Dark Surrender by Erica Ridley

mysterious disappearance. There was no sense standing around waiting for the arrival of someone who wasn’t en route.
    The passageway did stretch the other direction, of course, and branched again. Not to say that one way was more likely to lead to success than any other, given she hadn’t the first clue where to find the scullery.
    Then again, any room with a bell pull would do. Which meant all the corridors were equally promising. Or unpromising. With that cheery thought in mind, Violet turned down the closest corridor and began to make her way through the murky shadows. At least there was wainscoting. Without dust and dirt and corpses, this darkness was at least bearable.
    She ran her fingertips along both walls for balance, taking care to try the handles of every door she passed. True to Mr. Waldegrave’s word, all the bolts were securely locked. And the key fit into none of them. Why on earth would a manservant carry about a key that didn’t unlock any doors?
    After a series of unproductive turns, she began to suspect she would’ve been better off waiting by the door to her bedchamber as she’d sarcastically suggested to her employer’s manservant in the first place.
    Then there was light. A single sconce, a small one, with a tiny flickering candle—but light nonetheless.
    Close on delirious with relief, she rushed forward as quickly as her ginger ankle allowed.
    The passageway dead-ended against a lone door. Violet paused to examine her surroundings. She saw no one. Heard nothing. But there was flame on that candle, which had to mean she was in a populated area. She tried the handle. Locked. Of course. No longer imbued with optimism, she fished the useless key from her pocket and slid the brass teeth into the aperture.
    Click .
    The mechanism caught and turned as if the key had been forged just for this lock. Giddy with relief, she twisted the handle—and then hesitated.
    Her stomach was uneasy in the same way as when Mr. Waldegrave had handed over the two gold sovereigns and her first wary thought had been that the money was cursed. She’d learned long ago to place full confidence in the uneasiness of her stomach. And yet . . . why be alarmed? It was just a door. Just a room. And her only opportunity to call for help.
    Ever so quietly, she eased the crack wider. Enough light spilled in from the sconce for her to realize this wasn’t an empty prayer room, but rather a furnished bedchamber. Which meant there had to be a bell pull inside. Ensuring she still held the key firmly in her grip, she allowed the door to close tight behind her.
    The dim lighting remained.
    Blinking in confusion, she stepped further into the room. Windows! This bedchamber had windows . Covered with not one but two heavy curtains, only the tiniest sliver of light shone in a narrow line across the ceiling and between the hem and floor. Just enough for her to be able to discern the outline of a bell pull on the other side of a large four-poster bed.
    What if the prickles along her skin were because there was someone in the bed? Someone who would be less than pleased to discover ex-street urchin Violet Whitechapel trespassing in his bedchamber?
    And yet . . . what were her options? Make herself known, and hope she didn’t get brained with a poker? Cross the room to ring the bell pull anyway, and risk whomever slept in the bed being startled out of their mind? Tiptoe outside, and enjoy another hour roaming the corridors in search of someone with a key?
    She vacillated for a long moment, unsure of the wisest course. Then she unlocked her frozen muscles and silently picked her way toward the head of the bed. If Mr. Waldegrave had entered the classroom at noon, as he had promised, then by now it had to be at least two of the clock. The gentry were infamous slugabeds, but surely by this hour, even the laziest had to have arisen to greet the day. The bed was likely to be vacant.
    She tilted her ear as close as possible to the thick tester without