On the way out of Lambeth, Marshall encountered another member of his party, Henry, returning from meeting the other searchers at Bensbury. Henry met Marshall’s questioning gaze and shook his head once. “Nothing, m’lord.”
It was a punch to his middle with a cold fist, but Marshall just nodded grimly and continued on his way. As he prodded his tired horse into a trot, Marshall considered his course of action. A glance at the sky showed the sun quickly descending to the horizon. By the time he reached Bensbury, met with the others, and made his way back to the party, it would be fully dark. Should they to continue searching through the night?
He recalled his guileless sister as she’d been at breakfast that morning, pretty and young and fresh, sweetly conspiring to allow Marshall and Isabelle time alone, blushing as she admired Alexander Fairfax. That memory was followed by a vivid vision of that sweet innocence blighted by a cruel Thomas Gerald — the fear she must be feeling, the desperation —
His throat constricted around a growl. Marshall had to find her. He would not force his men and horses to expose themselves to the danger of riding through the night, but he would. There could be no rest for him until his sister was safely returned to her family.
Of a sudden, Marshall was afraid again for Isabelle. What if Gerald returned to Bensbury and took her, too? He could have associates working with him, a whole gang of miscreants absconding with those most dear to him. His heart skipped a beat at the thought. “I’m coming,” he said as he dug his heels into the horse’s sides. He wouldn’t leave Bensbury until he’d seen Isabelle and reassured himself of her safety. Protecting her and recovering Naomi were all that mattered.
The poor beast beneath Marshall strained forward at his urging, but he noted a quiver in the horse’s haunch. Lathered with sweat, the mount was as exhausted as the rider. He pulled back on the reins, slowing the animal to a brisk walk. Marshall cast around for a watering place. In the distance, down a side track, he spotted a turning water wheel; sunlight dappled on the liquid falling from the black wood. Approaching the mill, Marshall heard the rumble of the great stones turning inside the tall wooden building, grinding grain into flour.
As the horse drank, Marshall strolled along the bank, stretching his legs. Here, the stream was only about fifteen feet wide. On the opposite side, trees grew all the way to the bank. His eyes roamed over stream and trees; he was too distracted to focus long on any one thing, and soon he was impatient to be on his way.
Turning, his gaze caught on something at the tree line. He halted and narrowed his eyes, anxiety mounting in his chest. There, on the opposite bank, unmistakably, was a campsite. The remains of a fire — no, he realized, his breath catching in his throat. That fire has not yet burned. Twigs and other kindling stood in a neat pile, awaiting the kiss of a flame. Nearby, he spotted a burlap pack on the ground.
An out-of-the-way campsite within striking distance of Bensbury.
“Naomi,” he gasped. Marshall plunged into the stream, wading through the cold, waist-deep water to reach the far side. He scrabbled up the bank, his fingers clawing into dank soil to wrap around exposed roots.
Hauling himself over the edge of the embankment, Marshall took in the little campsite with an appraising eye. The fire had been neatly built atop a circle of earth brushed clear of leaves and other debris. The pack lying beside the fire contained a rolled blanket and sparse, dried provisions. Marshall frowned. It didn’t look as though Gerald had prepared the camp to take care of a hostage. There was only enough food to keep one man fed for a few days, and on tight rations, at that. One blanket. One flask laying among the food in the pack.
He shuddered involuntarily as a wretched thought occurred to him. “What if he’s killed her?” he whispered harshly, his eyes darting around his shadowed surroundings. “Naomi!” he bellowed; fear clawed at him, driving him out of the camp. A deer track led into the dark woods, and Marshall followed it, calling his sister’s name. He rounded a bend and noticed a discarded pile of suitable firewood on the ground an instant before a man wielding a pistol stepped out from behind a tree.
His light brown hair hung to his shoulders, sweat-damp and snarled with bits of twig and leaf. Clothes that had once been respectable showed hard use. The familiar face had aged more than the passage of fifteen years would suggest, but Marshall supposed forced labor would do that to a man. His eyes, though, gleamed clear with vitality, cold and hard with barely concealed anger.
