Everyone stopped moving. Nervously, Isabella looked to her own lantern, watching the flame intently. Protected on four sides by sturdy glass, the flame barely wavered.
“There's a strong draft,” Damien said, lifting his head. “The ceiling appears to be a few feet higher up ahead. We should be able stand there. I brought a flint so we can light your candle, though I'm uncertain it will remain lit in this chilling breeze.”
They all moved soundlessly to the point Damien had indicated. They were able to stand erect in this section of the passageway, though Isabella noted that the earl was forced to stoop his broad shoulders to avoid hitting his head. It was very narrow, so they remained in a single line.
Since she was standing behind the earl, Isabella held Lord Poole's candle while Damien struck the flint and lit the wick. The candle flame danced merrily for several seconds, then flickered and died out. Cursing softly, Damien tried again. After three attempts, he admitted defeat.
Isabella could tell from Lord Poole's dour expression that he was annoyed. She knew Damien would not relinquish his lantern; besides, he was in the lead and must illuminate the way. Jenkins had not volunteered to give up his lamp, and Isabella was not about to force the issue. She reluctantly spoke, “You may have my lantern, Thomas.”
Lord Poole instantly accepted her generous offer, and with only a slight hesitation Isabella passed him the lamp. She pocketed the useless candle.
“Stay close to me,” Damien instructed.
“I shall,” Isabella replied, hoping he did not detect the nervous edge in her voice.
Damien continued leading the way. Isabella adjusted her grip on the earl's coat, and for good measure placed her other hand loosely on his waist. His solid strength and warm body stilled her nerves.
They moved forward together only three steps before the earl abruptly stopped. Isabella could feel the tension and shock suddenly rippling through Damien's body. Her hand, so tightly gripping his coat, went numb. Something was terribly wrong.
“Damien?”
Isabella shifted to one side, trying to look beyond him at what lay ahead, but his broad shoulders blocked her view. Flattening her back against the cold stone wall, she slowly moved beside him.
The odor was stronger here, choking and musty. Isabella's nose wrinkled in protest. Craning her neck, she squinted, determined to see what was causing Damien's strange reaction. As she swept the area with a slow, considering eye, she noticed a dark outline of fabric on the stone floor. Or was it something else?
“This morning when we were trapped in here, Catherine insisted someone was lying on the floor. Do you think this is what she saw?”
“It's impossible,” Damien muttered.
Confused by the remark, Isabella lifted her gaze from the floor and stared at the earl. Through the eerie glow of the lantern, she could see the puzzlement in Damien's eyes that gradually changed to understanding, then rapidly to horror.
“It's Emmeline.”
Damien's voice was a raspy whisper, but Isabella was standing close enough to distinguish the words. Her eyes shot down to the stone floor. It couldn't be! With a growing sense of dreadful premonition, Isabella studied the dark outline.
She could see now that the fabric had a distinct shape. It was a woman's gown, wider on the bottom, narrower near the center, then wide again on the top. There was a fan of five white sticks spreading out from the top of one narrow band of fabric that Isabella belated realized was the skeletal remains of a human hand. A thick gold ring encircled one of the finger bones.
Isabella's blood ran cold. She gasped in shock, her mouth forming a circle. Only through the conscious exercise of tremendous will was she able to remain on her feet.
One of the two great mysteries of Whately Grange was finally solved. Emmeline's body had been found.
Chapter Twenty-four
Damien had known fear. He had led men across the field of battle with sword drawn and fear pumping through his veins. He had faced down charging regiments of French cavalry, their eyes glazed with hate and vengeance. He had heard the thunder of cannon, seen the grass suddenly explode beneath the feet of unsuspecting soldiers, helplessly listened to their agonizing screams of death. He had smelled the thick smoke and blood of war.
Yet as Damien stood staring down at the skeletal remains of his wife, a wrenching cold invaded the deep recesses of his chest beyond any prior feeling. His mind and body were rendered motionless.
“Why have we stopped, Saunders? Have you found your bloody treasure?”
Poole.
The tightness in Damien's chest leaped to his throat. He swallowed hard, struggling to dislodge it. A whispering touch on his forearm startled him. He jerked away reflexively, then turned and found himself looking into Isabella's wide violet eyes.
He saw her concern and her unspoken support. The tightness in his chest eased a fraction. Her comforting presences was a flickering light inside his tormented darkness.
“Get Poole out of here,” Damien muttered through clenched teeth, exhaling in relief when Isabella nodded in understanding.
“I want to turn back,” Isabella said in a voice that sounded high and strained to Damien's ears. “Thomas, will you please escort me?”
For a split second, Damien thought Poole was leaving without protest, but fate refused to be so merciful.
“What is it? What have you found?” Lord Poole's voice was riddled with suspicion as he charged forward, seeking to wheedle his way into the confined space.
