The Guardian Duke: A Forgotten Castles Novel (11 page)

Another two days of nourishment and his strength began to return. By the end of another week he was moving, slowly, through some of his routine. Now for a test. Before he could even consider the long tedium and endurance required to travel across half of England to Holy Island and his recalcitrant ward, he felt he had to successfully attend the opera. The place where the nightmare had begun.

THE NIGHT AIR WAS CHILLY as he threw his greatcoat around his shoulders, the ear trumpet in one pocket, and strode toward the high carriage with the St. Easton coat of arms emblazoned on the side. The motto,
his motto
, stood in bold, scrolling French underneath the unicorn and bull.
Foy pour devoir
—"faith for duty." He paused as he thought of it. He certainly knew the duty part. Settling himself inside the carriage, he leaned his head back against the high seat and closed his eyes. The carriage started with a jerk down the street toward the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane.

It was difficult, the anticipation, the half hope, half dread of facing people and more, facing the moment of whether or not he could hear the music well enough to be enjoyed. The carriage pulled up in front of the grand building and stopped. He didn't wait for his coachman to open the door but, rather, sprang out and clamped down on his hat in the stiff breeze, eager now, desperate almost, to have it over with.

The crowd was thin, a deliberate calculation as he was quite late. Head down, he rushed through the elegant reception room toward a back staircase, avoiding the wide, curving stairway where some of the elegantly clad members of the ton still loitered, hoping to see and be seen. He met a servant on the way up but ignored the questioning stare. He strode down the darkened hall where the boxes of the most affluent flanked the balcony that overlooked the crowd below. Almost there. Just as he thought it, a rush of satisfaction filled his chest and an acquaintance stepped into his path.

He looked up in time to keep from crashing into the man. There was an elegant woman on his arm but her name escaped him.

"Your Grace, so good to see you again. It's been some time since you've visited the opera. We were all beginning to worry."

Gabriel watched his lips and tried to keep up with the steady, inane chatter. "Lord Berwin." He inclined his head to the man and then the lady. "I've been rather occupied of late, but I'm eager to hear tonight's performance."

The man had the gall to clap him on the shoulder, which made his ears start to ring in that annoying way that blocked more of the sound. Despair and anger filled him, flagging heat into his cheeks. He blew out a breath and gave the man a stare that warned him not to touch him again.

Berwin seemed to take the hint in a tirade of mumbled apologies and a backward step. With a bow toward Gabriel, he turned the woman aside and scurried away, coattails flapping.

Gabriel pressed his fingers against the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. His box. He just needed to sit down in the quiet of his box.

A few moments later he settled himself into the dark shadows of the back of the small enclosure. He pulled out the ear horn and held it loosely in his lap. Every muscle in his body strained as the curtain went up and the woman on stage opened her mouth to sing. It was faint, dulled, wavy.

He rubbed his temples and then the aching spot between his eyes. God help him. His head began to ache and his heart pound. What if it happened again? He stared at the stage, willing himself to hear the beauty of the notes, willing the experience to produce the same emotion it always did.

Dear God, I need this!

The sound dulled further, as if falling down a long, narrow tunnel. It grew dimmer and dimmer. Gabriel pressed the ear trumpet further into his ear, mounting desperation gripping him. He was losing it again. He would leave this place deaf again.
Oh, God.
He gripped the trumpet in his fist, squeezing, hard. In some faraway place he felt it crumble into pieces in his hand. He opened his hand and looked down at the tortoiseshell. It lay in beautiful shards of blue-green in his palm, some falling to the floor.

God, please. Don't let this happen.

He had to get out. Run.

He was just rising, panic thick in his throat, when he saw something from the edges of his vision. He fell back into the chair, afraid his head would burst open as it had the last time he'd attended the opera.

He closed his eyes and took long, deep breaths. There was no pain. He couldn't hear more than a faint shadow of the music but there was no pain. His eyes fluttered open. Pinpricks and then faint streaks of color—blue, purple, green—streamed across his vision. He blinked, the colors pulsing in time with the music. It was coming from the stage, from the orchestra and the woman singing. The colors waved and undulated, pulsing around each other, streams of living color.

