Anne Barbour (28 page)

“If that’s what it takes, that’s what I’ll do,” snarled Simon.

Jared sighed again, but said nothing more.

As Simon raced once more to the stable, he was forced to admit there was reason in what Jared had said. In fact, if he had Winifred here right now, he would strangle her with the greatest of goodwill. Not only had she plunged headlong to her own ruin, but she had involved Jane in her heedless flight. Where was Jane now, he wondered? Please God, she was safe. He did not know what he had done to earn the look of contempt she had thrown at him just as the play was about to start, but he prayed for the opportunity to make things right with her. The memory of the kiss she had bestowed on him warmed him, and he kept it hugged close to his heart like a talisman. The kiss must have meant something. It must have!

It could be said that there were two schools of thought on the subject of Jane’s safety at the moment. There was certainly no denying that the coach was barreling along the London Road at a shocking pace. Lady Hermione had, from the outset of the journey, set up a continuous screeching, predicting their imminent departure from the road into the ditch, and their subsequent demise. Jane, paying no heed, grasped the reins firmly and gazed stonily at the road, as though she were on her way to church.

She was grateful that the moon, now high in the sky, was almost full, lending its light to the landscape below. Silvered fields and forests flashed past the curricle as Jane’s gaze strained through the pale darkness for a glimmer of light that might signal the presence of another vehicle. She scarcely heard Lady Hermione’s piercing remonstrations.

They had traveled for almost two hours before a sound, muffled by distance, caused Jane to utter a low cry. Lady Hermione shrieked.

“Was that a shot?” she said, gabbling in fright. “It sounded as though it came from just ahead of us.”

“Yes,” said Jane, her voice strained, “I think so.”

“No!” cried Lady Hermione as Jane urged the horses to even greater speed. “Are you mad? Stop this instant! Who knows what might be up there? Perhaps there are highwaymen . . . Did you hear me?” she screamed when Jane merely tightened her grip on the reins and slapped them again.

Her ladyship continued in this vein for the next mile or so, falling silent only when what appeared to be a vehicle was discerned on the road ahead. It had stopped, its passengers taking up positions at the side of the road. As Jane and Lady Hermione approached, it could be seen that there were not one, but two carriages standing motionless, one of which had left the road and was leaning drunkenly into the ditch. The vehicles were a curricle and a chaise, if Jane were not mistaken, and if she were not further mistaken ... She uttered an exclamation of concern as she neared the vehicles, observing that the passengers were familiar to her and they were clustered about a human figure lying on the ground.

“Gerard!” called Jane as she drew the gig to a halt and leaped to the ground. Lady Hermione followed, abandoning her usually sedate demeanor.

At the sound of Jane’s voice, those standing at the edge of the road whirled about.

“Jane!” said Gerard, a catch in his voice that was almost a sob. “Thank God you’ve come.”

He ran to his sister, and flinging an arm about her shoulder, drew her toward the little group. “It’s Charles, Jane,” he gasped. “I shot him—I think I’ve killed him!”

“Speak, speak! Quite dumb? Dead, dead!”
—A Midsummer Night’s Dream,
V, i.

With a wordless cry, Jane sank to her knees beside Lady Hermione. Charles lay on the ground, sprawled at an awkward angle. There was a hole in his coat, high on his shoulder, from which blood flowed at an alarming tide.

“Who is responsible for this outrage?” asked Lady Hermione in a high-pitched voice, her fingers busy at Charles’s coat buttons.

Jane, glancing about at the figures surrounding them, observed a plump female who was unknown to her, but who looked oddly familiar. Peering closer, she gasped. “Harry! Is that you? What the devil... ?”

For Harry—and indeed it was he—was garbed in a voluminous muslin gown and cloak, an oversized cap topping his ensemble. Good Lord, it was Harry who had appropriated her rig and tackle! Lacking the proper configuration of a plump, middle-aged female of generous proportions, he had apparently chosen to augment nature in certain critical areas with cushions. Unfortunately, the cushions were not of uniform size, and Harry’s attempt to cover the discrepancy with a shawl was less than successful. At some time during the stirring events of the evening, the cap had become torn, so that part of the ruffle drooped disconsolately over one shoulder. Harry had insisted on wearing his own boots during his forced masquerade, and since his feet were sizeable, he looked as though he were trying to conceal a pair of andirons under his skirts. On the whole, he resembled something out of a third-rate farce.

