Chapter Seventeen

Albion Abbey started as a refuge for a group of Franciscan monks who had invaded England with the gospel and a vow of poverty in the thirteenth century. Known as the Greyfriars, they had settled in London and then quickly spread out into the countryside. In keeping with the Order’s commitment to austerity, the abbey had been designed simply, a square around a central cloister with the little jewel of a Gothic chapel in the middle of its northern arm.

When Lord Albemarle had acquired the abbey, he had removed all suggestion of poverty. The cells which had served as guest rooms were decorated with rich fabrics and elegant furnishings, with no expense spared to make them into oases of comfort for his lordship’s guests.

However, Pierce could not get comfortable in his.

His problem was not one that would be solved by a thick feather tick. His difficulty was caused by architecture.

His room was too far from where he needed to be.

All the men’s guest rooms were on the west side of the structure, while the ladies were housed on the eastern arm. They were separated by the large formal dining room and opulent parlors on the south and the imposing chapel on the north. Pierce knotted his banyan at his waist, decided to abandon the interior of the abbey, and slipped into the cloister so he could move along the covered porticos that ringed the open-to-the-sky courtyard in the center of the square structure.

His Grace and Lord Albemarle were still sipping sherry in one of the lighted rooms to the south, so Pierce opted for a northerly route, past the nail-studded door of the chapel. When he reached the door that should have let him enter the women’s section of the abbey, he found it locked.

He was philosophical about the setback. Whether he entered by the door that led to the corridor outside the women’s cells or by a window that opened to the courtyard, the lady would have to admit him in any case.

He wished it was Honora’s room he sought. He ached to hold her. Ached to love her so well, she wouldn’t keep saying no to his proposal. But if he couldn’t prove his worth to her outside of her bed, he doubted he’d win a permanent place in it.

So he was looking for Meg Anthony.

Pierce lowered his shield and let the minds in the abbey flood into his. In the distant kitchen, the cook and the scullery maid were at odds with each other. Their argument about who let the white soup burn was over, but their thoughts were still hot enough to singe off each other’s eyebrows. In the opulent parlor, His Grace was weighing Lord Albemarle’s proposals and finding them a witch’s brew of benefit to others and self-serving schemes. He could hear nothing of Lady Easton and surmised that she must be asleep.

From Nora, he felt barely contained frustration.

He tried to push her thoughts away. She wouldn’t want him listening to them in any case, and if he sensed she needed him it would be that much harder not to go straight to her. Besides, she seemed to be at a greater distance from him than he expected.

Meg Anthony’s mind was much nearer. Just on the other side of the nearest window, in fact. And she was desperately worried.

He rapped on the pane softly. When she came to peer out, he stepped into the light of her candle. Meg quickly set it down and opened the sash.

“Lord Westfall, what are you doing here?”

“Coming to see you, Miss Anthony. With your permission, of course.”

Her gaze darted down the long row of windows that opened onto the cloister. “If I let you into my chamber, Lady Easton will have my head.”

“Whether or not you admit me, most likely the outcome will be the same. I’m told even the appearance of impropriety is as injurious as actual—”

“Oh, for pity’s sake, come in,” Meg whispered furiously as she motioned for him to enter. “If I’m going to get into trouble in any case, I may as well deserve it.”

He climbed through the low window and thanked her as she closed it and drew the damask drapes behind him.

“Now what do you want?” she demanded, arms crossed over her chest.

“First, I’m most grateful to you for finding the child today. It took courage to go against the duke’s orders.”

She waved away his thanks. “I’d do it again in a heartbeat.” Then an impish smile turned her plain face almost pretty, and she indicated he should sit in one of the two frilly Sheridan chairs. “Besides, what the duke don’t know won’t hurt me.”

“But you’re worried about something that will,” Pierce said as he took the seat she offered after she settled into the other one. “Perhaps someone, to be more precise.”

She cast a slant-eyed gaze at him. “Have you been invading my mind?”

“Only long enough to locate you. However, I couldn’t help but sense your dismay. How may I be of help?”

“I don’t know that you can. You see, I saw someone today from my past and I didn’t relish the sight. It was the uncle and cousin I ran away from.”

Pierce narrowly resisted smacking his forehead. In the panic of trying to find Emilia, he’d forgotten to tell Meg about the conversation he’d overheard by the Punchinello show. “Did you tell His Grace?”

“No. I’m hoping Uncle Rowney didn’t see me. Or if he did, that he didn’t recognize me.”

“I’m sorry to say that he must have,” Pierce said. “I overheard the puppeteers discussing you. They not only knew you, they marked the fact that you were in Lady Easton’s company.”

“Then they’ll be able to find me without much trouble.”

“Even so, you are safer than houses in His Grace’s care.”

“That’s true. How did Uncle Rowney and Oswald ever recognize me?” She glanced toward the long mirror over her vanity. “Honestly, sometimes, I don’t know myself in the fancy things His Grace expects me to wear.”

“The gown you wore today was very becoming,” he said, because he’d been told that women liked to hear that sort of thing. He was rewarded with another of Meg Anthony’s rare smiles.

