Scandalously Yours

by Cara Elliott

  That neither of them had sought to shine beneath the glittering chandeliers of Mayfair’s ballrooms should be a point in their favor. However, John knew all too well how a chance encounter, a casual glance from some London acquaintance, could prove disastrous.

  His brooding growing blacker by the moment, they made it to the outskirts of Andover an hour ahead of the expected time.

  “I shall ask around among the stablehands about whether they’ve seen a vehicle resembling Lumley’s coach,” muttered John as he pulled into the yard of the first inn they came to. “If I have no luck here, we shall have to waste the precious time we have won in stopping at the others along the way.”

  “Patience,” counseled Olivia. “It’s important to learn how far ahead they are, so we can begin to plan a strategy.”

  “I’m well aware of that,” he snapped, then swiped a twist of brambles from the sleeve of his coat. “I’m sorry. My nerves are a bit on edge.”

  Olivia was already climbing down from the cabriolet. “I shall see about ordering some hot tea while you make your inquiries. Sometimes, the tavern wenches and scullery maids are more observant than the men who handle the horses.”

  No one, however, remembered a coach or tavern patron matching the descriptions that Davenport had given to them.

  The same was true at the next two inns.

  Fuming with frustration, John climbed down at the last possibility before the road skirted around a stretch of dense forest and led down into the center of Andover.

  “If I were Lumley, I wouldn’t choose to stop in the center of town,” he muttered. “Too many eyes.”

  Olivia nodded in agreement. “Shall I go order more tea?” A pause. “Or perhaps you would prefer a mug of ale.”

  “If I drink any more liquid, I shall need a pisspot,” growled John under his breath. Pulling out his fast-dwindling purse, he shook out a few coins. “That was unforgivably crude.” His mood and now his gentlemanly manners were going to hell in a handbasket. “Here, take these and order some sustenance for yourself while I see if I can find the ostler and coax some useful information from him.”

  “Don’t be discouraged, sir. They could very well have chosen to stop on the far side of town, figuring that travelers from London are more apt to halt here for rest and refreshments.”

  It was a reasonable point, but John wasn’t feeling very reasonable. “You need not coat the facts with spun sugar. The fact is, we are chasing naught but a hope and prayer. The dastards could be going anywhere.” Fisting his hands, he tried not to think of his son, alone and frightened, being taken to God-Knows-Where. “Sommers has several estates in Yorkshire, so Davenport may have guessed wrong.”

  “Don’t lose hope,” said Olivia quietly.

  “Are you always this damnably cheerful in the face of adversity?” he muttered.

  “Not damnably cheerful, sir. Damnably stubborn, as you so rightly pointed out.”

  Her stalwart humor made him feel a little ashamed of himself. “You go have a rest while I make the inquiries out here,” he said in a more measured tone. “If we have no luck, we shall do as you suggest and circle around the town and begin anew. Someone has to have seen them.”

  Placing the handful of coins in the pocket of her cloak, Olivia decided to stretch her legs near the paddocks rather than seek shelter and sustenance inside the inn. On further reflection, she had decided that Lumley would not likely show his face in a tavern.

  “Think,” she told herself, quickening her pace without looking up. Walking seemed to help stimulate her creative process, and if ever she needed an inspired idea it was now. “Is there something we are overlooking in our search?” she murmured to herself. “Some question we are not asking?” She felt in her heart that they were on the right track.

  But my heart has been feeling odd things of late.

  Olivia brushed that thought aside, forcing herself to concentrate on the search for Prescott. The earl was doing a heroic job of keeping his fears under rein, but she could tell that his inner anguish was mounting.

  We must not—we will not—fail.

  “Oiy!”

  A muffled grunt echoed the thud as she collided with a grain barrel, knocking the postboy who was perched on its top to the ground.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, offering a hand to help him up.

  Scowling, the lad rose on his own and made a show of dusting off his grubby pantaloons. “Wimmen,” he scoffed.

