Consciousness returned slowly, his head pounding as it had after a night at White's when he had been in London. There was no light, and he was clearly not in his own bed; the horse blanket he was laying on was clear evidence of that. At first, his mind could not remember anything more than slipping out of the bed next to Angie this morning, being cautious not to wake her. He had broken his fast with some toast and eggs, and then headed to his estate to ensure that the workmen had completed the last details he had requested to surprise Angie.
The rest of the morning rushed back into his mind with a speed that made him gasp. He had entered the estate house and inspected it quickly, praising the staff for their attention to detail. He had just finished telling them of what he wished prepared for the first dinner he and Angie would share as husband and wife in their new home together when a firm knock sounded at the front door.
Since he was on his way back to Angie, Derrick had answered the door himself, and he was met by the sight of two men whom he had never seen before.
"Excuse me, sir" said the shorter of the men. "Would you be the future Duke of Chesterton?" His dark eyes, a little too small for his round scruffy face, darted about, reminding Derrick of a stallion about to nip the hand nearest its face.
When he answered in the affirmative, the men demanded he accompany them to see their mistress, but they refused to reveal her name or the nature of her business with him. Their lack of details tickled his sense of caution, and he declined their request, citing the need to return to his wife. At this, the men exchanged a wordless glance and leapt upon him, each grabbing one of his arms and pulling him toward a waiting enclosed coach. He pulled back against them, succeeding at kicking the feet out from under one, before the other man strategically swung him into the frame of the door, rendering him stunned and unable to resist the men when they dragged him into the coach with them and immediately started away.
By the time he was in full control of his senses and body, he had been bound tightly hand and foot and left to lie on the floor of the coach, far from the windows, no doubt to keep him from trying to attract attention. He expected that they would go only a little while before reaching a destination, but the coach continued on without break or pause for long enough that he succumbed to his aching head and slept.
He awoke abruptly when the coach stopped, the lack of light through the window screens telling him that they had traveled a long distance. He presumed that they would be exiting the coach, but his two captors did not move toward the door. Within a few minutes, the vehicle jerked into motion again, and he fought the urge to close his eyes again, wanting to be ready to fight when they tried to remove him from the coach.
He did not even know when the coach stopped the next time, for after only a little while, one of his captors stirred on his seat and a terrible pain erupted at the back of Derrick's skull, and his mind went dark.
He awoke slowly, his head throbbing and his body quivering uncontrollably from cold. He was in the dark, but he knew it was no longer a coach that held him; the surface on which he lay was blessedly still. The smell of musty wood filtered into his nose, along with an earthy scent that told him that he was lying on a dirt floor. He must be in a cellar; no other place could be so dark and so cold in late spring.
He lay quietly for a few minutes and was relieved that the pounding of his head seemed to ease with time; perhaps he was not badly damaged. But he could not rest for long. He was determined to better his situation as quickly as possible, starting with testing the strength of the ropes that bound his wrists and ankles.
It took him moments to determine that his feet had been bound only loosely, but there was very little give in the loops about his wrists. With some fancy footwork, he freed his legs and rose carefully to his feet, grateful that in the darkness no one would be able to witness the awkward way he was forced to gain his feet without the full use of his hands.
The darkness in this place was so thick, he was not sure that he was not blindfolded until he raised his bound hands to touch his face. He winced when his fingers found not a blindfold, but a crusty tacky substance on his right temple. He wondered how long he had been insensible; with a head wound like that, it could have been hours, or it could have been days.
Days. His heart sank at the thought. What a state Angie must be in! He had clearly missed their moving day. Would she have still moved into his manor without his presence, or would she have waited? She must be so worried right now. His rage consumed him for a moment as he contemplated the effects of such stress on her delicate health. Whoever did this to him would have to face consequences for that, as well; he would see to it.
If he ever managed to get out of this place. He began to shuffle slowly forward, using his feet to feel for irregularities in the floor as he searched for walls, a door, perhaps something to use to cut the ropes on his wrists. Even in his caution, he tripped over something on the floor and nearly tumbled onto his already damaged skull, only righting himself at the last instant. It was low to the ground, and his hands told him it was a small box. He found the edge of what might be the lid of the thing and squatted down to better open it.
