The Runaway Heiress (16 page)

'What kept you?'
Aldeborough's smile relaxed the lines of tension around his mouth. 'We were in
urgent need of you ten minutes ago.'

'My God, Hugh!' Ambrose
assessed the dramatic tableau before him. 'I'm relieved to see that you're in
such good spirits in the circumstances.' He and Matthew dismounted from their
blowing horses, handing their reins to the accompanying groom, as Aldeborough
stretched out his hand to help Frances climb somewhat shakily to her feet.

'What on earth...?' asked
Matthew but Aldeborough shook his head slightly and his brother was quick to
pick up the unspoken hint. 'You look as if you've been travelling on the floor,'
he continued smoothly, addressing himself to Frances with a grin as he surveyed
her dishevelled appearance. 'Did Hugh insist on such ill treatment? I'll knock
him down for you if you wish. Just give the word.'

'I'm afraid he did.' She
returned his smile, grateful for his deliberate lightening of the tension, as
she attempted unsuccessfully to brush some of the mud from her skirts. She was
not fooled. She was well aware of her husband's unwillingness to discuss the
implications of the previous ten minutes in front of her.

'Of course I did. Didn't
you know it's in the marriage contract? And Molly is an expert at travelling
under coach seats.' Aldeborough turned to Ambrose. 'Would you cast an eye over
our two dubious friends for a moment?' Then as Ambrose, followed by Matthew,
moved to stoop over the two bodies, he turned to Frances. 'I trust you are
unharmed, my lady,' he enquired gently. He might have been asking if she had
slept well, but nothing could disguise the expression of concern in his eyes or
the churning mass of fury in his gut at the prospect of what might have
happened to her at the hands of the assassins.

'Yes,' she answered with
clenched teeth in a forlorn attempt to stop the shivering that was taking over
now that the danger had gone. 'But what about you?' She reached up to gently
touch a graze on his right temple. He flinched.

'I was not aware of that.'
He shrugged. 'A mere scratch.' He hesitated for a moment, weighing his words,
undecided whether to say more, but then continued, 'I owe you my life, you
know.'

'I thought he meant to
shoot you,' Frances explained. 'Is he...is he dead?'

Aldeborough turned his
head to where Ambrose and Matthew were finishing their inspection. 'I'm afraid
they might both be.' He took her cold hands in his and saw the horror imprint
itself on her face. 'You must not think about it. If you had not shot him, we
would doubtless both be dead by now.'

'Dead!' Ambrose confirmed,
his face grim. 'We shall not learn anything from them.'

'No. I expect they were
thugs hired in York. If your groom could wait here for the coach containing our
luggage, they could then arrange to take the bodies back to York. We might find
out who they are or at least who paid them—but I am not too hopeful.'

'But they were not
ordinary footpads, were they?' Frances broke in, voicing the thoughts that had
been crowding into her brain for some time. 'They were not common highwaymen.'

'Perhaps
not, but don't worry.' He squeezed her hands reassuringly. 'We'll be safe
enough now with our gallant rescuers. Matthew's always good for seeing off any
troublemakers.'

'But...' Frances
persisted, unwilling to let the matter drop.

'Not now, Frances.' It was
a command.

Aldeborough transferred
his grasp to her arm to help her up into the coach again. When he became aware
of the trembling that she could not control and so had failed to hide from him,
he turned without a word and strode to his tethered horse, producing a small
flask from his saddlebag.

'Drink this.' He
unstoppered it and presented it to her. 'It will stop the shivering, so don't
refuse.' Frances had the grace lo look sheepish as this had been her intention.
She took a gulp of the fiery liquid, making her gasp and her eyes water, but
the warmth in her stomach was comforting and she drank again before returning
it to Aldeborough.

'You were very brave,
Frances Rosalind,' he said softly. '1 shall not forget this day.' He took a
drink of the brandy himself, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 'Up
with you. I'll ride a little way with Ambrose. Matthew will keep you company.
You can tell him all about your adventure and the indignity of travelling on
the floor of the coach. You'll be quite safe and we shall be at the Priory in
no time.'

With Matthew and Frances
comfortably ensconced, the coachman gave his horses the office to start.
Aldeborough swung himself up on to his horse and he and Ambrose fell in at some
little distance behind the coach.

