The Lady Flees Her Lord

by Ann Lethbridge

  Vale looked startled, but recovered his bored expression with no more than a blink. “I see no harm in taking the child.”

  “No,” Denbigh said. “I’ll not take some foundling off the street.”

  “Now, now, dear boy,” Vale murmured, placing a hand on Denbigh’s shoulder. “We can sort it all out when we get to London.”

  “Aye,” the Runner said, opening the carriage door wider.

  Denbigh’s chest rose with a lungful of air. His face flushed red. “Sweet Christ.” He grabbed Sophia around the waist and flung her onto the verge. “I will not take that piece of horseshit into my house.”

  Sophia screamed.

  Lucinda slipped under Denbigh’s restraining arm and fell to her knees beside the howling child. She pulled her close, rocked her against her shoulder. “It is all right, darling. Mummy is here.”

  “What is going on?”

  Lucinda glanced over her shoulder at Mr. Brown’s horrified face. “Mrs. Graham, are you all right?” He swung down from his horse. His gaze swept the circle of men standing beside the carriage.

  Denbigh took one quick step to stand over Lucinda. “Sir, you have no business here. I am Viscount Denbigh. This woman is my wife, and I am here to take her home.”

  Mr. Brown’s face, shoulders and body all sagged. He lifted his hands from his sides in a gesture of helplessness. “I’m sorry.” He grimaced and glanced at the Runner. “I came to warn you that this man visited the Grange.”

  “You are sadly de trop, my man,” Vale uttered in bored tones.

  Mr. Brown clenched his fists. “And just who might you be?”

  A smile curled one corner of Vale’s hard mouth. He made a magnificent leg. “I am the Duke of Vale. And whom might I have the pleasure of addressing?”

  The steward seemed to shrink inside his brown coat. Lucinda wanted to smack the supercilious expression off Vale’s face. “This is Mr. Brown. Lord Wanstead’s steward.”

  “Pleasure, I’m sure,” Vale said. “I suggest you take yourself off.” He flicked open his snuff box and stared down at Lucinda cuddling the crying Sophia. “On second thoughts, you might want to take charge of the child.”

  “No,” Lucinda screeched. She got to her feet. “Sophia stays with me.”

  Mr. Brown opened and closed his mouth a couple of times before managing to speak in strained accents. “This is clearly a family matter.”

  Her own panic forgotten for a moment, Lucinda’s heart went out to him at the sight of his anguish. Confronted by such powerful opposition, what could he do?

  Denbigh seized the moment to pull her to his side.

  Sophia set up a high-pitched wail.

  Denbigh drew back his foot for a kick. Lucinda stuck her shin in its path. Pain shot up her leg. She sank to the ground.

  “Scrips,” Vale snapped, “hold the child. Denbigh, put your wife in my carriage.”

  The Bow Street Runner picked up Sophia, who screamed louder.

  Denbigh grabbed Lucinda around the shoulders. She elbowed him in the ribs and heard his gasp with satisfaction. She kicked at him. Her soft slippers made no impression on his booted ankles and only served to stub her toes.

  Denbigh captured her wrists, heaving her toward the carriage. She dragged her feet, clawed at Denbigh’s fingers, and tried to bite his hand.

  “She doesn’t want to go,” Mr. Brown cried. “Leave her be.”

  “Please, Lady Denbigh,” Vale said. “I promise no harm will befall you or the child.”

  “Liar,” she yelled through sobbing gasps for air. “Do you think I don’t know what you plan?”

  Above the pounding in her ears and Sophia’s cries came the thunder of more hoofbeats.

  The huge black stallion reared to a halt. “What the hell is going on here?” Hugo roared.

  Lucinda’s heart crashed to her feet. Now Hugo would witness the truth of her marriage. Of all the things that had happened, this was the worst. She slumped against Denbigh’s chest.

  “Well, well. Look who has arrived,” Denbigh said. “The man who stole my wife.”

  • • •

  Bile in his throat, Hugo glared at the sniveling cur who held Lucinda’s arms in a cruel grip. He wished for his saber. Or better yet, a pistol. He should have borrowed Peddle’s musket when he stopped to ask him about the Bow Street Runner and learned of the sudden rush in carriage trade headed for the vicarage.

  He leaped down and looped Grif’s reins over the picket fence.

