by Brenda Hiatt
On entering Ivy Lodge, he went at once to the writing desk in the parlor. "Rush, I need to leave at once and will be gone some days— perhaps a week or more," he said to Lord Rushford, the lone occupant of the parlor. Thor pulled out a sheet of paper, dipped a pen and began writing.
"What is it, old fellow?" Rush asked in obvious concern. "Anything I can help with?"
Thor shook his head, his instinct to keep the matter secret as long as possible. "It's a family matter."
His friend frowned, then nodded. "Of course."
Finishing the brief note to his parents, Thor sanded and sealed it, then handed it to Jonas. "Get something to eat in the kitchen before you start back," he told the man.
Once the footman was gone, Thor turned back to Rush with a sigh. "Now that I think on it, you might be able to advise me. I've never —that is— Devil it. Violet has eloped."
Rush blinked. "But she's just a child. How—?"
"Actually, she was twenty in August." The surprise on his friend's face would have made Thor laugh if the situation hadn't been so grave. "My mother believes this—" He glanced down at his father's letter— "Plunkett is a fortune hunter, and she's likely right, or they'd have had no need to elope."
"Clearly it's been longer than I realized since I last saw Miss Turpin. But Lady Rumble is undoubtedly right. In fact, I recall a Plunkett from Lincolnshire, never promoted past ensign —a plausible rogue and a gamester as well. If it's the same fellow, you'd do well to prevent the marriage, if possible."
This was unwelcome news to Thor, if not particularly shocking. Violet had always been a hopeless romantic, often abetting his mother's incessant attempts to interest him in some girl or other. Unfortunately, that would make Violet easy prey for a "plausible rogue."
"I'll do my best," he said, "though if she spends a night on the road with him, we may not have much choice in the matter."
Rush frowned thoughtfully. "Assuming they're headed for Scotland, they'll not likely make it past Yorkshire by tonight. How much of a start do they have?"
"I'm not sure. Apparently her disappearance wasn't discovered until this morning." Which meant it was probably too late already to salvage poor Violet's reputation.
"Don't look so glum, man," said Rush bracingly. "If you head North at once, there's a chance you'll catch them before they reach the border. Word can't have gotten round yet. We'll manage to hush things up, you'll see."
"I hope so," Thor replied without much hope. "At any rate, I'd best be off. Pity Othello is already tired." His smoky black hunter was the fastest horse Thor owned, but would have little speed left in him after today's hunt.
"Take Pilot." Rush owned three hunters, and had ridden Comrade today. "He should be spoiling for a run, and he's big enough to bear you. Change horses at Grantham and I'll go fetch him tomorrow. Go on up and pack a few things and I'll have Mrs. Sykes put together a few pies and a flask of something. We'll have you off in ten minutes. With any luck, you can make it to Wetherby by midnight. And who knows? They may stop for the night there themselves, and your chase will be over."
Thor nodded, somewhat cheered by his friend's positive attitude. "Thank you, Rush. I know I don't need to caution you—"
"Not a word, on my honor. Now, go."
Ten minutes later, Thor was mounted on Rush's burly chestnut, provisions in a bag tied to the saddle. With a last salute to his friend and wartime commander, he spurred Pilot to a canter and headed north. Whether he would hug his sister or turn her over his knee when he caught her, he didn't know —but first, he had to catch her.
Dina felt a mixture of relief and anxiety when the coach finally lumbered to a halt, her journey at an end. Relief that the longest trip she'd ever taken was over —who would have guessed that travel would be so tiring? —and anxiety because she was no nearer a solution to her problem than she'd been when she'd left.
She pulled her satchel from the coach, thanked the driver, and headed wearily toward the Gretna Hall Hotel, which had become infamous in recent years for its clandestine marriages.
After two nights and two days on the road, she was feeling the lack of the regular exercise and physical training she subjected herself to at home. Why sitting in a coach should leave her more exhausted than a two hour walk or a vigorous bout of shadow-boxing or weight-lifting she had no idea. She was also feeling out of sorts —and desperate.
