by Cara Elliott
“Wait, one last question—” she began.
But Davenport was already gone, his lanky, black-clad form moving like an Underworld wraith through the lengthening shadows of the bushes.
Chapter Nineteen
Lord Wrexham is not at home,” intoned the butler, cracking open the townhouse door barely wide enough to be civil.
Damnation. Biting back an audible oath, Olivia forced a smile. “Then would you be so kind as to inform Lady Silliman that Miss Sloane and her sister wish to have a word with her.”
“I am afraid that Lady Silliman is not at home, either.”
“It is a most urgent matter,” she insisted, refusing to be brushed off. “Not at home” was the standard excuse when a member of the beau monde was not in the mood for visitors. Dropping her voice a notch, she added, “Concerning a private family trouble. I assure you, she will wish to hear what I have to say.”
The butler hesitated, and then opened the door a bit wider. “Please come in. I shall see if she is available.”
Olivia and Anna did not have to wait long. Cecilia appeared in the drawing room within minutes, her face looking pale and drawn. “Hawkins says you wish to speak to me,” she said softly. “About a private matter?”
“Your nephew,” said Olivia quickly. “And the fact that he’s been snatched by the earl’s political enemies.”
“H-how did you—”
“The Devil Davenport witnessed it, and asked us to deliver some information that may help Lord Wrexham recover his son.”
Cecilia sat down rather abruptly on the sofa.
Olivia gave a terse summary of the marquess’s account. “I think he’s right to suspect that Prescott is been taken to Dartmoor. And he has a very good idea of where.” Paper crackled as she took the map from her pocket. “It’s here, in the moors near Tavistock. However, there’s a good chance that the earl can catch up with the coach before it arrives at its destination. But he will have to act quickly.
“Oh, Lud, John must have this information. The trouble is, he’s left for Shropshire.” Cecilia explained that a ransom note had arrived, and the earl had decided to return to his country estate in order to fetch his former batman and drill sergeant to help with the fight to regain his son.
“By the time he returns to London, it will be too late. Once the villains have Prescott locked away in the lodge, it will be far more difficult—and dangerous—to free him,” exclaimed Olivia. “It’s absolutely imperative that I find a way to alert Wrexham now.”
“Oh, but John and I cannot expect you to involve yourself in such a risk,” protested Cecilia.
“But I must! For Prescott’s sake,” answered Olivia. Not to speak of my own sense of honor, she added to herself. “You see, Davenport gave me a special telescope that may useful for the earl, and he showed me how to work it. It’s rather complicated—”
“Oh, dear,” interrupted Cecilia. “I am all thumbs when it come to anything like that, so I’d be useless in trying to help.”
“I’m quite skilled with maps as well,” said Olivia. “So I may be able to serve as a surrogate for his batman.”
“I admire your courage and your resourcefulness, Miss Sloane. But the ransom note warned of dire consequences should John tell anyone about Prescott’s abduction. And even assuming the logistics could be worked out, such an arrangement would stir a storm of scandal if it became known—both for you and my brother.” Cecilia expelling a ragged sigh. “I—I simply don’t see how it is possible.”
“Actually, I do,” piped up Anna.
Olivia looked at her sister.
“You have a traveling coach, do you not, Lady Silliman?” said Anna.
Cecilia nodded.
“If you were to set out for Shropshire, it wouldn’t stir a breath of scandal if Olivia goes with you. I could tell my mother that Lucy was taken ill and you asked her to accompany you to the country with the two children. That will explain her absence as well as that of Prescott. The ton won’t think twice about accepting the story—it’s known that the two of you are friends from the Royal Historical Society.”
“So far, so good,” said Olivia. “Go on.”
“Lady Silliman will order her coachman to drive neck and leather—four horses should outpace Lord Wrexham’s cabriolet,” explained Anna. “Then, when you catch up with him, Olivia can transfer to his vehicle with no one in London being the wiser.”
