The Stolen Bride (23 page)

The pistol in the woman’s hand raised to point straight at Sophie’s heart. “Hand over my son to the hangman?” cried Mrs. Haven. “Are you
mad?”

No, but you are, thought Sophie. You and your son both. “What are you going to do then, and why do you need me?”

“I am going to rescue him,” said the woman firmly, lowering the firearm. “I will take him out of the country. It is not that I would mind him killing Lord Randal,” she said with frightening indifference, “but the risk is too great now. I can only save him, though, if you can convince him you will not marry the debaucher.”

Sophie put both hands to her head and stared at the woman. “Why? What am I to your son? Why would he pay attention to me?”

“You are just a name,” said Mrs. Haven. “But when he read the announcement he was cast into agony. ‘This must never be,’ he cried, so all the servants heard him. ‘Another innocent,’ he cried. I could not calm him and it was that very day he disappeared. I guessed what he was about and followed. Now with the hunt up he will have sought refuge in our home but in his mind you and his lovely Polly are as one. He needs to protect you from the debaucher, Lady Sophie. Tell him that the engagement is over, that you know Lord Randal for what he is, and he will come away with me content.”

The man sounded as fit for Bedlam as his mother. Sophie remembered her brush with similar madness in Sir Edwin Hever and had no intention of repeating it. “I pity you your son, ma’am,” she said firmly, “but I cannot help you. Put me down, if you please. I will have no charges laid against you for this abduction but I will have the country raised to seek your demented son.”

Demented?
Even as her finger tightened on the trigger, Edith Hever reminded herself that her story had been an invention—sometimes it was hard to keep things clear in her mind—and the girl wasn’t talking about Edwin.

But Sophie’s attitude was a disappointment. She had thought such a romantic, tragic tale would sway a young thing. She had been sure that a tale of debauchery would finally convince her to reject marriage to Lord Randal.

“Ah, well,” Mrs. Haven sighed. “If you insist on going free, I cannot hold you. And perhaps it is better that John free you from Lord Randal one day soon.”

“What do you mean?” asked Sophie, fearing she knew.

“Don’t be distressed, my dear,” said Edith kindly. “If you lack the resolution to refuse the marriage, John will rescue you as soon as possible.”

“But—” Sophie bit back the anguished words. She had been about to protest that she didn’t want to be rescued, except from this woman and her son, but such words would be unwise. Somehow the woman had the idea that she was disgusted by Randal. That bizarre misapprehension was a weapon if she could see how to use it.

If she refused to help, would they really let her go? It was likely. After all, it would be no easy task to control a healthy young woman for hours. If they released her in an isolated spot, however, then they might well make their escape and she would never have a moment’s peace again. Every time Randal left the house she would fear for his safety.

Far better to go along with the woman and hope to trap her deranged son. Better still, Sophie thought, to hope for pursuit and rescue. But when would she be missed? The trouble with having a reputation as a madcap was that no one would question her absence for hours.

If only Stevie and his maid had been watching their departure, the alarm would already have been given. And that was why, she thought suddenly, the woman had been so determined to send them on their way. Now what could she do? Drop something out of the open window to mark the way? She didn’t even have a handkerchief and the woman opposite was watching her like a hawk watching a rabbit.

“Very well,” said Sophie, trying to sound cooperative. “I will help you. I suppose your son has only acted out of kindness to me. I ...” The words threatened to choke her. “I have long known that Lord Randal is unsavory, and cruel in his dealings with women. As you suspect, it is my family who have forced this marriage on me. Randal promised to reform but now I see it is all a sham. I will come and tell your son I intend to cry off. Then you must certainly take your son far away and make sure he never attempts such a thing again. By now the whole country must be raised in search of him. He has tried to murder a peer of the realm.”

“Not murder,” said Mrs. Haven sharply. “Say rather he sought to avenge a wrong. He sought to protect an innocent.” Despite the sharpness, it was clear she believed every word Sophie had said, and now considered the girl her ally. She even uncocked the pistol and slid it back on top of the portmanteau by her hand.

