Valor's Reward

by Jean R. Ewing

  “I have no broken bones, if that’s what you mean.”

  “And you are not curious as to our destination?”

  “Of course, I am raddled with curiosity. But I imagine that if you intended to tell me, you would have done so. Therefore I did not see the point in wasting my breath to ask.”

  “Never mind. We are here. Do not attempt any heroics. All the persons within earshot are my servants.”

  The carriage stopped and Cranby lifted her down. They stood in a courtyard serving some unlit buildings. All the doors and windows were shuttered. Several burly men waited in silence. She had no doubt that Cranby would force her if she was awkward, so she walked quietly enough beside him into a dark hallway.

  A door opened and light flooded out. She blinked. Cranby thrust her inside the room and pushed her onto a chair.

  It seemed to be a disused parlor. The furniture was originally of good quality, but old and shabby. Layers of dust veiled rows of leather-bound books. No fire burned in the grate, though a wealth of candles flickered from sconces and tabletops.

  The only other occupant of the room glittered like the sun, her golden hair glimmering.

  Sir Gordon Cranby sat down at the table opposite Jessica. Lady Honoria Melton came and stood beside him.

  “Was it any problem?” she asked.

  “Miss Whinburn was all cooperation. Your surmise as to a suitable bait was bang on the mark, cousin dear.”

  “And you will take her down there tonight?”

  “I see no reason to not to set out right away.”

  Honoria laughed and sat down. “The sooner the better.”

  “I am not sure that I follow this conversation,” Jessica said. “However, I would prefer it if you would not discuss me as if I were not here, like a child or an imbecile.”

  “Our apologies, ma’am,” Cranby replied with an unpleasant laugh. “We have been shamefully negligent hosts. Let me give you a glass of wine.”

  He stood and went to a side cupboard, where he poured three glasses. He brought one to Jessica, then untied her arms and tossed the blanket aside. Caught in the rough fabric, her shawl went with it. In spite of the flaming candles, she shivered.

  “A toast, I think,” Cranby continued. “To adventure?”

  “By all means.” Jessica’s tongue felt like sawdust. She gulped gratefully at her glass. “To adventure! I only hope you intend to let me choose my own?”

  Honoria’s wine sat untouched at her elbow. “You didn’t really think we would let you get away with this, did you?”

  “Get away with what? It seems to me that it was Sir Gordon who was trying to get away with something that did not belong to him.”

  “You refer to Tresham, of course.” Cranby smiled and stared at her through his quizzing glass. “Alas, I had so looked forward to being surrounded in the evenings with all those lugubrious portraits of the Steal ancestors. But my cousin refers to Deyncourt. She had quite set her heart on being a countess.”

  “Oh, be quiet, Cranby!” Honoria turned her velvet eyes on Jessica. In the soft light from the candles, she was quite lovely. “Miss Whinburn, it is as clear as a bell that you and Deyncourt have announced your betrothal for all the wrong reasons. So I have no compunction in asking you to do what I say.”

  “Which is?”

  “Write a note to the earl, begging off from the engagement.”

  “And if I do not?”

  “I will hurt you,” Cranby said.

  “Goodness!” Jessica exclaimed lightly. “You are a nasty fellow, aren’t you?”

  Cranby merely smiled.

  “Very well, then,” Jessica said. “I have no tolerance at all for pain. Since my acceptance of Lord Deyncourt is a matter of perfect indifference to me, I shall be perfectly happy to write whatever you suggest.”

  “Wise woman.” Cranby said.

  “And when it is written, may I return to my great-aunt’s house? I have not even had time to change from my ball gown.”

  “Regrettably not. You will inform the earl that you are going away, but you will not tell him the truth.”

  “Which is?”

  “That you will take ship from Bristol to whichever port in the Colonies is available.”

  She gulped another mouthful of wine. “So I am to make this journey in my little sprigs of lace ivy?”

  “Only as far as Bath, Miss Whinburn. I shall see that you are suitably set up for your sea voyage. What do you take me for, a barbarian?”

  “Oh, my mistake, Sir Gordon.”

