“The man in the inn had it right. You can’t be accused of being honeyed. So if those men aren’t after your sweet charms, why are they in grim pursuit?”
She turned her head away, a hooded, cloaked mystery. “Because I escaped from them.”
“They had you prisoner?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Come now, you must. Are you a rich heiress?”
“No.”
“And you haven’t escaped from jail?”
“No.”
“So they took you from your home, and you all innocent of any sin?”
Her response to that was resolute silence.
Tiresome chit. He ignored her and put his mind to getting her to Maidstone and off his hands.
She had two men hunting her with serious intent. If those men came here, the grooms would probably help him in a fight, but he’d rather avoid violence entirely. He was a healthy, active man who’d engaged in some dangerous endeavors at sea, but he had no experience with this unwelcome knight-errantry, and the less bother the better with a well-bred young lady’s reputation at risk.
“How old are you?” he asked.
“A lot older than I was a few days ago.”
An interesting response suggesting a truly drastic disaster, but here at last was the groom leading out his horse and the lad with his food. He was followed by another boy staggering under the weight of the saddlebags. Along with changes of clothing, they contained his horse pistols and a couple of books.
He sent the bags over to be loaded on the horse and took the basket of pasties and tankard of ale, giving both lads a penny.
“And if any strangers come around,” he told them, “you don’t know what I’m doing or where I am.”
“Aye, aye, Captain!”
He turned to the cloaked figure. “I assume I can’t tempt you to some pie?”
“No, thank you.”
He shrugged and took a big bite of the steak-and-kidney as he went to give the same instructions to the groom and pass over larger coins.
“May I have some ale?”
He turned to find she’d followed. He passed her the tankard. She sipped, as women were wont to, but sipped quite a few times.
“Are you going to explain your situation?” he asked.
“Not if I can avoid it.”
“You don’t think I deserve to know?”
“No.”
“Might it not be useful for me to know,” he asked, teeth gritting, “so I can keep you safe?”
“I don’t see how it would make any difference.”
“One example. Will those men expect you to head for Maidstone?”
He thought he’d catch her out there, but she said, “No,” so simply that she must have considered that problem. For all her faults, the girl could think.
Before he could say anything else he heard a noise and instantly knew what it was—footsteps crunching on the back lane that wasn’t commonly used by pedestrians.
He jerked his head in the direction of the stables. She was there ahead of him, standing back pressed to the wood just inside the doorway. He joined her, praying the grooms would realize what to do.
“You, there!”
“Sir?” asked a groom in perfect vague surprise.
“I’m looking for a Captain Rose. Do you know him?” A gentleman’s voice, but perhaps only just.
“Captain Rose, sir?” said the groom slowly. “Everyone knows Captain Rose hereabouts.”
“Is he here?”
“Here, sir? Not as I can see, sir.”
Thorn grinned. It was going to be all right. He looked at his damsel in distress and sobered. Her hood had slipped back, and even in the dim light he could see that she was staring straight ahead, tense with dread. She had a profile that suggested she might be pretty in better circumstances.
“I mean nearby,” snarled the hunter’s voice.
A dangerous and perhaps desperate man. Thorn wished he had one of his big pistols, but they were in his bags.
“He’s staying at the Compass sure enough, sir,” said the groom. “Always does. But he’s likely on his ship, sir.”
“Which is?”
“The
Black Swan
, sir. Anchored out, most likely.”
“So you haven’t seen him in the last hour?”
Thorn tensed, wondering if the man would give a flat-out lie.
“Nay, sir, not him.”
The groom doubtless expected a guinea for the lie, and he’d get it.
But then the man said, “Whose horse is that?”
After a moment the groom said, “Colonel Truscott’s, sir, though what business it is of yours I don’t know, and I’d better walk him, the colonel not being here yet. His lady fusses.”
Hooves told of a moving horse.
The man spoke again, presumably to his companion. “Go in and ask for Rose. And for this Truscott. Shame to keep the horse waiting.”
Damn.
He was smelling a rat.
Thorn eased his knife free and took the risk of touching the woman. She started, but made no noise as she turned her head to him, eyes wide with fear. He held up the knife for her to see, and then put the hilt in her hand. Heaven knew whether she could use it, but it was something.
He took out his pocket pistol, but didn’t cock it yet. The noise would be audible. Too late to realize that they should have gone farther into the stable, where there’d be some possibility of hiding.
But then he realized that only one man was outside now.
He could probably sneak out and kill him.
But he knew he couldn’t. Not in cold blood without even being certain of his villainy. Perhaps not in cold blood even then. If he threatened the man with the pistol and the man wasn’t cowed, he wasn’t certain he could fire.
Damn him for a ditherer . . .
But then the man walked in—the cloaked one.
He looked forward before looking to the side, giving Thorn a second to prepare. When their eyes met, Thorn already had the pistol pointing at his head.
“On the floor,” he said, cocking it. “Facedown.”
The man was heavily built and probably about forty. The hanging lantern by the door gave just enough light to show a hard mouth and a heavy jaw. After a snarling moment, he obeyed.
But now what? Both men must be prevented from following their escape, and the other would be back soon. Then Persephone grabbed a leather strap draped over a stall. “Put your hands together at the back,” she ordered.
“This won’t work,” the man growled, but then coughed, probably on a throatful of chaff.
“Just do it, or I’ll stick this knife into you.”
Thorn believed her, and perhaps the man did too. He put his wrists together and she tied them. It didn’t look like much of a knot, but it would hold for a short while.
“Coxy?” The nasal drawl meant the other man was back. “Where did m’friend go?”
“Didn’t notice, sir,” said the groom. “Busy walking the horse.”
“I’m in here!” yelled the man on the floor. “But watch out!”