Damien moved to block Poole's advance, but Poole ignored the earl and pulled Isabella ruthlessly aside and successfully wedged himself into the small space she had previously occupied. Damien watched with sickening dread as Lord Poole lifted his lantern shoulder high, further illuminating the gruesome scene.
“Damn. It's a body,” Poole said with surprise. He squatted down for a closer look. “I think it's a woman. These clothes look as though they might have once been a riding habit. Could it be Lady Anne?”
Damien forced himself to gaze down dispassionately while Poole continued his exploration. He knew that eventually Poole would recognize, as Damien had, the heavy gold signet ring still starkly in place on the bony hand. After all, Poole had given Emmeline the ring on her wedding day.
“The flesh has long since rotted from the bones, but 'tis strange to see her riding bonnet so perfectly placed on her head,” Lord Poole remarked casually. Damien winced when Poole impersonally fingered the hem of the velvet skirt. “I suspect that if we remove the hat, we will find her hair still neatly coiffed.”
“Don't touch it!” Isabella screeched. “Please, Thomas, come away from there.”
“There is nothing to be afraid of, Isabella,” Lord Poole said soothingly, flashing her a superior smile. “This poor creature cannot possible harm you.”
“Please come away,” Isabella pleaded. She tugged insistently on his shoulder.
Lord Poole furrowed his brow and looked again at the corpse. When Damien saw the mild curiosity flee from Poole's eyes and a wild hysteria burst forth, he knew the other man had realized it was not Lady Anne's, but Emmeline's, pitiful remains that were so grotesquely displayed.
“Mother of God, what have you done, Saunders? What have you done to my angel? I'll kill you for this, you bastard!”
Poole threw his lantern to the floor, leaped to his feet, and lunged for Damien with both hands extended.
“Thomas, no!” Isabella stepped between the two men and Poole crashed into her. Damien felt the woosh of Isabella's breath as she was crushed against his chest.
Crazed with fury and grief, Poole struck out with clenched fists. He swung fiercely, aiming for Damien's head, but Damien, braced for the attack, ducked, pulling Isabella down with him so she wouldn't be hurt.
“I am as shocked as you are, Poole. I never believed Emmeline drowned in the lake. These past years I have firmly believed she was alive,” Damien insisted, having difficulty dodging Poole's blows in the confined space.
“Lies, all lies!” Poole shouted with a raging snarl.
Jenkins moved forward to lend assistance. When Poole tried landing another punch, the valet intercepted it, knocking Poole off balance.
Poole staggered back, but remained on his feet. He glanced down again at what remained of Emmeline's body, and in a flash the potent violence inside him seemed to vanish. Visibly trembling, Poole helplessly crumpled to his knees, buried his face in his hands, and began howling like a wounded animal.
The shrill keening echoed off the thick stone walls, permeating Damien's soul. He had never heard such cries of deep anguish and pain. Poole was delirious with grief.
“My little angel.” With a shaking hand, Poole reached out and stroked the billowing skirt slowly, lovingly. “My darling Emmeline.”
Isabella went down on one knee beside her brother. “I'm so sorry, Thomas,” she said tearfully, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. Poole appeared unaware of her gesture.
Damien watched them in silence. Poole's whole body shook with deep, racking sobs. Damien's vision blurred. He threw his head back and shut his eyes tightly.
The bitterness and resentment Damien had carried for so long in his heart toward his estranged wife was washed away, replaced by guilt and regret. No matter how ill suited they were, no matter how unhappy and miserable they made each other, Damien never would have wanted Emmeline's life to end in this horrible manner.
What had happened? Had she become accidently trapped in this passageway as Catherine and Isabella were this morning? Damien felt nauseated at the idea. It was an unthinkably gruesome way to die. He shuddered, barely able to imagine how greatly Emmeline must have suffered, locked away in this cold tomb waiting for death.
What in God's name had she been doing in here? The questions crowded Damien's mind, and he knew regretfully they might never be answered. Yet he owed it to Emmeline to try.
“Ride over to Glendale Manor at once and fetch our illustrious magistrate, Lord Rathwick,” Damien said to Jenkins, noticing how pale and shaken the valet appeared. “I want Lord Rathwick to see Emmeline's remains before we remove them. Perhaps he can assist us in discovering what happened to her.”
Jenkins frowned. “Are you sure you want him here? We both know Rathwick is a braying ass.”
“There is no one else,” Damien said simply.
“Do you want me to help you get Lord Poole out of the passageway before I leave?” Jenkins asked. “I doubt he will be able to walk out under his own power.”
“His reason might completely snap if I try to force him away,” Damien replied. “We will wait for the magistrate. Perhaps his presence will ease Poole's mind.”
Jenkins left the chamber quickly, leaving his lantern behind. Deciding he wanted no further illumination of the haunting scene, Damien carefully pushed it along the edge of the wall and stood in front of it. Poole's lantern had gone out when he threw it away in such rage, so only a single lantern kept the darkness at bay. Hunching his shoulders against the gray, gloomy atmosphere, Damien forced his mind to empty while he waited.
