Allegra turned. The soft-voiced man was tall and sinewy, with a coarse face at odds with the gentleness of his voice. He was dressed in the homespun of a simple farmer—dull, earth-toned linen; the felt hat on his head was shapeless, and the pistol in his fist looked like a relic of a past war.
Allegra scowled at him from under her cocked hat. If he was a footpad, he could be dangerous. “What do you want o’ me, mate? A poor lad that never done you harm?”
“Why, as to that, you be poaching in these woods, be you not? That be against the law.”
At least he wasn’t a robber. Only a simple man with a conscience. Allegra contrived to look woebegone. “Where’s the harm, mate? One little rabbit? And I be fearful hungry.”
The farmer smiled. “Never a better reason to poach, my lad.”
“Then you’ll let me go?”
“Not I, Lord love you.”
Allegra held out the rabbit. “Look. It be a fat one. Enough for two. Will you share, mate?”
The man shook his head with reluctance. “No, more’s the pity. And I can’t let you go. Sir Henry will be wanting to meet you.”
“Sir Henry? Who’s that?”
“A stranger here, are you? Well, lad, Sir Henry Crompton be the man what owns this very wood.”
That took Allegra by surprise. These woods had been part of the Baniard lands. “This…Sir Henry is the lord of these woods?”
The man nodded. “Aye. Leastwise, this side of the road. And the justice of the peace in the parish, besides.”
This time, Allegra’s woe was genuine. “Justice of the peace? Godamercy. You wouldn’t see me clapped in irons, would you?”
“Why, as to that, lad, I mean you no harm. Nonesoever. I have a boy at home what’s near as big as you. But Sir Henry gives a shilling for every poacher brought in. And my Betty is off to church with her young man on Saturday next. A shilling will buy a nice bride’s cake, don’t you see?”
“I beg you, let me go.” Desperation made Allegra’s voice catch in her throat.
“I can’t, lad. It be my bounden duty, as one of Sir Henry’s cottagers, to keep his law. Now, if you’ll hand over that coney and trot afore me…” He gestured toward the footpath with his pistol.
Reluctantly Allegra complied, wondering if she could break away and outrun him. But his strides were long and he’d surely overtake her almost at once. Besides, she wasn’t sure whether Sir Henry’s reward wasn’t payable for a dead—as well as a live—poacher. And the pistol, though old, was primed. Sick at heart, she stumbled along the path. She made one more attempt to win the farmer’s sympathy. She glanced back at him, her mouth twisted in an unhappy pout. “I be just a poor, hungry orphan, mate. A stranger to these parts, and at your mercy. Will Sir Henry take pity on an orphan, do you suppose?”
“Lord love you, no,” said the farmer cheerfully. “Sir Henry be a fair tiger when it comes to poachers. He eats ’em up. Swallows ’em whole for breakfast, he does. But don’t you fret, lad. I’ll speak for you with Sir Henry. You mind your manners, and make a leg to him, and I’ll speak for you.”
Heartened by the man’s words, Allegra allowed him to march her down the path until they reached the valley and the road that led to Newton.
Just outside the village was a snug inn that squatted by the side of the road like a plump, contented magpie, its black timbers and white plaster bright against dark-green trees. In the yard was a table, before which sat a very fat, very red-faced gentleman wearing an exuberant periwig of foaming curls and ringlets. The table was set with an elaborate meal, which the man ate with such gusto that his powdered curls brushed across the food each time he bent forward to sample another morsel. He stopped only long enough to signal his hovering servants to refill his tankard with wine, then he resumed his guzzling. The innkeeper stood nearby, beaming his approval, his sharp eye on the sack of coins next to the gentleman’s plate.
The farmer pushed Allegra forward. “Be not afeared, lad,” he whispered. “Make your bow to Sir Henry.”
Allegra watched Sir Henry stuff a chunk of roast beef into his mouth. The juices ran down his chin and stained the white napkin at his neck. She swallowed hard, twisting her coat in her fists to keep from snatching at the plates of food. She took a hesitant step and bent her leg in a bow. “Your worship,” she said.
Cheeks bulging, Sir Henry looked up and frowned, clearly vexed to be disturbed at his table. He chewed hard and swallowed, then took a large gulp of wine from his tankard. “Well, Jenkins, what is it?” he growled to the farmer.
