The Bride Wore Scandal. Helen Dickson

to the eye unless it was known to be there. With every nerve in her body vibrating, Christina raised the iron catch and it opened without a sound on its well-oiled hinges. The ancient tunnels, unused for many years, were narrow, dark and dank. They had a tomblike atmosphere and a deathly chill, as if a frigid breath of winter moved like an invisible spirit along the passageways. Having set a flame to the wick of a lantern, she held it high to light her way, the tiny flame dipping and dancing in its glass chamber against the draught that flowed towards her. She drew the shawl up close about her neck as her gaze tried to penetrate the total blackness beyond the meagre glow of the lantern.

      Her nerves were stretched taut as she hurried along the twisting tunnel, stumbling frequently on the uneven ground. She hated being so confined, feeling as if the walls were closing in on her. She was relieved when she saw a vague, dim illumination some distance away and the muffled sound of men’s voices. The chill of a draught invaded her clothing, the airy rush touching her limbs beneath her skirts, but she was scarcely aware of it as the light ahead of her became bigger and brighter.

      Shaking with cold and her own apprehensions, she eventually stepped into the light, then halted, holding her breath. The tunnel opened into a large room with a vaulted ceiling. It was accessed on a low hillside in a thickly wooded area away from the house. It was secluded, the trees providing cover for horses and men. The room was stacked with boxes and chests of every description, full of coins, jewels and household treasures—for Mark did not confine his thievery to robbing vulnerable travellers, and house-breaking was a lucrative occupation.

      He ran an effective intelligence system, and the time spent watching and listening in parlours and wayside inns and employing reliable spies was the best way to acquire information about which travellers to target and which to leave alone. All the spoils were to be taken to London and sold.

      The son of a lawyer, it was Mark who had found out about the tunnels in some old deeds of Oakbridge kept in his father’s office in Reading. Knowing they were the perfect place for him to expand his illegal operation and hide his ill-gotten gains, he had targeted the vulnerable and gullible young owner of Oakbridge, bringing about his downfall and honing in for the kill when he was ruined with an offer he couldn’t refuse.

      Christina focused her eyes on the scene before her, barely conscious of the flickering light of the lanterns or the pervasive chill of the tunnel. The air was thick with the fug of tobacco smoke and the unpleasant stench of unwashed bodies. About a dozen of Mark’s loyal vassals were present, accomplished thieves each and every one. All except the leader were black-clad and each equipped with a brace of pistols. Some were seated on upturned barrels and boxes, while others squatted on the floor, idling the time away with a throw of dice.

      Her sudden appearance surprised them and had them springing to their feet, their hands automatically going to their pistols. Their leader turned and looked directly at her and said with a note of mockery in his harsh, baritone voice, ‘Easy, men. Calm yourselves. ‘Tis Miss Atherton herself come to call. Although as to the reason … I can only surmise it is my own charming self she has come to see.’

      Her look was one of intense dislike, but Mark Bucklow appeared not to notice. There was something about him that physically revolted her. She hated it every time she had to speak to him, to see the lust in his eyes and to hear the lechery in his sneer when he addressed her. As he threw off his cloak and swaggered towards where she stood with her legs trembling, she clamped her jaw, shrinking inside, realising it would gratify him too much if she showed her fear. Better to hold her ground, unpleasant as the next few minutes would be. He seemed to have the power to get right under her skin, and she hated herself for letting him.

      A man who enjoyed the robust, earthy pleasures of life, he liked to cut a dash, did Mark Bucklow, and dressed in outrageously extroverted fashion. Tonight he was flamboyantly dressed in scarlet velvet and gold braid to draw attention to himself, a froth of lace at his throat and wrists. Two pistols were thrust into a gold sash about his thickening waist, and a dagger showed above the deep cuff of his boot. He was tall and stout with long and curling sandy hair. Some would call him quite handsome—not in a gentlemanly way, with fine chiselled features, but with broad, strong cheekbones and a wide mouth. Grinning his wolfish smile, he was the very picture of what her mother had taught her to fear.

      Taking the lantern from her, he set it down, placing his hand on her elbow and drawing her away from the others, who had resumed their seats and once again began to throw the dice.

      ‘I am indeed honoured that the mistress of the house should seek me out, Christina,’ Mark drawled mockingly, ‘and looking as pretty as a picture, too. I’d like to think it was for my benefit.’

      ‘We are entertaining—on your say so for what can be gained from it. It cannot have slipped your mind,’ she uttered with cold sarcasm, her eyes flashing irately.

      Reaching out, he ran one of his heavily jewelled fingers down the curve of her cheek, laughing softly when she cringed and drew back. ‘Ah, you show your claws, Christina,’ he murmured. ‘I like that. You are so adorable when you are angry. But enough of this,’ he said on a sharper note, knowing it would have to be a matter of considerable importance for her to brave the tunnel. ‘The evening is going well, I trust?’

      ‘Yes, perfectly well—only …’

      He cocked a brow, his dark eyes assessing and gleaming sharply. ‘What? Do I detect a problem? Is something amiss, Christina?’

      ‘William sent me to tell you—to warn you—that we have an unexpected and uninvited guest by the name of Lord Rockley. He has been appointed by the Lord Lieutenant to investigate the increase in robberies in the area.’

      Mark stared. For a practised scoundrel who was never at a loss for a quip, he suddenly found himself with nothing to say. He kept his face expressionless through sheer strength of will-power. He didn’t need to hear anything about Rockley. Mark had heard of him, though he’d never seen him in the flesh. Rockley was a powerful, ruthless man, whose exploits were talked about throughout Europe. Mark did not fear him—indeed, Mark feared no man—but he was fully aware of Rockley’s strength. To take on such an assignment, Rockley had set himself against him as his full-blown enemy. Undaunted, Mark was ready for the challenge. He would crush Rockley as easily as he would an insect.

      Mark shrugged unconcernedly. ‘The infamous Lord Rockley. What do I care? He isn’t the first to come after us, and he won’t be the last. If he interferes in what I do, he’ll find himself food for carrion before the dawn. He will be dealt the same treatment as any man who tries to get the better of me—friend or foe.’

      ‘Even those who work for you?’

      ‘Especially those who work for me and attempt to double-cross me or shirk a hold-up—as I’ve made clear to your brother. Their weakness would render them an encumbrance—an encumbrance to be rid of.’ He sneered as his eyes did a sweep of the men sitting around. ‘You know the expression, I am sure—there is no honour among thieves. It must also apply to thief-catchers.’

      With a complete contempt for authority, and pouring scorn on the law and its representatives, Mark wouldn’t be unduly worried by the appearance of this particular thief-catcher, but after meeting Lord Rockley, Christina thought that perhaps in this instance he should be.

      ‘Now that I have delivered my message, I must go back. How is Toby, by the way? I hope he was returned to you and is recovering from the injuries incurred yesterday.’

      Mark nodded towards a corner where the little dog was sleeping soundly on a heap of sacking. ‘Toby’s like me. It will take more than a bramble bush to defeat him.’

      ‘Yes—I’m sure,’ Christina remarked tartly. ‘I must go. Soon the guests will be coming in from the firework display and I must be there to receive them.’

      ‘What? You will leave me so soon?’

      ‘Yes, I must.’

      He growled in exasperation. ‘Such cruelty, Christina, when all I want is to take care of you. Of all the women in the world that I could have, doesn’t it mean anything to you that you’re the one I want?’