Stephanie Laurens Rogues' Reform Bundle (86 page)

Harry turned at Lucinda's words. She had plucked some blooms and started to plait them. He frowned. “I'll find the stile. Dawlish will stay here with you.”

Lucinda snorted. “Nonsense! You'll take twice as long.” She picked a cornflower from her lap, then tilted her face to look up at him, one brow arching. “The sooner you get there, the sooner you'll be back.”

Harry hesitated, then shook his head. Joliffe might be behind bars but his protective instincts still ran strong. “No. I'll—”

“Don't be absurd! I'm perfectly capable of sitting on a rock in the sunshine for a few minutes alone.” Lucinda lifted both arms to gesture about her. “What
do
you imagine could happen in such a sylvan setting?”

Harry glared, briefly, aware she would very likely be perfectly safe. Hands on hips, he scanned the surrounding trees. There was open space all around her; no one could creep up and surprise her. She was a mature and sensible woman; she would scream if anything untoward occurred. And they were all close enough to hear.

And the sooner he met with Salter's messenger, the sooner he could concentrate on her, on them, on their future.

“Very well.” His expression hard, he pointed a finger at her. “But stay there and don't move!”

Her answering smile was fondly condescending.

Harry turned and strode quickly across the field; the damned woman's confidence in herself was catching.

Like many countrymen, Dawlish could retrace his steps to anywhere but could never describe the way. He took the lead; within a matter of minutes, they found the fence line. They followed it to a small clearing in which stood the stile—surrounded by a small army of people.

Harry halted. “What the devil…?”

Salter pushed through the crowd. Harry caught sight of Mabberley and three representatives of Bow Street among a motley crew of ostlers, grooms and stablelads, link-boys, jarveys, street urchins, sweepers—basically any likely looking scruffs to be found on the streets of London. Obviously Salter's “people”.

Then Salter stood before him, his face decidedly grim. “We got the warrant but when we went to serve it, Joliffe and his crew had done a bunk.”

Harry stiffened. “I thought you were watching them?”

“We were.” Salter's expression grew bleaker. “But someone must have tripped up somewhere—we found our two watchers coshed over the head this morning—and no sign of our pigeons anywhere.”

Harry's mind raced; chill fingers clutched his gut. “Have they taken the coach?”

“Yep,” came from one of the ostlers. “Seems like they left 'bout ten—just afore the captain here came with his bill.”

Mr Mabberly stepped forward. “We thought we should warn you to keep an especially close eye on Mrs Babbacombe—until we can get this villain behind bars.”

Harry barely heard him. His expression had blanked.
“Oh, my God!”

He whirled and raced back the way he'd come, Dawlish on his heels. The rest, galvanised by Harry's fear, followed.

Harry broke from the trees and scanned the field—then came to a skidding halt.

Before him the meadow grasses swayed in the breeze. All was peaceful and serene, the field luxuriating in the heat. The sun beat down on the rock in its centre—now empty.

Harry stared. Then he strode forward, his expression like flint. A short chain of blue cornflowers had been left on the rock—laid down gently, not flung or mauled.

Breathing rapidly, Harry, hands on hips, lifted his head and looked about. “Lucinda?”

His call faded into the trees—no one answered.

Harry swore. “They've got her.” The words burned his throat.

“They can't have got far.” Salter gestured to his people. “It's the lady we're after—tallish, dark-haired—most of you've seen her. Name of Mrs Babbacombe.”

Within seconds, they were quartering the area, quickly, efficiently, calling her name, threshing through undergrowth. Harry headed towards the river, Dawlish beside him. His throat was already hoarse. His imagination was a handicap—he could conjure visions far too well. He had to find her—he simply had to.

 

L
EFT IN THE PEACE
of the meadow, Lucinda smiled to herself, then settled to convert the cornflowers growing in abundance around the base of the rock into a blue garland. Beneath her calm, she was impatient enough, yet quite confident Harry would shortly be back.

Her smile deepened. She reached for a bright dandelion to lend contrast to her string.

“Mrs Babbacombe! Er—Aunt Lucinda?”

Blinking, Lucinda turned. She searched the shadows beneath the trees and saw a slight, shortish gentleman waving and beckoning.