  Olivia bit back a smile. “Yes, we are silly creatures, aren’t we? I must have looked like a chicken, running around without a head.”

  That drew a grudging grin.

  “Here, allow me to make amends.” She drew a bag of horehound drops from her pocket and offered it to him.

  The lad stared for a moment. “Yer giving me the whole bag?”

  “Why, yes. It’s the least I can do to make up for making you take such a thumping tumble.”

  “Oiy, I take much worse ones from the horses,” he confided, after quickly stuffing the sweets into his jacket. “Barrels don’t kick.”

  “That must hurt like the very Devil,” she murmured sympathetically. Among their various duties, postboys rode bareback on a hired team of horses to the next changing inn, then brought them back. It was dirty and often dangerous work for such small lads…

  Her pulse kicked up a notch. “Unlike me, I daresay you have to keep your eyes open at all times to avoid trouble.”

  “Oiy,” he answered. “Ye got te have sharp peepers.”

  “I wonder…” Olivia lowered her voice. “By any chance did you see a black coach stop here recently?” She quickly described Lumley’s vehicle. “The passengers might have been acting a little havey-cavey.”

  The lad’s expression turned a touch wary. “I see a lot o’ coaches. Why ye asking?”

  She prayed that her instincts were correct—and that her skill at storytelling was half as good as Anna’s. “Because my evil uncle has snatched my nephew, a lad about your age, from his parents. You see, he’s squandered all of his own blunt on drink, and now he’s threatening to sell Scottie to white slavers in Plymouth unless my sister and her husband pay a large ransom. But they haven’t got the money.”

  “Oiy,” breathed the lad. “And ye mean te stop them?” His tone didn’t express much confidence in her abilities.

  “Yes,” said Olivia. “You see, my husband is a famous military hero, but he’s traveling incognito.”

  “In-cog-neezo?” The lad looked a tad more impressed.

  “In disguise,” she explained. “So they don’t know they’re being followed.” Her next words were a whisper. “My Hero has got some very special weapons in his possession and he knows how to use them. But first we must pick up my evil uncle’s trail.”

  The lad looked around before answering. “Yer on the right track. I saw them here. The big, dark cove ye described paid the ostler a pair of sovereign te keep quiet about their stop.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Late last night. Near dusk.”

  “Damnation,” swore Olivia. There was still a daunting gap between them. And if the coach had continued on all night…

  “But I overheard them saying they were planning te stop in Weyhill fer a meal and lodging. The dark cove said that he knew the owner of the King’s Arms.”

  “Thank you, er…”

  “Will. My name’s Will.”

  “I’m grateful, Will.” She began fumbling in her cloak for the coins John had given her.

  “That’s not all I heard,” added Will, his eyes narrowing. “They hit yer nephew when he tried to open the coach door. And then the dark cove’s two friends started arguing with him.”

  Three captors—Wrexham will find that useful.

  “The two others wanted to stay on the toll road leading te Exeter. But the dark cove said they will turn at Sparkford and take the back roads, on account of his knowing inns that will keep mum about what they see.”

  “Bless you,” murmured Olivi
a as she tucked all the coins she had into his pocket. “That’s all I can give you right now. But I shall see that you get a pair of gold sovereigns for your help.”

  “Oiy!”

  “But for now, it’s best be quiet about this, Will,” she counseled. “I’d rather not trust anyone, especially your ostler, until we free Scottie.”

  The lad nodded his understanding. “Is yer hero husband gonna thump the stuffing out of yer evil uncle?”

  “Oh, yes. Be assured that the dark cove is going to be sorry that he ever declared war on the Perfect Hero.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Three hours,” announced John with savage satisfaction as he climbed back up to the driver’s bench. A discreet bribe to one of the inn’s stableboys had elicited the welcome news about their quarry. “Our breakneck efforts have paid off. Lumley is only three hours ahead of us.”

  “Then we should be in a position to confront them come tomorrow morning,” said Olivia.

