“You must not,” she hissed. “They may return. That man had a pistol. You must get it,” she urged.
“Yes, you are right.” Lucian rose, and bending over the fallen man, he started to tum him over and stopped as he saw the blood oozing from his crushed chest. The pistol was thrust into his belt. He swiftly wrenched it out, pushing him down and hoping that Alicia had not seen the terrible wound. As he straightened up, he heard a footstep and shot a look at the stairs, but realized in that same moment that the sound was behind him.
“The door, Lucian,” Alicia gasped.
Turning, he saw the door opening. He cocked the pistol, and putting his finger on the trigger, he stepped forward and then stopped as Martin entered. He looked pale and his jaw was swollen, but his expression was grim and determined. “Thank God, ye be all right, my Lord,” he muttered.
“And you, man?” Lucian demanded.
“I be fit as a fiddle’n Jacob, ’e’s gone to fetch ’elp.”
“Good.” Lucian thrust the pistol at Martin. “The other two villains will be coming down. Keep this trained on the stairs and shoot if need be. I must see to my wife.” Lucian stepped back to Alicia’s chair and would have started with the knots had he not remembered the pocket knife he always carried with him. Pulling it out, he cut through the ropes that bound her and then knelt to free her feet.
“Lucian,” she whispered urgently, “had you not better—”
“This will take but a moment, my angel,” he assured her huskily.
“My Lord . . .” Martin said in a low voice.
Lucian cut the last of the ropes and rose. “Do you . . .” he whispered, and then, looking in the direction of the stairs, he stiffened as he heard descending footsteps. From the sound he guessed they were on the third-floor landing. “Alicia . . .” He turned back to her, and pulling her to her feet, he half-carried her to the door and pushed her onto the porch. “Stay here,” he whispered, and hurried back. Bending down, he seized the mace, crossed to Martin’s side, and muttered, “Shoot, but not to kill.”
“Damn ye for a thick-witted cove. Did I not tell ye them necklaces was there? It wanted only a bit o' lookin’.”
“Wasn’t where we put’m,” came the sullen reply. “Damned stupid to ’ave ’em ’idden in the ’ouse in the first place.”
“ ’Ow was I to know when they’d be back. Ain’t nobody been ’ere for twelve year, save ’im wot’s on the gate’n deaf as a post.”
They were nearing the first landing now. Lucian clutched the mace and Martin raised the pistol. And then the pair were in sight. There was a loud shot followed by a yell of agony as one of the men staggered into view and fell on the landing. The other dashed for the balustrade and was trying to leap over it when Lucian threw the mace, striking him in the leg. With a hoarse scream, he crumpled on the floor and lay next to his companion, writhing and groaning.
“Lucian!” Alicia ran to his side.
He put an arm around her. “Did I not tell you to stay outside?” he tried to speak sternly.
“I could not.” She stared at the fallen rogues and shuddered. “I—I was afraid they might kill you.”
He looked down at her and drew her closer. “But I could not die, my own not when I had just begun to live. Oh, Alicia,” —tears clouded his eyes— “can you ever forgive me? All I can say in my own defense is that I could not remember.”
“Oh, my love.” She reached up to touch his cheek. “There’s naught to forgive, now that you are here with me again . . . really here.”
Unmindful of Martin, unmindful of his groaning and disabled prisoners, Lucian gathered his wife in his arms and covered her face with kisses.
It was not until several minutes later that he thought to ask, “Where are the other servants?”
Alicia regarded him gravely. “I gave them leave to take the next three days off. You see, I did not want them to tell you where I had gone. And I had it in mind to leave Effie here, for I knew she would want to be with Jacob. They will be married, you see. Consequently, I suggested that she go with Mary, but if I had been thinking clearly, I would not have been that foolish. I should have left someone in the house, but my thoughts were in such a turmoil . . . you see . . .”
He put his arms around her. “You need not give me any more explanations, my love. I know that I was the reason for that turmoil, but I swear I will make it up to you now and for the rest of my life.” He kissed her once again.
“Barbara!”
In the middle of the night, the name burst from Lucian’s lips, awakening Alicia.
“Barbara?” she murmured.
She was considerably startled when her husband began to laugh loudly. It was a moment before he was able to say, “Good God, in all the uproar and with the constable here, I completely forgot that she and your, er, landlady are anxiously awaiting me—or rather us.”
“My landlady, love?” Alicia demanded confusedly.
He flushed. “I did have trouble believing it,” he said defensively. “Damn Barbara, is there no end to her perfidy or, rather, I ought to say, her blasted pride?”
“What can you mean, Lucian?”
Reluctantly, between kisses and apologies, he produced his explanation, adding grimly, “But, my love, I think we must play this comedy to its conclusion, do you not agree?”
It was a moment before Alicia completely understood his purpose, but when she did, she laughed delightedly. “In other circumstances, I might take pity on her, but on this occasion I am content to obey my husband.”