Cecilia blinked. “My goodness, you have quite a knack for plotting! I vow, that’s nearly as good as one of Sir Sharpe Quill’s novels.”
“Yes, well, my sister is quite well acquainted with such tales.” Olivia quirked a tiny smile before once again turning deadly serious. “She’s right—it will work. And it makes sense that you return to Shropshire, where Wrexham’s former soldiers can keep a close eye on you and Lucy. It will also help ensure that the public does not learn that Prescott has gone missing. Once we have him back,” she added resolutely, “the earl can decide how to deal with the matter.”
“I—” Cecilia hesitated, but only for a moment. “I think what you have suggested is a thumping good plan—but again I must ask you, are you sure you wish to take such a hellish risk?”
“Have your coachman ready the horses as quickly as possible. Then fetch Lucy,” answered Olivia. “A hamper of provisions would be wise as well. And perhaps a valise of extra clothing for the earl. I shall need to borrow some garments as well, along with a traveling cloak. Wrexham and I will want to travel fast.”
As Cecilia hurried away to make the arrangements, she turned to her sister. “Let us hope you are as convincing a storyteller with Mama.”
“Leave it to me,” assured Anna.
“One last thing,” said Olivia. “If you put this in your novel, I shall throttle you.”
The road twisted sharply and then dropped into a steep incline, forcing John to rein in his impatience and slow his lathered team to a more moderate speed.
Perseverance, he counseled himself grimly. I must remain coldly calm and calculating. Sliding into a ditch or breaking an axle would end any chance of catching up to the men who had Prescott in their clutches.
He was halfway down the hill when the sound of pounding hooves coming up behind him wrenched an oath from his lips.
“The damn devil is driving like a banshee! If he’s not careful, he’ll get us both killed.” He ventured a look over his shoulder. It was a coach and four, coming on at a reckless pace.
John swore again, then was forced to turn his attention back to his own team. Few men were skilled enough to attempt such speed on this stretch of the road…
He darted another quick glance to the rear, confirming his sudden suspicion.
As the road flattened, he drew over, allowing his sister’s coachman to rumble by him before drawing the larger vehicle to a skidding stop.
Scottie. His heart lurched against his ribs, and for a long moment John couldn’t bring himself to breathe.
The coach door flew open and a cloaked figure scrambled down the iron rungs.
“Cecilia!” he called. “In God’s name, what…”
It wasn’t his sister, he realized, and yet the hooded garment was one he recognized as hers. Shading his eyes, he stared in mute consternation, wondering whether worry for his son was addling his wits.
“John!”
That was unmistakably his sister’s voice, and sure enough, an instant later her face appeared in the open doorway. Important news…change of plans…hurry—gesturing wildly, she shouted out a jumbled explanation that was half-lost in the gusting wind.
As Cecilia tried to make herself heard, the cloaked figure hoisted a valise and hamper up to the storage nook beneath his front seat.
“What in the name of Hades…” The sound of feet climbing over the running boards caused him to wrench his gaze from the coach to his own cabriolet. “You!” he exclaimed as the hood slipped back, revealing a pair of molten jade green eyes.
“Yes, me,” said Olivia. “I shall
explain everything, but first let us turn around. We need to go back several miles and take the road for Exeter.”
“We are not going anywhere, Miss Sloane.”
“Oh, yes,” she replied, “we are.” Taking a sheet of paper and a felt bag from inside the cloak, she held them under his nose. “I’ve learned where the dastards are likely taking Prescott, sir. Here’s a map. And I’ve some special instruments that may give you an advantage in planning a strategy for stopping them.”
“Thank you,” snapped John a little roughly, his anger with her still painfully raw. “You may hand them over and be gone.”
“I fear that is impossible.”
Damnation. She was right. He looked around to see the coach and four was already galloping on toward Shropshire.
“Besides, a second pair of eyes and hands will be helpful,” she went on.
