The highwayman turned his pistols on her.
“Don’t shoot!” Nell cried. “Maera, down! Stay!”
The dog glanced at her in disgust but obeyed. Every muscle tensed, she hunched down, lips still drawn back in a snarl, the ominous growl still rumbling, baleful stare fixed on the stranger.
“That brute’s yourn?” he asked incredulously. “You do what I says, missy, or it’s dead. Drop that whip, geddown, and hurry up about it.”
Nell’s knees wobbled as she scrambled down. She didn’t dare reach for her own pistol, under the seat. She might take him unawares but the thought of Maera bleeding, dying…
“Open up the boot.”
As she trudged around to the back of the carriage, he moved to where he could both watch her and keep an eye and a pistol aimed at the dog.
He made her take all her bags and boxes out of the boot. When they were piled in the dusty road, he said, “Right, now get the dog in there.”
“But she’s never been shut in there! She’s far too well-behaved to need to be—”
“In!” He waved a gun.
“Maera, come.” Her voice was sharp with fear. Maera slunk to her feet. “Good girl. Up.”
With a look of bitter reproach, the big dog sprang up and lay down in the confining space.
“Latch it.”
Her heart in her half-boots, Nell obeyed. Despite the louvred ends, on such a hot afternoon poor Maera was going to stifle.
“That’s better,” grunted the highwayman, approaching. The pistols were trained on her now. “Let’s have them bags open, and be quick about it.”
Luckily she had hidden her roll of banknotes in a concealed compartment under the seat cushions. Hurrying to undo buckles, straps, and catches, she ventured to protest again, “Truly, I’ve brought nothing of value with me.”
“Well, missy, if you values your life, go and stand under that tree there and don’t move a muscle.”
She watched as he set down one pistol and rifled through her possessions, flinging out gowns and chemises, slippers and shawls, sheets of music and her favourite books. His gaze and the second pistol never wavered from her except when he cast a quick glance into each container to make sure it was empty.
“Bloody hell!” he snorted in disgust. “Got your gelt in your pocket, eh?” He eyed her as if considering the best way to approach and search her without risk of her snabbling his pistols.
“Just a few shillings,” she said hastily, and tossed her small netted purse to him.
It jingled as it landed at his feet. He swiftly bent to retrieve it, but gave another disgusted snort as he weighed it in his hand. “No more’n a guinea or two. What’s a gentry mort like you doing wi’out a good supply o’ the ready rhino?”
“I don’t need money when I’m going to visit friends. They are expecting me and will come looking for me if I’m much longer delayed.”
“Ho, they will, will they? Then Nimble Jack’d best be on his way.” He stowed the purse in a pocket and pulled out a knife.
“W-what are you going to do?” Nell stammered.
Tramping across heaps of clothes on his way to the front of the dog-cart, Nimble Jack looked surprised. “Why, cut the harness, missy. I ha’n’t got time to fiddle wi’ buckles.”
“But you can’t take Vulcan and Vesta!” she cried. “They’re not even saddle horses.”
“Then I’ll have to ride bareback, won’t I? You keep back now, and don’t let that dog out till I’m out o’ sight.”
A moment later, he vaulted onto a startled Vulcan’s back and, leading Vesta, galloped off down the lane.
Nell stared after him in despair. An encounter with a highwayman was a just punishment for treating Lord Clifford rather shabbily, she acknowledged, but to lose her beloved horses was too much! She hurried to release Maera, hugging the big dog, who licked her face before jumping down and padding off to investigate the situation.
A sudden gust of wind fluttered the papers scattered in the lane. Stooping to collect them, Nell tried to think what to do next. She hadn’t passed a house for two or three miles. Surely here, in heavily populated Berkshire, there must be some kind of habitation not too far ahead.
A stronger gust caught at her skirt as she stuffed the sheet music into a box and hoisted it into the boot. Silks and muslins stirred. An invisible hand turned the pages of a book lying open on its back. She started to pick up the precious volumes.
Maera returned to whine at her. Trotting off a few paces, she looked back and whined again.
“What is it, girl? Yes, I know they’re gone, but the villain can’t keep a pair of matched blood-horses hidden for long. We have to find a constable or a magistrate, and they’ll soon find Vulcan and Vesta.”
Maera yelped. As Nell moved towards her to retrieve the last book, she started off again. Nose to the ground, she passed the dog-cart and continued down the lane.