  Denbigh tightened his arm around Lucinda’s shoulders. “Have you come for your slut? I’m surprised you haven’t tired of the coldhearted sow. Take yourself off, Wanstead. You aren’t wanted here.” He gave Lucinda a shake, and she bit off a cry of pain.

  The small stifled gasp made Hugo wince. He stepped forward, fists clenched. “Let her go.”

  “Stay back,” Denbigh said. “It will be worse for her if you come any closer.”

  Hugo let go a short breath and regained control. He stayed put. Goddamn it. He wanted to smash Denbigh in the face and then hang Arthur up by his thumbs. He glanced at the other men gathered around the shiny black carriage—the nervous Brown, the wary Runner, and the nonchalant but alert Duke of Vale. Three against two. Outnumbered but not impossible odds. Brown backed away. Hugo sighed. Three to one. He needed a plan of attack.

  The pallor in Lucinda’s cheeks and the way her gaze remained rooted to the ground like a beaten dog sickened him. He had to set her free of this bastard, no matter the cost.

  Vale lifted an elegant brow. “Wanstead.”

  Hugo bowed. “Your grace. I assume Scrips is your man?”

  The duke nodded.

  Oh, yes. Badly outnumbered.

  “It seems Lady Denbigh is not willing to go with you, Lord Denbigh,” Hugo said.

  “My whore of a wife will do as she’s bloody well told.”

  By force of will, Hugo held his surge of killing anger in check. “Divorce her.” He flinched at the sound of Lucinda’s indrawn gasp of horror. “Name me in your suit. I won’t contest it.”

  Denbigh’s finely molded lips parted in a parody of a smile. “What, and lose access to her money? D’you think I’m a fool?”

  “If it is money you want, I’ll pay you.” He had the money he’d borrowed for Lucinda.

  “No,” Lucinda cried.

  The anguish in her voice cut him to the quick, but he could not let it stop him.

  “You are a man after my own heart, Wanstead,” Vale drawled. “I offered to pay for her months ago. Just before she fled.”

  Lucinda gazed at him with loathing. “What did I ever do to warrant such a disgusting proposition?”

  A faint flush stained the duke’s high cheekbones. “Darling, you captured my heart.” He gave a nonchalant laugh. “What is left of it.”

  For some reason, Hugo sensed an underlying sincerity in Vale’s rather cynical declaration. And something else was strange: the duke and his man had come separately from Denbigh, who seemed to have arrived in the post chaise waiting farther down the lane. Apparently Vale was playing his own game. Hugo tentatively revised his count of the opposition. “I’ll double whatever Vale offered to pay,” he said. “If she is barren, as you say, why keep her?”

  “It’s a good offer, Denbigh,” Vale said. “You could even marry again and get your heir.”

  “How does he know it is not his fault we have no children?” Lucinda yelled and then cowered as Denbigh raised his fist.

  “You . . . you bloody cow,” he said. “How dare you.”

  “Come to think of it,” Vale drawled, “Lady Elizabeth isn’t breeding either, is she?”

  With absolute horror, Hugo watched Denbigh swing around to stare nonplussed at the duke.

  “What the hell are you saying, Vale?”

  If she wasn’t barren . . . Hugo’s gut lurched.

  Vale shrugged. “I’m no expert.”

  Denbigh looked murderous. “Goddamn you. Lady Elizabeth takes precautions. Do you think she want
s a bastard?”

  Relief held Hugo in thrall. That had to be it. God. It didn’t matter right now. He took one step closer to the distracted Denbigh, a foot or two closer to Lucinda. One hard snatch would free her from the other man’s clutches. It would take but a second to mount her on Grif and get her away before Denbigh drew breath.

  Denbigh must have caught the movement out of the corner of his eye because he swung around. “She’s worth ten thousand pounds invested in the Funds,” Denbigh said. “Have you got that kind of money? Cash.”

  “No!” Lucinda cried out. Denbigh gave her a shake.

  Hugo tried not to blink at the enormity of the sum. A debt of that size would ruin him. He tried to keep his voice steady. “Not to hand. I’d have to sell some land.”

  “What about you, Vale?” Denbigh loosened his grip a little as he turned to the duke. “How much are you willing to pay to mount the fat sow?”

  The color drained from Lucinda’s face. She shrank away.

