The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (The Cynster Sisters Duo 2)

Then again, he’d never imagined Lavinia would turn her hand to murder.

Leaving the question of Potherby for later, Ryder quit that room. He paused in the corridor, listening. The house was so eerily silent that he didn’t doubt there was no one else—no other breathing being—on that floor. His senses, flaring wide, detected no hint of Mary. But there was an attic.

Walking to the end of the corridor, he opened the narrow door that gave onto the attic stairs. They rose into relative darkness, but slivers of faint twilight showed here and there between the roof slates; once his eyes adjusted, he would be able to see well enough.

Slowly, step by step, he went up the stairs.

Had he been in his opponents’ shoes, this was where he would have staged an ambush; emerging up a stairwell so narrow that he had to angle his shoulders to pass, he was at a very real disadvantage . . . but no. Even before his head cleared the level of the attic floor, he knew there was no one waiting to cosh him, to shoot him. And no Mary, either.

People, alive and awake, were simply never that still.

After one quick glance, he went back down the narrow stairs, senses alert as he emerged into the first-floor corridor, but no one had sneaked up while he’d been above.

Striding more quickly, he headed back to the main stairs. Going rapidly down, he reviewed again his certainty that Mary was somewhere there, that she was hidden somewhere in the Dower House. Despite all the evidence thus far, he remained convinced she was there; why else the open door? Why else the complete absence of staff?

Pushing through the green baize-covered door at the rear of the front hall, he went down a short corridor, past a small butler’s pantry, then down three shallow steps to the kitchen. Like the house above, it was devoid of life, but utensils were lined up on the cook’s table, selected plates and cutlery were stacked on a sideboard, along with folded napkins, and a tea tray was set ready on a bench by the stove.

The staff were still living there but had been sent out for the day . . . or perhaps for several days. A glance through the windows confirmed it was growing steadily darker outside, but as it was just past midsummer, full dark was still hours away.

Walking further into the kitchen, he looked around—and saw the basement door had also been left ajar.

He considered the sight, then noticed several lanterns ready and waiting on a nearby shelf. Picking up one, he saw there was a mark where another, currently absent, normally sat. Hunting up tinder, he lit the lamp; after adjusting the wick, he pushed the door to the basement wider. It was the only place within the house he’d yet to search, and while there was a smallish stables, with rooms for coachman and groom above, to hide Mary somewhere secure, somewhere they could trap him as he came for her . . .

With his senses still confirming no one else had come past the green baize door, that no enemy was yet creeping up close behind him, he stepped onto the landing at the top of the basement steps and shone the lantern into the darkness.

The beam played over bins of apples, potatoes, and onions, barrels of various stuffs, shelves of dry goods in boxes and sacks, and lots of glass jars, but the shelves inhibited his view of the further reaches of the room.

He couldn’t see anyone, see any evidence that Mary was there, still could not sense her presence.

Yet, once again, why had the door been left ajar?

Stepping back into the kitchen, he looked at the shallow steps from the front of the house, glanced across at the kitchen door. His would-be attackers could come from either direction, but they hadn’t dared show themselves yet.

A moment’s consideration was all it took to convince him that, if they had any choice, they wouldn’t appear until he’d found Mary; that was when he would be at his most vulnerable, with her to protect and his attention divided.

They might not know he was unarmed, but few men carried pistols or swords these days, and not when searching for missing ladies on their own damned estates.

His gaze fell on the utensils lined up on the cook’s table. Setting the lamp down, he swiftly searched. No knives. Not there or anywhere else; he went through the drawers and cupboards, but there wasn’t a single decent knife left. His would-be attackers might be unsophisticated; they weren’t stupid.

He found a few other items he could use.

One of the fire irons did a nice job of breaking the bolt off the basement door. A long spatula wedged under the lower edge of the door made it difficult to shift; setting that aside, he continued his hunt.

The poker might come in handy. Hefting it, he dropped a set of metal skewers into his pocket, cast a last glance at the other utensils he’d uncovered.

As well as the knives, his opponents had removed all long, pointy implements, like the long-handled forks he was sure should have been there. As an afterthought, he tucked four ordinary forks into another pocket, then finally turned to the basement door.

They had to be watching him from outside, from the cover of the nearby woods. The kitchen faced west; the last of the fading light was probably sufficient to illuminate the room enough for them to follow his movements. So they would know he had the poker.

And from the fading glow of the lantern he carried they would know that he’d finally gone down the basement steps.

Reaching the bottom, he moved quickly, playing the lantern beam to either side as he strode down the aisle between the high shelves. There was an open area at the far end of the room. I

t was completely bare, but there the floor was wood, not stone, and the fine dust on the boards, drifting from bags of grain stacked along the back wall, showed evidence of footprints and the swishing of a woman’s skirts.

The marks circled a square trapdoor set in the floor.

He’d never been into the basement before, didn’t remember—had never heard—what lay beneath the trapdoor.