'So, what's all this,
Hugh?' Ambrose could barely contain his curiosity. 'A bit like the old times in
the Peninsula, was it?'

Aldeborough laughed
without humour. 'Yes, it was. But there you expect ambush and guerrilla
tactics. You are prepared for it. I was not prepared today—too casual by half,
it seems.'

'Hmm. It looked like a
nasty incident and this is not known as a dangerous stretch of road that
highwaymen frequent.'

'They were not footpads,'
Aldeborough stated baldly, 'as my wife observed. And you are correct. It had
the makings of a very nasty incident. With my blood on the road.
^?

'Hired assassins? It seems
unlikely.'

'Very true, but they were.
They knew who they were intending to waylay and had clear instructions as to
the outcome. And it seems they were being paid handsomely.'

'Could they simply have
recognised the black falcon on the coach panel and seen their eye to the main
chance? It is fairly distinctive—you were hardly travelling incognito, were
you?'

'They could, but I think
they were well informed beforehand. The leader called out my name as they
stopped the coach. And they were expecting Frances to be travelling with me. He
asked me where she was.'

'So who knew you were
travelling today?'

Aldeborough shrugged. 'Any
number of people, I suppose.'

Ambrose was silent for a
moment, frowning as he contemplated the possibilities.

'Been making any enemies
lately?' he asked finally. 'Putting up the rent of your tenants or something
of the sort?'

'No.' Aldeborough shook
his head. 'I am seen as an improving landlord, I believe,' he stated cynically.

'Well, you couldn't be
worse than your father. Or Richard. But that is not saying much.'

'Thank you,' Aldeborough
commented drily. 'I am delighted that someone appreciates my achievements.'

'Your mother still giving
you hell, is she?'

'Of course. Richard was
the centre of her universe.' Aldeborough's set expression and icy tone did not
encourage further discussion.

'So?' Ambrose took the
hint. 'What of your footpads? Won a lot of money from anyone recently? Seduced
someone's wife?' Impatiently the Marquis shook his head.

'You have made one enemy
too many, my lord.'

Aldeborough remained
silent for a moment. Then, 'I don't want this spread abroad, Ambrose. They were
paid assassins and out for blood. Mine. They were not frightened of being
recognised, their faces were not covered, so obviously they intended to allow
no witnesses to remain alive. The fact that they failed was pure chance—and
your timely arrival, of: course.'

'Do I understand that it
was in fact Lady Aldeborough who shot one of them?' As Aldeborough nodded, his
friend continued, 'She has amazing spirit as well as a beautiful face You're a
lucky man, if you did but realise it,' he ended drily

'Very
true, as you have not hesitated to tell me before. I did not realise you were
such an admirer.' There was a hint of warning, but lightly given. 'If it had
not been for Frances, I would be lying dead in the road.'
                    

'Be assured, Hugh, if your
footpads or assassins had been successful, I would have been only too willing
to come to Lady Aldeborough's aid!' Ambrose's lips twitched in dry amusement,
claiming the familiarity of an old friend, and there was a glint in his eye.
But then he stared straight ahead between his horse's ears, suddenly serious as
a thought struck him and he refused to meet Aldeborough's enigmatic stare. 'Hut
it gives you food for thought, does it not? That someone hates you sufficiently
to be prepared to arrange your death.'

Aldeborough, for once, gave no reply.

'Good afternoon, my lord.
My lady. We have been expecting you. I trust your journey was uneventful?'

'Yes. You're looking well,
Rivers.' Aldeborough shrugged himself out of his caped greatcoat. 'Any
problems?'

'No, my lord. I am sure
you will find everything running smoothly and to your satisfaction. Kington
expects to report to you tomorrow. He has left a letter for you in the
library.'

'I will read it presently.
Can we have tea in the library at once? I'm sure her ladyship will be grateful
for some refreshment. Lord Matthew is with us. He's gone with the horses to
the stables, but should be here presently.'

'Indeed, my lord.
Everything is prepared. And perhaps I should inform you. Lady Cotherstone is in
residence. She arrived last week. For a prolonged stay, I believe. She had
considerable luggage.'

