“Goodness, I had no idea we were having a party,” he said with a smile.
“Not a party, Uncle Charles,” Helena said with regret. “But I think you’d best come in. This involves you too.”
“Oh?” The old man looked puzzled but came in as he was bid and sat down.
“Firstly,” Helena said, wondering how on earth she would explain this, “you must promise me to listen to this to the end and not make assumptions. I know you will find much of it hard to believe, but I swear to you, it is all true.”
“It is,” Gabe said, his voice firm and his gaze settling on her Uncle Charles. “Though I’m afraid some of you will not wish to believe it.”
He nodded at Helena, who took a deep breath and began.
“Mr Theodore Barrington, Lord Montagu’s uncle, is a villain. He has been doing his best to murder Lord Montagu since the marquess was a little boy, and he is—at least in part—responsible for the death of Montagu’s younger brother, Thomas. A few days ago, he sent men after Lord Montagu to murder him on his way to Derbyshire. Montagu is travelling to the dreadful mills which he bought from Mr Burton, who is every bit as wicked as was recently reported. The marquess did not slander him, and Montagu is not mad, but he is in grave danger, and….” Helena took a deep breath, grateful for her husband’s warm grip on her hand. “And Matilda is with him.”
***
7th May 1815. The White Hart, St Albans.
Matilda sighed and buried deeper under the covers. The unfamiliar scent of bergamot and a warm male body enveloped her, and she opened her eyes to the new and intriguing experience of waking beside Lucian. She looked up, blinking even in the dim morning light filtering through the curtains, to discover she was being observed.
“Good morning,” she said, a little shy now, uncertain of what to expect of him, or what he expected of her.
He smiled, though his eyes were shadowed, and she wondered if he’d slept at all.
She reached up and touched his face, still astonished that she could. He turned into her touch, kissing her palm. You’re mine, she didn’t say. You belong to me. Her unspoken words shone in his eyes though, and that was enough.
“I suppose we have to get up.” Her pronouncement was reluctant, spoken on a sigh.
“I suppose we do,” he said, and the echo of her feelings was in his voice too.
The real world would intrude on this little idyll the way it always did, not that it had ever gone away. Daylight was creeping into the room past the thin curtains, too bright and insistent, and she could hear the noise of the inn as a dull murmur of sound, the rumble of carts and the call of voices on the street below, the everyday clatter and hum of a day already well underway. Matilda was assailed with the sudden, desperate need to make it go away, to turn back the clock and bring back the night and let them live it all over again. She would not waste hours of it in sleep this time, she would persuade him to love her as she longed for him to do, and she would not regret it. She reached for him, pressing close and curling her fingers about his shaft, finding his body primed for her and delighting in the deep tortured groan of pleasure she wrung from him.
“No, love. There’s not time,” he protested, reaching to grab her wrist and stop her. “We have to go down for breakfast. It’s late and we need to be on our way.”
Matilda batted his hand away. “I’m not hungry. We’ll make time.”
She bent down and ran her tongue over his nipple and he shivered. Pleased with that, she did it again, trailing her mouth and tongue across his chest. His arousal was hot in her hand, throbbing now, and her confidence grew. He gave a shaky sigh and then shook his head.
“Matilda, we… we can’t,” he said and then groaned as she ignored him. “You must not…. Oh, yes, like that…. No… No. We must get up… Oh God….”
It was intriguing, this newfound power over his body. She was in no danger of believing herself a femme fatale, or thinking herself a skilled lover, but she suspected enthusiasm counted for something. Certainly, he seemed very responsive to her touch if the tormented sounds he made were anything to go on.
“We have to get up?” she queried innocently, firming her grip on him and watching as he threw his head back upon the pillow.
“Yes,” he said, though he shook his head and laughed.
“Shall I stop?”
“No! Ah, Matilda, do as you wish with me. I am weak, putty in your hands. I give in. Oh, my God, you will drive me insane.”
Matilda laughed too, delighted by his capitulation, and determined to make every second of it count.
