A Heart in Jeopardy

by Holly Newman

  "Dev, rather than taking the horses to the village to be shod, why don't you have a blacksmith at Castle Marin? With all your horses and the estate's needs, surely you'd have enough work to keep one well occupied," David Fitzhugh said that morning as he and Deveraux rode ahead of the groom leading three mares to the village smithy.

  "True enough." Deveraux shifted in his saddle, the leather creaking. "But what would the fellow do when Nevin returns and I take my horses elsewhere? I'd be burdening the estate with the cost of another wage, for you know Nevin's too kind-hearted to lay the chap off." Fitzhugh was silent his lips compressed into a frown. He doubted any of them would ever see Brandon again, but Deveraux wouldn't—couldn't—accept that, not that he blamed him. If it was his brother who was ill with consumption, most likely he'd feel the same. Still, Dev's refusal to make any decision that might have permanent ramifications went against the trust his brother placed in him. Not that he saw it that way, of course. Damn pity. He was wracking himself in a manner that would torment his brother if he but knew.

  "I don't think Nevin would wish you to leave," he said slowly. "Leastwise, not in the near term."

  Deveraux glared at him. "Damn it David. Don't talk like that He will be back!" Then suddenly, as if he could read Fitzhugh's mind, see all the doubts there: "He must!" He did not want to be Earl. Not at the expense of his brother. He glanced at Fitzhugh, but the man glumly shook his head.

  "No!" Deveraux ground out through clenched teeth. He kicked his horse into a gallop, passing the groom and Fitzhugh, leaving them to make their way on to the village as best they may, anger and a terrible nibbling fear driving him on.

  He drew rein before the blacksmith's and went in to tell the man three of his horses were on the way.

  Harold Rawson, the blacksmith, glanced up from the red glowing iron rod he held against the anvil, nodded once, then swung the hammer with a fluid, powerful grace against the metal to pound it into shape. He raised it then brought it forward again, the sound of metal clanging against metal ringing throughout the village. "Ye still got that mustard-haired female up at ta Castle?" he asked, pausing to turn the shoe over.

  "Yes. Why?"

  Rawson stuck the shoe back in the fire then sniffed, and rubbed the side of his nose with a grimy finger. "There's talk." He pumped the bellows to fan the coals.

  Deveraux leaned back against a wooden support post. Rawson was a taciturn man by nature. He seldom commented on what he heard around him and never initiated conversation unless it was about some job he'd been asked to do. For him to comment was cause for attention. "What kind of talk?" he asked carefully, crossing one leg in front of the other and his arms across his chest.

  He squinted up at him. "That she ain't no innocent."

  "In what way?" Deveraux casually studied the fingernails of his right hand; but his body thrummed with tension.

  "Being said she planned t' whole." He removed the shoe from the fire and set it on the anvil again. "Takin' the family fer a pack o' fools." He swung the hammer against the shoe.

  "To what purpose?"

  Rawson looked up and shrugged, swinging the hammer again. "No one arsked that question. Talk of takin' matters into ther own hands."

  "What?!" Deveraux straightened, his feet planted firmly apart, his arms rigid at his sides.

  Rawson shrugged once more. "Thought ye should know."

  "Damnation!" Deveraux swung around and rammed the post with his fist, scraping and cutting his knuckles. Blood beaded on his skin, but he didn't notice. The pain in his hand warred with the rage in his head. "Who's saying this?"

  Rawson poured water over the shoe, steam rising and hissing before him. "Everyone at the tavern," he said, bobbing his head in that direction. "But the idea were put there by a stranger."

  "Who?"

  The smith shook his head. "Light-haired gent. Dresses like a swell, but gots callouses on his hands. Nasty lookin' cut on his cheek, too."

  "I gave instructions that I was to be notified of any strangers in the area!" Deveraux paced the small open space in front of Rawson's work area. "Damn it! Why wasn't I told?!"

  "Claims he's a robin redbreast."

  Deveraux swung around. A Bow Street Runner? Yes, a runner could convince the people of almost anything. They'd be afraid not to believe. Too, they'd cooperate—maybe beyond the truth—to aid one of those representatives of the law. "Do you believe him, Rawson?" Behind him, he heard Fitzhugh and the groom with the horses to be shod ride up.

