This must be Bath.
Sitting up and looking about her at the shadowed room, she thought about it. Cranby had bundled her into a coach, her hands tied, and they had rattled away through London. The blinds were drawn on the windows and two footmen rode behind.
There had been no point at all in trying to escape from the moving carriage. She had ridden beside Sir Gordon for some time in silence, listening to the faint nighttime noises of the town and waiting until they should reach the turnpike.
What if she were to scream at the tollbooth and cry out that she was being abducted? Good Lord! It was like something out of a Gothic novel. How would a real-life turnpike man respond? In books they were always sinister imbeciles, nothing like the stolid Englishmen of her experience. It surely wasn’t really that easy to kidnap a lady and carry her halfway across England undetected?
Then, unaccountably, she seemed to have fallen asleep. She remembered nothing of the journey. How on earth could she have passed the rest of the night and the best part of the next day in a deep sleep?
With a wince, she remembered the glass of wine. Cranby must have drugged her. In which case, she had better not eat or drink anything else from his hands. It was bad enough to be about to be sent to the Antipodes, but she had no desire at all to be carried on board ship unconscious.
How long had it been since they left London? Assuming that Cranby had made no stops except to change horses, it must be at least early afternoon. Would he have had time to contact the captain of a vessel?
The room was cold. She was still wearing only the ball gown with the ice-green ivy leaves. Goose bumps marked her bare arms. Wrapping a blanket from the bed around her shoulders, she stood up and tested her legs. They were distinctly unsteady.
How soon would Honoria deliver the note to Deyncourt? Would he decipher her code? Or would he believe the surface message and go straight to Honoria in relief? Surely if the earl had followed her, he would have been here by now?
A vision of the Incomparable Melton with Deyncourt leading her out at the ball came clearly to mind. Lady Honoria was as beautiful as an angel. She would make him a much better countess.
Jessica sat back on the bed, horrified to find hot tears welling up in her eyes. What on earth had happened to her, that she should be turning into such a watering pot?
With that thought she fell back against the pillows and into another deep sleep.
* * *
Not even the bay Thoroughbred could gallop nonstop from London to Bath. Michael rode the horse like a demon, but he was forced to pace himself and keep to the speed that his mount could maintain.
It was mid-morning by the time he was able to leave town, and the streets were jammed with carriages and horsemen. He must ride at a crawl through the crowds or risk killing someone.
Even when he left London behind, and was able to open his horse into its ground-eating stride, he must still negotiate a town or village every few miles. Gaggles of geese and flocks of sheep, farmers with slow wagons and gangs of farm boys on foot, everything conspired to slow him down.
By traveling at night, Cranby would have met no such obstacles. If he had arranged post horses ahead of time, he would have met almost no delay.
Wherever possible, Michael left the road and set off across country, leaping his mount over hedge and ditch, as if on some wild steeplechase. The farm laborers looked up in amazement as he passed, and a couple of times he was given a cheer as the bay soared over a stone wall, or in and out of a lane. Miles were cut off from his journey, but the effort took its toll on the horse and at Reading he left the exhausted animal at a posting inn.
After that, he must ride hired hacks, and even if they were the very best that money and influence could muster, they seemed to dawdle in comparison to the Thoroughbred. With a deadly determination, he rode on.
The day passed in a blur.
At every tollbooth he made inquiries, but of course there were innumerable gentlemen’s equipages passing by day and night. No one had noticed anything odd. No, there was no young lady in distress that anyone had noticed.
Suppose he had misread her message? What if he got to Bath and she wasn’t there?
* * *
Jessica woke again with a start. Gray light still filtered into the room and a steady noise was drumming in her ears. It was raining.
She slipped off the bed and went to the door. It was locked. She rattled at the handle, but there was no response.
Turning to the window, she worked valiantly for some time at raising the sash. Eventually it gave a little to her efforts. It was far too small to crawl through, but she was able to thrust out her arm.
There must have been a hole in the gutter, since a spout of rainwater splashed down in front of the window. She cupped her hand under the water running from the roof and drank a little. It tasted perfectly good, so she drank her fill. Cranby should not drug her again.
She peered out. The window looked onto a garden thick with unkempt trees and shrubs. Every piece of property that Cranby possessed seemed to be in a ramshackle state. What would he have done at Tresham, had his scheme succeeded? Old Lord Steal may have gamed away much of his ready capital, but the estate had not visibly suffered. Would Cranby have allowed that beautiful house to fall to rack and ruin?
On the far side of the overgrown shrubbery, a rambling rose ran wild over a high brick wall. So she was not imprisoned within the town limits of Bath, but in some kind of small country house. Yet just on the other side of that wall was surely a road with people passing by, going about their normal daily business. They might as well have been on the other side of the moon.
She closed the window and went back to the bed.
Jessica awoke next to a small noise. Cranby was standing in the doorway.
“I trust you slept well, Miss Whinburn?”
She sat up. “Excellently, thank you, Sir Gordon.”
“Would you like some breakfast?”
“I couldn’t eat or drink a thing, sir. I believe that I must have taken something that disagreed with me, for the thought of food or drink quite turns my stomach.”