  Jessica’s heart hammered, but her thoughts were totally clear. Her headache had gone away. She had no doubt at all that Cranby would do exactly as he threatened. He would probably put her on a perfectly respectable boat, and might even provide her with some necessities for the voyage, but when—or rather if—she ever returned, Deyncourt would have married Honoria.

  Suddenly, she couldn’t bear it. But she finished the wine. It wouldn’t hurt to be a little fortified if she had to face a journey to Bath with Sir Gordon.

  “What do you want me to say?” she asked.

  A pen, inkwell, and paper lay on the table. Honoria thrust them toward her.

  “My dear Lord Deyncourt,” she began to dictate. “It is with great regret that I beg to inform you—”

  “Oh, heavens!” Jessica cried. “He will know immediately that I didn’t write it, if I sound like that. Here, let me have the quill!”

  She pulled the paper to her and began to write. Her copperplate handwriting flowed copiously across the paper. The capital letters in particular were done with great relish, their flourishes often running into the lines above and beneath.

  “Here,” she said when she had done. “Deyncourt will know that this is in my own words. I believe I have covered all the points you would have wished me to say.”

  Honoria picked up the letter. “You do have a unique style, Miss Whinburn. Cranby, listen to this!”

  She read it aloud. “My dear Deyncourt, Vexatious as it may be to you, I have decided to go away. After the ball, my feelings have undergone a serious change. Absolutely nothing would induce me to marry you. Question your own behavior, as usual. Very certainly you will do so when you get this. An English gentleman should always question everything. Squelch any thought of trying to find me. Vainly will you seek happiness—unless you marry the Lady of your heart, the Incomparable. Signed, Jessica Whinburn.”

  Cranby gave a titter. “Admirable, Miss Whinburn.”

  “Oh, wait,” Jessica said. “I had better add a postscript, so that he will know that I am really distraught.”

  She whipped the letter back out of Honoria’s hand and added: “PS. As I said at Bromley and Finch, you must find, as Phaedrus wrote, ‘Sensibility Governs Conscience.’”

  “Who on earth are Bromley and Finch?” Honoria asked.

  “Publishers,” Cranby replied.

  “I once had literary ambitions,” Jessica said. “Deyncourt is the only one who knows about it. That will assure him that this letter can have come only from me, and confirm in his mind that I am serious, don’t you think?”

  “Undoubtedly,” Honoria said with a smile of genuine amusement. “You are a wiser woman than I thought, Miss Whinburn.”

  “Thank you. I never understood for a moment why Lord Deyncourt did not marry you years ago. How could a carrot-top like me hope to rival the Incomparable Melton? Before I leave for Timbuktu, however, I do want to thank you for lending me Cicely Pratchett. She’s a wonderful lady’s maid. Not only did she teach me how to bully my own crowning glory into some semblance of a presentable style, but Caroline’s new appearance—which helped Lord Steal to fall in love with her—was partly Cicely’s idea and partly your own. You’ve been a truer friend to us all than you know.”

  * * *

  Deyncourt received the letter by messenger the next morning. He had just shrugged into his coat after grimacing at himself in the mirror. The ball had gone perfectly. Lady Honoria had been able to save face
. Whatever stories she might already have put about would now die a natural death. Peter and Caroline were saved—the only thing about the evening from which he could derive any satisfaction.

  As he had surmised all those months ago, Miss Caroline Brandon would be the making of his heedless ward. Beneath that unprepossessing exterior was a very sensible young woman who would know exactly how to bring Peter to heel. She also loved the boy with an abiding emotion and that love was returned. Peter would start a family and probably settle down to be the very model of a country gentleman.

  The eighth Earl of Deyncourt was a successful matchmaker. And, of course, he had been aided, not hindered, by the impulsive Miss Whinburn. Valiant, beautiful Jessica! Oh, dear God, must he be glad that she despised him? For once this mess was over, he must let her go her own way—for what the devil could he offer her?

  “You’re a damned fool, Michael Dechardon Grey,” he said aloud as he tied his cravat.

  It was a great deal easier for Henry VIII. He loathed Anne of Cleves—and he did not loathe himself.

