I Loved a Rogue The Prince Catchers (30 page)

Chapter 26

The Dragon’s Flight

E
leanor had never had such dreams. Always before, her dreams of Taliesin had ended in frustration and grief. In her dreams now he held her and told her of his love with caresses that made her mad for more. More of his hands. His mouth.

Upon waking, she found the bedclothes tangled about her legs. Then Betsy would make her drink, eat, and she would descend into sleep again, and perfect dreams.

When finally she roused enough to remain awake for longer than the moments it required her to swallow a cup of tea and a custard, she looked about the room. A small bedchamber and simply furnished, it boasted only one chair in which Mary sat, an embroidery board and needle in her hands.

Her aunt rose and came to the bed. “You are better. There is color in your face but no fever. I am relieved.”

“Where is this place?”

“My brother’s house in Exeter. Reverend Caulfield is here. Betsy has been tending you. Mr. Treadwell is here as well. We have sent word to your sisters. You are safe.” She placed her hand atop Eleanor’s on the mattress.

Eleanor struggled to understand. “Papa? Did you send for him? Have I been here long?”

“Only two days. My darling girl, you mustn’t weary yourself with unnecessary—”

“I must.” She pushed up to sit. Her limbs were like wet wool, soft and heavy, not obeying. She leaned into the headboard. “Why is Papa here?”

“He came to see Edward before we even knew that you were in trouble. I am sorry we left you with Aunt Cynthia, Eleanor. If I had known to what lengths she was willing to go to cut you from your inheritance, I would never have left you, even to help Edward escape.”

Eleanor’s eyes rounded. “Escape?”

“This is not the time for that. You are still weak—”

Eleanor grabbed her fingers. “Tell me. I beg of you.”

Mary dipped her head. “They drugged my brother for years before I discovered it. For you, whom they hate because of your mother’s blood and the threat you pose to their home, I think they would have gone to greater lengths to control you.”

“That is preposterous.” The words felt like sand on her lips. “My sister would have inherited after me.”

Mary’s smile was full of pity. “You have an honest heart and a fine mind. You cannot imagine the simple evil that lurks in others, can you? You must always understand matters rationally. But greed and hatred have no reason except themselves.”

“How is it that Papa came to see my father even before I came here?”

“Edward sent for him.”

“At his house, you led me to believe that the name Caulfield was anathema to my father. I didn’t question it because I hoped you would explain someday. Now you must.”

“When my brother was released from prison, his mind was deeply disordered. He remembered so little of his past, only battles in a vague manner, and prison. In hopes of reminding him of happier days, I searched his mementos and correspondence from his years at Oxford, and I discovered your father—rather, the man who later became the Reverend Martin Caulfield. At university he was a fiery preacher, rousing other students with his speeches about justice and the rights of men.”

Her papa, a street preacher? It seemed incredible.

“Desperate to bring back my brother’s mind,” Mary continued, “I searched for the Reverend and found him in St. Petroc. I begged him to visit. He arrived swiftly, and for many hours he remained secluded with my brother. When he came from the chamber, he seemed devastated. I went in to my brother and found him unable to speak. Edward did not say another word for two years.”

“Of what . . . Of what did they speak?”

“I don’t know. Edward has never spoken of it to me and I have not asked Reverend Caulfield.”

Eleanor’s fingers clutched the bed linen at her waist. “When did that happen? What year was it?”

“It was the autumn of 1798. I remember because I did not hear my brother’s voice again until the new century.”

Autumn of 1798. Six months before her papa discovered them in the foundling home. They must have spoken of her and her sisters. Or Grace. Something that would have sent him searching for his friend’s daughters.

“When he found us, why didn’t Papa tell you?”

Mary stared at her hands in her lap. “He did. He wrote many letters to me, Eleanor. Without reading them, I cast them all into the fire. Finally he wrote directly to Aunt Cynthia. She replied that she would not take orphans into her home, that Martin could dispose of Edward’s bastards as he wished. She refused to acknowledge that my brother and your mother had ever been wed, and Martin had no proof to contest her denial. She told me nothing of his letter then, nor of her reply.”

