Patrica Rice (6 page)

He shrugged. “Not really. I wanted to draw them out and I did. Unfortunately, I apparently look too much like the lady’s brother. They’ll remember me no matter how I disguise myself. Do you think you could persuade her to send a card around to her aunt and wait for a reply?”

“We might try. Fiona’s scared. She might agree if she thinks she’s safe. The trick is persuading her to trust us. I don’t think she’s accustomed to trusting.”

Michael frowned at his empty cup. “No, I don’t think so, either. I wish she would give us her real name. I’d like to find her family.”

Blanche signaled a footman. “Send my maid for Miss MacOwen. And tell her we’ll leave for London shortly.”

The footman disappeared down the narrow servants’ corridor.

When she turned back to her plate, Michael asked abruptly, “Why haven’t you married Neville yet?”

Blanche’s heart skipped. Disconcerted, she looked away from his all-too discerning gaze and stared out the window again, wishing for some sight of nodding daffodil heads to distract her. “I see no purpose in it. We grew up together. It would be much like marrying a brother. I don’t think I shall marry. Men are too much of a nuisance, and I enjoy doing as I will.”

“No, you don’t,” he said. “You’re not like Gavin’s dragon lady. You want someone to look after you, someone you can care for in return. You’ve never had a proper family, and you want one.”

Tears gathered in Blanche’s eyes. Setting her chin, she glared at him. “I am not some helpless scatterwit who needs a caretaker, thank you. I’ll have you know—”

The footman interrupted, returning with Blanche’s maid in a panic. “Oh, my lady! She was asleep just moments ago, I assure you, ma’am. I checked on her myself. And then when she wasn’t there, I thought she had come down to join you. I’ve sent Brown looking for her. Mayhap she became lost in the corridor?”

Before Blanche could reply, Michael rose and strode for the front hall.

With resignation, Blanche nodded to the maid. “Have the house and grounds searched, and check to see if anything is missing. I’m quite certain she’s not lost.” Rising, she followed Michael up the stairs, knowing perfectly well what they would find. Or wouldn’t, as the case might be.

If she was anything like Michael at all, Fiona had presumably overheard their conversation. And like Michael, she’d escaped like a wisp on a breeze at the first sign of confrontation.

Blanche examined Fiona’s note for the hundredth time. “Can Parliament be made to close early? What can it possibly mean?” Nothing good, but she knew that.

“She cannot get far on foot, my lady. We will find her,” Michael said reassuringly as Blanche paced the drawing room.

“It has been hours and no one has seen her! What if she has been abducted? What if someone came in this house and stole her away? She’s little more than a child, Michael! I promised her safety.” Blanche strode once more to the windows overlooking the carriage drive.

“Do you always hold yourself responsible for the acts of others?” he asked dryly. “The little brat took herself off. She didn’t even take your maid’s gown. And if your men can’t find her on the road, I know where to look in town.”

Blanche swung around and stared at him. Michael spun a walking stick of unknown origins between his fingers. In Neville’s tailored coat, he looked too damned much like a gentleman, except for his glare. She wouldn’t want to be Fiona when he found her.

“And what of that note?” she asked. “She said something of the sort last night, something about despising the men in Parliament but not wanting anything disastrous to come of it. Is she insane?”

“No, frightened out of her mind, possibly, but not insane. Parliament can take care of itself. I doubt our Fiona can say the same.” He looked grim. “Let’s not argue now, my lady. I’ll take one of your horses and search the village. Even if she found a ride, she cannot have gone far. It’s only been a few hours.”

“With a good horse she could be in London in a few hours! I’m going with you. I’ll have Nethers call my carriage around.” Blanche tugged the bell rope.

“You will do no such fool thing,” he exclaimed. “It is best if you stay where your men can report to you. There’s no need for your haring off across the countryside.”

“My men may report to Nethers. I know the people here, O’Toole. They trust me. They’ll confide in me if in no one else.” Striding back and forth, more confident now that she had a direction, Blanche ignored Michael’s furious expression.

“You are making a mountain out of a molehill,” he declared. “The chit isn’t worth your time. Go argue with your steward and keep your man of business from exploiting miners. That is of more importance than a runaway.”

