Shades of Milk and Honey (26 page)

She stood for a bare moment before running out of the door, the sound of her feet pounding down the hall, no doubt headed to her room. Mr. Dunkirk watched her go, his face a terrible mask of rationality.

Jane closed her eyes to block the sight of the perfect calm that masked the bright anger which burned in his gaze. How would Mr. Vincent draw that face? The lines etched themselves across her inner vision. Jane shuddered.

She heard Mr. Dunkirk cross the room, and the clink of glass as a decanter was opened. Jane opened her eyes. He held a glass of brandy, which he drank from hastily before pouring a second glass and handing it to her. “My apologies.”

She sipped the brandy, and the fire burned straight into her stomach, mixing with the bile in bitter upset. “I am sorry—”

Mr. Dunkirk held up his hand to stop her and shook his head in silence. Sinking into the nearest chair, he covered his eyes with his free hand. They sat in silence a while longer, until at last he lifted his head, shewing his red-rimmed eyes. “It was not my intent to place you in this position. Nor Beth’s, for that matter. Your friendship has meant so much to her.”

“It is only natural that she blame me for betraying her trust. Even if she did not overhear me telling you about Captain Livingston, she surely must have suspected from his unwillingness to approach you.” Knowing this to be true did nothing to ease the pain in Jane’s middle.

He nodded. The only sound in the room was the mantel clock and Jane’s own breath, which tore against the sides of her throat. Mr. Dunkirk studied his brandy, turning the
glass in his hands. At last he cleared his throat. “What will your family do?”

“My father has gone to fetch Melody and my mother home. Beyond that I do not know.”

Mr. Dunkirk pursed his lips. “Do you expect them soon?”

“I am not certain. I do not know how far they will have gone before my father catches them, nor how much difficulty he will have in persuading them to turn back.”

“He will not relay the tale there, I hope.” Mr. Dunkirk looked up quickly, his gaze narrowing again.

“He plans to tell them I am ill. Which is not far from the truth.”

“Let me see you home.”

“Surely you need to be with Beth.”

He snorted and set the glass down. “She will not tolerate my presence for hours yet. I have opportunity and a carriage; it is a small enough thing to make amends. Will you—” His face whitened suddenly, staring at the window, even as Jane heard the sound of hoofbeats.

She turned, rising out of her chair as if somehow that would transform the view from the window. Clear enough in the morning sun, Beth leaned close over her mare’s neck, riding away from Robinsford Abbey.

Mr. Dunkirk cursed and dashed to the door of the drawing room, then halted suddenly. “She has gone to him.” Breathing hard, he turned on his heel, strode across the
room to the mantel, and snatched the inlaid box of dueling pistols.

“Mr. Dunkirk!” Jane held out her hand, as if that would stop him.

He bowed grimly to her. “It seems that none of us are keeping our promises today.” With that, he sprinted from the room, his face set and hard as stone.

Jane gathered her skirts and raced after him. Mr. Dunkirk shouted for his horse, cursing as he went. Though Jane called after him, pleading with him to do nothing rash, he paid her no more heed than if she were a terrier yapping at his heels. Her only confirmation that he was aware of her presence was when he snapped at a footman, “See to it that Miss Ellsworth is safely home.”

Then, he was on his dark gelding and away, riding with the tails of his coat streaming behind him like the wings of the dark beast.

Jane stood at the door, hand pressed against her breast to stop the pounding of her heart. He would kill Captain Livingston, or die trying; she was quite certain of that. Jane turned to the footman to whom Mr. Dunkirk had given his order regarding her. “Will you saddle a horse for me?”

He bowed correctly, asking no questions, and within a span of ten minutes, Jane was faced with the Dunkirk’s grey mare. The hostler had evidently taken measure of her and known she was no horsewoman.

Another time she would have blessed him, but now she
craved speed, not a nursemaid. She urged the horse down the sweep in the wake of Mr. Dunkirk, with no more notion of how she would catch him than of what she would do when she caught up.

