The entry was empty, but somewhere deeper inside the castle—the hall, he thought—Padraig heard shouts, a single scream.
He slipped through the door and ran at a crouch toward the sounds of commotion. He flattened himself against the stones as the hall doors came into sight, closing before his eyes. In the next moment the sound of the heavy beam being slid into place sealed the fate of those within the hall. Padraig approached carefully, peering through the crack while holding his breath. Lucan, Hargrave, and Lady Caris—but where was Iris?
Padraig turned away from the door and ran back through the entry toward the right-hand corridor, leading deeper into the castle. As he passed beneath the portraits towering over his head, he had the eerie sensation that Euphemia Hargrave was watching his every move.
* * * *
Lucan sat at the lord’s table, his throbbing foot propped on the tufted stool Lord Hargrave had so courteously provided. Although in truth he wished to be anywhere but in Darlyrede’s hall, Hargrave had so pressed Lucan to attend, and the man seemed in such a pleasant humor and behaved so accommodatingly—the seat at the lord’s table, the servants to wait upon his every wish—Lucan knew that something potentially calamitous was stirring.
A handful of the more cautious noble guests had departed Darlyrede posthaste at the news of Lord Paget’s death, and yet far more of the attendees had remained, their thirst for gossip proving stronger than any fear for their safety. Lucan sat at Hargrave’s right, and he noted crossly that Iris was nowhere to be seen. And while he hoped that she was with Padraig, somehow convincing him of their sincerity, it was more likely that Lady Caris had made more demands than usual upon his sister’s time and sympathy, while Padraig had simply deigned it unnecessary to attend the feast.
Padraig was angry. And hurt. And Lucan understood that he bore responsibility for those injuries.
Lord Hargrave, however, appeared as though there was nothing at all wrong in the world. In fact Lucan couldn’t remember a time in which the man had appeared more contented, and with each passing moment, each smile, each shout of laughter, Lucan’s unease increased.
Father Kettering entered the hall then, and cast a pointed, questioning look toward his injured foot.
All right?
Lucan nodded. He was well enough, he supposed, for having been shot clean through his boot and then exposing himself as a would-have-been traitor to Thomas Annesley.
Where have you gone to now, Thomas? Lucan thought crossly to himself.
But then Vaughn Hargrave stood, clearing his throat genially and looking about the hall with a broad, sparkling smile.
“Good evening,” he said crisply. “Let us first have the blessing.” He nodded toward Father Kettering, who obliged with an unusually brief but seemingly heartfelt prayer. After Kettering’s final “amen,” Hargrave picked up his chalice.
“And now, let us remember our friend, Lord Adolphus Paget, who lost his life in a senseless act of cowardice and treachery. I vow that I will do everything in my power to rid our lands of this pestilence once and for all, and avenge the death of so great and honorable a man.”
Lucan had to steel his face against a reactive expression. Everyone gathered knew Adolphus Paget to be a greedy, boot-licking lecher.
Hargrave raised his chalice. “To Lord Paget.”
Lucan lifted his cup along with the others as the hall answered the toast, but he only pretended at drinking and set the wine back on the table untouched, the memory of the bastard who’d shot him still clear in his mind.
His riches are made from the sale of slaves ...
“And now,” Hargrave continued, “let us proceed with happier news. I am pleased to announce that the man who had come to Darlyrede House to challenge my right to it has departed without reservation.”
A collective gasp raced through the hall, and Lucan turned his head quickly to look up at the man standing at the side of his chair.
“Yes, I was quite surprised too,” Hargrave conceded. “But after some thought it only made sense; Padraig Boyd was perhaps the source of much treachery within the hold these past months, and it is my thought that—even if the Scotsman wasn’t directly involved, of which I am not entirely convinced—the death of Lord Paget at least pricked at his conscience. He knew he would be held accountable before the king, and far from being granted our beloved Darlyrede, Padraig Boyd would have wound up losing his life for the crimes he’d orchestrated and the accusations he’d prepared against me. And so”—here Hargrave gave a slight shrug and gestured with his chalice.
“It was the wisest thing for him to do, really. And although he has put his signature to a document releasing all claims to his supposed father’s title, I think it likely that he will be pursued by the Crown’s soldiers in his flight, as he’s absconded from Darlyrede with a pair of servants. Whether the women went willingly or nay, I cannot say at this point.”
Lucan felt a cold chill creep along his spine at these words, and he was once again very aware of Iris’s absence from the hall.
Hargrave turned to Lucan then, his face bright with optimism. “I am certain it shall be none other than Sir Lucan who pursues him, as Boyd has left with the Scottish maid Searrach and our own Beryl.” Hargrave paused with a concerned frown on his face. “You know, I’m sure, how treasured the girl was to Lady Hargrave. She’s simply inconsolable, aren’t you, my dear?”
Caris Hargrave stared unresponsively over the heads of the guests.
Vaughn Hargrave continued as if nothing at all were amiss. “But if anyone can track him down, I’m quite certain it shall be one of Northumberland’s own.”
Hargrave’s smile never wavered as he regarded Lucan
