The Runaway Heiress (15 page)

As they browsed their way
homeward along Bond Street, they were hailed by a number of acquaintances, eager
to further their contact with the new Marchioness of Aldeborough and to
discuss the excellence of the Taverners' ball. One such was Miss Penelope
Vowchurch, who had left her mother to exchange dull pleasantries with friends
and was taking the air with a maid properly and discreetly in attendance. Her
smile was cool and her demeanour a few degrees lower, but their proximity as
she turned into Bond Street gave her no choice but to stop and converse with
the Aldeborough ladies. Her smile was welcoming, as Frances had come to expect.
Her eyes were not.

'Hello, Penelope.' Juliet
smiled with gentle malice. 'How are you after such late hours?'

'We did not stay late,'
Penelope explained calmly. 'My mama does not approve of excessive dancing or
staying up beyond midnight. Did you enjoy the ball, Frances? I expect it must
be one of the first you have attended, so unfamiliarity will give it a certain
attraction. We, I'm afraid, find them sadly crowded and a little tedious.'

'I don't. I enjoyed it
immeasurably.' Juliet was quick to pick up the nuances and took up the
challenge with enthusiasm, to Frances's amusement. 'And I'm sure Frances did
also.'

'Yes,' she agreed, 'it was
most entertaining. So many people were very kind and welcoming.'

'Of course. They would be
vastly interested in meeting you. After the news of your precipitate and
unexpected marriage. I can understand their...curiosity. May I say what a
charming dress you wore last night, dear Frances. Of course, that particular
shade of yellow and gold are difficult colours to wear and can be most insipid.
They do not suit everyone. I could not wear them.'

'Very
true, but as a married lady, Frances is blessed with the freedom to choose her
colours. I wish I could wear something other than white, but Mama insists. It
is not always flattering, as I am sure you agree, Penelope?' Juliet knew that
white flattered her very well but was not prepared to give quarter.
   

'Of course. I noticed that
you achieved a partner for every dance. I don't suppose you had much
opportunity to dance in Yorkshire.'

'I had none,' Frances
agreed, refusing to be drawn into making excuses. 'I fear my dancing will never
be as elegant as I would wish.'

'I had the benefit of a
dancing master, of course,' Penelope explained smoothly. 'A superior education
is of greatest importance for those in the highest ranks of the
ton.
Mama thought that it was essential for me
to be able to play my role in society. Aldeborough, of course, is an excellent
dancer. All Wellington's officers are, I understand. Hugh and I have often
waltzed together, at private parties, you understand. Mama does not approve of
such informality in public. Such intimacy is most improper.'

'Surely you would have
wished to waltz last night, Penelope. Everyone does so. You can hardly call it
improper these days. Even
Wellington
approves of it, after all.'

'I expect you are right.
But it does give pause for thought when you see such as Mrs Winters invited to
the Taverners' ball. I thought they would have had more discrimination, but
perhaps they merely wished to fill their rooms and be recognised as the
squeeze of the Season.
She
was waltzing, I
believe. And with Aldeborough on at least one occasion.'

'Aldeborough danced with
any number of people. As did I.'

Miss Vowchurch deftly
changed the direction of the conversation. 'I noticed that your cousin is in
town. He was introduced to me at the ball. I found him to be most charming.'

'He can be very amenable,'
Frances agreed, finding it difficult to believe that her cousin and Miss
Vowchurch had anything in common or found anything to say beyond the most
commonplace. 'I understand he will be here for a few days, but he usually
spends his time at Torrington Hall.'

'He told me something of
your background in Yorkshire. He was very informative.'

'Listening to gossip,
Penelope?' Juliet chuckled. "That does not sound like you. What would your
mama say?'

'It was not gossip, I do
assure you. It was simply family reminiscences. He told me that there had once
been an understanding between himself and you, Frances, that you would marry.'

'There was such a
proposal.' Frances was determined not to be drawn into such a discussion. 'But
no formal plans were made.'

