by Betina Krahn
“It’s Ma, yer ladyship,” Samuel said, snatching his cap from his balding head as she approached. “Got it bad this time. Can ye come?”
The old woman hadn’t seemed all that ill the last time they called for her, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t in a bad way now. Elders could take sharp turns for the worse in very little time.
“Of course I’ll come, Samuel.” She glanced up at his mount and was surprised to see a saddle strapped precariously on the back of a very large and unhappy-looking plow horse.
She started to ask what had happened to the sweet little mare he had ridden before, but he craned his neck to look past her into the stable and said in a rush, “Ye’ll be wantin’ to bring yer own horse, duchess. Old Gus here, he ain’t trained proper to a saddle. He’s not fer a lady like yerself.” He gave her a pained look. “I barely hung on long enough to make it here.”
Moments later, Eddie was saddling Sarah’s horse, the striking and powerful Fancy Boy, and one of the stable lads was running full tilt to the main house to fetch her medicine bag. She looked down at her blue cotton day dress and judged her full skirt suitable and her tall, side-button leather boots durable enough for the short ride. She would need a hat, however, and located an old straw hat hanging in the tack room.
In less than ten minutes, they were riding briskly down the drive and turning in the direction of Samuel’s farm. He seemed relieved that his mother would soon be tended, and he relaxed visibly as he answered her queries about his wife, Young Bec, and their five children.
“Doin’ fine,” he said. “Young Bec’s growin’ her sixth, and th’ oldest two boys ’as been a real help with th’ plantin’ this spring. The lambin’ went well, an’ we got a number of first-time heifers that’ll be comin’ fresh soon.”
It was a heartening if somewhat vague report, Sarah thought, trying to recall just how many heifers the Arnetts had. “And your mare? What happened to her?”
The question seemed to surprise Samuel. “She’s . . . um . . . out o’ sorts, lately. Jus’ not herself. I figured to give ’er a rest and see how she comes out of it.” A moment later, he pointed out a neighbor’s farm. “That’s Clyde Ralston’s place. He lost half a dozen sheep, a fortnight ago.” His brow furrowed as he turned to her.
“Lost? What do you mean?”
“Stole. Right out of the pen. Slick as grease on a axle.”
Sarah looked over her shoulder at the distant cluster of simple stone and frame buildings, surrounded by a patchwork of kitchen gardens. “That’s Betancourt land,” she said, frowning.
“Aye,” Samuel agreed. “I’ve took to sittin’ up on moonless nights with my shotgun.” He bent toward her and lowered his voice. “That’s when they come—curse their thievin’ hides. Th’ dark o’ the moon.”
“Who comes?” She bent closer, to match his confidential mood.
“Thieves. Been slippin’ around these last few weeks. Didn’t take much at first—a couple of head here an’ there—but lately it’s been more. Bold as brass, they are. Walk right in barns and coops and pens in th’ dead of night. Took ever’ piglet on Jess Croton’s farm last week . . . near two dozen.” He wagged his head, looking angry. “It totals up.”
Sarah frowned and searched the countryside that glowed lush and verdant in the late morning sun. It was hard to believe that somewhere in that calm, picturesque landscape lay forces bent on thievery.
“What about the authorities?” she asked. “Surely the constables have attempted to catch the thieves.”
Samuel wagged his head, looking as doleful as his big, slow-moving mount. “We got just a brace o’ constables in th’ whole county, an’ they’re busy in the villages. They ain’t got time for farm folk.” As she settled into thoughtful silence, he surprised her by adding: “Time was . . . th’ duke at Balleycourt kept th’ roads and farms safe. Always had a few strong arms about to keep the peace on Meridian land. But we ain’t got no duke now.”
“But you do.” Sarah felt spurred to her brother-in-law’s defense. “Duke Arthur left the title and estate to his brother, Ashton. He’s duke now.”
“Yeah?” He pushed his cap back and scratched his head vigorously. “Where is he?”