  Rawson rubbed the side of his nose. "Cain't say as I do or don't. But, ain't got no occurrence book that I's seen. Thought ye ought ta know."

  "Thank you. I'll look into it... By the way, don't believe it."

  The smith nodded. He rubbed the palms of his hands on the seat of his pants, then went to meet the groom and have him bring one of the horses in.

  "What was that all about?" Fitzhugh asked as he dismounted. He saw Deveraux's hand. "What happened?" Deveraux glanced down at his hand and frowned. "Nothing," he said, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to bind around the hand.

  "That was an awfully bloody nothing," Fitzhugh said caustically.

  "I slammed my fist into a post that's all," Deveraux admitted, goaded. "It's nothing. Come on." He strode angrily past Fitzhugh and out of the blacksmith's shop.

  "Slammed your hand into a post?! Dev! What's going on? Where are we going?"

  "To the tavern, to see if we can find a man who claims to be a Bow Street Runner."

  "A Runner!"

  "Yes. A man with fair hair and a scar on his cheek who's been busy convincing everyone that Miss Leonard is in league with Chrissy's kidnappers."

  "What! Impossible."

  "My sentiments exactly," Deveraux said grimly as they strode quickly across the village to the tavern standing at the crossroads.

  "Are you saying he's believed?"

  "I don't know yet but I'd hazard to guess he is. No word has come to me regarding strangers in the village, and I left strict instructions."

  "Egad! And a scar on his cheek? You think where Miss Leonard said she drew blood?"

  "Yes." He pushed open the door to the tavern, and they went inside. The interior was dark, especially after coming in out of the brilliant sunlight. They stood still for a moment to allow their eyes to adjust then walked in and sat at a round table near the health. A pretty barmaid patted her red hair into place and bit her lips to redden them before coming over to serve them.

  "Good day, Mr. Deveraux. It's been a while. And what can ol' Madge git ye today?"

  "Porter for both of us and a moment of your time, for me."

  Her eyes widened. "Coo ... I should be that delighted," she said, scurrying off to fetch two tankards.

  "Dev! What are you about, man? I suppose she's comely enough, but in your own neighborhood? Not wise, ol' boy."

  Deveraux scowled. "I'm not interested in bedding the wench—"

  Fitzhugh gave a shout of laughter. "That's not what she thinks!"

  "Blast it, you're right My mind's not thinking clearly. This has affected me more than I'd realized.... Ah, thank you, ah—Madge, is it?" He took a long draw on his drink. He drew a gold coin out of his pocket and laid it casually on the table. "I understand there's been a gentleman here of late who claims to be a Bow Street Runner."

  Madge's eyes riveted on the gold coin. She drew up a chair next to Deveraux's and sat down, her eyes never leaving the gleaming money. "Yes, sar."

  "Does he have a name?"

  "Not that I be knowin'," she confessed, a twinge of fear in her eyes that her answer would see the gold coin disappear. "Though I didst hear someone call him 'Arry. . . . Gerby, I think called 'im that. You know, the groom from your castle."

  "My brother's castle," he corrected automatically.

  She shrugged, then she smiled and boldly walked the fingers of one hand up his arm.

  He grabbed her hand and put it back down on the table, over the gold coin, holding it there. "What was this Harry saying?
"

  She shrugged again and pouted a little. Fitzhugh caught Deveraux's eye and winked. He drew a gold coin from his pocket holding it up between two fingers. It caught what dim light streamed in a grimy, soot-streaked window and glistened. Madge licked her lips. "Well, it does seem to me that he were sayin' as 'ow that woman at the castle were involved with kidnappin' the earl's daughter. Got right lively 'ere t' other night when folks from the castle were 'ere. Lots a yellin' and swearing. Did a good night's business, we did."

  "What was all the yelling and swearing about?" Deveraux asked softly. Fitzhugh laid the coin an inch away from the woman's fingers.

  "Said they was gonna take care of 'er and see no 'arm come to the family. Let 'er know right enough they knowed what she's about. Make 'er life 'ell so she'd think twice about doin' anythin'.'' She wriggled her fingers underneath his hand, trying to inch forward.

  "Where is this ah—Bow Street Runner?"