'He was most disturbed by
the present situation. As I am. My marriage to Aldeborough was desired by both
families, of course. It was no secret.'

'Sometimes, Penelope, we
have to suffer disappointment in life.' The sparkle in Juliet's eyes showed no
sympathy.

'Indeed. You would seem to
have been well suited to your cousin, my lady. Perhaps you also enjoy life in
the country, whereas it does not suit me at all. I am definitely a town mouse,
as my mother always says.'

'Frances does like country
life.' Juliet decided to cross swords on behalf of her sister. 'She intends to
accompany Aldeborough to the Priory at the end of the week.'

'Oh?'

'It is an opportunity for
her to see more of her new home,' Juliet added by way of unnecessary
explanation.

'Have you ever been to the
Priory?' Frances asked with an air of innocence.

'I have never had that
pleasure.' The smile on Penelope's well-bred face became even more forced.

'I must persuade
Aldeborough to hold a house party in the winter season, after I have had the
opportunity to refurbish the public rooms. Perhaps you will accept an
invitation to visit us.' The nice tone of condescension that she was able to
achieve pleased Frances when she acknowledged Penelope's set expression and
the glint of temper in her fine eyes.

'That will be delightful.
When do you go?'

'Aldeborough said on
Friday.'

Miss Vowchurch laughed
with brittle humour, smoothing her kid gloves over her fingers.

'Take care if you are
travelling with Aldeborough. History sometimes has a habit of repeating
itself.'

'Forgive me.' A faint line
appeared between Frances's dark brows. 'I do not take your meaning.'

'Why, nothing of
consequence. Merely that travel is so dangerous these days. I travel as little
as necessary outside

London. Ah! Look.' She
raised her hand in greeting. 'Here is Lady Sefton. I must speak with her—a
message from my mama. Enjoy your stay in rural tranquillity, my lady.' She
extended an elegant hand in farewell. 'I look forward to hearing all about it
when you return. And your plans for the Priory, of course.'

She turned to cross the
street, the feathers on her satin straw bonnet nodding gracefully.

'And what do you suppose
she meant by that cryptic comment?' Frances raised her eyebrows at Juliet's
animated face.

'I have no idea.' Juliet shrugged
with another crow of laughter. 'But I'm sure it was intended to cause trouble.
I have never met anyone who can say so little and so pleasantly and intend so
much harm. Do you think we managed to inflict on her as much discomfort as she
intended for you?'

'I expect so. Juliet, you
are incorrigible!'

'I know. But I could not
allow her to patronise you so. Mama is bad enough.'

You showed a great gift
for innuendo! I must remember not to cross you.'

'You must not mind her,
you know, Frances.' Juliet took her arm in a warm embrace. 'It is simply a case
of overwhelming jealousy. She had staked her future on being Marchioness, and
now she is left in the unenviable position of having no suitor. And considering
the family's financial situation, she is not likely to find another one very
easily who will suit her mama. She has very high expectations. To give him his
due, I don't believe that Hugh ever did intend to marry her and I think Richard
only did so because Mama wanted it and he could not be bothered to obstruct
her.'

'They are very alike, are
they not? Your mama and Penelope.'

'Yes. What was it she
called herself? A town mouse! A rat more like!'

The two ladies laughed in
perfect understanding.

'I am truly grateful,'
Juliet concluded as they turned back towards Cavendish Square, 'that you
rescued us from the prospect of Penelope as a member of the family. I think we
shall always be in your debt, my dear sister.'

Chapter
Eight

Frances
clung to the leather strap to prevent herself from being flung to the floor
with every lurch and shudder of the coach. For the past several hours, since
leaving York, they had bumped and swayed over the rutted track that provided
the main road to Aldeborough Priory. This stretch was never easy, but inclement
spring weather had churned it into a disaster of mud, mire and puddle. The
coach was as comfortable as she had come to expect—her husband inevitably travelled
in style—but its hard springing and the rigid cushions made such lengthy
journeys exhausting. This did not depress Frances in any way. She smoothed her
fingers over the soft fur rug tucked round her knees against the sharp draughts
and rested her head as comfortably as possible against the padded squabs.
Within two hours they would be at Aldeborough. Her spirits were high, buoyed up
by the prospect of varied scenery, compensating for her physical discomfort.

