The Runaway Heiress (29 page)

'Do you know what I remember? I can still see you
standing in your bedchamber in Cavendish Square, fear in your eyes—which I had
put there—the scars of your uncle's whip on your back and all you could say was
that you were grateful to me for rescuing you. It makes my blood run cold. You
deserve a better husband than I have been, darling Frances. I am not proud of
the way I have acted towards you. I have no excuses.'

She moved a little against him, curling more
securely into the warmth of his body. He tightened his embrace.

'But I would give my life's blood to wipe the
memory of that fear away and restore to you everything that you were denied by
your family. Security. Happiness. Serenity, knowing that no one will ever hurt
you again. For understand this, Frances, I will never do anything to bring you
harm. Or allow anyone else to do so. I swear it.

'I need you, Frances. To smile at me. To wake
beside me so that I can hold you in my arms. Because I love you. You are my
heart and soul, my whole life. Do you believe that?' It was suddenly so urgent
that she should.

She made no reply. He turned his head to glance
down.

'Frances?'

He smiled wistfully, a little sadly, now aware of
her deep breathing. Her warm breath whispered against his shoulder, her hand
relaxed with fingers curled against his chest. He doubted that she would
remember any of his words in
the
morning when she awoke. When he would be gone from
her side.

'Sleep well, dearest Molly,' he murmured. 'Tomorrow
it will all be over, one way or the other.'

Smoothing
her hair from her face, he pressed his lips to the faint pulse beating at her
temple. He remained wakeful, content simply to hold her in his safekeeping
until the false dawn lightened the sky.

Frances woke very early, alone, with a terrible
sense of doom. She flung back the covers and crossed with hurried
steps
to Aldeborough's room. It was empty and somehow desolate. She could only guess
that he was engaged in something dangerous and that she could do no more than
wait until he returned. She walked over to his dressing table and touched his
silver brushes, tracing the engraved pattern with her fingers. She remembered
the highwaymen on the road to the Priory, their violence and intent to kill,
and refused to contemplate the possibility that he might be harmed. But she
could not check the tears that rolled slowly down her cheeks on to her lace
chemise.

Chapter Fourteen

The sky brightened
imperceptibly round the huddle of dark figures.

'I cannot believe we
are doing this, Hugh.' Matthew ran his fingers nervously through his hair.

Aldeborough buttoned
up his coat of dark superfine with supreme indifference to his brother's
concerns.

'I never thought I
should be supporting
you
in a duel! Richard
possibly, you never. I don't suppose you would consider withdrawing?'
Matthew's tone reflected that he knew it was a hope not worth voicing.

'How good a shot is
he?' asked Ambrose with a frown of some concern.

'I have no idea.'
Aldeborough's cold reply cast the threesome into silence.

'You might delope,'
suggested Matthew finally.

'I think not. That
would, after all, suggest that the blame is mine.'

'But he might kill
you! I have to say that you seem remarkably unconcerned about it!'

'Unconcerned?'
Aldeborough's eyes blazed into fiery as he turned on his brother. 'You have no
idea—' He stopped to re-establish control over the anger that leapt through his
veins like molten lava as he remembered the fear in Frances's eyes. He
continued in a quiet voice, the flames once more banked but the anger no less
intense, 'This confrontation between Hanwell and myself has become inevitable.
Since the day of my marriage, my life has been in danger. And more recently
Frances has become the target of her loving cousin.'

'But, Hugh! Surely—'

'Why are you so shocked? You knew of the ambush on
the road to York. It was the first attempt—but certainly not the last. And they
could all have so nearly succeeded. I did not realise how far Hanwell was
prepared to go to achieve his ends. So, yes—I am
concerned
! Such a mild word. The threats have to stop.
And this is the perfect opportunity to expose his sins before witnesses. To
threaten him with public dishonour. My wife's safety and peace of mind are in
the balance and I find that I will do anything in my power, go to any extremes,
to keep her safe. So, against all common sense, I am prepared to risk Hanwell's
skill with a pistol. I have no little aptitude and will gamble on it.' His
brows snapped together, the planes of his face harsh in the early light. 'And
that will be an end to it.'

At seven o'clock
promptly, a professional gentleman in a black frockcoat, who had been standing
divorced from the proceedings, walked briskly forward to take control of the
events, fluttering handkerchief in hand.

The scrap of cloth dropped
to the floor.'

Aldeborough
aimed at Charles Hanwell's heart. But then with deliberately controlled intent,
he aimed wide to the right and fired his pistol. His aim was excellent. He
missed.

