When her vision cleared she made out the line of the London Road-flanked by barley fields in neat rows, the thatched houses of farmers, the mail coach rumbling up the long chalk hills. Haven took in the sight, and her heart leapt. She had done it! She had successfully navigated the journey home all by herself.
It was early in the day yet; the sun was high in a cloud-flecked sky, the air soft and balmy. Haven paused to catch her breath and let the incipient nausea pass. She drew the sweet, fresh country air into her lungs and gazed down the smooth green slope of the hill; she could see wagons and some foot traffic on the road below. As soon as she felt stable once more, she hiked up her skirts and hurried down the hillside, secure in the knowledge that she would soon beg a ride with a passing merchant or farmer or, better still, a carriage heading for the city.
In any event she had to make do with a hay wain, an ox cart, and a brewer’s wagon pulled by a team of heavy horses-each slower than the last. As a result it was already nightfall by the time she reached London and made her way to Clarimond House, Sir Henry Fayth’s London home. Through streets intermittently lit by torchlight she flitted like a ghost, keeping to the shadows. A young woman alone on the streets of the city after dark was asking for trouble-Haven Fayth had not come this far only to end up at the end of a footpad’s knife.
Darting along the houses fronting the wide, cobbled boulevardsometimes so close she brushed the doors with her elbow-she heaved a sigh as she came in sight of the stately redbrick mansion. A few last running steps carried her through the iron gates, and she was safe within the grounds. Hurrying up the drive, she bounded up the front steps and rapped sharply on the door. At her second knock the door opened slowly. A servant dressed in black barely deigned to glance at her, a frown of disapproval on his face.
“His lordship is not receiving visitors,” he informed her in tones that left her in no doubt that she was not welcome. He made to close the door.
“Do you not know me, Villiers?” she said, putting her hand to the door.
“My lady?” The door opened again, more widely, and the servant produced a candle. “Lady Fayth,” he gasped, holding the candle high to see her. “You should have sent word of your arrival.”
“Am I to spend the night on the doorstep?”
“I am dreadfully sorry, my lady.” He stepped aside, bowed, and ushered her quickly into the vestibule, closing the door firmly behind her. “Pray forgive me. We were not expecting anyone. If I had known you were coming, I would have sent a carriage for you.”
“There was no time,” she told him. “I am starving. Is there dinner?”
“Cook is preparing it now,” Villiers replied. “I will have a place set in the dining room.” He gazed at her intently. “I can see your travel has fatigued you. I will have hot water and towels sent up to your room. If you care to freshen yourself, I will inform the household that you are in residence.”
“Thank you, Villiers. I leave it in your hands. But first I have to see Giles. Is he here?”
“Indeed, my lady. Mr. Standfast is convalescing. He has suffered a gunshot.”
“Yes, I know. Terrible accident. It should never have happened.” She turned to the staircase. “I must see him straightaway.”
“I believe the doctor has ordered bedrest and quiet.”
“I shan’t disturb him overmuch,” she replied, ascending quickly. “Which room is he in?”
“The Plum Room, my lady. Allow me to announce you.”
“No need. I would prefer that you see to dinner. I will announce myself.” Abandoning propriety, she took the candle and ascended the stairs quickly, reached the gallery, and hurried to the landing off the staircase used by Sir Henry’s staff and retainers. She paused at the third door along, composed herself, then knocked.
“Enter,” came a familiar voice from the other side.
She turned the brass handle and pushed open the door.
Giles lay in bed, the entire upper left side of his torso bound in white bandages. A lighted lamp glowed on the bedside table and, beside it, a jar and cup. On the floor was a chamber pot. At the first glimpse of his visitor standing in the corridor, the wounded man started upright.
“Miss Wilhelmina? Have you fo-” he began.
Haven stepped across the threshold and into the room, coming into the light. “Hello, Giles,” she said.
He slumped back against the pillows. “Lady Fayth. I never thought-” Then, realising the implications of her presence, he bolted upright once more, threw aside the blanket, and made to climb out of bed. “Is Burleigh here?” he asked. The effort made him wince with pain as he struggled to rise. “Is he-”
“Calm yourself, Giles,” Haven said gently. “All is well. I am alone. Like you, I have escaped him.”
With the slow, measured movement of an aching man, he lay back once more. “Then why are you here?” he said, his tone sullen and unwelcoming. “You must know that I have nothing to say to you.”
“Perhaps not,” she allowed. She picked up the edge of the blanket and pulled it back into place over him. “But you might care to listen, for I have something to say to you.”
He glared at her, his expression full of hurt and distrust at what he considered her former betrayal. “Go on, then,” he said at last, curiosity overcoming his suspicion.
“First,” she said, “I have to know-are you well enough to travel?”
CHAPTER 12
The interior of the cave seemed warm to Kit, and drier than he would have imagined. He followed the hunters, carefully working his way over the jumble of rocks that littered the cavern floor. The air was still and smelled of dry leaves laced with the sour scent of cat. The deeper they probed into the side of the gorge, the warmer it became. Sweating from the fight with the cave lion, Kit felt like shedding his shirt-and maybe would have if he had not effectively sewn himself into it. Of greater concern at the moment, however, was not to lose sight of the tiny light bobbing along a few steps ahead of him.
Following the battle with the beast outside, the hunters had climbed up into the hole in the wall of the gorge, where Dardok scrabbled around in a dark recess of the cave and extracted from a cleft in the rock three small marmot skulls. The skulls had been broken down, leaving just the brainpan that formed a shallow bowl. These were quickly revealed to be primitive lamps-left there, apparently, the last time the clansmen had visited the cave. Using live coals from the wooden vessel, retrieved from the snow bank where Kit had dropped it, Dardok set about lighting the lamps. With braided hair for wicks and animal fat for fuel, the skull lamps stank and gave off a grudging oily light, but in the absolute darkness of the deep underground passages they were surprisingly effective.
The lamps were handed out and the clansmen set off, pushing deeper into the cave; owing to narrow walls and cramped spaces they were forced to go single file and were soon strung out. Kit lost sight of the first two lamps, and was desperate to keep the last in sight as the troop followed the passage ever deeper into the earth. Occasionally there would be level stretches where the channel became wider; other times it was all Kit could do to wriggle through the gap. The rocks were damp, and some were wet where water seeped from a seam or leaked from somewhere above. Where there was a continuous trickle and plink of dripping water, stalactites hung from the cavern ceiling, and these had to be avoided-likewise the stalagmites erupting from the floor like giant teeth in a stony jaw.
Kit followed the group, trying to stay out of the standing water pooled on the floor. At one point he slid over a boulder and suddenly found himself at the entrance to a large gallery; both roof and walls opened out beyond reach of the crude lamplight. Up ahead he saw the reflection of Dardok’s lamp in a pool of water on the cavern floor. The light had stopped moving, and Kit guessed Big Hunter was waiting for the group to gather once more before pushing on. Indeed, when all were assembled, Dardok moved off; they came to the end of the gallery and entered a tunnel. They followed this a few hundred paces until it branched. Taking the right-hand branch, the band moved along a corridor that, though he could not see the ceiling, was nevertheless narrow enough for Kit to touch either side with arms outstretched. Here they stopped.