The Stolen Bride (3 page)

“She’s unconscious, or dead.” He eased to one side and tried to open the door but the fall, or his weight, had jammed it. In the end it looked to Beth as if he tore it off its hinges by brute force. He threw it over into the hedge then swung his legs in and the coach jolted to a different angle.

“She’s alive,” he called out. “I think it’s just a knock on the head and a few glass cuts, but she seems a frail thing. I’ll lift her. Get one of the men to take her from the top.”

By this time the horse was disentangled and subdued. In fact, now it was out of its panic it was obviously a sorry old nag. At Beth’s call, Grigson came quickly to help. The old lady was soon hoisted out of the wreck of the coach and laid by the side of the road. She was haggard and pale and her face trickled blood from a number of cuts.

Beth ran back to the Wraybourne carriage for some rugs and the medical chest. The dratted vehicle loomed like a mountain, the bottom of the door level with her chest. She was fumbling with the steps, trying to work out the catch when those large hands grasped her again, picked her up as if she were a doll, and placed her inside. She looked down, pleased for once to be a good head taller than he.

“What is it you want?” he asked.

“There are blankets and a medicine chest,” she said. “Wait there and I’ll pass them down.” She did this and then added the bottle of water from the food hamper.

Then, of course, she had to submit to being tossed around again. Actually she was becoming strangely accustomed and there was something very safe about his strength.

Beth pulled herself together and hurried back to the woman.

“I don’t think there are any broken bones,” she said, after a discreet examination. “Just a bad head wound.” She gently wiped the blood away from the woman’s face and saw with relief that the cuts there were slight and none were near the eye.

She opened the medicine chest, grateful that she had explored it before. There were tweezers, and she used them to take out a couple of slivers of glass. She then smeared some salve over the wounds and bandaged the cuts on the woman’s temple. There really didn’t seem anything else to do for the moment.

She looked up to see the men watched her, waiting for her decision. “We had best take her to Stenby,” she said. “It was where she was going.”

Sir Marius turned to the driver. “Who is she? Did she say?”

“No, sir. Just asked to be taken to Stenby Castle and paid the price.”

“Did she have any baggage?”

The driver quickly pulled one leather bag from the boot. It was old-fashioned but of solid quality. It was securely locked.

“I presume she has the key on her,” Sir Marius said. “If we’re taking her to the Castle, there’s no point bothering about it. The sooner she’s in a bed and the doctor called for the better.”

He turned to pick up the woman but was stopped by the whining voice of the driver. “What’m I going to do with me rig in this state?”

Beth looked at the coachman closely for the first time and saw the heavy wear on his clothes, the sallow, gaunt look on his face. He was already on the edge of poverty and was probably facing ruin with his livelihood gone. Her eyes met Sir Marius’s and the baronet’s lips twitched. He took out several guineas.

“Here, man. With these you should be able to fix this or buy new. Take better care of it next time. If this lady doesn’t haul you before the magistrate for negligence, you’ll be lucky.”

He lifted the woman easily and frowned. “She weighs even less than you,” he said to Beth, “and she must be half a head taller. I wouldn’t be surprised to find she’s ill. Why on earth would she be going to Stenby?”

Between them, he and Grigson settled the woman on a seat on the coach and Beth sat beside the invalid to support her.

“Perhaps she’s a servant,” said Beth. “It’s quite likely Jane is hiring more with the wedding coming up.”

“A superior kind of servant,” he said thoughtfully as the coach set off again, holding a steady pace. “Her gown is of silk, even though it’s not new. Her wedding band is very solid and this was lying in the coach. It must have fallen from around her neck.”

He held out a locket on a broken golden chain. Its cover was beautifully engraved with the initials E.H. After a moment Beth discovered how to work the catch. Inside there was a lock of curly brown hair and a miniature of a young man, apparently the owner of the curls for they hung fetchingly on his brow. A vague swirling whiteness where his collar should have been was presumably meant to suggest classical draperies.

Sir Marius looked at the picture. “It reminds me of someone, but damned if I can think who.”