God, what is happening to me?
A strange, unknown fear washed over him. So beautiful. It wasn't the same as hearing the music, but . . . it was terrifyingly beautiful.

T
he October wind blew gusts of chilly air in her face and down her cloak as Alex rounded the bend in the road toward Whitehaven. It was a coastal town known for its coal and its harbor, Alex knew that much. Ships traded coal, tobacco, and rum from here, making it a crowded and growing little city. She drew out the note with the address Missy had given her and glanced aside at her traveling companion.

He'd not said much since rescuing her, just trotted beside her on the lieutenant's horse as if he'd been riding him all his life and they were bosom mates. She was hesitant to be the one to break the silence, but there was nothing for it so she pasted a bright smile on her face and waved the note toward him. "I have to return this horse to a man named Paul Keys. His sister loaned him to me for this journey."

"Ah." His striking blue eyes flashed toward the note and then back on the road.

"I have the address here, but I must confess as to having no idea where to find . . ." she glanced down at the scrawled address, "43 Lowther Street. Do you know Whitehaven?"

"Well enough." He grinned at her, a brief, almost humorless action that made wrinkles break out across his face.

"Oh, good. I was dreading searching it out. One never knows the best place to stop and ask questions in an unfamiliar town." She smiled at him, trying to encourage a response.

He looked at her, a long and considering glance this time. "What makes you take this journey? It must be something important for you to be taking such risks alone."

Alex nodded, gazing down at her gloved hands. He would think her stupid. She should come up with some reasonable explanation for her journey to tell people, but her mind was blank of any excuse except for the truth. "Well, I received a letter that the regent and some other people believe my parents are . . . have perished." She swallowed hard and looked over at him. "I believe I'm going to find out if it's true."

"You have reason to believe it's not?"

"Well, yes. You see, my parents are often far from home on some adventure or another. They are something like treasure hunters, sleuths you might say. People hire them to find things or to solve a puzzle. It's true," she asserted when his eyebrows came together in a puzzled way. "They are quite famous for it."

"Hmmm. And how long have they been away this time?"

Alex bit down on her lower lip. "A year. And yes, that is longer than usual, but I've had letters from them. And . . . I just know they're alive. They may be in trouble. They may need me."

"So, you are going off alone to find them?"

Put like that, it did sound rash, ridiculous really. She didn't even have a weapon or the knowledge of how to use it should she magically discover one. "I didn't see any choice," she muttered back toward her hands.

"When did you receive the last letter?"

Alex grimaced. "About ten months ago." She rushed out the rest. "The postmark is from Belfast in Ireland. I may find clues as to what happened to them there. They must have spoken to people. I know I can find out what has happened to them. I . . . I have to try. I can't go back and just sit and wait. I can't." Tears threatened her eyes.

Montague cleared his throat. "Well, you've made it thus far, haven't you?"

She sniffed and faced the wind and the edge of town. "Yes, I suppose I have."

He didn't say anything for several minutes and then abruptly, "I have a nephew who lives in Dublin. Perhaps now would be a good time for a visit."

Alex swung back toward him, her eyes widening. Was he offering to travel with her? Keep her safe? It was as if God had sent her an old, warring angel as her guard. "I'm sure your nephew would be most happy to see you." She gave him a bright smile, which made him clear his throat and look away.

A little happy thrill ran through her. He had all but agreed!

They turned down a narrow street, Montague motioning for her to follow him, and soon stood outside what looked to be a quaint little shop of some kind. It had large windows on the ground floor and smaller windows, probably where the proprietor lived, on the upper floor. The sign on the building read Keys Pottery with the number 43 above it. This must be where Missy's brother lived.

They dismounted, saw that the horses were secured to a hitching post, and then went through a green door. The interior was a bit dark and it took Alex a few seconds for her eyes to adjust. Once they did, she smiled. There were shelves and cupboards on every wall with rows and rows of bowls and cups and pitchers and pipes. Many had designs of ships on the water in pretty colors. How she wished she could take something home to Ann. She would just swoon over the large pitcher with its soaring birds circling on it.

