And she must finish preparing. Returning to the bed, she picked up her gown. Blinded by tears, she had no idea if she folded it properly or not, but she stuffed it into the trunk while dashing away the moisture tracking down her face with the heel of her hand. How ridiculous to be crying when everything had worked out for the best. It certainly would not do for Sophia to wake up and find her in tears. She sniffled into her handkerchief and then tucked it into her sleeve. She did altogether too much crying these days. It must be the babe.
Even so, the weight on her shoulders seemed to grow heavier. These last few months, her life consisted of nothing but partings. And she’d hurt Hugo dreadfully.
The little she had gleaned about him through the vicar did not bode well for his future. He had locked himself up in the Grange again, refusing to see anyone. The servants’ talk had him abandoning the estate and returning to the war.
The wrong choices of youth carried a heavy price, but she had never intended hers to make others suffer. Hugo’s intention to offer marriage had come as a complete surprise. It was the one thing about his parting words she didn’t understand. Although he had every right to be angry at her deceit, at her lack of trust, he’d spoken of nothing but a convenient arrangement, no stronger emotion than physical attraction. Even at the last, he hadn’t said a word about love. Without love, a marriage meant nothing.
If only he hadn’t wormed his way into her heart.
• • •
Packing done and the vicar out on calls, Lucinda sat idle, watching Sophia play with a line of tin soldiers ranged along the windowsill. A sharp rap sounded on the door.
“Man at the door,” Sophia said, peering out.
Lucinda’s heart picked up speed. Might Hugo have discovered where she was staying? Was it hope that made her heart beat faster? Or fear? “Who is it?”
Sophia moved the officer on horseback at the front of her line to the back. “Just a man.”
Not Hugo, then. Disappointment dipping her stomach, she set her mending aside and rose. Careful not to be seen, she glanced out the window. The caller was hidden by the porch, but no carriage or horse waited in the lane. It must be a villager seeking the vicar. They would leave soon.
The rap sounded again.
“Me go.” Sophia scooted for the door.
Lucinda trotted after her. “No, Sophia. Come back.”
Too late. On tiptoes, the little girl slid the bolt.
The door slammed back, missing Sophia by an inch.
“Be careful,” Lucinda said, then stared.
Denbigh’s blue eyes gazed back at her soulfully. “Darling. Thank God. I found you at last.”
The breath left her body in a sickening rush. “What are you doing here?” She glanced around wildly. “Sophia, come here.”
Denbigh flashed his charming smile. “You almost had me fooled, hiding behind the skirts of a child.”
Fear filled Lucinda’s mouth with what tasted like ashes. “What do you want?”
His smile hardened. “You, of course. I have come to take you home.” He reached out.
She backed away, her heart battering against her chest. “Sophia, come here.” If she could make it to the kitchen, she could run out the back door and hide in the woods.
Denbigh raised a brow. “Is that any way to greet your husband?” He dropped to his haunches, his face on a level with the child’s, and smiled his angelic smile. “Sophia. Is that your name?”
Sophia nodded and stuck her finger in her mouth.
“Sophia, he’s a bad man. Come here.”
The child dragged her gaze from Denbigh’s and made a move in Lucinda’s direction.
Denbigh grabbed her little bare arm.
“Mummy?” Sophia said, her eyes huge, scared.
“Let her go, Denbigh.”
Still grasping the child by her upper arm, Denbigh stood up. Cruel triumph filled his eyes and curled his finely drawn mouth. “Where did you find her?”
“It’s none of your business,” Lucinda spat back. “She’s my daughter now. Nothing to do with you.”
“Come with me willingly and nothing happens to her. Cross me and . . .”
He reached out a hand to Lucinda. “You made me a laughingstock, disappearing like that. Your father cut off the allowance he settled on you, and the debts are piling up. Come home, now, today, and I’ll say nothing more.”
Black fear invaded her mind. It widened and deepened until she thought it would swallow her whole. She edged closer to the kitchen door.
Denbigh didn’t move.
Sophia squealed and tried to pull out of his grip. He squeezed harder. Tears welled in the little girl’s eyes.