  She shrugged. "Lit out last night sometime during the night, he did. Left money on the pillow real gentlemanly like."

  Deveraux lifted his hand from hers, and like a striking snake her hand shot forward to capture the second gold coin. She tucked them both in her bodice.

  "You've been very helpful," Deveraux said, chucking her under the chin. He lifted his tankard to drain it.

  "Come back again, and I be pleased to show you 'ow right helpful I can be," she drawled, thrusting her chest forward to brush against his arm as he rose to leave.

  Outside, the men made their way back through the village toward the blacksmith's. They were halfway there when one of the Nevin carriages bowled down the lane. Seeing Nigel and Fitzhugh, Lady Lucille pulled up.

  "What's the matter? You look like the very devil, Nigel," Lucy teased.

  "Isn't Miss Leonard with you?" he asked, trying to identify the other woman sitting beyond his sister.

  "No. She was to come, but Miss Benedict got it into her head that if we were going to buy ribbons for Chrissy's dress, then she must come, too. She insists she's protecting Chrissy, as if anything could happen now that the whole district is on alert!"

  "Is that so, Miss Benedict?" Deveraux inquired with chilling politeness.

  "Nigel, what is—"

  He waved his sister to silence, his attention centered on the governess sitting primly next to Chrissy. "And from what—or should I say, from whom—are you protecting Chrissy?"

  The governess was taken aback by his manner but answered briskly. "From Miss Leonard, sir. We—the staff— know her to be the person responsible for Lady Christiana's kidnapping."

  Chrissy's and Lucy's mouths opened in dumb surprise. "What?" they said together.

  She gave them a gentle, superior smile. "I know it is hard to believe, but there it is."

  "As heard from a Bow Street Runner, is that correct, Miss Benedict?"

  "What Bow Street Runner?" demanded Lucy, her hands accidentally tightening on the reins. The horse sidled backward and Fitzhugh grabbed the harness. She scowled at her own clumsiness and nodded her thanks toward Fitzhugh, then returned her attention to her brother. "What are you talking about?"

  "It means, little sister, that not content with setting fire to a dovecote or attempting to steal a horse, our enemies are now attempting to create dissention within the ranks. Howard North has been very busy hereabouts letting people believe he is a Bow Street Runner engaged in solving the mystery of Chrissy's kidnapping. But I never notified or engaged Bow Street, nor did I offer a reward, which is, I understand, the prime manner in which the Runners do business."

  The governess blanched. "You did not contact Bow Street?"

  "Haven't I just said so, woman?" Deveraux snapped. He shook his head in wonder at the stupidity of their loyal staff. With a staff as loyal as that they'd soon find themselves all murdered in their beds! "What I did was leave specific instructions that I was to be advised of any strangers in the area. I have not been and, as a consequence, North has been operating with impunity right at our back door!"

  "Oh, dear," murmured Miss Benedict, beginning to wring her hands.

  "How do you know it was this North fellow?" Lucy asked.

  "His description matches the one that Sir Nathan got from the servants at Lion's Gate and from Miss Leonard and Miss Sprockett. The recent cut on his face is more than likely the wound Leo—I mean, Miss Leonard inflicted when she hit him with the carriage whip."

  "And everyone believed him?" Lucy asked, confused.

  Her brother nodded.

  "That's stupid. How can anyone be that dumb?" She turned toward Miss Benedict, making a face at her as she shook her head.

  "I suggest you head home. I believe Miss Benedict has not been the only person to show her antipathy."

  "You mean stupidity," said Chrissy, folding her arms across her chest and giving her governess a disgusted look. "Poor Leona!"

  Deveraux cracked a smile. "Why? Don't you think Miss Leonard will be able to put them all summarily in their places?"

  Lucy shook her head. "She's capable, but I don't think she will. I don't think she's very good at looking out for herself. Just others," she said, gathering up the reins. Fitzhugh let go of the harness.

  Deveraux laughed. "I find that hard to believe. We will see you back home. Come on, Fitzhugh."

  As they turned to walk away, they heard Chrissy launch into Miss Benedict, calling her a gudgeon, a silly widgeon, a goose cap, and other names that got lost in the wind as the carriage headed back toward Castle Marin. The men ran to the blacksmith's shop.