Harry grinned weakly and muttered something unintelligible.

“You can explain later,” snapped Jane. “Tell us what happened to Charles.”

“It was an accident,” whimpered Harry. “We were—”

“Never mind that now,” Lady Hermione said abruptly. “Someone help me here.”

Jane stared in astonishment as, with surprising efficiency, Lady Hermione, with some assistance from a trembling Gerard and Harry, eased Charles’s shoulders out of his coat. Folding it, she made a pad to slip under his head. Coolly requesting Jane to retrieve her reticule, which had fallen to the ground nearby, she produced a pair of scissors with which she snipped away that part of Charles’s shirt covering his wound.

In the lantern light his face was a deathly white, and Jane could see no sign of a pulse in his throat.

“Is—is he ... ?” she whispered.

“No,” said Lady Hermione, her voice displaying the merest tremor, “but we must get him to a bed.” She looked around for a moment, then bent her gaze downward. Immediately, she grasped the scissors again, and, lifting the hem of her gown, began cutting her undergrown into strips. Having fashioned a bandage, she pressed it to Charles’s wound, oblivious of the blood that oozed from between her fingers and onto her skirt. The wound itself, once the blood had been stopped a little, proved to be a graze along the top of his shoulder. The ball had evidently passed through the tissue, for it was not embedded in his flesh.

Lady Hermione turned to Gerard. “All right, tell me what happened.”

“It was an accident,” repeated Gerard, his own face ashen. “We were pursuing Charles, and when we caught sight of his chaise, I hallooed at him to stop. Harry joined in with me. The next thing I knew somebody was shooting at us!”

“At you!” gasped Jane. “But, how—”

“They must have thought we were knights of the road hauling up to rob them. Anyway, Harry’s tiger, the stupid fool, grabbed up the pistol Harry keeps in a holster in the curricle, and when I tried to wrest it from him, it went off.”

“Good God!” exclaimed Jane, while Lady Hermione merely tightened her lips.

“Then,” continued Gerard, “Charles lost control of the chaise and went into the ditch. When we came up to him, he lay as you see him there. I was never so glad to see anyone, Janie,” he concluded, “for we none of us had the slightest inkling of what to do.”

“Obviously,” said Lady Hermione tartly. “His wound certainly does not appear to be serious, but it disturbs me that he has not yet regained consciousness. Yes,” she said after further examination, “it is as I thought. There is a bruise on his head. He must have hit it on something when he fell. We must move him,” she finished briskly.

“Yes, but—oh!” cried Jane, noting for the first time the figure that stood a little to one side in the shadowed lantern light. Dark curls tumbled in dishevelment over her forehead, and her fingertips were pressed to her trembling lips. Jane hurried to her and grasped her shoulder. “There you are! Winifred, how could you ....?” She jerked back suddenly, and peered into the girl’s face. “Lissa!” she gasped. “What are you doing here?”

At this, the girl cast herself upon Jane’s bosom. “Oh, Jane,” she sobbed, “I’m so glad you have come—and Lady Hermione.” She cast a dubious glance at her ladyship, who, after an initial start when Jane called Winifred’s name, turned back to Charles and seemed to lose interest in her completely. “I tried to help Lord Wye, but there was so much blood!”

Jane shook the girl slightly. “But, what are you doing here?”

Lissa immediately broke into loud sobs. “I have been so foolish, Jane!” Her voice rose in a hysterical pitch.

“Yes, yes,” said Jane soothingly, “but you must tell me how “you—”

Lady Hermione broke into the conversation. “Could we continue this discussion at another time?” she said sharply. “We must get Charles out of the night air.”

“Of course,” said Jane hastily. “I think the gig would be more comfortable for him than the curricle, and—”

Lady Hermione interrupted again. “I see some lights in the distance. Is it a village?”

She glanced around for corroboration and the tiger who had fired at Charles said anxiously. “Yes, my lady, that there is Fitchling. It’s just a wide place in the road, but they have a nice inn there—it bein’ on the London Highway an’ all—the Dog and Whistle, it’s called.”

“Very well,” she said, bending once more to her patient. “You there.” She gestured to Gerard and Harry and the second tiger, who were standing about looking rather forlorn. “Help me.”