“Good lord! Whatever does
he
want?” Laying aside her garland, she crossed to the trees. “Mortimer?” She ducked under a branch and stepped into the cool shade. “What are you doing here?”

“A-waiting for you, bitch,” came in a growling grating voice.

Lucinda jumped; a huge paw wrapped about her arm. Her eyes widened in incredulous amazement as she took in its owner. “
Scrugthorpe!
What the devil do you think you're doing?”

“Grabbing you.” Scrugthorpe leered, then started to drag her deeper into the trees. “Come on—the carriage's waiting.”

“What carriage? Oh, for goodness' sake!” Lucinda was about to struggle in earnest when Mortimer took her other elbow.

“This is all most distressing—but if you'll only listen—it's really nothing to do with you, you know—simply a matter of righting a wrong—fixing a slight—that sort of thing.” He wasn't so much helping to drag her along as clinging to her arm; his eyes, a weak washy blue, implored her understanding.

Lucinda frowned. “What on earth is all this about?”

Mortimer told her—in disjointed phrases, bits and pieces, dribs and drabs. Totally engrossed in trying to follow his tale, Lucinda largely ignored Scrugthorpe and his dogged march forward, absent-mindedly letting him pull her along, shifting her attention only enough to lift her skirts over a log.

“Damned hoity female!” Scrugthorpe kicked at her skirts. “When I get you alone, I'm going to—”

“And then, you see, there was the money owed to Joliffe—must pay, y'know—play and pay—honour and all that—”

“And after that, I'll tie you up good—”

“So it turned out to be rather a lot—not impossible but—had to find it, you see—thought I'd be right after Uncle Charles died—but then it wasn't there—the money, I mean—but I'd already spent it—owed it—had to raise the wind somehow—”

“Oh, I'll make you pay for your sharp tongue, I will. After I've done, you'll—”

Lucinda shut her ears to Scrugthrope's ravings and concentrated on Mortimer's babblings. Her jaw dropped when he revealed their ultimate goal; their plan to reach it was even more astonishing. Mortimer finally concluded with, “So, you see—all simple enough. If you'll just make the guardianship over to me, it'll all be right and tight—you do see that, don't you?”

They had reached the edge of the river; a narrow footbridge lay ahead. Abruptly, Lucinda hauled back against Scrugthorpe's tow and stood her ground. Her gaze, positively scathing, fixed on Mortimer.

“You ass!”
Her tone said it all. “Do you really believe that, just because you're so weak and stupid as to get…?” Words momentarily failed her; she wrenched her elbow from Mortimer's grasp and gestured wildly. “Gulled by a sharp.” Eyes flashing, she transfixed Mortimer; he stood rooted to the spot, his mouth silently opening and shutting, his expression that of a terrified rabbit facing the ultimate fury. “That I will meekly hand over to you my stepdaughter's fortune so you can line the pockets of some cunning, immoral, inconsiderate, rapacious, fly-by-night excuse for a man?” Her voice had risen, gaining in commanding volume. “You've got
rocks
in your head, sir!”

“Now see here.” Scrugthorpe, somewhat dazed by her vehemence, shook her arm. “That's enough of that.”

Mortimer was exceedingly pale. “But Uncle Charles owed me—”

“Nonsense! Charles owed you
nothing!
Indeed, you got more than you deserved. What you have to do, Mortimer,” Lucinda jabbed him in the chest, “is get back to Yorkshire and get your affairs in order. Talk to Mr Wilson in Scarborough—he'll know how to help. Stand on your own feet, Mortimer—believe me, it's the only way.” Struck by a thought, Lucinda asked, “Incidentally, how is Mrs Finnigan, the cook? When we left she had ulcers, poor thing—is she better?”

Mortimer simply stared at her.

“
Enough,
woman!” Scrugthorpe, his face mottling, swung Lucinda about. Opting for action rather than words, he grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her to him. Lucinda uttered a small shriek and ducked her head—just in time to avoid Scrugthorpe's fleshy lips. He grunted; she felt his fingers grip her shoulders tightly, bruising her soft flesh. She struggled, rocking to keep him off balance. Her gaze directed downwards, she saw his feet, clad in soft leather shoes, shuffling to gain greater stability. Lucinda lifted her knee, inadvertently striking Scrugthorpe in the groin. She heard his sharp intake of breath—and brought her boot heel down with all the force she could muster, directly onto his left instep.