***
Somehow they made it downstairs. Phoebe leapt up from the table as they approached, flinging her arms about Matilda first and then Lucian.
“Good morning, Mama!” she said, beaming at Matilda before dancing over to Lucian. “And good morning, Papa! Isn’t it a lovely morning?”
“It is,” Matilda agreed, hoping her blush was not too pronounced as she guided Phoebe back to the table.
They ate a quick breakfast and were soon fastening bonnets and hustling outside to the carriage. Belatedly, Matilda realised why there had been so much noise and bustle this morning. It was market day, and the scene before them filled with the rumble of carts and the indignant calls of livestock as cows and sheep were herded towards St Peter’s Street. Everywhere she looked, the roads were thronged with people, the air heavy with a ripe combination of cheese and hot food, manure and unwashed bodies. As they pushed through to the waiting carriage, Matilda was jostled by a man carrying a tray of fragrant meat pies. She sucked in a breath as the corner of the deep wooden tray struck her elbow and the arctic glare Lucian turned upon the fellow had him blanching and hurrying away.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, taking her arm gently.
“No, it’s fine,” she said, giving him a reassuring smile.
He drew her closer into his side.
“Montagu!”
Lucian turned and then went very still. Matilda could not see who had hailed him and was about to ask when Lucian put a hand to her back.
“In the carriage. Now.”
Before she could protest, he’d swept Phoebe up into his arms and had herded them both inside. She glimpsed Denton moving Pippin and Mrs Frant on with equal urgency to the carriage behind theirs and heard Lucian shout at the driver to move out.
He climbed in after them and reached beneath the seat, taking out a heavy wooden box. Matilda gasped as he opened it to reveal two gleaming pistols.
“What on earth is the matter?” she asked, pulling Phoebe into her side. “Who was it that called you?”
“I don’t know,” he said, his expression grim. “I could see no one, but I don’t expect they wished to be seen, nor that I would recognise them if I had. They just wanted to confirm their suspicions and fool that I am, I obliged them.”
Matilda’s heart gave a flutter of anxiety and she told herself not to panic. “Perhaps it was someone who knew you and you could not see them.”
Lucian shook his head. “I never doubted my uncle had a variety of unsavoury characters in hand to watch this route for any travellers matching my description. They just wanted to make sure.”
He fixed his gaze to the world beyond the window as the carriage moved slowly through the crowds. His hand remained upon the pistol on the seat beside him, his tension palpable.
“Idiot!” he cursed under his breath.
“Lucian, you cannot blame yourself for turning at the sound of your name. It has been yours for decades and it is a natural reaction.”
He snorted.
“Perhaps, but I can blame myself for bringing you with me. How I ever let you talk me into this madness….” He shook his head. “No. That is unfair. I needed little enough persuading. I wanted you with me. It was pure selfishness, and now I have put you both in danger.”
“Nonsense,” Matilda retorted. “If we’d been left behind, we would have been targets too. Your uncle would have known he could manipulate you if eith
er one of us was in danger.”
“And you would not have been in danger!” he snapped. “I’m a marquess for the love of God. Do you not think I could have hired an army of men to keep you both safe? But no, instead I brought you with me on this hare-brained adventure, and now—”
“And now, someone has figured out who you are, and we must be on our guard,” Matilda said, keeping her voice soothing even as her heart was beating a rapid tattoo in her chest. “We must make haste and lose them, that is all.”
“That’s no good.” Phoebe shook her head, staring at her uncle, her little face grave and thoughtful. “We could not be certain we’d lost them. We would not know if we were safe or not. So, we ought to trap them, confront them. Then we’d know exactly where they were.”
“I’m afraid that sounds rather dangerous,” Matilda said with a placating smile, taking Phoebe’s hand.
“No.” They both looked up as Lucian stared at Phoebe, frowning. “She’s right.”
Phoebe beamed and jumped up and down in her seat.
“Shall we trick them, Papa? And then tie them up and throw them in the river? A pity we’re not at sea, we could make them walk the plank,” she added, clearly beside herself that Lucian approved of her mad scheme.
