The Wicked Sister
Page 11
“I suppose all your officers and men will feel the same way.”
“All chomping at the bit,” the colonel assured her.
“Even those who haven’t yet seen battle?”
“Especially them! They want to make their name. Live up to the regiment’s best example.”
“Then none of them are influenced by the political views I have heard stated that this new war is a mistake?”
“Goodness me, no.” The colonel sounded genuinely shocked. “It isn’t our place to make political judgements but to go and fight as the king commands.”
“I do so admire your bravery,” she gushed. Although the feeling was genuine, she could have wished the expression didn’t sound quite so childish.
“Bless your heart, child,” he said indulgently, confirming her suspicions. “It’s been my bread and butter all my life.”
“But not for all of his men’s lives,” Mrs. Gordon added, reaching over her husband’s arm for a scone.
“No need to point out my advancing years,” the colonel said with a playful wink at Maria.
“And you, ma’am,” Maria asked. “Will you accompany the colonel?”
“I always have, and I’m assured comfortable quarters in Brussels—if we’re quick enough and the best not already taken! Besides,” she added, moving around the table with Maria. “I feel like a second mother to the younger officers.”
“Are you concerned about them?” Maria asked.
“Always. Now…more so. Perhaps I am getting old!”
“Nonsense, ma’am,” Maria said bracingly. “But the colonel seems sure all his men are desperate to fight Boney.”
“Well, he wouldn’t say anything else, and for the most part, I’m sure he’s right.”
Maria sat down and patted the seat next to her. “And yet, you are concerned.”
“I am,” Mrs. Gordon confided, sinking onto the chair next to Maria. “There is a strange atmosphere at headquarters I cannot account for, a sort of…edginess I have never noticed before.” She smiled ruefully. “I expect it’s due to so many inexperienced men being sent off at once.”
“Don’t they want to go?”
“Of course they do,” Mrs. Gordon said warmly. She smiled. “It isn’t that. I just feel something is wrong. The colonel laughs at me, of course, and probably quite rightly! Mmm… have you tried the scones, Lady Maria? Delicious.”
Maria accepted the change of subject and did not bring it up again. But despite Mrs. Gordon’s uncertainty, she was left with the feeling that something was wrong in the barracks. However, if this was Gideon’s doing, she had no proof of it. In truth, she couldn’t even imagine how it could be his doing.
Behind her social mask and chatter, she thought furiously, wondering if she should hint to the colonel about their suspicions of spirit-sapping pamphlets. But in truth, could a pamphlet really make any difference to trained soldiers? Whether they were educated officers or rough and ready men who took the king’s shilling because it was better than going to prison or starving to death?
Once, she happened to glance up and found Lord Underwood’s unwavering gaze upon her. Being caught staring, his smile was a little rueful, but she returned it happily enough and continued her conversation with the young gentleman beside her.
*
Much of Michael’s morning was spent among the poor and downtrodden of Whalen, the nearest town to Blackhaven of any size. He identified a printer called Kendrick, who might, in the future, be open to printing secret pamphlets. But the man vehemently denied having done so recently and did not seem to know any army officers.
Michael mingled with factory workers and dock workers, many of them sick or injured, wounded old soldiers or sailors, or just plain exhausted men, who were paid a pittance, others who had lost their jobs to those who agreed to less pay. He spoke to homeless people, some with children, and gave them what he had. And he promised to speak for all of them, not only to the influential Lord Braithwaite, but to their member of parliament, Mr. Beddingfield, whom none of them had ever seen.
In the afternoon, he returned to Blackhaven. Here, largely thanks to the charitable works of the vicar and the local landowners, poverty was not so oppressive, but it certainly existed. None of them had any idea who their member of parliament was. One young man scratched his head and asked if it was Lord Braithwaite.
Somewhat angry on their behalf, Michael repaired to the tavern, where he scraped together enough money for a pint of ale. Sitting down at a table near the door, which at least allowed him the odd breath of fresh air whenever anyone went in or out, he examined his surroundings.
It was a gloomy place, full of shadows and smoke. The air stank of tobacco and alcohol. Its denizens looked to be a mixture of sailors, common soldiers, and ruffians, some in rowdy groups, others drinking silently by themselves or in furtive conversation.
No one paid him any attention which seemed to be an unwritten rule of the place. Which was daunting. No one would tell him if they had seen Heath in here, or whom he had been with. Nor were there any pamphlets lying around, or any other kind of reading matter except for a greasy newspaper abandoned at one of the tables.
He sat for a little, waiting, though he knew it would be too much to hope that Heath would walk in the door. However, his patience was rewarded to some extent when a couple of common soldiers came in and sat at the empty table next to his.
He greeted them amiably with a toast in ale. “Off soon to beat Boney for us, I hear. Good luck.”
“Thank you, sir, our pleasure,” one of them grinned. He nudged his friend and added mockingly, “Not joining us for the battle, sir?”
“I’d be a liability,” Michael said frankly.
“You should be an officer then,” the second soldier said sardonically.
Michael laughed. “That bad?”
