Amy Lake (30 page)

Of course, she hardly knew what to write. How could she possibly explain about Harry Rutherford?  Oh, why had she never told the earl about her uncle?  Her husband would have good reason to never trust her again.

Bother it all. A communication of some sort needed to be sent immediately, and Claire–excusing herself from the table–found a small dilapidated writing desk away from Harry’s eye. She made her message short, deciding that everything else could be sorted out later.
      

       My lord husband. Despite the recent unfortunate occurrence  in your stables, the carriage, the horses, and I are perfectly safe and unharmed and continuing on to Wrensmoor. I shall write at more length when I reach the castle.
Claire.

Let him make of that what he would.

* * * *

Harry had almost finished his breakfast. Claire regarded him thoughtfully from across the table, trying to ignore the less-than-pleasant odor now wafting in from the stableyard. Something kept nagging at the back of her mind–

“Harry . . . you said you were trying to frighten me into leaving London.”

Her cousin nodded, taking one last forkful of sausage.

“But what about now?  Taking the carriage?  Didn’t you think Lord Tremayne would notice I was gone?”

“Oh, I wasn’t going to keep you.” said Harry. “I’m just taking you to Cheltdown to see Father. It will only be for a few days–”

Claire shivered. “I am
not
going to the manor with you.”

“–and then you can continue on to Wrensmoor–”

“No.”  Was her cousin even listening?

“They’ll just think you stopped at an inn–”

“
No
,” repeated Claire. “I am not going to Cheltdown.”

Harry slammed his fork down on the table and Claire jumped.

“Yes, you are!”  His voice, suddenly shrill, echoed in the Blue Duck’s dining room. The proprietor glanced in their direction with a cocked eyebrow.

“Shh!” she hissed at Harry.

“You have to come!  I’ll make you!”  A stage whisper this time, which did nothing to improve Claire’s mood. She sat back in her chair and stared at Harry, realizing that perhaps she didn’t know her cousin very well. At Cheltdown Harry had always seemed so innocuous. But the young man of only a minute ago–cheerfully demolishing his breakfast–was now glaring at her, red in the face. He had been pleasant enough as a boy, Claire remembered, but always a little volatile. And perhaps the months spent amid the chaos of London had done him no good.

She felt the first glimmerings of fear.

No. I refuse to be afraid of Harry Rutherford, Claire thought. She gave her cousin a cool glance and spoke as calmly as she could. “I am going on to Wrensmoor. I am
not
going to Cheltdown with you.”

The glare continued, but then–suddenly–Harry’s face seemed to collapse.

“Well . . . all right,” he said glumly. “But Father said he wanted to see you one last time, and I just thought–”

“One last time?  What are you talking about?”

“My father is dying. I think he wanted to say good-bye.”?

Chapter Nineteen

“I didn’t see him,” said Edward suddenly. He was pacing up and back in Lord Rutherford’s front hall.

“Your pardon?”

“I didn’t see the carriage on my way here. If Harry took her, where are they?”

Rutherford managed a weak chuckle. “Well, I know Harry, and I know Claire. I wouldn’t be surprised if she browbeat him into taking her home.”

Edward shook his head. Not back to London–he would have seen that, too–and what if Claire’s kidnapper wasn’t Harry Rutherford?  What if even now, as they spoke–?

Damn!  He couldn’t stay here a minute longer. He had to search for his wife.

“My horse –”

“Lord Tremayne, I would venture to guess that you . . . wasted no time getting here. Your horse must be spent,” said Rutherford.

Edward swore explosively. It was true.

“I have a fine stallion . . . good chest, a strong runner. Take him.”

The earl nodded. “I will.”

* * * *

“You will visit, won’t you?” said Harry.

Her cousin was standing in the yard of the Blue Duck, talking to Claire through the open window of Lord Tremayne’s carriage.

She shook her head. “I promised to write your father,” Claire reminded Harry, “but I can’t promise to come to the manor.”  

“But, Claire–”

“I would have to inform the earl, and–you know, Harry–he might not be very happy about any trips to Cheltdown after our excursion today.”

“I suppose you’re right. But–”

Claire felt her patience eroding. “Oh, Harry–I’ll try. It would only be a short visit.”