And
by the presence of Aldeborough. She had expected him to ride beside the coach
as was his wont and as he had on their previous journey together to London.
Instead he had opted to accompany her inside, his riding horse tied to the rear
of the coach, while the rest of their luggage followed with Webster some
distance behind at a more leisurely pace. Aldeborough travelled fast. If she
had expected him to entertain her with conversation or comments on their
surroundings, she had been wrong. Aldeborough was asleep, and had been for
more than an hour, braced into the corner, one booted foot firmly planted on
the seat opposite.

I don't know how you can
possibly sleep through all this, she accused him silently, aggrieved, as they
laboured out of yet another pothole. But she took the opportunity and indeed,
pleasure to study his relaxed form at leisure. His strong hands lay at ease on
his thigh. His figure was shrouded in a voluminous caped travelling coat, but
by now she knew the set of his broad shoulders and well co-ordinated limbs. His
expression in repose was stern, his mouth unsmiling with fine lines at the
corner that gave him an air of worldly cynicism. It was a compelling face of
flat planes and shadowy hollows with the faintest frown between his well-marked
brows. His dark hair, thick and with a tendency to curl, gleaming like silk in
a sudden intrusive shaft of sunlight, created in Frances the desire to run her
fingers through it. She felt a warm flush invade her body at the train of her
thoughts. She knew the intimate touch of those hands and lips, the virile
strength of that well-muscled body. Her thoughts kept returning to that night
after the Taverners' ball—and subsequent nights when he had come to her bed and
welcoming arms. Her experiences had been in no way unpleasant, awakening even.
She remembered the sensations with shocked pleasure as she had been persuaded
to relax and respond to Aldeborough's expert attentions. So what were her
feelings for him now? She bit her lip. She supposed she trusted him. And he had
been so gentle and considerate. And he had turned her blood to molten gold with
his caresses. She felt her blush deepen and was relieved that he could not read
her thoughts. How could such an intimate act have given her so much pleasure
rather than the fear and embarrassment of their previous encounters? But it
had.

But what of him? She
frowned at his oblivious figure. If rumour were true, with his wide experience
of the female sex, he had probably not given her a second thought except what
was demanded for duty and to achieve an heir to the title. And of course there
was still the unresolved matter of Mrs Letitia Winters with her golden curls
and enticing figure. Aldeborough had not denied her angry accusations after
all. And yet he had seemed to care when he smoothed her scars with such gentle
fingers. And such scorching kisses.

Stop it! she chided
herself as her thoughts went round in circles. He doesn't care for you. You are
a burden and a means to an end, tied into a marriage of convenience in its
truest sense. How could you possibly allow yourself to be won over by a
handsome face and a wealth of worldly experience. You would be foolish to
think in that direction. She deliberately turned her face away from her
companion to stare blindly at the scenery that she had once thought so
entertaining.

The coach began to climb
steadily to the edge of the Wolds, after the drear expanse of the Vale of York,
with even more jolting, forcing Frances to brace her aching muscles once more.
Their speed dropped considerably, but the crest of the Wolds was in sight. They
would soon be home. Suddenly her confused thoughts about Aldeborough were shattered
by a loud oath from Benson on the box while the groom who rode beside him
leaned down, at great risk to his own safety, to shout through the open window
of the coach.

'Four riders ahead,
Captain—m'lord. Been there some time an' all. By yonder copse on the brow,
d'you see. Don't like the look of them m'self.'

Aldeborough was instantly
awake, pushing his fingers through his hair and leaning to look out at the
groom's direction.

'They're coming this way,
Captain. What d'you want for us to do?'

