“You need not worry about me at all. I am a grown woman, not a child, and it is my choice whatever happens, not yours.”
She marched down the street so swiftly that Fitz had to storm after her. Dammitall! He caught her arm just as a hard object grazed his head and knocked his hat flying. With his wits already scrambled, he glared down at a rock large enough to stun that had bounced off the crushed beaver onto the cobblestones. Abby’s sharp scream returned his senses, and he spun on his bootheel in time to catch sight of the cursed ruffian across the crowded street shouting at him. Realizing he’d been attacked again, in broad daylight, and in a manner that had also endangered Abby, he lost the last restraint on his temper.
“You puny pox-ridden pig, I’ll pound you into pulp when I catch you!” Disregarding the potential of more stones, he raced after the culprit, who abruptly took to his heels at the sight of Fitz’s raised fists.
Startled, Abby instinctively rescued the hat from the gutter, but that was all she knew to do while Fitz dodged carriages and drays to race like a berserker after the stone thrower.
He might have been killed if that blow had connected with his head instead of his hat. She stared in dismay at the size of the object that had crashed into the street, and realized there was a note tied about it. Avoiding a carriage horse, she stooped to grab the rock and opened the note to read: MAYT ME WIT TA BLOONT ER AYLS GEEV UP YER PRIZ. A large arrow pointed at the side of the paper.
Bloont? Was that like a doubloon? Did the writer lack the letter H?
Other passersby halted to see if more stones would rain from the heavens, then moved on when they saw that all was well. Fitz disappeared around a corner.
Abruptly abandoned and feeling lost, Abby shivered. She didn’t like London at all. She wanted her familiar farm and her family back. She hugged herself to keep from weeping, but no one stopped to offer help or even notice her fright now that the excitement was past.
She was terrified for the children. She didn’t know what to think of a large, sophisticated gentleman who ran after trouble with his fists raised. Danecroft was likely to come to harm, and she didn’t know how to help him.
The children were less able to take care of themselves than a grown man. Too shaken to even know what to pray for, she tucked the strange note in her pocket, took a deep breath, and marched in the direction of Lord Quentin’s house, carrying Danecroft’s hat.
By the time she had crossed two squares and picked her way around snarled intersections, the earl came loping up behind her, dusting himself off and using language she was happy the children couldn’t hear. She wasn’t even certain of the meaning of some of his colorful phrases. Pox-ridden pig, indeed.
She silently handed him his hat and the note. He shoved the battered beaver on his head and growled, “Bloont? If this is someone’s idea of a jest, I’ll pound him into jam.” Shoving the note in his pocket, he grabbed her hand, and tucked it into the crook of his arm as if they were continuing a pleasant stroll.
“Are you often attacked in such a manner, my lord?” she inquired as they came within sight of Lord Quentin’s town house.
“Only since I made the mistake of returning from the dead,” he muttered. “The scoundrel is determined to force me to buy a new hat.”
“I don’t think it was your hat he meant to harm.” Her heart still pounded at the thought of what that rock could have done to his head.
“Fortunately for me, that’s all he ever comes close to hitting. But at least this time I saw enough to know the stone thrower is no bigger than a scrawny lad. I will look for him after we find the children.” With that cryptic remark, he rapped Quentin’s knocker so loudly, it could be heard in the next county.
After that, there was no time for better explanations. Lord Quentin was out on business, and footmen were engaged to find him. Lady Sally and Lady Margaret insisted on writing notes to be sent around to every man of Fitz’s acquaintance to aid in his search, after which he rushed off to procure a horse and ride south.
Abby’s prayers went with him. At least the earl knew what the children looked like. All the men the ladies sent dashing down the road would not. Just as she wouldn’t know half of Fitz’s friends should she happen to run into them, which she might do, because she had no intention of being left behind.
Lady Belden arrived at almost the same moment as Lord Quentin. Despite their equally impassive demeanors, the two aristocrats gave orders in clipped tones that sent servants scurrying in their wake.
