A Noble Groom (Michigan Brides #2)(7)

Carl had been mortified to think his laboratory supplies had killed a man and almost murdered an innocent child. In fact, he became sick to his stomach every time he thought about it.

But he hadn’t expected everyone to turn on him, to think him capable of the horrible deed, even if the evidence pointed directly at him.

How could anyone believe him guilty of such a heinous crime? What reason did he have to murder the duke or his son? He was a wealthy nobleman, not one of those whining, malcontent peasant rebels.

With a groan Carl slid off the bench and got on his knees. He bowed his head and folded his hands. “Pater noster, qui es in caelis . . .”

Should he try something besides the Lord’s Prayer? Maybe something in his native German language instead of Latin?

Would anything really help?

The words of the prayer died on his lips.



It was January first, anno Domini 1881, the year he would turn thirty-one.

But he would not live to see the light of that future day, nor any other.

He might as well stop praying for deliverance and accept the fate that had been handed to him—whether he deserved it or not.

Today, he would finally meet his Lord and Maker. He would stand before the throne of the Almighty.

Part of him trembled with anticipation. But the other part rebelled against the idea of having to leave his life on earth so early, and in such a gruesome fashion.

“Lord, couldn’t you have put me out of my misery sooner?” The echo of his voice sounded weary, as weary as every nerve in his body. “Maybe you could have had one of the rebels bomb me instead of the duke?”

The Lord only knew how many of the miners hated his father as much as they hated the duke. As owner of most of the surrounding coalfields and several large iron and steel plants, his father’s industry had brought him great wealth and prestige.

But with the growth had come all the problems inherent to the working class. The miners were never satisfied no matter what concessions were made. They always wanted more, and of late had become more obstinate in their demands.

Carl was sure a band of rebels was behind the bombing. Recently they’d been grumbling about the duke’s new villa overlooking Lake Baldeney, that it was too extravagant, that the duke should use his money to improve living conditions among his workers.

Of course, Carl hadn’t agreed with the rebels and wanted to tell them to stop all of their complaining. But he’d kept out of their problems as he usually did. They’d never been his concern.

Until now . . .



Now, he couldn’t prove them guilty, especially since the evidence had pointed squarely at him. Not even his friends nor his family had believed him or stood beside him.

In a few hours everyone would join together in the parish church to celebrate The Feast of the Circumcision of Our Lord. Then afterward they would gather inside the old walls of the castle to watch him die—their entertainment for the New Year’s Day.

He rubbed his stiff fingers together and blew into them for warmth.

A creak at the entrance of the dungeon pricked the back of his neck and raised the hairs there. He sat up and peered down the passageway.

They weren’t coming for him yet, were they? Had they decided to change the time of his execution?

The scuff of footfalls drew steadily nearer.

Carl rose to his feet, unfolding his lanky body like a corroded length of copper. He held his breath, waiting.

Without a light to guide the way, the cloaked figure moved toward Carl slowly. Each step closer filled him with greater dread.

Finally the figure reached the bars of the cell and stopped.

“I suppose this is it,” Carl began.

“We must be quiet” came a muffled reply.

Carl scrutinized the outline of the face hidden within the folds of the hood. “Matthias?”

“Shhh . . .” The man pulled a set of keys out of the deep pocket of his cloak, revealing his thick arms and hands.

The bulky torso belonged to only one man—Matthias, his manservant, the one who had raised him from boyhood, the one who had been there for him far more than his father ever had.

“It is you,” Carl whispered as relief burst through him.

“We don’t have much time.” The keys jangled together much too loudly, as if Matthias held a hundred of them instead of half a dozen. “We must hurry.”

Suddenly Carl realized exactly what was happening and his heartbeat sped up.

Matthias was freeing him.

“What about the guard?”

“He’s been called home for a family emergency.” Matthias twisted the key, and it scraped in protest as if hesitant to release its captive. “His sheep have all escaped from the pen.”

“In the middle of the night?”

“These kinds of accidents have been known to happen on occasion.” The older man’s voice carried the hint of humor Carl loved.

He grinned. But just as quickly the grin dissipated. “If you free me, what shall I do, Matthias? Where shall I go?”

The lock on the cell door finally clicked. Matthias swung it open, and the squealing of the rusty hinges was loud enough to raise the bones of the skeletons buried beneath the floor.

“When the duke finds out about my escape, he’ll put a price on my head. I won’t be safe anywhere on the Continent.”

Matthias cast a glance over his shoulder, then put a finger to his lips. “Let’s go. We will talk as we walk.”