The Runaway Heiress

by Anne O'Brien

  Miss Vowchurch laughed with brittle humour, smoothing her kid gloves over her fingers.

  ‘Take care if you are travelling with Aldeborough. History sometimes has a habit of repeating itself.’

  ‘Forgive me.’ A faint line appeared between Frances’s dark brows. ‘I do not take your meaning.’

  ‘Why, nothing of consequence. Merely that travel is so dangerous these days. I travel as little as necessary outside London. Ah! Look.’ She raised her hand in greeting. ‘Here is Lady Sefton. I must speak with her—a message from my mama. Enjoy your stay in rural tranquillity, my lady.’ She extended an elegant hand in farewell. ‘I look forward to hearing all about it when you return. And your plans for the Priory, of course.’

  She turned to cross the street, the feathers on her satin straw bonnet nodding gracefully.

  ‘And what do you suppose she meant by that cryptic comment?’ Frances raised her eyebrows at Juliet’s animated face.

  ‘I have no idea.’ Juliet shrugged with another crow of laughter. ‘But I’m sure it was intended to cause trouble. I have never met anyone who can say so little and so pleasantly and intend so much harm. Do you think we managed to inflict on her as much discomfort as she intended for you?’

  ‘I expect so. Juliet, you are incorrigible!’

  ‘I know. But I could not allow her to patronise you so. Mama is bad enough.’

  You showed a great gift for innuendo! I must remember not to cross you.’

  ‘You must not mind her, you know, Frances.’ Juliet took her arm in a warm embrace. ‘It is simply a case of overwhelming jealousy. She had staked her future on being Marchioness, and now she is left in the unenviable position of having no suitor. And considering the family’s financial situation, she is not likely to find another one very easily who will suit her mama. She has very high expectations. To give him his due, I don’t believe that Hugh ever did intend to marry her and I think Richard only did so because Mama wanted it and he could not be bothered to obstruct her.’

  ‘They are very alike, are they not? Your mama and Penelope.’

  ‘Yes. What was it she called herself? A town mouse! A rat more like!’

  The two ladies laughed in perfect understanding.

  ‘I am truly grateful,’ Juliet concluded as they turned back towards Cavendish Square, ‘that you rescued us from the prospect of Penelope as a member of the family. I think we shall always be in your debt, my dear sister.’

  Chapter Eight

  Frances clung to the leather strap to prevent herself from being flung to the floor with every lurch and shudder of the coach. For the past several hours, since leaving York, they had bumped and swayed over the rutted track that provided the main road to Aldeborough Priory. This stretch was never easy, but inclement spring weather had churned it into a disaster of mud, mire and puddle. The coach was as comfortable as she had come to expect—her husband inevitably travelled in style—but its hard springing and the rigid cushions made such lengthy journeys exhausting. This did not depress Frances in any way. She smoothed her fingers over the soft fur rug tucked round her knees against the sharp draughts and rested her head as comfortably as possible against the padded squabs. Within two hours they would be at Aldeborough. Her spirits were high, buoyed up by the prospect of varied scenery, compensating for her physical discomfort.

  And by the presence of Aldeborough. She had expected him to ride beside the coach as was his wont and as he had on their previous journey together to London. Instead he had opted to accompany her inside, his riding horse tied to the rear of the coach, while the rest of their luggage followed with Webster some distance behind at a more leisurely pace. Aldeborough travelled fast. If she had expected him to entertain her with conversation or comments on their surroundings, she had been wrong. Aldeborough was asleep, and had been for more than an hour, braced into the corner, one booted foot firmly planted on the seat opposite.

