by Ann Chaney
Footsteps and a click of the door latch on the door leading to the servant stairs told him the maid was no longer a threat.
He stepped out of his hiding place then hurried down the hall. A creaking of wood sent his heart into his throat. He held his breath for a moment.
“What are you about?” Gillian's soft whisper floated across the hall.
Moreham dropped his head forward and tried to breathe again. The woman had scared him out of twenty years of life. “Gillian, you are going to be the death of me. Are you sure you are not in cahoots with my cousin to bring about my demise so he can inherit the earldom? Maybe you are an agent for the Corsican?”
Gillian grabbed his arm. “Don’t be ridiculous. Did you really think I would not be curious about your need to change clothes when you have two hours left before you ride out? A note you won’t discuss?”
Moreham shook his head in resignation. “Please return to our rooms. The note was from Cross. Horses are being saddled for the others.”
Gillian opened her mouth, but he lifted a single finger to halt her from speaking. “You promised to stay behind and keep an eye out for your aunt. A promise you are honor bound to uphold.”
Moreham nudged Gillian back toward their rooms and followed her. He didn’t believe for one moment Gillian would do as she had promised.
“Now, in you go. Time to continue with your disrobing.” Moreham followed her into the bedchamber. Gillian stopped in the middle of the room and waited. Such a simple chore, the unbuttoning of her gown, Moreham gritted his teeth and stiffened as he returned to the task of undoing her gown. The sensation of each button coming undone exposing the flimsy fabric of her chemise soared through his veins. All too soon for his liking, Gillian stepped away.
“I will be able to proceed on my own.”
The mantel clock chimed the first of twelve chimes. Gillian waved her hand toward the door while she held her gown to her chest. He would give his last shilling if he could remain with her.
“You’d better go. You must be away before Uncle and the others leave the manor.”
Moreham closed his eyes and spun around to leave. He reached for the door handle and hesitated. “You will remain here.”
“James, please be careful. I’ve gotten used to having you around. I don’t fancy wearing widow’s weeds before we see to our wedding night. I’ve worn that depressing color far too often in my life.”
“Never fear, dearest. I plan on living a long life so you can pester me.”
Gillian’s chuckle warmed his heart as he stepped into the corridor then closed the door. He treasured every moment he’d spent with Gillian. He would do whatever he had to this night to find the traitors and put them in Newgate. A satisfactory end to his mission was the only way forward for his marriage. He wanted Gillian and all those lovely babes to be his.
Gillian stared at the closed door and waited. Part of her wanted her husband to return. When the clock pealed the twelfth time, she accepted Moreham was gone. Gillian pulled her gown away from her chest then stepped out of the skirt. She tossed the gown in a chair and rushed to the dressing room where she had hidden a pair of buckskins and a white shirt of Uncle’s from years earlier when he wasn’t quite so robust.
She pulled the breeches and shirt on. Though her husband would never admit it, marriage had changed him. She cherished the notion he was consumed by his concerns for her safety. If he felt concern for her to that degree maybe he loved her.
Aunt Isadora espoused men fought the notion of caring for a woman. Aunt insisted a woman must force her beloved to admit his love. After being married for less than a sennight, Gillian agreed. Her husband needed her help whether he wanted it or not.
Wearing breeches would make moving about in the dark easier. She rummaged around in the drawer of her desk for her small pistol. Uncle Whitney had commissioned the pistol to be made for her before her first season. She normally strapped the weapon to her thigh in a special holster. Tonight, she’d carry the gun in her pocket, primed and ready to fire.
Gillian stood by the door and listened for footsteps. She was not disappointed as she recognized her uncle’s voice. She waited for a count of twenty before easing her door open and stepping into the corridor. A peek through the stair railing confirmed she was alone.
Only a fraction of a second before she felt the unmistakable coldness of a gun pressed against her spine did Gillian realize someone was standing behind her.
“My lady, you surprise me. Dressed in men’s clothing. Shouldn’t you be ensconced in your marital bed with that delicious husband of yours? Don’t tell me he has lost interest in you already?”
