Two in the Bush

by Judith Hale Everett

  “Well, unless you know the chamber maids to be former contenders in the ring, there’s no dashed reason why we shouldn’t at least try!” exclaimed Mr. Ginsham.

  “Mr. Ginsham,” she said with dangerous calm, “Lord Montrose will be keeping a close watch on his prisoners. The stakes are too high for him to be careless. If even a hint of an attack comes to his notice, he may—he is very likely to—” She swallowed the wave of emotion that welled in her throat, and with a rather unsteady voice concluded, “The safest plan would be to convince Montrose to bring the girls into the library.”

  Watching her intently, Sir Joshua inquired, “Why the library?”

  “It is an outer room, on the ground floor, with several French windows. A rescue from that room could be accomplished with minimal interference, and would be more likely to succeed.”

  “Then I should draw him to the front door,” said a subdued Mr. Ginsham. “He doesn’t know me from Adam, but he’d suspect Sir Joshua in an instant.”

  “There is no reason for him to suspect me,” Sir Joshua contradicted him. “Montrose and I are acquainted, to be sure, but have never been on speaking terms. My appearance would be unexpected but not improper, and I have already conceived a plausible story to tell him.”

  “Sir Joshua,” said Genevieve with desperate patience, “he must have been watching Lenora for some time, and will have noticed your attendance on her. It would be folly to present yourself at his front door as a friend, tonight of all nights.”

  “Then I’ll go,” declared Mr. Ginsham with finality.

  “And with what power do you hope to persuade him to bring you the girls?” cried Mrs. Breckinridge. “Upon my soul, I could never in the whole of my life have conceived of the nonsensical notions the pair of you have put forward in the last thirty minutes! Do, I pray you, exert yourselves to think! Montrose is no fool, and would never have set forth upon this course without adequate preparation. The circumstance of his very neatly snatching both Lenora and Elvira from under our noses attests to this. He has, no doubt, planned for every expediency, and his note was clear as to his particular expectations. It would be the height of folly to assume that he would not be on guard against any aberrations.”

  Sir Joshua was eyeing her warily. “You are not about to suggest that you will present yourself at Montrose’s front door?” he said, with barely restrained violence.

  “The girls’ safety is ensured when I, and I alone, come to redeem them.” She persisted over their opposition by raising her voice. “It is of no use to cavil, gentlemen! The situation is dire, and will admit of only one solution. I must go.”

  “You speak of folly—” began Sir Joshua heatedly, but she cut him short.

  “I am the only one he will not suspect. I am the only one who will be able to draw him to the library. I am also the only one with any chance of getting him to bring Lenora and Elvira into the room with me.” She looked coolly out the window, brooking no argument. “I believe we are in agreement.”

  An hour later, the carriage could be seen to pause outside the gates of Nordley, and if anyone had been interested to watch, to have disgorged two shadows that crept into the shrubbery, while the coach continued up the gravel drive. Its remaining occupant, if she had been observed through the shadowed glass, would have given the impression of extreme hauteur, so disdainfully did she gaze upon her surroundings. This attitude was hardly appropriate, as the estate was beautifully kept, and boasted some of the loveliest views in the county. Its broad drive passed through a verdant park, up and over rolling hills, and finally through an avenue of stately beeches, to the sweep in front of the house.

  The equipage had scarcely come to a halt when a groom came to the horses’ heads, and a footman ran to the door of the coach, pulling it open and handing down Mrs. Breckinridge. Her stately silence upon setting foot on such hated ground betrayed none of the fear that held her nerves taut, and she paused on the drive to gaze solemnly about a scene in which she had hoped never to take part again. The handsome Georgian house reared up before her, with its meticulously groomed shrubberies, urns, and statuary lining the drive, and walks leading around the house to gorgeous pleasure gardens in the rear; the various servants standing at attention outside, and the promise of several more inside the house—all this magnificence impressed her only with the assurance that it was supported entirely by the folly of Lord Montrose’s victims. In this place she had first become acquainted, during the countless house parties to which they had been invited, with the weakness and indecency of the man she had married, and with the utter shamelessness of their host.

