by Cara Elliott
Olivia shifted beneath the blanket and made a small sound. Slipping a protective arm over her shoulder, John drew her close and brushed a light kiss to her tangled curls.
And what, he wondered, could he offer her in return?
Respect, equality, freedom to be exactly whom she wished to be.
They were, he mused, not as great as her gifts to him. But perhaps his love would make up the difference.
As for Lady Serena…
Honor must come from the heart, John decided, not a rulebook. Olivia had taught him that one could take ideas and give them personal resonance. From now on, he would…not be bound by strict conventions.
Or corsets.
The thought was suddenly liberating, and he found himself smiling as he closed his eyes and felt the breeze on his face. It held a hint of warmth—dawn seemed to promise a cloudless day.
Oddly enough, he felt optimistic about the future when he should be terrified. But somehow, whatever deities had been stirred by their pagan rituals, they seemed to be smiling down from the Heavens and whispering their blessings.
All will be well.
Casting a last look upward, he found the star Polaris—a guiding light in the constellations—and gave a mental salute.
“I will rescue Scottie,” he whispered. “I will win Olivia’s heart.”
After all, I am the Perfect Hero.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The servants are stirring to begin their morning chores.” John shifted his position on the wooded knoll overlooking the inn and raised Davenport’s special spyglass for another look. While still dark, they had left the cabriolet and horses in the meadow and made their way on foot back to the cluster of weathered buildings. Dawn was just lightening the gloom, its pale, pink-tinged glow rising up from the mist-shrouded hills.
A harbinger that all would be rosy in the coming day?
Olivia fisted her hands in the folds of her cloak. Omens were all very well, but there was no question of trusting in Fate or Chance. They would, she vowed, make their own luck.
“The shutters are open.” John spun a few dials and rotated a latch on the telescope. “This instrument has an uncanny ability to magnify the low light. I can see a man giving orders to a charwoman. I think it a good bet that he is the proprietor.” He shifted the lens. “And there is a stirring of activity in the stable. I see a light within.
“Then we should not waste any time in putting our plan into action,” she said, turning to make her way down to the paddock area.
“Olivia…”
“We have been through this all, John. My role has little risk. It is you who will face whatever danger arises.” And Prescott, of course, but that had no need to be said.
She heard him exhale sharply, but he said nothing as he fell in step beside her. They descended in silence through the trees, stepping lightly and keeping close to the shadows.
A brief pause by the storage sheds, where they had agreed to part paths…no last-minute review, just a fierce squeeze of her arm…a fleeting brush of his lips to her brow.
“Be careful,” he growled, and then was gone.
Forcing herself to focus on the coming confrontation rather than the nebulous swirls of grays left in his wake, Olivia quickly loosened her hairpins and added another smudge of dirt to her cheeks. Sounding half-hysterical would require little dramatic talent, she thought wryly. Her nerves were stretched tighter than a drum.
Tha-thump, tha-thump. And her heart was pounding loud enough to wake the dead.
A last tug at her skirts, and then she set out at a stumbling run for the inn’s entrance. Pounding a fist upon the heavy oak door, she raised her voice in a plaintiff plea.
“Please, oh please, open up! There’s been an accident…my carriage…” Olivia let her words trail off into incoherent sobs.
For several agonizing moments there was no response to her cries. But at last she heard shuffling steps approaching.
“Who’s there?” came the gruff query.
“Lady Willis,” she answered, choosing a name at random. “From Lincolnshire. My husband and I were on our way to Plymouth…snapped axle…deep ditch.” Ratcheting her anxiety up another notch, she let out a loud moan. “Leg pinned…Frantic with worry…walking half the night.”
The bolt slid back with a metallic rasp.
“Thank God!” A swooning lurch forced the man to catch her awkwardly around the waist.
“Steady now, madam,” he growled, trying to control the wobbling of both her body and guttering candle in his other hand. “An accident, you say?”