Obviously Maera knew exactly where she was going and had no doubt about the right thing to do. She was no bloodhound, but she could hardly mistake her stable-mates’ trail. Nell didn’t dare risk letting that trail fade. Dumping the books in the boot, she slammed it shut and abandoned her wardrobe without a backward glance.
Maera waited for her, white-tipped tail waving impatiently. Pausing just long enough to possess herself of her money, she joined the dog and together they tramped onward.
* * * *
Riding ahead of his crested travelling carriage, Benedict reached Brantwood shortly after four o’clock on the eve of his wedding day. His temper was decidedly ruffled, though he knew from long practice that nothing of his resentment showed on his face. On the way, he had encountered not only his sister and her husband, as expected, but several aristocratic friends and acquaintances bound on the same errand.
Lady Eleanor had herself requested a quiet village wedding, which suited his taste exactly. She might at least have consulted him if she had capriciously changed her mind!
His annoyance was not in the least lessened by a vaguely guilty feeling that he had rather neglected his bride to be. After all, spring was the busiest season both on his estate and in Parliament. Somehow he had managed to find time to set his affairs in order in view of his changing circumstances, and even to have her rooms redecorated. It wasn’t as if it was a love match, he thought, a trifle wistfully. He and Lady Eleanor had the rest of their lives before them to get to know each other.
Nonetheless, guilt as well as etiquette had a hand in the choice of the bride-gift reposing in his breast pocket. He had noticed she favoured green gowns, so he had purchased emeralds and diamonds, a magnificent necklace in the form of a garland of leaves sprinkled with dewdrops. If she was miffed at his lack of attention, that would quickly restore him to favour.
Setting aside his annoyance over the wedding plans as unworthy of him, he was eager to witness her pleasure at his munificence. As soon as Lady Derrington’s effusive welcome showed signs of ending, he asked Lady Eleanor’s whereabouts.
“I am not certain where she is,” said the sharp-faced countess guardedly. “She went out for a drive earlier, just to take the air, you know. I shall send to see if she is returned.”
Benedict waited impatiently in the hall. He frowned as the footman sent to fetch his bride returned and whispered urgently with his hostess. Both hurried away.
Pacing back and forth, he wondered whether Lady Eleanor could possibly be refusing to come down to punish him for his lack of attention. Juliet had claimed she was not petty, but how well did Juliet know her? Had he committed himself to a capricious female who indulged in the sulks whenever she imagined herself crossed?
Too late for misgivings: no gentleman could cry off and continue to consider himself a gentleman.
Derrington approached, looking distinctly sheepish. A large young man, more horse-breeder than aristocrat, he handed Benedict a sheet of paper, folded and sealed, and a tiny packet wrapped in tissue paper.
“Phyllis told me to give you these,” he said gruffly. “She got them from Nell’s abigail.”
Benedict had no need to open either to guess the contents. “She’s calling it off?” he asked, his voice ringing harsh in his ears. “I must talk to her.”
“She’s gone,” her brother confessed.
For a moment Benedict poised between relief and wrath. Then wounded pride came to the fore. After inviting half the Ton, she was jilting him, making him a laughingstock. It was not to be endured.
“I’m going after her.” He stuffed the unopened note and ring in his pocket with the necklace. “Tell me how to find her.”
“Phyllis says she has gone to her old governess, in Hungerford.”
“Along the Bath road, then?”
“No, she avoids driving on the post-road. I can direct—”
“She drives herself?” Benedict asked, incredulous, recalling the quiet, demure female to whom he had offered his hand. “Well, at least it means I shall catch up with her the sooner.”
“Don’t count on it. Her pair are no slugs, and the dog-cart is—”
“A dog-cart and pair? Good gad!” He had a bewildered notion they were speaking of two different people.
“I’ll lend you my speediest nag,” said Derrington, eager to make amends for his sister’s disgraceful behaviour, “and explain exactly the way she always takes.”
“Then I’ll be off,” Benedict said, adding grimly, “and make no mistake, come hell or high water I shall get her to the church on time.”
As he cantered down the drive on a splendid bay gelding, he met the Faulks’ carriage just arriving. Juliet’s astonished face at the window brought his feeling of ill-usage to the boiling point. Saluting her curtly, he rode on.
