Lady Ambleforth's Afternoon Adventure by Ann Lethbridge, Barbara Monajem, Annie Burrows, Elaine Golden, Julia Justiss and Louise Allen

by Various Authors

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “The one who purposely damaged my phaeton, I suppose?”

  “Precisely. He seeks to use you for his own diabolical ends.”

  Araminta crossed her arms. “And why would I believe the word of a disgraced man?”

  Lord Torquil stiffened. “It’s the word of an Englishman, dash it all.”

  She tapped her foot and glowered at the highwayman. “Or that of a criminal?”

  The masked man grinned. “Some of my aliases are respectable, but they are all in the service of the Crown, as are Lord Torquil’s layers upon layers of disgrace.”

  Lord Torquil grunted. “Believe me, it’s not easy for a duke’s son to get himself cut off from family, banned by society, forced into seclusion in a godforsaken backwater—”

  “Seclusion?” Araminta blushed at the thought of Lord Torquil and his voluptuous mistress ensconced in the ivy-covered mansion on the hill.

  “Dear lady, if you knew how much it cost me—or rather, the Crown—to persuade my mistress to rusticate in Kent… Where was I?”

  “At your layers of disgrace.” The highwayman winked at Araminta.

  “Ah, yes,” Lord Torquil said. “After a number of increasingly worse scandals, my family finally cast me off for setting up as a fishmonger. But in the service of one’s country, one must make sacrifices, even if it means smelling of the shop.”

  “Literally.” Jim-Bob wrinkled his nose.

  “As you well know from hiding kegs of brandy under rotting fish!” Lord Torquil retorted. “But that’s neither here nor there. We must whisk you to safety, Lady Ambleforth. Any moment now the spy may catch up with us and charm you into believing he is another loyal Englishman.”

  A shot rang out!

  CHAPTER NINE by Annie Burrows

  The highwayman's horse proved that it was indeed Ed Deppity's nervous gelding, by rearing, tearing its reins free from their loose tethers, and galloping off again.

  Straight towards where they were standing.

  “Look out!” The highwayman shoved Araminta out of the way as the gelding went galloping past. She caught her heel on a tree root, tripped, grabbed at his coat to save herself from falling, and brought him down on top of her.

  There was another shot, and the sound of a bullet thunking into the tree trunk above their heads.

  And then a voice that sounded familiar, roared, “Get off her!”

  Lord Torquil loomed over them then, grabbed his associate by the coat collar, and yanked him to his hands and knees.

  But it was not his voice she'd heard.

  “You too! Step away from her!”

  All three of them turned their heads in the direction the shots and the voice had come from.

  It was Jack! Her groom held a smoking pistol in each hand, his face grim.

  “You let my Lady up,” he snarled.

  The highwayman glanced up at Lord Torquil, who still had his fingers curled into his coat collar.

  “He's fired both of those pistols,” he murmured softly without moving his lips.

  “Just what I was thinking,” replied Lord Torquil.

  Lord Torquil raised his hands in the air. The highwayman scrambled to his feet. They exchanged a look, which boded ill for her groom.

  She opened her mouth to shout a warning, but the fall to the ground, or the landing on top of her of a large and muscular rogue, had combined to knock the breath out of her. All she managed was an agonized wheeze as the pair of reprobates launched themselves at her hapless groom.

  Though Jack was outnumbered and outranked, he stood his ground. Dropping his pistols, he just had time to raise his fists before the others reached him.

  Araminta groaned. Not another mill! Why must men always be fighting?

  She had to get to her feet unaided. And as she did so, she discovered that her skirt was torn. Her bottom lip quivered. She'd lost a shoe when the highwayman had forced her onto his horse, she'd sacrificed her expensive bonnet to the cause of peace in the lane, and now this!

  She'd had enough of adventures.

  And of men.

  With a little sob, she made her way across the clearing, entirely unobserved since the three combatants were dancing round each other in the bracken, arms whirling like windmill sails.

  She paused to remove her one shoe before setting out on a path she thought she recognized, for her husband had often brought her on walks or rides out this way. She flung it angrily towards the men—not that they took a blind bit of notice of her.