  “Yes. If young Will’s information remains correct, the viscount will be stopping for the night at The Hanged Man.” He flexed his sore shoulders and took up the reins. They had traveled a day and night with only a brief respite since Olivia’s fortuitous encounter with the postboy, and so far everything the lad told her had proved accurate.

  “An apt name,” went on John, “seeing as the bastard will wish he were already dead when I catch up to him.”

  “I’m assuming that you are not planning to stay at the same inn,” said Olivia. “Given that lodgings are somewhat sparse along these back roads, it will likely mean we will snatch a few hours of sleep under the stars, so as to be ready to take them by surprise.”

  “Correct.” He glanced at her profile. The poke of her bonnet cast her eyes in shadow, but the darkness couldn’t quite hide the fact that her face was gray with fatigue. “I’m sorry. I know that I’ve pushed hard—”

  “Don’t be sorry. I have rather missed the madcap adventures of my youth, so this is an exhilarating change from my sedate London life,” interrupted Olivia. “Remind me to tell you the details of the trek my father and I made in Crete,” she added dryly. “One of his assistants had offended the tribal leader and we had to make a rather hasty departure from the mountains of Iraklio and journey to the port city of Zakros. And as the fellow was related to half the island, we had to avoid a good many of the villages.”

  “Most ladies would not think of that trip or this one as remotely exhilarating.”

  “True,” she replied. “But by now, you know my way of thinking is vastly different from that of most ladies.”

  “True,” echoed John. For which I am profoundly grateful, he added to himself.

  She shot him a quizzical look. “That had an ominous inflection to it. I hope you are not regretting your decision to let me accompany you. I have done my best not to slow you down.”

  Not once, he reflected, had she voiced a complaint about being tired or cold, or hungry.

  “I have tried to be useful,” she added.

  “You have been more than useful, Miss Sloane. And not just with Will. You’ve been an intrepid navigator in finding the shortest routes, a resourceful quartermaster in keeping us well-supplied with sustenance for the interminable hours of driving. Most of all, you’ve been a steadfast companion in trying to distract me from worrying about Scottie. I am not unaware that our long philosophical talks, and your entertaining tales of exotic travel have been designed with that in mind.”

  “Y-you give me too much credit for altruism, sir,” replied Olivia. “I enjoy talking about abstract ideas. And you are one of the very few people of my acquaintance who cares to listen.”

  “I’ve learned more from you than I can recount.”

  “And I from you.”

  John must have betrayed his surprised, for she quickly went on to explain, “You have a steady calmness about you, Wrexham. You are careful and deliberate.”

  “I think perhaps I am too cautious,” he countered. “Too regimented.”

  “Well, maybe on a few occasions.” An impish smile, which curled up just a little higher at the right side of her mouth than it did on the left. He had come to recognize it as a sign that she was teasing him.

  Instead of taking real umbrage he gave a mock grimace and growled. It was rather nice to be teased.

  Olivia smothered a laugh. “Yes, I know it must come as a rude shock for the Perfect Hero to be told he is not without a teeny flaw.”

  “Good Lord, kindly refrain from reminding me of that ridiculous moniker. If I knew which journalist first penned it, I would cheerfully break every bone in his writing hand.”

  “It was actually very handy in impressing Will,” she pointed out. “And besides, it would be rather churlish to inflict bodily harm on Mr. Hurley after all he has done to assist us with your speech.”

  “I might have known it was Hurley,” groused John. “He would put his own grandmother in the boxing ring with Gentleman Jackson if he thought it would sell newspapers.”

  “Yes, and being a Hurley, she would probably knock the champion pugilist on his arse,” said Olivia.

  John let out a chuckle. “Probably.”

  “In all seriousness, sir, getting back to what I have learned from you…” She turned her head, just enough for the sunlight to spark the shadows from her eyes. “I tend to react emotionally to ideas. It has been a new experience for me to watch how you think things through so very coolly and logically. I am trying to emulate your restraint.”