“She’s a child!” Blanche cried. “An unprotected, terrified child heading for a city she doesn’t know. What do you think I am that you assume I would so heartlessly dismiss her?”

“I think you scarce older than she and less able to protect yourself,” he said dryly.

Furious, Blanche glanced up at the stoic butler waiting in the doorway. “Have them fetch my carriage ’round, Nethers. I shall be going into the village, and then following the London road.” As the butler departed, she vented her fury on her antagonist. “I daresay I have a good many more years of experience than Miss MacOwen, and I am not frightened.” With that, she strode out of the room.

She showed no surprise half an hour later as she left the house to enter her carriage and found Michael waiting with one of her best geldings. She had traversed the road to London a million times in her life. She didn’t fear traveling alone. She hadn’t asked for his company.

She gave him no greeting and he returned the favor. He merely mounted the horse as the carriage door closed behind her. She couldn’t recall ever seeing O’Toole on horseback. Actually, she couldn’t recall ever seeing him arrive or depart. He just appeared and disappeared like the songbirds. She cast a surreptitious look in his direction as the carriage rolled down the drive. He handled the horse as well as any gentleman. Aware that she was admiring the straight set of his back and the width of his shoulders, she sat back and glared at the empty seat opposite.

She had the carriage stop in the village so she might climb out and speak with the shopkeepers and housewives. She thought it more likely that Fiona had taken to the fields, but her footmen and grooms hadn’t found a farmer who admitted seeing her. Perhaps the child had boldly come into town looking for a ride.

Too small to boast a coaching inn, the village possessed one main street of shops and a square of sorts where cattle grazed. Leaving the carriage near the parsonage, Blanche began with the first shop and worked her way down the street. Michael left his horse grazing with the cattle and roamed idly in and out of the shops and alleys as she methodically worked her way through town.

She finally struck luck while talking with an elderly widow. The woman nodded her capped head. “Knew no good could come of them scoundrels sneaking about. Saw them when I milked Bossie this morn. They slinked back into the shadows, they did, but I knew they was up to no good. Told Melinda about them, but she didn’t pay me no mind. Them young ’uns of hers got the croup and she can’t attend to nothing else.”

“What kind of scoundrels, Mrs. Blake? Did you get a good look at them?”

“City scoundrels is all I can say. They don’t belong hereabouts. Big one had a cap pulled down, so I couldn’t see more than that. My eyes ain’t what they used to be.”

“Where did you see them, Mrs. Blake? On the square?” If the widow had been milking the cow, it would have been too early for her to have seen Miss MacOwen. According to the maid, Fiona had been asleep when Blanche came down for breakfast. But the village seldom saw strangers.

“Over by the churchyard, they was. Vicar keeps that empty carriage house of his open. Mind you, I’ve told him time and again it’s an invitation for trouble, but he thinks it’s an inn for those down on their luck. Says the Lord was born in a stable, and he could do no less than offer his for others in need.”

Blanche sympathized with the vicar’s generosity, but she feared Mrs. Blake had the right of it. That empty carriage house would be an ideal hiding place. No one ever used it.

Seeing Michael step from the dim interior of the blacksmith shop, she reluctantly signaled him. She wasn’t so foolish as to search the carriage house on her own.

“Mrs. Blake says she saw two strangers near the vicar’s carriage house this morning. Do you think they may still be there?” she asked as Michael joined her. He’d removed his high-crowned hat, and the sun glinted off his thick locks, making them appear nearly as copper as Fiona’s. Blanche struggled to breathe evenly.

“If not, they may have left clues,” Michael answered. “I’ll take your driver and search the place. It’s possible someone followed me, but not likely.”

He strode off in the direction of the carriage and the parsonage, leaving Blanche to thank Mrs. Blake and hurry after him. She wanted to curse Michael for his ungentlemanly behavior, but she much preferred a man of action. She just wished he wouldn’t ignore her so completely when he acted.

Her driver had unhitched the horses from the carriage near the water trough on the square. At Blanche’s signal, the driver led his horses across the grassy square to meet her and Michael. Holding her skirts, she was hurrying to catch up with Michael when he shouted in alarm.

“Get down, man! Cover your head!” Michael yelled, racing toward driver and horses.