As they began to lift Charles, he uttered a groan and opened his eyes. Raising his head, he found himself nose to nose with Lady Hermione, and, giving vent to a startled yelp, he sank back into Harry’s arms. He closed his eyes once more and, though he moaned pitiably, they remained firmly shut as he was carefully deposited into the gig. Lady Hermione climbed in beside him, accompanied by Charles’s tiger. Gerard turned to clamber into the phaeton, but Jane laid a hand on his arm.

“Not so fast, my lad. Harry can take the curricle. You will ride in the gig with Lissa and me. It will be a squeeze, but you have a deal of explaining to do.”

Before mounting the carriage herself, Jane gave herself up to a moment’s hasty reflection. The fact that it was Lissa who had set out with Charles instead of Winifred put an entirely different face on her own pursuit through the night. She had wished to spare Simon humiliation. Winifred was, in all probability, safe somewhere at Selworth, despite the fact that no one had been able to find her. On the other hand, the girl was obviously much taken with Marcus, her handsome fairy king. An unpleasant sensation churned in the pit of Jane’s stomach. Lord, could Winifred and Marcus have eloped?

Jane sagged against the side of the gig, feeling desperately weary. What an incredible muddle it all was. In any event, matters had reached such a pass that Simon must be notified about Charles—and Lissa—and all that had taken place on the London Road this evening. She supposed he would have to be informed of Winifred’s disappearance as well. Beckoning one of the tigers to her, she began a carefully worded monologue of instruction.

When she was finished, the diminutive young man mounted one of the horses that had by now been released from their positions, and galloped off into the night in the direction of Selworth. The gig, followed by the curricle, set off at a careful pace toward the little village. On the journey. Lady Hermione ministered to Charles, apparently oblivious to everything else. After an initial show of reluctance, Lissa told Jane of the circumstances that led to her concealment in Charles’s chaise.

“I know it was a stupid thing to do,” she concluded tearfully, “but I was so miserable—and I didn’t want to face Marcus, and—”

“Yes,” said Jane, lifting her hand in a gesture of comfort. “It was, perhaps, not the wisest course you could have pursued, but love makes us do strange things.” She smiled. “At any rate, you are safe now, and as soon as we deposit Charles at the inn and get a doctor for him, we shall get you home.”

“O-ooh-—” she moaned. “Jared will kill me—if Simon doesn’t do so first.”

Jane sighed. “I do not think your situation is quite that desperate. I’m sure your family will understand.” She turned to her brother.

“Now, Gerard, it’s your turn. I would like to hear an explanation of why you and Harry—in my personal rig—were haring around the countryside in the middle of the night.”

Gerard’s tale, halting though it was, did not take long, and at its conclusion, Jane gave an unladylike grunt of exasperation. “You wanted to protect Winifred from Simon’s wrath? And mine? Of all the mutton-headed stunts you’ve pulled, Gerard, this one pretty much takes the prize. And you really thought that dressing Harry as a female would lend countenance to your mad scheme? Really, Gerard, if you—”

“Yes, but Jane,” interposed Gerard, possibly with the intent of diverting her attention from himself and his iniquities, “it’s a good thing Harry and I are here, don’t you think? That is, how would a parcel of females manage on their own with a wounded man?”

Jane, her finger still raised in admonition, forbore to remind him that if it were not for him—-and Harry—the females would not find it necessary to be managing a wounded man.

“Well, never mind.” She sighed wearily. “The important thing is that we must get back home as soon as possible.” She glanced at Charles, lying back on the seat with eyes determinedly closed, and at Lady Hermione, who held him in her arms, murmuring to him unintelligibly and attempting to minister to him with a bottle of brandy, discovered in the chaise.

The village was not far away, and in a very few moments the curricle drew up to the Dog and Whistle. Gerard knocked peremptorily on the door, but it was some moments before it opened to reveal the proprietor and his wife in nightcap and gown, yawning and gaping as first Harry and then Gerard and Jane explained their needs.

Introducing herself as Mrs. Biddle, the landlord’s wife ushered the group inside the inn and then toward the stairs.

“You’re in luck, Miss,” she said to Jane, her gaze still on Charles’s inert form and the blood that seeped from his wound. “Our best room is right at the top of the stairs, and it’s empty. My Will can help get his lordship settled, and our boy, Samuel can go for the doctor. He lives just down the lane. My heaven,” she continued, “what a thing to have happen. Highwaymen, of all things! And so close to the village.”