Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue

by Stephanie Laurens

  Martha looked up at her, frowned warningly.

  Reaching the door, Heather signaled her to silence, then mouthed, “Police.”

  Martha dropped her knitting. She paled, then leapt up, grabbed the knitting, and shoved it into her cloth bag.

  At the door, Heather carefully cracked it open a sliver. She’d already jettisoned the idea of flinging herself on the constables’ mercy; Fletcher and his story, backed up by Cobbins and Martha, were simply too believable. But what the devil was going on?

  Martha joined her at the door, locking large, strong fingers around one of Heather’s wrists.

  Heather didn’t look at her, just breathed, “Sssh.”

  Through the narrow gap, she peeked into the inn’s front hall. Alongside her, Martha crouched and peeked, too.

  The man who’d led the charge into the inn was standing at the bottom of the stairs, talking rapidly, but quietly, with the innkeeper. The two clearly knew each other—hardly surprising in such a small village. The other two constables had taken up positions with their backs to the front door.

  A crowd of patrons from the taproom, Fletcher and Cobbins among them, had left their pints and come to cluster in the archway separating the front hall from the tap.

  The innkeeper nodded to the first policeman, then came hurrying across to his counter, a little to the side of the parlor door.

  Heather couldn’t see what he was doing, but from the sound of pages flipping, she could tell he was consulting his register.

  The senior constable turned to scowl at the men crowding the tap’s entrance. “You lot just sit yourselves back down. We want no bother from you.”

  Several brows were raised, but the men slowly turned and went back into the tap. After sending intense, searching glances toward the parlor, Fletcher and Cobbins retreated with the pack.

  The constable by the stairs, the one who seemed to be in charge, turned to the other two stationed before the door. “Keep an eye on them.” With his head, he indicated the tap. “No one goes in or out.”

  The pair nodded briefly. “Aye, Sergeant.”

  The innkeeper left his counter and returned to the sergeant, still waiting at the foot of the stairs. The innkeeper said something; Heather couldn’t hear what. But the sergeant turned and reached for the balustrade. “You’d best come with me.”

  With that, he headed up the stairs three steps at a time. The innkeeper hurried up in his wake.

  After a moment, Heather whispered, “Do you have any idea what this is about?”

  “No,” Martha growled back. “But I don’t like it.”

  They didn’t have long to wait for the next act in the drama. Within minutes, the sound of heavy footsteps pounding down the stairs heralded the return of the sergeant. He reappeared at the bottom of the stairs with a long silver candlestick in each hand. Halting on the last step, he glanced at the innkeeper as he joined him. With his head, the sergeant urged the innkeeper on. “Go show them which ones.”

  The innkeeper nodded. The constables moved from the door, following him to the tap’s entrance. Pausing under the archway, the innkeeper pointed. “Him, and him.”

  Pushing past the innkeeper, the constables moved into the tap.

  Straining her ears, Heather heard one say, “If you’ll come with us, sir, we have a question or two.”

  Someone replied, but she couldn’t catch the words, or make out the voice. But. . .

  “Won’t take but a minute, sir. The rest of you just remain where you are.”

  She glanced at Martha. Whispered, “Were there any other guests staying in the inn last night?”

  Eyes glued to the crack between the door and the jamb, Martha didn’t reply.

  Heather looked out again, just as her suspicion was proved correct. Fletcher and Cobbins, closely escorted by the two constables, walked reluctantly out of the tap.

  The sergeant was still standing at the foot of the stairs, hefting the pair of candlesticks, one in each hand. Fletcher took note but merely raised his brows and met the sergeant’s gaze. “What seems to be the problem?”

  “These.” The sergeant brandished the long candlesticks. “Disappeared from Sir Kenneth Baxter’s house last night. Not a good place to pick to burgle, him being the local magistrate an’ all.”

  Fletcher frowned. “So it would seem. But why are you talking to us? We know nothing of any burglary.”