“What a bloodthirsty creature you are,” he observed mildly, though his expression was still grim. “And I’m not your papa, sweetheart, much as I wish otherwise.”
Phoebe frowned, but Matilda did not have time to consider her feelings for the moment, too alarmed by what on earth Lucian was considering.
“Lucian,” she said, praying he was not serious. “You cannot possibly think that is a good idea. Surely, if we make haste….”
He shook his head. “No. They’ll look for a quiet place to ambush us or murder us in our beds. No, this needs meeting head on.”
“But—”
“Let me think, love,” he said, sounding distracted as he returned his attention to watching the world outside.
Matilda could do nothing but hold her tongue for the moment and hope to goodness she could make him think again.
***
“This is insanity,” Matilda said, for at least the fifth time. “We don’t even know if they are following us.”
Lucian held her hand, one arm about her waist as he guided her over the steep ground that led down to the river’s edge.
“They’re following us,” he said, not needing to see the men his uncle had sent to know that much.
“But, Lucian, you don’t know how many there are, or what they have in mind.”
Lucian thought he had a pretty fair idea of what they had in mind, and all of those ideas ended up with him dead. The other thing he knew was that these villains were likely nothing more than cutthroats, paid to do a job. Therefore, they owed no allegiance to Theodore past wanting to collect their money. Money which his uncle would struggle to obtain, since Lucian had a stranglehold on his finances and Mr Burton, who had been financing Theodore’s vendetta, had troubles of his own. Lucian might be travelling in disguise—and might be furious with himself for allowing his desire to keep Matilda and Phoebe close to override good sense—but he had no problem with securing appropriate funds. What’s more, he was Montagu, no matter his uncle’s ambitions, and these devils knew it.
He guided Matilda and Phoebe down the steep bank that led to the River Ouse and under the dark, dank arches of Stratford Bridge. They’d changed horses as Stony Stratford, less than a mile back, and though there had been no sign of pursuit, Lucian could feel their presence like a storm on the horizon.
“I will not hide here whilst you put yourself in danger,” Matilda objected, folding her arms and glaring about the gloomy environs beneath the bridge with disgust.
“You will do as you are told,” Lucian retorted, wishing just this once that Matilda was not quite so stubborn and brave. He had adored that about her from the beginning, and that she would stand up to him and tear him off a strip without batting an eyelid. Right now, though, he heartily wished it were not the case. “You will keep Phoebe safe,” he added, hoping that would call to her maternal instincts if nothing else.
Matilda narrowed her eyes at him. “If I’m to protect Phoebe, why have you given her the pistol?” she demanded with indignation.
“Because you’ve never fired a pistol in your life as you freely admitted, and Phoebe is quite adept.”
His heart ached at the pride in Phoebe’s eyes, and he felt a surge of relief at having taught the girl such things. Instinct and his own experiences had told him she might need such skills, even as he’d wanted to keep her innocence intact and her view of the world untainted. Sometimes innocence had too high a price, though, as Thomas had discovered. So Phoebe had been prepared for a world that could be cruel and even dangerous, whilst he’d done his best not to taint her view of it too badly.
He crouched down now, his eyes fixed on the blue-grey gaze of his little niece. “Tell me what you will do.”
Phoebe put her chin up, her face pale but determined. “I will raise the pistol and tell them clearly and firmly to go away or I will shoot them. I’ll look them in the eyes and speak out loud and not be afraid.”
Lucian nodded, his throat feeling suddenly restricted.
“And?” he prompted.
“And I won’t lower the pistol even if they go, and I’ll keep my guard up, for they might return.”
“And?”
“And if I feel threatened, I won’t hesitate. I will shoot whoever seems to be in charge.”
“And?”
“And then I’ll run like the devil is at my heels.”
Lucian pulled her into his arms and hugged her tightly. He closed his eyes and promised himself that he would make his uncle pay for all of it. Theodore would pay for having benighted his life all these years, for the harm he’d done Thomas. For all of it.