“Abigail, you will return with me at once,” Lady Belden said. “I will hire able-bodied men more acquainted with this type of search than a careless lot of Corinthians without a wit between them. Quentin, you will have your ruffians report to us if they find anything.” The marchioness waited impatiently for Abby to leave the parlor they’d turned into a war office.
“If you had hired someone to fetch the children when the lady requested it, this wouldn’t have happened,” Lord Quentin said, gesturing for Abby to keep her seat. “You have hidden in your velvet nest for so long, you do not know how to deal with the real world.”
“I do not have time or patience to argue.” Ignoring him, the lady turned imperiously to Abby. “Abigail, let us go.”
Before Abby could defy her hostess, a blustery wind blew through the hall, and a moment later, Fitz’s would-be-soldier friend, Blake Montague, appeared. In a caped redingote, his lean frame filled the doorway.
“I’ve brought the gig,” he announced to no one in particular. “But the storm is moving in swiftly.”
Abby leaped up and hurried toward him. “I’m so sorry I’ve asked you to drive in this weather, but I’m quite desperate enough to direct the horses myself, if you will let me.”
Mr. Montague offered a barely perceptible bow to the marchioness and ignored Quentin’s sisters. Without otherwise acknowledging Abby’s request, he gestured for a footman to hold out her pelisse so that she might put it on.
“You cannot go out like this, Abigail,” the dowager protested. “You will be ruined, if you don’t catch an ague and die! Quentin, tell the little goose that she’s being a fool and wrecking her future!”
“If you can wait another half hour, I’ll have the coachman harness my landau and bring it around,” Lord Quentin said. “It will be far more comfortable than Montague’s open gig.”
“That is a very kind offer, my lord,” Abby said quietly, “but I’m anxious to leave before the road floods. If Mr. Montague believes we can reach Surrey in his vehicle, then I am not concerned about my comfort.”
“This is appalling,” the lady grumbled, pacing back and forth. “I was assured those children were well taken care of. I cannot imagine how one goes about losing children. Really, this is the outside of enough. Abigail, you cannot take leave of your senses now. The children will need you. Take my carriage. It’s outside. Quentin, provide a maid for her chaperone. Someone must stay in London in case the children arrive.”
Abby thought she saw the solemn Mr. Montague’s mouth quirk slightly at the concern the querulous lady did her best to hide, but he bowed and handed Abby an umbrella without a word.
“Where is Danecroft?” the marchioness demanded. “It is all his fault for stirring things up. All was perfectly fine until he came along.”
“He should be nearly in Surrey by now.” Mr. Montague finally spoke. “He borrowed that hell horse of Barton’s.” He held out his arm for Abigail to take. “You may choose your ride, Miss Merriweather, but I will accompany you either way. It will be dark soon, and Fitz would have my head on a platter if I did not provide more than a maid for escort.”
Hell horse? Fitz was riding an unruly animal in this wind and rain? Abby’s terror escalated.
She trusted Fitz’s choice of friend. She took Montague’s arm and offered the marchioness a deep curtsy. “My lady, if you will allow us the use of your carriage, I will owe you everything I am. So please do not think I am unappreciative of all you have done for me. I am simply terrifie
d and can think only of the children lost out there in the dark and wet, at the mercy of strangers.”
Abby could swear tears glistened in the lady’s eyes as she nodded her approval.
“Go, child, bring the rascals back with you, if you must. But remember that you are as valuable as they, and do not risk yourself.” She gestured for the maid to follow, then turned a sharp eye on Mr. Montague. “And you, sir, need not fear Danecroft as much as you must fear me. I will have you drawn and quartered should anything happen to Miss Merriweather.”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” Abby thought she heard him murmur, but he merely bowed deeply and led her to the door in the wake of cries of good wishes from the people behind them.
25
Fighting to control the high-strung Thoroughbred he’d borrowed, Fitz galloped into Croydon just as the downpour broke. Maybe the physical exercise of restraining the beast aided his thinking, but somewhere along the way, he’d decided that if he had been in Tommy’s shoes, he would have loaded the children on a convenient farm wagon. A wagon was more likely to be headed into the village than to London. That left all of Croydon to search while his friends traversed the byways between here and the city. In the gathering dark and storm.
