The Matchmaker's Match (22 page)

“Why would you suppose that?” He walked toward Jack’s shop. Lady Amelia shadowed him.

“Because it is altogether strange. I’d like to speak with the man fixing it.”

Spencer gestured to a doorway. “After you, my lady.”

“This is it?”

“My old friend is handy with many things, including fixing curricles.” He followed Lady Amelia into the store, appreciating his friend’s tidy place. The sweet smell of freshly cut lumber greeted him, mingling with the familiar odor of earth.

“You here, Jack?”

“In the back,” a faint voice answered.

Spencer followed the sound to a door set at the rear of the store. Twisting the knob, he stepped into an outside workshop. Pieces of lumber littered the sparse grass. Jack bent over a rough-hewn table covered in oddly shaped tools. Fixing things had never been a gift of Spencer’s. He held the highest esteem for those who worked with their hands.

“Ye here to pick up yer fancy rig?” The words floated over, muted by the position of Jack’s body.

“Is it ready?”

“Aye, my lord. I parked her ’round the side of my store.”

“None of that ‘my lord’ nonsense when we’re alone, Jack.”

His old friend straightened, his crooked smile showing off his missing teeth. “It’s a mite silly calling someone whose face you’ve crushed ‘my lord.’”

“Rightly so,” Spencer agreed, trying to dodge the memory of that particular pugilistic round. “Let’s just call a childhood full of dogs and mud holes reason enough to stay on first-name basis.”

“As ye wish, Spencer.”

He felt Lady Amelia’s perusal, but she said nothing. “Jack, this is Lady Amelia Baxter.”

“Pleased be, my lady.” Jack inclined his head.

“You’ve a lovely shop,” she said.

“Thank you, my lady.”

“And what do I owe you?” asked Spencer. An itch between his shoulder blades warned him to leave before Lady Amelia was involved further. She had wandered to the other side of the room to inspect rocking chairs.

Jack waved his hand. “Not a farthing. I’m just glad ye and yer visitors weren’t hurt.” A sly look crossed his face, and he lowered his voice. “The young lady anyone particularly special?”

Amelia? She was special, but did Jack mean marriageable? No... Spencer wanted to shake his head, but the thought of marrying her took him by surprise. Certainly he’d thought of her in a serious way briefly. He’d pushed the matter aside, but now...she could be the answer to all his problems.

Or she could start more.

He dared not forget her dangerous exploits or bluestocking notions. Would she be content to live in a village like this? Surrounded by country?

“A family friend,” he finally said. “Look, Jack, I’ve a question about that carriage of mine. Were you able to surmise the cause of the accident?”

“I did, my friend. Though I wasn’t sure how to tell ye...” Jack’s trailing-off words and averted eyes confirmed Spencer’s suspicions.

“Tampered with. Am I correct?” His fingers flexed against his waistcoat as anger filled him.

“Aye, my lord. By people not trying to hide that they’d done so, either.” Jack walked to another table at the side of the lawn. “Ye see this?” he asked, bringing up a large beam. “It be yer axle. And here’s where it was cut almost completely through.”

Spencer peered at the thin line running through the wood. This was more than tampering. This was a message.

“Someone wants you dead.” Jack echoed what he was thinking.

“Who?” Lady Amelia demanded. She’d returned just in time to hear exactly what Spencer hadn’t wanted her to hear. “I’m putting my runner on this immediately.”

Not if he had anything to say about it. Spencer cleared his throat. “I insist on paying you, Jack. How much?”

“Nay.” Grunting, Jack hefted the wood back into a pile of other mismatched pieces. A gold band encircled his fourth finger.

“Are you married?” The question sputtered out before Spencer could stop it.

“Over a year now. ’Twas the best decision I ever made. She’s my love, my dearest friend.”

“How very romantic.” Lady Amelia sounded a quite chipper for someone who’d just escaped with her life intact.

“Good for you.” Spencer clapped him on the back, but his insides felt queasy. Would he ever feel that way about someone? Did he want to? That required vulnerability, a trust he didn’t know if he could muster.

“Get yerself a wife.” Jack nodded firmly as though it were a done deal. “You’ll be a happier man for it.”

“Believe me,” Lady Amelia asserted, “he shall have one within the fortnight.”