“I found this lad in your woods, sir. With this.” Jenkins held up the rabbit.
Sir Henry’s red face turned a deeper shade. “Poaching, you mean to tell me? Upon my honor, I’ll not have it!” He fixed his eyes on Allegra. They were small and dark and greedy. “What do you mean, you young rapscallion, poaching in my woods? Don’t you know that’s a serious offense?”
Allegra hesitated, then shook her head. “No, your worship.” Maybe she could talk her way out of this. “I be new to these parts. In Carolina, the woods belong to everyone. And the rabbits. I hunted free all the time.”
Sir Henry bit down on a meat pie. The steam wafted a spicy, tantalizing aroma to Allegra’s nostrils. “Ignorance of the law is no excuse,” he muttered.
“If you please, Sir Henry,” said Jenkins, touching his hat politely, “this be a good lad. And his catch be yours now.” He held out the rabbit toward one of Sir Henry’s servants. “So what’s the harm? No need to bring the law into it.”
“Hmph! He should be made to pay. When winter comes and there’s not enough food on my table because of poachers like him, what am I to do?”
“I could give his breeches a good dusting, don’t you see, Sir Henry? Would that serve?”
“Well, he’s only a boy…I don’t wish to see a boy in irons.”
Having narrowly escaped one thrashing this morning, Allegra didn’t fancy the prospect of another. Besides, Sir Henry was beginning to look bored with the whole matter, and eager to resume his feed. Perhaps a bold attack…She jutted her chin in defiance. “I didn’t harm you nowise, your worship. The rabbit didn’t come from your land. I took it from Lord Ridley’s wood.”
Sir Henry glared at Jenkins. “Is that so?”
Jenkins kicked at a clod of dirt in the yard. “Well, I didn’t rightly see him kill it, sir. But the coney were still warm…”
“Ridley,” said Sir Henry with a sneer. “Why the devil should I care about his property? That cowardly knave doesn’t have the stomach to prosecute on his own behalf. It’s a wonder the whole parish doesn’t make off with all he owns. It was different when old Ellsmere was alive.”
“What?” Allegra gasped and fell back a step. “What did you say?” Her brain whirled with confusion; surely her lack of food was beginning to affect her hearing. “Ellsmere not alive? John Wickham…not alive?”
Sir Henry shrugged. “He’s been in his grave for nigh on to two years now.”
Allegra clenched her fists till the knuckles gleamed white. “You lie, rogue. Wickham lives!”
Sir Henry rose to his feet, his face darkening to crimson. “You dare to show me a temper, sirrah, when I’ve just spared you a prison sentence? I tell you the man died peacefully in his bed.”
I’ll go mad! thought Allegra. His words were knives, tearing at her heart, slicing it to little pieces. “He can’t be dead!” she cried. “The black-hearted devil can’t be dead! He sold Baniard Hall only last year.”
“That was his son, Thomas. The new Baron Ellsmere.”
She refused to believe it. After all this time, the years of waiting, it couldn’t be so. It couldn’t! Sir Henry was lying only to torment her. “Liar!” she shrieked. “Knave. Villain!” In a frenzy of rage and torment, she turned to the table, picked up a platter of roasted pigeons and hurled them in Sir Henry’s face.
He sputtered in fury, wiping the grease from his cheeks. His eyes were bright, like dark, hard coals glittering in the fleshin
ess of his face. “Now, boy, you’ll learn what it means to insult me! Jenkins can’t swear that the rabbit was mine, and I’ve no mind to prosecute for Ridley. You’re safe from prison, at least. But, upon my honor, you’ll pay for your insolence before I release you!” He snapped his fingers at his two manservants and pointed to an iron ring set into the side of the inn. “Tie the wretch there, and bring me a whip!”
“No!” Allegra reached for her knife as Sir Henry’s servants charged toward her. She tried to slash one of them across the forearm, but the other gave her a slap to the side of the head that knocked off her hat and sent her sprawling to the ground. Still dazed from the force of the blow, she felt herself hauled to her feet and dragged to the side of the inn. Rough hands pushed her face against the wall, stretched her arms above her head, bound her to the iron ring with a rope that cut into her wrists. She heard the tearing of her shirt and waistcoat and felt the sudden warmth of the sun on her bare back. She grunted and struggled against the cords that held her fast.