“Nah, some of them are well enough,” the first soldier said.
“You sound like old hands. Were you on the Peninsula?”
“Aye, we were, and chased the Frogs back into France.”
“In that case, Boney will give you no trouble.”
They appeared to consider that. “Don’t know about no trouble,” the first soldier said at last. “But we’ll get him in the end. Old Nosey always does!”
Old Nosey was the soldiers’ nick name for the Duke of Wellington, but there was nothing disrespectful either in the name or these soldiers’ attitudes. Michael listened appreciatively to their stories illustrating how, after setbacks and retreats, Old Nosey had won in the end.
Then the first soldier eyed him over his mug of ale and lowered it. “What you doing in a den like this, anyway?”
Michael shrugged. “Just wanted a quiet drink away from things. Like you, I suppose.”
“Never seen you around before. You’re not one of the knobs staying at the castle, are you?”
“Sort of,” Michael admitted. “I work for the earl.”
They stared at him in disbelief. “Doing what? Reading his newspaper for him?”
The other soldier sniggered.
“You’re not so far wrong,” Michael admitted. “And I’m not so different from you, who, I imagine, come here to be sure of not running into your officers.”
“Can’t be sure of anything here,” the second soldier observed darkly.
Michael infused his voice with amusement. “You mean your officers do drink here?”
“Well, they come in for the odd spot of brandy,” the first soldier said in a fair imitation of an aristocratic accent.
His friend grinned. “Like young Giddy the other night. Don’t stop ’em falling into bad company.”
“Such as what?” Michael asked, casually, while he wondered furiously if he was stretching hope too far by wondering if young Giddy could be Gideon Heath.
“Well, look around you,” the second soldier advised. “Half these fellows would pick your pocket. The other half would knife you—or anyone you asked them to—for half a guinea or less.”
He left ten minutes later, the unease grown into anxiety he had no real justification for. A mere hint that Heath could have been in the tavern recently and in bad company should not translate into fear for Maria. And yet it did.
A glance at his father’s old watch showed him it was nearing six o’clock. On impulse, he changed direction and walked toward the vicarage by the back streets. A couple of elderly ladies, supported by a maid, passed him on the other side of the road. An elderly gentleman with a stick scowled at two men in front of him who looked as if they were returning from work. A few children played in the streets.
He walked past the back of the church and the vicarage next to it, and as he turned down the side, he saw a closed carriage waiting at the next corner. The horses snorted occasionally and shifted position, but they didn’t move. A slightly ragged coachman held them in check. The coach looked somewhat disreputable to belong to one of the vicar’s wealthy guests expected to make generous contributions to charity. Even if it did, it should be waiting as close to the vicarage gate as the coachman could get it. But what really bothered Michael was the other man skulking by the corner, occasionally peering around to the front of the house.
Michael walked faster. His heart thudded once as Lady Maria turned the corner, her open face expressing curiosity rather than fear. She even smiled as she spoke to the lurking man. Michael began to run. But he was too late.
The man seized her, slapping a hand over her mouth, and threw her into the carriage before leaping in beside her. At once, the horses surged forward. Michael threw himself into their path, waving his arms. But the road was quiet. Whether of their own volition or the coachman’s instruction, they swerved to avoid him.
He jumped, making a grab for the nearest harness and missed. The coach brushed against his shoulder, knocking him to the ground. At once, he leapt to his feet again, recognizing that he would never catch them on foot. So, he ran in the opposite direction, around the corner to the front of the vicarage. There, several carriages were waiting while a gaggle of well-dressed ladies and gentlemen chattered beside them.
The vicar and his wife stood by the garden gate, joining in. The earl’s sister, Lady Tamar and Lord Underwood, were about to get into the smart barouche when they noticed him bolting up the street and paused in astonishment.
At once, he slowed to a fast walk, forcing himself to think furiously, not just about this moment of urgent crisis, but about the future. Maria’s future.
“Mr. Hanson,” Lady Tamar greeted him, going forward. From her uncertain smile, she didn’t know whether to be alarmed or amused. “What…?”
“Cover for Lady Maria,” he breathed. “I’ll bring her back, tell me where.”
Lady Tamar’s eyes widened, betraying a host of expressions including fear, suspicion, and abrupt understanding. “The Muirs’. She’ll know it. Where is she?”
“I’ll bring her back,” he repeated. “Show no alarm. May I borrow that horse?”
The animal concerned was large and fresh and looked to be fast. Michael had supposed it to belong to one of the guests, but it was the vicar who said quietly, “Take it. Do you need help?”
“Not for this,” Michael said grimly. Only as he vaulted into the saddle and trotted off to the corner, where he urged the horse to a gallop, did he hope to God he was right.
Chapter Eleven
Maria, anxious to return to the castle in time to discuss things with Michael before dinner—for he tended to vanish afterward—felt somewhat impatient with the continued chatter in the street. A few of the visitors to Blackhaven had walked back to their hotel, but the Gordons, the Winslows, and Serena continued to converse with the Grants who had come to the gate to wave their visitors off.