“I don’t need your help,” he said. “My batman—”
“You haven’t time to fetch your batman, sir. There’s a good chance we can catch up to villains—and by the by, it’s Lord Lumley who is in charge—before they reach the place where they plan to imprison Prescott. But only if we fly without delay.”
John hesitated, but only for a heartbeat. Circling his team, he urged them back up the hill. “You have a good deal of explaining to do,” he growled, shifting his grip on the reins.
A slanted glance showed that beneath the wind-whipped highlights of color, her face had gone very pale. “Yes, I know. I’m aware that it’s my fault Prescott was snatched. You were meant to escort them to the Tower but because of me, you changed your plans.”
“It’s not your fault,” he said stiffly. “They were clearly watching and waiting for their opportunity. If not this morning, they would have found another way.”
Olivia turned to face him, the sunlight catching the bruise-dark shadows under her eyes and in the hollows of her cheeks. He made himself look away.
“Still, you’ve every right to be angry with me,” she went on, ignoring his attempt at reassurance. “However, let us put aside emotions and be practical, sir. Because of my father’s work in the wilds, I am very good at reading maps, and possess a number of other skills that may prove useful. If need be, I even know how to load and fire a weapon.”
Whatever her other faults, she had pluck, John conceded. Expelling a harried sigh, he muttered, “Let us hope it doesn’t come to that.”
“Quite right.” Brushing a wind-snarled lock of hair from her cheek, Olivia tersely explained about her encounter with Davenport, and the information he had passed on.
“What he surmises makes sense,” said John, after thinking over what he had just heard. “Lumley will want to take Scottie somewhere secure from prying eyes. The hunting lodge is the most likely choice.”
And if I am wrong?
No, he wouldn’t think about that. The truth was, he had no other clues to pursue.
“Thank you,” he added in a tight voice. To give her credit, she had reacted with remarkable composure in quickly putting together a plan to alert him of the marquess’s news. Without those vital details, he would, at this moment, be blundering in the wrong direction. “I appreciate the risks you have taken to tell me this.”
Ducking her head, she began fumbling with the strings of the bag in her lap. “In addition to the map, Lord Davenport gave me this spotting scope. He seems to feel its special lenses may prove very useful to you once we get close to the dastards. Let me explain—”
“I know how to use a damn military spyglass,” snapped John, feeling torn between ire and admiration for her gritty resolve.
“Not this one,” said Olivia. “It’s awfully complicated.” The strings finally loosened, allowing her to strip off the felt. “You see, there are a number of levers and screws.”
The words triggered another fresh rush of anger. Yes, you are very good with screws, aren’t you?
Her expression turned even more shadowed, as if she were reading his thoughts. “No doubt you would figure it out on your own sir. The truth is, I wanted to be alone with you not only to apologize for unwittingly putting your son into danger, but also to make a confession.”
The wind tugged at her bonnet ribbons, tangling them into knots. “I’ve interfered with your life—and Prescott’s—more than you know. You see, I—I am Lady Loose Screw, whose clandestine correspondence has created such helter-pelter complications in your life.”
“Actually,” replied John, “I had just figured that out on my own.”
“Ah.” The wind nearly drowned out the sound. “No wonder you are furious. May I ask how?”
“Your handwriting. I happened to come across the letter you wrote to Scottie as I was working on notes for the speech.” John kept his eyes on the road. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier, instead of keeping it a damn secret?”
Though their bodies were not quite touching, he sensed her stiffen. “I have had to keep secrets for most of my life, Lord Wrexham,” she replied in a low voice. “Men—and most of Society—give no quarter to a woman who dares to be different.”
Assuring himself that he had every right to feel betrayed, John intended to snap a sarcastic reply. But the words seemed stick in his throat. “You lied to me,” he muttered instead. “Or at least misled me.”
“I did,” agreed Olivia, making no effort to defend her actions. “And it was wrong of me.” He heard the whisper of leather clenching leather as she knotted her gloved hands together. “I wanted to tell you after you learned that I was The Beacon, but I worried that it would distract you from the speech. And then…well, and then I became very confused.”
