Read Never Seduce A Scoundrel Online
Authors: Heather Grothaus
Never Seduce A Scoundrel (7 page)
Sybilla watched her go.
Oliver had not had time to properly put away the things Joan Barleg and Argo had brought him from Bellemont, and so there was precious little to do to prepare for his departure. Everything was still neatly contained in the leather sack save the belt holding his scabbard and sword—August’s scabbard and sword—which Argo had hidden atop the tall wardrobe. Oliver stared up at the piece of weighty furniture, easily nine feet tall, considering the ornately carved molding around its crown.
He couldn’t reach it, and he couldn’t leave it here.
“Damn Cecily Foxe.” Oliver turned and looked around the room behind him, flickering in the weak light of only the hearth and a single flame near the bedside. He spied the straight-backed chair at the small table.
“Ah-ha,” he growled, and then marched toward the would-be ladder. “Not so much as a farewell,” he continued to mutter as he dragged the chair on two legs across the floor. He cursed and jerked on the piece when it caught on the edge of a rug. “Rather spend her time with a moldy old priest, would she? Fine, then. Brilliant.
Perfect!
” He slammed the chair down on all four legs before the wardrobe, shifted its position a bit.
Perfect!
” He slammed the chair down on all four legs before the wardrobe, shifted its position a bit.
“Should she think that I’ll simply wait here for her like some lost pup, well”—he gave a stuttering huff of a laugh—“I think not!” He grasped the back of the chair with his left hand, shook it to check the stability. “I am Oliver Bellecote, Lord of Bellemont! I wait for no woman!” He placed his right foot on the seat of the chair and then pushed off with his left leg.
He was forced to release his hold on the chair back, and now stood atop the chair, swaying slightly, his blood bursting through his right arm as his heart pounded and his head swam. He was surprised at how much his stamina had deteriorated. He waited for the throbbing fire to quiet before carefully reaching up with his left arm, the lintel biting into the middle of his forearm, his stretched ribs screaming for mercy beneath the tight bindings around his chest. He felt for the top of the wardrobe with his hand, but his fingers met only air.
“Perfect!” he bit off, and withdrew his hand. Apparently the ornate carvings atop the wardrobe gave a greater illusion of height than was accurate. Oliver guessed that the proper top to the piece—where his sword lay—was at least twelve inches beyond the reach of his fingers.
He leaned into the piece, and reached up once more, standing on the tips of his boots. He felt ridiculous, like a lad in the larder attempting to sneak a biscuit from the cook’s special jar. If only he could reach a bit farther, get his elbow crooked fully over the edge ...
A rap sounded on his door so suddenly and so loudly, that Oliver cried out and slid to the right against the side of the wardrobe. He gripped the top of the lintel at the last moment, saving himself from falling from the chair directly onto his broken arm. Pain like silver, liquid fire swirled around his ribcage.
Another knock, and then a dusty old voice called out to him from beyond the door, “Lord Bellecote, are you all right?”
It was Graves. That maggoty old servant had nearly killed him!
Oliver righted his stance, but kept a firm hold on the wardrobe’s top. “I’m fine, Graves, thank you.”
“Did I hear a scream, my lord?”
“It wasn’t a scream, it was a shout. A shout of surprise. I’m fine.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes,” Oliver ground out.
Oliver heard only the pounding of his own heart and the creaking of his ribs for several moments, until he was convinced that the steward had at last left. He leaned into the wardrobe and was just reaching over the top once more when the scratchy voice sounded again, surprisingly robust.
“May I help you collect your belongings, my lord?”
Oliver shouted again—truly, it was a shout, not a scream—and craned his head around to spy the old man standing in the middle of the chamber floor, his hands clasped behind his back.
“How did you get in here?” Oliver barked.
Graves’s sparse eyebrows rose mildly and he looked over his shoulder at the door. “Did you not hear my knock, my lord?”
“Yes,” Oliver ground out. “But I did not bid you to enter.”
“Shall I leave?” The old man half turned.
