Stand and Deliver Your Love (10 page)

Chapter
Ten

Byron guided the sturdy bay horse he rented for the day from a London livery
through the small gap in the thicket. The little cottage and lean-to stood in the clearing just as he last saw them two days before. He dismounted and tied the horse to the outside of the lean-to.

Rubbing his shoulder absently he made his way to the cottage. The knob twisted easily in his hand and he pushed the door open wide. The hearth was empty now, the cold charred remains of their last fire the only evidence they had once been there. Byron looked back over his shoulder to make sure he was alone and stepped across the threshold.

  Methodically he went through every nook and cranny of the small cottage looking for the ledger. When his search yielded nothing he tapped along the walls listening for any sign of a hollow compartment. Finding none he checked the floor for loose boards and again found nothing. The papers were not in the cottage, he concluded. He left closing the door behind him.

He crossed the small yard to the lean-to and ducked inside. Sarah might have taken the papers with her, but he doubted it. She would have worried about him overpowering her or stealing them back out of her saddle bags. He was sure she would hide them and come back for them when she felt it was safe to. The question was, had she come back for them already or were they still here somewhere?

Grasping an old pitchfork he found lying in the manger, he pushed aside all the old bits of hay, revealing nothing beyond the worn boards. He dropped the fork back into the manger with a dull clunk. He paused, the bottom of the manger sounded hollow. He looked at the outside. The manger appeared deeper on the outside than it did on the inside. Tapping firmly along the bottom, his fingers hit a raised knot in the wood. When he pushed on it the board popped up.

Clever, he mused, a false bottom in the manger. With his pocket knife he pried the board up exposing a small compartment underneath.

Feeling around inside, he located a roll of papers and a small velvet sack. He pulled them out and replaced the board as he had found it. Unrolling the papers he confirmed they were indeed his ledgers, a little water-stained, but still readable. He set them in the manger and untied the strings on the sack. When he dumped it upside down a large gold locket, on a delicate chain, and a heavy man’s signet ring fell out onto his palm. Opening the locket he discovered a painted picture of a russet-haired man and woman on one side, and a younger version of the woman on the other. He closed the locket and turned the ring around so he could see the crest on the top. He studied it for a second then closed his eyes as he sought to place the eagle on it. Where had he seen it before?

Suddenly it came to him. Almost six years ago, he attended a dinner with his father at the home of the Duke and Duchess of Wellington. Their
family crest had been displayed everywhere, an eagle, similar to the one on the ring. The only other thing he remembered about that evening, was their freckled-faced young daughter who attended the meal as her first formal entrance into society. Could Sarah have been that same young girl? He supposed it was entirely possible. Or, maybe Sarah had stolen the necklace and ring from their real owner?

No matter, the reason she had come by these things was not important. He had his papers back. Now he could take this evidence to the king and clear his family name.

Byron started to put the little pouch of jewels back then thought better of it. Two could play at the blackmail game. He did not fault her for her game, not really, despite the fact she had put him in a very precarious position with the king. He knew what it was like to face certain ruin. Had she asked, he would have given her anything she wanted just for a chance to see her again, to be near her and hold her. He tucked the velvet sack into the inner pocket of his riding coat, then flicked some hay back over the exposed bottom of the manger. Satisfied, he turned and remounted the horse. Finding his papers had been easier than he expected. 

Whistling a merry tune he turned the horse onto the little deer path and headed back to London. At this rate he would be able to catch the king at the Duke of Ryland’s ball that very evening and give him the papers. With any luck he could hire a Pinkerton to find Sarah and be home in his quiet estate by the following evening. Things were starting to look up.

When he reached the main road he spurred his rented hack into an easy canter. His newly healed shoulder was still tender, and ached with the bouncing of the horse, but he wanted to get back to London as soon as possible to bathe and change. He could not arrive at the ball looking like he had been riding around in the bushes all day. By the time he made it to London with Bert in tow the last time, the whole city had heard his abandoned carriage had been found. This led to an endless stream of visitors concerned for his welfare. He found it ironic for the last year no one had given him a second thought until he suffered a terrible accident. Vultures the lot of them he decided
, only flapping about if there were fresh bones to pick. Well, one last boring party, fending off the simpering young debutantes and he would be left alone again.

Somehow being alone didn't sound so inviting anymore.

Byron’s mind drifted back to the second night at the cottage. He found himself thinking about that evening a lot lately. No other untried woman he had bedded reacted so passionately to his caresses. The memory of her cries of fulfillment still rang in his ears. Had she lain with another since then? Did she think of him and feel her body grow hot and restless? Did she lie awake at night dreaming of his hands roving her body the way he did? He groaned, shifting his weight in the saddle to ease the sudden tension in his loins at the thought of her. Was the woman a witch? Why was it she possessed his mind so? Was it because he had no release, nor a chance to fulfill his own desires she still haunted him?                  

As he came to the outskirts of London he relaxed and headed for his townhouse. No matter, after he had given his evidence to the king and cleared his tarnishe
d name, he would have time to rid himself of his dreams of Sarah once and for all. A long overdue visit to Madame Layla’s nunnery to sample one of the comely vixens there would cure all that ailed him. He would be welcomed there. He ignored the protest of his heart, urging his horse along faster.

* * * *

At the steps of his townhouse he dismounted, tossing the reins to the houseboy. After instructions to return the animal and bring back a hired hansom cab, he headed into the house and up the stairs to get ready for an evening out. As soon as he saw a maid he ordered a bath and removed his riding coat. Slipping off his shirt he surveyed the scar on his shoulder in the mirror a top the dressing table. The edges were still puckered and red, but the skin was firmly closed now.