Frightened, Blanche scanned the scene for the danger as heads popped from doorways all around, everyone eager for a little excitement to stir their day. The coachman dove for cover. And then Blanche saw what Michael had seen first: a snake of fire sizzling toward the underside of the carriage on the far side of the square.

Her first instinct cried for water to douse the flames as Michael raced toward the horses. Michael grabbed the bridles from the coachman and ran with them down the street.

The carriage exploded in a giant fireball.

Screaming, Blanche stood paralyzed in the middle of the street. In her mind, the conflagration roared around her, scorching her hair, blinding her eyes, filling her lungs with breath-stealing smoke. She couldn’t bear it. She covered her eyes, screaming and praying for the fire and noise to go away, until reassuring hands caught her arms and shook her.

“Snap out of it, Blanche. It’s just a coach. No one’s hurt. You’re all right. I won’t let the fire touch you again.”

The words held no meaning, but Michael’s arms wrapping around her held her steady. Shaking, she clung to the cool unscorched cloth beneath her fingers.

Michael held her close and rocked her, repeating meaningless phrases until she quieted in the strength of his reassuring embrace.

“Come, let me take you inside. Someone will find you a glass of canary. Just hold on, my lady. It’s all right. You’re strong. You won’t let anyone frighten you that easily.”

Michael’s words slowly sank in as he led her toward the village bake shop. The cool interior brushed her skin like a refreshing breeze. The fire had not touched her. Her clothing was unburnt. She was safe, just as Michael said. She wanted to cling to Michael’s hand, but she’d already made fool enough of herself. She sank into the chair offered and sipped from the glass handed to her. Michael’s look of concern vanished beneath his usual insouciance the moment she met his gaze.

“You’re all right?” she whispered. “And the coachman?”

“Everyone is all right,” he said firmly. “Even the horses. If you’ll just sit here a moment, I’ll see to everything. I suspect your driver was a trifle shaken and may need some reassurance that he did nothing wrong.”

She didn’t argue. The coach driver had more need of him than she did. Shame washed through her, and she could not meet the eyes of the concerned villagers. The vicar rushed in, murmuring comforting phrases as he attempted to persuade her from the shop to the safety of his home until she called for a new carriage. Blanche shook her head. She didn’t want a new carriage. She wanted to childishly yell that she wanted her old carriage, but she held her tongue as an idea formed in her brain, spinning to conclusions she didn’t like.

The driver entered the bake shop, holding his cap against his chest. “There’s naught can be done for it, my lady, ’tis blown to bits, it is. They’s some as gone to fetch the phaeton. ’Twill be but just a few minutes, my lady. I can’t say as I know what happened. I didn’t see nuthin’. It was there, and then it ’twasn’t. Never saw the like in all my born days.”

He would no doubt have rambled on in this fashion, but Blanche had recovered enough to know what she must do. Setting aside the glass of wine, she thanked the proprietor, murmured a few reassuring words to her driver and told him to sit and have a glass of the excellent wine. Then she strode past all her protesting protectors to the street outside.

As she expected, she found Michael crawling around the remains of the demolished vehicle. The horses calmly munched oats someone had provided. Kicking the sole of his boots, Blanche ignored his oath as Michael bumped his head on the underpinning. “What happened?” she demanded.

He slid from beneath the charred wheels, dusted himself off, and stood before answering. Michael wasn’t a large man. He didn’t tower over her as so many men did, but his chest had been wide and solid when she’d rested against it. And she shouldn’t be thinking these things when she wanted to kick him.

“Someone planted gunpowder under the carriage, ran a fuse into the vicar’s garden, and set fire to it,” he stated bluntly.

The knowledge struck Blanche like a blow, even though she’d mentally prepared for it. “Why?” she asked.

“Neville may wish to wring your neck, but I can’t think he would resort to blowing up your carriage,” Michael said dryly. “It’s not quite his style. Whoever blew it up knew you weren’t in it. They just wanted to terrify you. Or slow you down. I don’t like thinking I’ve led you into trouble by bringing Miss MacOwen to your home, but that’s the way it looks right now.”

Blanche studied his troubled expression. Michael didn’t mind lying to suit his cause, but she didn’t think he was lying now. “Fiona’s in danger. I knew she was. We must find her, Michael.”