by Elisa Braden
She and Robert would build a ship, she decided. A great, stout ship. One strong enough to carry a family, a legacy. Strong enough to survive whatever tumult came their way. She could imagine no better partner for such an endeavor than a man who’d decided to fight, even when he’d lost hope.
“So tell me, my dear,” Mortlock said. “Any chance of Lady Wallingham attending your nuptials?”
She raised a brow at the old man’s odd tone. “I expect so. Would that please you?”
His gleaming grin was his answer.
Just then, the chapel doors flew open, and Benjamin entered with two other footmen bracing a figure between them. The poor wretch’s face was swollen and bruised, but though her head hung forward, she appeared conscious. Her skirts were sagging rags, her bodice torn scraps hastily knotted together. The only thing left of the filthy creature’s modesty was a shawl.
A discolored, knitted shawl.
With a horrified chill, Annabelle recognized that shawl. She recognized light hair and dark brows. Her nape prickled. Her skin writhed.
The woman raised her chin.
Oh, dear God. “M-Mrs. Bickerstaff?”
Swollen eyes appeared shocked. Dazed.
Annabelle rushed forward while Benjamin began stammering explanations to Mortlock. Villagers had found the woman stumbling about in the woods south of Rivermore’s lands. She’d begged for help, claiming a man had abducted her.
The villagers hadn’t known what to do, so they’d brought her to Rivermore.
Slowly, Annabelle reached for the woman’s hands. The nails were torn as though she’d fought with everything she had—and lost. “Mrs. Bickerstaff,” Annabelle murmured softly. “Please tell me what happened to you.”
The woman flinched away. Then blinked. Recognition flickered. She tried to speak, but her voice was a ragged whisper. “H-he found me.”
“Who? Who found you?”
Mrs. Bickerstaff began swaying, her swollen eyes fluttering.
Annabelle looked to the footmen. “Help her sit.”
As soon as Mrs. Bickerstaff was seated on the last pew, Annabelle heard Lord Mortlock ordering Benjamin to fetch Major Colby and organize a search. Annabelle sat next to the other woman and carefully caught her eye. “What can you tell me, Mrs. Bickerstaff? Do you know his name?”
The woman’s poor, battered features contorted and a tear streaked through the grime on her cheek. “No. He were the one that killed Mr. Green. That much I know, for he bragged of it whilst he …”
Her hands wrung at her skirts, the heels of her palms digging into her thighs repeatedly. Her shoulders shook beneath the shawl.
Annabelle leaned as close as she dared, for the poor woman flinched whenever anyone tried to touch her. “You are safe, now. Lord Mortlock is arranging to have the area searched. The black-hearted demon who did this will be found, and he will be punished.” She did not doubt it. Robert would hear about this, and he would see justice done. Meanwhile, all Annabelle could do was offer small reassurances, small comforts. She dug her handkerchief from inside her sleeve and held it out on her palm. “I am so very sorry this happened to you, Mrs. Bickerstaff.”
The woman hesitated for long minutes. But, finally, she took the scrap of linen, inclining her head in thanks.
“Can you remember where you were when he abducted you?”
“Outside my rooms. I was set to leave London. The mail coach, as you advised. He bashed my head, I think. Next thing I know, I’m waking on the floor of a post-chaise. He kept me tied and gagged for two days.”
“Where did he take you?”
“A cottage. In a wood. It were dark there. Smelled of rats.”
Annabelle nodded, noting the woman hadn’t yet used the handkerchief. Slowly, she moved her fingers closer, hovering so as not to cause alarm. “May I?”
Mrs. Bickerstaff glanced down at the handkerchief then at Annabelle’s hands, and finally, Annabelle’s face. “I—I wouldn’t wish to soil it, miss.”
Annabelle’s heart cracked. Good heavens, she wanted to scream her fury at what that violent, miserable, black-hearted demon had done. But she could not. She could only take the scrap of cloth and dab lightly at Mrs. Bickerstaff’s cheeks, the corners of her swollen lips, and a scratch along her forehead. “Do you remember anything else about him? What he looked like, or what others called him?”