One of the servants snickered. “He has the skin of a girl. All pale and soft where the sun didn’t get it.”
“But he’s just a little thing,” said Jenkins in his soft voice. “Be merciful, Sir Henry.”
Sir Henry was beginning to puff with the mere effort of walking across the yard. “Merciful? For the insult to my person, to the memory of my good friend, John Wickham?”
Wickham. At the sound of the hated name, Allegra felt her rage ebbing, to be replaced by a cold numbness. John Wickham was dead. She cursed herself. Her failure. She should have come home sooner. She should have returned to England as soon as she’d buried Mama. Even if it had meant whoring to earn her passage.
She ceased her useless struggles. It no longer mattered, what happened to her. John Wickham was dead, but—God forgive her—not by a Baniard hand, as she had pledged to Mama.
Well, she would begin again, with fresh resolve. Thomas Wickham had done his evil part, hadn’t he? Though still a youth, he had spoken at Papa’s trial. Added the final, damning testimony that had sealed the case against her beloved parents. She would endure Sir Henry’s beating. When it was over, she would go to London and seek out Thomas Wickham for her revenge. If not the father, then the son. She would…“Godamercy!” she cried, as the whip tore into the flesh of her back. She clenched her teeth, fought to ignore the searing pain.
“Spare the boy, sir,” said Jenkins, clearly suffering along with her.
“Not yet,” panted Sir Henry.
The whip fell again. Allegra cried aloud, a deep groan torn unwillingly from her throat. Her back burned like fire, but she could hear Sir Henry’s labored breathing behind her. She prayed the punishment would be brief, that Sir Henry wouldn’t have the strength or the wind for more than a few savage cut with his whip. She held her breath, awaiting the next blow.
“What the devil are you doing, Crompton?” The voice was deep and faintly slurred. And familiar. Allegra stiffened, straining her head to see the speaker over her shoulder. Ridley! Behind him, she could just glimpse his carriage stopped on the road, his frowning young steward hurrying forward to join his master.
“Stay out of this, Ridley,” growled Sir Henry. “The boy’s a poacher of rabbits, and a damned insolent whelp besides.”
Viscount Ridley stepped closer to Allegra. His mouth was twisted in an arrogant smirk and he appeared to be even more intoxicated than he had been this morning. “I myself can attest to the creature’s insolence and savagery,” he drawled. “But, for the rest, you are in error.” His hand shot out, a knife flashed, and Allegra found herself freed of her bonds. None too gently, Ridley spun her around to face Sir Henry. “This is no boy, Crompton.” He reached for Allegra’s already torn shirt and waistcoat and stripped them down to her waist, exposing her full breasts. Ridley smiled in pleasure, his eyes focused on Allegra’s womanly curves.
She gasped and wrapped her arms around her nakedness, trying in vain to shield her body. Sir Henry gaped in amazement, his slack jaw hanging open, while his servants laughed and poked each other in the ribs. Jenkins looked disconcerted and Ridley’s steward turned red.
Ridley himself seemed to find it all a capital joke. “Poaching rabbits? You’re full of the devil, aren’t you, girl? Well, I’ll save you, if I can.”
“A pox on you,” she muttered. She wasn’t sure whether she wasn’t safer with Sir Henry Crompton and his whip than she’d be in the care of Lord Ridley, with his cruel mouth and his lustful eyes.
Sir Henry was beginning to recover from his surprise. “Maid or knave, she took a rabbit from the woods,” he began.
“Is that so, girl?” asked Ridley. He swayed unsteadily from side to side.
“I was hungry!” Allegra burst out. She had begun to shake. She didn’t know if it was from rage or hunger or the shame of being exposed in this fashion with no one to care. “And I’ve learned to fend for myself. Surely you’ve discovered that by now, milord,” she added with a touch of malice.
Ridley laughed and rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. “To my sorrow,” he said. “I fear I’ll not eat a solid mouthful for days. But if you were hungry, girl, it seems to me you could have found other ways to earn a crust of bread. I myself would be willing to offer…” He smiled suggestively and reached out a languid hand; one long finger stroked Allegra’s bare shoulder, followed the line of her collarbone to touch the soft hollow at the base of her neck.
She cringed away, feeling trapped. “Curse you. Curse all of you!” she cried defiantly. She was feeling too miserable and discouraged to remember her humble station.