Hanwell
lifted his weapon and fired with deliberate intent to wound, to maim, to kill.

'Honour
is satisfied, gentlemen.' Ambrose strode forward, relief written clearly in his
movements.

'No, by God, it
isn't.'

Hard-held temper
snapped. Aldeborough strode the length of the field towards Charles, pushing
Ambrose aside, right arm held stiffly but with no sign of pain or discomfort;
choosing to ignore the steady trickle of blood that had begun to stain his cuff
and drip from his fingers. Hanwell could do nothing but stand. He did not have
long to wait.

'Is honour satisfied, Hanwell?'

'You have no proof,' muttered Hanwell hoarsely,
face pale, fists clenched at his side.

'I do not need proof to do this.' Aldeborough
strode on to reach his quarry and without hesitation drove a punishing left
fist into Charles's face, catching him expertly on the point of his chin,
laying him out on the floor at his feet. 'I should warn you, if you get up, I
will knock you down again,' he snarled through clenched teeth.

Charles wiped his sleeve over his bloody nose. 'You
can prove nothing.'

'I have not actually accused you of anything.'

Hanwell saw murder in Aldeborough's eyes despite
his carefully chosen words.

'They were accidents. I had nothing to do with
them.'

'Which accidents were those?' Aldeborough snarled.
'We would all be interested to hear.'

Hanwell felt the eyes of his seconds focus on him
as they waited with unabashed interest for his reply. He closed his lips in a
straight line, shook his head.

'The highwaymen on the York Road? The assassination
attempt at the Priory?' Aldeborough prompted. 'My wife's abduction? What was
your intention then?'

Hanwell shook his head once more as if to clear his
brain. 'I have never wished your wife ill.' He could not meet Aldeborough's
eyes. 'But—it should have been mine—the inheritance. That was always the plan.
She would have married me.'

'So you decided to take matters into your own
hands. I should have killed you for the pain you put my wife through. And my
sister.'

'That was a mistake.' Panic bloomed. 'It should
never have happened.'

'At least you paid the penalty.' Aldeborough's lips
curled with what might have been the ghost of a smile. 'My wife has a sure aim,
it seems. You would not want
that
story to become common knowledge, would you? It would not enhance your
reputation to any degree.' He leaned down to grasp Charles by his shirt front
and half-drag him from the floor. 'I would have no qualms about leaking the
story, you know. And the reasons behind it. And listen well, Hanwell. If any
harm, however small, comes to my wife in future, I will kill you.'

Hanwell cowered before the magnificent blaze of
uncontrolled anger in those predatory eyes.

'Come away, Hugh.' Ambrose approached and
caught Aldeborough's shoulder, tugging gently. 'You have proved your point.
And before witnesses.' He looked down at Hanwell in disgust.

In that one glance Hanwell saw the future for him:
his reputation in ruins, his position in society destroyed and with, it his
hopes of financial restitution. He cringed as Aldeborough flung him back to the
floor and turned away. 'I was not the only one to blame, my lord.'

'No?' Aldeborough looked back with a cynical lift
of his eyebrows. Only he had heard him. 'Not trying to shift the blame, are
you?'

'You might look closer to home,' Hanwell managed to
sneer.

'Who are you suggesting? Unless Matthew has decided
rid himself of all opposition to the title?'

'Who do you think might have an interest in your
being
free to remarry, my Lord Aldeborough?'

Aldeborough halted with an arrested expression on
face. He turned to Hanwell again, giving him his full attention. 'Of course. I
never thought...'

'Mine is not the
only interest in your family affairs, lord. And it has made my task so much
easier to be fed all of your movements from someone so well informed. I thought
you had been clever enough to work it all out. You do not know that half of
it.'

'Yes.
I see. I think that perhaps you have said enough.' Aldeborough stepped back.
'The matter is finished, gentlemen.' He addressed the seconds, his voice again
raised, then spoke once more to Hanwell, bowing ironically and whispering,
'Permit me to tell you, sir, you are despicable.'

Frances stood by the window in the breakfast
parlour, nerves stretched to snapping point.

'I do not understand why you are so anxious,'
Juliet complained. 'Since you do not know for certain where they have gone,
why worry about it? Do come and sit, Frances. I am sure they will return at any
moment and wonder what all the fuss is about.'

'I simply know there is something wrong.' Frances
continued to scan the empty square, picking at the lace edge of a lawn
handkerchief with nervous fingers. 'Hugh left before dawn and so did Matthew.'