“You have a remarkably vulgar turn of phrase for a lady,” he replied. “Won’t you come downstairs?”
Jessica followed him down through the quiet house and into a dining room. A meal was spread out on the sideboard. Her mouth watered at the sight of cold beef and fresh bread and fruit. A flagon of red wine sat beside the food. Would that contain the drug?
“You will surely take a glass of wine, ma’am?”
“Thank you, sir.”
He handed her a glass and she pretended to take a sip. Thank goodness she had been able to drink some rainwater! As Cranby turned back to the table, Jessica quickly poured some of her drink into a vase. Was he relieved that she had taken the wine? Whatever he had planned, it would surely be easier if she was unconscious.
“Pray, make yourself comfortable, Miss Whinburn. I am leaving for Bristol to arrange your passage. Meanwhile, you will find a library next door and a withdrawing room, but do not attempt to leave the house. My menservants are guarding every door.”
Jessica sat down in a chair beside the empty fireplace. The sound of rain beat heavily in the room.
“Are they to knock me on the head, if I attempt to pass them?” she said.
“They are instructed to do whatever is necessary. I trust you will behave in an appropriate manner, so that such behavior will not be called for.”
“I understand. Very well, Sir Gordon. By all means go about your nefarious business. I feel unaccountably sleepy during my last few hours in England.”
He left her alone in the room.
Jessica immediately began to explore the limits of her prison. As Cranby had said, there were three rooms linked with connecting doors and she was free to sit in whichever one she chose. The windows, however, were securely fastened and the doors locked.
The one door that opened gave onto a small anteroom, whose occupants looked up suspi
ciously when they saw her. Two burly men were playing cards. There was no point whatsoever in testing their loyalty to their master. She was only too sure that these unpleasant fellows had been handpicked for their jobs as jailers.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” she said gaily. “How about a game?”
“You’re to stay in the drawing room, ma’am, if it’s all the same,” one of the men stated.
“Oh, surely not? I shall expire from boredom. Cards are my passion. I’ll wager you’ll not beat me.”
The man guffawed. “Bob and I aren’t playing a ladies’ parlor game, missy.”
She walked up to stand at the table. A considerable number of coins lay scattered about its surface, and an ale jug sat at each man’s elbow.
“No, you’re playing High-Low-Jack. And not for penny stakes, either, thank goodness. I’ll play for first winner of seven games takes all. Your pot against this.”
She unclasped Deyncourt’s gold chain and locket from her neck and laid it on the table. The man called Bob gulped visibly.
“No tricks, now,” the first man said. “You shan’t cozen us into letting you out of this room.”
“Get away, Harvey!” Bob’s eyes were as round as saucers. “That’s real gold, that is!”
Harvey still looked wary.
“How should I leave the house more easily if I am sitting under your eye at this table, than if I am reclining with the vapors in the drawing room?” Jessica asked. “I imagine that your friends are guarding the front door, and very likely the entrance from the road. But if you prefer not to play, it’s your loss.”
She picked up the necklace and began to walk back toward the door.
“First to win seven games total, right?” Harvey said.
Jessica smiled.
“Very well, you’re on, miss. Deal her in, Bob!”
Bob dealt the first round of cards and turned the card for trump. It was the queen of spades.
“I’ll stand,” Harvey said, and play began.
Jessica looked at her cards. She had both the three and knave of spades. Without difficulty, she took points for Low and Jack, while High and Game points went to Harvey. It was Harvey’s deal.
“I beg,” she said.
Diamonds had turned trump and she had none. Harvey refused gift and ran the cards, until spades turned trump again. This time, Bob took three points. The pack was passed to Jessica. She gave it her very best shuffle, with every fan and waterfall that she knew.
The man called Bob laughed. “You’re no stranger to high stakes, are you?”
Jessica laughed back. “Neither are you, sir!” She turned the card for trump. “Do you stand or beg?”
“I beg.”
“But I’ll take it,” Jessica said. “Gift to you, Bob!”
She had a superb hand and cleaned up all four points. Bob dealt again. One more point and Jessica would win this round. Quite deliberately, she discarded three good cards after the run, so Harvey and Bob split the points. She did it again in the next round, and Bob took first game.
It was early evening by the time they had reached the tenth game. Copious amounts of ale had poured down the throats of the two men, and Jessica had managed to get through one glass. She didn’t care at all who won the game, but it was essential to her plan that the footmen have a good time and relax, and accept her as one of them, if only for a moment.
She remembered once reading somewhere that laughter makes a poor jailer. If that was the case, she was half free already. Both men were as merry as rattles.
“Your deal, missy!” Harvey cried.
He had loosened his collar and was in a grand humor. He had already taken five of the ten games. Two more wins and the necklace would be his. “How about another glass of brew?”
This was her moment. “My turn, gentlemen! I have already drunk some of your poison. Let me treat you to some of mine. Hold on!”
She got up from the table a little unsteadily. She was not used to strong liquor and the ale was as raw as mud. Concentrating her mind, she went back into the dining room and picked up the flagon of red wine.
What if she had guessed wrong? Then the only result of this caper would be that either Harvey or Bob would get Deyncourt’s necklace, while she passed out under the table from an overdose of coarse ale.