  The sergeant made a scoffing sound. “Don’t come the innocent with us, m’lad. Were you or were you not occupying the room at the head of the stairs, first one to the south—room number five?”

  Fletcher’s gaze remained level, but even from across the room, Heather could sense his sudden comprehension, see the equally instinctive tensing, the assessing of his chances. . . .

  The sergeant and the constables saw the latter, too. Both constables’ hands drifted to the grips of the truncheons hanging at their sides.

  “Now, now,” the sergeant reproved. “No sense in making this harder on yourselves than it has to be. You come along quietly, and—”

  Fletcher held up a hand. “Just so we’re clear, we had nothing to do with the theft of those candlesticks. Someone must have put them in our room—”

  “That’s what they all say.”

  “But our employer—”

  “You just come along and you can tell your story to the magistrate—Sir Kenneth. Sure an’ he’ll be keen to hear it.”

  Before Fletcher could say more, the constables pulled his and Cobbins’s hands back, manacled them, then turned them toward the front door. Just before he passed through it, Fletcher sent a scorching look at the parlor door, then he was bundled outside.

  Cobbins followed, led by the second constable. After pausing for a last word with the innkeeper, the sergeant, carrying the candlesticks, brought up the rear.

  Heather eased the parlor door shut, then straightened and stared at the wooden panel.

  Beside her, Martha jerked upright, turned to agitatedly look over the parlor, then pinned Heather with a narrow-eyed look. “How the devil did you manage it? You’ve been under our eyes all the time.”

  Heather blinked, met Martha’s eyes. “I didn’t.” But she knew who had.

  This had to be Breckenridge’s diversion. He’d been out stealing candlesticks last night. And of course he’d stolen them from the magistrate—the one local guaranteed to be able to get instant police attention.

  But what was she supposed to do now? Wait for Breckenridge to reappear? Or should she perhaps go to the police station and through them contact the magistrate . . . ? “No.”

  She could imagine the sensation when she explained she’d been kidnapped and held, through days of traveling, by the likes of Fletcher and Cobbins; despite Martha’s presence, the scandal would be immense. Very likely of the sort she would never live down, Cynster or not.

  So back to their plan of making a dash to the Vale and the safety of Richard and Catriona’s household. Breckenridge had removed Fletcher and Cobbins. All she had to do was get free of Martha and she and Breckenridge could be on their way.

  Refocusing on her erstwhile “maid,” she discovered Martha clutching her bag of knitting to her ample middle, finishing a last visual survey of the room and inching toward the door.

  Turning, Martha reached for the door latch. “I’m getting out of here.”

  Heather frowned.

  Before she could respond, Martha eased the door open, looked out, then slipped out, leaving the door swinging.

  Puzzled, Heather followed, pausing only to close the door after her.

  The innkeeper had retreated to the tap; she could hear him regaling his remaining customers with the details of where they’d found the candlesticks—in the bottom of Fletcher’s and Cobbins’s bags in the wardrobe in their room.

  Surprisingly silent despite her bulk, Martha tip
toed to the stairs and climbed quickly up.

  Still mystified, Heather followed, all the way to the room they’d shared.

  Martha dropped her knitting bag on her bed, then crossed to the wardrobe, hauled it open, and pulled out her capacious traveling satchel. Dumping it on the bed, she proceeded to toss Heather’s clothes out of it. “You can have these back. No good to me, to be found with such fripperies.”

  Crossing to the other side of the bed, Heather reclaimed her evening gown, her reticule, and the second plain gown they’d given her, gathering them to her. The soft silk of the evening gown felt odd beneath her palms after days of rougher clothing.

  Muttering imprecations, Martha dragged her own clothes from the wardrobe and crammed them haphazardly into the satchel. “Thank God I insisted they paid me my wages before we set out on this caper. Knew it sounded too easy to be true.”

