Amy Lake (29 page)

“I’ll do no such thing!”  Claire’s heart was pounding, but with anger rather than fear. She was livid. Of all the ridiculous, idiotic things that could have happened–

“I’ll tie you up if I have to!” her cousin barked, his voice high-pitched and frantic.

She gave him a fierce glare and gripped her parasol tightly, refusing to move.

“I’ve got a pistol!  I’ll use it!  I swear I’ll use it!” 

He wasn’t bluffing, Claire realized, seeing a flintlock suddenly appear in his hand.

Good grief.

“Harold Rutherford, don’t be a ninny.”  He couldn’t possibly mean to harm her, thought Claire, and she moved forward to push the gun aside. It was time to talk some sense into her cousin.

“Get away!”  Harry jerked back and lightning flashed from the muzzle of his gun.

* * * *

Lord Tremayne arrived at Cheltdown shortly before noon, having ridden Achilles

hard through the outskirts of London and Lewisham borough. The stallion was lathered and blowing, but it couldn’t be helped. He threw the reins to a startled yardboy. “See to my horse,” he shouted, and took the front steps of the manor two at a time. He was of half a mind to burst through the door without knocking, but here a note of caution crept in. Sandrick Rutherford seemed a man likely to panic when events moved swiftly against him, and his panic might be dangerous for Claire. Edward knocked, loudly.

Would the cursed butler never come?

“I need to see Lord Rutherford immediately,” said Edward when the door finally opened.

The man looked doubtful.

“
Now
, damn your eyes!” said the earl.

“I beg your pardon, my lord, but I’m not sure–”

“Let him in, Harper,” came a rasping voice from within the house.

Edward heard the faint tapping of a cane against the floor, followed by a spate of violent coughing.

“Very well, my lord.” 

The butler stepped aside just in time to avoid being knocked over by the earl, who looked up to see–

Death, thought Edward, appalled. Death was standing on the staircase.

Sandrick Rutherford clung to the banister with one hand, a cane clutched in the other. His eyes were sunken and bloodshot, the skin pulled so tautly over the bones of his face that the effect was skull-like.

The butler helped him down the last few steps and over to a foyer chair.

Rutherford waved feebly in Edward’s direction. “I . . . apologize that I must receive you in such infelicitous . . . surroundings,” said the man, with some effort. “I’m afraid

the . . . the vestibule is as far as I venture, these days. Now, how can I help you, Lord Tremayne?” 

* * * *

Time slowed. Claire tried to move, to run, but her legs remained rooted where she stood. She felt, almost more than heard, the deafening
crack!
of the flintlock.  A rush of air past her cheek, the oak tree behind her erupting in a flurry of bark fragments–

She saw Harry’s eyes go wide, and she turned, every movement still agonizingly slow, to see a gaping hole in the trunk of the oak. Her hands moved to her stomach, then to her chest. She looked at her fingers, almost surprised to see no blood on them.

“Oh,” said Harry, looking at the tree. “Oh.”  He looked panicky and sick.

This was the outside of enough. In the last twenty-four hours she had been humiliated by her husband, kidnapped, almost killed traveling the streets of London, and now
shot
at. Again. Claire realized she was still holding her parasol.

“Claire, no!  I’m sorry!  I didn’t mean–”

Harry backed away, flintlock in hand. Claire didn’t know much about pistols, but she was fairly certain they fired only once without reloading. She swung the parasol.

“Claire!”

“I am tired of being shot at!” she yelled. She swung again, hard.

“Ow!”

“And look what you did to that poor tree!”  This time she connected solidly with Harry’s left shoulder.

“Ow!  Claire, that
hurts
!”  Harry was trying to back away, but she followed him. There was now a large rip in the flowered cambric of the parasol.

“And I suppose you think a bullet wound is painless?  Well, it’s not!”

“I’m sorry!   I’m sorry!  Claire,
stop
!”

“Put down that ridiculous pistol!”  She raised the parasol once more.

Harry threw the gun aside. Claire stood in front of him and glared, her breath coming in gasps.

“Now,  what–” she began, and paused for a deep breath. “what happened to Darby Jones?  And just why were you taking me to Cheltdown Manor?”

* * * *

“How can I help you, Lord Tremayne?”