He had utterly no idea where farm wagons went once they left the farm. Stopping at a sprawling inn where one or two empty carts sat about, he threw the reins to a stableboy, ordered the horse wiped down and fed, and sprinted through the innyard to the tavern.
If the farm was five miles out of town and the children had caught an oxcart that traveled five miles an hour, they would have reached Croydon before the messenger had time to travel ten miles into the city after catching a coach in Croydon, and before Fitz could cross the crowded bridge out of London and travel ten miles. . . . His habit of performing mathematical calculations didn’t calm him as it usually did. As he elbowed his way through the rain-avoiding throng in the inn, he concluded the children could be anywhere by now.
“I’m looking for four young runaway children,” he shouted, leaping on a chair to make himself heard over the hubbub. “They came from the Weatherstons’ place a few miles down the road,” he continued as the men around him fell silent. “They’re on their way to their sister in London. Has anyone seen them?”
“Weatherston was in here a few hours back,” the bar-tender said, producing a mug of ale and handing it up to Fitz. “Madder than a wet hen. Didn’t no one know nothing.”
“Does anyone know of a cart or wagon that might have stopped out that way earlier? Even if it just passed down the road?” Now that he had their attention, Fitz climbed down and drank gratefully of the ale. He flipped a coin to the barkeep to cover his aid as well as the drink.
“My sister’s boy leases their lower acres,” a farmer at the back of the room called. “Don’t know if he was out that way today. I can check when this rain lets up.”
Fitz held up a gold coin remaining from Quentin’s loan. “This if you check now.”
The farmer was out of his chair and heading for the door before he had to say more.
Suddenly, the whole roomful of men was eager to solve the puzzle of who might have traversed the lane that day.
“Hanes been shearing his sheep down yonder!” one man yelled. “He uses the iron railway to send the fleece up to London.”
The railway! Of course. If Abby was fascinated with the railway, Fitz could only imagine the extent of Tommy’s interest. The boy might even be naive enough to think it could take them all the way to their sister.
He pitched another coin at the man who had offered the suggestion. “Where do I find the railway?”
Three of the younger lads hastened to show him in hopes of earning more of his coins. Little did they know that the noble lord in his fancy coat and frills was down to his last few shillings.
Even though the storm clouds and rain diminished the dying light of a summer evening, Fitz could see that no wagonloads of sheepskin waited at the railway. Wagoners from the nearby brewery, loading kegs of ale, looked up in curiosity as he ran through the mud and drizzle down the side of the rails, calling Tommy’s name.
“If ye’re lookin’ for the childern, they’s scampered when old Hanes caught them in his wagon,” one of the drivers called.
Fitz thought he might fall on his knees in gratitude. At least they hadn’t been delivered up to the depravities of London yet. He handed over another of his shillings and studied the miserable rail yard through the foggy mist. Tommy might have got himself anywhere, but he had three younger ones with him. He couldn’t go far.
“How long ago?” he asked, scanning the brewery, then past to the warehouses and cottages abandoned after the railway was built.
The driver shrugged. “Few hours ago. Before the rain started.”
The lads who had accompanied him looked less interested in getting soaked now that he’d handed his coin to someone who had actually seen the runaways. Without money, Fitz couldn’t ask them to help search their surroundings.
It was slowly dawning on him that earning coins by gambling was an occupation for an idler with no other responsibilities. Abby was absolutely correct. A man wouldn’t have time for both gambling and children.
He stalked off alone through the downpour, shouting, “Tommy! Jennie!” in hopes they would trust him enough to come out from wherever they were hiding. Praying they were still hiding.
His boots squelched soggily as he walked. He hadn’t worn a cloak in the humid summer air, and now even his waistcoat was soaked through to his shirt, and his breeches were plastered to his skin. “I must be out of my mind,” he grumbled, knocking at doors of empty warehouses, opening any that were unlocked. “She’ll need her income to feed the brats,” he muttered, scanning still another empty building. “What was I thinking of, asking her to marry when I can’t feed one child, much less four others? Far better that she toddle back to her farm once I wring Tommy’s neck and terrify him so he never does this again.”