“I…um wanted to fetch a light repast for us. Moreham is feeling a little peckish.” Gillian moved to the side of the staircase.
Lady Roberts nudged her toward the stairs. “Nothing Moreham or you can do will stop Whitney and the others from being killed. Your husband is walking into a trap. Had you remained in your rooms you might have been allowed to live. Now, I am afraid we will wait until the gentlemen have left the stables before we depart.”
Gillian shuddered. Why hadn’t they considered the wives? Mary Roberts had to be at least two decades younger than her portly husband.
Gillian wanted to scream in frustration at the realization of the elderly Roberts’ beautiful young wife being a part of the conspiracy. The lady with her golden hair and cornflower hued eyes exuded the personality of a vacant minded china doll. Gillian scoffed. The lady had fooled everyone. Philly would appreciate how right she was about appearances not being as they seem.
Lady Roberts nudged Gillian back through the Roberts’ sitting room door. “We will wait in here.”
Gillian wracked her brain trying to think of a way to take the pistol from the lady but to no avail. The viscountess did not take her eyes off Gillian for a second. Lady Roberts motioned for her to sit in one of the chairs by the fireplace while she walked backwards to the window then looked out. With one hand, she managed to open the window. A chilly breeze drifted into the room. Why had the lady done that?
A moment later Gillian had the answer to her question when the sound of the horses leaving the stables echoed through the night. Moreham and Cross were on their way to the gamekeeper’s cottage. Lady Roberts’ sitting room looked out over the gardens on the side of the house where the stables stood. The viscountess exuded a cold-blooded calm as she waited by the window for the riders to ride away.
To Gillian’s surprise the lady didn’t leave her post by the open window. Neither lady said a word. All too soon the sound of more horses riding away from the manor. Only then did the lady step away from the window and motioned for Gillian to stand.
“Do not doubt I will shoot you and anyone else who gets in my way at the slightest provocation. You go first. My coach will be waiting for us.”
She knew her life and the lives of the others were in serious peril. A coach waiting could only mean Lady Roberts would have a front row seat at the abbey for whatever her friends had in mind. Gillian forced her breathing to slow down. She had to remain calm and clear headed ready for any opening the lady gave her to gain control of the weapon still pressed in her back. She would only get one chance. She kept moving down the stairs slowly.
Just do it. Those three words echoed over and over in her mind. Lunge forward. Grab the lady’s arm and take her gun away from her.
“Your ladyship, it isn’t too late to stop this madness. You know your husband will protect you. All you have to do is help us tonight.”
“You are such a fool. Why would I help your uncle and Moreham when I can have it all? I have been promised my own paradise. No man will ever tell me what to do again. A palace with enough coin to buy every bauble I want, and enough dresses to never wear the same gown twice for the rest of my days.” The viscountess laughed. Not a laugh one would hear in Polite Society, but a laugh laced with a thread of hysteria. Chills ran up Gillian’s spine. The viscountess was truly on the brink of madness.
&
nbsp; “Gillian, what on earth are you doing in those clothes?” her aunt demanded from behind Lady Roberts.
Aunt Isadora’s voice surprised her guest. When the lady turned toward Aunt Isadora, Gillian grabbed the woman’s hand and wrenched the gun from her grasp. The viscountess’ body pitch forward. There was nothing anyone could do. The lady waved her arms frantically before lunging sideways. Lady Roberts wobbled on the step above her and lost her balance to fall down the steps to the parquet floor of the entryway.
Gillian hurried down the stairs with her aunt on her heels. Lady Roberts groaned and made to sit up. Both Gillian and Perkins stood over her. Gillian handed Perkins Lady Roberts’ gun and pulled her own pistol from the pocket of her breeches.
“You have no notion as to what you have stumbled into, my dear,” Lady Roberts declared.
“No, my lady, you are the one who is uninformed.” With those words Gillian coshed the viscountess in the back of her head.