“Yes, yes.” Olivia kept a hard clutch on his coat. “We lost our way in the dark, I…” She let out another whimper. “F-forgive me. M-might I sit for a moment and perhaps have a sip of some restorative beverage? I fear my s-strength is nearly gone.”
A grunt. “Ye had best come along to the private parlor and have a tipple of sherry while I fetch my wife from the kitchen.”
That confirmed he was the proprietor.
“Bless you,” she mumbled, hitching her weight against his hip to force him another step back from the door.
Heaving an exasperated sigh, the man shuffled a half-turn and lifted his light. “This way.”
Pressing close to the age-blackened door frame, John listened to the retreating tread of their steps.
One, two…He counted to ten before slipping inside and following the wavering flame.
“Th-thank you, sir,” stammered Olivia, accepting the glass of sherry with a trembling hand.
The innkeeper gave a curt grunt. “Rest here and regain your strength, madam. My ostler will take you to rescue your husband as soon we have finished helping our overnight guests to depart.”
“But…” she said weakly, darting a quick look at the half-open parlor door. To her relief, there was a stirring in the shadows.
“It won’t take long,” said the man brusquely. “I’ve a duty to those who have paid for my services—”
A metallic click caused him to turn around abruptly.
“Actually, your guests will not be leaving quite so soon after all,” said John softly. “You see, your friend Lumley and his cohorts have abducted my son. And I happen to know they have him captive in one of your rooms upstairs.”
Olivia watched as he raised his pistol and let it hover a hair’s breadth from the man’s forehead. His voice, however, remained a mild murmur. “I repeat, they have my son. So naturally if anyone attempts to interfere in my rescue of the lad, I will not hesitate for an instant to squash him like a bug.”
The innkeeper wet his lips. “N-naturally, milord.”
“Then I am sure you are going to tell me exactly in which room he is being held, as well as every tiny detail of the upper floor’s layout and where the other men are lodged.”
The information spilled out in a babbled rush. “I assure you, sir,” added the innkeeper, after blotting the beads of sweat from his upper lip, “I had no idea there was foul play involved—”
“Save your breath for praying that my son is unharmed,” snapped John as he drew a second pistol from his coat and checked the priming. “Else you will join your friends in hanging from the gibbet.”
The man choked back a groan.
John looked at Olivia, his eyes glinting gunmetal gray in the low light. “Stay here and keep an eye on him.” He pushed a heavy stoneware crock across the table. “If he so much as moves a muscle, break this over his head.” With that, he slipped soundlessly from the parlor.
“I—I swear, I did not…” began the innkeeper.
“Quiet,” ordered Olivia, listening for any sign of movement in the corridor.
The man cringed, fear pinching his mouth shut.
Deciding that he was too concerned with self-preservation to pose a threat, she moved to the door and cracked it open. There was, she recalled vaguely, a basic military adage about the importance of having a comrade watch one’s back. The crock, however, would be of little use…
&n
bsp; A weapon—I need a weapon.
Olivia darted a look around the room, quickly dismissing the candlestick and the pewter tankards aligned on the mantel. The poker, though lethally heavy, was too unwieldy.
“Damnation,” she whispered, clenching at her cloak in frustration. “Damn, damn, damn.” Her fingers opened and then closed over something more solid than wool as they moved over the folds. Up on the knoll, John had handed her the telescope’s felt bag to hold and she had shoved it in her pocket for safekeeping. It was only now that she realized it wasn’t quite empty.
Davenport’s ingenious little sling was still inside.
Giving silent thanks to the Devil for showing her how to work it, she pulled it free from the felt. With a twist and a snick, the metal parts unfolded and locked into place.
“Damn,” she repeated, suddenly realizing she had nothing to serve as ammunition…
Well, not quite nothing.
At the very bottom of her pocket were two polished pieces of carnelian. She and John had played a cursory game of chess several nights ago with his new traveling set, and somehow she had overlooked returning a pair of captured pawns to the box.