“New York,” Sarah said, unsettled by that admission. Her sister Daisy, no great lover of British aristocracy, had made Ashton promise to see that their children would be born in the United States. And she seemed constantly to be on the brink of birthing another lusty little American. The pair had returned to England only once—for the weddings of her two middle sisters, Frankie and Cece, nearly three years ago. But since the deadline for Duke Arthur’s return had passed, nearly a year ago, Ashton had shown no interest in returning to claim the title and estates.
Her spirits sank. Where was the duke, indeed? Clearly Betancourt needed more than just a refurbished house and a full stable. Try as she might, she couldn’t be everywhere help was required. She would have to look into this ring of thieves.
As they approached the Arnetts’ cottage, her exotic Fancy Boy began to shy, arch his neck, and dance anxiously, but Sarah was too occupied with Samuel’s revelations to do more than give him a knee and a curt word. They were met at the cottage door by Young Bec, and Samuel offered to walk Fancy Boy to cool him off and give him some water. Sarah gave her beloved mount a pat and handed him over.
Old Bec was lying on a cot in the cottage, moaning softly, looking pale and pitiable. Sarah pulled out her thermometer and reminded the old woman what it was and how she had to hold it in her mouth, under her tongue. Young Bec produced a constant stream of chatter, while the children crowded around to see what the fancy lady would do this time. When she took out her stethoscope, they clearly remembered what it was, from the last time she visited. It was for listening to a heart, and every single one of them begged to listen.
The old woman’s heart sounds were steady, and her lungs sounded clear, despite a somewhat forced cough. It was her back and hip, Old Bec said, that troubled her most. Some poking, prodding, and moving the old girl’s limbs decided it: lumbago. The same as last time. And the remedy was the same: medicine powders and rest. After measuring out a packet of medicine and showing Old Bec how to stretch and sit with a pillow against her lower back, Sarah was entreated to stay for a cup of tea and freshly baked biscuits.
She emerged later, surrounded by children begging to show her their rabbits. It was an invitation she could not refuse. They led her around the cottage to a row of hutches and she soon had an armful of gorgeous long-eared bunnies. The girls were especially proud of their newest crop of baby bunnies. For a few moments she reveled in the memory of her own childhood fascination with rabbits.
The sun was well overhead when she took her leave, saying she had a patient at Betancourt to tend. Samuel brought Fancy Boy around and helped her mount. She bade the Arnetts goodbye and headed back down the wagon road before she realized Fancy Boy seemed calmer, almost . . . mellow. It seemed Samuel had taken good care of him while she saw to his mother.
As she rode into the stable yard of Betancourt, she saw another horse tied at the post ring by the front doors. She handed off Fancy to Young Eddie with orders for a carrot and plenty of hay. At the house she found Constable Andrew Jolly enjoying a cup of tea in the parlor, with Mazie and Deidre attending his every word. At the sight of her, the housemaids shot up, and the constable set his cup down with a clack, lurched to his feet, and straightened his jacket over his ample middle.
“Duchess,” he said with a nod, moving away from the settee.
“It’s Miss Bumgarten, Constable,” she corrected, though with a smile. “What brings you to Betancourt?”
“I been riding this day, warnin’ folk that a fellow got shot last night. Right on the road. ’Twixt here an’ Betany.”
“Then surely you have also heard that it was Thomas Wrenn who found him early this morning and that he brought the man here. He’s upstairs, recovering, right now.”
“That’s why I come. Could I talk to him, d
uch—ma’am—miss?”
She looked to the parlor maids, who lowered their gazes and shook their heads.
“Apparently he hasn’t awakened yet.” She shot a dark look at the pair to remind them that they had abandoned their post at his bedside.
“Dolly’s with ’im,” Mazie said, blushing. Dolly was the earnest young house girl recently promoted from the scullery. The older housemaids shamelessly took advantage of her youth and inexperience to lighten their duties whenever possible.
She addressed the constable. “I’ll send word when he comes around.”
Jolly looked unsettled and fingered his bucket-shaped constable’s hat. “We never had such goings-on in these parts.” He scowled. “It ain’t safe, milady, you bein’ here all alone.”
