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

The door shut with a soft click behind him.

Lavinia stared at the panels. After a moment, she shifted her gaze to Ryder and drew herself up, poker-stiff. “I don’t know what you’re about, what aspersions you’re seeking to cast—”

“No aspersions, Lavinia. Rest assured, all I’m seeking is to establish the facts.” Ryder paused, then went on, “And to my way of thinking, the facts will be most clearly revealed by hearing what your men presently in the basement have to say.”

“By all means.” Lavinia waved at the door. “Go down to the basement if you think it will help you. I’ll remain here.”

Before she could sit, Kit caught her arm. “No, Mama—you have to come, too.”

At a look from Kit, Godfrey, white-faced but as determined as the others, took Lavinia’s other arm. Between them, the brothers turned her to the door.

“No!” Lavinia tried to struggle, but they held her fast. She all but wailed, “I don’t want to go down to the basement.”

“Hush, Mama—how undignified.” Coming up beside Kit, Stacie reached across and lightly gripped her mother’s hand. “There’s no sense in fighting this—we’re all resolved—and you won’t want the staff to see and gossip, you know you won’t.”

That argument succeeded where most others would have failed; Lavinia ceased struggling.

Ryder added, “You can’t seriously imagine any harm will come to you in your own basement with your children all around you.”

His even tone had the desired effect; Lavinia once again pulled herself up, drew in a huge breath, then raised her head. “Very well. As you are all so intent on this, let’s go down and see what we’ll see.”

Ryder and Mary led the way out. Rand and Stacie followed, with Lavinia, Kit, and Godfrey, the brothers unobtrusively holding Lavinia between them, bringing up the rear.

In the kitchen, Ryder paused before the basement door to tell Dukes to pass the word that Potherby, his valet, and his coachman and groom were to be allowed to leave, and that the rest of the staff were free to go to their beds, then their small procession descended the steps into the basement.

Two of the abbey gardeners were standing guard at the bottom of the steps. Ryder caught their eyes. “Go up and wait with Dukes.”

The pair nodded, hung back until the others had descended, then went up and pulled the door shut.

One lantern had been left by the steps; several others lit the area where Snickert and his companions sat lounging on the sacks concealing the trapdoor. Noting the continuing smugness on the three men’s faces, their relaxed postures, Mary realized that, with no light falling on her and Ryder as they walked down the aisle between the high shelves, the men hadn’t yet realized that it was the prisoners they thought trapped beneath them who were approaching.

Sure enough, the instant she and Ryder moved into the circle of light at that end of the room, all smugness fell from the men’s expressions; their faces blanked, then, eyes widening, they tensed.

One—she assumed he was Snickert—snarled; features abruptly contorting, he launched himself at Ryder.

Releasing Ryder’s arm, Mary stepped smartly back.

As Ryder stepped forward and smashed his fist—powered by his considerable temper—into Snickert’s face.

Something crunched. Snickert staggered back, then, blood welling from his nose, sprawled on his back on the floor.

“You beast!”

Mary turned to see Lavinia break free from Kit and Godfrey; startled by Snickert’s attack, both brothers had loosened their grips.

But Lavinia didn’t try to flee; she rushed forward, pushing past Stacie, then ducking around Mary to fly to Snickert’s side.

Astonished, they all stared at her as she crouched beside Snickert, bending over him, apparently raising his head.

Snickert moaned—then shrieked. His legs jerked, stiffened, then fell lax.

Utter shock held them all immobile for a heartbeat, then Ryder cursed. Swooping, he clamped Lavinia’s wrists, one in each of his hands, and hauled her bodily up. “Damn you,” he ground out. “What have you done?”

“Oh, God!” Randolph had rushed forward, too. Now he stared in horror at something clutched in Lavinia’s left hand. Something that glinted, then dripped.

Mary discovered she’d slapped a hand over her lips. Through her fingers, she said, “It’s her shawl pin.”

Lavinia’s shawl was now trailing, a tide of crimson silk, along the floor.