The woman took a long time to answer, and when she did, her ravaged voice shook. “Not tall, nor short. H-hair were neither light nor dark. Had I seen him in Covent Garden, I’d have taken no notice.” She swallowed hard as Annabelle gently wiped dirt and old blood from her chin. “As to what he were called, he only let me call him by one name.”
Annabelle froze, lowered her hand, and held Mrs. Bickerstaff’s red, swollen gaze. “What was that?”
“Captain,” she replied. “He insisted I call him Captain.”
*~*~*
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“Although many ladies admire a gentleman in uniform, this effect is markedly reversed when said gentleman is outsized by his epaulets. One cannot help wondering what else may prove underwhelming when measured against expectations.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham in a letter to the Marquis of Mortlock regarding the benefits of valor and the detriments of diminutive character.
*~*~*
Dearest Robert,
The second season promises to be a repetition of the first. For Jane’s sake, I am making the best of things. My work for Mr. Green is diverting, and I’ve found some amusement in Society’s entertainments. Occasionally, I encounter gentlemen—kind or witty or handsome—whom I find unobjectionable. Yet, invariably, I end a dance or conversation hoping to turn round and discover you have appeared.
My suspicions have proved true, dearest Robert. For me, there is only you.
Ever yours,
Annabelle
—Letter to Robert Conrad dated April 17, 1816
*~*~*
Annabelle’s heart galloped painfully in her chest. Dear heaven, she hoped she was wrong.
Robert would kill him. He already hated the man with an unreasoning fervor. And, if Green’s murderer—the man who’d savaged Mrs. Bickerstaff—was, indeed, Martin Standish, he would certainly deserve death. But she wanted no taint upon Robert for putting him down.
Unfortunately, she suspected she was not wrong. Too many pieces fit too neatly. Standish’s father owned a hunting lodge south of Rivermore lands. The place was a dilapidated cottage quite useless for hunting since Sir Harold had sold the surrounding land to purchase Martin’s commission.
Beggared by the Bickerstaff swindle, Sir Harold Standish’s role within polite society had gone from fool to outcast after Edward Yarrow Aimes had suggested he’d been one of Bickerstaff’s partners. Martin hadn’t taken kindly to his family’s humiliation.
But, could he have murdered Mr. Green for it? She’d dismissed the possibility early on because she’d spoken to him at Lady Darnham’s the night of the murder. He’d seemed exactly the same—bland with a hint of pompous. He’d done his usual boasting about unlikely exploits, mentioned a play he intended to see, and stared at her blankly when she’d quipped about a well-known actor’s beard falling off during King Lear’s lamentations about his age. Apart from Standish’s attire, he’d been the same man who’d danced attendance on Matilda Bentley at all the other ton functions he’d wheedled his way into. How could he have committed murder then blithely changed his coat and attended Lady Darnham’s fete, no more bothered than if he’d spilled his tea?
She examined Mrs. Bickerstaff’s hunched, shaking shoulders and bruised, bloodied face. There was her answer, she supposed. A man who could do this to a woman had no conscience.
“Mrs. Bickerstaff,” she said gently. “Did the man say why he abducted you? Did he know about your work for Mr. Green?”
The woman nodded.
Annabelle dreaded the answer to her next question
, but she had to know. “Did you—did you tell him about me?”
“Never,” she rasped, a spark of defiance flashing. “Night he murdered Green, he returned to the Informer’s office to gather what he could about Aimes. Saw a woman enter, but it were dark, so he didn’t spy her face. I told him it were me.”
For a moment, Annabelle couldn’t speak. How much more had Mrs. Bickerstaff suffered while protecting Annabelle, whose name she didn’t even know? “How did he find you?”
Shaking her head, the woman’s gaze dulled and dropped. “Same as you, I expect. Said an actor told him where I lived.”
“We must go,” barked Mortlock’s graveled voice from beside her. “Now, ladies. If you please.”
Reminded that Lord Mortlock had also been Lieutenant Colonel Lord Mortlock, Annabelle nodded and helped Mrs. Bickerstaff to her feet. “We shall take you inside Rivermore Abbey, Mrs. Bickerstaff. We’ll ensure you have something to eat and a place to wash up a bit.”