  Blood roared in Hugo’s ears. Red filled his vision. He shot out a fist. Denbigh jerked back. Hugo’s fist glanced off his chin.

  Denbigh cursed and tested his jaw with probing fingers.

  Before Hugo regained his balance for another blow, Denbigh shoved Lucinda at Vale. “Hold the bitch.”

  The Bow Street Runner handed Sophia to Lucinda.

  Hugo raised his fists and squared off.

  Eyeing him up and down, Denbigh put up his guard.

  “I am surprised,” Hugo said. “I thought you only stood up to women and children.” He threw a left jab.

  Denbigh ducked and slammed a boot into Hugo’s thigh. Right on his scar. Hugo staggered from the sudden agony.

  Lucinda screamed.

  Breathing hard through his nose, Denbigh grinned and landed a swift punch to Hugo’s stomach. “Heard about your wound, old chap.”

  Hugo shook his head to clear the wave of dizziness. He feinted a right at Denbigh’s ribs and caught him with an upward swing of his left, flush on the jaw. Denbigh’s feet left the ground. He flew back and landed on his arse.

  “Bastard,” Denbigh said. “I wouldn’t let you have her if I was penniless.”

  “You are penniless,” Vale pointed out. He tucked his snuffbox in his pocket and raised his quizzing glass. “Fisticuffs are so crude,” he complained in long-suffering tones. “A duel is far more gentlemanly, don’t you know.”

  Denbigh touched fingertips to the blood running from his nose and glared up at Hugo. “I’ll kill you for that.” He dove a hand in his pocket and pulled out a pistol. “It doesn’t matter what you say, Wanstead. She’s my wife. Mine to do with as I please.” A cruel smile twisted his lips. “Hit me again and she is the one who will suffer.”

  The words stopped Hugo cold. “Coward.”

  “Try to see her and I’ll keep her in a rat-infested cellar. I have a nice one at Denbigh Hall,” Denbigh said.

  The expression of revulsion and horror on Lucinda’s face made it clear she believed the threat.

  Rage tore at Hugo’s reason. He clung by a thread to his sanity. “Do you think her father will pay an allowance under those circumstances?”

  Denbigh grimaced.

  “Wanstead,” Vale said. Hugo flicked him a glance.

  “Have a care, Wanstead.” The duke spoke softly, but his tone held menace, although neither he nor his henchman seemed prepared to go to Denbigh’s aid.

  Denbigh scrambled to his feet, brushing dust off his breeches. He shrugged. “Her father might pay more just to keep her out of the cellar. What do you think, Lucinda?”

  “I think my father will do everything he can to set me free of you.” Her words were boldly spoken but her voice wobbled.

  The pain in Hugo’s chest intensified.

  “Too bad you didn’t think of that before, sweetheart,” Vale said.

  Hugo stared at him.

  A movement at the corner of his vision caught his attention at the same moment the Bow Street Runner shouted, “Look out for the pop.”

  Hugo swung around. Denbigh leveled the pistol at the middle of his chest. “Say your prayers, Wanstead.”

  “No,” Lucinda shrieked. “No, Denbigh. Please. I’ll go with you. I’ll do anything you say.” She thrust Sophia into the Bow Street Runner’s arms.

  “Blimey,” he said.

  Hugo lifted his hands away from his sides. “Go ahead. Shoot. You will swing for it.”

  “Will I?” Blood dribbled down from his nose. He hawked and spat. “Vale will say it was self-defense.”

  “I will tell them,” Lucinda said fiercely. “I will tell everyone what a coward you are, shooting an unarmed man.”

  “As will I,” said another voice.

  Postlethwaite. And dear God, Catherine, their faces white and shocked as they approached the vicarage gate. Not exactly the place for two such gentle people. “Take Catherine in the house, Vicar,” Hugo said.

  They didn’t move. Damn. Didn’t Postlethwaite see the danger? “You won’t kill me, Denbigh,” Hugo taunted. “You are too much of a coward.”

  The Bow Street Runner put Sophia in the carriage. Good. Lucinda would be forced to follow.

  Denbigh must have thought the same thing because he nudged his wife in the direction of the open door. Hugo put all his money on the duke taking care of her, no matter what happened next.

  Lucinda didn’t move. She seemed mesmerized by Denbigh’s pistol.

  “Mummy,” Sophia cried out.

