to return to her home.
Thinking about the illness and subsequent death of her dearest mother occupied Beatrice’s thoughts as she walked, banishing all lingering echoes of orgies and dire goings on at the Abbey. Mrs Roade had been an acknowledged beauty in her day, and, as the only sister of the wealthy Lord Burton, had been expected to marry well. Her decision to accept Bertram Roade had been a disappointment to her family.
Beatrice’s musings were brought to an abrupt end as she heard the scream. It was the most blood-curdling, terrifying sound she had ever heard in her life, and she whirled round, looking for its source.
It had seemed to come from the Abbey itself. Perhaps the chapel or the cloisters…but she could not be certain. It might have come from somewhere in the grounds. Yes, surely it must have been the grounds—an animal caught in a trap perhaps? So thought the sensible Miss Roade.
For an instant, Beatrice considered the possibility of a dreadful crime…possibly murder or rape. Vague memories flitted through her mind; there was a tale of a girl caught inside the grounds one night when the monks still lived there: it was said that the girl had been found dead in the morning!
Beatrice shivered and increased her pace, her nerves tingling. All the stories of the Marquis’s atrocities came rushing back to fill her mind with vague fears of herself being attacked by…what?
Long dead monks? Ridiculous! What then? Hardly the Marquis? Surely she was not truly afraid of him? He was after all married at last, to a rather beautiful, young—and if the little anyone knew of her was anything to go by, mysterious girl. All Beatrice knew of her was that her name was Louise, and that she had been adopted as a baby by the Marquis’s bailiff, John Hanslope. It was whispered that she was his bastard, but no one knew the truth of the affair.
The scandal of the nobleman’s marriage to his own bailiff’s ward had both shocked and delighted the people of the four villages. Despite his terrible reputation, it was still unthinkable that a man of his background should marry a girl who was after all little more than a servant. “Quite beyond the pale, my dear!”
Beatrice’s own sympathies lay with the unfortunate girl who had married him, for surely she must have been desperate to do such a thing?
A sudden thought struck Beatrice—could it have been the Marquis’s wife who had screamed? She glanced at the brooding, menacing shape of the Abbey and crossed herself superstitiously. What could he have been doing to her to make her scream like that?
“No, no,” she whispered. “It could not have been her—nor any woman. It was an animal, only an animal.”
He was said to be in love…after years of wickedness and debauchery!
Even a man of the Marquis’s calibre could not be capable of hurting the woman he loved—or could he?
Beatrice tucked her head down against the wind and began to run. Perhaps it was her anxiety to leave the grounds of the Abbey that made her careless? It was certain that she did not see or hear the pounding hooves of the great horse until it came rushing at her out of the darkness. She was directly in its path and had to throw herself aside to avoid being knocked over.
Her action led to her stumbling and, having the breath knocked from her body by the force of her fall, she could only continue to lie where she was as the rider galloped by, seemingly unaware or uncaring of the fact that he had almost ridden her down.
Beatrice caught only a glimpse of him as he passed, but she knew it was the wicked Marquis himself, riding as if the devil were after him. He was a big man, wrapped about by a black cloak, his iron-grey hair straggling and unkempt about his shoulders. An ugly creature by all accounts, his features thickened and coarsened by his excesses—though she herself had never caught more than a fleeting glimpse of him. He was a bruising rider, and she had sometimes seen him in the distance on her walks—but they were not acquainted. The Roade family did not move in his circles, nor he in theirs.
“That was not well done of you, sir,” Beatrice murmured as he and his horse disappeared into the darkness.
She rose to her feet a little unsteadily, her usual composure seriously disturbed by what had happened that night. It was certain that the Marquis was in a black mood, perhaps drunk, as the gossips said he often was. Beatrice shuddered as she thought of the young woman who had married him the previous year. How terrible to be trapped in marriage with such a monster!
What could have possessed her to do such a thing?
Beatrice had never met the young Marchioness, or even seen her out walking. As far as Beatrice knew, no one had seen much of her since the wedding. People said she hardly left the Abbey—some said she was too ashamed, some murmured of her being kept a prisoner by her wicked husband, others that she was ill…and there was little to wonder at in that, married to such a brute!
She could only have married him for his money. Everyone said it, and Beatrice was sure it must be the truth—but had the Marquis been the richest man in England, she would not have married such a monster!
Beatrice had stopped shaking. She resumed her walk at a more sensible pace, keeping her head up so that she was aware of what was in front of her. There was little to be heard but the howl of the wind, which was eerie and unpleasant.
She would be glad to be home!
“You’re soaked to the skin, my love,” Nan said, fussing over her the moment she entered her father’s house. “We have been on the look for you this past hour or more. Whatever do you mean by worrying your poor father so?”
They progressed to the parlour, Beatrice having left her sodden cloak in the hall. She moved closer to the fire, holding her hands to the flames until she had stopped shivering, then went over to the large oak and upholstered Knole settee, carefully moving her aunt’s embroidery before sitting down.
“Have I worried Papa?” Beatrice thought it improbable. Her father would most likely be in his study, working on one of his inventions—the marvellous, wholly useless objects he was forever wasting his time on, which he believed were going to restore his fortune one day. “I think you were worried, Nan. Poor, dear Papa can hardly have noticed. Now, if I were not here for dinner—then he might begin to worry. Especially if it meant waiting for his meal.”
“Beatrice!” Nan scolded. “Now that is unkind in you. I know your humour, my dear—but it sounds harsh in a young woman to be so cynical. It is little wonder that…” She broke off, biting her lip as she saw the look in her darling’s eyes.
“Yes, I know I have driven them all away—all my suitors,” Beatrice said ruefully. “I really should have taken Squire Rush, shouldn’t I? He has three thousand a year, I dare say…but he has buried three wives and that brood of his was really too much!”
“There were others,” her aunt said. Mrs Nancy Willow was a widow in her early forties: a plump, comfortable, loving woman, who was extremely fond of her eldest niece. She had come to her brother’s house only after her husband (a soldier turned adventurer) had died of a fever. She sometimes thought it would have been better if she had been there before her lovely but slightly bird-brained sister-in-law had died, but she and Eddie had been in India at the time. “I understand there was a suitable admirer once…”
“And who told you that, aunt?”
Nan frowned. Beatrice rarely called her “aunt’ in just that way: she was clearly touching on a sore place.
“Well,
