Authors: Elle Q. Sabine
“Who is it?” Abigail asked dully.
Meriden’s grimace frightened Abigail.
“
Who?
” she demanded.
“Peter Devon,” he answered after another pause.
“Oh, my
God
.” Abigail clutched the armchair and stared, her world tilting. She’d agreed to marry Meriden to protect Genevieve from a dangerous, bad-tempered suitor. But now? Now, she’d have given anything to switch places with her sister. Meriden was all that was honourable and generous, despite his moodiness and occasional temper. Sir Peter Devon was another matter entirely. He was a rake of the first order, twice Genevieve’s age and known for seducing young matrons and debutante innocents alike, and his hobbies tended towards heavy gaming and horse-betting. Barely welcome in the polite circles of Abigail’s world, he was allowed to prowl only in his mother’s ballroom. Lady Theresa Fleming still welcomed her son, even during morning calls, though she was first to pronounce his behaviour as disgraceful.
From Meriden’s reluctance, even he knew how unsavoury the connection was. “I have to confess, I don’t understand at all how Gloria landed a future duke, when you and your sister seem to have acquired temperamental, disliked gentlemen. Devon’s entire post-war life may be summed up as a gambler who probably cheated Prinny at cards to get knighted.” His voice was wry but Abigail looked up in dismay.
“You’re not temperamental,” she objected hotly. “And if you’re disliked, it’s because you won’t let anyone close enough to see your generous nature.”
“It’s possible Devon’s not as bad as he’s perceived either, then,” Meriden told her gently. “Time will tell.”
“March is mean, as I said yesterday,” Abigail sniffed. “The tiara aside, I doubt many young women would want to have to endure his frank crudeness and lack of tact on a daily basis. Indeed, I’m sure that Gloria is scheming to keep him in his place.”
“Well, you’ve done the best of the lot, then,” Meriden smiled down at her.
“She’s my baby sister.” Abigail winced. “And she’s not ready for this. Who’s going to explain things and help her? She doesn’t have Aunt Betsy beside her as a godmother—Aunt Marcella might help, but I doubt she’d think of it.”
“She has your mother,” Meriden pointed out.
Abigail’s laugh was hollow. “No, Charles, that’s not what I mean. Mother may plan the wedding, but Genevieve won’t know
anything
walking into her wedding night. And she’s
sixteen
. She’ll be terrified, or go to bed innocent and wake up to an absolutely shocking experience.” Abigail’s voice shook a little. “Somehow I don’t see Sir Peter going in for the sort of patience and tact you’ve shown.”
Abigail was pale, she knew it, and she felt stifled. The room wasn’t hot, but she was. Charles looked at her tenderly but with a deep compassion she couldn’t help but notice. “There’s not much you’ll be able to do about that, love.” Charles grimaced. “Even if you could manage to write things down and I sent it down straight away, she’d get it late on Monday or early on Tuesday. In any event, they’ve scheduled the wedding for Wednesday, the day after ours. March and Gloria will wed on Thursday.”
Abigail swallowed hard. “I will
never
forgive my father for this,” she said in a sudden burst of anger, standing up and practically seething with it. “
Never
. He did not have to take this course. Genevieve
has
a dowry and it’s
safe
.”
“It’s possible Devon lured your father into gambling,” Meriden speculated.
“Even so Father couldn’t use her funds to pay him off. Neither could she. She can’t touch it.” Abigail frowned, her eyes glinting. “Aunt Betsy and Aunt Marcella are the executors of the trust. Even if Genevieve marries Sir Peter, he can’t touch her money without my aunts, not until she’s twenty-two.”
“I’m sure there will be more to come—more explanation, I mean,” Meriden said, pulling her close. “For now, we’ve two hours until you meet with your aunt about the wedding arrangements. I propose you go and change, I’ll call for horses, and we’ll go for a ride. You need to work off some of that very righteous anger.”
“Aunt Betsy is going to be horrified,” Abigail groaned. She sighed. “All right. I
do
want to write to Genevieve today, though.”
Meriden glanced at the clock. “You sit down directly after dinner and write, and I’ll send it off first thing in the morning, dear, with my usual packet to Rutherford. He’ll see it delivered to Genevieve, no matter where she is. That will be faster than the post. And tell her,” he said seriously, tipping Abigail’s face up so that their eyes met, “tell her she is always welcome to seek refuge here. Always. Anytime. For any reason.”