  “Get in the carriage, Lucinda,” Hugo murmured. From the corner of his eye, he saw Vale give the faintest of nods.

  Dear God. He better be right about the duke. He took a step toward the pistol. “What are you waiting for? I tupped your wife.”

  Lucinda gasped.

  Denbigh drew back the hammer, his handsome face twisted in a snarl. “You bastard. You think if I kill you, I’ll hang.” His swollen lips grimaced in a death’s-head smile. “I don’t blame you for any of this, Wanstead.” He nodded at Lucinda. “She’s the one who must be punished.”

  “For God’s sake, Denbigh,” Vale drawled. “Put the gun down. I’m getting bored. Countess, get in the carriage if you have any care for this brat.”

  Denbigh shot Vale a wild glance. The pistol wavered.

  Hugo prepared to spring. A figure in gray shot between him and Denbigh. Lucinda. Hugo thrust her aside with one hand, knocking Denbigh’s pistol up with the other.

  A shot rang out. And another. Denbigh faltered, a shocked expression on his face, then keeled over.

  Lucinda collapsed.

  Off balance from his leap, Hugo felt as if he’d been struck through the heart. “No,” he yelled.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Hugo dropped to his knees at Lucinda’s side, reaching her just before Catherine.

  “Nice shot, yer grace,” Scrips said.

  “She’s fainted, I think,” Catherine said, kneeling on the hem of her pale blue gown and chafing Lucinda’s hands. “Postlethwaite, there are smelling salts in my reticule. Find them, please.”

  Postlethwaite knelt beside her and fished in the bag.

  Hugo glanced from the clearly dead Denbigh to Vale leaning against the carriage, a pained expression twisting his features. “Thank you for your help, your grace, but you should not have killed him. You’ll face a jury of your peers.”

  Vale managed a half smile. “Couldn’t do much else, my dear. I don’t think there is a judge in England who will blame me. Self-defense, d’you see?”

  “Self . . .” A drop of something dark and thick landed on the duke’s impeccably polished boots. “Good God, man, you’re hit.”

  “Yes,” the duke said, a gleam of mischief in his pain-filled gray eyes. “Devilish lucky, that.”

  “’Ere, yer grace,” Scrips said. “Let me set my peepers on that there.” He undid the duke’s coat and peeled it off one shoulder. He unbuttoned the black waistcoat and revealed a white linen shirt mired red with blood and rent high on the shoulder. Scrips pulle
d out a spotted handkerchief.

  “Good God, man,” Vale said. “I hope that’s clean.”

  “’Course it is,” Scrips muttered, staunching the wound.

  Hugo turned back to Lucinda. Her eyes were open, and she was staring at Denbigh’s still form. “Is he dead?”

  “Yes, dear,” Catherine said. “Quite dead.”

  Lucinda shuddered and looked away. “Where is Sophia?” she asked in a whisper.

  Sophia peeped out of the carriage door. “Bad man gone?” she asked.

  Lucinda’s laugh sounded so broken and brave and so full of tears that Hugo found himself watching her through a watery blur.

  Bloody idiot. He backed away, giving her room when everything in his being strained to take her in his arms. If he did, there would be no going back. Seeing her fall, the utter feeling of helplessness had left him rigid with terror and brought the truth into stark clarity. The duke, who had given his blood to save her, was the far better man.

  The little girl hopped down the steps as Postlethwaite and Catherine helped Lucinda to her feet.

  Scrips pulled a blanket from the carriage and threw it over Denbigh’s remains.

  Lucinda turned to the duke. “Thank you, your grace,” she said stiffly. “I still don’t understand why you did it, but thank you for your help.”

  Vale’s hard eyes softened. “I knew what you suffered, my dear, only too well. I know you thought me lacking in finer qualities. You certainly surprised the hell out of me.” He shook his head. “I thought you’d run to your parents after I made it clear what sort of country house party that idiot had planned.”

  “B-but you encouraged him into all that vice and dissipation. It was all your idea.”

  He winced as Scrips pulled the knot tight. “Guilty, I’m afraid. It was the only way I found to keep the bastard away from you.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “I’m so very sorry he hurt you, my dear. If I hadn’t been out of the country when he proposed, I might have stopped the wedding. I knew what he was, you see. Unfortunately, he didn’t waste a moment with the nuptials once he heard about your dowry, and by the time I was back in town it was all too late.”