Oliver realized he was still standing on a chair, attempting to gain his most prized personal possession. A chore that his physical injuries were making impossible.
“No,” Oliver said suddenly. “Come here and clasp your hands together, like a stirrup. I think if perhaps I get a bit more leverage I could—”
“My lord, whatever are you trying to do?”
“It’s my sword, Graves,” he said impatiently. “My man placed it atop this damnably high wardrobe, and I cannot reach it with my arm and ribs bound as they are. But if you allow me to place my foot in your—”
“Shall I fetch it for you, Lord Oliver?”
“I can do it myself.”
“How could I doubt you?” the old man said with more than a bit of sarcasm in his tone. “But don’t you think it would be more prudent for me to retrieve your weapon rather than you risking further injury to yourself?”
“I said I can do it, Graves. Either shut up and come over here or be gone.”
The servant stepped to the side of the chair and laced his long, pale fingers together obediently. His face was expressionless and he stared at the wide wall of the wardrobe rather than look at Oliver, although he did give a great sigh.
Oliver placed his right boot into the cradle of Graves’s hands and stepped up, pulling with his left hand until he could hook his elbow over the lip of the wardrobe. His fingers stretched, stretched.
“Dammit! Not high enough! Lift me up, Graves,” Oliver panted.
“Does my lord know that he is quite heavy?” the old servant wheezed.
“Fine! Put me down, put me down!” Both Oliver’s feet at last connected with the chair seat, and he slapped at the servant’s hands at his waist as Graves wasted no time in encouraging Oliver to get down completely from the chair.
He turned to the steward, who had taken a white lace kerchief from some pocket and was now fussily wiping at his palms. “I can’t leave here without it, Graves. It’s August’s sword. You’ll have to fetch a ladder, I suppose.”
Graves quirked an eyebrow. “If my lord will allow me?”
“I am not responsible to your mistress should you fall and break your old neck,” Oliver warned, and went to sit on the edge of the mattress, to slow his breathing and rest his trunk, which ached from his collarbone to his hips.
The steward folded his handkerchief away and then grasped the chair by its back and returned it to its place at the little table. Graves then turned to stare at Oliver, his hands behind his back.
“Unless you can fly—which somehow I don’t doubt—I think you’ll find that chair to be quite useful in reaching my brother’s sword,” Oliver said, but Graves made no further move toward the wardrobe.
After several moments, Oliver became more than a little incensed. “Well, are you going to fetch it or just stand there eyeing me like some old vulture?”
“Does my lord realize how important it is to Madam that he stay at Fallstowe and comply with her request?”
“No, your lord does not. Nor does he care. Lady Sybilla can find someone else to be part of her little game. I have had quite enough of the eccentricities of the Foxe women. It seems money has made them all mad.”
“You think this is a game?” Graves said, and for once Oliver thought the man looked genuinely surprised.
“I don’t know what it is, Graves. And, again, I don’t care. I simply want to go home and forget about—” He’d been about to say Cecily Foxe, but caught himself just in time. “I need to concentrate on Bellemont now. I will not be a replacement for my brother for Lady Sybilla’s amusement.”
“Why do you think Madam wishes you to align yourself—albeit falsely—with Lady Joan?”
Oliver raised his face to the ceiling and groaned. “Truly, Graves, must I weep?”
“Did you know that Lord August was en route to Fallstowe when he fell from his horse?”
Oliver opened his eyes and looked at the servant. “No. No, I didn’t. How do you—”
“And did you also know
,” the man continued, his voice rising only fractionally, but containing a tremble that betrayed his anger, “that Lord August rode with a companion on that journey?”
,” the man continued, his voice rising only fractionally, but containing a tremble that betrayed his anger, “that Lord August rode with a companion on that journey?”
“Who?” Oliver frowned. This made no sense. Why would Graves bring up the day of his brother’s death in conjunction with Sybilla’s request for Oliver to propose to Joan Barleg? If Sybilla was in truth with August when he died, why would she keep that a secret from him? Unless it wasn’t Sybilla. And Joan had been in Oliver’s bed the morning Argo had brought the news of August’s death. Who else knew Bellemont and its lord well enough to be available to him for a journey to Fallstowe?