In that instant, the words of her late father echoed in her ears. Chess is war, poppet. And the art of war requires a soldier to improvise.
Slotting one of the pawns into the sling’s leather patch, Olivia ventured a step into the darkened corridor. The stairs leading up to the bedchambers were off to the right. Only the newel post was visible from her angle of view through the archway.
Pressing her back to the dark wood wainscoting, she inched forward.
Silence, save for the thumping of her heart.
How long had John been gone? It felt like an eternity.
Unsure how to proceed, Olivia hesitated, fearful a blunder on her part might put Prescott at risk.
Another step, just enough to allow a clear view of the stairs. Watching, waiting, she held herself very still.
The sound, when it came, was so furtive that she would have missed it had she not been listening very carefully. A faint scuff of leather on wood. Only someone up to no good would seek such stealth.
Drawing back the sling’s band, Olivia held her breath.
Steady, steady.
The snout of a pistol came into view, followed by a hand, an arm…a face, eyes intent on the shadowed landing above the planked treads.
Olivia had only seen Viscount Lumley from afar at several of the Season’s entertainments. But there was no mistaking the thick jowls, the ginger sidewhiskers.
Taking dead aim, she let fly with the pawn.
The smooth carnelian stone caught him flush on temple. With a wordless grunt he dropped to the floor.
Olivia raced to the spot and retrieved the pistol.
Then everything seemed to happen at once—The sound of a door being kicked in. A shot. A scream.
She bit her lip to keep from crying out.
A moment later, John appeared on the landing, the smoke from his spent weapon curling around Prescott’s tousled blond curls.
“John!” she cried, her legs going limp with relief.
He halted halfway down the steps. “Er, might you aim that gun barrel at some spot other than my chest?”
“Sorry.” Olivia dropped her hand. “My aim, however, was not half bad just a moment ago.”
She gestured to the crumpled body at the foot of the stairs.
John let out a low whistle. “How the devil…”
“Davenport’s sling,” explained Olivia. “And one of your chess pieces. Alas, I fear you may have to purchase a new set. The dark pawn has likely gone to its Maker.”
“A noble sacrifice, considering the circumstances.” He hugged his son a little tighter. “I assumed Lumley had managed to escape. The man holding Scottie said he had gone out to have the coach to be brought around a half hour earlier than previously ordered.”
“He was returning, and must have sensed something was amiss,” she answered. “Thank God that the Devil’s ingenious little weapon was so simple to wield.”
“Amen to that,” murmured John.
Prescott lifted his head from his father’s shoulder and flashed a sleepy smile. “Look, Miss Sloane! I have an even bigger shiner to replace the one I got in the mail coach. Lucy will be awfully impressed.”
“Indeed she will,” agreed Olivia. “It’s truly hideous.”
“You think so?” asked Prescott hopefully.
“Couldn’t be worse,” she confirmed.
The lad grinned. “Oh, excellent!” He snuggled a little deeper into John’s arms. “But I think I have had enough of adventures for a while. I’m ready to go home.”
“I, too, am anxious to wash my hands of these miserable dastards and return to more edifying tasks.” John kicked the tap room door shut behind him, anxious to shake off the prickle of disgust crawling over his flesh.
Thankfully, the task of settling accounts with his son’s abductors had not taken long. The innkeeper had hurriedly patched up the wounded arm and bruised jaw of Lumley’s two hired minions. Hearing that the earl was not going to summon the authorities and press charges, the pair had lost no time in scuttling off into the woods.
Like dung beetles seeking to burrow beneath a fresh pile of manure.
As for Lumley…
John cracked his knuckles, taking grim satisfaction in the sting of his scraped skin. The viscount’s cracked head and pummeled face would likely heal by the time he arrived in Jamaica. But it would be a long and painful journey, and a permanently disfigured nose would serve to remind him of the perils of engaging in foul play.