He pulled the remaining stitches out himself that very morning. He had to admit Sarah did a nice job of stitching his wound. There would be nary a scar to see when it was fully healed.

When his bath was ready, he removed the rest of his clothing and settled back into the large brass tub. Closing his eyes he relaxed in the warm water as it eased the dull throb in his shoulder.

His mind wandered back to the evening he watched Sarah lathering the soap along her supple limbs. Oh, to have been those arms, to be the recipient of those lathered, stroking fingers.

With a groan he sank under the water, wetting his hair, all the while trying to get the picture of the lovely naked woman out of his mind. He surfaced for air, quickly lathered, rinsed and rose from the tub. After toweling himself dry he summoned the new valet. The man edged into the room. “Yes, my lord?”

He was a far cry from his faithful servant who died in the accident, but with time, he would improve Byron decided. “I am to attend a dinner ball this evening and I
will need my attire laid out.”

“Yes, my lord,” the man mumbled scurrying about the room pulling suitable clothing from the drawers. Byron frowned when he set a clean white neck cloth on the dresser.

The valet, noticing his frown wrung his hands. “Did I do something wrong, my lord?”

“No,” Byron reassured the man. “I hate those infernal neck cloths.”

“Do you wish me to dispose of it, my lord?”

Byron sighed “No. It must be worn, I suppose.”

As he began to dress he recalled his last meeting with the king. The monarch had been relieved he turned up alive and suspicious that the promised papers proclaiming Byron’s innocence could not be produced. Being the gracious ruler that he was, he allowed Byron a week to recover and present the missing documents. He had, however, cautioned if they were not produced Byron would be imprisoned in Newgate and his title of marquis would be stripped from him.

Byron favored his valet with an approving look as the nervous fellow finished tying the cravat neatly. Tonight he would finally prove his innocence and return to his country haven.

The only problem left to deal with was the lovely mistress, Sarah. He groaned as he shrugged in this dress coat. What was he going to do about her? Part of him wanted to wring her lovely neck for all the trouble she had caused him and part wanted to finish what he started the evening the horses had run off.
Hmm … punishment or passion?
Maybe passion should be his punishment, he thought smugly as he started down the stairs. A night of passion would surely remind her of whom she was dealing with. He shook his head as he passed through the foyer and out the door. It was unlikely he would even be able to find the chit. What did he know about her other than her first name, a possible last name and she liked orphans? Not much to go on, after all he could not just go around asking people if they knew where a female highwayman lived.

Byron climbed aboard the rented coach and settled back against the cushions for the short ride to the duke’s residence. No, it didn't seem possible he would ever see the girl again.

Unless she figured out it was he who had found her hidden treasures. In that case she might come looking for him. There seemed nothing he could do, but wait and see. He hated waiting.

They pulled up in front of the duke’s residence. Byron hopped out, flipped a guinea to the driver and hurried up the steps to the door of the grand townhouse. A fo
otman clad in a purple uniform scowled at him, but allowed him admittance. Damn servants, Byron thought as he passed the man with an answering scowl. Already they were gossiping about his possible imprisonment. Another similarly attired butler showed him to the family parlor to await the king, who was already in attendance.

Byron paced back and forth in front of the small fire burning merrily in the hearth. He supposed the king was making him wait in order to worry his fate. Already he could hear the first of the guests arriving
, being shown to the larger entertaining parlor. He frowned at the stone-faced guard standing by the door. No doubt the man was told to watch him closely.

 
Footsteps approached the door and Byron bowed as it opened and the king entered. The monarch hardly spared him a glance, as he crossed the room and poured himself a drink from the brandy decanter on the table. Two guards followed him in, shut the door and stood on either side of it without looking at him. Byron waited, knowing the king would object if he were to initiate the conversation. The man settled himself in the closer of the two chairs and lifted the glass to his lips, looking at Byron over the rim as he swallowed the contents. When the glass was empty he set it back on the table and leaned forward in his chair.

“Well, Lord Cobbett, what say you?”

Byron cleared his throat and stepped forward offering his papers for the king to inspect. “I have found the missing papers, Your Eminence.”

The king’s face remained blank as he took the papers. “How did you find them?”

“It seems they were caught under a bush at the side of the road,” Byron lied. There was no point in bringing Sarah, or his imprisonment by her, to the king’s attention. The monarch seemed to accept the explanation as he read through the papers. Byron shifted his weight back and forth as he waited. He had not been asked to sit, therefore to do so would be rude and presumptuous. He strived to look relaxed and unconcerned as the king pondered his evidence and his fate. Finally when he thought he would go mad from the tension, the man finished shuffling through the documents and looked up.

“Well, Lord Cobbett, it certainly seems your evidence is indeed all in order.” He favored Byron with a congratulatory smile. “It is indeed a sad affair when a son must confess the indiscretions of his sire.”

“Yes, Your Eminence.”

“There is one thing you have yet to clear up.”

“What might that be, Your Majesty?”

“According to sources, you were present when those scoundrels tried to rob Lady Willbrook, yet you did not show up in London until three days later.”

  Byron cleared his throat and recited the story he had made up to cover his absence. “I became disorientated in the rain, and got lost in the woods. Luckily, I found a small abandoned cottage. I stayed there until the rain stopped and the roads were passable.”

“I see, very smart of you. I shall pass the information along to Lady Willbrook. It seems she was under the false impression you might have had something to do with the highwaymen.”