The Captured Lord (The King's League)

And then, she heard what sounded like a groan.

Her heart slammed hard into her chest, and she froze, her skin prickling with fear. Closing her eyes, Olivia took in a long, slow breath, telling herself that she was being quite foolish and that there was nothing to concern herself with. This townhouse very often made noises all of its own, especially if it had been very dry or very damp. She was just being foolish.

And then she heard it again. Her hand pressed to her heart as she waited, keeping her eyes closed for fear of what she might see, should she open them.

“Oh, there yo

u are!”

The cheerful voice of her maid shattered the cold fears that had gripped Olivia so tightly, and she turned around to see Betty hurrying towards her.

“Did you need something, Lady Olivia?” Betty asked, clearly entirely unaware of what Olivia had heard. “Or are you in the ballroom for another reason?”

Olivia held up one hand to silence her maid, her eyes moving steadily across the room, wishing that she had some sort of light with which to seek out the dark corners.

“What is it?” Betty whispered, the smile dropping from her face almost at once. “Is there something the matter?”

Making to answer, Olivia was halted by the same, strange sound that seemed to carry across to her for only a moment before being chased away. Looking at her maid, she saw Betty’s eyes flare wide, one hand going to her mouth as she stared at Olivia.

Evidently, Betty had heard it too.

“What is it?” Betty asked again, although this time for an entirely different reason. “What can be making that unearthly sound?”

“And where is it coming from?” Olivia murmured, looping her arm through Betty’s and turning to face the dark ballroom once more. She would find out what was making that sound, no matter how quickly her heart beat nor how fearful her mind became. And whether she wished it or not, Betty would have to come with her—for this was not something Olivia felt able to face alone.

“Come,” she whispered, as Betty gave a silent nod, her eyes holding a good deal of fear. “Mayhap it is an injured animal requiring our aid.”

“Or mayhap it is a spirit sent to haunt those who have lived lives of wrongdoing,” Betty whispered, sending a tremor down Olivia’s spine as she took a few steps forward into the darkening ballroom.

Chapter Eleven

Something was making a terrible sound. Phillip could not tell what it was, but it was already beginning to grate, making his head pound all the more as he struggled to work out what it could be. It was a low moaning that seemed to come and go, flaring with a sudden intensity before dying away.

It was not until he opened his eyes that he realized the sound was coming from him.

Fear clutched at his heart as he looked all about him, seeing nothing but darkness. He had no idea where he was or how he had come here. He was sitting on the floor, he realized, his legs pushed up together, stiff and painful. With a groan, he tried to push himself upwards, only to fall back down hard as his legs refused to do as he asked them. The pain in his head grew, the agony at the back of his skull burning furiously. Phillip put his head in his hands, trying to regulate his breathing as a sense of panic set in.

He battled against it, knowing that it came from a place of fear. Fear that he did not know where he was, what had happened, or how he was to get out. The darkness seemed to swallow him up, so that even when he opened his eyes, he saw nothing at all. His chest grew tight as he battled to keep his composure, taking in long breaths and then letting them out slowly.

Beads of sweat formed on his forehead as he tried to stand, finding nothing to grip on, nothing to hold on to as his legs wobbled. Forced to push himself back against the wall, he managed to stand, his hands flat against the wall as he tried to stop himself from swaying back and forth. With no light, it was impossible to hold onto his sense of balance, to the point that he turned around and leaned his head against the wall, finally feeling himself growing just a little calmer.

Where was he? He had no idea as to how he had come to be in this dark place, recalling that his only intention had been to meet with Lord Watt and the other men of the League so as to inform them about Lord Dayton and Lord Cammish’s intentions.

Screwing up his eyes, Phillip tried his best to remember what had happened. He had stepped out of his house and, having decided to hail a hackney to Lord Watt’s townhouse, he had begun to walk down the street. Had he ever managed to do so? Had he climbed into a hackney and instructed the man to take them there? He could not recall anything about what had happened to him, making him fear that something – or someone – had waylaid him as he attempted to travel to Lord Watt’s home.

Another groan escaped him, but this time it was not of pain but rather of frustration. He had not been as careful as he ought to have been, it seemed. It appeared he had not managed to infiltrate Lord Dayton and Lord Cammish’s meetings as he had thought. They must have thought him to be less than decisive and so had removed him from their path until the deed was done. Was he to linger here in darkness, only to emerge into a world where the Prince was now dead and buried? Or would he no longer have any life left within him, and thus be entirely removed from this world? The thought made his chest tighten with fear, worrying that he would be left alone in this crypt until he took his final breath.

“Is…is someone there?”

His head shot up, only for it to crack hard against something solid. A cry left his lips as he fell back, collapsing against the opposite wall. Nothing was said, no voice came to him again as he rubbed at his aching head, fearing that he might lose consciousness from the pain.

“Is…is someone there?” It was the same quavering voice, the same words spoke again, muffled through whatever it was that held him apart from them.

“I am here,” he said, his throat rough and his voice rasping. “Please, let me go. Do not leave me to die here.”

A loud whispering met his words, combined with another sudden scraping at what must be the door.

“Go and fetch a candle,” he heard someone say and, putting his hands out, Phillip tried to move towards the voice, even though he had no idea of where he was going. He tripped over something on the floor, something lying in his path, only to cough hard as a mouthful of dust filled his lungs.