Sophie eyed it for a moment and then gave up the notion. The one thing she couldn’t risk was the escape of Mrs. Haven and her murdering son. She must stay with the woman, appearing to have sympathy with her notions, until she could somehow arrange the capture of them both.

She was in no danger, she told herself. It was merely a matter of telling Mrs. Haven what she wanted to hear. Sophie could lie like a flat fish if it was the price of Randal’s safety.

She could not help a slight shiver, however. She felt so alone. Silently she was crying,
Randal, come for me.

 

Despite the efforts of his upper staff, Randal felt as if he were drowning in details. His father had demanded his presence first thing in the morning and lectured him for two hours on the management of the ducal estate. Randal had only been rescued by the arrival of the doctor who said so much talking was bad for his patient.

Then he had visited Chelmly’s room and sat at his bedside, willing him to open his eyes and be himself again.

He was so pale and looked younger and more vulnerable lying still in the bed with his head swathed in bandages. Randal had never realized how much he depended on his older brother, how much he loved him, until now when it seemed he might be taken away.

In recent years they had grown apart for Randal’s chosen milieu was the social whirl—London, Brighton, the great country houses—while Chelmly’s had always been his precious land. When Randal had been young, however, his older brother had been his admired mentor and protector. There were good memories in the farther reaches of his mind and now they made his heart ache.

“Come on, Chelmly,” he said softly, ignoring the presence of the valet and nurse. “You can’t leave the place to me. I’ll make a pig’s dinner of it in no time at all.”

There was no response from the still figure on the bed. Randal wondered what his brother would think of his intent to go ahead with the wedding. If Chelmly, God forbid, was still at death’s door it would be seen as outrageous. Even Sophie had been shocked but, Lord, he needed her more now than ever.

That kiss the other day had shown him, if he needed showing, how fragile his control had grown. He simply could not endure months more of sitting drinking tea with her, playing tennis, riding...

And more than her body he needed her company. To lie quietly with Sophie in his arms and talk things over. To lay problems out and solve them together...

He had pulled himself together, knowing he was needed elsewhere. He had laid a hand for a moment on his brother’s and then left to handle his tasks as best he could. Now he was faced with a mountain of incomprehensible documents. Resolutely he applied himself...

There was a genteel clearing of the throat.

Randal looked up to see Willerby beside him with papers in his hand. “If you could just approve these expenditures, my lord,” the man said apologetically. “They only require a signature.”

With a sigh Randal took the lists. The staff kept telling him he need only sign things but he couldn’t take the easy way out. He concentrated as he ran his eyes over the lists.

The duke and Chelmly liked having a masculine household and after his mother’s death Chelmly had taken over supervision of the domestic arrangements as well as those of the estate. Randal wished now they’d brought in some female relative to handle those things. With a touch of devilment he thought that soon he would be able to dump them all in Sophie’s lap. Oh, to lay all his troubles and his head as well in Sophie’s lap...

His thoughts were interrupted by the door opening. In came his grandmother, bent and stiff, but sprightly enough in her own way. Her quick eyes fastened on the lists in front of Randal and she harrumphed.

“Thought so,” she said, coming forward as Randal rose to his feet to assist her. “Forgot Chelmly had taken all this in hand when your mother died. He works so hard and so quietly we never noticed.” She picked up the first list and ran her eyes over it. “Load of nonsense, of course, but it’s mainly your father’s fault. Bit of a misogynist. I’ll take over all this.”

“Grandmama, there’s no need—”

“Suspect I’ve lost the use of my faculties, do you?” she asked sharply.

“Of course not—”

“I’ll remind you, you young rascal, that I ran this place for thirty years, most of it before you were born, so don’t say I’m not able.” Her eyes were sharp and challenging and Randal felt a grin start. He suddenly felt a great deal better about life in general.

“I’d never dare,” he said. “But still, Grandmama—”

“If I need young legs,” the old woman interrupted, “there’s staff galore and Chloe to help me. So go away. I’m sure you can find something else to do.”