Edward had planned a number of rescue scenarios during his ride from London, but none of them involved an adversary too ill to stand without assistance. The difference between this ravaged, shrunken man and the man he had bullied into signing away Jody’s guardianship was shocking. The pox, realized Edward. It is taking him quickly. Still, Rutherford must have abducted Claire, for who else could it have been?  Perhaps he had hired a thug for the actual kidnapping–an idea that caused Edward’s blood to run cold.

“Where is my wife?”

“Claire?  You are asking after my niece?” 

“My
wife.
Where is she?”

Sandrick Rutherford started laughing. It was a horrible sound, and quickly turned into a fit of coughing that seemed to go on forever. 

“Yes, indeed, my lord, your
wife
,” he said, when he finally managed to get his breath. “Am I to understand that you have lost her?”  Another fit of coughing ensued.

Edward glared at him. “No, she is not
lost
. She has been
kidnapped
. One of my stablehands was assaulted, and the carriage Lady Tremayne was riding in has been waylaid and taken. Are you saying you know nothing of this?”

Lord Rutherford shook his head weakly. “Don’t . . . don’t be a fool, Ketrick. Do you think one of my . . . men could manage to get one . . . foot inside Wrensmoor Park?”

“She wasn’t taken from Wrensmoor. She was taken from London.”  Edward grew angrier as he spoke. They were wasting time!  Where was Claire?  He would drag the truth out of Rutherford, ill as he was. But even as these thoughts went through Edward’s mind, he felt a nagging. The man sitting in front of him, struggling for breath, didn’t strike him as someone with the energy to plot an abduction.

“London?”  Rutherford turned–if it was possible–an even sicklier shade of white. “Did anyone see the assailant?”

“One of my stableboys saw a young man in the alleyway earlier. Curly blond hair, rather thin. But we don’t know that he–”

Another fit of wracking coughs, and Edward wondered how many more such episodes Claire’s uncle could survive. The man wheezed and choked, and the butler arrived from nowhere with a glass of water.

Rutherford waved the butler away. “Harry,” he whispered to Edward between gasps for air.

 * * * *

They sat on the grass beside the carriage, talking.  

“Oh, Harry,” sighed Claire. “What am I going to do now?”

“I’m sorry,” said Harry Rutherford. He hung his head. “I was at the ball, you see, with the Clarences, and I saw you and realized that you were back in London, but I didn’t know for how long this time, and I just thought . . . ”

Claire sighed again. This was the impulsive, unpredictable cousin that she had known at Cheltdown.

“I guess I wasn’t thinking too clearly,” Harry finished lamely.

“You certainly were not. Now you are going to turn this carriage around and take me right back to the crossroads, and–” Claire stopped. What was it Harry had just said?  He’d realized she was
back
in London?

“Harry. Did you know where I was before?  In London, I mean, before I was married?”

“Sure. Jermyn Street. You and Jody used to walk most days in Green Park.”

“How did you find us?  And what were you doing in London, anyway?”

“Father . . . father thought it was time I acquired some town bronze. I know he can’t—doesn’t go into the city, but Lord Clarence agreed to take me on, and so there I was. I hated London,” added Harry. “Everyone pretended to like me, you know, for the Clarences’ sake. But they didn’t, not really. I spent as much time as I could in the parks, and one day . . . well, you were there.”      

“Oh. I see.”  A horrible thought came into Claire’s mind. It was crazy, but–

“Harry . . . Harry, by any chance did you
shoot
at me in Green Park?”

Her cousin burst into tears. “I’m sorry!  I’m sorry!” he said between sobs. “I never meant to
hit
you!  I only wanted to scare you, but the first time I tried Jody just looked around and you didn’t even notice, so I thought I needed to get a little bit closer!  But I’m not a very good shot,” he concluded glumly.

“Why did you want to scare me?” asked Claire.

“So you’d go back!  I thought you’d take fright of London and go home!”

“Home?”

“To Cheltdown!”  Harry was all but babbling. “Father was furious when you left!  There was nobody to talk to and he wouldn’t tell me where you and Jody went, and I was . . . I was lonely–and worried about you, Claire!”

She stared at him, shocked. In all her plans for escaping Sandrick Rutherford, she had never considered the possible effects on Harry.

“I thought that if you would just go back to Cheltdown that Father would let me come home, too,” her cousin added.

