Page 22 of The Dare Before Christmas

Still, murdering the heir to a dukedom was not a simple thing to do. Getting a blind man committed to a lunatic asylum and taking control of his assets and every aspect of his life, however… oh, not hard. Not hard at all. Especially when that blind man was idiot enough to walk into a trap. Yet he had, and here he was, sitting on a bench outside the railway station in a public place, with no idea of how he was going to get home.

The outside world pressed down upon him, the open space that gaped cavernously all around him growing teeth and claws, littered with mantraps and so much noise and bustle that his head spun. The sound of hurrying footsteps, the swish of skirts and snatches of conversation boiled around him, making his heart race as panic invaded his blood.

Stop it, stay calm. Breathe, you damned fool, he told himself severely. Panic was not his friend, that much he had learned in the years since he had lost his sight. He would simply have to ask someone to arrange a hackney for him, though in a small town like Lewes on a busy weekend he might be waiting awhile. Well, he could wait. Patience was another thing he’d had to learn in recent years. He’d never had much of it before, always wanting everything now, in the moment, but now his life had slowed to a crawl, and he’d had to make peace with that too.

Taking a deep breath, Rex calmed his racing heart and reminded himself that he was not utterly helpless. He was the Marquess of Wrexham, goddamn it, and that title commanded respect. Concentrating on the sound of the passers-by, he listened carefully, picking out the different steps moving past him. That one was a man; the sound of the footsteps was heavier, flatter, and he was in a hurry too. No, he was no good. The next was a couple, a man and a woman. He could hear the way the heel of her shoe rang out, a lighter sound on the paving slabs, but these two were moving slowly, their voices soft, perfume drifting on the air between them. Ah, lovers, and they would not be pleased to have their time together interrupted. He waited until they had gone, and another set of footsteps followed. A man’s step, quick, but not hurried. Perhaps this one, then.

“Excuse me,” Rex said, timing his question at the precise moment the man walked in front of him. The footsteps faltered.

“Are you addressing me, sir?”

“Yes. Forgive me for importuning you, but might I request your assistance?”

“What assistance do you require?” the man asked, his voice full of suspicion.

“There seems to have been some mix-up in the time of my arrival here, and my carriage has not come for me. Might I call upon you to find the nearest coaching inn and—”

“Sir, you might be well above my station and used to having your every need met with a snap of your fingers, but I’m no lackey. The nearest coaching inn is half a mile in that direction and your legs as able as mine, I don’t doubt. Good day to you.”

“No, wait, you don’t understand…!” Rex called after him, before cursing under his breath.

The problem with his condition was that no one would know he was blind to look at him. Sometimes he tried to give people clues, with a walking stick, and dark glasses, which he did not really need, but riled his father—a bonus not to be ignored—but more often pride and anxiety made him prefer that people not know if they did not need to. Hubris would be the death of him, or at the very least, the reason he got locked away in an asylum. He could just hear his father talking about this little adventure, his voice troubled and apparently full of concern.

The poor boy was in the middle of the town all alone, what he was doing there I cannot fathom, some foolish nonsense about meeting someone giving him secret news. He thinks someone is trying to kill him, of all things. Paranoia is an increasing problem for him. A troubled mind, just like his uncle. He went blind too, swiftly followed by paranoia and madness, and though I hate to admit it… poor Leander is following the same path. Such a pity.

A shiver of panic ran down Rex’s spine and his fingers tightened on the arm of the bench. Something cold and wet touched his face, and he started in surprise, reaching up to touch the spot, which was swiftly followed by another, and another. For a moment he could not think what it was and then he realised. It was snowing. Well, wasn’t that just perfect? He was already frozen to the marrow from sitting here the past three hours without moving, and now it was snowing. His father might just kill him after all, and no one could ever blame him for it if Rex died of bloody pneumonia.

Panic rolled over him again, all his fears of being lost and alone, helpless in the great outdoors, pressing down on him with a smothering weight that made it hard to breathe. If only he knew the town a little better, he might not have been so helpless, but his aunt had only moved here recently. If he’d stopped to think for a moment that would have rung alarm bells, for why would someone with information about a plot to kill him contact him here, of all places? But it was too late for hindsight now. He needed to get back to his aunt’s house before he damn well froze to death.

Determined, he tried to rein his terror back in, to think rationally, but then he jumped as a cacophony of barking erupted close to him. Rex gasped as he heard the scratch of claws and at least three dogs ran past, barking furiously. They were gone a moment later, but his nerves were shot, and it was becoming hard to think. His chest heaved as he attempted to calm himself once more.

“My lord?”

Wrexham leapt again at the soft voice, turning towards it like a drowning man clutching at a lifeline.

“Yes?” he said at once, hope blooming in his chest. “Yes, who is that?”

“My Lord Wrexham, it is Miss Knight. Miss Emmeline Knight. We met at the Duchess of Bedwin’s dinner. I pray you will forgive me for approaching you, I do not wish to be intrusive, but… is everything…? Are you well, my lord?”

“Miss Knight,” he said, the relief he felt so overwhelming he was uncertain if he wanted to laugh or cry. “Miss Knight, I am so very, very pleased to hear your voice.”

There was too much emotion audible, he knew at once, too much obvious relief, but he could not help it.

“Lord Wrexham?” she said, and he heard the anxiety in the way she said his name now, heard the rustle of her skirts as she took a step closer and lowered her voice. “May I be of assistance to you?”

“You may, Miss Knight. Indeed, you may be the answer to my prayers, and I thank God for you.”

Torie did not think there had been such a perfect moment in her life since she was a little girl, when things had been so much simpler. Here she was, exploring a long-forgotten tunnel, searching for treasure, and holding Barnaby Godwin’s hand. Even though the wretched man was as exasperating as ever, he had kissed her, and had liked it too, if she knew anything. Not that she knew much about men and kissing. Her father had become rather overprotective where his daughters were concerned after what had happened with her two older sisters. Not that they had come to any harm, and they were both blissfully happy in their marriages. It was more that Papa hadn’t had an inkling of what was going on under his nose, even though both Lottie and Eliza had been well chaperoned. So now, well chaperoned might as well be synonymous with living under house arrest, and the chances of Torie ever being alone with a man were slim to none.

Yet, here she was, alone in the dark with the man of her dreams, and Mama and Papa away shopping in Lewes. The thought had Torie suppressing a grin. It was certainly an opportunity not to be missed, especially not if she could persuade Barnaby to kiss her again. Oh, and what a kiss it had been. So much more than she could have imagined, so intimate and so… stirring. Even now, thinking about it, her cheeks heated, and her blood seemed to move faster through her veins. Something hot and liquid bloomed in her core, making her restless and… she let out a sigh.

Barnaby turned, holding the lamp up to look at her. “Is anything the matter?”

“N-No,” she stammered, mortified, wondering if he could discern the route her thoughts had taken just by looking at her and her blazing cheeks.

He frowned a little, but turned back to concentrate on the tunnel as it changed direction, angling sharply to the right. Barnaby hesitated and Victoria squeezed his hand, knowing he was worrying on her account.

“Please,” she pleaded.