'Keep driving.'
Aldeborough's response was as calm as if engaged in a discussion of the
weather. 'It is too dangerous to outrun them on this road anyway, even if we
could. We would smash a wheel or injure one of the horses in these potholes.
Let's see what they want. And, Jed...'

'Yes, m'lord?'

'Keep your pistols to
hand!'

Frances leaned over to
follow his gaze. The four riders were unremarkable. Their clothing was plain
and sombre with dark hats and coats. Nothing to attract attention except their
presence on a lonely road and their watchful attitude. She felt an immediate
flutter of apprehension, of fear, but remained silent, trying admirably to keep
her composure and merely glancing enquiringly at Aldeborough.

His grey eyes were cold and
sharply calculating. 'I don't like the look of this,' he admitted. 'Here!'

He rummaged behind one of
the squabs and withdrew a brace of pistols from a hidden compartment, one of
which he gave to Frances. 'It is primed and loaded. Use it if you have to. And
with intent. You cannot afford to be squeamish. Can I trust you not to have a
maidenly attack of the vapours?'

'I have never had an
attack of the vapours in my life!'

He smiled at her
indignation and proceeded to give her instructions, terse but calm, and Frances
responded with a mute nod of understanding. The other pistol he wedged carefully
on the floor beneath the seat, within reach from the door. Then he stretched
across and took Frances by the arm, pulling her from the seat and on to the
floor.

'Keep your head down. They
may not see you to begin with and that could be to our advantage. Do you
understand?' He scanned her face searchingly. She nodded again, ignoring her
trembling hands, and tried to swallow the lump of terror that had lodged in her
throat. 'Good. Don't worry. We will come out of this in one piece.' He touched
her cheek fleetingly and returned to his own seat.

Immediately a shot rang
out. The coachman began to pull his horses to a standstill, fighting to curb
them as they plunged and reared in reaction to the loud retort. Muffled shouts
were evident and then a clear voice issued orders.

'Be still! Don't move or
we'll open fire. No tricks now— there's more of us than there are of you an'
we're not averse
to some target practice, are
we, lads? Throw down your pistols. Gently now. That's right.'

The coach lumbered to a
stop. Aldeborough still waited
,
making no move
other than to signal to Frances to remain
where
she was at his feet. The voice rang out again.

'My lord Aldeborough!'

He smiled briefly and
reassuringly at Frances, opened the coach door and leapt down into the road in
one fluid movement. Before him were the four riders, blocking any further
movement from the coach and all brandishing pistols.

'My lord Aldeborough?'
their spokesman queried again, but he was clearly in no doubt. Aldeborough
flourished an arrogant bow in his direction.

'At your service, sirs.'

'We've been expecting you,
isn't that right, lads?'

'And how might I help?
Jewels? Money? I fear that you are bound to be disappointed. I travel light.'

'Now what makes you so
sure that we're common robbers, your honour?' The rider leaned forward on his
horse's withers, waving the pistol and grinning at his companions. 'We'll be
well paid for today's work. We don't need your money.'

'I am, you will notice,
unarmed. Which should make your task so much easier.' Aldeborough spread his
arms wide, displaying nothing but cold detachment, certainly not the fear that
was paralysing Frances as she listened to the exchange.

'All to our advantage,
then. And where's your pretty little wife? Not with you?'

'No. I travel alone.'

'Now that's a pity. We
expected both of you.'

Frances was still
half-lying in an uncomfortable huddle oil the floor of the coach. She could
hear the conversation clearly and, if she raised herself a little on her left
elbow, could see the head and shoulders of the horseman through the coach
window. He was as yet unaware of her presence, as Aldeborough had gambled,
concentrating on his quarry. She was contemplating her best move, fighting down
the surge of panic, when what she saw next made her blood run cold through her
veins. The rider raised his pistol to shoulder height and aimed it deliberately
at Aldeborough's heart.

'A pity you'll not live to
enjoy your ungodly, ill-gotten gains,' he mocked with a sneer. 'You seem to
have made one enemy too many, my lord.'