Oliver blinked. “Anyone who knew August loved him, would have done all in their power to save him. And my brother wouldn’t journey with a man unknown to him.” Oliver shook his head as if trying to rid himself of a troublesome insect and then looked at the steward. “None of this makes any sense.”
Graves continued to stare at him.
Oliver didn’t know what to do. “I
thought
you were to fetch my brother’s sword. You’ll need the chair.”
thought
you were to fetch my brother’s sword. You’ll need the chair.”
“Are you to stay at Fallstowe, my lord, and assist Madam in her request?” Graves pressed.
“No.” Oliver looked pointedly toward the chair. “I’ll just call for another servant if you continue to refuse me.”
“Care to make a wager, my lord?”
Oliver sighed again, and grasped the bridge of his nose for a moment.
“If I can fetch Lord August’s sword for you without my feet leaving the ground, will you do as Madam has asked?”
Oliver couldn’t help but laugh aloud. “Graves, that wardrobe is almost twice your height!”
Graves only gave a solemn nod of agreement.
Oliver chuckled. This was beyond absurd. “You only get one go at it, old crab. One attempt, and even if you should die, I’ll not remain at Fallstowe for your wake.”
“Is there anything else, my lord?” Graves asked solicitously.
“No, I think that covers everything. Ready, steady, go!” Oliver mocked.
Graves rolled his eyes and then turned to stride in his dignified manner to the front of the wardrobe. The old man opened the doors carefully.
“No standing on the ledge there—remember, feet on the floor!” Oliver stood gingerly from the bed. In moments, he would be forced to call for assistance in retrieving August’s sword, and then he would be away from Fallstowe.
He watched, a frown drawing together slowly between his eyebrows, as Graves reached up into a dark corner of the wardrobe with one hand. The steward gave a sharp pull, and the sound of wood scraping on wood was quickly followed by a heavy bang. Graves then reached up onto the topmost shelf with both hands. When his arms reemerged from the blackness, they held at their ends the sheath and belt of the sword.
Oliver couldn’t help but shout when he exclaimed, “A false ceiling?”
Graves glided to a stop before Oliver and presented the weapon to him with flat palms, as if in a grand ceremony.
Oliver jerked the sword from the old man’s hands just as someone knocked upon the chamber door. “You tricked me,” he growled.
“Shall I see to your visitor, my lord?” The old man bowed and then turned to stride to the door. Oliver did not miss the smug expression tucked into the wrinkles of Graves’s face.
Joan Barleg barely let the old man open the door before she burst into Oliver’s room, her cheeks flushed scarlet, both hands gripping the ends of her long plait draped over one shoulder.
“Oliver, I know you told me not to follow you, but ...” Her words trailed away, and Oliver could not help but note her agitated state. She glanced pointedly at the steward. “That will be all, Graves.”
The old man stared back at her levelly for a long moment, until Joan had the grace to look away, and then Graves turned his keen eyes on Oliver. “Will you be leaving us tonight, Lord Bellecote?” he asked.
Oliver held the old man’s gaze for a long moment, gritting his teeth. “No. I’ve changed my mind, Graves. I think I shall stay on for a bit.”
The old man gave a slight nod and then exited the room easily, as if he had every confidence in the world that Oliver would keep his word. Once the door was shut, Joan began again in earnest.
“I know you told me not to follow you, but I—”
“Joan, shh,” Oliver said, gesturing to her with the sword and looped belt in his left hand. “Give me a moment.” He walked to the window and looked out.
He felt no real obligation to remain at Fallstowe on his word, since that word had been gained through trickery. But many of the things he’d learned since only last night had driven a splinter of doubt into Oliver’s brain. If Sybilla had indeed cared as deeply for August as she claimed—and Oliver knew for a fact that his brother had been in love with the woman—and if Sybilla was dissatisfied with something about August’s death, shouldn’t Oliver be as well?
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