After a moment he laughed and gave her a warm hug and a kiss. “Thank you, my dear.”

“Go along with you,” she harrumphed, taking his seat at the desk. “I’d think you should go and see how Sophie’s doing. Must all have been a nasty shock.”

His eyes twinkled. “Can I take that as an order?”

“Yes. Though what the likelihood is of a jackanapes like you obeying an order, I’d hesitate to say.”

“But I’m thoroughly reformed,” he responded. “Expect me back at dinnertime.” As he walked to the door he said to Willerby, “Have Yorrick sent round. I wish to ride over to the Castle.”

The groom of the chamber blanched. “But, my lord! The... the villain may still be hereabout.”

“He has a point,” said the duchess, suddenly looking very weary.

Randal stopped with a bitten-back curse. And it was possible that the attack had been meant for him in the first place. He remembered that note which could be interpreted as a clear death threat. “Am I to be a prisoner?” he demanded desperately. “We may never catch the man.”

The servant had no answer to such a question.

“Find Mr. Verderan for me, please,” Randal said.

A footman was dispatched and Randal moved out into the corridor to await his friend.

In a few minutes the Dark Angel strolled up. “You called, my lord?” he drawled insolently.

Randal burst out laughing. “Gods, Ver, I’m glad you’re here.”

The two men clasped hands briefly. “Then I must be glad I am,” said Verderan. “In what way can I help you?”

“I need advice. Is it reasonable, do you think, for me to ride over to Stenby to see Sophie?”

“Why not?”

“Willerby seems to think the would-be assassin is lurking behind a bush seeking to finish the task.”

Verderan gave it serious thought. “I doubt it. This area has been gone over quite thoroughly. It is possible it’s a local man, of course, but are you going to lurk in here for the rest of your life?”

Randal could feel the relief spread through him. Such a life would be unendurable. He’d far rather a quick death. “Exactly what I was thinking,” he said. “Willing to ride guard?”

“Of course,” said Verderan.

Randal laughed and let the madness take him. Not even bothering to change into boots, the two young men went to the stables, commanded horses, and galloped off toward Stenby Castle.

B
y THE time they arrived at Stenby, Jane and Beth were already wondering where Sophie had disappeared to, though they assumed she had wanted time to herself. Randal’s arrival triggered a search. After half an hour of wandering the Castle shouting for her the search moved to the grounds and everyone began to feel uneasy.

“She’ll be up a tree,” said Randal with a sigh. Beth looked at him and wondered if he believed it. If Sophie was anywhere close to the Castle she would surely have heard her name being called.

They were standing at the base of the terrace steps and Jane and Lord Wraybourne joined them there. In a moment, Sir Marius arrived, shaking his head.

“Could she have ridden out?” Randal asked.

“I checked the stables,” Sir Marius said. “No horses have left there at all today.”

“What was she wearing?” Randal asked.

Sophie’s maid reported that her mistress had dressed that morning in a green sprig muslin gown and silk slippers. No other clothes had gone, not even a bonnet.

“She wouldn’t have gone walking without a bonnet and in slippers,” said her brother sharply, searching the rolling parkland with his eyes for the hundredth time. “Where the devil is she?”

He was trying to sound irritated, as Randal himself had done, but he sounded worried, and with reason. In view of the attack on Chelmly, there was cause to fear the worst. Those notes that Sophie had received came into Beth’s mind but it seemed too far-fetched a connection to make.

The search of the grounds was abandoned and they were soon joined by the other men—Verderan, and the Reverend Mortimer Kyle. By silent accord they stayed outside, all still alert for the sight of Sophie strolling across the grass, back from some impulsive errand.

“When was she last seen?” asked Mortimer.

“After her maid dressed her?” asked the earl. “Do you know, Jane?”

“Perhaps we should make further inquiries,” said Jane, “but no one has mentioned seeing her since she saw that Haven woman away. She could well have gone for a walk, I suppose.”

Randal forced out the question no one else would ask. “Is it possible... ?”