The woman nodded, and together, the three of them made their way through the chapel doors. The breeze had picked up. It blew cool and damp across Annabelle’s skin, giving her a shiver. Mortlock urged them out of the churchyard and toward the gardens that led to the abbey. He scanned their surroundings as they hobbled along a brick wall to where an iron gate stood open.
“The east entrance is closest,” he said, his breathing labored. “Once inside, take her to Mrs. Cleary. I’ll gather footmen and …”
Annabelle had already passed through the open gate into the walled garden by the time she noticed Mortlock lagging. She glanced back. He’d braced a hand on the gate, his head craned forward as he peered out.
“My lord?” she called. “Are you well?”
When he didn’t answer, she murmured to Mrs. Bickerstaff to continue on and wait for her at the opposite gate. Then, she rushed to Mortlock’s side, bracing his elbow. His skin was ghostly, but his eyes were sharp, squinting toward the eastern fields.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Heard something,” he muttered. “A shot.”
Another chill rippled through her. “Are you certain?”
He glanced down at her. Yes, he was certain. These were the eyes of a warrior who’d seen battle, a commander of men. Their glittering hardness was familiar—she’d seen it in Robert frequently of late.
“We should go,” she said, tugging his sleeve. “We’ll be safe inside the abbey.”
He nodded. They soon crossed the walled vegetable garden and, pausing to join Mrs. Bickerstaff, they passed through the gate into the abbey’s orchard. Old apple, pear, and plum trees rooted in symmetrical rows across a vast field. Beyond the orchard was a wide lawn, then another small garden near the east entrance. As slowly as both Mrs. Bickerstaff and Lord Mortlock moved, the distance might as well miles.
Annabelle tightened her abdomen and tried not to think. But, though her feet kept moving forward, her mind had riveted upon one thought.
A shot. There had been a shot. Oh, God. Where was Robert? Was he safe? Had he heard it, too? Was he wounded? Bleeding?
She shook her head to cast off the ugly visions. No, she mustn’t assume he was in danger, or she would lose her mind. She must reach safety, for that was what Robert would want her to do.
As they approached the last row of plum trees, Mrs. Bickerstaff stumbled to a halt. She was gasping. Lord Mortlock had gone gray.
“Just a bit farther,” Annabelle assured them. “Can you make it?”
Lord Mortlock grunted and Mrs. Bickerstaff nodded, though she swayed as she nudged away from the trunk of a gnarled apple tree. Annabelle grasped the woman’s elbow and urged her forward.
Just then, a violent burst of leaves and bark showered from overhead as a booming crack sounded behind them. Mrs. Bickerstaff screamed. Annabelle ducked and shoved her behind a nearby trunk.
Mortlock closed in upon Annabelle and herded her behind a second tree. “Stay low, girl. Run when I tell you to run.”
“Bad advice, Colonel,” shouted a voice from ten yards away. “I’ve a pistol. She’ll only die sooner.”
Annabelle closed her eyes briefly as she recognized Martin Standish’s nasal, bland tone. Slow footfalls through grass and leaves reached her ears, which still rang from the shot. He was drawing closer.
She glanced up at Mortlock, who nodded reassurance and leaned carefully to one side so he could view Standish’s approach.
“You’re a bloody disgrace,” the old man barked. “Little wonder you no longer wear the uniform.”
“Coat was a mite stained. Had to burn it. Printer’s ink. Printer’s blood. Neither washes clean from wool, as it turns out.”
Dear God, he was close. Within twenty feet, by the sound of it. Annabelle heard Mrs. Bickerstaff whimpering.
“What do you think will come of this?” Mortlock challenged. “You’ll be hanged, Standish.”
“No. I’ll have what I deserve.”
“Right. As I said, hanged.”
“Teaching the whore her error was satisfying, but not so satisfying as this will be, I think. Robert Conrad deserves everything he’s about to suffer.”
“What’s Robert ever done, apart from being your superior in every way?”