As would a lengthy exile in the West Indies.
At first, Lumley had not been overjoyed at the prospect of leaving the comforts of England, but given the option of either embarking from Bristol on the next merchant ship bound for the Caribbean or facing off with pistols at twenty paces within the hour, the viscount had decided that a faraway tropical climate was preferable to a cold local grave.
A wise choice, thought John. For I would have put a bullet through his miserable brain without batting an eye.
Now it was time for a bath, in order to scrub the filth from his skin. He rubbed a hand over his bristled jaw. And pots of strong, scalding coffee to wash the foul taste from his mouth.
Olivia was already ensconced in one of the upper chambers, with the innkeeper’s wife ministering to her needs. Fear of punishment for his part in Lumley’s perfidy had made the man obsequiously anxious to please. Prescott was safely tucked in the private parlor, with a bountiful breakfast promised in short order.
All in all, John mused, things had ended satisfactorily. Some measure of justice had been served by the private punishment he had meted out. The Duke of Sommers was a powerful peer, and in any public prosecution, he could have used his influence to muddle the facts of the abduction, and ensure that Lumley got off lightly. And of course there was Olivia to consider—the chance of her part in the chase becoming known was too great to risk.
No, it was better this way…
A half hour later, freshly bathed and shaved, John was feeling in an even better frame of mind as he entered the parlor. The aroma of freshly baked bread, fried gammon, and steaming coffee filled the air, adding a sweet spice to his son’s laughter.
Prescott was seated at the table chattering with Olivia in between bites of thick-sliced toast slathered with strawberry jam. Another boyish laugh, another animated gesture—which left a sticky streak of red on his chin.
John paused in the doorway, his heart lurching in a topsy-turvy spin from fear to joy.
Looking around, Olivia beckoned for him to come take a seat. “Your son has just been regaling me with an account of his journey, Wrexham. He is an intrepid traveler, and quite fearless in the face of danger. Perhaps, like Mungo Park, he will become a famous explorer of unknown continents.”
“I didn’t have to face hungry crocodiles,” piped up Prescott.
“Perhaps after
…” John hesitated, a tiny lump forming in his throat at the thought of what might have happened.
After I have kept him safe and had a chance to teach him all the things he needs to know as he grows into manhood.
“…Perhaps after he has spent a few more years studying geography,” he finished.
“Mr. Taylor’s lessons are boring, Father,” said Prescott. “Miss Sloane’s tales of traveling with her father, and the sort of studies he did are ever so much more interesting.”
“I would be happy to recommend some excellent scholars, if you wish,” murmured Olivia softly. “Several of my father’s former assistants are bright, capable young men who would be delighted to teach such an enthusiastic pupil as Master Prescott.”
“Thank you. I will look into it when we return home.”
“Huzzah!”
John watched his son punctuate his elation by wolfing down another huge bite of bread.
“Sorry,” mumbled Prescott, his mouth full.
“He says he was only fed watery gruel, so no wonder he’s very hungry,” pointed out Olivia.
No stern looks, no prim discourse on etiquette—simply a smile of understanding.
“I think that for now,” said John, “we may bend the rules concerning proper manners.”
“When they are made of steel they won’t be so flexible,” intoned Prescott with a scrunched scowl.
Olivia choked back a chuckle.
“Scottie…” began John.
“I know, I know, I must swallow my true feelings and make the best of it.” The lad licked a dribble of strawberries from his fingers, as if the jam could help sweeten the truth. “Even Lucy says that I must surrender to Fate.”
“Lucy is very wise.” Olivia was looking down at her plate, so John couldn’t see her expression. Her voice gave nothing away.
“Scottie,” repeated John. “Perhaps Fate is not quite so wicked as you think.”
Prescott stopped chewing.
“I’ve come to the conclusion that you have a right to know a secret. However, like the rest of the details regarding this adventure, it must be guarded very carefully.”