“
Ow!
You
bitch!
” His voice was crazed with pain.

Lucinda jerked her head up—her crown connected with Scrugthorpe's chin with a most satisfying crack. Scrugthorpe yowled. He put one hand to his foot and the other to his chin—Lucinda was free. She whisked herself away—and Mortimer grabbed her.

Furious, she beat at his hands, his face; he was no Scrugthorpe—she broke free easily enough, pushing Mortimer into a bush in the process. Gasping, dragging much needed air into her lungs, Lucinda picked up her skirts and fled onto the bridge. Behind her, Scrugthorpe, swearing foully, hobbled in pursuit.

Lucinda cast a quick glance behind—and ran faster.

She looked ahead and saw a gentleman striding onto the other end of the bridge. He was dressed neatly in riding breeches and top coat and wore Hessians. Lucinda thanked her stars and waved. “Sir!” Here, surely, was one who would aid her.

To her surprise, he stopped, standing with his feet apart, blocking the exit to the bridge. Lucinda blinked, and slowed. She halted in the centre of the bridge.

The man had a pistol in his hand.

It was, Lucinda thought, as she slowly watched it rise, one of those long-barrelled affairs gentlemen were said to use when duelling. The sun struck its silver mountings, making them gleam. Beneath her, the river gurgled onwards to the sea; in the wide sky above, the larks swooped and trilled. Distantly, she heard her name called but the cries were too weak to break the web that held her.

A chill spread over her skin.

Slowly, the pistol rose, until the barrel was level with her chest.

Her mouth dry, her heart pounding in her ears, Lucinda looked into the man's face. It was blank, expressionless. She saw his fingers shift and heard a telltale click.

A hundred yards downstream, Harry broke through the woods and gained the river path. Panting, he looked around—then glanced up at the bridge. He froze.

Two heartbeats passed as he watched his future, his life, his love—all he had ever wanted—face certain death. Salter and some of his men were on the opposite bank, closing fast, but they would never reach Joliffe in time. Still others were rushing for this end of the bridge. Harry saw the pistol level—saw the slight upward adjustment necessary to bring the aim to true.

“Lucinda!”

The cry was wrenched from him, filled with despair and rage—and something more powerful than both. It sliced through the mesmeric daze that held Lucinda.

She turned, her hand on the wooden rail—and saw Harry on the nearby shore. Lucinda blinked. Safety lay with Harry. The rail was a simple one, a single wooden top-rail supported by intermittent posts. Before her, the area below the rail was empty, open. She put both hands on the rail and let herself drop through.

She plummeted to the river as the shot rang out.

Harry watched her fall. He had no idea whether she'd been hit or not. She entered the river with a splash; when it cleared, there was no sign of her.

Cursing, Harry raced forward, scanning the river. Could she swim? He reached the bank just short of the bridge and sat down. He was tugging off one boot when Lucinda surfaced. Pushing her hair out of her eyes, she looked about and saw him. She waved, then, as if she went swimming in rivers every day, calmly stroked for shore.

Harry stared. Then, his expression hardening, he slammed his foot back in his boot. He rose and strode to the river's edge. His emotions clashing wildly, swinging from elation to rage with sufficient intensity to make him dizzy, he stood on the bank and waited for her to reach him.

He had lost Dawlish somewhere in the woods; those of Salter's people who had been near, seeing him waiting, wisely left him to it. He was distantly aware of the commotions engulfing both ends of the bridge but he didn't even spare them a glance. Later, they learned that Mr Mabberly had distinguished himself by laying Mortimer Babbacombe low while Dawlish had taken great pleasure in scientifically darkening the daylights of the iniquitous Scrugthorpe.

Gaining the shallows, Lucinda stood and glanced back at the bridge. Satisfied that her attackers were being dealt with as they deserved, she reached behind her and caught hold of her dripping hat. Tugging the wet ribbons from about her neck, she stared in dismay at the limp creation. “It's ruined!” she wailed.

Then she looked down. “And my dress!”

Harry couldn't take anymore. The damned woman had nearly got killed and all she was concerned with was the fate of her hat. He strode into the shallow water to stand towering by her side.