She sat in silence for several moments. “I was tongued-tied I suppose. And afraid of your scorn.”
He released the pent-up air in his lungs. “Miss Sloane—”
“No, please let me finish,” said Olivia. “It was never meant maliciously, sir. Indeed, it began as a harmless jest, but things went awry.” She quickly explained about the reply she had written, and how Anna had sent it off on a whim. “We never expected anything to come of it.” She lifted her chin. “What more can I say? I—I am very sorry.”
“I suppose I should have guessed.” All at once, John felt his anger ebb away. “After all, the chances of there being two women in all of England possessing such a cleverness with words are virtually nil.” He looked around to catch the spasm of surprise flitting over her features. “I hate to admit it, but you were scathingly funny as Lady Loose Screw.”
Olivia made an odd little sound in her throat.
A rueful grin crept to his lips. “Perhaps you should ask Hurley if you can pen a second column in the Gazette, giving advice on love and marriage.”
“I think I might consign my pen to the Devil,” came her ragged reply. “It seems to stir naught but trouble.”
“On the contrary, it stirs fire and brimstone, which lights a much-needed flame under our country’s complacency.”
“Even though your bum feels a bit singed?”
He laughed. “My sister would probably say it was all for the good. She thinks I’ve become a trifle too stiff-rumped.”
The cabriolet crested the hill and the horses quickened their pace over the flat ground.
“Be that as it may, sir, we had best put talk of our own foibles aside and concentrate on the far more important matter at hand.” Pulling another paper from inside her cloak, Olivia unfolded a large printed road map and smoothed it open in her lap. “Your sister’s coachman gave me this, and I have been studying the routes that lead to Devonshire. We must turn at the next signpost, and that will take us to Guilford. From there we can make a beeline for Aldershot, which will allow us to pick up the main route into Andover.”
She traced a finger over a long line stretching from London to the narrow finger of land to the west. “It seems logical that Lumley will want to travel as fast as possible and by the shortest route to Exeter. So my guess is that’s the road he will take.”
“Agreed,” said John, as he as
sessed just how much farther he could push his tired animals before he would need to stop and change to a fresh team. “That you have a detailed description of the coach should allow us to know sooner rather than later whether we have made the right choice.”
“He can’t have gone north—there are no roads that would take him in the direction of Dartmoor. And while it’s possible to cut south, through Salisbury and the Vale of Wardour, it makes no sense to do so when speed is of the essence.”
“Assuming Davenport is correct in his information. Assuming they are intent on speed and not stealth.”
“I think we are on the right track, sir,” she said stoutly.
“I pray so, Miss Sloane.” John urged an extra burst of speed from his lathered horses. “I pray so.”
Chapter Twenty
Olivia drank down the last of the steaming tea, and handed the mug back to the stableboy. Drawing her cloak a little tighter around her shoulders, she sat back on the seat, grateful for the pleasant warmth that was now radiating out through her limbs. Despite the mildness of the early evening, the rising breeze and galloping pace had left her fingers and toes feeling chilled to the bone.
John appeared from behind a massive barouche that was having one of its rear wheels repaired, looking none too happy about his negotiations with the inn’s ostler. “I managed to procure the last available team of horses,” he grumbled. “Though the knave charged me an extra guinea.” Perching a hip on the cabriolet’s running board, he made a face. “I hope that my blunt will hold out. I expected to pick up additional funds when I reached Wrexham Manor.”
A fat leather purse dropped onto the floorboard of the driver’s box. “Your sister and I thought that might be the case,” said Olivia. “So she sent this along with me.”
He pursed his lips in a rueful smile. “If Whitehall were wise enough to hire ladies as quartermasters for our military forces, we would win the war within six months.”
“Quite likely. We tend to think of the practical things.” She handed him the other mug of tea she had ordered. “Here, drink this while it is still hot.”