  The footman shuffled impatiently next to her and, with an effort, she suppressed the emotions that had accompanied her remembrances and turned to face the house, resolutely gathering her skirts and walking swiftly up to the door, which was waiting open for her. She had no illusions about what was in store for her inside the house, and had equally little hesitancy about her course. No matter the danger to herself, no matter the outcome, she would not leave Lenora to Lord Montrose’s mercy.

  She entered his house with a focus that exhibited as incivility. A request for her pelisse was refused, as was an invitation to step upstairs into one of the saloons. “I shall await Lord Montrose in the library, thank you,” she declared, sweeping across the hall into that room, barely pausing long enough for the elderly butler to open the door for her.

  As soon as the servant had closed the door again, leaving her alone, she immediately went to the long windows on the far side of the room, pulling back the draperies to unlatch two of them. Then she let the draperies fall back across the windows, leaving a tiny gap, and turned to survey her surroundings. The library was a stately room, with heavy oak shelves lining two opposing walls, a large, modern fireplace splitting one. The center of the room was rather crowded with furniture, mostly comprised of spindly chairs and tables, with a chaise lounge or settee here and there. She pulled off her bonnet, letting it hang against her back by the strings and, drawing off her gloves, she held them in one hand, aggitatedly slapping them against her hip as she wandered the room, glancing at titles on the shelves and inspecting knick-knacks on the abundant tables.

  After several minutes, she heard the door open and turned to confront the enemy. Lord Montrose entered, smiling with intense satisfaction, and with much ado, carefully locked the door behind him. Pocketing the key with a dramatic gesture, he advanced into the room, his hands out, his eyes drinking her in as though he were a starved man.

  “My Genevieve. You have come to me!”

  As he came closer, she perceived a short sword at his side. These precautions merely increased her resolution, and she replied coldly, “You gave me little choice, my lord.”

  He shook his head, tutting indulgently. “No more ceremonious names, my love. You must call me Carlisle now.”

  “Must I?” She moved out of his reach to another table, picking up a Dresden piece and looking it over critically. “And how will you threaten me to ensure it, I wonder?”

  He laughed, low and long, a rumbling, triumphant sound. “Bertram truly was a fool to leave you.” In two quick strides, he had taken her into his arms, one hand tilting up her chin. “I shall not make that mistake.”

  “You will not have that chance, my lord,” she said, her arms wedged defensively between them. “For, if you are not to give me the honor of your name, how can you hope to keep me at your side?”

  “Perhaps I have seen the error of my thinking, my darling.” As he bent to kiss her, a sound outside the window made him pause, and he glanced toward it, but other than the whistle of wind, nothing more could be heard.

  Genevieve raised her brows. “I expect nature suspects your duplicity, my lord, and gives you warning.” She applied the pressure of her two hands against his chest. “Now, if you please, and even if you do not, we have business to attend to before anything else.”

  “Ah,
of course.” He let her go, perceiving the state of her dress for the first time. “You still wear your hat and pelisse! How comes it that you have not been attended?”

  “Oh, I have been attended, but I have chosen not to attend. You will discover that I dispense my attentions most sparingly, my lord. I fear you will find this irksome, and have cause to repine your rash course.”

  He smiled knowingly. “Never have I been so sure of a decision in my life, Genevieve. How you can question that quite astounds me, given that you have submitted to my terms.”

  “You are too hasty, sir,” she said with a scornful look. “I will be sure of my cards before I consent to any of your terms, including that of remaining under your roof.” She sat primly on the edge of one of the spindle-legged chairs. “I would be most obliged if you will bring my daughter and Miss Chuddsley to me.”

  He crooked an eyebrow, standing as if he would refuse this demand, but at last seemed to think better of it, and went to the door, unlocking it with a flourish. “Without delay, my dear one. The sooner they are redeemed, the sooner we can be comfortable together.” Leaning out, he called instructions to an unseen servitor, then he closed and locked the door once more. Crossing the room, he disposed himself on a settee near her. “As we are being so civil, may I offer you tea?”

