The Earl Returns

by Marek, Lillian

  They sat down to dinner as a smaller group than usual. Pamela and Arabella had elected to have trays brought to their rooms, and Edgar had discovered the joys of dining at the Black Boar, where no one welcomed him, but at least no one nagged him. Merton had barely swallowed his first spoonful of soup when a footman came in to whisper that there was a boy in the kitchen who said he had an urgent message. Merton promptly excused himself. When he returned, his soup had grown cold but he was beaming.

  They all looked at him, but he said nothing about the message. Instead, he waved away the soup and helped himself to rabbit stew from the dish in front of him. He savored the first mouthful. “Mmm. I must say Cook does an excellent job of rabbit stew.”

  Miranda picked up a roll and threw it at him. To her delight, it hit him directly on the nose. When he gave her a wounded look, she said, “Be grateful it was not a knife.”

  “Children, children,” said Mrs. Rokeby, not bothering to hide her amusement.

  Miranda turned to her mother. “Is he not the most exasperating creature? Just look at him. I could swear I see feathers around his mouth.”

  “Out with it, Merton,” said Rokeby. “I doubt I could save you from the ladies’ attack even if I wanted to.”

  “Very well. I apologize for teasing you all.” Merton looked not at all apologetic. “But that was a message from the innkeeper of The Red Lion near Polegate. A peddler mentioned that he had seen a fellow ducking into a cottage that looked to have been deserted years ago. He described the fellow—rat-faced, with an old scar.”

  Now the others smiled as well.

  Merton continued, “I’ll ride over tomorrow and collect him.”

  “Not alone,” protested Miranda.

  “No, I will take two of the grooms with me.”

  Rokeby frowned. “Just two? Why not take more men? He is likely to be desperate, and a cornered animal is vicious. I would like to come myself.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” said Merton, “but you’re not happy on a horse. The same is true of Hodgson, who would like nothing better than to get his hands on Montague. But he may not be sitting quietly in a cottage. If we need to search, we will have to travel quickly and go cross country. That cannot be done in a carriage.”

  “Still, only two men? I would be far happier if you had a troop surrounding you,” said Miranda.

  “Yes, and a troop of men marching to Polegate would frighten away not only Montague but every miscreant in the neighborhood. We would not know which trail to follow. Two men he does not know will be able to sneak up on him quietly, and the three of us should be more than sufficient to subdue him.”

  Miranda was chewing her lip and shaking her head. “I do not like this,” she said finally.

  Rokeby frowned slightly. “What do you mislike? It is a sensible enough plan.”

  “I know, but something worries me—” she broke off and gave her head a shake. “I fear that I would be more comfortable with it only if I were to accompany you. I do not suppose you would…?” She looked at Merton.

  He laughed. “No, I would not. I can think of nothing that would make me less comfortable than having you accompany me.” He looked at her, regretting the length of the table between them. “I will be perfectly safe in Polegate, I promise you. I will send a message to Ashleigh, and he will join me. And soon, this will all be ended.”

  She sighed, nodded, and endeavored to look less worried. She only wished she could shake off this gnawing fear. This did not seem right. It was idiotic, she knew, but she could not help thinking this was all too easy.

  Chapter Fifty

  She had managed to keep the worry at bay through the night and into the morning, allowing Merton to depart looking forward to the coming confrontation. But no sooner were the horses out of sight than gloom descended on her. She could not help worrying, and worry made her irritable and snappish. With no wish to inflict her bedeviled mood on others, and no desire to listen patiently while her parents told her not to worry—could anything be more infuriating than that?—she shut herself into Merton’s study with the household accounts. It was not a task that appealed, but she needed to master them if she was to run this household. If she was going to be miserable, she might as well accomplish something.

  Besides, this was Tom’s study. The quill had been sharpened by his pen and lay in the very spot where it would be convenient to his hand. The leather chair behind the desk had been worn to fit his contour. If it was a trifle too high for her, if her legs had to stretch a bit to reach the floor, it did not matter. She could feel his presence here.