“Oh, Harry.”  Claire sighed and closed her eyes for a moment. “Why didn’t you just tell me?  You knew where we lived. Why didn’t you pay us a call?”

Harry looked at her, his eyes sad. “I was afraid you wouldn’t talk to me. You left without a note, without even saying good-bye.”

“Oh, Harry.”  Claire flopped down on her back in the grass and considered what she should do next. There was a scruffy sort of inn only a mile or two from the crossroads. She could try to hire a new driver there, but what would she do with Harry?   Nobody at Wrensmoor was expecting her today, so she supposed there was no real hurry. Nevertheless–

“Come on, Harry, let’s go back to the inn and get something to eat. I’m sure if we put our minds to it, we can sort things out.”

* * * *

“Harry?” said the earl.

“The young man your stableboy saw.  Blond . . . curly hair. My son,” gasped Lord Rutherford. “In London this past half year . . . or more. It’s difficult to . . . to remember how long. I didn’t want him to watch me die like this.”

“What would he want with my wife?” asked Edward, his voice gaining volume. What the hell kind of family was this?

A spark of life showed in Sandrick Rutherford’s eyes for the first time. “For the love of mercy, Ketrick, don’t harm him!” he said. “Harry would never hurt Claire. He’s a good lad, but not . . . not bright.”

Edward clenched his fists in frustration. This was getting him no closer to finding Claire, and his impulse to do violence to someone–anyone–was being thwarted at every turn.

“He might . . . might be bringing your wife here.  I told Harry . . . that I wanted to see

her . . . one last time. Once he gets a notion in his head– ”

“Why?” said Edward. “Why did you tell him you wanted to see Claire?”   He was anxious to continue the search for his wife, but if Rutherford’s benighted son was bringing her to Cheltdown–

“To tell her . . . ”  Rutherford trailed off, and for a moment Edward thought the man had passed away right then and there. But his head came up, and his voice was a little stronger as he  continued. “To tell her I was sorry.”

* * * *

“Oh, I say,” said Harry,  “this is really quite good.” 

Claire rolled her eyes as he chewed his way happily through a second rasher of bacon. Her cousin seemed to have quickly recovered from any feelings of shame attached to his recent activities. After having assaulted the stablehand and abducted her–not to mention shooting at her on several occasions–one might think he would be more subdued. But that was Harry. He was short-sighted, well-meaning–and desperate to please his father, whose affection for the boy Claire had never questioned.

To please his father. Claire wondered how abducting her would have accomplished that. Something else about Harry’s story was bothering her, but first–

“Harry, are you sure Darby Jones wasn’t badly hurt?”

“I told you–he’s fine!  I hardly touched him!”

“All right.”

Did the earl know what had happened to her?  she wondered. Was he worried?   Claire realized she was half-expecting to see Lord Tremayne burst through the parlor door of the Blue Duck at any moment, a knight coming to his damsel’s rescue. But that was ridiculous. Edward would have no idea who had taken her or where she was.

Claire sipped her tea and looked around the room. The Blue Duck barely qualified as a respectable establishment, but it was quiet in the morning hours, and the food was enough to recommend the place to her cousin. She had some time–while Harry worked through a plateful of potatoes and sausage–to consider what needed to be done.

Should she return immediately to London?  She’d need a driver, but a man-at-hire ought to be easy enough to find in a place like this. Of course, if she went back to Tremayne House, she would simply have to turn around the next day and retrace her steps. Besides, if she returned to town, she would see Edward, and she would have to explain . . . things. Her uncle’s name would obviously enter into the conversation, and her husband would know she’d been less than truthful with him.

Maybe Edward would decide he didn’t want an heir by the niece of Sandrick Rutherford. But she didn’t want to think about that. The idea of continuing on to Wrensmoor was much more appealing, decided Claire. They could take Harry to Cheltdown first, then–

But at that thought, her mind rebelled. Whatever she did, she wasn’t going to Cheltdown Manor.

“I say,” said Harry, interrupting her thoughts, “are you going to finish those biscuits?”

She handed him the plate.

Her first priority, no matter what else she did, was to inform the earl of the whereabouts of his carriage, his horses, and his wife. And the quickest way to accomplish that was to send a rider with a message back to London. Claire wondered if the Blue Duck’s proprietor was aware of such modern conveniences as paper and ink. She gazed once more around the room–