  “Somehow, I find myself without appetite, my lord.”

  “How unfortunate, my love. I shall make it my duty to tempt you with all the delights at my command.”

  “You behold me in raptures of anticipation, my lord.”

  He gazed lazily at her. “You think to daunt me by this manner, but you cannot know how it intrigues me. No woman has treated me thus.” Smiling knowingly, he said, “I will make you love me, Genevieve. That is a promise.”

  “As you are incapable of keeping a promise, my lord, and I am even in doubt as to your knowledge of the word’s meaning, such a determination in no way recommends itself to me.”

  He threw back his head and laughed, and was on the point of a rejoinder, when a knock sounded at the door, and he sprang up, rubbing his hands together. “Here they are, my love, and you will soon see that I am well able to keep the promises I choose.” He unlocked the door and ushered in Lenora and Elvira who, upon spying Mrs. Breckinridge, ran to fall upon her neck.

  “Oh, Mama! I’m so dreadfully sorry!” Lenora cried, her face stained with tears. “He told me he was Mr. Dupray, not Lord Montrose! I had no notion he could deceive me!”

  “It is no fault of yours, my dears!” soothed her mother, who returned their embrace protectively.

  “He saved us from a thief, ma’am, and was so kind!” added Elvira. “It never entered my head he could be the evil Duke!”

  Lord Montrose, witnessing this affecting scene from the door, blinked at Elvira’s words. “But I am not a duke at all!” he remarked, receiving for his pains two daggered looks, and circumspectly retired to a chair a little distant from the ladies.

  “Are you hurt, my loves?” murmured Mrs. Breckinridge, quickly glancing over the girls as they clung to her. They shook their heads emphatically and she embraced them again. “Lord Montrose has agreed to release you. Are you ready?”

  “Oho, now you are being hasty, my dearest,” interpolated his lordship. “My promise was that they, and their reputations, would remain unharmed if you came to me. I have said nothing about releasing them.”

  Mrs. Breckinridge rounded on him. “Their remaining any length of time in the company of a gentleman of your reputation will do them harm, as you are fully aware!”

  “Only if it becomes known,” he said, with an unpleasant smile. “Now that you are here, the young ladies’ reputations are safe from me, but I am persuaded it would not be entirely prudent to release them just yet.”

  The three ladies glared at him with such animosity that a lesser man would have quailed, but Lord Montrose merely stood and drew his sword, flourishing it carelessly before him. “Just as you wished to be sure of your cards, Genevieve, I wish to be sure of mine.”

  Something shook the window and he cocked an eyebrow mockingly at Mrs. Breckinridge. “Nature trembles as you do, my love.”

  “You snake!” hissed Lenora, releasing her mother and taking a step toward Lord Montrose. “You cannot keep us here!”

  “Can I not?”

  “No, you cannot,” cried Elvira, moving to Lenora’s side. “My family will have something to say to you if you try, sir!”

  “I think not,” he said, sauntering up to them and pushing each girl aside with the flat of his blade. Genevieve took a heavy step backward, but was impeded by a chaise lounge, and he raised the sword, pointing the tip at her neck. “For I am persuaded you would not wish to upset me.”

  The two girls watched in wide-eyed horror as he took Mrs. Breckinridge in his arms, tenderly placing the blade against her throat. “As you see, my dears, I hold all the cards after all.”

  He leaned in to take his kiss, but at that moment, several things happened in quick succession. Mrs. Breckinridge flung her head back and twisted to the side, wrenching Lord Montrose’s sword arm down as she moved. The window then crashed open and a snarling figure flung into the room, closely followed by a second, effectively distracting both Lord Montrose and his fair assailant. As they gaped at the intruders, Lenora, seizing a heavy candlestick from one of the many tables near her, swung it down with a mighty thud onto the back of her captor’s head.