  Shoving her knitting bag on top of the bundled clothes, then pulling the satchel shut, she paused to look at Heather, still standing, uncomprehendingly, on the other side of the bed. “Don’t know about you—you can stay and meet this laird for all I care—but I’m leaving. Now.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m heading back across the border as fast as I can, for a start, then in Carlisle I’ll get the mail coach to London—tonight’s if possible.” Martha glanced at the door. “The sooner I get shot of this place, and out of Scotland altogether, the better. Before any of that lot downstairs decides to tell those flatfoots that we—you and I, missy—were here with Fletcher and Cobbins.” Martha cinched her satchel closed. “They’ll take us up as accomplices as fast as you can spit.”

  “Accomplices?” Heather froze.

  “Aye—accomplices.” Martha paused, eyes narrowed, then added in a growl, “And I’m thinking I wouldn’t put it past Fletcher himself to tell the plods that, just to make sure he keeps us close, so he can still give you to this laird when he shows.”

  Hefting the satchel off the bed, Martha looked at Heather. “You didn’t screech once, so I’ll tell you this—if I were you, I’d get myself gone from here right quick.” Martha glanced around the room one last time. “As for me, I’m off.”

  With that, she barreled toward the open door, paused to peek out around the jamb, then whisked out.

  Heather listened to her footsteps fade . . . then she rushed to the door, closed it. Raced to the wardrobe and pulled out the satchel her captors had provided for her “luggage.”

  Tossing it on the bed, she rapidly gathered the few clothes she had, both her own and those her captors had provided, the brush and comb they’d given her. She shoved the few articles willy-nilly into the satchel, swiftly did up the buckles. “Where the hell is Breckenridge?”

  Swinging the satchel to her shoulder, she swiped up her cloak, swung it around her shoulders, and whirled to face the door—just as it started to open.

  Slowly.

  Her heart was thudding. Frantically looking around for some weapon, she spotted the poker leaning against the side of the stone hearth. Carefully picking it up, she tiptoed to stand behind the door. Raised the poker high as the door swung wider.

  Drew in a breath, steeled herself . . .

  Recognized the dark head, the height, the profile.

  Her pent-up breath escaped in a wheeze. Exasperation flooded her. “For God’s sake—knock!”

  Breckenridge swung to face her, took in the poker as she lowered it and set it down.

  Took in her satchel and cloak.

  He started to come around the door, started to close it.

  With both hands, she pushed him back. Hissed, “We have to go! Now!”

  In typical male fashion, he stopped, rooted to the spot. “Why?” He glanced around as if searching for something to explain her panic. “There’s no rush.” Looking back at her, he smiled, the epitome of self-satisfied male. “The magistrate wasn’t amused. Fletcher and Cobbins will be tied up for at least a few days, possibly more. ”

  “Yes! And as their accomplice, so will I!”

  “Accomplice?”

  She saw the instant it struck him. The transformation from self-satisfied smug to fully alert warrior took no longer than a blink.

  His face all sharp angles, not a soft curve in sight, hazel eyes hard, he glanced around the room. “Where’s Martha?”

  “Heading to London as fast as her legs will take her.”

  “Right.” He met her eyes. “Just let me get my things—the map, my pistols.”

  Using both hands, she pushed him again; this time he consented to move. “Your room. If anyone downstairs decides to help the police by catching me, this is the first place they’ll look.”

  He didn’t reply, merely grasped her arm, hauled her out of the room, and shut the door. Releasing her, he steered her before him down the corridor, past the head of the stairs and into the other wing. Halting her before the last door before the narrow servants’ stairs at the wing’s end, he opened the door and urged her inside. Following on her heels, he quietly shut the door.

  Heather stood to one side, out of his way, as he pulled two satchels from the wardrobe and swiftly, remarkably efficiently, packed clothes, then two pistols, powder, and shot, packed more clothes around them, tossed in a brush, stowed a pair of shoes in the second bag, then the rest of his clothes.

  He was buckling the satchels’ straps when he swore. Virulently.

  She narrowed her eyes at his downbent dark head. “Don’t you dare swear at me!”