“Let her go. You are hurting her,” Lucinda cried out.
“No,” Denbigh said. “It is you who are hurting her. One more step toward that door and I will not be responsible for what happens to the brat.”
She could not let him hurt Sophia. She took a step toward him, then another. She took his outstretched hand, felt his cold dry fingers curl around hers. Flinched as he pulled her close.
“You bitch,” he whispered. “How dare you?”
The words drained her of all emotion, leaving her numb and cold. She was back in his power.
“Let her go,” she whispered. “You promised.”
His lips twisted cruelly. “You always were naive.”
A hot rush of anger penetrated the dull fog that had closed in on her mind. “If you harm one hair on her head, I will find a way to bring you to justice.”
A sharpness glittered in his gaze. “Your time away from me has made you bold, my dear.” He let Sophia go. Weeping, she buried her face against Lucinda’s legs.
“We will talk about your attitude later, wife,” Denbigh said. “Hurry up. I have a chaise waiting down the lane.”
“How did you find me? The Bow Street Runner?”
“I didn’t hire a Runner. Perhaps Vale did. He had people out looking.” He pushed her out of the door. She blinked against the bright sunlight after the gloom of the hallway. “No,” he said with a smirk. “For once fortune glanced my way. A friend saw you at some ridiculous village fête.”
Arthur Dawson. It could be no one else. The moment she recognized him, she should have run. Her shoulders slumped. It made no difference who had betrayed her. She was caught. Nothing else mattered.
Denbigh pushed her up the path to the gate, one hand clamped to her wrist, an arm about her waist.
The crying Sophia clung to her skirts. Lucinda reached down to pick her up.
Denbigh shoved the child aside.
“What are you doing?” Lucinda said, digging in her heels.
“Where’s Wanstead? I hear he was sniffing around your skirts.”
“It is a lie.”
“Really? I heard all about you two lovebirds. The talk of the village.”
He made what she shared with Hugo sound disgusting and tawdry. “Lord Wanstead was my landlord.”
“He threw you out, didn’t he? Found out what a cold bitch you are, I suppose.”
Lucinda bit back a defiant reply.
His lip curled. “Cat got your tongue?”
She would never admit her feelings for Hugo to this man. As in the past, she lowered her gaze, hid her thoughts, and kept silent. He crashed her against the gatepost. On purpose. She grabbed on to its solid strength. “I am not leaving without Sophia.”
“Oh, for God’s sake. Where the hell did you find the brat? On the streets?”
Her stricken expression must have given her away because he laughed. “That’s it, isn’t it? You picked up a dirty little street urchin like you picked up the stray dog you foisted on your father when we were betrothed.”
Horror closed her throat. Her words came out as a whisper. “You can’t leave her here. I am all she has.”
“Let the parish take her.”
Again he shoved the weeping Sophia aside. She fell on the verge. “Mummy,” she wailed. “Mummy!” Her voice rose to a scream
.
When Lucinda refused to release her grip on the gatepost, Denbigh bashed her knuckles. She swallowed a cry and let go. He picked her up, slung her over his shoulder, staggering under her weight.
Good. For once she was glad she was heavy. She kicked her feet, slamming her fists into his back.
He cursed but kept walking.
The jingle of bridles and the beat of horses’ hooves sounded behind her. Relief rushed through her. The vicar had returned. He couldn’t stop Denbigh from taking his wife. No one could. But she would beg him to care for Sophia.
“Good God,” Denbigh muttered.
The hooves of four black horses entered Lucinda’s field of vision, not the vicar’s chestnut gelding.
“Am I glad to see you,” Denbigh called out as the horses stopped. A footman jumped down to aid its occupant to alight.
Lucinda craned her neck and peered back over her shoulder. “Oh, no,” she whispered.
“I see you found your wife, Denbigh,” the Duke of Vale drawled and flicked a speck of dust off his black coat.
Chapter Eighteen
The idea of seeing Lucinda again made Hugo feel lightheaded, even as the recollection of his verbal attack on her burned his cheeks. He shoved his remorse to one side. His feelings didn’t matter in the face of her danger, though his lack of the right to protect her gnawed at his gut. He grabbed Brown by the lapels. “If you don’t want me to part you from your breath, you will tell me where she is.”
