Authors: Rhonda Woodward
He made his way over to where Lady Caroline Netherby stood with the Duke and Duchess of Cragmoore.
“Oh, Westlake, I believe you are clairvoyant,” Lady Caroline said to him with an impish smile that had made her the rage of the Season for several years running.
“How so?” he asked, giving his former mistress a rare smile.
He could not help noticing that Lady Caroline was in great looks tonight. She had been the wealthy widow of a lord when their very discreet affair had started. It had ended amiably some months later when she had informed Westlake of her plans to marry Lord Netherby. That had been more than a year ago.
“I was just thinking how, of all things, I love to dance, and suddenly you were at my elbow.”
The duke and duchess laughed at the boldness of her hint as Westlake gave a graceful bow and led her to the converted dance floor.
“Alex, the feeling between us is still strong,” the lady had said to him with an intimate whisper after a few moments of dancing. “You know Cecil retires early. I would find it delightful to meet you in your charming atrium later this evening.”
It was more like Cecil would pass out early, Westlake had thought cynically, knowing why Cecil retired so soon after dinner. The duke had contempt for any man who could not hold his liquor.
As he continued to lead the duchess around the impromptu dance floor, Westlake struggled to find a gentlemanly way of declining her offer. For in the pocket of his waistcoat were notes from Lady Helen Bingley, his latest conquest, and Lady Bolton, who had been making it quite plain that she was eager to replace Lady Helen in his affections. Each was beseeching him, one unbeknownst to the other, to meet her in the atrium at about the same time Lady Caroline was planning to sneak out of her bedchamber.
As if Hollings, his very astute butler, had surmised the duke’s need of a diversion, the solemn servant suddenly approached his master bearing a letter upon a salver.
At first Westlake had wondered, somewhat wryly, if it were yet another female trying to arrange a tryst with him.
Instead, to his dismay, it was a letter from the vicar of Tilbourne informing him that a serious accident had befallen Henry, his nephew and heir.
Westlake had read the cryptic and disturbing missive quickly, with growing concern. He had then excused himself from the party, had a private word with his sister, Alice, to play hostess in his absence, and reread the note as he took the great staircase two steps at a time, calling for his valet on the way to his bedchamber.
He barked orders at his servants, not taking the time to change fully out of his evening clothes, but deciding to discard just his evening coat and knee breeches for buckskin trousers, Hessian boots, and a heavy woolen overcoat.
Moments later Westlake descended the great staircase,
giving last-minute orders for a carriage with supplies and extra clothing to follow him to Tilbourne in the morning. His mother had followed him to the door, concern etched deeply into her beautiful aristocratic features.
“Alex, does the letter give any indication of how bad Henry is?” she questioned, placing her hand on his arm to stay his progress for a moment.
“You know how Margaret is prone to exaggeration, Mama,” he said. “I will send word back to you tomorrow.” He did not want his mother to worry unduly, for he knew she had never gotten over the death of her youngest son, James, Henry’s father. Kissing her cheek again quickly, he left her standing in the foyer as he quit the warmth of his home and entered the brewing storm.
Now he could easily recall the words of the note informing him of the terrible accident that had befallen his ten-year-old nephew, Henry. The note had gone on to say that a doctor had already been sent for, but that the boy hung close to death. Margaret, Henry’s mother and the widow of the duke’s only brother, was hysterical and requested the duke’s presence as quickly as he was able to reach Tilbourne.
How like Margaret to become hysterical when she was needed most, he thought disdainfully, for he had never understood his younger brother’s attraction to the bird-witted young woman.
It usually took three and a half hours to reach Tilbourne, but the journey had been plagued by setbacks almost from the moment they left the beautiful gates of Autley.
Within an hour a torrential rainstorm had forced them to take shelter at a farm on the outskirts of his estate. The farmer’s shy wife had offered the duke and his groom fresh warm bread and cider. The duke’s dashing smile had caused the farmer’s wife to almost drop the mugs, she later told her husband. What a true gentleman his grace was, she had continued, for he had not even blinked at her clumsiness and had told her she must be the best baker in the county.