“But . . . My mother sent me and my sisters from the West Indies to
Papa
?”

Mary nodded. “I only learned of it all when I confronted my aunt a fortnight ago, after you took ill. Aunt Cynthia finally admitted that Grace had sent a letter to her after your ship departed, begging her to go to St. Petroc and claim Edward’s daughters. Grace had grown very ill, and Alejo had already perished of the yellow fever. She was desperate to ensure your safety.”

“Lady Boswell must have confronted my father with my mother’s letter even before you wrote to my papa. Then Father told Papa, and Papa went searching for us. But why did my mother not send us directly to Lady Boswell in the first place? Why did she send us to a man she had never met?”

“Perhaps Edward had told her to trust Martin Caulfield more than my aunt.” She shook her head. “But this is enough storytelling for today, dearest niece. You mustn’t weary yourself further. I will ring for Betsy to bring dinner.” She went to the door.

“Mary.” Eleanor had no appetite. She wanted only one thing. “Where is Mr. Wolfe? I know he brought me here.” That had not been a dream. “Is he here?”

“He departed the night you arrived.”

Eleanor’s cold hands unclenched on the coverlet. “He does not mean to return, does he?”

“He cannot return, Eleanor.” Mary’s voice fell. “He is in jail.”

TALIESIN HAD SEEN
far worse. For a sizeable town, Exeter had a well-kept jail. Since dusk he’d heard only two rats scuffling in the straw that kept the cold damp of the stone floor from sinking a man into hell. Jails near waterways always featured plenty of cold and damp.

He hoped they sent him to New South Wales. He’d heard New South Wales was covered with dry, hot places. America would do too. Plenty of land to keep horses.

If he could ever afford a horse again.

They stripped a man of his possessions before they deported him. Kitharan and the herd would go to the crown. Except Tristan. Of all his recent losses, the loss of his stallion cut next to the deepest. He could admit this now, on the verge of the end. To a man abruptly alone, fetters and bindings suddenly looked remarkably appealing.

He did not allow himself to think of his deepest loss. She was safe. Cared for. Among those who would protect her. He could ask for no more.

Unless Edward Bridgeport-Adler was entirely insane, Taliesin supposed he might own some property in Andalusia. If they ever removed the shackles from his wrists, he could request a berth on a ship heading in that direction. There must be some advantage to having an actual family, after all. Spain was closer to England than America or New South Wales. Closer to her by thousands of miles.

Footsteps clopped on the stone pavement. A ring of keys jangled. Taliesin lifted his head.

“You.” The guard spoke through the bars in the window of the cell Taliesin shared with three other men. Actual criminals.
Recent
criminals. Earlier, the two that were conscious had eyed his coat as though it were made of gold.

“Wolfe,” the guard grumbled. “The magistrate wants to see you.”

The magistrate. This couldn’t be good. The bailiff of Exeter had no jurisdiction over his case. He had summoned the rural law to make certain of a conviction.

But Taliesin had anticipated this.

He climbed to his feet, exhausted and filthy and sore in every muscle and joint. They took him from the cell in manacles, like the rogue that he was.

“BELLA!”
IN THE
foyer of the courthouse, Eleanor threw her arms about her sister. “You are here!”

“The Reverend sent for me. He said you found our father. But Ellie, you are—” Arabella held her shoulders and her brilliant eyes swept her body. “You are terribly changed. Betsy told me some of it in the carriage coming from our father’s house just now. But—”

“There is no time to explain. Taliesin is to be sentenced within minutes. Why didn’t you respond to my letters? And why did you not come to our father’s estate after Taliesin brought you the ring?”

“I received no letters from you. He did not come to Combe.”

“Then you don’t know all that has happened?”