Abigail blinked back the tears. She whispered a brief, “Thank you,” against his lips and backed away.
“Fifteen minutes, Abby-heart.” Meriden smiled, handing her the boxed coronet and patting her bottom as she turned. “Go on.”
She made it down the stairs in thirteen minutes, actually, still buttoning her riding gloves at the wrists.
Abigail was not surprised to find a small, frisky mare waiting beside Charger outside. She greeted the horse enthusiastically as Meriden came down the stairs in her wake, then looked up and smiled at him gloriously, letting her pleasure show. “What’s her name?” she asked. Even knowing nothing of horseflesh, she could see the animal was sleek and strong, with a beautiful, dark red coat, darker mane and tail.
He paused, then smiled at her. “That’s up to you,” he answered. “The day after your last adventure, I sent Patrick off to Birmingham. He brought her back yesterday.”
“Didn’t she have a name before?” Abigail looked disapproving, letting the horse nuzzle the inside of her elbow. “I’m going to have to bring you apples and carrots, hmm? Or do you like sugar cubes?” she asked the beast.
The mare seemed to approve, whinnying and snorting. Meriden took Abigail by the waist and lifted her up to find her seat in the saddle, helped her to adjust her knee around the pommel, then arranged her skirts.
Abigail looked down at him and sighed. “I can do that,” she reminded him gently.
“But I want to,” he returned. Stepping back, he mounted Charger and led the way out, leaving Abigail to follow behind him.
Without further comment, Abigail frowned. She wanted to sink back into shock and dismay, but suspected that Meriden knew what he was about in attempting to distract her. He had an hour and a half left to enjoy her company—he wouldn’t want to waste any of it dwelling on sensitive, artistic, gentle Genevieve.
Once in the lane, she leant forwards and gave the mare its head. The horse lengthened its stride, streaking ahead in a freeing flight. Behind her, she heard Charger and Meriden, but the sounds whipped in the cold breeze.
Only when they reached the point where the lane divided did she draw the mare back. In one direction, Abigail knew, was the village. Where the other direction led to, she couldn’t be sure.
Meriden pulled up beside her, looked around, then smiled at her, warming her more than the ride itself had done. “I propose we tap on Mrs Peacock’s gate and see if the biscuits are fresh, my dear.”
Abigail giggled, almost like a girl, and waved her hand. “I don’t know which one is hers. You’d better lead.” She waved him forward.
He laughed and held Charger so that they trotted together, reaching out comfortably to hold Abigail’s gloved hand on the reins. She sighed and looked at him with laughing consternation. “I’m not having a pony lesson, you know. I thought you’d decided I was competent.”
“It’s not that,” he grumbled, but he released her. “I just wanted to be supportive. Helpful.”
Abigail looked up at him, unable to contain her happiness. “You haven’t been anything other than supportive and helpful.”
A half-hour and several biscuits later, Meriden kissed Mrs Peacock’s hand and patted it gently. “Go on in, now,” he told the elderly woman gently. “You’ll catch a cold out here.”
Her eyes sparkling, Mrs Peacock nodded, patted the earl’s hand and brushed her cheek against Abigail’s ruddy one. The breeze was cooling more, and the old lady turned to go into the house. Taking Abigail’s hand, Meriden stepped away from the gate and together they turned to cross the street to where the horses were waiting.
A racing brace of black, squealing horses exploded from the edge of Abigail’s vision. Abigail shrieked and Meriden looked up in time to see a wagon pulled by four horses headed towards them, out of control. To her shock, he jerked Abigail into his arms, then tossed her over the gate onto Mrs Peacock’s protected, carefully planted lawn. To her horror, he crossed in front of them, and was astride Charger by the time they roared past, still screaming.
“Stay there!” he called to her, ripping away the reins.
Before she could answer, he was racing after them. Heedless of his warning, she fought the latch, then ran to the mare, stopping only when she realised she had no way to mount.
Behind her, she could hear the thudding of running boots and hooves. She looked up to see the villagers coming. There were a few on older horses, but most were on foot. How they would catch up, she couldn’t see. Danvers, covered in dust, stopped beside her, immediately dropping his hands.
Unhesitating, Abigail put her boot in his hands and lifted herself into her saddle. “Meriden’s after them,” she said crisply. “No one else will catch that wagon.”