The news of the death of one and the capture and arrest of the two other highwaymen who had been terrorizing the county for the last decade spread quickly. The tale had reached Barbara’s house before Lucian and Alicia arrived. Consequently, the caretaker greeted them with a broad smile. He went as far as to say, “It were bang up wot you done, my Lord,” and having delivered himself of this praise, he quickly ushered them into the drawing room.
A fire was glowing on the hearth beneath a massive marble fireplace, but there was a chill in the room and general mustiness suggesting that it had not been aired in some time. The furnishings were old and heavy. Looking about her, Alicia could well understand why Barbara preferred the city. Her thoughts were scattered by the entrance of her hostess and Madame Tasnier, whom Lucian, she discovered, had described to perfection. Furthermore, there was something about the woman that made Alicia shiver. She cast a side glance at Lucian and saw that once more he was looking very grim. Fortunately, his expression went well with the part he was determined to play. He had risen as the Incomparable Barbara and her guest entered, and now he lifted Barbara’s hand to his lips.
“My dearest.” Barbara looked well in a gown of her favorite green. She kept her eyes on Lucian to the exclusion of Alicia, whose presence she had not deigned to acknowledge. “What is this I hear about your heroics at the abbey? Did you indeed capture those rogues single-handedly?”
“No, that is an exaggeration, Barbara. I had the help of my outrider, Martin.”
“As always, you are too modest, my dearest love.” Barbara’s green glance took in and again dismissed Alicia. “And I hear that Lady Harvey’s long-lost pearl and diamond necklace was discovered in an attic trunk as well as other jewelry. Is that true?”
“Quite true, Barbara. There was quite a little cache of jewels. They are now in the custody of the constable, but be that as it may. As you can see, I have brought my wife.”
“Your . . . wife?” Barbara said so contemptuously that Alicia longed to hit her. “You are using that title out of habit, I presume.”
“Yes,” he said meaningfully. “Out of habit.”
Barbara turned to Alicia, saying coldly, “I presume you must recognize Madame Tasnier?”
“No, I ... do not,” Alicia faltered, hoping that she sounded as nervous as Lucian had instructed her to be.
“Ah, mais moi, I recognize you,” Madame Tasnier said, her small eyes boring into Alicia’s face.
“You
do?” Alicia gazed at her in well-feigned amazement. “But I am sure we have never met.”
“Ah, do you so soon forget your old friends, then, mademoiselle?” Madame Tasnier inquired.
“Do you, Alicia?” Lucian asked.
“But we have never met,” Alicia cried.
“Doxy!" Barbara snapped. “And she your landlady for at least five years.”
“Five years . . .” Alicia faltered. “I do not understand. My father and my brother—”
“Your brother! Do tell us about your brother, Lady Morley,” Barbara said contemptuously. “If, indeed, you have one.”
“But I do,” Alicia exclaimed, her eyes wide and her expression confused. “His name is Timothy and you yourself have met him.”
“I?” Barbara questioned a slight smile playing about her mouth. “I did meet a man with you, but I put it to you, Lady Morley, that he whom you called brother was, in effect, no other relation to you than—”
“Enough,” Lucian suddenly exclaimed. “I do not wish to continue this travesty. It is wrong to subject my wife to such ugliness—even though she, as well as myself, knows that ’tis all a lie. My apologies, my dearest love.” He moved to Alicia and put an arm around her. “Suffice to say, Barbara, that I have good cause to thank the rogues who invaded our house, for I suffered a blow on my head that restored my memory. You say that there is no record of my marriage? I find that very odd, considering that we were married in Brussels at the Church of St. Stephen on June eleventh, 1815. And I think that the record must remain in the register that you were clever enough to copy or to have copied—perhaps by the enterprising Mr. Blount, if, indeed, there is such a person. From what I have heard about Bow Street runners, they would scorn to provide anyone with such patently false information. As for you, Madame Tasnier . . .” He paused and was pleased to see the woman dart a terrified glance at Barbara’s frozen face.
“I—I—” she began.
“I expect,” Lucian continued inexorably, “that you are some manner of actress. ’Twas my original intent to have you prisoned, but my wife has talked me out of it. As for you, my dear Barbara, I believe that you remember well enough what you said to me on the occasion of my leaving for Brussels? I am flattered, indeed, by your change of heart, but as you see, I am married, and very happily. And now, we will bid you good morning.” He aimed to Alicia, adding softly, “Come, my angel, my good angel, let us go home and commence our life together.”
L'envoi
Alicia was sitting on a little stool not far from the broken tower in the abbey ruins. Propped on an easel before her was a half-finished canvas. She was adding a touch of gray to a depiction of the tower roof when she heard her name called. She looked up with a smile. “Tilda!”
“Ah.” Her visitor surged forward, holding up the voluminous skirts of her riding habit. Coming to Alicia’s side, she stared at the work. “Ah, that is something I like. You will have to give me one of your pictures, or rather, I shall commission you to paint our gardens. They are just coming into bloom and the tulips are magnificent, all yellow and purple and pink. But should we wait until the roses come out? How are you feeling, my love?”
“Very well indeed,” Alicia assured her.
“And how is dear Lucian feeling?”