She came back with three wineglasses and filled them while Bob dealt the cards.
Harvey took a sip and laughed.
“So this is what the gentlemen tipple! Drink up, Bob!”
Jessica smiled and winked at Bob as she raised her glass. He took a deep draft. She hoped that neither man would notice that she set her own down untouched.
She had also better stop Harvey winning for a while. Her entire aim now was to make the game go on as long as possible, while the men drank Cranby’s wine. She managed to win the next round, and then began to slip points to Bob. Before long they were almost even. Five games to Harvey, and four each to Bob and herself.
Then Harvey took the next. One more and he would win, and the game would be over. Jessica watched anxiously to see if either of the men was getting sleepy. Perhaps she had miscalculated and there was nothing in the flagon but wine? Neither of these fellows would ever pass out from alcohol alone.
It was her deal. She turned up the knave of hearts. Hearts were trumps and one point to her.
“Stand or beg, sir?” she asked Bob.
“Beg, miss, begging your pardon,” Bob cried. “Can’t seem to stand!”
With a giggle he slumped to the floor.
“Damn me!” Harvey said looking down at his friend. “Never thought Bob couldn’t hold his liquor.”
He looked at Jessica and his eyes crossed.
“Pretty good stuff you gentlefolk drink,” he said, and he followed Bob to the floor.
Stentorian snores shook the room. Jessica leaned over each man and shook him by the shoulder. There was no response but another nasal explosion.
She ran to the door. It was locked. Without compunction she went back to the two men and began to search their pockets. Pray that they weren’t lying on the key, as Peter had done at the Blue Boar!
She giggled aloud. Oh, Lord! She had taken nothing for a day, but two glasses of extremely potent ale. It would be beyond anything if Cranby returned and found three unconscious bodies around the card table.
The key was in Harvey’s pocket.
Moments later, Jessica stepped into the garden.
It was almost dark, the long summer twilight shortened by the dark clouds.
The rush of rainwater sobered her instantly, as she was soaked to the skin.
* * *
The hired horse cast a shoe exactly halfway between Marlborough and Chippenham. With a curse, Michael was forced to dismount and lead the animal to the next village. He had just passed the extraordinary antiquities of West Kennet, where a row of earthen mounds like giant upturned wheelbarrows hugged the ridge top.
Rain swept across the Marlborough Downs in torrents, hiding the windswept landscape of chalk hills and hidden valleys. Mud ran in rivulets around his boots. Water poured off the brim of his hat and soaked the shoulders of his greatcoat. This mishap would cost him at least another thirty minutes.
The earl had already ridden for nine straight hours, with little more sustenance than his brandy flask and a sandwich that Dover had miraculously produced and thrust into his pocket as he left. He had eaten it as he rode. God bless John Montagu, fourth Earl of Sandwich, for his invention!
For a moment he wished that his estimable manservant was with him, but Dover, capable as he was, could never have kept up on this bruising ride.
Michael grimaced to himself. He had once done something similar in the Peninsula in order to carry an urgent message for Wellington, before his brother had died and he had come into his title, but at least then it hadn’t been raining.
He cursed again as a squall sent a spray of water straight into his face.
The village of Cherhill hunched beneath the dow
npour. Michael hammered at the first door he came to.
“Is there a horse for hire here?”
The cottager chewed for a moment. “Nay, sir, not one. Just farm nags. But no one would hire out his work horses.”
“Then is there a smithy? For God’s sake, man! I’ll pay in gold.”
“Very sorry, sir,” the man said. “John Smith shuts up shop at six o’clock sharp and starts in on his cider. He’ll not be capable now till morning.”
“Can he be roused?”
“Not if it was Judgment Day, sir.”
“Very well, I believe you. Where is the smithy?”
“Just over yonder, sir.”
Michael looked where the man pointed, at a ramshackle stone building with a thatched roof.
“I’ll pay a guinea to the man who will blow the bellows,” he said.
“You can’t go in John’s smithy without his say-so, sir.”
“Try me,” the earl said.
The man gave him a shrewd glance. “Then I’ll blow for you myself. But if John were to catch me, he’d have my hide.”
“A big man, is he?”
“Bigger than you and me both, and mean in his cups.”
The fellow took a bite at the coin that the earl dropped into his palm, before thrusting it deep into an inside pocket.
“But he’ll be like a lamb by morning,” Michael said. “I have met your John Smiths before. Never fear, I shall make sure that he forgives you.”
Michael threw open the door of the smithy and led his horse inside. There were still coals in the fire, and the cottager set to with a will blowing up a fierce blaze.
Word has a way of traveling in villages. Before long a little gaggle of rustics gathered to watch the extraordinary sight of a gentleman shoeing his own horse. The sly nudges and winks turned to reluctant respect as the tall stranger peeled off his expensive coat and rolled up the sleeves of a shirt that was surely silk, to reveal a pair of strong brown arms and workmanlike hands.
Their silent respect soon became a murmur of approval when those fine hands set about the humble task with dispatch. Within fifteen minutes Michael had trimmed up the hoof and reset the shoe.
Valor's Reward Page 19