“We know.” Danvers grimaced. “But we still have to chase it, until they stop or crash into a ditch somewhere. It will be a bloody mess.”
Abigail’s jaw dropped. She lifted the reins.
“Tell him we’re coming—Franklin is getting out his dray and we’ll be along, in case a doctor is needed.”
Unspeaking, Abigail compressed her lips and nodded, even as she nudged the horse forward. In front of her, the men rushed to the side and she pushed the horse through, faster than she’d ever ridden before.
Chapter Fifteen
Charles pulled hard on the reins and sawed the brake, struggling to bring the horses to a halt. He’d caught them easily enough—Charger was a fast, pounding stallion, and these four were hardly thoroughbreds, plus they were pulling a wagon. The leaders had sensibly stayed on the road, so he’d ridden right up to the side of the wagon, jumped into the long empty bed, then climbed up to the seat. They were already tiring.
At the end of the road, he slowed them by turning them into the lane that ran to Meriden Park. They responded, but continued running, though at a more controlled pace, until they eventually came to a halt in the middle of the road.
He debated, then turned them into the Park’s forecourt to turn them and head back to the village. What he’d really prefer to do was turn the reins over to another and go back for Abby—she’d looked shocked and scared when he’d tossed her over the fence and taken off running.
Charles laughed inwardly. What he wanted was to go and rescue her, to enact the role of daring white knight so that she’d look at him with all the devotion expressed in romantic folklore. Rescuing her and reassuring her that they were both safe was another excuse to kiss her, nothing less, but it would do.
He picked up the reins and sent the horses forward again, this time firmly in control.
Just as he was pulling back into the lane to head back to the village, a horse came within sight. The rider was low to the head, coming on fast, with Charger in his wake.
Her wake.
Charles blinked and stood up, nearly startling the skittish horses again. He pulled them to a complete stop, his jaw tight and expression grim, even as Abby pulled up and straightened, slowing the mare to a more sedate pace. Behind her, Charger also slowed and Charles snorted. His damn horse was infatuated with the pretty red mare.
As soon as she could see him clearly, she smiled brilliantly, the relief on her face apparent.
Charles could hardly think. He’d told her to stay there, at Mrs Peacock’s. What if things hadn’t worked out and she’d come upon them just like this, with the horses out of control? Or if they’d crashed, she would have had to see the horrifying results. Chasing down mad horses was no place for Abigail.
He clenched his jaw, holding in his reaction. She had no idea of the danger she had courted, and he’d be damned if he scared her by saying it or damned if he let her think she could do it again.
The bloody woman didn’t stop well out of the way. She and Charger trotted right past the devilish blacks to the side of the wagon. He looked at her furiously, demanded, “Get behind me, Abigail,
now
, before they bolt again!”
Abigail’s smile drained away, and Charles felt a moment of gut-wrenching guilt followed by a sense of relief when she had actually done as he’d asked. Even while quietly furious with her, he could see the indignation rising in her face.
In front of him, the local blacksmith was softly approaching. He took hold of the lead horses, and with relief, Charles dropped the reins and jumped down from the box. “What happened?” he demanded, as other villagers shuffled up.
A few of the men looked at each other, but it was the tavern keeper, Johnson, who spoke up. “They hauled in the ale, same as always, milord. I saw Mitch”—he waved his hand at a pale man Charles didn’t recognise—“tie ‘em up myself out front, and he was careful makin’ a good knot. He was inside with me when it happened. Don’t know what spooked ‘em but they shot out into the main street before anyone could make a move to stop ‘em.”
The large, beefy man named Mitch nodded. “That’s exactly it,” he agreed. “After they ran, I stopped and checked the ropes. I’d tied both the leaders, the ropes is there. It looks like someone untied ‘em, to me. They don’t spook easily, so whatever startled ‘em, I think it was deliberate, like.”
Charles blanched. He’d had Abigail standing in the road with Mrs Peacock for long minutes. But he shook his head. It couldn’t have been. He looked back at Johnson. “Anything going on I should know about?” he asked softly. “Or strangers around?”
Meriden was the local magistrate, though he was rarely called upon for any official duty. But Johnson shook his head. “I ain’t seen no strangers beyond the usual passers-by and ’twasn’t the right time of day for anyone like that to be lookin’ for a bed for the night.”