“The Duke of Monthwaite himself,” Thomas Gerald snarled. “If that ain’t Providence, I don’t know what is. You’re just the man I’ve been wanting to see.”
• • •
Isabelle made her rounds of checking in on Alexander and Aunt Janine. Her brother still slept, and Aunt Janine had nodded off in her chair, as well. At the drawing room where Caro and Grant waited, Isabelle placed a hand on the doorknob, then withdrew it again. There was no sense subjecting them to her unwanted presence.
Instead, she returned to the kitchen. She had no idea whether the men planned to search through the night. If they did, then Isabelle would work in the kitchen all night long, keeping them supplied with food and drink.
What to make next? She had exhausted the bread, so there would be no more sandwiches. Too bad she couldn’t make Marshall a pot of her stew.
Inspiration struck. She would make her stew, she decided, only with a thicker gravy than usual. Then she’d make a simple pastry dough, and bake the stew into pies. It would be a few hours before they were ready, but the sandwiches would tide the men over in the meantime. Besides, a lengthy project to occupy her sounded perfect.
She set about gathering her ingredients. There was a roast just right for stewing in the larder. A bin of onions in the corner gave her all of those she needed. But there were no carrots.
A short distance from the kitchen door, however, was Marshall’s vegetable garden.
His voice rang in her mind, asking her to stay inside the house. She shrugged it off. For goodness’ sake, Naomi had already been abducted — Thomas Gerald had his victim. Isabelle wasn’t vain enough to suppose he was lurking around waiting to snatch her, too.
She selected a wide, shallow basket from the stack in the corner and opened the kitchen door. No nefarious convicts leapt upon her.
The sun sinking behind the tall trees cast long shadows across the vegetable garden. Squinting in the dim light, Isabelle strolled the length of the expansive garden until she spotted leafy green carrot tops.
She knelt on the dark, soft soil and pulled. A well-formed root emerged, but it was only a few inches long. Isabelle wrinkled her nose at the unimpressive vegetable. Marshall’s plant food hadn’t done much for these. It would take a couple dozen carrots of this size to give her the quantity she needed.
Happy for the work, she went about pulling carrots and wiping them clean with her apron.
A faint sound raised the hair on her arms. What was that? Isabelle looked up and slowly dropped a carrot into the basket. She peered into the shadowy trees.
Silence.
She shook her head; she was hearing things. Her nerves were stretched to the breaking point, and now her mind was playing tricks on her.
Reaching for another carrot, she heard the sound again, louder this time. Isabelle jerked her hand back and gasped at the unmistakable sound of a woman crying out.
“Naomi,” she breathed. Isabelle stood and cast her gaze wildly about. The garden and grounds were deserted.
She opened her mouth and almost yelled for help but then clamped a hand across her lips. What if Naomi’s captor heard her? What might he do in desperation?
Naomi’s piteous cry sounded again, but was cut off. Isabelle sucked in her breath. There was no one else and there might not be any time to waste.
The sound had come from the direction of Marshall’s greenhouse. Isabelle quickly untied her apron and to
ssed it back toward the house. She gathered the carrots in her hands and left the basket where it lay. Every few yards she dropped a carrot, leaving a trail to the greenhouse path. Anyone who followed it that far would know where to go.
If anyone even thought to look for her, she thought with a jolt. She’d told the butler she’d be in the kitchen, perhaps for hours. No one would think anything of it if she weren’t seen for a long time.
She closed her eyes against the panic rising from her middle and clamping around her throat. She stood at the mouth of the greenhouse path. Beyond it, Naomi was in trouble. Isabelle had to do something. She wouldn’t allow her fears to conquer her, leaving Naomi to her fate at the hands of an unhinged convict.
Isabelle opened her eyes and dragged in several steadying breaths. She jogged the length of the path and skidded to a halt just before the greenhouse came into view.