T
HE DISTANT VIEW of Stenby on that warm August afternoon had not shown Beth and Sir Marius an impromptu cricket match on the lawns which ran up to the east wall. The rolling green set with ancient, spreading trees was dusted with daisies and ornamented in a more substantial way by ladies and gentlemen in white and pastels. The thunk of the ball on the long bat was mixed with laughter and cries of triumph or disappointment.

The Kyles were playing the Ashbys. David Kyle, Lord Wraybourne, captained a team composed of his two brothers, Mortimer and Frederick; his sister, Sophie; his wife, Jane, and an assortment of footmen and estate workers. The Ashbys were captained by Lord Randal Ashby. His team consisted of Tyne Towers’ servants and his friends Piers Verderan and Justin, Lord Stanforth.

A beech tree had a seat built around it and it was in this shady spot that the spectators had established themselves. There was the Duke of Tyne, portly and short of breath; his mother, the dowager duchess, tiny and bent but sharp as a needle; and his niece, Chloe, Lady Stanforth.

The Kyles had won the toss and elected to bat, David and his brother, Captain Frederick Kyle, going up first. Mortimer, Jane, and Sophie had taken seats in the shade with the others.

“Well,” said the Duke of Tyne heartily. “Here I am with all the beauties. Come and give me a kiss, Sophie.” When she obliged he pinched her cheek and she tried not to wince. “Can’t tell you how pleased I am one of my rascals finally found a woman willing to have him. Now we’ll see some sons. That’s what every house needs.”

Sophie had suffered this often enough in recent weeks to have become accustomed. She no longer even blushed at all this talk of procreation. It was the dowager duchess who said tartly, “Without daughters in the world you’d be hard pressed to make sons, Arthur. And I would point out you only favored the Ashbys with two sons yourself.”

“Two’s enough,” said the duke with a frown. “If they live and breed, two’s one too many.”

Sophie hastily moved off and left these combatants to their long-established battle. She rolled her eyes at Jane and saw the countess hard put not to giggle. “Why does he demand a quiverful of sons in one breath and only one in the next?” Jane asked quietly.

It was Chloe who answered. “The duke has an obsession with the continuance of the line. He wants to be sure that sons of his sons will rule here.”

“But surely, then,” said Jane, “a dozen sons for Randal and Chelmly is what he wants.” The Marquess of Chelmly was Randal’s brother and the heir to the dukedom.

“Ah, but the duke and my father never rubbed well together,” said Chloe. “My father wasn’t happy being the second son and has been thoroughly unpleasant to Uncle Arthur all his life. In fact, I think the duke’s obsession is actually to be sure my brother, Charteris, doesn’t become duke one day. It’s this bitter feeling between brothers that leads him to say one is enough.”

Jane shook her head at this convoluted reasoning. “At least there’s no ill feeling between Randal and Chelmly. They both seem perfectly content with their position.”

“Indeed, yes,” said Chloe. “Chelmly is delighted to spend every minute ensuring the Duchy of Tyne glides along on well-oiled wheels and increases in prosperity year by year. He even runs Randal’s estates, you know. Doubtless far more efficiently than Randal could himself. And, since the duchess’s death he’s run the household as well. He just can’t seem to get enough of such things and he certainly can’t bear to see anything mismanaged.”

“And Randal,” contributed Sophie, “is equally delighted to take the income from his properties and enjoy it. An idyllic arrangement if only Chelmly would produce sons as efficiently as he produces profits. Then Randal could achieve his ambition and join the Hussars.”

“Well,” said Chloe, “doubtless you and Randal will have a boy one day and if Chelmly continues his misogamistic way your son will continue the line.”

Sophie couldn’t think a son produced by her and Randal would be suited to filling Chelmly’s shoes. “That’s no good,” she said firmly. “Randal will probably give up all notion of the army if we set up our nursery. No, what we need is for Chelmly to marry and produce the next Ashbys. I don’t for a minute suppose he’s antimarriage. He just can’t tear himself away from business long enough to choose a bride. It’s typical that he’s dropped out of this match just because of some problem with land over Cockshutt way.”

She plucked a pink-edged daisy from among the grass and twirled it thoughtfully. “I think I will simply choose a suitable woman and put her where he’ll fall over her. That way there’ll be no chance of a son of ours inheriting.” She suddenly looked up at the others. “Have you thought? As things stand now, a simple accident or a purulent fever and
Randal
could be saddled with running the duchy—would be duke one day!”