He gave her a sad smile. “That doesn’t matter. Whatever Father has to say won’t take long.”

The carriage lurched, and Harry moved to give Claire a quick peck on her cheek–thought better of it–and settled for a wave. As the driver maneuvered the earl’s coach out of the yard of the Blue Duck and onto the road to Wrensmoor, Claire leaned back into the cushions with a long sigh.

It was time to go home.

All things considered, she and her cousin had parted amicably enough.  Once Harry realized that Claire would not willingly accompany him to Cheltdown–but would consider a later visit–he had calmed down and become almost reasonable. She had even come away with an improved opinion of Harry’s character, having concluded that his efforts, foolish as they were, had been largely inspired by the wish to comfort his father.

“Just don’t shoot at any more young women,” Claire had told him.

He had promised not to.

“I’m not going back to London, Harry had added. “I don’t belong there, and I never should have agreed to leave my father in the first place. Please–come and see him–”

Claire took a deep breath and held on to the seat as the coach rattled across a bumpy log bridge. A visit to Cheltdown?   She would have to worry about that later.

In the meantime, her cousin was making his way back to the manor alone, and with any luck and a skilled driver, she should still arrive at Wrensmoor before dark. Presumably Lord Tremayne would soon receive her message and leave her in peace at the castle. Perhaps she could manage a way to avoid mentioning the Rutherford name.

Well, no, Claire admitted. That wouldn’t be possible. She needed to accept the fact that the earl would soon find out exactly who he had married. She should have told him long ago. For better or for worse, there would be no further deception in her marriage.

As time wore on, Claire slept fitfully, waking up on occasion only long enough to assure herself that the carriage was still on the right road. As they proceeded farther into Kent, the countryside began to look more and more like Wrensmoor Park. Claire felt her spirits lift.      

Let him stay in London, she thought. Let him trade balls and soirees and drunken evenings at his club for the hills and meadows of Kent, and the castle, and the river, and–and even the stupid geese. Let him be a fool.

These thoughts eventually occupied Claire to the point that she no longer slept. So she was sitting upright when the carriage overturned.

* * * *

If I were a foolish young man, thought Edward, riding hell-bent back to the crossroads on Rutherford’s stallion, and I’d just abducted an . . . an equally foolish, headstrong,
disobedient
young woman, where would I be? 

Part of him was insisting that he should return to London immediately. What if Harold Rutherford was not Claire’s kidnapper?  What if, even now, she was being held prisoner in some seedy London rowhouse?

But why?  He had no real enemies that he knew of, and as for Claire–

No, Harry Rutherford was still the most likely culprit. If the uncle was right, Claire had probably convinced Harry to take her to Wrensmoor. Perhaps someone at the Blue Duck would have seen them, or at least have seen the Ketrick carriage. Edward usually avoided the place–home as it was to half the shady characters between here and Dover–but as a source of information, it was hard to improve on the Blue Duck.

* * * *

In the end, the accident could have been blamed on the deer–or on Harry.

It was mid-afternoon, and Claire had long since reached the point where she never wanted to see the inside of a traveling carriage again, no matter how well-upholstered it was. At least they were getting close to Wrensmoor.  She felt the happy anticipation of journey’s end and wondered how long she could delay writing Lord Tremayne with the details of her day’s adventure.

Ahead was the sharp turn which Claire remembered as being only a mile or two from the castle. The driver didn’t slow until the last minute and, as it happened, a family of deer burst from a copse of trees just then, leaping and skittering across the road.

“H’ya!”

The geldings–well-trained animals, but in unfamiliar hands–broke stride for a moment, the traces sagged, tangled briefly under-hoof–

–just as the road turned sharply left and dipped. The right wheel caught a side rut, and the carriage skidded sideways, down, down in a sickening lurch, tipping to the side.

Claire hung on to the straps with quiet determination, trying to anticipate which way the coach might overturn. She didn’t think it would help the driver to hear her yelling, and indeed he seemed to be bringing things back into control. Perhaps–

They reached the bottom of the hill at a precarious angle but still upright, the geldings maintaining an even stride as they slowed, and Claire had started to breathe again when the right wheel–which had received a bad knocking about earlier that day in London, under Harry’s guidance–splintered and gave way. Over they tipped in a halting, almost slow-motion fall, the driver jumping free and Claire, bracing her feet against the side cushions, shaken but unhurt.