He was slogging through a mud puddle, debating whether to bother checking a house so derelict that it appeared the roof would cave in, when he heard a child’s voice—and his pulse accelerated as if he held a winning hand.
“Thomas Merriweather, your sister will catch her death of ague hunting for you, so you’d best come out now before that happens!” As soon as he shouted this angry command, Fitz kicked himself for not promising bribes of food or hugs or whatever appealed to young children, but he was exasperated, worried, and ready to tear down walls with his bare hands.
“In here, sir,” a small voice piped. “Tommy hurt his leg.”
Fitz had spent the worst summer of his life propped in bed with a broken leg. Heart firmly embedded in throat, Fitz searched the blinding mist until he located a small hand waving from the doorway of an abandoned cottage. He waded through the puddles to the rickety steps.
If her watery smile was any indication, little Jennifer was happy to see him. The house was dark and his eyes had to adjust before he could find Tommy propped against a wall, wearing what appeared to be his shirt wrapped around his bare calf. Two toddlers slept on a sheepskin on the floor, thumbs planted in their cherub mouths.
The girl barely older than Penny hiccuped on her sobs and wiped at the tearstains on her cheeks. “Is Abby coming for us?”
Saying nothing, Tommy scowled defiantly, crossing his arms over a skinny chest clothed only in his coat. Their executor might have it right—Tommy needed a man’s hand, but only if that man cared. As Weatherston apparently did not.
“If I know your sister, she has commandeered a carriage and is leading a parade to Croydon right now,” Fitz said cheerfully, not letting them see his terror, which was only starting to subside. He still needed to figure out how to get them back to wherever they belonged.
“We want to go home,” Tommy demanded.
Fitz was pretty certain he didn’t mean home to his guardians. “You’ll be lucky your sister doesn’t tie you to a fence post and lash you within an inch of y
our life for endangering these little ones,” Fitz countered. He knew nothing of caring for injuries and rather thought Tommy would scream bloody murder should he try to take a look at his leg. He had only one chance to do this right. And he was ruining it by unleashing his anger.
“Mr. Weatherston hates us,” Tommy shouted in frustration. “It’s the twins’ birthday this week, and Abby invited us to visit, and he wouldn’t let us go, so we decided to go ourselves.”
All of Fitz’s aggravation and panic abruptly drained out of him. They were children, helpless to change anything in their world, with no understanding of why they were being treated as they were. “You should have told your sister,” he admonished, more gently this time. “She would have found some way of seeing you. How bad is the leg? Can you walk?”
“I banged it when they chased us.” Suspicious and not totally mollified, Tommy watched for his reaction.
“It bled all over,” Jennifer said. “It looks awful.”
Fitz thought such sisterly concern would not be appreciated by this young boy trying so hard to be a man.
He maintained a stoic expression until he could figure out what to do. If he displayed the children publicly at an inn, the Weatherstons might hear of it before he could send word to Abby.
With an assurance he didn’t feel, he crouched down beside Tommy to check the bleeding and test to see if the leg truly wasn’t broken.
“Can we go home when Abby comes?” Jennifer asked. “The twins cry for her every night.”
Her plea would have him weeping. “You will have to ask your sister.” He retied the bandage and met Tommy’s eyes. “It’s chilly and damp here. I can take you over to the inn where there’s a fire and beds and send word to London. I don’t know how soon my message will reach your sister, who is probably on the road right now.”
Tommy’s lips trembled, but Abby’s stubbornness shone brightly in his eyes. “The Weatherstons would find us first. He’d beat us.”
“I won’t let your guardians lay a hand on you,” Fitz vowed. He had to resist the impulse to leave them here, find a card game, and win enough to buy food while waiting for Abby to come tell him what to do. He had only the vaguest notion of what a real parent would do, but if this were Penny in this derelict hut, he’d want her somewhere safe immediately. Decision made. “You will have to trust my word. I can’t leave you here.”
The Wicked Wyckerly Page 21