“I’m hardly alone, Constable. I have a house full of people.”
He glanced at the pair of aging housemaids with a rueful smile.
“Aye, then, you’d do well to have a couple of yer menfolk break out the bird guns an’ keep an eye out. Mebee keep yer horses and stock in the barns and stables of a night.”
She thought of Samuel Arnett’s nightly vigil.
“Is that really necessary?”
“Constables can’t be everywhere,” Jolly declared, shifting his feet and fingering the weighted nightstick at his side. “Folk got to look to their own safety. Ain’t been a shootin’ here for . . . well, I don’t remember when was the last. But now, somebody’s usin’ guns.”
“I’ll take your warning seriously, Constable. We’ll keep an eye out. And you may want to talk to Bascom at the Iron Penny. There was a dustup there yesterday with some rowdy sorts. It wouldn’t surprise me to hear they’ve been involved in other criminal activities . . . maybe even this shooting.”
She watched from the parlor window as the constable rode away. She recalled the men who attacked Nero and might have done much worse if it hadn’t been for Bascom and the man lying upstairs with a hole in his shoulder. The drunken bullies had vowed revenge and may have taken some measure of it last night. Who else would have shot an unarmed man—especially that man—in the dark of night?
She shooed Mazie and Deidre back to work and headed upstairs. After peering into the duke’s bedchamber to find Dolly diligently stitching linen by her patient’s bedside, she headed for her room down the east hall.
It was the very room she and her sisters had occupied years ago when they first arrived at Betancourt, decorated with paper covered in climbing ivy. The soft furnishings, drapes, and linens were all soothing shades of green, and the posts of the tester bed were carved with twining vines that supported a quilted canopy made to resemble a forest sky. Since she arrived, she had lain under that canopy feeling secure and very much at home. She looked around at the place she had claimed in the heart of Betancourt. How secure would she feel this night when she climbed into bed?
From a cherrywood chest at the foot of her bed she pulled a pair of ebony-handled revolvers rolled in a leather holster. Uncle Red had left them at her mother’s house in London when he married the countess and went to live in Sussex. In her storm of humiliation and anger, she had seen them in his study, grabbed them, and carried them with her to Betancourt.
Red had taught her to shoot, albeit covertly. Her lady mother would have fainted dead away at the thought of her daughter handling, much less practicing with, guns.
But Red had indulged her desire to know all kinds of things, including how firearms worked. When he married and moved away, he said he would feel better if he knew Sarah could defend herself against London’s “low down, kipper-suckin’ sidewinders” . . . meaning the randy upper-crust male population. He had even thrown in a couple of lessons on landing a punch, which had come in handy just yesterday. Rubbing her hand, she felt a residual soreness, then flexed her fingers and repeatedly made a fist. It would have to do.
She pulled one of the heavy Colt revolvers from the holster, looked it over, and sighted down the barrel. The steel felt oddly foreign in her hand. She frowned. She had to do something about that.
* * *
Arthur awakened slowly from a dream that he was being shot again and again and again in the shoulder, only to find that very shoulder was bound in bandages and hurt like the devil. A host of devils. He groaned, raised his head, and took stock of the soft bed, large room, fancy hangings, and excess of light.
Holy thunder, his very eyeballs hurt. He shut his eyes, hoping it would help him think where he was and remember how he came to be here, but came up with nothing. His head was foggy and his body ached like it was all one monstrous bruise. He turned his head and discovered a large stuffed chair, and a table holding various medicine bottles beside the bed.
Explosive retorts tore through the room and brought him upright in bed with his head swimming. That could only be gunshots! That was what had awakened him; he hadn’t been dreaming. Alarmed, he threw back the fancy covers and was relieved to find he was at least wearing breeches.
Every part of him protested as he slid his bare feet to the floor and braced for a moment on the bedside. The floor seemed to tilt strangely beneath him. Hand over hand, he staggered to the end of the bed and clung to the foot post for a moment, blinking. Then came another quick volley of gunfire. Somebody was waging war out there.