The abrupt silence was eerie, and then Claire heard footsteps.

“Milady!  Milady!”  The driver’s face peered down at her through one of the carriage windows.

“Yes, yes. I’m fine,” she told him. “See to the horses, please. I’ll get myself out.”

The face disappeared, and after taking a few moments to collect herself, Claire looked around for a means of escape. The door was now underfoot, she realized, which meant climbing out one of the carriage windows. Oh, drat it all anyway. What other disasters could this day bring?   She began the slow, clumsy process of hoisting herself up and out, losing a number of hairpins in the process. Her skirt caught on a large splinter of wood and, annoyed, she ripped it free.        

Where was the driver?  Claire wondered, hearing the nickers of the horses. Oh, this blasted skirt!  Cursing modern fashions–and the entire male sex–under her breath, she hauled herself through the window and tumbled a few feet into the dirt.

“Bother.”  Claire stood up and brushed at her dress, thinking she was going to make a pretty picture arriving at the castle in such disarray. She looked around, puzzled that she wasn’t hearing any activity. The horses had been unhitched  and were grazing quietly nearby. There was no sign of the driver–

 She finally spotted him, a good fifty yards down the road.

Of all the–

“Driver!” she yelled.

The man looked back briefly, then took off at a run.

“Driver!  Hey!”  Claire stood in the middle of the road, took off one of her shoes and threw it at him. She stamped her foot in the dust as the man disappeared around a curve. Well, thought Claire in disgust, that’s what comes of hiring someone from the likes of the Blue Duck Inn. She supposed she should be grateful he had stayed around long enough to find out she wasn’t seriously hurt.

Retrieving her shoe, she returned to the overturned carriage. The bays were looking at her, ears pricked, and when she took a few steps towards them they snorted and moved away.

“Oh, you daft animals, don’t play games with me.” 

Claire stepped closer to the geldings. They immediately edged away again, and she conceded defeat. She went back to inspect the carriage. It didn’t seem to be damaged badly except for the one wheel, which was in pieces at the side of the road. There was nothing she could do about it now, or the two lively geldings. Someone was bound to come along the road eventually, but Claire wasn’t willing to put her fate in the hands of the next stranger to pass by. Even in these days, highwaymen were not unknown.

She was just going to have to walk. Claire thought she had a pretty clear idea of where the castle was from here, and she spotted a path leading off in that direction. It would be quicker than following the twists and turns of the road, she decided, setting off at a brisk pace. After a few yards she tripped over her torn skirt and went skidding down onto her hands and knees.

“Botheration!”  She ripped the offending piece of fabric from the skirt and flung it aside. At this rate, she’d be lucky if Boggs allowed her in the front door of the castle. She stomped off again, cursing Lord Tremayne as if he alone was responsible for her current predicament.

* * * *

“Oh, aye, my lord, I seen ’em,” said the proprietor of the Blue Duck. “Pretty pair, they be, but I thinks maybe she weren’t so choosy as he was.”

Edward clenched his fists but refrained from striking the man. He didn’t particularly want the Countess of Ketrick’s name to be associated with the Blue Duck Inn, and the less the proprietor remembered about the entire incident, the better.

“And did you happen to have seen the direction they headed?”

“Oh, aye, my lord. Kent-wise, t’ lady was going. Left well a’fore the noon.”

“The blond-haired man was driving the carriage?”

“Ach, no.”  The man spit on the floor. “Don’t know where he be off to. Me Eddie took ’er where she wanted t’ go. Wrensmoor Castle.”

The earl almost groaned. One of the Blue Duck’s groomsmen. This day just kept getting worse.

* * * *

It was late afternoon before Claire was willing to admit to herself that she was lost. The endless series of rolling hills that had so delighted her on her first approach to Wrensmoor were now no more than a source of frustration. She would climb up to the crest of one hill, certain that this time the castle would be right there in front of her, making her worries seem silly, only to find–