Jane bounced in the saddle, slamming against the hard leather and driving home every ache, every fatigue she had gained from her night out-of-doors. The mare could not sustain a gallop for long, so Jane was forced to endure walking her in the midst of her urgency. The countryside rolled past with all the haste of a Saturday picnic.

When Jane judged it safe, she pressed the horse to a gallop again. Noon passed, and she had seen no sign of any of her family, only a farmer on his way to town.

Then, a lone rider rode toward her. Jane’s heart rose, hoping that it was Mr. Dunkirk and that he had changed his mind, but the man had neither the coloring nor the bearing.

“Why, Miss Ellsworth, is it?” As he neared her, she recognized Mr. Buffington, the loathed man from Lady FitzCameron’s party. He doffed his hat on seeing her and turned his horse to accompany hers. “This is a surprize. I had understood that you were unwell.”

“No. As you see, I am not.” She gave him a moment of courtesy, though she paid no heed to her own words. When the barest minimum of forms were observed, Jane said, “Did you perchance pass Lady FitzCameron on the road?”

“I did at that. I must say, I question my decision to quit Bath for the idle pleasures of Dorset. Quite the parade of notables has passed me by.”

“Whom else have you seen?” Jane asked, though she knew the answer. She wanted to know how far behind them she was.

“First the Viscountess, and then not half an hour after that, I crossed paths with Miss Dunkirk, then Mr. Dunkirk. And I have just passed your family, who alone among the folks I have seen today seem intent on returning from Bath. Who is behind you?”

“The devil, I’m afraid, Mr. Buffington.” She pressed the mare forward. That her father had succeeded in turning her mother back from Bath was a small blessing. She had no notion of what would happen when she passed them, given what Mr. Ellsworth must have said about her illness. “If you will excuse me.”

“What is happening, if I may ask? The Dunkirks passed me, but neither would give me the time of day.”

Jane tried to urge the mare to a gallop, but she merely trotted a few paces and settled back into an amble. “Murder, I’m afraid, if someone does not intervene.”

He laughed. “Oh, you women are so melodramatic. Do not expect me to catch you when you faint.”

“I would rather hit the ground. Good day, sir.” She kicked the mare, hard, and succeeded in making the animal start forward. Doing the numbers in her head, she tried calculating how far she had yet to go. She had no hope of overtaking Mr. Dunkirk, but if she could arrive before any mischief occurred, then she might hope to influence the outcome.

“Stay a minute!” He brought his horse up beside her. “You are quite serious, aren’t you? Who murdered? How?”

Odious man! Her foolish outburst had done nothing but intrigue him. Buffington followed her now, his horse keeping pace easily with hers. He reached out and snared her horse’s reins from her hand.

Jane gasped and tried to wrest them back, nearly unseating herself in the process. Buffington pulled both horses to a halt; Jane’s nursemaid of a steed did little to fight him.

“Are you mad?” Jane tugged ineffectually at the reins in his grasp.

“No, not I.” He sat with easy nonchalance in his saddle, smiling at her with condescension in every pore. “I think it best that we pause here until your family arrives.”

“I do not have time to wait for them.” Jane did not like
to think on what would happen when Mr. Dunkirk overtook Captain Livingston.

“Yes. You had mentioned that you were being chased by the devil. Do tell me more about that. I have always wondered what he would look like.”

“You are sure to find out if you do not unhand me.”

He laughed. “Oh, yes. I am certain he will be along the road at any moment, also intent on going to Bath. The waters are fine this season, I understand. It is unfortunate that your family must forgo them for your sake.”

At last Jane’s mind awoke to the fact that Buffington had the excuse that she was unwell as the Ellsworths’ reason for returning to Long Parkmead. A reason that was sound enough—until Jane came thundering down the road babbling of murders and devils.

He must think her mad.

“I was speaking metaphorically, Mr. Buffington.” Jane straightened her back, feeling for the first time the stray locks of hair which tumbled around her face. She must look the very picture of madness. “I thank you for your courtesy, but I must insist that you release my horse.”