* * *

“A runner is unnecessary.”

Amelia peered up at the sky, considering Ashwhite’s words. They were riding home now. The clouds hung low, and wisps drifted toward the ground like searching anchors. Every so often a low rumble shook the air around them. Her body ached in too many places to count, but she was happy she’d set out this morning.

If not, she might never have discovered that someone had tried to kill them.

“While I appreciate your opinion, you must understand that Mr. Ladd has resources we cannot come by. He is utterly trustworthy.”

“How did you guess about the carriage?” Ashwhite’s voice carried dark and tight with tension. Almost as dangerous as the clouds overhead.

She eyed him carefully. “Surely you noticed the coincidence? We stop Lord Dudley in his criminalistic tracks, and suddenly your curricle, emblazoned with your crest, is breaking apart on the road. I certainly don’t believe a marquis owns a faulty carriage. Even if you do, I feel better acquiring information on Lord Dudley and his whereabouts. Mr. Ladd has sources in places I dare not venture...” She trailed off, not liking the expression Lord Ashwhite wore. “Is there a problem, my lord?”

Was it her imagination, or did his jaw tighten?

“Put your man on it, then. I don’t like you associating with Mr. Ladd, but your instincts are correct. The carriage was tampered with, and it’s best to figure out who did it and why before any other
accidents
occur.”

“Whatever do you mean, you do not like my associating with him? I hardly think it’s your concern.” Perhaps it was hunger or fatigue, but a distinct sense of annoyance was overtaking her.

“It’s not for a woman of your station.” He gave her a very deliberate look, as though trying to make her feel guilty.

Of all the underhanded things to do... Adjusting her spectacles, she looked down the length of her nose at him...though she had to lift her chin first. “I shall let you know when Mr. Ladd responds. I’ll direct him to send the answer to my brother, since I’m sure I’ll be to his estate by tomorrow evening.”

“If you insist, madam.” Lord Ashwhite’s tone was cold.

He evidently didn’t like her manner, but neither did she care for his. How dare he insinuate that she must answer to him, and worse, that her behavior was unladylike? Especially after the way he’d cared for her... Her insides warmed as she remembered his tender looks. It was like something from one of her novels.

The heroine in need of rescue. The dashing hero in the right place at altogether the right time. Unbidden, a sigh slipped from her lips.

Lord Ashwhite drew his horse close to hers. “Pray tell, have I vexed you with my words?”

“Balderdash,” she said briskly, thankful he couldn’t know her thoughts. There was no need for him to realize that she enjoyed a good romance as much in reality as in fiction. “I simply hope you understand that my activities are not up for debate. We shall get along fine once you accept that.”

The dreadful oaf chuckled.

Evidently he thought her words funny. Irritated once more, she spurred her mount ahead. “If we are to beat these storm clouds, we must hurry.”

“It’s getting dark. Galloping is risky. Slow down. Settle for an even canter.”

Of course, he was right. Gritting her teeth, she pulled back on the reins until her mare was neck to neck with his.

“When I find a wife, my situation will be fixed.”

He sounded pensive. Amelia frowned.

“What I don’t understand is why my parents created such a quandary.”

“Your parents?” She dared a look at his fine profile.

“I know the responsibilities of running the estate. My father trained me, and I’ve taken over the duties at various times in the past years. So what is the use of a wife? The coffers are full. I looked at the books last night to double-check.” He barked out a short laugh. The wind scooped it up and tossed it behind them, but the echo of his unhappiness remained. “It is just another way my father wanted to control me, and he’s certainly had the last laugh.”

“Do you truly believe that?” Troubled, Amelia guided her horse over a fallen log. She didn’t remember the chunk of wood being there this morning.

“Yes.” Ahead of her, Spencer ducked a low-hanging branch. His horse let out a nervous whinny at the clouds above. The air had thickened, cloying. Humidity blanketed Amelia, coaxing a sheen of sweat to her skin. Thunder clapped suddenly, startling her. Her mount pranced nervously, sidestepping another fallen branch.

What had been heat a moment ago swept away in a gust of cool air. The hairs on Amelia’s arms lifted, and a tremor shuddered through her. Weather like this meant danger. She scanned the road ahead. Limbs littered it, strewn by an unruly wind. Treetops whipped against a charcoal-streaked sky. Their dissonant movements created a strange synchronicity.