At the various coaching stops, she'd discreetly examined any man who looked unattached, with some vague idea of explaining her plight and relying on gallantry —or, at least, greed. However, none had appeared at all promising: colliers blackened with coal dust, wizened farmers, brash tradesmen.
She'd even struck up a conversation with one of her drivers, for all he looked twenty years her senior, only to discover that he had a wife and four children at home. That she'd even asked showed her how hopeless her situation had become.
Hopelessness led to rationalization. Perhaps it would not be so terrible for her inheritance to come under Silas's control. His luck at the tables might turn, or she might convince him to keep her money separate. She knew the odds were small, but with her birthday only two days away and no potential groom in sight, rationalization was all she had.
Entering the hotel, she bespoke a room, a private parlor and dinner, which the clearly curious innkeeper promised would be served within half an hour. She was just settling herself into a chair near the parlor fire to wait, when the clatter of another carriage arriving drew her attention.
Rising to look out of the window, she saw a slim, dark-haired lady being handed down by a rather sullen-looking young man with obvious aspirations to dandyism. As they entered the Hall and approached her parlor, she could overhear their conversation.
"I haven't the money, and you've spent all yours," the man was saying, clearly continuing an argument that had been going on in the coach. "Can't think why you bought that bonnet in Halifax."
"I wanted something special to wear for my wedding day, since I haven't a veil or new slippers," the lady replied.
The gentleman snorted. "Now we're in Scotland, let's just tie the knot. Especially since you won't—"
"A nice dinner in a private parlor and a few hothouse flowers isn't so much to ask," the lady retorted with a pout. "And you'll have money enough when we return to Lincolnshire. What of all those poems you wrote me, so full of romance? A girl has a few expectations of what her special day will be like, you know."
Her interest caught, Dina moved to the door of the parlor. The lady appeared to be no more than eighteen, her pretty, animated face framed by a cloud of dark curls. The gentleman was older, probably nearing thirty, and handsome in a dark, flamboyant sort of way. Or would have been, had his expression been less peevish. Even as Dina examined him, he smoothed his features into a cajoling smile.
"Come, now, Vi, we had all this out before. You'll have all the hothouse flowers you could ever want, once we're properly wed. We'll throw a ball and invite all of our friends to celebrate our marriage. You'll like that, won't you?"
"Yes, I should like a grand ball," she conceded. "But it's not the same. This will be my actual wedding. I want it to be special. Something I can remember forever."
The gentleman sighed but clung to his charming smile. "Please, Vi—" he began again.
Realizing that this might be the very solution she'd been hoping for, Dina stepped forward.
Chapter Two
"Hello," Dina called from the parlor door. The arguing couple turned to face her, just as the innkeeper approached to see to the newcomers. "I'm Undine Moore. I realize we've never met, but I wonder if I might not impose upon you to be my guests for dinner, to spare me the tedium of dining alone."
The man frowned suspiciously and started to shake his head, but Dina sent him her most bewitching smile —the one she'd practiced all those months on the traitorous Diggory —and his brow cleared. "I, ah, I suppose—" he began.
"Yes, let's do, Gregory," his partner pleaded prettily. "I'm famishe
d, and Mrs. Moore seems a respectable lady."
Dina nodded to the innkeeper, who bustled off. "Actually, it's Miss," she said, with another smiling glance at the gentleman. "But I am respectable, I assure you."
"Gregory Plunkett," he said with a smart bow. "And this is Violet, er, Plunkett, my wife."
"Fiancée," the girl retorted, flashing him an irritated glance before turning back to Dina. "I'm still Violet Turpin. Gregory and I have come to Gretna Green to get married. Isn't that romantic?"
"Exceedingly so," Dina agreed, carefully keeping cynicism from her voice. "Is there an angry father in pursuit, to make the adventure complete?" She was determined to keep the conversation away from her own situation —for now.
Though a trace of alarm showed in Mr. Plunkett's eyes, Miss Turpin grinned engagingly. "Unlikely, knowing my father. I can't imagine he'd bestir himself, though my brother would likely come after me if he knew I'd eloped. But he's hunting in the Shires, miles away from our home, so there's little risk of that."