  "Rawson, would you mind keeping the horses here for a while?" Deveraux asked, flicking a coin in his direction. The blacksmith caught it easily and told him he'd be obliged. Then Deveraux turned toward the young groom who accompanied them into town. "Get your horse," he barked.

  "Easy, Dev . . . We don't know how rampant this is."

  "Oh, don't we? I'll wager it's on the lips and minds of everyone at Castle Marin and in the village. Do you know what that kind of rumor can do to someone?"

  "Miss Leonard strikes me as a very strong person."

  "She is, but no one's that strong," Deveraux said bitterly, "no one!"

  "Leona! Where's Miss Leonard?''

  Deveraux's angry voice resounded through the entrance hall and into the surrounding rooms. Leona heard him quite clearly from the library. She laid the book of poetry down beside her on the sofa.

  "Nigel! What are you shouting for?" It was Lady Nevin. The countess sounded irritated. "Leona went into the village with Lucy and Chrissy."

  "No, she didn't. Purboy, have you seen Miss Leonard?"

  Leona tried but couldn't hear the butler's response.

  "Damnation! You, too?"

  "Nigel what is going on?" demanded Lady Nevin, her voice louder now.

  Leona swung her feet to the floor and leaned forward, straining to hear the ensuing low-voiced conversation between Deveraux and his mother.

  "Purboy, summon the staff to assemble here in fifteen minutes. No, there shall be no excuses. Absence shall mean immediate termination!" Deveraux suddenly ordered just before the door to the library crashed open, rattling pictures on the wall.

  Leona fell back against the sofa cushions, one hand creeping up to cover her heart beating frantically in her chest. A tiny sound escaped her, a tiny mew of fear as she stared wide-eyed at the sight of Nigel Deveraux in the doorway. His black hair was in wild disarray, his dirt-streaked coat reminding Leona of the first time she saw him. A handkerchief wound around the knuckles of his right hand showed evidence of fresh blood.

  He strode into the room and firmly closed the library door behind him, shutting out the curious faces of his mother, Maria, and Fitzhugh.

  Leona shrank back into a comer of the sofa, biting her lower lip as her eyes searched his face for any clue to his thoughts.

  He stopped three feet away and stood towering over her, his face a mask, his eyes hard, glittering gems. A muscle in the granite surface of one cheek jumped spasmodically. He stood sta
ring down at her, taking in her pallor, her wide vulnerable eyes. Her expression tore at his insides. This was not how his Leona should be. She should be fighting and spitting and yelling enough to give the devil his due! What have they done to her?

  He dropped down to his knees before her and softly repeated the question.

  Dumbly, Leona shook her head.

  "Leona—" Gently he reached out to pull her hand away from her heart and to enfold it in one of his own. "Tell me."

  "No." The single word came out on a soft breath of air.

  Deveraux swore and dropped her hand. He bowed his head a moment, then rose and ran his hand through his thick black hair. He paced before the sofa. "I know about the rumors," he said harshly and grimaced. "I know about Miss Benedict. She has been sharply reprimanded—more by Chrissy than me!" he added, a ghost of a reluctant smile pulling at his lips. "Obviously you also have become aware of what the servants are saying or you would not be hiding in here."

  That stung. Her eyes flashed as she straightened her body and folded her hands in her lap. "I am not hiding!"

  "No? Then why do I come in here to find you cowering?"

  "I was merely uncertain as to your reaction. I didn't know—" She stopped, compressing her lips tightly as color swept up her cheeks.

  "Didn't know if I believed them or not? Confound it, woman, how could you for a moment imagine . . ." He stared at her then swore under his breath. He walked to a nearby cabinet to pour himself a glass of port. He looked inquiringly at Leona. She shook her head. Grimly he tossed back the contents of the glass. "Not since that first half hour after I met you have I believed you were involved," he said distinctly, biting out each word. "Each day I spend in your company I see how ridiculous it was to hold the idea for even thirty minutes!"

  "Thank you," she murmured, looking down at her hands.

  "Still, that doesn't explain why you are cowering in here. It doesn't seem natural for you to cave in to lies."

  "I am not cowering. I just wish to avoid scenes."

  "You do not seem to have that notion normally," he observed caustically.