The Viscount. Lyn Stone
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down the dimly lit corridor to her right. This was the direction the sound of the other man’s footsteps had taken. Was it not?
There were windows to one side of it, closed doors to rooms on the other. She saw it was, indeed, already dark outside.
The odors in the asylum were atrocious and the intermittent sounds of human misery, heartbreaking. Lily assiduously ignored both, trying not to wonder how many were locked away in here unlawfully, as she had been.
She continued, walking purposefully, practicing what she considered the gait of a man. A sort of swagger. Longer strides, toes more out than in, since she knew that toeing in caused the hips to sway. She tugged her cuffs as she had often seen her father do and pulled back her shoulders. That thrust out her bosom, she realized when the shirtfront tightened across it. She hunched a bit to make that less obvious.
The corridor opened into a larger chamber. Lily strode right past a sleeping attendant and traversed yet another wide passageway that she found led to the cavernous entrance hall.
Two men sat conversing on the far side, well away from the main doors. One called out a good-night and she threw up a hand in acknowledgment without looking directly at them or speaking. But when she tried the door, her last obstacle before reaching freedom, she found it securely locked.
Terror gripped her, sucking the breath right out of her lungs. Then she remembered the keys. She fished them out of her pocket and isolated the largest one, hoping her guess was correct. Quickly she inserted it in the door and twisted it right, then left.
Thank God. Again she tried the door handle and, miraculously, the door opened smoothly on its hinges without so much as a squeak of protest.
With a shudder of heartfelt relief mixed with apprehension, Lily strode out, down the stone steps to the street and disappeared into the night.
Only after she crossed the Thames from Southwark, and knew she had escaped her immediate nightmare, did she pause to think about where she was going next. Her knowledge of London was rudimentary at best.
Did she dare turn to Duquesne? Did she have a choice?
Would he or anyone else help her if Clive had already put it about that she was insane? She had made a scene at the Danson’s soiree, there was no escaping that.
Was that one of the incidents of hysteria he would use to convince people? To tell the truth, she had not felt at all herself that evening and could scarcely remember much of what she had said and done. How long had he been planning to spirit her away and lock her up? Had he even drugged her that night to make her seem mad?
She leaned against the solid brick wall of a deserted haberdasher’s shop and shuddered like a leaf in a fierce wind. Tears covered her face and filled her throat and chest. Her breath came in gasps, her head ached to perdition and her knees felt weak as water.
No matter how hard she tried, Lily could not decide what she should do next. What a sheltered existence she had led before her marriage and even after Jonathan had died. No one would protect her now that she needed it. Her father, gone. Her husband, gone. Her son, too young. Her brother-in-law, dangerous. Suddenly furious that no one had given her any preparation in fending for herself, Lily cursed. Right out loud.
All she had wanted thus far was to live a quiet life in the country and to raise her beloved son to shoulder his responsibilities and be a kind and loving man like his father. Since she was twelve or so, her own father had drummed into her that’s what she should aspire to. A lot of good that had done.
Anger was a stranger to her, this horrid, all-consuming rage she felt now. And yet she was thankful for it. At least her fury had lent her the impetus to act and kept her from being paralyzed by her fear. She would not give in to the fear now that she had come this far.
Dare she trust Duquesne not to send her directly back to Clive once she related what had happened? Or should she follow through with the outrageous idea prompted by the letters she had found in Brinks’s pocket?
That she would even consider seeking out such a dangerous man brought an even more troubling question to mind. Was it possible Clive was justified? Could she truly be insane?
Guy watched his ancient butler, Bodkins, shuffle just inside the doorway. The poor old bloke should be in bed, but he’d be up and around even after Guy retired for the night. How Bodkins managed at his age was indeed a mystery.
It was nigh on nine o’clock. One more entry to make in the accounts and he would have them up to date. A first. He picked a bit of lint off the point of his pen and frowned at the stain on his thumbnail. “Yes, what is it, Boddy?”
“A young gent’s arrived, milord. A Mr. Pinks.”
“Brinks?” That appointment was scheduled for tomorrow morning. Unless Boddy had forgotten to mention it had been changed. The old fellow’s hearing had all but deserted him and his memory was not what it should be.
Ah, well, Brinks was here, might as well have done with it. He would either do for the position or he wouldn’t. Shouldn’t take long to discover which. “Very well. Send him in.” When Bodkins remained where he was, Guy repeated, louder this time.
Bodkins made a slow turn and retraced his steps. Guy shook his head sadly, wondering how much longer he could afford to allow the old dear to keep working. Putting him out to pasture would surely kill him, but if he stayed on here…
“Lord Duquesne,” Bodkins announced, his ancient voice cracking. He cleared his throat noisily. “Mr. Pinks to see you.”
Guy looked up and smiled. Charm never hurt and often helped where employees were concerned. “Mr. Brinks. Good of you to come.”
He reached over to adjust the flame in the lamp. The lighting was insufficient even then. The dark walls of the house seemed to drink up light like thirsty sponges.
Guy regarded his visitor, trying not to do so through narrowed eyes. Damn, he’d be needing spectacles one of these days if he didn’t spring for more lamps.
Economizing had become too ingrained a habit when it had been necessary. Even though he wished to keep up the appearance of penury, he might have to adjust spending for a few of his private needs.
He studied Brinks. The bloke was too slightly built for the employment Guy had in mind. And too young, obviously. But perhaps he might work as an assistant to Mimms, someone to fetch and carry things. Taking care of the earl was a time-consuming and physically demanding task, and the valet was aging. Guy had decided that two attendants would be better than one. He almost winced at the thought of the added expense. Habits died hard.
He forced a pleasant expression. “I thought we were to meet tomorrow morning.”
“There…there was a sudden change of plan,” Brinks said hesitantly. “I am most eager for the job and free to leave immediately. Now. Tonight. If you’ll furnish transportation, I could go on ahead, sir.”
His voice was rather high-pitched. And he seemed frightened, ducking his head that way. This would never do. If he feared a sane man, he would surely quail in the presence of one as unstable as the earl.
“Well, I haven’t exactly hired you yet, now have I? Were you sacked?” Guy asked directly.
“No, my lord. I have two letters of recommendation.”
“May I see them?”
“Of course.” Hesitantly the lad crossed the room, his steps tentative, his head still bowed.
“Come, come, let’s have them,” Guy ordered, beckoning impatiently.
As Brinks complied, Guy noted the softness of the ungloved hand that offered the envelopes. The well-tended nails were slightly dirty. Guy would have preferred some indication the bloke could work, and failing that, that he would at least be conscientious about cleanliness.
Quickly he took out the pages and gave them a perfunctory read. One was from a Sir Alexander Morison who had been physician to Hoxton’s hospital for the insane three