“No, Miss Ellsworth. I’m afraid I cannot in good conscience do anything of the sort.”

Jane uttered a cry of exasperation and rage. To Buffington’s dismay, Jane dismounted and began walking down the road toward Bath, hoping to meet her father the sooner. Though her hope of catching up with Mr. Dunkirk was now
shattered, she could not sit here idly while he rode on, intent on murder.

“Miss Ellsworth! There is no call for this. Your family will arrive soon enough.”

Jane did not trust herself to speak. She continued to stride down the road as quickly as her skirts would let her. Even with the advance of autumn, the day seemed overwarm, and her chemise stuck to her skin with the clinging heat of summer.

To her right, Buffington rode after her, leading her horse and entreating her to stop. “You should not be walking if you are unwell.”

“Then return my horse to me.”

“Only if you promise not to ride off.”

“Sir, you have stolen my horse. You have no right to make demands on me.”

At last Jane saw her father’s carriage on the road before her. He rode beside the carriage at an easy pace. As she drew near enough to be recognized, he took on a startled look.

“Jane?” He spurred his horse forward to meet them, dismounting at her side. “What are you doing here?”

Buffington shook his head sadly. “Perhaps you can get an answer from her, for I cannot. She’s raving of murder and devils. I fear your daughter’s reason is unhinged.”

“Murder!” Mr. Ellsworth’s customary ruddiness fled. “Who?”

“No one as of yet.” Jane, with a glance at Buffington, prayed that her father might understand her desire to preserve
what little discretion was left. “My conference did not go as well as we might have hoped. I am afraid the other parties were quite disturbed. Mr. Buffington has kindly taken it upon himself to halt me here rather than allowing me to continue on my errand.”

“It was no trouble at all.” Buffington waved her words away as if she had praised him.

“Mama wants to know why we are stopped.” Melody, as light and fresh as a new day, stepped out of the carriage. “Jane?”

“What?” Her mother poked her head out of the carriage. “Jane! What are you doing out of bed? Your father said you were overcome from use of glamour, after I warned you not to use it and now, to find you here. It is too much. You are too cruel to your mother. Oh! Mr. Buffington; so good to see you again.”

Buffington swung down from his saddle and bowed to Melody and Mrs. Ellsworth. In a confidential tone, which did nothing to prevent Jane from hearing him, he said, “I’m afraid the glamour has been too much for her reason, madam, but I assure you that I have done my best to care for her since finding her riding headlong down the road.”

“Oh!” Mrs. Ellsworth fell back into the carriage, fanning herself.

Mr. Buffington dashed forward to catch her, though Jane could have told him that it would do no good. Her mother would be overcome for some time regardless of the nature of the offense to her senses. A stubbed toe would be quite as
debilitating as a concussion. Her father, long used to these displays, took no notice and turned instead to Jane, leaving Mr. Buffington and Melody to deal with Mrs. Ellsworth.

“Why did you say murder, Jane?”

“Mr. Dunkirk. He left Robinsford Abbey with dueling pistols.”

Mr. Ellsworth straightened at that, his jaw setting. “And you tried to stop him?”

“I had no time.” Had Mr. Dunkirk more regard for her opinions he would have paused. She could only hope that his ride might have given his heart time to cool from the rage and that her words might this time win their way with reason. Jane looked away from her father, down the road toward Bath, as if she might yet be able to spy Lady FitzCameron’s carriage and Mr. Dunkirk. But nothing lay in view but her family’s own carriage and the cluster of people tending her mother. The horses, untended, cropped the grass by the side of the road, utterly oblivious to the humans’ turmoil.

Mr. Buffington’s horse was a fine stallion, rangy, with bunched energy shewing in his every motion. Without being fully conscious of forming a plan, Jane walked to the stallion, took up his reins, and reached for the stirrup. Her father was by her side, helping her up. “I doubt he would listen to me, or I would go in your place. We will follow you, but be careful.”