No expression crossed the
butler's face, but Aldeborough caught the gleam in his eye and responded with a
low laugh. Thank you, Rivers. It is as well to be warned. Where is she?'

'In the library, awaiting
you, my lord. For some little time, I understand.'

'Then we had better go and
announce our arrival.' He turned to Frances as Rivers retired to organise
refreshments. 'Come and meet one of the skeletons in our family cupboard.'

'Who is she?' Frances's
lingering unease over the violence of the attack was overlaid by a lively curiosity.

'Lady Mary Cotherstone. My
grandfather's sister—my Great-aunt May. I've no idea how old she is—she will
never admit her true age—she is eccentric, opinionated and outspoken to a
fault. She married when she was very young—I’m amazed that any man was willing
to take her on—but she
has
been a widow as long as I have known her. She and my mother
detest each other and spend as little time as possible under the same roof.' He
grinned. 'You will like her extremely.'

Frances acknowledged this
with a chuckle. 'Does she live here? Where was she when you first brought me
here?' They made their way to the library, Frances divesting herself o coat and
gloves to a waiting footman.

'She doesn't officially
live anywhere. She does the rounds of her relatives and moves on only when
their patience give out or she loses her temper. I suppose she lives here more
than anywhere. You will find her a most refreshing experience after the polite
manners of town.' He opened the door into the library.

'Well, May. I hear you
have taken up residence again. We are honoured. And I see that Wellington is
still with us.'

'Aunt May to you, my boy.
Show some respect to you elders and betters. Wellington is very well.'

Frances found herself in
the company of a lady of extreme age and somewhat forbidding appearance. She
was tall and thin to the point of emaciation. Her black hair, allowed to show
no signs of natural ageing, was drawn back from her forehead to leave a row of
girlish curls as a fringe. She was dressed remarkably in the fashion prevalent
in the days of her youth with a tight buckram-lined bodice and a full, ruched
overskirt caught up over a matching petticoat. The whole was trimmed with
frivolous bows and flowers, which sat incongruously on her angular frame. Her
face was heavily lined but those around her eyes and mouth suggested that she
smiled often—as indeed she did when she rose to meet Aldeborough. Wellington,
an inappropriately named hound of mixed parentage but a quantity of long,
tangled hair, growled and panted at her feet.

'Well, Aldeborough. Let me
look at you.'

She raised a bony,
arthritic hand to turn his face to the light, scanning his features with eyes
uncannily similar to his own.

'You look well. Still
missing the campaigning?'

'Perhaps.'

'You should not have let
them bully you into selling out. I doubt your mother thanks you for it. I
suppose you are still her least favourite son?'

Aldeborough, well used to
his aunt's astringent style, shook his head and refused to rise to the bait. 'I
had no choice but to sell out, you know that,' he said, ignoring one question
and answering the other.

'Hmm. So you say.' She
snorted in an unladylike manner and patted his cheek in dismissal. 'So.' She
turned to Frances, who felt herself being raked from head to foot by the
bright, inquisitive gaze. 'And this is The Bride. Are you going to introduce
us?'

'This is Frances.' He drew
her forward with a hand on her arm. 'My dear, this is my Great-aunt May.'

'You are not what I
expected. I have had the dubious pleasure of making the acquaintance of
Viscount Torrington and his wife.'

Frances was not sure how
to take this, but decided that it was a compliment and dropped a small curtsy.
'I am pleased to meet you, my lady.'

'Don't stand on ceremony.
Call me Aunt May like the rest of them. You're a pretty little thing. You're
Cecilia Mortimer's daughter, are you not?'

'Yes,' Frances admitted in
some surprise. 'Did you know my mother?'

'No. Although I probably
met her. She was much younger—a different generation—but I remember the to-do
when she ran off with your father. But I have to say that even that scandal
pales into insignificance in comparison with your own marriage.' She turned her
accusing stare on Aldeborough. 'What were you thinking of, Hugh? To abduct the
girl from her uncle's house—is that the truth of it? It was not exactly good
ton,
was it? I thought you had more style, boy.'
It gave Frances some cause for amusement to hear her self- assured husband
addressed with such familiarity and in such an accusing tone. But if he was
discomfited, he covered it well and responded to his aunt with good humour.