  By early afternoon, her eyes were aching. Even a lamp was insufficient to brighten the gloom of the day. The housekeeper had kept the accounts, and though her accounting may have been exemplary, her penmanship was not. That word must be candle. The household could not possibly need caudles by the gross. Or perhaps it was her spelling that was the problem. There seemed to be no distinction made between flour and flower. Miranda rubbed the place between her eyes where she feared the crease would soon be permanent. A knock at the door provided a welcome distraction. She stood and stretched before calling, “Enter.”

  A young boy, a ragged little creature perhaps ten years old, a boy Miranda had never seen before, ducked in, glancing behind as if fearing to be seen. Then he bobbed a hasty bow. “M’lady, Mr. Hodgson says to come quick and not let anyone know.”

  Accounts vanished from Miranda’s mind. “Is it about Lord Merton? Has he returned? Where is he?”

  “I dunno, but you must come right away, he said.” The boy looked quite worried. No, more than worried. Frightened. “Mustn’t let anyone else know, he said.”

  Now it was Miranda who was frightened. “Where is he?” she asked again.

  “Garden.” The boy was bouncing from foot to foot.

  Could she be sure this wasn’t some sort of trick? “Describe Hodgson,” she demanded.

  The boy’s eyes continued to dart around nervously. “The cove from the shipyard. Sort of skinny, hair tied back.”

  That was close enough, she decided, but she still took a moment to scribble a note to her father and left it on the desk. “All right, take me to him.”

  She failed to notice that when she stopped to blow out the lamp, the boy palmed the note.

  They slipped down the hall, down the back stairs and out the side door. Dark clouds were piling up. Gusts of wind snatched at them. Miranda noticed none of this as she hurried after the boy down a path through the shrubbery.

  *

  It was gray and darkening by the time Merton and the grooms returned. The steady rain that was falling suited their collective mood. Ashleigh had turned off for home earlier, and now Merton sent the grooms off to the stable with his horse, and a grunt of thanks for their efforts. They nodded acknowledgement, as frustrated as he with the failure of their expedition.

  The Rokebys were in the hall as he entered, but their faces fell when they saw him.

  “It was a false report,” he told them. “We found the deserted cottage easily enough, but no one had been using it. There was an undisturbed layer of dust over the floor a good inch thick. Then we scoured the countryside around it, thinking he might have been simply ducking behind the cottage when he was seen, but there was no sign of anyone living rough, and none of the farmers had seen any strangers about.”

  He stretched to ease aching muscles. “Where is Miranda?” Actually, he was surprised that she wasn’t right here, peppering him with questions.

  “She spent the day in your study, trying to master the household accounts,” said Mrs. Rokeby. “I assume she didn’t hear you return.

  He nodded and headed off. But when he opened the door to the study, no one was there. The account books were open, there was a quill lying beside the sheet of paper on which she had been making notes, and there was an open bottle of ink, but there was no Miranda.

  He frowned.

  When he could not find her in their chamber or in her dressing room, he began to r
oar questions.

  The house was searched, from attics to cellar. She was not there. Nor had she taken a horse or carriage from the stable. It seemed that no one had seen her since early afternoon, some five hours ago. She must have left the house, but the rain had erased any footprints. Within the hour, grooms, gardeners and men from the shipyard had joined Merton in a search of the grounds.

  *

  Miranda came to consciousness slowly, realizing at first only that her head hurt abominably. Then she tried to move and couldn’t. Her wrists and ankles were bound with some coarse cord that hurt, and a rag had been stuffed into her mouth. A filthy rag. The taste of dirt on it came near to choking her. She decided it might be better to not move, partly because doing so was painful and partly because it seemed desirable to know where she was and what was going on before she attracted attention.

