Chapter 4 - The Viper at the Gate
The heavy iron knocker struck the oak doors of Mardell Manor three more times, the sharp metallic booms echoing through the vast, quiet house like cannon fire.
In the study, Lavvenia’s hand flew to her throat. "Who could that be at this hour?"
Magnus’s eyes narrowed into dark slits of ice. "Someone who believes she owns this house."
He stepped around his vast desk, his tall frame imposing in the candlelight. He looked down at Lavvenia, noting the sudden, instinctual panic in her posture. She did not know who was at the door, but three weeks of being hunted, insulted, and cast out had left her jumpy as a frightened bird.
"Go upstairs to your children, Mrs. Ashby," Magnus commanded in a low, firm voice. "Do not come down until I send for you. Keep the bedroom doors closed."
Lavvenia didn't argue. She curtsied quickly and slipped out of the study, her soft slippers making no sound as she hurried up the grand marble staircase into the darkness of the second floor.
Magnus smoothed his dark velvet coat, adjusted his cuffs, and walked out into the entry hall just as Mrs. Gable opened the massive front door.
A freezing blast of wind swept into the foyer, bringing with it two women wrapped in expensive mink furs, accompanied by a shivering liveried footman carrying a lantern.
"Good heavens, Mrs. Gable, move aside!" a sharp, aristocratic voice barked from beneath a heavy silk hood. "We were nearly turned over in the drift near the stone bridge! My horses are half-frozen!"
Lady Augusta Vance stepped into the hall, throwing back her hood to reveal a sharp, narrow face with pale blue eyes and high, tight cheekbones. She was fifty-five, terrifyingly wealthy, and possessed a tongue that could slice a man to ribbons. Behind her stepped her twenty-two-year-old daughter, Julianna—a pretty, pale girl with bored, heavy-lidded eyes who looked as though she would rather be anywhere else in the Kingdom.
"Lady Augusta," Magnus said, stepping out of the shadows with a cold, unsmiling face. "What an unexpected... surprise."
Lady Augusta instantly transformed, her sharp sneer morphing into a wide, practiced smile of dramatic concern.
"Oh, Magnus, my dear boy!" she gushed, stepping forward and reaching out her gloved hands toward him. "Thank God you are alive! When the storm hit, I told Julianna, 'We must check on the Duke!' We were returning from the Bishop’s dinner in Ripon when our coachman lost the road. I knew your gates were nearby. I said to myself, 'Magnus is so lonely, so isolated in this grand house. We must offer him our company!'"
Julianna suppressed a soft sigh, standing near the door while the footman stamped the snow from his boots.
Magnus did not take Lady Augusta’s hands. He stood rigid as stone, his hands clasped behind his back. "You risked your life and your daughter's safety in a blizzard simply to check on me, Lady Augusta? I am touched. But as you can see, I am quite well."
Lady Augusta’s pale eyes darted around the dark hall, taking in the single lantern, the dust covers on the nearby furniture, and the subtle, lingering scent of hot mutton broth in the air. Her sharp gaze narrowed instantly.
"Mrs. Gable," Lady Augusta said smoothly, her eyes scanning the grand staircase. "Are you burning wood in the east wing? I saw smoke rising from those chimneys as our carriage pulled up."
Mrs. Gable stiffened, her hands clutching her apron. "I... well, Your Ladyship—"
"I have taken in a family seeking shelter from the storm," Magnus interrupted smoothly, his voice flat and dangerous. "A traveler and her children."
Lady Augusta’s dark eyebrows shot up toward her powdered wig. "A traveler? Here? Magnus, you haven't opened this house to strangers in four years! What sort of travelers?"
"Exhausted ones," Magnus replied coldly. "Now, as the hour is past midnight, I shall have the groundskeeper lead your carriage to the stables. Mrs. Gable will prepare the blue parlor for you and Julianna. You may rest until morning, when the roads are cleared."
Lady Augusta’s smile tightened into something razor-sharp. "A traveler and her children... how strangely charitable of you, Magnus. You were always so soft-hearted before... before poor Elena passed."
The mention of his late wife’s name hung in the cold air like a strike from a whip. Mrs. Gable gasped softly, but Magnus’s face remained an unreadable mask of granite.
"The blue parlor is ready, Your Ladyship," Mrs. Gable interjected quickly, sensing the dangerous rise in her master's temper. "This way, if you please."
Lady Augusta lingered for a moment, her pale eyes fixed on Magnus’s face, searching for any sign of weakness. "We shall talk at breakfast, Magnus. Julianna and I have so much to tell you about the London season. It is high time you rejoined society. A man cannot live like a hermit forever."
"Goodnight, Lady Augusta," Magnus said, turning his back on her without another word and walking back toward his study.
Lady Augusta watched him go, her teeth gritting tightly together. She turned to her daughter and whispered in a fierce, furious tone, "He is keeping something from us, Julianna. I can smell it. A traveler in the east wing? He hasn't allowed a soul near those rooms since Elena died."
"Mother, please," Julianna murmured, exhausted. "Can we not just sleep? I am freezing."
"Be quiet, girl!" Augusta snapped under her breath. "If Magnus is harboring someone, I intend to find out who she is before the sun rises. The Duke of Mardell belongs to our family, and I will not have some nameless peasant wandering through these halls."
Upstairs, on the dark landing of the second floor, Lavvenia stood in the shadows, her hand pressed against little Henry’s mouth to keep him from coughing.
She had heard every single word spoken in the hall below.
She had recognized the voice the instant Lady Augusta had thrown back her hood.
It was the voice of the woman who had stood beside the magistrate three weeks ago, watching with cold delight as Lavvenia’s furniture was dragged into the mud. Lady Augusta Vance was Major Sir Arthur Vance’s aunt—the matriarch of the family that had built its fortune on the destruction of John Ashby’s name.
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Lavvenia leaned against the cold wood of the banister, her heart hammering wildly against her ribs.
The sanctuary she had just been offered had suddenly become the most dangerous place in England.