  The footman brought in the missive from Jessica. The earl read it through twice. Something very odd and distinctly painful happened to his heart. He folded the letter and thrust it into his pocket.

  Within fifteen minutes he was hammering on Lady Emilia’s front door.

  “The ladies are not at home to visitors, my lord,” the astonished butler said.

  “Lady Emilia may still be abed, sir, but she will wish to see me, even in her dressing gown.”

  “Perhaps you would care to wait in the parlor, my lord?”

  “Damn it all, man! Where is her room?”

  Pushing the scandalized butler aside, Michael ran up the stairs. When he reached the landing, he called out for Lady Emilia. Instantly the door to her room opened and her head popped out.

  “Deyncourt! For heaven’s sake! You will wake the entire neighborhood. Are you foxed?”

  “I must see you immediately. Where is Jessica?”

  “Asleep in her bed like all decent folk. Have you entirely lost your senses?”

  “Where is her room?”

  “This is beyond anything! You shall not enter her bedroom, if you were betrothed six times over.”

  The earl strode up to the old lady and thrust out the note. “Read this!”

  Lady Emilia retreated back into her boudoir to fetch her pince-nez. She also took a moment to straighten her lace nightcap in front of the mirror.

  Michael paced the corridor while Lady Emilia perused Jessica’s note.

  “What an extraordinary letter!” she said at last. “What on earth does she mean? She would not have gone off without telling me. Perhaps she is taking revenge for your shabby treatment of her. When she comes down for breakfast, I shall ask her myself.”

  “Lady Emilia, I beg you will make sure she is indeed still in her room.”

  “Oh, poppycock!” the old lady said, but she bustled down the corridor and knocked at one of the doors.

  There was no answer. Puzzled, Aunt Emilia knocked again.

  With an exasperated oath, Michael stepped past her, opened the door, and strode into the room.

  It was empty.

  “Good God!” Lady Emilia said.

  “Indeed.” The earl quickly searched the room. “The bed is not slept in. She has taken nothing with her, not even her nightgown.”

  He stopped for a moment, the silk garment in his hands. A memory of her in his room at Tresham threatened for a moment to undo his composure. He tossed the night rail onto the bed and went to her wardrobe.

  “The dress she wore last night is not here. She must still be wearing it. Neither do I see the locket I gave her. If she had decided to cry off, she would first have returned it to me, and she would have changed her dress. I very much fear, my dear friend, that something untoward has happened.”

  Aunt Emilia dashed away the tears that had suddenly sprung to her eyes.

  “Then let us waste no more time. We must find her right away. Would she have informed Caroline Brandon of her plans, do you think?”

  “I don’t know,” Michael replied. “Get dressed, ma’am, and have breakfast. I shall send for Miss Brandon and Peter immediately. Never fear, I shall find her.”

  All his bland control was gone. Rage and fear beat hard at his heart.

  Within an hour Lord Steal and his betrothed had joined them. Both of the young people gave signs of having dressed too quickly and hastened out. Peter had so forgotten himself as to leave off his waistcoat. Miss Brandon was wearing stockings that didn’t match. Nobody seemed to notice.

  “It’s very odd, Lord Deyncourt,” Caroline said, when she had read the letter. “To say that her feelings have undergone a serious change. She never claimed to be marrying you for love.”

  “That thought has already occurred to me,” Michael replied grimly. “But then I think she may have been forced to write the letter.”

  “But it’s exactly her style,” Peter said.

  “Though why she would direct you to question your own behavior, I don’t know.” Aunt Emilia sniffed.

  “Yes,” Peter added. “Anyone would know better than that. ‘Question your own behavior, as usual.’ Not you, at all! Rather the other way I should have said.”

  He colored as the earl gave him a quelling look.

  “I am aware, dear ward, that you consider me a perfect tyrant, but it is not unknown for even Attila the Hun to introspect upon occasion.”

  “Jessica also knows perfectly well,” Aunt Emilia continued, “that the Incomparable is not and never has been the ‘Lady of your heart,’ in spite of your magnificent performance last night.” She snorted.

  “What do you think has happened?” Caroline asked in a small voice. “Why would she leave in the middle of the night?”