Perkins cheered, “Bravo, my lady.”
Gillian gave the butler a hard look. “I assume I have my husband to thank for your presence.”
“The earl did ask me to be ever vigilant. He said, despite all his admonitions, you would be in the thick of this business. He asked I remain close to the front door instead of one of the footmen.”
“Thank you, Perkins, I am most grateful.” Gillian hesitated for a moment to listen for approaching footsteps.
“What in the world is going on? Why is Lady Roberts insensible on the floor? Why are you both standing there not offering her aid?”
“The lady had a pistol pointed at my middle. What was I to do? Stand there quietly and allow her to shoot me? Aunt, if you and Perkins would help me get the viscountess into the library, I will tell you all. At least what I know.”
For once, her aunt didn’t make a fuss. No demand for a footman to be summoned. No chastisement for the unseemly goings on in her entry hall. Mayhap, Uncle Whitney had told Aunt Isadora about his involvement.
Her aunt came forward to take Gillian’s pistol. Gillian and Perkins hefted the viscountess’ arms over their shoulders and all but dragged her into the library. The duchess, with the pistol in her hand extended as far from her person as possible, followed along behind. No one spoke until they settled Lady Roberts in the middle of one of the settees. Perkins saw to the closing and locking of the library doors.
Gillian rushed over to the windows and appropriated a drapery cord to tie up their prisoner.
“Perkins, will you remain with her ladyship? I must try to warn Uncle Whitney and Moreham. Lady Roberts says the meeting at the abbey is a trap. She said they would be tying up loose ends.”
The duke’s butler glared at her ladyship’s body before going over to give the bell pull a sharp tug.
“Osgood is waiting below stairs. The viscountess’ coach is in front of the manor. She asked for the coach to be brought around. I have her cloak in the anteroom.”
“Excellent, once Mrs. Osgood comes, I will take the cloak and you must hand me up into the coach. If I can stay away from her footman, I may be able to fool him. I must ride to the abbey. The best choice is to take the lady’s coach. I may be able to arrive at the abbey without her associates being the wiser.”
“My lady, you could also do as your husband asked and remain here with us.” Perkins chided.
Lady Roberts’ cackling laughter filled the library. “You will never make it. The others left too long ago. Whitney will already be at the abbey. All you will do is arrive in time to hold your husband in your arms as he draws his last breath.” The woman tugged at her bindings. When the cord held, she opened her mouth to scream only to have Perkins stuff his handkerchief in her mouth. Mrs. Osgood entered the library without knocking. Without any sign of surprise, she remained by the door.
Gillian handed her aunt the pistol as she and Perkins passed by. “Aunt Isadora, if she gives you a moment of trouble. Shoot her. Doing so will save the Crown the expense of a trial and the silk cloth for her hanging,”
“Don’t fret about that. Your uncle told me all before he left for the abbey. He may be a pitiful shot, but I aim true every time. I will see to her personally until you return,” a fierce looking Duchess of Whitney assured her.
Gillian wished she could say the same about Moreham and the others. Enough worrying. It was time for action. She patted her pocket to reassure herself of her own pistol ready to fire. She only had one shot and that would have to be enough.
Chapter 18
The night air smelled of rain. Moreham left through the rear garden door for the stables. He hoped Gillian would behave and stay in their rooms. He knew the likelihood of such an occurrence was remote. Trouble followed his wife like a besotted suitor trailing after a diamond of the first water at a ball.
The jingling of tack broke through his musings.
“About time you got here,” Cross muttered from the other side of his horse. His words were punctuated by a grunt as he cinched up the saddle under his horse’s girth.
“What about the stable master?” Moreham looked around for Whitney’s man. “Where is he?”
“The duke, being the ever so generous employer, gave the stable master and grooms the night off.” Cross nodded toward Moreham’s horse. “I saddled him. You may want to tighten the girth.”