  I don’t know how you can possibly sleep through all this, she accused him silently, aggrieved, as they laboured out of yet another pothole. But she took the opportunity and indeed, pleasure to study his relaxed form at leisure. His strong hands lay at ease on his thigh. His figure was shrouded in a voluminous caped travelling coat, but by now she knew the set of his broad shoulders and well co-ordinated limbs. His expression in repose was stern, his mouth unsmiling with fine lines at the corner that gave him an air of worldly cynicism. It was a compelling face of flat planes and shadowy hollows with the faintest frown between his well-marked brows. His dark hair, thick and with a tendency to curl, gleaming like silk in a sudden intrusive shaft of sunlight, created in Frances the desire to run her fingers through it. She felt a warm flush invade her body at the train of her thoughts. She knew the intimate touch of those hands and lips, the virile strength of that well-muscled body. Her thoughts kept returning to that night after the Taverners’ ball—and subsequent nights when he had come to her bed and welcoming arms. Her experiences had been in no way unpleasant, awakening even. She remembered the sensations with shocked pleasure as she had been persuaded to relax and respond to Aldeborough’s expert attentions. So what were her feelings for him now? She bit her lip. She supposed she trusted him. And he had been so gentle and considerate. And he had turned her blood to molten gold with his caresses. She felt her blush deepen and was relieved that he could not read her thoughts. How could such an intimate act have given her so much pleasure rather than the fear and embarrassment of their previous encounters? But it had.

  But what of him? She frowned at his oblivious figure. If rumour were true, with his wide experience of the female sex, he had probably not given her a second thought except what was demanded for duty and to achieve an heir to the title. And of course there was still the unresolved matter of Mrs Letitia Winters with her golden curls and enticing figure. Aldeborough had not denied her angry accusations after all. And yet he had seemed to care when he smoothed her scars with such gentle fingers. And such scorching kisses.

  Stop it! she chided herself as her thoughts went round in circles. He doesn’t care for you. You are a burden and a means to an end, tied into a marriage of convenience in its truest sense. How could you possibly allow yourself to be won over by a handsome face and a wealth of worldly experience. You would be foolish to think in that direction. She deliberately turned her face away from her companion to stare blindly at the scenery that she had once thought so entertaining.

  The coach began to climb steadily to the edge of the Wolds, after the drear expanse of the Vale of York, with even more jolting, forcing Frances to brace her aching muscles once more. Their speed dropped considerably, but the crest of the Wolds was in sight. They would soon be home. Suddenly her confused thoughts about Aldeborough were shattered by a loud oath from Benson on the box while the groom who rode beside him leaned down, at great risk to his own safety, to shout through the open window of the coach.

  ‘Four riders ahead, Captain—m’lord. Been there some time an’ all. By yonder copse on the brow, d’you see. Don’t like the look of them m’self.’

  Aldeborough was instantly awake, pushing his fingers through his hair and leaning to look out at the groom’s direction.

  ‘They’re coming this way, Captain. What d’you want for us to do?’

  ‘Keep driving.’ Aldeborough’s response was as calm as if engaged in a discussion of the weather. ‘It is too dangerous to outrun them on this road anyway, even if we could. We would smash a wheel or injure one of the horses in these potholes. Let’s see what they want. And, Jed …’

  ‘Yes, m’lord?’

  ‘Keep your pistols to hand!’

  Frances leaned over to follow his gaze. The four riders were unremarkable. Their clothing was plain and sombre with dark hats and coats. Nothing to attract attention except their presence on a lonely road and their watchful attitude. She felt an immediate flutter of apprehension, of fear, but remained silent, trying admirably to keep her composure and merely glancing enquiringly at Aldeborough.

&
nbsp; His grey eyes were cold and sharply calculating. ‘I don’t like the look of this,’ he admitted. ‘Here!’

  He rummaged behind one of the squabs and withdrew a brace of pistols from a hidden compartment, one of which he gave to Frances. ‘It is primed and loaded. Use it if you have to. And with intent. You cannot afford to be squeamish. Can I trust you not to have a maidenly attack of the vapours?’

  ‘I have never had an attack of the vapours in my life!’

  He smiled at her indignation and proceeded to give her instructions, terse but calm, and Frances responded with a mute nod of understanding. The other pistol he wedged carefully on the floor beneath the seat, within reach from the door. Then he stretched across and took Frances by the arm, pulling her from the seat and on to the floor.

  ‘Keep your head down. They may not see you to begin with and that could be to our advantage. Do you understand?’ He scanned her face searchingly. She nodded again, ignoring her trembling hands, and tried to swallow the lump of terror that had lodged in her throat. ‘Good. Don’t worry. We will come out of this in one piece.’ He touched her cheek fleetingly and returned to his own seat.