  But at least the sound of grunts crashes and thumps swiftly faded as she made her way, barefoot, deeper into the woods.

  Why they had all pretended to be so interested in her? It was obvious they were all far more keen on besting each other.

  There was something havey-cavey going on around these parts. In which some, or all of them, were involved up to their necks.

  Not that she believed in Lord Torquil's tales of smugglers and French spies. She tossed her head and laughed rather wildly. She might have believed him, had he not claimed to have opened a fishmonger’s. He was more or less admitting his story was fishy. And after that, she wondered how on earth his accomplice, Jim or Bob or whatever he called himself, could possibly claim he was serving the crown by robbing innocent people travelling the King's highway. When he wasn't running brandy, that was. She might never have travelled beyond the borders of Kent, but that did not make her an idiot.

  There was something decidedly smoky about that Duke, too. He could not stop talking about money, which her mama had taught her was vulgar. Could a Duke really be that vulgar?

  And come to think of it, what was Jack doing lurking about the woods with those pistols? He should have been half way to Midbury by now, seeing to the repair of her phaeton.

  As for Ed Deppity...an image of that naked torso rising from the water flashed into her mind, slowing her steps. Her lips curved into a pensive smile. For the moment, she would acquit him of being anything except too attractive for his own good.

  Besides, she'd cheered up now that she'd escaped from the Dastardly Torquil and his accomplice with many names.

  And escape them she had. Just down the next dip in the path lay a cleverly concealed entrance to a secret tunnel. A secret tunnel which would take her right back to Ambleforth House.

  Oh, but they would be mad as fire when they came searching for her, she thought gleefully, as she ducked behind the trunk of a gnarled old oak tree, and brushed aside a curtain of ivy.

  CHAPTER TEN by Elaine Golden

  Araminta had made it some considerable distance into the tunnel before she realized that it was already occupied. What should have been a darkened cavern was aglow in rushlight, and the sound of unintelligible male voices rumbled from around the bend ahead.

  What was this? The tunnel shouldn’t be in use, shouldn’t be known by anyone in the vicinity so far as she knew. Years ago, when her husband had shown her the hidden entryway, it had been filled with nothing more than cobwebs and stagnant, musty air. It had been merely the curious remnant of a bygone era and ancestor, crafted to ensure the owners of Ambleforth House (or some hapless Catholic priest) had an escape route should the need arise.

  Had that Jim-Bob highwayman set up a smuggler’s den in her secret passageway? Well, that wouldn’t do at all!

  With grim determination, she started forward and then abruptly halted as she recalled Lord Torquil’s intimation that there was a French spy operating in the area. Somehow, that seemed ever much more sinister than a mere brandy-runner’s operation. Because everyone knew that brandy was l’eau de vie—the water of life—and there wasn’t a drawing room in England that didn’t continue to serve it, trade embargo against Napoleon notwithstanding. So, really, smugglers were serving the common good, at least to Araminta’s way of thinking.

  Should she at least try to determine what nefarious activity was taking place, or should she trust that Lord Torquil’s fishmonger tale wasn’t the mad fiction it seemed and
seize the chance to slip away and alert the others? Oh, and where had she lost her pretty parasol? Even as filthy and tattered as her dress now was, it would at least have served as some sort of weapon to defend herself should the need arise…again.

  As was always the case, curiosity got the better of Araminta, and she tiptoed further until she could peer around the sharp bend. Then nearly gasped aloud and revealed herself.

  Nearly a dozen men were sprawled about, some playing cards or chatting, some eating, and some apparently trying to sleep atop the wooden crates that lined the corridor. And, now that she could make out that they spoke to each other in French (and there were no telltale barrels of brandy lying about) it seemed she’d found the spy. Or spies, as the case may be.

  “Oh, dear me. Now, what’s to be done about this?”

  Araminta spun around, heart racing and eyes wide. How could he move so quietly?

  “Mr. Hodges! How did you—? There’s a—” She vocalized her jumbled thoughts even as the truth dawned. It was inconceivable that the curate could have simply stumbled upon the tunnel. He had to have known it was here, had to have a reason to be here now, which meant…

  He snorted as if it were all so very obvious and mopped his brow, the well-used handkerchief now as muddy as his coat from his tumble in the ditch.