“You really should have reversed those,” said Thorn, fighting laughter at the absurdity of this, for the second man had walked in to meet the pistol. He was younger and quite handsome, but his expression had turned vicious.
“Join your friend.”
With a similar snarling anger, the man obeyed.
“To your bounden duty, wench,” Captain Rose said blithely.
With a frosty look, she said, “Why don’t you give me the pistol? I’m sure a sea captain can tie them up more securely.”
“True enough.” He put the cocked pistol carefully into her hand. At least she didn’t immediately pull the trigger. There were a number of innocent horses at risk.
He found a length of thin rope and set to securing villain number two. He then retied Coxy, making a good job of it, hoping the wench appreciated his skill with knots.
He rose at last and turned for her approval.
She was gone.
Seized by a third villain?
But then he heard hooves.
He ran out, but saw the tail of his horse disappearing at speed down the lane. He swore long and vividly. “Why the devil did you let her have my horse?” he demanded of the groom.
The man backed away. “She said as you wanted her to ride for help, Captain. Seemed likely enough, begging your pardon.”
“Get me another one. Any.”
The man worked fast, but it took five minutes before Thorn mounted.
“But what about those men, Captain?” the groom asked anxiously, nodding toward the stables.
“Let them loose in a few minutes, but don’t let them have a horse. If they give you any trouble, tell everyone that they’re attempting to abduct a nobleman’s sister and deserve to hang.”
It might even be true.
“And make sure they know that if Captain Rose hears of them troubling the lady any more, they’re dead.”
The bound men would hear that for themselves. She didn’t deserve protection, but he had to offer it.
He considered riding at speed along the London road, but he didn’t think that cunning wench would take a straight route. She probably never had any intention of going to Maidstone. He made some inquiries nearby. A woman on a horse at night would be rare enough.
Those not celebrating the new reign were in bed, however, so he had only two sightings, neither of which led him to her. He suspected they were deliberate feints. Damnation, she wouldn’t get away with this. He wasn’t finished with her yet, and how did she expect to survive out alone at night on a stolen horse?
He’d delayed as much as he could, however. He turned the horse toward Ithorne Castle, annoyed, concerned, but reluctantly admiring as well. Such a resolute wench intrigued him, and he wanted to know her story.
But the king was dead.
Long live the king, and he needed to be in London to seize this moment.
The new king was young and hesitant, and those at court would already be jostling for influence. Some already had an advantage. The Marquess of Rothgar, for example, had been cultivating the young man for years, playing the respectful mentor rather than the parent or tutor. The Dark Marquess had a reputation for omniscience. It was as if he’d known this day would come unexpectedly soon.
But he and his like wouldn’t have the field to themselves.
A shave and fashionable elegance, and on to London at all speed.
The Duke of Ithorne had rank and power above most, and must be at court to use it at this crucial moment.
Chapter 3
Carscourt, Oxfordshire, April 1764
“A
carriage! I wonder who it can be?” Bella Barstowe ignored her sister’s speculation. Lucinda wouldn’t expect a response, and the visitor would not be for Bella. Nothing at Carscourt was ever for the penitential sinner except the meanest bed and board. All the same, tedium made even tiny things interesting, and as she continued to embroider a violet in the corner of a handkerchief, Bella listened for any indication of who the arrival might be.
A neighbor? No, Lucinda was at the window now and would recognize a neighbor’s carriage.
A guest? There’d been no preparations, and guests were rare here now that the only residents were Lucinda and their brother, Sir Augustus. Lucinda was both silly and sour, and Augustus was a sanctimonious prig who in any case was often away on business of various kinds.
As for Bella, she was the black sheep of the family, and if it had been possible to wall her up in a cell in this day and age, that would be her fate. As it was, she was confined at Carscourt by lack of even a penny of her own. She’d thought of stealing to fund her escape, thought of it many times, but she was sure first her father and now Augustus would enjoy seeing her in court and transported, even hanged.
Bella bit her lip against tears. She hadn’t wanted her father’s love, but she had hoped for justice, or even mercy, up to the day he died.
As for her brother, she didn’t care a featherweight whether Augustus loved her or even liked her. She disliked him, and had done so all her life. But his coldness came closer to hatred, and she had no idea why. She could only think it was because he thought her shame cast a shadow on his spotless reputation.
He, like everyone else, believed she’d run away with a man four years ago and then been forced to flee back home, ruined, when she was abandoned. She’d then made her situation worse by refusing the husband hastily found for her.
Reason for anger. Reason for disgust, especially in a person who put such store in virtue and propriety.
But hatred?
Four years ago she’d thought her incarceration a temporary penance, that even if her family didn’t think her worthy of a normal life, they’d tire of being her jailers. But instead, the terms of her imprisonment had grown harsher.
Her father had not only deprived her of money—he’d forbidden her to order anything without permission. She’d been expected to beg for new gowns and stays, and even for shoes or gloves. Before her abduction she’d adored pretty garments in the latest style, and so they’d expected her to grovel, but some spirit lacking in her before her abduction had broken free to require that she never, ever beg.
She’d learned to patch and mend her clothing, and to pretend to be happy with the result. As for shoes and gloves, as she rarely went anywhere, they hardly mattered.
After a while, that same dogged spirit insisted that if she had to repair her clothing, she would learn to do it well. From mending, she’d progressed to refurbishing, and then to improving garments with needle lace and embroidery. Rather than beg for supplies, she’d scavenged. The attics of Carscourt held a century’s worth of castoffs, both faded furnishings and discarded fashion. She’d unraveled material and unpicked threads, often also finding beads, braid, and lace.
Her family had found her desperate devices satisfying, so Bella had hidden her growing enjoyment of her treasure hunting and ingenuity. Pretty, frivolous Bella Barstowe, the greatest flirt in Oxfordshire, would never enjoy such lowly and tedious tasks.