What was she doing? She didn’t have a plan, or a weapon.
“Think,” she muttered to herself, knocking her fist against her forehead. Nothing brilliant rattled loose.
A loud clatter from inside the greenhouse brought a quick end to her brainstorming session. No time for plans. Naomi needed her.
Isabelle stepped into the clearing. Two saddled horses grazed calmly on the wildflowers at the tree line. The last of the day’s dying light filtered weakly through the trees. It glared off the greenhouse, rather than illuminating the interior.
“No plan, no idea what I’m getting into. Perfect.” Suddenly, she was angry. Isabelle’s lips pinched together. It was just like when she’d been blindsided by Alex cutting her off. She’d plowed through that and come out the other side just fine. She would do the same now.
With a lift of her chin, she strolled serenely toward the greenhouse. All the while, her mind was in a whirl, madly running through the few facts she knew about Thomas Gerald and the conclusions to which those facts led her.
She knocked on the greenhouse door, then tried the handle. It opened. She lifted her skirt and placed one slippered foot on the stone floor.
“Don’t come no farther!” barked a voice.
In the center of the greenhouse, a man Isabelle assumed to be Thomas Gerald stood with his left arm hooked around Naomi’s neck. In his right hand, he held a pistol leveled right at Isabelle.
He was a short man, of a height with Naomi. He wore rough spun work clothes, and a hat pulled low over his face. A few coppery wisps of hair lay over his ears. Isabelle only made out the shape of the eyes in the shadow of the brim, but the man’s cheeks were surprisingly full and soft. This fact registered with confusion — she’d expected a man exposed to years of hard labor to look more weathered.
The dire situation did not allow her to contemplate this mystery; Naomi’s wild gaze was riveted on Isabelle. From what Isabelle could judge by a quick once-over, her friend appeared unharmed.
“Mr. Gerald, I presume?” Isabelle said in a clear voice. She raised her hands in front of her chest and slowly took another step into the greenhouse.
He thrust the pistol toward her. “I tol’ you don’t come no farther.” His voice had something of an alto pitch about it, not the depth of most adult males. This puzzled Isabelle further, but she kept her attention trained on the task at hand: freeing Naomi.
Isabelle stopped and plastered what she hoped was a reassuring smile on her face. “I assure you I mean no harm, sir. I am alone, as you see. And I have no weapon.” She turned her hands over and back again.
“Then you made a damned fool mistake coming here,” the gunman snarled.
She waved a hand nonchalantly. “La, you may be right.” She laughed lightly. “Naomi, dear, are you quite all right?”
“Don’t talk to her,” Gerald snapped. He turned the gun on Naomi, pressing it through her hair to her temple. Naomi’s eyes squeezed shut and a whimper escaped her. Isabelle’s stomach flipped. She had to be very careful.
“Who are you?” Gerald demanded.
“My name is Isabelle Lockwood,” she answered.
Gerald’s grip on the gun slackened slightly as he frowned. “Lockwood? You married to one of the sons, then.”
“No, I’m afraid not.” She gave him a rueful smile. “Not anymore.”
The shadowed eyes clouded in confusion. “‘Ere, then, what’s that mean?”
Finally, an idea took hold. If Isabelle could just keep him talking, an opportunity of some sort would present itself. Or, she argued with herself, he would get tired of talking and kill both her and Naomi. Oh, well, she supposed, in for a penny, in for a pound — and she was already in for a guinea, at least.
Isabelle shrugged and exhaled. She strolled down the row of violets and stopped to pick a dead leaf from a plant. Gerald followed her movement with his eyes.
“I used to be married to Marshall Lockwood,” she explained. “We wed before he was the duke. He divorced me after his father died.” She met the gaze of Naomi’s captor and spoke carefully. “I’ve been angry at him, too. I understand how you feel. But you need to release Lady Naomi now. She’s no part of your quarrel with His Grace.”