“Will Pippin and Mrs Frant be all right?” Phoebe asked, her voice quiet.
Lucian nodded. “Yes, sweetheart. These men are not interested in them. They’d have noticed if I’d left you or Matilda behind, but Pippin and Mrs Frant are safer back at the village, though I might not be when we go back for them. Pippin was fit to be tied.”
“She was terribly cross,” Phoebe agreed, and put her arms about his neck. “I love you. You will be careful, won’t you?”
“I promise,” he said gravely. “But if anything bad happens, Miss Hunt will look after you. I have made her your guardian.”
“Nothing bad will happen,” Phoebe said, her mouth compressing into a firm line. “I’ll shoot anyone who tries to hurt you.”
Lucian raised his hand and pointed a finger at her. “You… will stay here out of sight and not make a peep, young lady, or highwaymen and cutthroats will be the least of your problems. I’ll have your word of honour, Phoebe.”
A mutinous expression crossed Phoebe’s face and Lucian glowered at her.
“Phoebe,” he said, his voice low and filled with warning.
She huffed, furious.
“Very well, I’ll stay here and be quiet like a good little coward whilst you go and get yourself shot,” she muttered, folding her arms and glaring back at him. “Word of honour.”
Lucian let out a breath and kissed her.
“I love you, Bee. Keep yourself and Matilda safe for me.” He turned to Matilda, who was looking just as annoyed as Phoebe. “Please, love, make sure she stays out of sight.”
Matilda glared at him.
“I suppose you expect me to promise too?” she said tartly, folding her arms. Her eyes glittered in the dim light under the bridge.
“You must, love. I have to know she will be safe if anything happens to me. If my uncle got his hands on her….”
His voice quavered and he trailed off, unable to complete that thought.
Matilda’s expression changed at once and she flung her arms about his neck. “I promise. Oh, of course, I promise. Only you must promise me not to do anything foolish. Please, my love.”
“I am in no hurry to allow my uncle his victory, I assure you. Do have a little faith in me,” he added with reproach.
“Very well.” Matilda nodded and stepped away from him, moving to Phoebe and laying her hands on the girl’s shoulders. “We shall do as you’ve asked.”
Lucian nodded, satisfied, and then looked around as he heard Denton hailing him.
“Someone is coming.” He hesitated at speaking out before Phoebe, but the child was no fool. “I love you both,” he said, and then turned and left them.
Chapter 17
It grieves me to ask such a favour of you, indeed; I find it mortifying in the extreme, but I am running out of options. Montagu has frozen my accounts and any line of credit, and I find myself somewhat embarrassed.
May I be so crass as to ask if you might lend me some funds until I can remedy the situation?
―Excerpt of a letter from Mr Theodore Barrington to Charles Adolphus, Baron Fitzwalter.
7th May 1815. Stratford Bridge. Stony Stratford. Buckinghamshire.
To the casual observer the carriage had been damaged and was immoveable, blocking the far side of the bridge. The horses had been unhitched and were contentedly cropping grass at the side of the road whilst Denton made a show of rummaging through a tool chest stashed under the driver’s box. Their driver, and the driver of the carriage they’d left behind in the village, were both ducked down behind the bridge. All were armed.
Lucian sat in the carriage, waiting. They would hardly expect a marquess to dirty his hands with manual labour, no matter what manner of man he was disguised as.
His hands were steady on the pistol as he heard the horses approach. Four, by the sounds of it, which gave them even odds. He heard a coarse voice yell at Denton to leg it and he’d come to no harm, and prayed the man remembered to play his part and get to cover. The door swung open and a large, ruddy faced villain filled the opening. A spotted red cravat was tied about his face, and on seeing Lucian, he tugged it down. He was a huge brute with a broken nose and pockmarked skin and the odours of stale sweat, liquor, and smoke permeated the carriage. His bloodshot blue eyes swung to the pistol Lucian held and he grinned, showing a row of tombstone teeth in various stages of decay.
To Hunt the Hunter (Girls Who Dare Book 11) Page 18