Damn. He was out of control. He released the man’s jacket and stepped back. “I apologize, but this is important. Where is she?”
Brown shifted from one foot to the other. “I cannot be of assistance, my lord. It is Mrs. Graham’s prerogative to inform you of her whereabouts.”
Snotty bastard and bloody well right. Hugo swallowed his ire knowing any attempt to browbeat his honorable steward would result in failure. Hugo wanted either to strangle him or thank him for his loyalty. He settled for a chilly glare. “I just had a visit from a Bow Street Runner. Someone must warn her.”
The color drained from Brown’s face. “Here? At the Grange?”
“Not half an hour ago, threatening to speak to every person in Kent until he discovers her whereabouts. He knows she was living at the Briars.”
The pallid cheeks flooded red. “It’s your fault she is at risk. Do you expect me to trust you?”
Trust. The word hit Hugo like a blow to the solar plexus. For a long moment he could not speak.
Lucinda had trusted him once. Trusted him with her body, and worse than that, her love if he believed words spoken in flashing-eyed fury. It wasn’t until later, when he recalled her tirade, that her words had penetrated the mind-numbing rage. And God help me, I gave you my love. The words hammered in his head. God help him. He didn’t want love. He simply wanted her safe.
Self-loathing and disappointment rose up to choke him like bile. All his life he had tried to protect the innocent. And failed.
He hauled in a deep breath. “I beg your pardon, Brown. Wherever she is, I believe she is in grave danger. If she left Kent, perhaps there is nothing to worry about, but if you know where she is, send her a message. Warn her to lay low. The man’s name is Scrips. Apparently, his employer is not a man to give up easily.”
Brown nodded. “I will tell her, my lord.”
Tell her? Damn. Did he mean she was hiding nearby despite his warning? He kept his face cool and distant. “Very well.”
“Will there be anything else, my lord,” Brown said stiffly. “Perhaps you would like my resignation?”
“No, I would not. I might have been a fool when it came to Mrs. Graham, but I am not a complete nincompoop.”
Brown’s stiff face softened. “You are no fool, my lord. We all thought very highly of Mrs. Graham. We were all hoping . . .” He tugged at his shirt collar and looked very much out of his depth.
Hugo nodded a dismissal. “Get a move on, Brown. Get a message to Mrs. Graham.”
The steward bowed and ran.
Hugo rubbed his eyes to clear the blur from his vision, felt moisture on his skin. Lack of sleep, worry taking its toll.
Think. He paced the carpet in front of his desk. He hated inaction. He needed to know. He needed to impress on her the need for urgency. He buttoned his coat. He’d take his normal afternoon ride. If he happened to see Brown, it would be a coincidence. He snatched up his hat and strode for the stables. For the first time in two days, a renewed sense of purpose cleared his mind of the cobwebs of misery. The thought of seeing her one last time set his heart drumming. Dammit.
The urge to hasten tensing every muscle, he forced himself to saunter out to the stables. A quick glance through Brown’s office window from the courtyard revealed the steward notably missing. Obviously, the man wasn’t writing her a note. A grimace tightened his lips. As he feared, she was still in the neighborhood. No doubt he’d also find Brown’s horse missing from its stall. He glanced around the barn.
“Good morning, yer lordship.” Albert leaned on his pitchfork with a frown.
Trent emerged from the stallion’s stall. “All ready to go, my lord.”
Albert wagged a finger. “Take it easy on that beast. I just got the swelling down on that there right hock.”
“I will,” Hugo said. “Brown just left, did he?”
Trent jerked his chin in assent.
“Damn. I meant to ask him to ride up to High Acre to look at some cattle I thought we might purchase. I’ll have to catch him. Which way did he go?”
“Blendon,” Trent said, backing Grif out of his stall and bending to give Hugo a boost. “Went off in a bit of a hurry.”
Hugo headed the horse out of the yard.
“Watch out for rabbit holes,” Albert called out, the way he had when Hugo was a lad.