'Very probably. Perhaps I
should have lived a more virtuous existence. As you obviously are.' Frances
winced in some anxiety at Aldeborough's deliberate provocation. 'And which
particular enemy did you have in mind? Who is paying you for this act of
righteous revenge?'

'Not
your concern,' he snarled. 'You'll soon have no interest in anything other
than the fires of Hell, will he, lads?'

'Let's
finish it.' One of the other riders, keeping the coachman and groom covered,
shifted in his saddle uncomfortably. 'We've been here too long.'

The
rider in Frances's sights grunted in agreement, checked his aim and cocked his
pistol. She dared hesitate no longer. Without further thought she raised and
cocked her own pistol, praying that the sharp click would not carry, took a
minimum of aim through the coach window, held her breath and pulled the trigger.
The shot reverberated deafeningly round her in the confines of the coach. She
could not see the result of her action since the recoil threw her back on to
the floor, but the result outside was instant pandemonium. The rider dropped
his pistol with a sharp cry, clapping his hand to his chest and fighting to
keep control of his horse, which shied violently. Aldeborough immediately
launched himself towards the open coach door, leaning inside and snatching up
the second pistol from where he had hidden it beneath the seat. All in one
smooth movement he fell to his knees and aimed at the second rider who was
approaching rapidly, pistol raised, to finish off the job where his compatriot
had failed. At the crack of Aldeborough's own weapon he fell to the ground and
lay motionless in the mud as his horse made its escape. Meanwhile, galvanised
into action by the sudden turn of events, the coachman raised his long whip and
brought it down again and again on the head and shoulders of the third rider.

There
was still one armed rider who had them at his mercy. Aldeborough, with no
firearm for his protection, remained on his knees beside the coach as the rider
circled cautiously round to the opposite side, leaning from his horse to peer
through the window and so catching sight of Frances cowering on the floor. She
saw his face suddenly split by a grin of malicious satisfaction as he realised
that he still held a trump card.

'Stand up, my lord,' he
shouted. There's no hiding. Stand up and be seen or I'll shoot your fair companion
'ere.'

There was a moment of
terrible silence. There was no questioning his intention as he levelled his
pistol into the interior of the coach. He could not possibly miss Frances from
this range. She closed her eyes and waited, praying that Aldeborough would not
expose himself to sure death, praying for a miracle to save herself.

Then a maelstrom of events
erupted round her. Aldeborough rose to his feet and stepped from the shelter
of the coach to draw the rider's attention from Frances. The groom leapt from
the box and attacked the whip-beleaguered rider with blows to legs and body. As
the fourth assassin aimed his pistol away from Frances towards the now
vulnerable Aldeborough, there came the unmistakable sound of horses' hooves,
pounding the road surface in the distance but coming rapidly closer. Frances
rose to her knees, dragging her hampering skirts around her, and launched
herself to fall out of the coach and land on the floor at her husband's feet.
Without thought for her own safety, her heart thudding loudly in her chest, she
steadied herself against the rear wheel and flung her useless pistol with all
her strength into the face of their attacker. Her aim was not true, but it had
the desired effect. The marksman reacted automatically in surprise, dropping
his aim and pulling up his horse's head sharply. Aldeborough saw his chance to
grasp the horse's bridle and drag on the rider's arm to spoil his aim and
attempt to unseat him. In the background the hoofbeats grew louder, three
figures bearing down on them, everything happening so quickly but to Frances
seemingly to stretch for a lifetime.

A distant shout from the
rescuers carried on the air. The two uninjured riders realised that escape was
now in their best interests. One untangled himself with a string of oaths from
the coachman's whip and the groom's blows, the other pulled free from
Aldeborough's grip by using the horse's shoulder to pin him to the side of the
coach. Aldeborough had no option but to release him or be crushed by half a ton
of horseflesh so that, by the time the newcomers arrived on the scene, the
riders had made off to the crest of the Wolds, leaving two of their number
lying in the mud.