"Still, to be safe, we probably ought not delay the wedding." Mr. Plunkett glanced toward the windows. "I'll just pop out and ask the innkeeper to send for the parson, and to prepare us a room for the night —a proper bridal chamber, m'love."
Something about his manner irritated Dina— perhaps because it reminded her of Diggory's placating promises, all of which had proved false. Her nebulous plan to steal Mr. Plunkett from Miss Turpin solidified into resolve. Aside from her own situation, she couldn't allow this innocent girl to marry such an insincere fortune-hunter —for such she assumed him to be.
"A moment, Mr. Plunkett," she said now, as he made to rise. Then, to Miss Turpin, "Surely, it would be far more romantic to be married in the morning, by which time you would be able to procure flowers and other traditional trappings?"
The girl nodded, clearly unaware that Dina had overheard her earlier. "Just what I have been telling Gregory. This hurried declaration between dinner and bed is not at all what I had in mind."
"But sweetheart." The syrup in Mr. Plunkett's voice was enough to make Dina retch. "That would mean separate rooms yet again, and you know we can't afford that —not if I'm to pay the parson."
"Miss Turpin is welcome to share my room," Dina said quickly. "As it appears neither of us brought a maid along, that should serve nicely. I had worried about the propriety of sleeping alone at an inn, I confess. In light of that, I would be willing to pay for your room as well, Mr. Plunkett. I can well afford it." She definitely didn't mistake the speculative gleam in Mr. Plunkett's eyes at her addendum.
Miss Turpin didn't appear to notice, however. "May I, Miss Moore? That would be lovely. I would rather wait, if you don't mind too much, Gregory."
"Very well, if that will make you happy, my dear," he said, though he still looked at Dina.
Their dinner arrived then, and during the course of it, Dina discovered that Miss Turpin had known Mr. Plunkett less than a month, and that their engagement had preceded their elopement by only two days.
"Gregory made it sound so romantic," Miss Turpin explained. "But I confess, had I known how tedious the journey would be, I'd have chosen a more conventional wedding."
Mr. Plunkett quickly commented on the excellence of the cheese, which told Dina he didn't care to pursue the topic. No matter. She would get the details from Miss Turpin once they retired to their shared bedchamber. In the meantime, she behaved as charmingly as she knew how, given her limited practice, hoping both to win Miss Turpin's confidence and to heighten Mr. Plunkett's interest in herself.
As all were tired from traveling, they agreed to retire directly after dinner. Preceding Miss Turpin into their room, Dina was relieved to note that it seemed clean, if small, and that the bed was easily large enough to share.
"You never did say, Miss Moore, how you come to be here in Gretna Green all alone," Miss Turpin commented, following her into the room and closing the door.
"Please, call me Dina. All my friends do, and if we're to share a bedchamber, it seems you should follow suit."
"And you must call me Violet," the other girl said readily, but she was not so easily deflected as that. "So why are you here?" she persisted. "Have you a bridegroom of your own on his way to meet you? Perhaps we can have a double wedding tomorrow."
Dina had to smile at Violet's unquenchable optimism. For a moment she debated how much to tell her, but the temptation to pour out her troubles to a sympathetic ear was too strong to resist, and soon she was relating her entire story.
"How dreadful," Violet exclaimed when she had finished. "Your brother and his friend have treated you most infamously. And your birthday is but two days off?"
Dina nodded glumly. "December fifth."
"Really, though, I can't think you'd have been happy married to a man such as that. You would be better off poor than trapped in a loveless marriage."
At that, Dina managed a wry smile. "You are very young, Violet."
"Twenty. Not so very young. I guessed you to be no older, truth be told, for I am half a head taller than you."
That wasn't exactly what Dina had meant, but she nodded. "Yes, I've always been rather small, I fear. I've done my best to compensate for it, however."
Violet grinned her engaging grin. "Indeed, no one could overlook you, with such bright red hair. I've never seen such a lovely color."
Now Dina's smile was genuine. "That's very kind of you, though I must tell you that as a child, I endured quite a bit of teasing over it."