He stumbled to the double doors and out into a hall he recognized. He looked back at the room where he’d spent the night and gave a huff of surprise that roused another pain in his shoulder. How the hell did he get there, of all places? The staircase was just where he remembered and the railing and balusters felt strong and familiar as he leaned on them. The next thing he knew he was on the worn marble floor of the center hall and lurching toward the front doors.
The afternoon sunlight struck him like a lightning bolt to the brain. He shielded his eyes with an arm and swayed, listening for the gunfire. It had stopped, but he sensed it had come from the rear of the house, the back lawn. He made his way around the corner, surprised at how kind the small river gravel was to his bare feet and only now wondering where his boots might have gone. He kept a hand on the brick of the house until he reached what he assumed was still the kitchen door. Produce crates and old flour barrels stacked beside the aged door confirmed his assessment, and by the time he let go of the wall he felt himself standing fairly straight.
Someone was shooting, and he had to find out who and why.
He turned the final corner and stopped dead. There, in a short buckskin skirt, simple white shirt, and riding boots stood a young woman with a sizeable revolver in her hand, taking aim at a rank of old bottles and cans set up along the top of a shoulder-high brick fence. She squeezed off four or five shots in quick succession and glass shattered and tin rang as her targets flew off the wall.
He stiffened, unsure if he’d made that strangled gasp aloud, but she wheeled on him with the gun pointed and he realized he had. Shocked by her sweetly fringed eyes and lovely face and by the long-barreled gun she was pointing at him, he staggered back. As he tried to make sense of it, there was only one thing that came to mind.
“D-did you shoot me?”
“What?” she said, eyes widening as she approached.
“Did you shoot me?” He managed a bit more volume.
“Don’t be ridiculous—I don’t know you well enough to shoot you.” She advanced on him with the gun still in her hand. “What are you doing out here?”
“It sounded like a battle was going on—I had to find out what was happening.” He widened his stance, summoning all the energy he could.
“You should be in bed,” she declared, eyeing his bandaged shoulder.
“And you should be . . . crocheting some damned thing or other . . . but here you are, shooting the hell out of the place.”
“Old cans and a few wine bottles nobody will miss.” She holstered the big revolver and propped her hands on her waist, assessing him.
“Who did shoot me?” he demanded, thinking it the most logical of questions.
�
�That is a very good question. I haven’t a clue.”
His gaze dropped and he finally registered what she’d just done. His jaw dropped at the sight of a six-gun holstered on each of her hips. The holster ties around each thigh disappeared through a provocative crease in her skirt.
What the hell?
“But I do know you’ve lost blood and need bed rest and nourishment.” She walked right up to him, seized his good arm, and turned him toward the house as if he were a recalcitrant child. She barely reached his shoulder, but she turned him easily.
He stared at her, transfixed by the shining streaks of blonde in her sandy-colored hair and he inhaled deeply. She smelled of warmth and sunshine, with a hint of roses. Her cheeks were flushed and her lips were . . . perfect Cupid’s bows with . . . what the hell was he doing staring at her lips? He really was out of his head.
She gave him a nudge and when that didn’t move him forward, she put her arm through his good one and pulled him toward the front doors.
“Who are you?” he demanded, pulling her to a halt and focusing on her face. Big eyes—startling sea green—rimmed by those decadently long lashes. She was the one he’d seen at the inn—the one with the dog.
The duchess.
“Sarah Bumgarten,” she said, trying to move him along. He resisted and she looked up at him to clarify: “Sister-in-law to the Duke of Meridian.”
Mystery solved! A Bumgarten. The name resonated in memories that took him back to another lifetime. Sarah. The littlest one. The one who loved horses and was curious about his butterflies and had descended on Betancourt’s library like a hungry hawk. His recollection of her from those days was of her with ribbons in her hair and books tucked under her arm. Now she was the duke’s—
The impact of it hit him like a haymaker: My brother is now the duke.
“Where is—the duke?” His throat was so dry he could barely speak.
“In New York. With his family.”
“He has a family?”
“Of course. A wife—who is my sister—and two children. Boys.” She looked up. “Who are you?”