Isabella's knee was numb, her back stiff, her fingers cold. Yet she did not move from Lord Poole's side. His pain and misery had choked her tender heart with pity. She felt driven to offer him whatever compassion she could, though she doubted he was aware of it. He seemed utterly lost in his grief, beyond even the simplest comfort.
Damien stood silently in the background, his distance seemingly a calculated attempt to keep an emotional barrier between them.
“Please, Thomas, come away,” Isabella said, repeating her plea yet again, but to no avail. Lord Poole remained as he was, his eyes swimming with tears, his hands stroking the fabric of Emmeline's gown. He seemed oblivious to Isabella's concern.
Isabella turned to Damien helplessly and was surprised to read the frustration in his eyes. Apparently the earl was not as immune to the situation as his actions indicated.
“Jenkins has gone for the magistrate,” Damien said, with a grim stare. “They should arrive at any time.”
“Thank God,” Isabella muttered. She blew the wisps of hair that had fallen on her face from her eyes. “I doubt any of us can survive much more of this.”
“Poor devil,” Damien whispered, and Isabella's heart constricted at the genuine sympathy she heard in his voice.
After an eternity, Jenkins arrived with Lord Rathwick in tow. Their presence relieved one problem but created another. The space was too narrow, too confined, to make a thorough investigation with so many people inside. Someone had to leave.
Bracing herself for the difficult task, Isabella tried to make Lord Poole understand. “Thomas, the magistrate has come. We must go outside.”
Several long, silent moments passed before Lord Poole slowly lifted his head. His eyes were vacant and unfocused. “We can't leave Emmeline alone,” he whispered in horror.
“Of course not,” Isabella said soothingly, speaking in much the same manner she used when comforting Ian or Catherine. “Lord Rathwick will stay with her.”
Capitalizing on Lord Poole's confused state, Isabella pressed her advantage, and with Jenkin's help assisted her brother to his feet. Thomas swayed momentarily, then caught his balance and stiffened his spine. He looked neither left nor right as Isabella led him from the chamber.
Isabella's legs felt heavy as she exited the hidden passageway, but she was so relieved to be free of the cloying chamber that she easily dismissed the pain. She took a deep breath and concentrated on retaining her composure. The rose-colored hues of the bedchamber had deepened in the afternoon sunlight, offering a comforting balm to Isabella's fragile emotions.
She seated Thomas on the floor with his back pressed firmly against the wall at the opposite end of the room. He remained quiet and docile, and Isabella noted thankfully that the tortured look had eased from his eyes. She joined him on the floor, extending her legs out in front to stretch the stiff, aching joints.
After a short time, the three grim-faced men emerged from the passageway. Isabella rose to her feet.
“What did you find?”
“Who are you, young woman?” Lord Rathwick demanded. He was a short, portly man whose generous jowls quivered when he spoke. He smelled of horses and tobacco.
“This is Isabella Browning, governess to my children,” Damien interjected. “Miss Browning, may I present Lord Rathwick.”
Isabella automatically sank into a curtsey. The magistrate returned her greeting with a short nod of his head, running a distrustful eye from Isabella's dusty shoes to her unkempt hair. His heavy, dark brows crinkled in confusion.
“I still don't understand why she is here, Saunders,” he said in a gruff voice. Puffing out his chest, Lord Rathwick added, “It's highly improper having a woman around an official investigation.”
“I have a right to be here,” Isabella said, drawing herself up to her full height and bringing her eyes level with Rathwick's. “Emmeline was my sister.”
The magistrate's jowls shook. He opened and closed his mouth several times, looking so much like a fish that Isabella was hard pressed not to laugh out loud. Instead she ignored Lord Rathwick and asked Jenkins, “What did you discover?”
The valet never hesitated. “Lady Emmeline's neck and ankle were broken and the side of her face pressing against the stone floor was smashed. There is a deep rut in the flooring. She must have tripped and fallen. We found a small candle stub and a thin line of spilled wax near her left hand. It was impossible to tell if the flame went out in a draft, as Lord Poole's candle did, and caused the fall, or if Lady Emmeline simply missed her footing and stumbled on the uneven ground.”
“It was a horrible accident,” Damien added solemnly.
“An accident, you say?” Lord Rathwick raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Now that's for me to decide. 'Course, ruling all this an accidental death would be a convenient conclusion for you, wouldn't it, Saunders?”
Isabella saw Damien's jaw tighten, but he refrained from answering.
“Just what are you insinuating, Lord Rathwick?” Isabella demanded.
“I am trying to discover the truth, young woman,” the magistrate said pompously. “Since Lady Emmeline was your sister, maybe you can give me a reasonable explanation as to why she was alone in that dark, hidden passageway.”
Isabella gestured helplessly, looking first to Damien and then to Jenkins for support.
“I think this will provide the answer. It was found in the pocket of Emmeline's riding habit,” Damien said. He pulled from his coat a fragile, leather-bound book.