They had been on the road again for no more than three-quarters of an hour, covering very few miles, when Zeus had thrown a shoe, the duke recalled, hoping his string of bad luck was now over.
The duke had dismounted the beast, walking the rest of
the way to The Blue Boar as the storm whipped around them. It had taken the innkeeper an inordinate amount of time, and a large sum of the duke’s blunt, to find a smith to attend to the temperamental steed in the middle of the night.
But now that they were finally on their way again, the duke breathed in the cold night air with relief. He had never been good at waiting, and with Henry’s life so gravely in danger, he was even less patient now.
The rain had now completely stopped, but had left the road an inch deep in mud. The air was clear and cold; every night sound was carrying to the horses’ sensitive ears.
Bending forward in his saddle, the duke spoke softly to Zeus and patted his neck reassuringly, trying to calm the animal’s growing restiveness.
Suddenly, with the sound of rustling branches and the flapping of large wings, an owl swooped down in front of Zeus, causing the startled animal to rear up, almost throwing his rider.
Johnny watched in silent shock as the duke struggled to keep control of the large horse.
With a half-smothered curse, the split tail of his riding coat flying behind him like giant raven’s wings, the duke kept his seat as the horse reared again, his hooves flailing the air.
Tightening his grip on the reins, the duke gritted his teeth with his efforts to manage Zeus. To his left he saw Johnny’s horse prancing and snorting, upset by the stallion’s behavior.
“Keep her back!” he shouted, fearful that Zeus would hoof the filly if Johnny allowed her to sidle too close.
An odd sound reached the duke’s ears amidst this sudden noise and confusion. Glancing swiftly in the direction from which the owl had flown from its perch, the duke caught sight of two shadowy figures emerging from the dense, dark foliage.
For a split second the duke was only peripherally aware that these figures were approaching; his attention was still focused on trying to calm his bolting animal.
Abruptly Zeus reared again, steam coming from his flaring nostrils.
A second later a sharp report rang out in the dead night air, and a searing pain burned through the duke’s left shoulder.
“Highwaymen!”
The duke heard Johnny’s breathless shout. Somehow, from pure instinct, Westlake did not release the reins, but whipped his head around to see where the shot had come from.
On the dark country road, not forty strides from them, were two men on horseback, dressed in dark clothes with dark kerchiefs covering their faces. The one nearest the duke held a pistol; the smoke coming from the barrel wafted blue in the milky moonlight. Westlake could smell gunpowder in the cold night air.
The other man was raising his pistol toward Johnny.
With a mighty effort the duke pulled Zeus down and around, blocking the filly as best he could. It seemed to him as if all the movements taking place had slowed down, so that he could anticipate several moves ahead.
The duke cast a swift look toward Johnny. The young man appeared ghostlike with his mouth wide open in a silent scream. His filly rose on her hind legs and whinnied her distress.
With no waste of movement, the duke reached his right hand into his coat and pulled a pistol from his leather belt.
Cocking the weapon before it cleared his coat, Westlake shouted as he took aim: “Johnny! Into the woods! Now!”
The brigand aiming his pistol at Johnny now swung the weapon toward Westlake.
After squeezing the trigger, the duke saw the man drop from his horse a second later.
Seeing Johnny fast disappearing into the dense forest, Westlake risked a quick glance down at his left shoulder. He saw a dark hole in the heavy material of his coat.
“Damn it,” he said through gritted teeth, for he suddenly became aware that his left hand was involuntarily losing its grip on the reins.
“Damn it,” he said again, quickly looking up to see the remaining highwayman reaching into his coat.
Dropping the now useless pistol, the duke took both
reins into his right hand and spurred Zeus as he had never spurred the animal before.
With the horse’s massive muscles straining to do his master’s bidding, they were instantly crashing through the shrub border of the road into the forest beyond. The duke gave the horse his head and lowered his own against the branches that tore at his face and body.
He had no notion where he was going, only that with his arm soon useless, and the scoundrel behind him almost rearmed, he would be a sitting duck if he did not get far away very quickly.
