The Deceptive Lady Darby (Lost Ladies of London 2)

Chapter One

A dozen pairs of eyes twinkled in the darkness as Rose Darby raced along the woodland path. The nocturnal creatures stopped foraging and fell deathly silent. She was not the only one who wanted to avoid attracting predators tonight. Perhaps it was best she didn’t know what lurked in the foliage. Badgers and foxes made the snuffles and scratches, not men desperate to catch her and drag her back to Morton Manor.

Clutching her linen bag of supplies, she continued through the gloom. A low-hanging branch whipped her face. She caught her foot on the exposed root of a tree and almost went tumbling headfirst into a blanket of ferns.

Oh, why had she not brought a lantern?

She glanced back over her shoulder for the tenth time in as many steps. No matter how many times she blinked to clear her vision, strange shadows danced before her eyes.

Heavens above!

Nicole said it was but a mile from Morton Manor to the main road — a little further to the coaching inn where she hoped to gain a ride to London. By her calculation, it should take fifteen minutes to cover the rough terrain. But she’d run across the boggy field, her feet squelching in her boots and causing blisters. The sodden hem of her travelling cloak dragged the ground. She’d tripped several times in her eagerness to be away from the horrid place, scratched her hands on brambles, ripped holes in her only pair of stockings.

Still, one had to look on the bright side. After spending six months locked in a house at her father’s behest, she’d finally broken free.

The rush of elation was brief. How could she celebrate her good fortune when her friend, Nicole, was still trapped inside the manor?

Rose’s heart ached at the thought.

Nicole Flint was more than a paid companion. Other than her brother, she was the only person Rose had ever trusted. Even now, as she made a hasty escape, Nicole kept watch on the guard they’d bound and gagged.

The burning pain in her chest returned, and she stopped to catch her breath. The sound of rustling leaves and crunching underfoot forced her to swing around.

“Who … who’s there?”

She expected to see Stokes’ gnarled face glaring back. His meaty paws lunging in an effort to grab her and carry her home. The guard had caught her once before. He’d given no thought to her gentle breeding when he’d tied her hands so tightly the rope rubbed her skin raw.

But Stokes lay in his sick bed, suffering from a fever. And Nicole would keep the other guard, Baxter, restrained until morning.

Pushing all fears aside, Rose straightened her spine, lifted her chin and continued through the woods. Once out on open ground, she made her way towards the building in the distance.

Despite the late hour, the lamps outside The Talbot Inn glowed. A ploy to entice weary travellers to stop and take refreshment or warm their cold limbs. With the inn situated on the main route to London, the innkeeper accepted patrons both day and night.

But a lady did not enter an inn unaccompanied regardless of the hour.

What if a well-respected family from town had booked in for the night and recognised her? Her only other option was to walk the twenty miles to the city. With luck, she’d arrive mid-morning. But the sore skin on her toes stung with every step. Once the blisters burst, she’d have no choice but to stop and seek—

Four words sliced through the crisp night air to put paid to her plans.

The Earl of Stanton.

The blood in Rose’s veins chilled.

What cruel trick was this?

How did her father know she’d escaped?

The male voice came from the vicinity of the courtyard, and so she crept up to the entrance and peered around the stone wall. Two men — a groom and a coachman — conversed as they removed the harnesses from a team of four pulling a coach.

The lump in Rose’s throat made it hard to breathe.

She recognised the black and yellow conveyance with red-shod wheels. The irony of the heraldic mark on the door did not escape her. Two black eagles held the golden shield in their talons, neither wanting to relinquish their grip. As the only blonde Darby in the family, her ebony-haired father and brother were always at war over her mistreatment.

“His lordship wants to set off come first light,” the coachman said.

Was it too much to hope that her father was heading to London? But why stop at the coaching inn when the manor he owned was but a mile away?

“Why your master wants to visit that godforsaken place is a mystery.” The groom’s reply sent her heart pounding against her ribs. “Even though it ain’t an asylum anymore, folk say they can still hear the cries of the wretched at night.”

“I’m not paid to question my master’s wishes. If Lord Stanton says he wants to visit the manor, then it’s my job to drive him there.”

Good Lord!

The men continued talking, but Rose stopped listening. Fate had conspired against her. Once her father reached the manor and found her missing, heaven knows what he would do.

Rose plastered her hand over her mouth f

or fear the men might hear her ragged breathing. Nicole Flint had taken the job of a paid companion in good faith, only to find herself locked in a rural prison with no hope of reprieve.

No. Despite Nicole’s insistence that she should not turn back under any circumstances, Rose had to warn her. It was the only solution her conscience would allow. And if she couldn’t persuade Nicole to come with her to London, they would venture north, just for a few days.

Though her feet throbbed at the thought of taking another step, Rose rushed back along the road and crossed the open field into the woods. But what if she met Stokes in the dark? Best to avoid the route leading directly to the manor. Instead, she continued north on the narrow path, the one overgrown, less trodden. If she had her bearings, it veered west and led to the manor’s rusty old gates.

Ignoring the pain in her toes, Rose trudged on through the avenue of trees. Slivers of moonlight broke through the green canopy. But as she progressed through the woods a mist descended, casting everything in a silver-white haze. The trees were tall black shadows. Identical. Evenly spaced. The view in front mirrored the view behind.

Rose swung around, disorientated.

Panic flared.

Had she missed the path leading back to the manor?

But then she saw a faint light in the distance. Like a moth to a flame, it drew her forward out into the open air. The sight of the building calmed her racing heart, even though it was apparent this mansion was not the ghastly Morton Manor.

She climbed the stile and limped across the damp grass. If she could just find the stables, wake a groom and beg a ride. The coins in her purse were incentive enough to drag the man from his bed at this late hour.

Rose crept along the walkway, around to the right of the house. The gravel crunched like glass beneath her feet. The sound grew progressively louder no matter how light her steps. But then a woman darted out from the darkness and almost sent her tumbling into the trimmed topiary.

“Move out of my way, girl.” The woman glared beneath the hood of her travelling cloak. She gripped a material bag in her hand as though ready to wallop anyone who dared block her path.

Another woman appeared, her breathless pants forming puffs of white in the cool night air. “Mrs Booth. Wait. Please, Mrs Booth.”

She was of average height, slender while still appearing sturdy and robust. The long-sleeved brown dress and frilly mob cap confirmed her position as that of a servant. The sight of the silver chatelaine roused visions of Mrs Gripes, the housekeeper at Morton Manor. But while this woman possessed a friendly countenance, Gripes took pleasure from serving food fit for dogs, from hiding the candles, and rationing the coal.

“Good heavens,” the woman called out to Mrs Booth. “It’s the middle of the night. Can you not at least wait until morning?”

“What, and have him persuade me to stay?” Mrs Booth called back as she stomped away. “No. I’ve made up my mind. I’m not staying another minute in this house.”

The housekeeper stopped short at the sight of a stranger lurking in the shadows. She cast Rose an assessing glance and then tapped her on the arm. “You’re early. We weren’t expecting you until next week. You can explain why you saw fit to arrive in the middle of the night once we’ve persuaded Mrs Booth to stay. But for now, I need your help.”

Rose shuffled on the spot. What should she say? That she'd lost her way and sought a ride back to the isolated manor? No one must know that she — the daughter of an earl —had spent six months locked in an asylum. A place once a home for the insane.

“I fear you're wasting your time,” Rose said. “Mrs Booth seems determined to leave. I doubt there is anything you can say to make her change her mind.”