“Calmer than the first time, though he does have periods of nervousness.”
“Did I not tell you that is the way of it? They are like hens on a hot griddle, the first time, but wonderfully calm by the second lying-in, at least that was true of Hewes. And how is the son and heir?”
“Sleeping after a most rambunctious morning. Lucian took him to the east meadow and he came back babbling of tadpoles and minnows, both of which he wants to keep in his room, much to Effie’s horror.”
“She ought to be used to the ways of boys. Her lad is the same age as little Lucian.”
“Oh, she is.” Alicia smiled.
“And you might tell her that my Margaret is the same way, but her preference is for beetles, if you can believe it. I have tried in vain to get her to turn her attention to butterflies, but as yet, to no avail. The boys are no help, for they will encourage her. Mrs. Simpson, the governess, has threatened to leave and you know how difficult it is to get anyone to come here . . . But enough! I have news for you.”
“And what news would that be?” Lucian suddenly emerged from behind a broken wall.
Tilda jumped. “You did startle me,” she cried accusingly. “Have you been there all this while?”
“No.” He grinned. “Ought my ears to be burning?”
“Not in the least.” Alicia smiled up at him fondly. “We were talking about Tilda’s beetles.”
“Not my beetles,” Tilda corrected, “Margaret’s beetles. But I must tell you that Barbara is finally getting married, and high time. Her mama is ecstatic. She was sure that Barbara must remain at her side—and several disappointments have not sweetened my dearest cousin’s temper. Imagine, she actually cast out lures for your brother, Timothy, Alicia!”
“For Timothy! I never heard that,” Alicia exclaimed.
“Oh, did I not tell you? But I do not think I have seen you in the last fortnight. Her mama told me that when Timothy’s latest book was on display at Hatchard’s, Barbara met him and did not make the connection. She invited him to a soiree at her house.”
“He did not come, surely,” Alicia exclaimed. “But, of course, he would not—he would have let me know.”
“I think, my love, that he did go and left early. Barbara, I understand, was furious.”
“Oh, dear, he ought to have resisted that particular temptation,” Alicia sighed.
“I do not agree.” Lucian grinned. “But for Timothy’s sake, I am glad he did not have a lapse of memory. Who would Barbara be marrying, Tilda?”
‘‘A Mr. Hope from America, whom she met in London. I expect he was impressed by her background—so that he did not mind her age.”
“But she is not very old,” Alicia said kindly.
“She will be twenty-seven in August and looks much older,” Tilda said with some satisfaction. “I never saw anyone fade so quickly, but no matter. She and her bridegroom will be settling in America, a place called Charleston, wherever that is. I only hope she likes it.”
“She would never give up hope,” Lucian said wickedly.
“I am sure she never will!” Tilda laughed. ‘‘For ’tis the first time that anyone has come up to scratch. I wonder if she will meet Dr. Hepworth and his wife over there?”
‘‘Nova Scotia is a goodly distance from Charleston, I think,” Alicia said.
“Oh, is it?” Tilda spoke vaguely. “I know so little about the New World, but have you heard from the doctor recently? I hope that when you last wrote to him, you told him that we still miss him, though I do think Dr. Kennard is a worthy replacement but certainly not so handsome. He is doing well, is he not? I think you told me that he was. Dr. Hepworth, I mean.”
“Very well, indeed.” Alicia nodded. “He has bought a new house and Juliet has given birth to twin girls.”
“Oh, lovely, then they have four or five children?”
“Four,” Alicia said. “She had another son two years ago.
“Oh, that’s right. I would love to have twin girls myself and dress them alike . . . But I must go. I came only to tell you about sweet Barbara, and do not forget, Alicia, you must paint our gardens. I will let you know when. June, I think, or perhaps July.”
“Not July,” Lucian protested.
“Really? Why not?” Tilda regarded him in some surprise.
“Have you forgotten that my wife is breeding?” he demanded sternly.
“But not until October, I thought. I mean, ’tis expected then, is it not?”
“Still . . .’’He frowned.
“Goodness.” Tilda regarded him amazedly and then grinned at Alicia. “I thought you told me ...” She shook her head. “Well, perhaps by the third.” With a wave of her hand, she was off.
“And what di
d she mean by that, my love?” Lucian demanded.
Alicia smiled up at him. “I think she believes you overconcerned, and I fear I must agree with her. ’Tis six months away, my dearest.”
“In July, ’twill be four months only, my precious. I’ll not have it said that I do not care for my own.”
“No one could ever say that,” she murmured happily.
He knelt beside her. “And can you blame me?” he demanded. “Sometimes, I wonder what I have done to deserve you.” he slipped his arms around her.
“Everything anybody could possibly do,” she managed to say lovingly before he silenced her with his kiss.
About the Author
Ellen Fitzgerald is a pseudonym for a well-known romance writer. A graduate of the University of Southern California with a B.A. in English and an M.A. in Drama, Ms. Fitzgerald has also attended Yale University and has had numerous plays produced throughout the country. In her spare time, she designs and sells jewelry. Ms. Fitzgerald lives in New York City.
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