Once lifted, his questing fingers investigated the now open container with caution. Without his vision, he had no idea what might lay within. If he was indeed in a cellar, there could be any sort of goods stored here, including broken things waiting to be reused or repaired, and he had no desire to add another wound to those on his head and the sore places on his torso from the ride on the coach floor.
He was surprised to feel a bag made of soft cloth, only a little smaller than the space inside the box. He found the string binding it closed and easily untangled it. He spread the opening wide and again blindly explored with his hands. He noticed that they were beginning to feel thick and difficult to move, and they were not as sensitive to what they felt. He needed to hurry and find something to cut their too-tight bonds, soon, or there might be permanent damage.
But first the box. He felt a number of small items in the bag, including a small book and a folded piece of paper. There was a candle and what might have been pieces of flint, but those were useless to him with his hands bound together and losing their nerves. He jerked back from his search when he pricked a finger on something sharp, but thrust his hand back to the same spot, relieved when he located the handle of what must be a small dagger.
It was a simple bit of work to wedge the blade between his knees and hook it in the loops of rope by his hands, but the time to cut through the strands seemed to be an eternity. At last, the ropes loosened and he shook them loose, unable to suppress a gasp of pain as blood flow and sensation roared back into his digits.
He could not waste time focusing on the pain, however. He needed to get home to his wife, to their plans, to their future. And he could not do that until he got out of this dark hole.
It took but a moment for him to relocate the candle and flint pieces. He again used his knees to assist him in a task, for there was no candlestick in the bag or in the box. Within seconds, he had lit the candle and placed it on a flat part of the floor beside him. He was grateful that the candle was not a thin taper but a heavy thick thing designed to burn long into the night; anything less, and he would quickly have burned his hand with hot wax.
With the candle settled on the floor, he took a moment to assess his surroundings. He had been correct about his general location; the low roof, assorted crates, several barrels, and some hanging vegetable braids confirmed he was in a cellar of a large house, perhaps even a manor like his own. He was far from the only door he could see, and even from this distance in the dark, he could tell that there would be no opening it from this side. There was no handhold, no window; it was a giant slab of wood, cut to fit the opening in the wall, and likely too thick to break through easily, even with an ax. His shoulders slumped a little as he turned his attention back to the bag and box.
In the flickering of the candlelight, he recognized the box, and he felt a chill that had nothing to do with the air temperature. The box had been a gift from a friend a few years ago. At the time, it had been full of imported cigars, which Derrick had never cared for. He had given the cigars to his father and kept the box, its delicate engravings and miniature scrollwork a fascination to him. The box had gone missing over a year ago, and at the time, he had questioned all of his staff carefully. The box and the culprit had never been found, and Derrick had assumed that he would never see it again.
And yet, here it was. Could he have made an enemy, someone who had waited so long to reveal themselves? He racked his brain, but could not come up with the name of anyone who may have held so strong a grudge.
Foreboding tickled the edges of his thoughts as he set about sorting the items in the box. Besides the candle and flints and the dagger, which was nothing out of the ordinary, there was the folded paper and book, and a locket on a chain, and a small ring that looked to be made of woven grass, so old and dry that it may have broken to dust if he looked at it too hard.
A glance in the locket revealed two empty spaces for pictures, nothing to help him. A quick flip of the pages of the small book showed it to be a diary or journal, but a quick skim of the contents of a few pages told him nothing about the author, other than that their handwriting was atrocious, mostly indecipherable in the dim light. The dates seemed to jump days and even weeks at a time, and the last entry was just before the box had gone missing. He noticed a word that looked like it could be his name on many pages, but he could not make out even enough words on either side to tell what was written about him. He stopped when his eyes began to burn, and the throbbing in his head increased to a marching beat, his dread and confusion warring for control of his emotions.
He closed his eyes, forcing them to close over his gritty eyes, trying to clear his vision and ease his pounding head. He had yet to open the folded sheet of paper, and he hoped it might contain the key to the odd assortment of objects before him. He fervently wished that the handwriting on the single page would be more legible than the diary, or he would be not better off for the effort of opening it. He opened his eyes and blinked several times, then turned his attention to the paper.