Page 54 of Dare it all for Love

It had been close this time. In fact, it sounded as if it had come from the room next door to Henry’s, the one that had once belonged to his mother, and would one day belong to Florence. Not that he had any intention of allowing her to sleep there alone. Henry moved to the connecting door, listening for any sound of movement. He doubted the servants would have heard the crash, as their rooms were far from the master suites. There was no audible sound of a presence in the next room, and yet Henry’s instincts prickled.

The fireplace poker was the best weapon he could lay hands on at short notice, but it would do. He reached for the door handle and eased it open a crack, listening. Still nothing. Henry waited, wondering what to do. He was bloody well not going to start believing in ghosts, but there was a menacing presence in the room, he’d swear it. The darkness seemed absolute, the light from his own room barely penetrating. His housekeeper kept the curtains drawn to protect the expensive carpets and bed hangings from the sun, and so no trace of moonlight outlined the shapes within. The looming canopy of the bed was there, but little else was discernible.

Henry stepped into the room, and pain exploded in his head as something stuck him hard. He went down, clutching at his head as someone kicked him in the stomach, winding him. The dim light from his room did not help illuminate the scene much, but it was just enough to glint off the edge of a knife blade.

It had been a while since he’d had to fight for his life, but Henry had survived a reckless few years when he’d first left England, not caring much what happened to him, and living dangerously. He’d learned a thing or two, once he’d realised he didn’t actually want to die.

Though his head was exploding with pain, he rolled sideways and kicked out, striking at whoever had clobbered him before the knife struck. There was a grunt of pain, and he barely avoided another kick by shuffling back out of the way. In the dark he scrabbled on the ground for the poker he had dropped, and curled his fingers gratefully around the cold iron. He swung it, with more force than accuracy, but he hit something. There was a curse and the clatter of metal falling to the wooden floor. There was the muffled noise of someone searching the floor, then footsteps. Using the wall at his back, Henry pushed himself upright, fighting nausea as his head spun and his stomach roiled. A cool breeze washed over him and a strange musty smell, and then… nothing. No sound. No movement. Whoever it was had vanished.

There was the sound of feet again, but from the opposite direction—someone moving fast—and a light appeared in the doorway off the corridor.

“Sir?” came the familiar voice of one of his footmen. “Is everything well, sir? We heard—”

But Henry did not discover what it was they’d heard, as the darkness swallowed him up and he passed out.

18th August 1839, Holbrook House, Sussex.

“Henry!” Harriet exclaimed, on seeing him the next morning. “What on earth happened to you?”

Henry winced at his sister’s shrill demand as the sound ricocheted through his head, scraping against the tender flesh like claws upon a wound.

“Attacked,” he said succinctly. “Last night. Intruder. Must see Florence. Now.”

Harriet stared at him for a long moment but thank God she was not one for hysterics or scenes.

“Come and sit down before you fall down. Temple, have someone ask Miss Knight to come to us as quickly as she is able,” she instructed the butler calmly as she guided Henry through to the yellow parlour, which seemed far too sunny for his beleaguered senses.

Henry sat, trying to ignore the sickening thudding of his head. The doctor who had attended him had told him in no uncertain terms that he had a concussion, and he would not be responsible for the consequences if Henry did not do as he was told. Of course, the old quack had wanted to bleed him, too, an idea which Henry had rejected. He felt sore enough without someone cutting him up. Naturally, the doctor had washed his hands of him, which suited Henry fine.

“Good Lord, Henry, you’ve a lump on the back of your head as big as my fist,” his sister exclaimed, on coming to examine him.

“Please, keep your voice down,” he said through gritted teeth.

“What happened?” Harriet said, lowering her voice, though not enough in Henry’s opinion.

“Someone in the room next to mine. No idea how they got in, or how they left. They just bloody vanished. The staff are all leaving in droves, they think it’s a ghost of all things.”

“How on earth did a ghost strike you hard enough to leave a lump like that?” Harriet demanded in disgust.

“Tell them that,” Henry grumbled, having tried and failed to do so himself. Everyone was too terrified to spend another night in the house, and they’d begun looking at him like it was his fault.

“Tell me what happened when you were attacked,” Harriet said, watching him with an expression that was full of concern. As clinical and precise as Harry could sometimes be, she was very caring.

“Get Florence first,” he instructed. He was damned if he’d explain himself more than once and Florence would certainly want an explanation too.

Harriet sighed but must have recognised the stubborn note to his voice. She ought to; she sounded exactly the same when she’d made her mind up. It was a family trait.

They waited until Temple reappeared. “My lady, it appears Miss Knight has left the house. On enquiring about the staff, it appears she was seen a couple of hours ago, walking towards the village.”

“A couple of hours ago? But it was only half-past six,” Harriet said in astonishment. “Was she alone?”

Temple nodded. “Apparently so, my lady.”

Something tense and agitated stirred in Henry’s gut. “Where was she going? Does anyone know? I must go after her.”

“I will ask the staff at once, sir.”

“And Miss Weston,” Henry added, pushing to his feet.