Zeus’s hooves made little noise as he galloped over the thick underbrush, but the duke heard his own heart pounding so loudly he thought anyone within fifty yards would hear it.
What a fool he’d been, he told himself harshly as he hazarded a look at his shoulder again. Though he had not heard of this part of the country having a particular problem with highwaymen, it had been foolish to travel virtually unprotected on such a lonely road. He knew as well as anyone of the growing problem with thieves since the war had ended.
The thoroughbred continued to move swiftly, weaving in and out of the trees, not showing any sign of tiring.
The duke reset his grip on the reins as they continued to gallop through the night. He did not bother to look at his shoulder again, for the moonlight barely reached him under the canopy of trees, but he could feel the blood flowing from the wound beneath his coat. It felt warm next to his skin.
Almost dispassionately, he realized he would not survive this night; he was losing his blood too quickly. He did not think that the ball had shattered the bone, but that was of no import now. He had seen too many men die of blood loss on the battlefield from wounds that could have been treated had there only been time.
On the horse galloped through the eerie, muffled quiet of the forest. After a time the duke noticed he was becoming dizzy. With his last ounce of strength he pulled back the reins, knowing that if Zeus continued at this pace, it
would be impossible to stay in the saddle once he lost consciousness.
He slowed the horse to almost a walk. With a great effort he turned to look back. Wincing from the searing pain in his shoulder, the duke did not see or sense anyone behind him. He looked down and saw that he had dropped the reins. It was as if he were seeing his own hand from a great distance.
In his mind’s eye, he saw his mother and two younger sisters, Alice and Louisa. They would miss him. Louisa would be terribly disappointed that he would not be able to walk her down the aisle this coming spring.
He saw young Henry, his dead brother’s son and his own heir. At ten, the dark-haired boy was already showing the Westlake penchant for height.
Henry would now be the Duke of Westlake. He felt sorry for the burden his death would put on the boy. He sent up a brief prayer that the boy would recover from whatever accident had befallen him.
The duke’s last conscious thought was for Johnny. He hoped his groom would make it back safely to Autley. Johnny was the only one who could tell his family how he had died.
“B
ella! Wake up, Bella!”
Feeling something shaking her shoulder, Arabella slowly opened her eyes. The room was dimly aglow with early dawn light as Arabella groggily pushed herself up onto her elbows. She looked around to see her younger brother, Tommy, kneeling next to her bed.
“Why on earth are you bothering me at this ungodly hour?” she questioned through a yawn.
“I have found a gentleman. You must come now. I think he is almost dead.” Tommy’s tone was urgent as he began to pull her arm again.
“You found a what?” Arabella’s eyes flew wide open as she tried to comprehend what Tommy was saying to her.
“A half-dead gentleman. You must hurry,” he urged, pulling harder on her arm as she resisted.
“Tommy, wait. Stop pulling my arm and allow me to put on my robe.” She sat up and waved him away.
Standing with his back to her in the doorway, Tommy explained: “Something woke me up. I thought it was the storm again, but I kept hearing what sounded like snorting and whinnying outside my window. I got up and went outside and around to the back garden. There stood a huge black horse with a man slumped over the saddle. I led the horse around to the front and tied it to the post. I cannot get the man off by myself. I don’t think he’s dead yet.” “Good heavens!” Bella was fully awake now, as she
quickly followed Tommy out of her room, down the stairs, and to the front door.
Holding high a hastily lit lantern, Bella stepped out of the house into the freezing wet dawn. To her complete astonishment, there indeed stood a huge horse with a dark mass draped over its back.
“Good heavens!” She stepped closer to the horse, her slippered feet sinking into the mud. In the yellow light of her lantern, she could see that the animal was lathered with sweat.
“Would you stop saying ‘Good heavens’ and help me figure out how to get him off this horse?”
Bella set the lantern on the front steps, deciding not to chastise the twelve-year-old for his disrespectful manner. Quickly assessing the situation, Bella said to her dark-haired brother, “It’s too bad this storm has prevented Papa from returning from the Park tonight. I just hope we are strong enough to get him down by ourselves. He seems awfully large.”