  She peered through half-closed eyes. She was lying on the floor, or a floor, at any rate. What floor it was she did not know, only that it was very dirty. No carpet. In fact, no wood or even stone. It was a dirt floor, and she soon noticed the small bits of grit pressing into her cheek. A shed of some sort? She carefully turned her head in an effort to see more. There were some broken clay pots lying about. A gardening shed, then. Was she still on the grounds of Schotten Hall? If so, she thought with relief, this was surely a place that would be searched when people began to look for her. And as soon as Tom knew she was missing, there would be searchers.

  But Tom wasn’t home, or he hadn’t been when she was lured out of the house. How long ago had that been?

  Turning her head carefully, she saw that a grimy window had been opened slightly, and a man was peering out through the crack. He made an irritated noise and began pacing back and forth in the little space available. She was fairly certain he was the rat-faced man she had seen on the cliff and again at the shipyard. That meant he must be Montague.

  It had all been a trap—not just the boy with the false message for her, but the report that had taken Tom on a wild goose chase. But why? What did they want with her? It was Tom they were after.

  What was Montague watching for? Searchers? An accomplice?

  An accomplice, almost certainly. He would want to be far from here when searchers came.

  The question was, where would she be?

  He was back at the window but, this time, it was a sound of satisfaction that he emitted. He went to open the door.

  “Merton has returned. They are searching the house at the moment, but they will begin on the grounds shortly.”

  Pamela! Miranda did not need to see her. She knew that voice, with its perpetual whine.

  “Is she still unconscious?”

  “She has yet to stir.” Montague laughed. “But she is still breathing. You did not strike quite hard enough to kill her.”

  “Hmmm.”

  Miranda’s eyes flew open in response to a vicious kick in her side. She looked straight up at Pamela, bending over her. She glared.

  Pamela smiled unpleasantly. “She is hardly a gentle lady, Montague. She is an American, and she is playing one of those little games they play over there.” She leaned over and slapped Miranda. “Do not worry, my dear countess. You will soon see your husband again, and then you will be united with him for all eternity.” Miranda tried to kick out, but simply tangled her feet in her skirt.

  Pamela stepped away. “Do not underestimate the little bitch, Montague. When you get her into the wood, be sure to tie her to a tree. Don’t simply toss her on the ground. We would not wish to lose track of her.” She handed him a bundle. “This is one of her dresses. Use it to make the dummy. That will bring Merton running. Now, you had best be off. It may take them a while to get here, but there is no need to run unnecessary risks.”

  Montague made no move to take the bundle. “Are you not forgetting something, Madam?”

  “What?”

  “The jewels, Madam. The jewels.”

  “What, now?”

  “Yes, now! If you think I am going to commit murder for you, trusting in your word for payment, you are sadly mistaken.”

  Pamela laughed. “For payment? Oh, no. I have no doubt that you desire the jewels as payment, but I would wager that you want to kill Merton for the pure pleasure of it. You never could break him, and that galls you.”

  “I will not deny that killing Merton will give me pleasure. I could have killed him in the admiral’s office that day, sitting there like a blasted popinjay, laughing at me—one of those useless puppies who have the world handed to them and think themselves better than the men who are thrown aside. But heed me, Madam. I will not lift a finger to kill him without those jewels in my possession.”

  “What you will. I will bring the jewels to the cliff for you. Now, get her out of here before everything is ruined.” Pamela flung the bundle at him and hurried away.

  When Montague went to lift Miranda, she began to wriggle and twist, pushing herself away, making it as difficult as possible for him to grab hold of her. If she could buy some time, if only she could delay him, she thought, she might be able keep him from using her to trap Merton. She kicked out and caught his shin, making him stumble and fall. One of the broken pots cut his hand, and he gave a roar of pain.

  In fury, he grabbed her by the shoulder and punched her in the jaw with his fist, stunning her. He gave her a swift kick before he slung her over his shoulder and stepped outside. The moment he encountered the slashing rain, he cursed himself for having listened to Pamela and agreeing to do this on foot. Miranda was no featherweight, and the wind was strong enough to make it difficult to keep his footing.