Footsteps paused. Metal scraped metal. “He refused to let the Green matter die, for one. And he cost me Matilda Bentley, for another. A single recommendation to her father, and I was rejected out of hand. Have you any idea the size of her dowry, Colonel? Lady Annabelle does.” A snick and a click. He was reloading his gun. “Tell us, my lady. Tell us precisely how much your beloved Robert cost me.”
She forced air into her lungs, though her insides felt weighted. Compressed. “Matilda would not have chosen you regardless of Robert’s advice,” Annabelle pointed out. “She’d already set her cap for another—”
“Ten thousand. He cost me ten thousand and a wife with Northfield connections.” Another click sounded as a hammer was cocked. “These are no small matters, are they, Lady Annabelle? I’d thought to make you my wife, but it soon became clear you’d have no one else but him. So I’ll take you from his grasp another way. Then, he shall die. That is what I deserve. A proper victory.”
Mortlock’s eyes were frighteningly grim when they found hers. He grasped her hand in his, warm and dry. “Run when I tell you. Don’t stop.” He squeezed, and it felt like he was squeezing her heart. “Don’t stop, little Bumblebee. You and my boy have a ship to build.”
She was shaking her head when he released her. Clutching the tree’s gnarled trunk to rise when he shifted. Rounded. Rushed toward the black-hearted demon. Her mind screamed a denial.
But all she could do was watch as an old warrior charged into the fight. Mortlock grasped Standish’s rifle, forcing the barrel up. The shot boomed. Mrs. Bickerstaff screamed.
Run. He’d told her to run, and she must, or this would be for nothing. With a sickened heart, Annabelle crossed to the battered woman, yanked her to her feet, and shoved her toward the abbey. Then, Annabelle ran. Past trees and onto lawn. Heart pounding, lungs heaving. Propelled by a single purpose: She must save herself, for she was half of a greater whole. Robert needed her just as she needed him.
The thought drove her harder. She shoved and yanked at Mrs. Bickerstaff until they were halfway across the lawn.
A second shot rang out. She glanced over her shoulder, and what she saw pierced her soul with grief. A wail tore from her throat, but she didn’t stop.
Run. He’d told her to run. So, she would. She would save herself. Robert needed her.
She kept on, didn’t slow, although she heard Standish’s pounding steps and shouted threats closing in.
Just inside the high hedge bordering the east garden, she saw a flash of white, a powerful arm reaching through the shrubbery. She would have screamed in fright.
Except she knew this arm. She knew the hand that took hold of hers, warm and dry. They belonged to the man who had rescued her from the abys
s over and over.
“Robert!” she sobbed, letting him pull her through a gap in the hedge and into his arms. Both of them were gasping. His heart thundered even faster than hers beneath her ear. “Oh, God. My love.”
“Annabelle,” he groaned, clutching her desperately tight.
She struggled to pull back, frantic to tell him what had happened. “It—it is Standish, Robert. He murdered Mr. Green. He—”
“No time,” he said, shifting her toward the east entrance. “I need you to go inside. Please, love. I need you safe.”
One look into his eyes, and she knew his intent. He was going to kill Standish. And no doubt Standish would try to kill him. She grasped his waistcoat and growled an order of her own: “You’ll live for me, not die. Do you understand, Robert Conrad? I’ll do as you ask, so long as you promise to stay alive. I need you safe, too.”
He lifted her by the waist and turned, depositing her behind him. “Understood, my lady. You have my solemn promise. Now, do as you’re bloody well told.”
She retrieved the confused Mrs. Bickerstaff and did as she was told. As she ushered the other woman through the east door, she turned back to see her husband—blast, her almost-husband—waiting for his enemy to arrive. The broad, broad shoulders. The dark, overlong hair. The stance of a warrior, a commander. The cane that was more a weapon than a necessity.
Suddenly the fear twisting her inside out transformed. Shifted. Rooted and grew into an odd certainty. She had no need to fear for Robert, she realized. He was born for this—to protect all that belonged to him.
No, the one who should be frightened was Martin Standish.
She closed the east door and leaned against it with the faintest smile.
Martin Standish should be very frightened, indeed.
*~*~*
Robert’s first strike was the blackguard’s knee. He jabbed his cane through the thick hedge at such an angle that Standish collapsed instantly, howling like the weak, pathetic worm he was.