* * * *
A gusty wind arose and the sunny June day swiftly clouded over. When rain began to fall, at first Benedict welcomed the laying of road dust and the relief from the humid heat. Soon, under a steady drizzle, the dust turned to mud, the relief to damp discomfort. It did cross his mind to wonder whether Lady Eleanor was worth the trouble, but anger and his dread of ridicule drove him on.
Entering a wood, he saw a vehicle ahead, abandoned at the side of the lane. As he approached, he recognised it as a dog-cart and drew rein. The ground behind it was strewn with sodden clothing, gowns, bonnets, pelisses, gloves, handkerchiefs, chemises, nightdresses, tossed about in wild abandon. The carriage appeared undamaged, but the traces were cut. No sign of the team or their driver. What the devil had happened?
It must be Lady Eleanor’s equipage. What the devil had happened?
The uneasy sensation in the pit of his stomach flared into alarm. If she were fit for Bedlam, naturally he couldn’t marry her, but at present he had to consider himself responsible for her safety. The only proper course was to follow the route her brother had described and to hope he came upon her quickly.
At the first crossroads he came to, his instructions were to turn left. However, his eye was caught by a strip of white fabric tied to a twig in the hedge on his right. He dismounted to examine it.
It was a piece of lace, torn and dripping wet but clean, not at all yellowed by exposure to the elements. A sign? Even if Lady Eleanor did not expect to be followed, she might leave a trail for herself in this labyrinth of identical byways. If so, was it the cunning of madness or intelligent forethought?
Benedict was horribly afraid she was in trouble—trouble not of her own causing. He turned the bay down the right-hand lane.
Another piece of lace where the road forked, and then a third. Watching for a fourth, he almost missed the next marker, a blue satin ribbon. Thank heaven she was wearing blue. He’d never have found green among the leaves.
He cantered around a bend, and there ahead of him a hunched, bedraggled figure in blue plodded along, topped with a soggy, drooping straw bonnet. Thank heaven!
* * * *
Hearing the jingle of a harness, Nell swung round and found herself practically nose to nose with Bertie’s favourite hack.
“Hallo, Grenadier,” she said, too weary—and too glad—to be surprised her brother had found her. She raised her eyes. “Hallo…Lord Clifford! What are you doing here?”
He glared down at her, his brow like thunder. “It may have escaped your memory,” he said bitingly, “that we are to be wed tomorrow. I’ve come to take you back.”
How could she have thought him impassive, indifferent, insipid? He was a brute!
“I’m not going back,” she said, bristling. “You cannot dictate to me. We are not married yet and never shall be. I’m going to Miss Lindisfarne’s—as soon as I have rescued Vesta and Vulcan.” Angrily she brushed away the silly, involuntary tears.
“Your cattle?” he asked in a much more moderate tone of voice. He swung down from Grenadier’s back. “Come, let us not brangle. Tell me what happened.”
She thought of Nimble Jack and shivered. Now that Lord Clifford was on a level with her and not scowling, his resolute, respectable presence was a decided comfort. “All right, but we must go on before the trail grows too faint.” As she spoke, she turned and trudged on.
Leading the bay, he walked beside her. “Too faint? I see no… What the deuce?”
Maera bounded into sight, her ragged tail held high. Admittedly she was not a prepossessing vision, her shaggy coat matted with mud, but her teeth were bared in a friendly grin. There was no need for Lord Clifford to shout and wave his whip as if she were a man-eating tiger. Nell grabbed his arm.
“It’s Maera. She has come back to show me the way.”
“That creature is yours? Good gad!”
“I don’t care for pugs,” she snapped. “No pug would have tried to defend me against the highwayman, nor followed Vulcan and Vesta all this way in the rain.”
“Highwayman!” Astonishingly, he grinned at her. “No, I can’t imagine a pug outfacing a highwayman. I don’t care for them either.”
“Pugs or highwaymen?”
“Neither.” Maera came up to sniff at him and he fondled her floppy ears, wet as they were. His boots and riding breeches must bear the familiar odour of Grenadier, for she accepted him without hesitation. “You mean to tell me you were held up by a highwayman?”
“At first I thought him a footpad.” As they followed Maera, Nell told him the story, omitting to mention the little ivory-handled pistol Papa had had Manton make for her. On the whole Lord Clifford was bearing up admirably under all the shocks the day had dealt him. Perhaps a confession of feminine frailty might further soothe him and encourage him to lend his aid. “I was quite frightened,” she admitted.