  Immediately a shot rang out. The coachman began to pull his horses to a standstill, fighting to curb them as they plunged and reared in reaction to the loud retort. Muffled shouts were evident and then a clear voice issued orders.

  ‘Be still! Don’t move or we’ll open fire. No tricks now—there’s more of us than there are of you an’ we’re not averse to some target practice, are we, lads? Throw down your pistols. Gently now. That’s right.’

  The coach lumbered to a stop. Aldeborough still waited, making no move other than to signal to Frances to remain where she was at his feet. The voice rang out again.

  ‘My lord Aldeborough!’

  He smiled briefly and reassuringly at Frances, opened the coach door and leapt down into the road in one fluid movement. Before him were the four riders, blocking any further movement from the coach and all brandishing pistols.

  ‘My lord Aldeborough?’ their spokesman queried again, but he was clearly in no doubt. Aldeborough flourished an arrogant bow in his direction.

  ‘At your service, sirs.’

  ‘We’ve been expecting you, isn’t that right, lads?’

  ‘And how might I help? Jewels? Money? I fear that you are bound to be disappointed. I travel light.’

  ‘Now what makes you so sure that we’re common robbers, your honour?’ The rider leaned forward on his horse’s withers, waving the pistol and grinning at his companions. ‘We’ll be well paid for today’s work. We don’t need your money.’

  ‘I am, you will notice, unarmed. Which should make your task so much easier.’ Aldeborough spread his arms wide, displaying nothing but cold detachment, certainly not the fear that was paralysing Frances as she listened to the exchange.

  ‘All to our advantage, then. And where’s your pretty little wife? Not with you?’

  ‘No. I travel alone.’

  ‘Now that’s a pity. We expected both of you.’

  Frances was still half-lying in an uncomfortable huddle on the floor of the coach. She could hear the conversation clearly and, if she raised herself a little on her left elbow, could see the head and shoulders of the horseman through the coach window. He was as yet unaware of her presence, as Aldeborough had gambled, concentrating on his quarry. She was contemplating her best move, fighting down the surge of panic, when what she saw next made her blood run cold through her veins. The rider raised his pistol to shoulder height and aimed it deliberately at Aldeborough’s heart.

  ‘A pity you’ll not live to enjoy your ungodly, ill-gotten gains,’ he mocked with a sneer. ‘You seem to have made one enemy too many, my lord.’

  ‘Very probably. Perhaps I should have lived a more virtuous existence. As you obviously are.’ Frances winced in some anxiety at Aldeborough’s deliberate provocation. ‘And which particular enemy did you have in mind? Who is paying you for this act of righteous revenge?’

  ‘Not your concern,’ he snarled. ‘You’ll soon have no interest in anything other than the fires of Hell, will he, lads?’

  ‘Let’s finish it.’ One of the other riders, keeping the coachman and groom covered, shifted in his saddle uncomfortably. ‘We’ve been here too long.’

  The rider in Frances’s sights grunted in agreement, checked his aim and cocked his pistol. She dared hesitate no longer. Without further thought she raised and cocked her own pistol, praying that the sharp click would not carry, took a minimum of aim through the coach window, held her breath and pulled the trigger. The shot reverberated deafeningly round her in the confines of the coach. She could not see the result of her action since the recoil threw her back on to the floor, but the result outside was instant pandemonium. The rider dropped his pistol with a sharp cry, clapping his hand to his chest and fighting to keep control of his horse, which shied violently. Aldeborough immediately launched himself towards the open coach door, leaning inside and snatching up the second pistol from where he had hidden it beneath the seat. All in one smooth movement he fell to his knees and aimed at the second rider who was approaching rapidly, pistol raised, to finish off the job where his compatriot had failed. At the crack of Aldeborough’s own weapon he fell to the ground and lay motionless in the mud as his horse made its escape. Meanwhile, galvanised into action by the sudden turn of events, the coachman raised his long whip and brought it down again and again on the head and shoulders of the third rider.