A voice interrupted her. "May I help you?"

She looked up to see the male copy of Missy. Dark curly hair and big brown eyes. She smiled at him. "I'm looking for a Mr. Paul Keys."

He flushed and cast a glance aside. "That would be me."

"Oh, wonderful. You see, I've just come from Carlisle and your sister loaned me a horse to ride. His name is Sorrell and he belongs to your sister's friend. She asked if I would bring him here, to you, while I continue on my way to Ireland."

Paul glanced at Montague standing beside her. "You want me to keep a horse?"

"Just for a few hours. Your sister is coming to fetch him later tonight when she finishes her work for the day. It was so kind of her as my carriage broke down." She paused, realizing her story had changed, and tried to remember if she'd said something different to Montague.

"That is, my coachman took ill and had to go to the next town and do some business and—" Her hands waved in the air like a ninny. She really needed to stop making up things so readily! "Anyway, she loaned me the horse and said to bring him to you. You don't mind, do you?" The fact that her lashes started involuntarily batting just a bit faster made her feel wretched but she waited, letting the silence grow in a way no one had taught her but always seemed to work.

Paul flushed a deeper color of pink and looked around the room. "I'd be glad to take him off your hands, miss."

"Oh, how silly of me!" Alex held out her hand. "I'm Alexandria Featherstone and"—she turned to Montague and gestured toward him with a gloved hand—"this is my kind escort, Mr. Montague."

She gave him a sunny smile and raised her eyebrows. "I do wish I could purchase something from your shop to take back home. You have so many fine things! But, alas, I shall be traveling for some time and shouldn't add to my baggage if I can help it."

"Thank you, Miss Featherstone. Perhaps on your way back?"

"Oh yes. That is a very good idea. I shall have to remember that."

Paul hesitated. "I do have something rather small." He turned and scurried away, his tall form darting through a door and then around a corner, and then he was back with something in his hand. He opened his hand and held out a small white duck with two tiny yellow ducklings.

"Oh, how cute they are! Did you make them yourself?" Out of the corner of her eye she caught Montague rolling his eyes, arms crossed in front of him.

"Yes, and I would like you to have them. They won't take up much room at all."

"I couldn't just take them. How much do they cost?"

"I insist." He held the trio out until Alex allowed him to drop them into her hand.

"Thank you so much. You are too kind, sir."

He smiled at her, pointedly turning away from Montague. "Perhaps they will remind you to stop here on your way back home."

"Oh, yes. It has been a pleasure, sir."

They made their way outside and delivered Sorrell over to the eager-looking young man. She mounted the lieutenant's horse and Montague swung up behind her. She leaned around him and waved good-bye until Paul was out of sight, saying, "What a nice young man he was!"

"Humph."

Alex faced forward, ignoring the comment. Just ahead she could see a glimpse of the water. They were so close. After going about two more blocks toward the harbor, she just barely heard Montague mutter, "Nice young man, hmmm? The real danger is the men falling all over themselves around her. Doesn't need a protector. A muzzle would do just fine. A muzzle and a potato sack over her head."

Alex gasped. "A potato sack! You wouldn't dare! Maybe your nephew doesn't need a visit from you after all. Maybe he's busy!"

Montague gave her upper arm a little squeeze. "Don't forget whose horse we're riding. You don't think he'll come after it? I wonder at his mood when he next sees you."

Instant fear struck Alex's heart at his words. "Sorry. Perhaps I was a little hasty. I do appreciate your company. Thank you, Montague. I'll try and not encourage unwanted attention."

"That would be wise, my dear. Whenever on a mission of any importance or secrecy, one must learn to blend into the background."

Alex let the words sink in, knowing their truth. "Montague, how did you learn these things? And how did you learn to fight so well?"

"I was a soldier for many years," his deep voice murmured. "And I've traveled on the king's business throughout the world. It took many years to subdue my nature and train my body into submission. My goal is that of the apostle who said, 'Be not conformed to this world: but be ye transformed by the renewing of your mind, that ye may prove what is that good, and acceptable, and perfect, will of God.'"