  Without answering her, Michael sprang to his feet and strode from the room. He ran rapidly down the stairs to the servants’ quarters, where he pinned the unfortunate butler to the wall.

  “Were any messages delivered here last night?” the earl demanded. “You will ask each of the footmen, the maids, even the stable boys. Find out!”

  The poor man returned a short time later. “Late last night, my lord, brought by hand. One of the housemaids took a note up to Miss Whinburn’s chamber and left it there for her to find.”

  Michael raced back up to Jessica’s room and began a meticulous search, shaking out books, tossing her pillows aside. At last a slip of paper fell to the floor. He read it in a glance and raced down to drawing room, where Jessica’s aunt and the young people were still waiting.

  “She was sent a note signed by me,” he said. “I did not write it. I’m afraid that she has been abducted—and I believe I know by whom.”

  “You don’t think the Incomparable Melton’s got anything to do with it, do you?” Peter cried. “Dash it all!”

  “Lady Honoria is fast asleep in her bed. I have made inquiries. The servants vouch that she returned very late from the ball at Mapleton House, but has not stirred since.”

  Caroline was reading over Jessica’s letter again. “What’s this about Bromley and Finch?” she asked, handing the paper to the earl.

  “Oh, they publish all those dreadful Latin and Greek readers that gentlemen are tormented with in their schooldays.” Peter was almost able to grin. “I received many a beating for not knowing my Latin grammar, I can tell you! But what on earth does Miss Whinburn know about Phaedrus?”

  Things aren’t always as they appear—

  “Good God!” Michael laid the letter on the table. The others gathered round him. “Clever Jessica! You will notice, I’m sure, that she gave particular emphasis to the capital letters.”

  “Very florid,” Aunt Emilia said. “I am surprised at it in my great-niece.”

  The earl began to laugh. He strode to the bell and snapped out instructions to a footman. “Send for my horse immediately.”

  “Where are you going?” Peter asked.

  “Bath.”
r />   “Bath?”

  “Indeed, sir. The capital letters in this note read: V I A—by way of—A Q V A E S V L I S. Aquae Sulis, the Roman name for Bath.”

  “But who on earth does Miss Whinburn know in Bath?”

  “Nobody, if my guess is correct. Yet Sensibility Governs Conscience? Phaedrus never wrote any such thing. But Sir Gordon Cranby—S G C—hails from there, I believe.”

  “Cranby? The devil!”

  “Exactly, sir.”

  “Can Lady Honoria give you his direction, do you suppose?” Caroline asked uncertainly.

  “Undoubtedly she knows it, but short of torture, I would never get it out of her.”

  “And what about that invincible charm?” Aunt Emilia said. “Pretend to believe this missive, go to the Incomparable, and declare your passion. Could you not get her to tell you her cousin’s address?”

  “My dear friends,” Michael said, shrugging into his greatcoat. “That is probably exactly what she hopes I will do. If I go near Lady Honoria now, I would not put it past her to claim ravishment at my hands. I am not interested in compromising another lady’s honor. Jessica’s is quite enough. For God’s sake, a man’s address is not hard to obtain.”

  “You will find her, won’t you?” Caroline said. “Peter and I owe all our happiness to her. You may not have known it, but Peter thought himself in love with Jessica before he fell in love with me. She soon put a stop to that.”

  “Oh, God, Caroline! Don’t throw it in my face.” Peter groaned. “Miss Whinburn never gave me the least encouragement. I was just being my usual dumb self.”

  Pain locked like a vice around his heart, Michael wriggled his fingers into a pair of fine gloves.

  “Wish me Godspeed!” he said quietly. “There is no time to be lost. They are already seven or eight hours ahead of me. But if Jessica is still in the country, I shall bring her back, never fear.”

  “And if she is not?” Aunt Emilia asked, her eyes very bright.

  “Then I shall go to the ends of the earth to find her.”

  * * *

  Chapter 17

  Jessica woke up with a dreadful thirst and a splitting headache. She was lying on a cot in a small room. There was one tiny window and she gazed at it in a distracted way. Outside, trees were faintly silhouetted against a gray sky.