Jane laughed. “Are there many young ladies in the kingdom who would regard being a duchess with such alarm? Really, Sophie, there’s no need to fret over it. Chelmly’s healthy as a horse and lives a safe and quiet life. As you say, you doubtless have only to present him with a well-chosen bride and he’ll settle happily to filling a nursery.”

At the thought of nurseries, Sophie looked over at the Stanforth’s first child, two-year-old Stephen, who was making a gallant but fortunately futile attempt to climb the spreading beech tree which shaded his mama. In the mistaken belief that the tree was animate, Stephen stood before it, arms raised, and imperiously demanded, “Up! Up!”

All the ladies laughed. “Stevie, the tree cannot lift you,” said Chloe. “When you’re older you may climb it but not now.”

The boy first looked dubious, then mutinous. Then he gave up on the tree and looked around for other tall creatures. He made his choice and trotted speedily toward the nearest fielder on the Ashby team. He took up his stance and said, “Up! Up!”

Sophie saw Chloe make as if to lunge out of her chair, but her grandmother restrained her. “Let be, Chloe. He don’t eat little ones for breakfast.”

For Stevie had run to Piers Verderan. This was no great surprise. To his mother’s alarm, Stevie had conceived a violent attachment to the tall, handsome man who owned the nickname of the Dark Angel and a very unsavory reputation to go with it.

Verderan looked down at the child. “No, brat,” he said, with no trace of fondness. “And if you’re hit by the next ball it’ll serve you right.”

Instead of setting up a wail as he would have done with his parents, Stevie studied the man thoughtfully and then sat down plump between his legs to gather daisy heads.

Verderan was turning to Chloe to complain when a cry spun him back in time to intercept a ball thoroughly walloped by Frederick heading straight for the child. He threw the ball back to the bowler then tucked the child under his arm, walked over and dropped him ungently by his mother. Without a word he returned to his place in the field.

Chloe took a firm hold of her son’s gown when he attempted to follow Verderan again. “No, you bad boy.” She turned to her grandmother. “How is it that this child has no discrimination? That man is a dueler. He has killed
two
men!”

“I hear they wanted killing,” replied the pragmatic duchess. “I gather that as much as his money kept him out of the hands of the law.” She laid a hand on her granddaughter’s arm. “Neither we nor the Wraybournes are overly keen to have the man in our homes, but he is one of Randal’s closest friends. As long as he is willing to behave correctly we can accept him. You can hardly say he is working to attract the child.”

“I don’t understand it,” complained Chloe. “His father spoils Stevie. The duke dotes on him and all the staff at the Towers are slaves to his dimples. Yet the person he haunts is Verderan, who just scowls at him and tells him to go away.”

“Perhaps that’s the secret of his charm,” said the duchess cynically. “With women at least. There’s many a woman can’t stand to see a man ignore her.”

At that point Frederick was caught out and Sophie bounced to her feet. “At last,” she said. She hastily pinned back her rose-sprigged muslin and hurried out to bat. When she found she was facing Randal as bowler, she grinned cheekily, confident of a soft toss—especially as she’d pinned her skirt to show a good few inches of her calves.

True enough, the ball was popped gently down and she swung mightily, sending the footman fielding deep nearer the coppice off running. With a cry of triumph she hitched her skirt a little higher and ran down the pitch and back, crossing her brother, David, both ways.

When she stopped before the footman had reached the ball, David Kyle called, “Run again, Sophie!”

“No,” she said pertly. “I prefer to be in to bat. Randal wouldn’t send
you
soft balls.”

David turned to his friend. “Are you going to stand for that, Randal?”

“And how would you bowl to Jane, then?” was the amused reply.

David laughed and looked over at his wife, sitting awaiting her turn at bat, long hair in a braid and hat carelessly abandoned by her side. She blew him a kiss ...

Randal poked him. “I have bowled, Sophie has walloped it, and you’re supposed to be running.” David hastily sprinted down the pitch, then refused to run back, despite Sophie’s shouts.

“I have to get a turn somehow,” he called.