All her concerns fled, replaced by the certainty that, halfway between home and town, they’d better find some cover. Her horse backed up, snorting unsteady breaths.

Beside her, Spencer’s was equally discomfited.

“Shh,” Amelia soothed. She patted her mare’s flanks, all the while searching for a low area, a dip in the land, somewhere to crouch before the clouds really did touch the ground. Because her horse kept up the nervous dance, she slid off.

“Good idea,” Spencer shouted above the wind. He dismounted as well and brought his horse nearer. “No sense in getting thrown. Let the horses find their way home. We won’t be able to hold them during a tornado.”

He grabbed her reins.

“What...no.” She reached for them but it was too late. As soon as the horses felt slack, they galloped off, tossing their heads, eyes bulging.

Amelia’s skirts whipped against her skin with frightening velocity. Could they survive something like this? Fear pumped through her in waves, weakening her knees and tightening her vocal cords.

“There’s a ditch here somewhere.” Lord Ashwhite grabbed her hand. The steady warmth of his grip quieted her nerves. She followed him across the debris-strewn road. A windswept branch rammed into her shin.

Lord Ashwhite squeezed her hand as if apologizing, but kept going. As they reached the edge of the road, the wind moaned, a long, keening sound like a maiden in distress. The noise pierced Amelia’s ears. Long grasses lashed against her skirts.

“Look!” Spencer pointed to his right.

A bruised cloud swayed against the sky, lengthening into a wispy curl that gathered strength and density. It caressed the horizon and then receded. The cloud dropped again. And stayed, turning the trademark funnel into a twister.

If there had been a hollow place in Amelia’s faith, it was no more. She prayed as she dropped to her knees.

Chapter Eighteen

S
pencer grumbled the entire way home. Mud clung to his clothes, heavy and smelling strongly of manure. His hair was plastered against his cheeks, which stung from multiple scratches he’d received while clutching a solid oak.

Sore and ornery, Spencer trudged up his driveway. The twister had missed them by the grace of God. They’d been scared witless, hiding in a hole near a tree with only roots to anchor them. Prayers had poured from his mouth. And God had saved him. His chest burned. Probably had a cracked rib or two. Wouldn’t be the first time. When he reached the front door and rang, silence was his only answer.

“They all must still be in the cellar,” said Lady Amelia.

“Yes,” he answered, and his heart beat more quickly as he looked at her. She was both frightful and beautiful. Like a picture splashed with paint in all the right places. Despite the dirt on her face and the twigs in her hair, despite the scowl that matched his own, her hand had not left his the entire way home.

Little had been said as they walked. He supposed holding on to each other and a tree while the world blew away tended to do that to a person.

He glanced out across his property, wincing at the work to be done in the following days. He prayed his people were safe. Turning the latch, he gestured for Lady Amelia to enter.

She stopped in the entryway. She turned to him, eyes alight. “Do you smell that?”

The aroma of baking bread tickled his senses, sweet and heady and so thick his mouth watered. His stomach let out an answering growl.

He aimed for the kitchen, taking the servants’ hallway because it was faster. Lady Amelia was quick on his heels. He pushed open the door and stopped. What greeted him was a mass of servants, maybe the entire household, gathered around a large plank table. His mother sat at the head, but when she heard his entry, her head whipped up.

Tears filled her eyes. “You’re alive!”

“Of course I am.” The words barely left his mouth, and she was upon him, her perfume familiar and comforting. “Did you miss me?”

“Cad.” She drew back and lightly slapped his shoulder. Sniffling, she managed a smile. “We hadn’t a clue where you were or what...oh.” She brought her hand to her nose as their odor filtered through her joy.

“We found a hole to sit in.” Grinning ruefully, he gave her one last hug. “Do you mind if we snag a bit of bread before cleaning up?”

“Certainly.” His mother led them to the table where the servants ate. Now was no time for formality.

Lady Amelia sat down and buried her head in her arms. “That was a horrible experience,” she said, voice muffled.

He agreed.

“My lady.” Dukes came to their table, his face haggard. The man’s suffering was in his eyes. He wrung a handkerchief round about in his hands.

“Dukes.” She lifted her head, and Spencer’s heart twisted at the pain on her face.