'Probably gone for an early-morning ride,' observed
Aunt May complacently. 'It is not unknown.' Not a frequent member of the
breakfast parlour and still garbed in an eye-catching wrapper of vivid puce and
cream stripes, she continued to feed Wellington with pieces of bread dipped in
tea, placidly ignoring the evident disgust on Juliet's face. 'Do sit down, my
dear. You ate giving me the headache. Listen!' She raised one bony hand as
distant sounds emanated from the vicinity of the front door. 'That is probably
Aldeborough now, so we can all be at ease again. Thank God.'

Nevertheless, they waited in tense silence, listening
to the footsteps crossing the hall and ascending the staircase.

'It is not Aldeborough.' Frances stood perfectly
still, praying that she was wrong, that the door would open and she would see
his well-loved face, his fierce eyes, his smile that could turn her knees to
water.

Watkins entered.

'Miss Vowchurch has called, your ladyship,' he
addressed Frances with a bland face. 'She apologises for this untimely visit,
but asks for a moment of your time.'

'What can the woman want at this hour?' demanded
Aunt May. 'You had better show her up, Watkins.'

Miss Penelope Vowchurch was shown into the room,
elegantly attired as always, as if it were the most natural thing in the world
to demand admittance to one's hostess before she had arisen from the breakfast
table.

'Miss Vowchurch.' However reluctant Frances felt,
she extended her hand in greeting.

'Forgive me. I realise that this is not...that is,
I did not wish...but I had to come.' Her audience stared at her. On closer
inspection her face was pale and strained, her eyes troubled and the shadows
beneath them suggesting that she had slept little.

'What is it?'

'The duel. You must stop it!' Her usual calm voice
was agitated, as if breathing was not easy.

'So you were right to worry, Frances,' Lady Cotherstone
gripped the edge of the table, her aged hands curled into claws. 'And who is my
nephew engaged to fight, Miss Vowchurch?'

'Charles Hanwell. Can we not do something to
prevent it?

Frances could make
no sensible reply, her blood running cold at the confirmation of her fears. It
was left to Aunt May to answer, which she did. But nothing could disguise the anxiety
in her taut lips, or in the harsh lines engraved beside her mouth. Her wrinkled
face suddenly showed all of her years.

'We can hardly stop
it, Miss Vowchurch. If you are correct in your assumption, it was this morning
and will be well and truly over by now. What can have possessed the boy to put himself
in danger this way?' Aunt May raised her hands to cover her face for one long
moment—then drew in a deep breath to regain her composure. 'But tell me—' she fixed
Miss Vowchurch with a bleak stare '—I am interested to know how you came by the
information. I imagine that it is not common knowledge.'

'I...I heard a rumour,' Miss Vowchurch stammered.

'But
even if it is true, what I don't understand is why you are here? What is it to
you?'

To their concerted
amazement, Penelope's voice broke a sob and she hurriedly searched for a
handkerchief to away the tears that spilled from her eyes. It took a few moments,
but then her words, uttered on impulse, with no thought for her audience,
reflected a mind in turmoil.

'I cannot think. I have hardly slept—I know I
should not say this but...I love him. He was going to marry me before it all
went wrong—before he married
you.'
Her glance at
Frances was full of barely suppressed anger. 'I would never want Charles to
kill him. How could that be my intention? I cannot bear the thought of... We
must stop them meeting at all costs.' Tears continue to fall from her beautiful
eyes and she wept in genuine distress.

Frances looked at her, horror tinged with regret.
She understood all too well the pain of loving where it was not returned. But
Penelope's words chilled her to the marrow.

'It seems to me, Miss Vowchurch, that you know more
about this duel than mere rumour,' Aunt May persisted. 'Have you spoken to
Charles Hanwell about this?'

'No, no, of course not,' she denied, now flustered,
dabbing again at her tear-drenched eyes with her handkerchief and trying for a
brave smile. 'Forgive me, I am overwrought...'

The door opened again, this time to admit, with a
magnificently silencing effect, the Dowager Lady Aldeborough.

Lady Aldeborough, viewing the assembled company
with disdain and Aunt May with intense dislike, took control of the situation
through ingrained habit.

'There seems to be quite a gathering in my
breakfast parlour. Penelope, my dear, what brings you here? I am delighted to
see you, of course, and I am sure there is a good reason. Where is
Aldeborough?'

'Fighting a duel, we believe.' There was none of
the customary malicious humour in Lady Cotherstone's clipped tones.

'A
duel? Never! The Marquis of Aldeborough would never be involved in something so
outrageous and inappropriate to his consequence. What can you be thinking of to
spread such an inaccurate story? Now, dear Penelope, perhaps you will tell me
why you are here.'