Too well-mannered to show her impatience, Maria kept the amiable smile on her lips and tried to pay attention. Lord Underwood, however, was clearly bored, tapping his cane against his boot, gazing up at the sky and along the street past the church. No doubt, it was all provincial babble to him.
Movement at the other end of the street caught her eye. No one who was not going to church or to the vicarage tended to use this road, so when she’d first seen the man peering around the corner, she’d assumed he was waiting to speak to Mr. Grant in private and was holding back until the more genteel visitors had departed. But he was still there, and now he seemed to be beckoning to her.
Hastily, she glanced around her companions, who either had their backs to him or were too involved in their own conversation to look to the side. When she returned her gaze to the man, he beckoned again. She touched her finger to her chest in a half-amused gesture that clearly conveyed her question, Do you mean me?
He nodded furiously, looked around him, and clasped his hands together in a plea she couldn’t resist.
“Excuse me,” she murmured to Kate and walked down the road to the corner. As she drew nearer, she saw that the man was ill-dressed and thin, and she assumed he wanted her help. After all, everyone in Blackhaven knew she was the earl’s sister. She just wished she had money left to give him. Though, of course, there were other kinds of help.
“What can I do for you?” she asked him kindly, following him around the corner.
“Bless you, my lady,” he muttered.
Maria was aware of the run-down carriage and horses waiting there, and of another man hurrying up the street toward them, but she thought little of it, until, without warning, the man seized her, clapping his vile-tasting hand over her mouth, and threw her bodily into the carriage.
By the time she had recovered her breath to scream, he was in there with her, and the door had slammed shut. The horses leapt into motion. Her scream could only have reached the man in the carriage with her, but at least he winced. She lunged for the door, meaning to throw herself into the street at the risk of whatever injury came to her. Then the carriage bumped off something or someone. She imagined a flash of Michael’s face, glasses and all, and she was sent sprawling against her captor, who seized her arms behind her in a fierce hold that made her gasp with pain as well as fear.
“Sit still, damn you,” her captor growled, “and I won’t hurt you.”
“Let me go,” Maria demanded, proud of the fact her voice did not tremble. “This instant!”
“I can’t do that. But don’t get yourself in a pet. You’re going to a handsome young gent who wants to marry you.”
“Wants to…” She stared open-mouthed at her captor, “Which young gent?”
The man grinned, apparently genuinely amused. “Well, you’re a pretty little thing and no mistake. I’m sure the men are just lining up to marry you. Damned if I wouldn’t marry you myself, only my wife wouldn’t like it.” He guffawed at his own joke.
“Someone hired you to capture me and take me to marry him?” Maria asked, trying to grasp what on earth was happening to her.
“That’s it. Saw you in the open carriage when you drove into town and waited my chance.”
“I’m seventeen years old,” she said impatiently. “I can’t be married without my brother’s consent.”
“Can in Scotland.”
Maria groaned. “Not again! Who the devil is it this time?” But as soon as she spoke, she knew.
She, her sisters, and Michael had all humiliated him. Added to the fact, that if he wanted away from the army, he would need her fortune to live on, not just an occasional present of her pin-money. “Lieutenant Heath,” she said between her teeth.
“He said you’d pretend to be angry,” her captor said complacently.
“Pretend?” Maria cried. “I’d rather die than marry that vile, honorless—”
“You’ll come around when you’re
married.” Cautiously, he released her, sliding back so that he covered her path to the door.
Behind his head, Maria saw that they were almost out of Blackhaven now, on the north road, of course.
“I won’t come around,” she said earnestly. “I love another.”
Her captor looked entirely unimpressed, so she said more desperately. “Look, whatever he’s paid you, I’ll give you twice that amount to let me go immediately! You know who I am, so you know I have the money.”
That did cause a flicker of interest in the cold, violent eyes. “Up front?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Do you have the money now?”
“No,” she said, defeated. She’d given everything to Gideon, who’d used it to hire these ruffians to abduct her. “But my family—”
“Would set the law on us,” her captor finished. “Sit tight, for we’ll be meeting his nibs in no time, and you can jaw him to death instead.”
Over his head, she saw a horseman galloping alongside the carriage. At the same time, she became aware of the added hoofbeats among the rattle of the old vehicle. The rider wore no hat. It must have blown off in the wind, and he was in too much of a hurry to retrieve it. As he drew further ahead, he turned toward the window.
Michael Hanson.
Emotion swamped her as their eyes met for the barest instant. Utter astonishment, fear for him, hope, all swept over her while she tried desperately to keep her expression neutral, or merely annoyed. Could he have been the man walking toward them when she had been bundled into the coach? Had she truly seen him fall in the street? If so, where had the horse come from? Bless his huge heart, but he was a man of letters and thought, not of action. He should have told Mr. Grant, who was a soldier before he was a vicar, and got their burly coachman involved.
Michael moved beyond her line of vision, without her captor even noticing him. The brute just seemed glad she’d stopped talking and fighting him. The coach lurched and swerved. The horses whinnied loudly, slowing and then speeding suddenly enough to throw both Maria and her captor about in their seats.