A tall, strappingly large man in a long black robe and scrolling white wig entered the corridor. Dwarfing the two uniformed men that flanked him, he crossed purposefully into another chamber with long, powerful strides.

“Oh, no. It is to begin now.” She gripped her sister’s hand. “Come.”

“Proceedings pursuant to the arrest of one Taliesin Wolfe of Kitharan, upon the charges of roguery and vagabondage, as well as destruction of property in the parish of Normanton, will now commence,” the bailiff intoned as they entered. The chamber was high-ceilinged, crescent-shaped with rising benches, and sparsely populated: the magistrate filled the principal chair with the sheer authority of size; a clerk, the bailiff, and two guards stood below; and in the benches were her father, Papa, Betsy, Mr. Treadwell, Mary, several men she did not recognize, and Robin Prince.

Robin?

He tried to hold her gaze, but she had attention for only one man.

Taliesin stood on a platform at the base of the benches surrounded by a waist-height wooden barricade, his hands behind his back. His jaw was dark with whiskers, his coat wrinkled, and his shadowed eyes upon her. Only Arabella’s hand holding her elbow tight kept her from running to him and throwing her arms about him.

He turned his face to the man ensconced in the thronelike chair.

The lord magistrate peered at Taliesin. “Kitharan, did he say?” he boomed. “Are you that Gypsy my father sold the place to? Wretched old drafty house. The whole thing should have been torn down a century ago. How do you find it?”

“Suitable for my needs, my lord.”

“Hm.” The lord magistrate looked about. “Bailiff, who are all these people?”

“Bystanders, my lord, I think.”

“All right,” the lord magistrate said. “As this is only a sentencing, I am allowing the condemned and accusators to speak on their own behalves. Nobody needs a roomful of prosy wigs to clean up old business after all. Bailiff?”

“My lord, the court calls Roger Tanner of Normanton.”

One of the strangers stood up. “Good day, my lord. My name is Roger Tanner. Me and these men”—he gestured to the other three strangers—“have come from Normanton. Nine years ago this man, Wolfe, caused harm to property of considerable worth in the parish. Your lord father, may his soul rest in peace, gave him a suspended sentence on the condition that he never again enter the parish. Well, my lord, he came through five days ago, and we’ve the horse he rode into town on as proof.”

“You have a horse as proof? How singular,” the magistrate said with steepled brows. “What would you say if he denied it was his?”

“I wouldn’t deny it.” Taliesin’s voice was deep and a bit rough.

The lord magistrate looked at him. “Mr. Wolfe, you are not to speak until I have called you to do so. Do you understand?”

Taliesin nodded.

“Now, why wouldn’t you deny the horse is yours if that is the only proof they can furnish? Do you have a wish to be deported?”

“I’ve no such wish, my lord. But that horse is the finest animal I have ever bred. I’d no more think to deny him than fly to the moon.”

The magistrate pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Well said.”

“My lord,” Tanner said. “We’ve other proof. A witness.” He pointed at Eleanor. “The Gypsy—that is, Wolfe—was seen absconding from the county on horseback with that woman. She was . . . well, she wasn’t dressed in a ladylike way, my lord, rather, wearing nothing but nightclothes. Not even shoes.”

The magistrate’s eyes widened and he peered at Arabella. Recognition came into his face. “Duchess.” He stood to his considerable height and bowed from the waist.

“My lord.” Arabella curtsied.

“I have a mind to arraign
you
, duchess,” he said as he settled back into his throne. “That likeness Lycombe had painted of you, the one hanging in your house in town, is the envy of my wife and her friends. Since we dined with you at Christmastime I haven’t heard the end of it. She insists on having a picture done of her now. Pesters me about it every day.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“It will cost me three hundred guineas. But she knows I cannot deny her,” he said with the comfortably resigned air of a man thoroughly under the thumb of the woman he loved. Like Arabella’s husband, Luc. Like Ravenna’s husband, Vitor.