  Silence fell as Lord Montrose, with all eyes upon him, dropped in a heap onto the carpet. Sir Joshua, his chest heaving and hands clenched into trembling fists, glared hardest and longest but, at last, he mastered himself and looked up at the ladies. He stepped to Genevieve, taking her hand, his eyes at her throat where the blade had so lately been laid. “He did not hurt you,” he whispered, in a husky, unsteady voice.

  “No,” was all the response she could muster, finally overpowered by the strain of the evening.

  He inhaled deeply, eyes closing in the effort, and seemed about to speak again, but Lenora cried, “Sir Joshua! You came!”

  “My dear girl,” he said, smiling with mingled relief and admiration as he let go her mother’s hand and took hers. “I see I was mistaken in the belief that you had none of your mother’s blood in you. I never thought I should be so glad to be wrong!”

  Lenora beamed at him until, recollecting that her other hand held something heavy, she considered the candlestick in bemusement. Sir Joshua relieved her of the weapon and deposited it on a likely table, neither of them aware that Mrs. Breckinridge had sat heavily into a chair, closing her eyes in what an astute observer would recognize as, not exhaustion, but dejection.

  Mr. Ginsham, having received Elvira on his chest, encircled her in his ready arms. “Oh, my darling, you are safe!”

  She looked up at him through tear-filled eyes. “You came for me! How could you know? Oh, never mind—it does not signify! You came, and you are my hero!” And she buried her face in his chest once more.

  “Well, that’s done,” said Sir Joshua, looking about the room in satisfaction. “I propose we leave this place without further ado.”

  “What of him?” inquired Mr. Ginsham, nodding his chin at the heap on the floor.

  “If Mrs. Breckinridge was not mistaken, there are plenty of servants here,” answered Sir Joshua. “Let them deal with him.”

  Hours later, alone in Lenora’s bedchamber, mother and daughter held each other tightly, neither willing to release the other too soon. Lenora had poured forth the story of the abduction on the coach-ride home, and now blushed to own her foolishness.

  “I vow I shall never read novels again, Mama! I was never so taken in in my life! Being abducted was neither romantic, nor exciting, and I shall take care never to meet another evil Duke as long as I live!”

  “My dear, you had no way of knowing he was an evil Duke. You said yourself that he seemed the perfect gentlema
n.”

  “Seemed, Mama, seemed! From now on, I shall suspect every perfect gentleman, until I know them to be true.”

  Her mother smiled and smoothed the hair away from her daughter’s flushed face. “It may be enough never to entertain a man’s attentions unaccompanied.”

  “I suppose so, Mama.” She sat up suddenly, pushing slightly away. “I suppose that is why we must always have introductions! To save innocent maidens from meeting evil Dukes!”

  Mrs. Breckinridge’s eyes widened and she tipped her head, considering this profound notion. “I believe you must be right, my love! To think that we have been laboring under such strictures all our lives, without an inkling of the debt we owe. What ungracious creatures we are!”

  Lenora narrowed her eyes at her mama. “You are roasting me.”

  “Well, yes, a little.” She put a hand to her daughter’s cheek. “But you are right, in that no young lady can be too careful whom she allows into the circle of her acquaintance.”

  “As Sir Joshua none too gently explained to us on the ride home.”

  Her mother lowered her eyes. “Anxiety has a strange way of making us gruff. Especially to those we love,” she added, with some difficulty. “He meant it only for the best, I am sure. If your papa had been a man like Sir Joshua, he would never have given Lord Montrose the opportunity to be made known to me, and you would never have been in danger.”

  After a pause, Lenora said, with a commendable attempt at light-heartedness, “But we would have been denied such an adventure, Mama!”

  Her mother achieved a smile. “Now you are roasting me, my love.”

  “Of course, I am,” said Lenora, brightening. “It’s that blood of yours, you know.”

  The smile wavered. “I am persuaded Sir Joshua meant that as a compliment to the both of us.”