“You didn’t risk my reputation to come tell me that,” she said. “I know you fancy Lady Nora.”

“How do you know that?”

“I may not be able to hear your thoughts, but I have eyes. And yours never leave her if she’s anywhere near. Now, why are you here, your lordship?”

Now that they came to it, he hesitated. Meg took a horrible risk each time she exercised her gift. It seemed the height of selfishness for him to ask it of her—especially since not much time had elapsed since the last time he needed her help.

“I need you to Find something for me,” he admitted.

To his relief, Meg didn’t seem distressed. If anything, excitement prickled from her. He’d heard some folk enjoyed dancing close to the edge of a precipice. Miss Anthony must be one of those who needed the spice of danger to feel truly alive.

“Is it something for the Order of the M.U.S.E.?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Does the duke know you’re asking me to Find it?”

“No.”

“That’s a bit of stickiness then. I feel as if I dodged a bullet this afternoon with His Grace. Even though it was to find a lost child, I fear what he’d say if he knew I’d disobeyed him,” she said. “Do you think he’d agree to me doing a search for you if we lay the matter before him?”

“No. He values you too much to risk you.”

She shot him a wry grin. “And you don’t.”

“That’s not true. I think very highly of you. I wouldn’t ask this of you if I could find the information any other way.” Then he explained what he sought and where she was likely to find it. After she pinpointed its location, the rest would be up to him. If he told His Grace his plans, the duke wouldn’t approve them either. It was a risk only Pierce could take.

And he was determined to take it.

…

Meg Anthony had learned something about using her gift when she searched for Emilia that afternoon, she told Pierce. Instead of sitting apart from others while she slipped into her trance, having him hold her helped anchor her soul more firmly to her house of flesh.

“It seemed to strengthen the spiritual tether I use to find my way home and made it easier than usual for me to zip back to my body,” she explained. “His Grace should be pleased about that.”

Still, because the item Pierce asked her to locate was at a greater distance than the lost girl had been, he wasn’t comforted by her assurance, at first.

“You don’t understand,” she explained. “Distance is not something that matters so much once I’m flying free. Everything happens quick as a thought in the realm of pure spirit. That’s how I can cover so much ground. And it may seem as if I’m gone for a long time to you, but to me, it’s like a blink.”

“Therein lies your danger. You can’t sense how your spirit’s absence is affecting your body. I wish there were a way I could warn you when you’ve been gone too long.

“I don’t know how you could,” she said. “But let’s not fret about it now. The sooner I go, the sooner I’ll be back with your answers.”

Pierce held his breath as she slumped in his arms, cursing himself for asking this of her. The place he’d asked her to search was so big, with so many nooks and crannies and hidey-holes. How would she ever find it quickly enough to stay safe?

He let the air escape from his lungs slowly. Still, she didn’t return. He fought against the urge to inhale.

Come back, Meg.

He imagined himself in the water chair again, trying not to breathe lest his lungs fill with liquid. Panic crept along his spine on little spidery legs.

If anything happened to Miss Anthony, the duke would never forgive him. He’d never forgive himself.

Then, just as despair threatened to swamp him, she jerked to full awareness. Meg stared at him wide-eyed for about the space of ten heartbeats. Then her little face crumpled, and she wept uncontrollably for a good five minutes.

“I’m so sorry, your lordship. I had no idea.” She blew her nose like a trumpet into a neatly embroidered handkerchief and swiped her eyes on the sleeve of her wrapper. “That place you had me search, it was… Well, I always figured there was a Hell. I just didn’t think it was here on earth.”

Pierce nodded grimly. He should have warned her, but she wouldn’t have believed the horrors she’d encounter if she hadn’t seen them for herself. “Did you find it?”

To his great relief, she nodded and launched into a detailed description of where the item was. He’d be able to retrieve it, if the rest of his plan bore fruit. He thanked her and headed for the window.

“Are you thinking about going in there to get it?” she asked as he climbed out.

He nodded. “More than thinking. I plan to do it. Don’t tell His Grace.”

“I must.” She grasped his forearm to stop him.

“Then I shall be forced to tell him that you ignored his explicit orders not to use your gift, not once, but twice.”

Meg glared at him. “You wouldn’t.”

“Don’t try me, Miss Anthony. I never learned to bluff.”

“Then I’m sorry I helped you, Westfall.”

As the window banged down behind him, he was a little sorry, too. Not only had he angered one of the few people he might consider a friend, now he was honor-bound to act on the knowledge she’d given him.

He walked slowly around the perimeter of the cloister toward his chamber. The moon had risen, painting the statue of St. Francis in the center of the open space in shades of gray. He wandered out to study the art, wondering at the placid, sightless eyes of the saint staring unconcernedly into the distance. Was the real Francis’s soul truly that peaceful?

Saints weren’t supposed to love their lives so much they were afraid to hazard them. Pierce was no saint, though he wasn’t afraid to die. But in this case, more than his life would be at risk.

He feared for his mind.