  He should have insisted on a horse. The rain would wash away any hoof prints long before pursuit began. He considered going back to the stable and helping himself to one of the mounts—he would enjoy using a whip on that bay gelding he had seen Merton ride. But he thought better of it. There was likely to be a groom around the stable, and a missing horse would mean an immediate search.

  So he plunged on, taking a certain satisfaction in the way the wind-whipped branches slashed more at Miranda than at him, and reminding himself that his stumbles were apt to scrape her on bark and thorns.

  And in the shadows behind them, Hodgson followed.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Once the search of the grounds began, Curry discovered the gardener’s hut almost immediately. It was obvious that someone had been using it recently—there were remains of a loaf of bread, some cheese, even a jug that had held ale but was now empty. They called Merton to see, but it was obvious that whoever had been there was gone.

  “Nervy bastard, isn’t he? Been hiding right in your own back yard, so to speak,” said Curry.

  Merton nodded and turned away. The searchers fanned out to continue the search.

  It was full dark by the time Merton sent them all home, too dark for them to see their own feet. “Tell Cook to give you something to warm you,” he said. They departed, reluctantly for the most part, but he did not. They had left him a lantern, but he did not pick it up. He stared out into the darkness and wanted to rage. He had failed her. He should have stayed with her, at her side. He knew someone in this house was willing to kill. He should never have left her here. He leaned back his head and let loose a cry of anguish.

  “Sir? I mean, my lord?” a small voice intruded.

  Merton looked around. “Who is it? What are you doing here?”

  A young boy stepped into the circle of light from the lantern. “I been following you,” he explained. “The gent said I should give you this but I was to wait until you was alone.”

  Merton reached out to take a packet wrapped in oiled cloth, but when he looked up to ask more, the boy had disappeared. He frowned and took the packet and lantern under a tree that offered some protection from the rain. There was no indication of the sender or anything else on the packet. He tore it open and a shoe fell out. Merton frowned, picked it up to examine it, and then froze. It was Miranda’s shoe. He snatched up the wrapping and to
re it apart until he found the note.

  I have your wife. If you want to see her again, come at once to the high point on the cliff and come alone. If there is anyone with you, she dies.

  Montague

  He crushed the note in his fist and choked down a roar of pain. There was no time. Even if he dared risk it, he could not send for help. It would take too long, and he had no way of knowing how long Montague had been waiting already, how long he had been holding Miranda. If he had harmed her. He steadied himself and thought. Another minute could make little difference. He had his pistol and the knife in his boot, so at least he was not unarmed. He put the packet with the note and the shoe in the path with a rock holding them down. Then he smashed the lantern so that the oil spilled on a bush and flared up. It might, he hoped, burn long enough to attract someone’s attention.

  Then he set out for the cliff.

  *

  Curry had been trudging back to the house, his steps slowing and slowing until he stopped. The others were all ahead of him, but not his lordship. He turned to look back. There was no sight of him, which was hardly a surprise in this rain, but Curry didn’t like it. He didn’t like to think of his lordship by himself out there. No man should be all alone wondering where his woman was, wondering if she was safe, wondering if she was alive.

  He saw a flicker—his lordship’s lantern perhaps. He started toward it.

  *

  When Miranda regained consciousness for the second time, the first thing she noticed was the rain in her face. When she tried to lift a hand to wipe the water from her eyes, she realized she was still bound hand and foot and tied to a tree as well. Trussed up like a chicken, she thought angrily. The she tried to lift her head to look around and a sharp pain slammed through her head.

  Damnation. Hellfire and damnation. How could I have been such a fool?

  She ignored the pain and struggled to sit up. She could not see anyone nearby or hear anyone, but the rain and darkness made it impossible to see anything, and the roar of the wind—no, not just the wind—the surf, the roar of the surf drowned out any other sounds. At least that told her that she was near the shore, probably up on the cliff. But she seemed to be back in the woods. She could feel a tree behind her, and the rope binding her hands seemed to be attached to the tree.