  “So, you’re the French spy?” Really, it didn’t seem at all possible. Why, Mr. Hodges seemed as British as Yorkshire pudding. Was the ineptitude merely an act?

  “Oh, no, indeed.” He moved closer, filling the tunnel with his portentous self, and Araminta began to fear that she would be unable to slip by. She was well and truly trapped. “I’m just along for the coin, shall we say. I’m done with coddling helpless souls and living a threadbare existence.”

  Araminta gasped, outrage overtaking the feeling of alarm. What a selfish, hateful man. He didn’t deserve his loving, devoted congregation. She would take up the task to see him dismissed as curate the very moment she arrived home!

  “Qu’est-ce que c’est?” murmured a deep voice behind her and she turned to find that the occupants of the tunnel had noticed their presence and drawn close. Thankfully, they merely peered at her in curiosity, not as if they’d skewer her for stumbling upon their nest of intrigue.

  And, it would seem she was a veritable lech today. For, in truth, they were all very young and virile and…oh, my! She blinked then blinked again. They all looked alike, as if they were brothers, and most considerably like—

  “Your Grace! There you are!” Hodges said as he stepped aside to reveal the Duke of Dashing in all of his now dusty finery, hair a mess and brow furrowed in annoyance as he looked from Araminta to the cluster of men behind her and back to Araminta. He sighed heavily.

  “Well, my dear Lady Ambleforth, it appears you’ve stumbled onto something you oughtn’t. Something that Hodges was tasked with keeping you from. It grieves me to find you here; I had another use planned for you.” He reached past her for something, and then he stepped back, a pistol gleaming dully in his hand. “It would appear you have met my cousins.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN by Julia Justiss

  It took a moment before Araminta recognized the only reason that could account for the Duke’s presence in the tunnel. “You are the French spy?” she gasped. “Or…spies?” she added, looking around at the cousins.

  “We are Dashings; what could we be but French?” the Duke replied. “A land that has always been the epitome of culture, fashion and a certain je ne sais quoi elegance. Though I am not at all happy about the depredations the job plays upon one’s wardrobe.”

  “Pays well enough to purchase new, though,” one of the cousins remarked.

  At that, fury at their comments and the fact of having had, for the second time in the same day, a pistol drawn upon her, overcame Araminta’s better judgement. Heedless of her safety, she turned on them in rage.

  “Mr. Hodges, have you no shame? A vicar, abandoning the succor of innocent souls for lure of filthy lucre? And you, your Grace, a peer of the realm! How could you—all of you”—she gestured toward the cousins, “repay your country so? I wouldn’t allow you to rescue me, even if you had your white destrier here!”

  “I think you’ve said quite enough,” the Duke retorted. “So, what am I to do with our lovely, albeit tattered, prize, gentlemen? I’d thought to charm her into agreeing to allow us the continued use of this tunnel.”

  “You thought to charm me into treason?” Araminta exclaimed. “How could you believe such a thing possible?”

  “Well, I am a Duke, which means I can charm any female. Indeed, usually they fall at my feet, or onto their backs, at the mere mention of my title. Don’t you find it so?” he asked, turning to address his cousins.

  “Bien sûr!” “Oui!” “Absolutely!” the cousins murmured in agreement. “Best part of being a Duke,” another added.

  “Aside from the possession of vast estates, numerous manors, countless hounds and horses, armies of servants to do our bidding, and immense wealth,” Dashing observed.

  “How could you play the spy against a country that provides all that for you?” Araminta demanded.

  “Country didn’t provide it,” the Duke objected. “We got it by being Dashing. And dukely. ‘Tis the same, after all, but that’s neither here nor there. Now that you’ve stumbled upon us before I had the chance to seduce you into acquiescence, I fear I shall have to remove you, as we do any impediment that gets in our way. Do we not, gentlemen?” he asked, waving the pistol negligently toward his cousins.