  There was still one armed rider who had them at his mercy. Aldeborough, with no firearm for his protection, remained on his knees beside the coach as the rider circled cautiously round to the opposite side, leaning from his horse to peer through the window and so catching sight of Frances cowering on the floor. She saw his face suddenly split by a grin of malicious satisfaction as he realised that he still held a trump card.

  ‘Stand up, my lord,’ he shouted. ‘There’s no hiding. Stand up and be seen or I’ll shoot your fair companion ‘ere.’

  There was a moment of terrible silence. There was no questioning his intention as he levelled his pistol into the interior of the coach. He could not possibly miss Frances from this range. She closed her eyes and waited, praying that Aldeborough would not expose himself to sure death, praying for a miracle to save herself.

  Then a maëlstrom of events erupted round her. Aldeborough rose to his feet and stepped from the shelter of the coach to draw the rider’s attention from Frances. The groom leapt from the box and attacked the whip-beleaguered rider with blows to legs and body. As the fourth assassin aimed his pistol away from Frances towards the now vulnerable Aldeborough, there came the unmistakable sound of horses’ hooves, pounding the road surface in the distance but coming rapidly closer. Frances rose to her knees, dragging her hampering skirts around her, and launched herself to fall out of the coach and land on the floor at her husband’s feet. Without thought for her own safety, her heart thudding loudly in her chest, she steadied herself against the rear wheel and flung her useless pistol with all her strength into the face of their attacker. Her aim was not true, but it had the desired effect. The marksman reacted automatically in surprise, dropping his aim and pulling up his horse’s head sharply. Aldeborough saw his chance to grasp the horse’s bridle and drag on the rider’s arm to spoil his aim and attempt to unseat him. In the background the hoofbeats grew louder, three figures bearing down on them, everything happening so quickly but to Frances seemingly to stretch for a lifetime.

  A distant shout from the rescuers carried on the air. The two uninjured riders realised that escape was now in their best interests. One untangled himself with a string of oaths from the coachman’s whip and the groom’s blows, the other pulled free from Aldeborough’s grip by using the horse’s shoulder to pin him to the side of the coach. Aldeborough had no option but to release him or be crushed by half a ton of horseflesh so that, by the time the newcomers arrived on the scene, the riders had made off to the crest of the Wol
ds, leaving two of their number lying in the mud.

  ‘What kept you?’ Aldeborough’s smile relaxed the lines of tension around his mouth. ‘We were in urgent need of you ten minutes ago.’

  ‘My God, Hugh!’ Ambrose assessed the dramatic tableau before him. ‘I’m relieved to see that you’re in such good spirits in the circumstances.’ He and Matthew dismounted from their blowing horses, handing their reins to the accompanying groom, as Aldeborough stretched out his hand to help Frances climb somewhat shakily to her feet.

  ‘What on earth …?’ asked Matthew but Aldeborough shook his head slightly and his brother was quick to pick up the unspoken hint. ‘You look as if you’ve been travelling on the floor,’ he continued smoothly, addressing himself to Frances with a grin as he surveyed her dishevelled appearance. ‘Did Hugh insist on such ill treatment? I’ll knock him down for you if you wish. Just give the word.’

  ‘I’m afraid he did.’ She returned his smile, grateful for his deliberate lightening of the tension, as she attempted unsuccessfully to brush some of the mud from her skirts. She was not fooled. She was well aware of her husband’s unwillingness to discuss the implications of the previous ten minutes in front of her.

  ‘Of course I did. Didn’t you know it’s in the marriage contract? And Molly is an expert at travelling under coach seats.’ Aldeborough turned to Ambrose. ‘Would you cast an eye over our two dubious friends for a moment?’ Then as Ambrose, followed by Matthew, moved to stoop over the two bodies, he turned to Frances. ‘I trust you are unharmed, my lady,’ he enquired gently. He might have been asking if she had slept well, but nothing could disguise the expression of concern in his eyes or the churning mass of fury in his gut at the prospect of what might have happened to her at the hands of the assassins.

  ‘Yes,’ she answered with clenched teeth in a forlorn attempt to stop the shivering that was taking over now that the danger had gone. ‘But what about you?’ She reached up to gently touch a graze on his right temple. He flinched.