The convict shook visibly. His hat came loose and toppled to the floor. Red tresses tumbled to just past the woman’s shoulders. Isabelle gasped. “Like hell she ain’t!” the incensed woman spat. “He took everything from me.”
Isabelle shook her head, bewildered. “How can that be? Who are you?”
“Sally Palmer,” she said proudly, “the woman who loves Mr. Thomas Gerald.”
Naomi met Isabelle’s startled gaze with a bewildered look of her own. Isabelle extended a hand. “I’m afraid I’m a trifle lost. If you’ll just put down the gun, I’m sure we can reach an understanding.”
“Oh, no I won’t!” Sally Palmer bellowed. Naomi flinched away from the mouth near her ear. “This here high-falootin’ la-a-ady,” she mocked with a sneer, “is part of the family what ruined my Thomas. I know all about Lockwoods and Monthwaites, and that nothing but bad ever comes of ’em. The old duke sent my Thomas into exile, but all on the fault of the new duke.”
“Miss Palmer,” Isabelle spread her hands to reason with the woman, who was little more than a girl in truth, “Mr. Gerald served the sentence for his crime. And unless I’m mistaken, you met Mr. Gerald during his exile, so you cannot say nothing but bad came of it. Done is done, is it not? Why continue to harbor ill will against the Monthwaite family?”
Sally Palmer’s lips drew into a thin line, and her face turned an angry purple. “He didn’t do it!” she shrieked. Isabelle stepped back at the force of her tone. Naomi let out a piteous cry. “That vile man’s the one killed that horse and foal!” Sally continued. “And the bloody coward let Thomas take the blame!”
“What?” Isabelle shook her head. The woman was crazed, she reminded herself. Otherwise, she wouldn’t spout such nonsense and behave in this erratic manner.
“It’s true!” Sally’s voice took on a pleading tone. “Thomas told me all about it when I nursed him through the ’fluenza.” She licked her lips. “As Thomas tells it, they was like friends. Not really, I know,” she said derisively, “but he used to come to the stables and talk while my Thomas worked. Spoiled, do-nothing lordling,” she spat as an aside. “He used to tell Thomas about plants and things they could do.”
Isabelle blinked. That did sound like a young Marshall.
Sally Palmer dropped the gun to her side, but kept a firm grip on Naomi. Her riding hat was askew atop her head, and her hair hung in loose strands over her captor’s arm.
“Then there was a brood mare, Priscilla, Thomas called her.” Sally shook her head sadly. “He told me how ’e worried over her, with her foal not coming when it should, and her starting to get sick-like.” The young woman’s voice took on a pleading quality as she continued her tale. “Then one day the young lord comes in to check on Priscilla. Says he had an ide
a to help her start her foaling. He mixes up this and that, but he asks Thomas to give it to her. So he do. Then here’s the mare and her foal dead, and Thomas blamed for it, neat as can be.” Rage and anguish warred, contorting Sally’s features.
Isabelle’s face went cold. She stared at the frantic girl. Somehow, she recognized herself in Sally’s words; recognized the same tone of desperation as she told her story of a man wrongfully accused, just as Isabelle had been, and had longed for someone to believe her innocent of adultery. Reason told her Sally was lying. But if she wasn’t?
“My brother would never do that!” Naomi protested.
Sally yanked her head back by the hair. Naomi cried out in pain. “He would and he did,” she said darkly, looming over her.
She was coming unhinged, Isabelle realized.
“I know how you feel,” Isabelle blurted. There was no time to analyze the veracity of the woman’s claims. Right now, she just had to keep her distracted from Naomi. “If there’s anyone held higher in public scorn than a convict, it’s a divorced woman.” She raised her chin and laughed nervously, hoping she conveyed some sense of fraternity.
Calmly, as though strolling through the roses at a garden party, she began moving toward the armed woman and Naomi.
“Monthwaite did quite a number on me, too.” She stopped to smell a blossom on Marshall’s pea plants.
“Then you know exactly what I mean,” Sally said. “You know why I’ve got to get back at him.”
Time After Time Page 228