She saw no point in telling Violet that her way of dealing with her insecurities over her hair color and small stature had been to wheedle a favorite uncle into giving her boxing and fencing lessons on the sly. She'd also learned to handle a pistol quite handily. She hadn't practiced in the two or three years since her uncle had left for America, but she still followed a private regimen of calisthenics and weights, so that her strength and flexibility far exceeded that of most gently-bred ladies.
Instead, she turned the conversation away from herself by asking, "Are you quite certain you wish to marry Mr. Plunkett in the morning? You've known each other such a short time."
She expected an ardent declaration of love, but instead Violet frowned. "I thought I did. An elopement seemed wildly exciting —and romantic —when he first proposed it. But now—"
"Now, perhaps, you wonder why he didn't dare to approach your father? There must be a reason, you know."
"Yes, that's the bother of a long journey. It gives one entirely too much time to think."
Dina nearly laughed, though in fact she'd discovered the same thing herself. "Surely, that's a good thing in such a situation as this? A marriage is forever, after all, while infatuation can disappear overnight."
"My fortune will not, however," Violet replied with more cynicism than Dina had expected from the girl. "And that, I begin to suspect, is what primarily matters to Gregory. He does write such beautiful poetry, though." She sighed. "Would you care to see a bit of it?"
At Dina's nod, Violet pulled a few sheets from the side pocket of her valise. Dina read the first poem, then the next, with a growing sense of outraged disbelief.
"Are not his verses fine?"
Setting the papers aside, she met Violet's expectant gaze with a sympathetic one of her own. "I should think so, considering that they were written by none other than Shakespeare himself."
"What?" The younger girl snatched up the pages and stared at them. "Oh, surely not! Why, here, he calls me his muse —the tenth muse. He even named the poem after me: Violet. 'How can my muse want subject to invent, While thou doest breathe, that pour'st into my verse—' "
" '—thine own sweet argument, too excellent for every vulgar paper to rehearse'," Dina continued from memory. "My mother was a great lover of Shakespeare, particularly his sonnets, and insisted I learn them all. At her direction, my governess had me commit nearly half of them to memory."
Violet sat back, deflated. Before Dina could find the words to comfort her, however, the
girl gave a little laugh. "I begin to realize it's a very good thing I happened upon you, Dina. Otherwise I would have married Gregory for his poetry, when it isn't even his. It seems he has been insincere on all fronts."
"I'm sorry," Dina said gently. "But, as you said to me about Diggory, it's better that you discovered it now, before binding yourself for life, hard as it may seem at present."
"Yes. Yes, you're right, of course. In the morning, I'll break it off." Suddenly, she smiled —a genuine-seeming smile. "I think you must be my guardian angel, Dina. I'll do my best to dream up a solution to your problem while I sleep, to return the favor."
Dina thanked her, feeling more than a little bit guilty. Convincing Violet not to marry Mr. Plunkett had been far easier than she'd anticipated, which meant there couldn't have been much affection involved, but the girl would still likely see Dina's marrying him herself as a betrayal. However, it seemed to be the only answer.
Somehow, she suspected she'd have no trouble getting Mr. Plunkett to agree to allow her to live her own life as she chose, with a generous allowance, in return for control of her fortune. Especially once he realized Miss Turpin was lost to him. On that encouraging thought, Dina was able to fall quickly asleep.
Thor was in the devil's own temper. The farther north he rode, the nastier the weather became —and his hope of saving his sister from a disastrous marriage faded at each change of horses. As Rush had suggested, he had indeed found evidence of the fleeing couple at Wetherby, but had also discovered that they were at least ten hours ahead of him. As he neared the Scottish border just after daybreak after a second night on the road, he feared his chance of preventing the wedding was by now nonexistant.
Spurring his latest mount to a canter, he squinted into the icy wind, hoping against hope that some miracle might have delayed them. For if the worst had happened and Violet was indeed married to a dastard, it would be his duty as a brother to kill the fellow. Even in wartime, Thor had abhorred killing, though he'd been forced to it on occasion, just as they all had.