  It took all the restraint he possessed not to lean forward and brush away the tiny smudge on her cheek.

  With his tongue.

  So much for cool logic.

  The luminous green of her gaze was making him a little dizzy. Behind her, the fluttery leaves of the hedgerow swayed in shimmering shades of emerald and jade.

  “Right,” he said gruffly, fisting the reins and urging the horses to a faster pace. “Restraint.”

  The rutted road forced his eyes and his attention back to the task of driving. In response to the sudden jostling, Olivia shifted on the seat and slid a little closer to the side rail to steady herself.

  “Have you thought up a plan of how to confront Lumley tomorrow?” she asked suddenly, the intimate connection between them giving way to the more pressing demands of the moment.

  “I have,” replied John, missing the warmth of her closeness more than he cared to admit. “We won’t reach The Hanged Man until well after dark. I intend to drive on, and then choose a spot for us to pull off the road and rest until dawn. Davenport’s telescope will allow me to pick a surveillance spot and watch the activities in the stable yard. I have an idea on how to stop them…”

  He paused to draw an unhappy breath. “But it means that I must ask you to play a more active role than I would wish.”

  “I am more than ready to do so, Wrexham. I trust I have made that clear from the start,” said Olivia.

  “So you have. But that does not make it any easier for me to ask it of you. The risk is small, and yet it is there.”

  “What do you wish for me to do?” she asked without hesitation.

  “I plan to enter the inn at first light, while Lumley and his cohorts are still sleeping. It seems likely that just one of the dastards will be with Scottie, while the two others share other quarters.”

  “You would need to be sure of the room, would you not, so as not to make a mistake and alert them to your presence?” she asked.

  “Correct. The innkeeper will know, of course. But we have to assume he is friends with Lumley and would not willingly aid us.”

  “So a confrontation must be done carefully, and with no chance for him to raise the alarm,” interjected Olivia.

  “Yes.” The next words did not come easy. “That is where I must ask your help. A lone female, appearing distraught and disheveled at the inn’s door, is not likely to raise suspicions despite the early hour. My guess is the proprietor will unbolt the door to allow you entrance—”


  She quickly took over the narrative for him. “At which point I shall fall faint into his arms and beg for a seat and a reviving cordial. He will have no choice but to assist me into a private parlor, leaving the door untended so that you may enter unobserved.”

  “I was thinking—”

  Ignoring his attempt to speak, Olivia continued in a rush. “My histrionics will keep him distracted long enough for you to slip into the parlor.” A tight smile. “At which point you will have the opportunity to persuade the man that it is in his best interests to cooperate with you.”

  John raised a brow. “You are frighteningly good at plotting this sort of thing.”

  “I have had ample experience,” came the cryptic reply.

  Yet another intriguing facet of Olivia Sloane.

  “How—” he began.

  “Never mind that now. What matters is that it’s a good plan. I have every confidence that it will work.”

  “Let us pray so,” he said softly.

  “This seems a good spot.” John drew the tired horses to a halt by an opening in the hedgerow. The scudding moonlight showed a faint cart path leading into a sloping meadow of tall grasses. And looming straight ahead, the dark silhouette of a granite outcropping rose out of the fescue, high enough to provide a vantage point over the road. “We are not more than a quarter mile past the inn, which puts us in perfect position for our plan.”

  Olivia nodded. Tired, hungry, bruised to the bone by the bumps and ruts, she wanted only to descend from the hellish perch and feel the solid earth beneath her feet. She had purchased provisions that morning so at least they had food and drink to fill their bellies. As for sleep—the thought stirred a longing for her soft featherbed at home. But the truth was, her nerves were coiled too tightly to unwind into repose.

  Time enough for rest when this ordeal was over.

  A glance at John as he guided the team through the narrow opening showed fatigue etched on his face. His cheekbones were sharp as knifeblades, and the shadows under his eyes were black as burnt coals.