  He didn’t look up, but she saw his lips tighten even more than they already were. “I wasn’t swearing at you. I was swearing at the fact that we can’t take the trap.”

  She blinked. “We can’t?”

  He glanced up at her. “You’re right—they’ll come after you, any time now. Fletcher will send them—it’s the only way he can make sure you’re held here, too. If we take the trap, we’ll have to stick to the roads. When they find you gone, they’ll search the inn—and within minutes they’ll discover I’ve disappeared, too, along with my trap.”

  Her mind was racing again. “But they’ll think you’ve gone to Glasgow. Cobbins thought that.”

  He shook his head. “I only told Cobbins and Fletcher that. I told the innkeeper I’d probably stay on for a few more nights.” He swung his cloak around his shoulders, tied the ties loosely about his neck. “If the trap disappears, they’ll guess you’re with me and send riders out along all the roads. Even if they don’t make the connection, they’ll still send riders to all the nearby towns. And the horse . . . even if I stole one of the inn’s stronger nags, riders would still catch us before Annan.”

  Grabbing up his satchels, swinging both over one shoulder, he beckoned her to him. Taking her arm, he led her to the door.

  She put her hand on the panel to stop him from opening it. Looked up at him. “So we flee on foot?”

  He looked down at her. “To begin with. We can hire a carriage or a gig further on. We can look at the map later and see what our options are, but for now we need to leave—we’ll go out across the fields toward Annan. We’ll go as far as we can before dark, then take stock.”

  She absorbed the grim resolution in his face and nodded.

  Removing her hand, she waited while he opened the door and checked that the corridor was safe, then she slipped past him and, obeying his guiding push, went quickly to the head of the servants’ stairs. He moved past her and led the way down.

  The stairs ended in a small hall between the kitchen and the back door. At that hour, with dinner being prepared, the kitchen was a hive of activity, with the ovens roaring and the cook screeching. They slipped out of the back door without anyone having any notion they’d been there.

  Breckenridge closed the door behind them, then grasped her hand. He set off, striding quickly past the inn’s stable. She hurried to keep up. Pausing behind the stab
le to help her over a stile into the field beyond, he murmured, “The fields are so flat, we’ll need to keep the stable and barns between us and the inn for as long as we can.”

  Heather looked ahead. A line of trees marched along a slight rise a mile or so on.

  From beside her, Breckenridge softly said, “If we can get that far without being seen, we stand a good chance of getting away.”

  They couldn’t afford to be caught by the authorities. Even less could they risk being captured by Fletcher’s laird.

  When they reached the line of trees without any sign or sound of a hue and cry being raised behind them, Breckenridge felt only the very slightest soupçon of relief. The tension gripping him eased not at all. If he was taken up along with Heather, for aiding and abetting an accomplice to a crime who was fleeing from justice, then once the laird arrived in Gretna and was alerted by Fletcher, it was all too likely that said laird would be able to arrange for Heather to be released into his—the laird’s—keeping. Then, while he—Breckenridge—remained locked in some cell, unable to do anything, the laird would disappear into the highlands with Heather as his recaptured ward.

  If they were caught, nothing he could say, nothing she could say, would hold any power to alter that scenario.

  That nightmare.

  They trudged on across the fields. He glanced at Heather, took in her stoic expression. Despite the rigors of their flight, she’d uttered not one word of complaint.

  Most ladies of the ton would be filling his ears with recriminations and petty griping.

  Then again, he’d always heard that Cynster ladies had spines of steel.

  She was also, he judged, in significantly better physical condition than many of her contemporaries.

  “Do you ride?” The question was out of his mouth before he’d thought.

  She glanced at him, surprised by the comment coming out of nowhere, but then she nodded and looked ahead. “I love to ride. I don’t get as much opportunity as I’d like what with being in London so much, but whenever I can manage it, I’ll get on a horse.” Her lips twitched and she glanced up at him. “Preferably one of Demon’s.”