  Fear belatedly chilled Araminta, and she regretted her bold talk. Should she attempt to fall at the Duke’s feet—she no longer felt inclined to fall on her back—and try to charm him into letting her go with some false protestations about a sudden conversion to their cause?

  Before she could decide, she heard—once again—the unmistakeable click of pistols being cocked.

  From out of the gloomy rushlight, a stranger walked forward with a pistol in each hand, one trained upon the Duke, the other upon Hodges.

  “Free the lady, your Grace, and neither you nor Hodges move, or this breath will be your last.”

  Hodges cowered, but the Duke merely laughed. “Have you forgotten I am still armed? Shall I shoot you now, or let my cousins disarm you? Thirteen—or rather twelve now—against one are odds that favor me, sir.”

  “You’ll get no help from them; I drugged their brandy,” the intrepid stranger replied. Indeed, as Araminta peered into the gloom, she discovered the assorted Duke-of-Dashing look-alikes had all dozed off.

  “At this range, I can blow a hole through you before you can get that pistol back into firing position,” he warned as the Duke made a motion to raise his weapon.

  Upon closer inspection, though well-built, dark-haired and ruggedly handsome, the Duke’s challenger did not resemble him as much as she’d initially thought. As he stood there, stoutly defending her, his aura of powerful masculinity nearly palpable, Araminta felt faint, while heat rushed to her nether regions.

  Instinctively she knew a lady who fell on her back for him would end up very satisfied indeed. Lusty images of the two of them, their limbs entangled in the gloom, invaded her mind. Trembling, she tried to shut them out. Oh, what had come over her today?

  To divert herself, she cried, “Who are you, then, sir?”

  “Andrew Dubois Eugene Deepwater, corsair by trade,” he replied. “Though my ship and Caribbean crew are now signed on to serve the Crown.”

  She gasped again as the meaning of his words penetrated. “You are a…pirate, you mean?”

  The Duke grunted. “Thought you didn’t look that familiar. Shouldn’t have believed that story of your being the by-blow of Great Aunt Thelma’s cousin’s sister’s runaway youngest son, but how was I to know? You speak French so beautifully! And with so many cousins and all of them Dukes, how can I be expected to keep track of them?”

  Ignoring Dashing’s complaining, Deepwater replied, “Though some have called
me ‘pirate,’ I prefer to think of myself as a sea-going adventure capitalist. In any event, I do my sailing at the bidding of England now, and I’ve been tracking this bunch of ne’er-do-wells for some time.”

  “You are in league with Lord Torquil and Jim, er Bob, the highwayman, then?”

  Deepwater gave a disgusted huff. “Torquil’s been too distracted by his voluptuous mistress to be of much help, and Bob too attracted by profits from smuggling and fish. But the work is finished now. You two,” he inclined his weapons toward Dashing and Hodges, “back into the corner with the rest. And I’ll have that pistol, Dashing.”

  “Never!” the Duke roared.

  Unflinching, Deepwater merely replied softly, “Loath as I am to distress a lady, move that hand another inch upward, Dashing, and I’ll shoot you where you stand. And don’t think to flee,” he warned Hodges. “I’m perfectly capable of shooting with deadly accuracy from both pistols at once. How do you think I captured the many prize ships that have made me so fabulously wealthy?”

  While Hodges whimpered, Deepwater and Dashing glared at each other. After a moment, the Duke, apparently realizing neither his rank nor his wealth nor his charm would allow him to prevail against the privateer, carefully laid down his weapon.

  “Never dreamt a duke could be bested by a pirate,” he said sulkily. “And one not even truly related!”

  Advancing slowly, Deepwater backed the two men into the alcove containing the Duke’s gently-snoring cousins.

  Tossing her a quick glance over his shoulder, he said, “Won’t you come with me and give testimony about the sabotage of your carriage, the plot you’ve uncovered, the men you’ve discovered to be involved, and the wreckage of your parasol?”

  “If we leave, won’t they simply flee?” she asked.

  “I’ve contrived a way to seal off the tunnel; it’s already barred at the Ambleforth House end. There’s food and water here, enough for them to rest snugly until we return with the authorities.”