He waved his crop in acknowledgment and kneed the horse into a trot. Trent shook his head and disappeared into the barn.
Damned if Hugo didn’t feel like a headstrong youth setting out on some wild adventure. Damned if it didn’t feel good to be doing something worthwhile. Or it would, if he weren’t filled with nagging fear for Lucinda’s safety.
Grif’s long stride ate up the ground. Hugo kept a sharp eye out for Brown. There. A dust cloud on the road ahead. Brown was certainly keeping his word about informing Lucinda right away, and with luck he wouldn’t turn to see Hugo behind him. Keeping the man in sight but not shortening the distance between them, Hugo followed him into the village. Lucinda must be at the Dunnings’ place. It was an obvious place for her to go. And stupid.
He acknowledged a wave from Peddle rolling a barrel across the inn’s cobbled yard.
Brown passed Annie Dunning’s stone cottage at a fast clip.
Hugo frowned. Where then? The steward turned into the lane. Only one house lay in that direction. Postlethwaite had her. She’d be quite all right at the vicarage. He wasn’t needed. The ridiculous desire to set eyes on her had sent him flying after his steward without thinking things through. And she’d been clearer than glass about never wanting to see him again. Hell. He’d sooner face the whole of Bonaparte’s Grande Armée than stand in front of her anger for no good reason. A smile formed on his lips. She’d been magnificent in her anger, so proud and strong. She made him proud. If only he could set her free.
The thought burst in his brain like cannon shot. The means to make sure her husband never touched her again easily lay within his grasp. He wheeled Grif around. The phaeton would get him to London long before the Runner could get a message to Denbigh. A quarrel over cards or the outstanding debt, and the whole thing would be resolved.
• • •
Gripping her wrist, Denbigh set Lucinda on her feet. With his shoulder no longer pressed against her stomach, she managed a deep breath. Oh, God. Vale. She twisted her arm in Denbigh’s crushing hold.
A man in a red vest stepped out of the coach behind the duke. The Runner. Another enemy. Her heart sank. Three men against one woman. The miserable cowards.
The Runner frowned at the sight of Lucinda. “Too late, your grace.”
Vale raised a brow. “Apparently so.”
“I didn’t expect to see you here, Vale,” Denbigh said. “But I’d be damned grateful for the loan of your carriage. The bloody postboy is refusing to return to London unless I show him some blunt.” He wrinkled his brow. “Unless you’d care to lend me a pony?”
A sobbing Sophia ran up behind them and wrapped her arms around Lucinda’s legs. “My mummy.”
Vale’s other eyebrow shot to his hairline. “How utterly charming.”
“You snake,” Lucinda said. “I’m not going anywhere with either of you.”
“You are my wife,” Denbigh said. “Tell her, Vale. She doesn’t seem to understand. She is my chattel, my property, just like my horse.”
“And you treat me worse than your blasted horse,” Lucinda yelled, her struggles hampered by Sophia’s clutching arms around her knees.
Denbigh raised a fist.
Swift as lightning, Vale stepped forward. He captured Denbigh’s wrist, his chest rising and falling with jerky breaths. “You fool. Will you chastise your wife in public? Do you think her family will not hear of it? What hope then for restoring your allowance?”
The high color in Denbigh’s face slowly faded. A sneer curled his lips. “I don’t want her to look worse than she does already.”
Vale’s gaze jerked to Lucinda’s face.
She wanted to die of shame, to disappear into the dirt at her feet. Instead, she lifted her chin. “You knew what I looked like when you married me, Denbigh.” If she didn’t know better, she might have thought the expression on Vale’s cold face held admiration.
“Stop arguing and get in the carriage,” Denbigh yelled.
“Please, Lady Denbigh. You will find it more comfortable than a post chaise, let me assure you,” Vale’s low voice purred.
The Runner coughed. “Might be the best thing to do, yer ladyship. Afore we starts to attract attention.” He gestured to a lone rider galloping up the lane.
Mr. Brown. Lucinda’s heart leaped with the joy of recognition. Surely he would come to her aid if she delayed long enough. “I’m not going anywhere without my daughter.”
The Lady Flees Her Lord Page 28