“Here, miss.” Ridley’s steward stepped forward and pulled off his coat, frowning as he helped her into it and she winced in pain. He seemed embarrassed by the whole ugly scene. By his master’s careless drunkenness and lechery.
Ridley turned to Sir Henry. “You’ve had your sport, Crompton,” he said. “Give the wench over to me now.”
Sir Henry thrust out his fleshy lower lip. “Have you forgotten the Black Act, Ridley? The girl had a knife. She was dressed as a boy. And she admitted openly to me that she took the rabbit. I’m the justice of the peace in this parish. Not you. And I say that the damned thief should be bound over to the assizes.”
“Don’t be hasty, Crompton. Perhaps I can—”
“You can leave me in peace,” Allegra interrupted. The thought of a villain like Ridley negotiating on her behalf made her stomach turn. God knows what he might expect in return! And she didn’t need him to speak for her. Sir Henry had already said he didn’t intend to send her to prison. It was only his dislike of the viscount that was persuading him to change his mind. She glared at Ridley. “Go away. I don’t need your help!”
He swore softly, took her by the arm and gave it a savage shake. “Little fool,” he muttered under his breath. “Are you so careless of your life? I’ll try to save you, if I can. But only if you control your saucy tongue!” He turned toward Sir Henry and managed a bored smile. “Now, what will it take for you to change your mind?”
Crompton smiled in his turn, suddenly aware of his unexpected power over the situation. “Why should I change my mind?”
“Because the wench interests me.”
Crompton’s smile deepened and he put his hand on his sword hilt. “Would you be willing to fight for her?” His voice was as silky as a snake writhing through the grass. “I see you’re not armed, milord. But I can send one of my servants to fetch a weapon.”
There was a stillness about Ridley that was frightening. “No,” he said softly. Allegra suddenly wondered if he was as drunk as he appeared.
Crompton chuckled, an ugly sound that came from deep in his throat. “As white-livered as they say? If I call you craven, leave my glove in your face, will you fight me?”
Ridley forced a laugh. “No.”
Crompton slapped his thigh in delight. “By my troth, it’s true! The coward of Baniard Hall.” He grinned at his servants, savoring his triumph.
Ri
dley’s steward growled and leaped forward, his hands curled into fists. “Milord, will you not answer the insult?” he cried.
Ridley sauntered to the table and picked up Sir Henry’s tankard of wine. He took a deep draught, rubbed his hand across his lips and shrugged. “Why should I? All I want is the girl. She’s not worth a fight.” He made a face at the tankard and motioned to the innkeeper. “Bring me some gin. Not this watered slop.” He looked at his steward, ignoring the expression of dismay on the man’s face. “Briggs, take the girl back to the Hall. I’m sure Sir Henry and I can settle this business like gentlemen.”
“No.” Crompton shook his head. Ridley’s lack of shame at his own cowardice had clearly taken the edge off Sir Henry’s victory. “There’s the matter of a poached rabbit. The law says…”
Ridley silenced him with an impatient wave of his hand. “There’s no cause for an arrest. The rabbit was mine. From my woods. The girl had my leave to take it. I’ll swear to that in court, if I must. Do you understand?”
Crompton wasn’t about to give up so easily. “You can’t prove it,” he said. He pouted like a spoiled child. “And the insult to my person, my pride…”
Ridley’s mouth twisted in a sardonic smile. “Think of how your pride will be salved when you go to London and tell them that Viscount Ridley wouldn’t fight you.”
“Well…” Crompton hesitated. “There’s some satisfaction in that, I suppose, but…” He frowned in thought and scratched at his fat chins.
Ridley strode toward Allegra and his servant. “Quick now, Briggs, while he’s wavering,” he said in a low voice. “Into the carriage with you. Take the girl back to the Hall. See she’s fed and dressed in proper woman’s fashion.”
“But how will you get back, milord?”
“Send a groom with a horse for me. In the meantime,” he grinned goatishly as a pink-cheeked serving girl came out of the inn bearing a flask of gin, “I’ll find my own amusements.”
“There’s no need for you to trouble yourself, milord,” said Allegra. She hoped she sounded deferential enough. Defiance had earned her nothing. But perhaps the man could be persuaded to be reasonable. “Just let me go and I’ll be on my way. Neither you nor Sir Henry will ever see me again.”
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