Moreham did a once-over before stepping into the stirrup and pulling himself upward into the saddle. The two men walked their mounts out of the stable yard and into the dark night. Not a moment too soon as Whitney’s nasal voice resonated through the night. Not for the first time that night, Moreham wondered if the duke could be trusted. Gillian believed in her uncle.
Moreham nudged Paladin into a canter. He only knew for certain he would be very happy when dawn came, and this night was behind him. The thought of Gillian safely snuggled in his arms spurred him onward into the darkness. He wanted this business done so he and his wife could seriously discuss their marriage and what he hoped would be their future together.
Cross led the way from the manor. Neither man spoke. Moreham watched for any movement from the sides of the lane.
Cross cocked his head to the side. “Sounds like Whitney and his cronies are almost here. We best make haste.”
They dismounted. Cross took possession of both horses and led them into the shadows. There was no need to alert the traitors of their presence—much easier to subdue a man not expecting to be ambushed. Tonight, they needed every advantage they could concoct to bring this bumble broth to its justifiable end.
Moreham joined Cross and kept watch. The quiet clip clop of horses hooves mingled with the mumblings of men’s voices became more distinct until they could hear the conversations of the riders.
“—don’t know why we had to come out in the middle of the night. I’ll catch a chill to be sure.”
“Colchester, stop complaining. When the Frenchman says come, we come, no questions asked. You need to keep your maw shut. If I didn’t need the blunt he promised us, I would be as far from Whitney’s place as I could manage.”
“Roberts old boy, losing some of that charm you’re noted for. You shouldn’t disparage your host’s hospitality, you know.” Whitney’s droll voice rang through the night. Moreham winced at the waver in Whitney’s voice. The duke was terrified no doubt.
Moreham could feel the fear rolling off him as the three men stopped in the road. Fortunately, the other men seemed not to notice their host’s discomfort.
“Why are we stopping here? Shouldn’t we continue to the meeting place?” Colchester asked.
Before Whitney could reply, Moreham and Cross stepped forward and each took charge of the reins of a horse. “Gentlemen, I am afraid this is your destination this evening,” Moreham explained.
“Moreham? What are you and Cross doing out here,” Colchester demanded.
“We are on the King’s business. I think it is of a greater importance to ask what are you doing out here?”
Moreham turned to Whitney. “Your Grace,
remain in the saddle. We have need of you. Your friends will dismount, and we will see to their comfort.”
The two men were wrestled from their horses in short order. Not a very difficult feat since both men were in their sixth decade and known for their excesses. They all but fell to the ground. Cross grabbed both men by the arm, pulled them to their feet then frog marched them into the gatehouse.
“Whitney, how do you fare?”
“For a moment there, I thought you were not here. I almost cast up my accounts when I heard your voice.”
Moreham pulled the coil of rope he’d brought with him from his saddle. He left Whitney and followed Cross and his prisoners into the gatehouse. Cross took the rope and produced two pristine white handkerchiefs. He tied up Roberts and Colchester then gagged them with the handkerchiefs. “My lords, if all goes well, we shall return within the hour and release you from your bindings. You may consider your capture to be an affront to your titles, but I prefer to think of our actions as a means to keep you alive. You can offer your thanks later.”
“Whitney as for you, all you have to do is stay in the saddle and do exactly as I say. We will both be home before the sun rises, and this nightmare will be behind us.”
“Moreham, I wish I had your confidence of such an occurrence...” Whitney’s voice broke.
“Whitney, remember what Philly said, there are many plots against the government on any given day. If not here, you may have been involved in something far worse. Now, we must deal with this conspiracy once and for all.”
Whitney shook his head. “You don’t understand who we are up against. I have only met him once and that was enough for me. Cold eyes. Reminds me of a corpse laid out for burial. Not looking forward to seeing him again.”
Cross reappeared with their horses. Moreham nodded his thanks and swung himself into the saddle. His friend followed suit, and the three men headed back down the lane. Moreham kept Whitney at his side. He had to ensure the man did not turn tail and run before they gained entrance to the abbey. Whitney’s worried glances over his shoulder did not help.