The Earl's Mistress

by Liz Carlyle

He hesitated. “There is one thing that might help,” he said. “Not the police, but perhaps my cousin Royden.”

  “Where do I find him?”

  Hepplewood gave a short shake of his head. “That’s half the problem,” he said. “I don’t know. Go down to Number Four and tell the duty sergeant you’re looking for his new office. They’ll know. Say nothing of the children, but just that you’re a friend.”

  “Yes, all right.” She nodded.

  “He might be at Burlingame,” Hepplewood warned. “Just find his office, and if he isn’t there, leave a message he’s needed urgently at my house. Then hurry back, and wait to hear from me. There is always the chance Jemma might escape Tafford and come home.”

  “Yes, yes, you are right. Thank you.” Swiftly, she rose onto her toes to kiss his cheek, already faintly stubbled. “Thank you, Tony. For God’s sake, be careful.”

  He gave her another of his swift, hard kisses—right there on the pavement—then strode away.

  Her heart in her throat, Isabella watched for the second time that day as he threw himself up on the great horse and sprung the beast toward Brompton Road.

  CHAPTER 20

  Hepplewood made extraordinary time leaving London, passing Marsh and the carriage just beyond Hans Place, then winding his way through the midday clog of carts and carriages to cross the river at Battersea Bridge.

  Colossus was by no means fresh, but the stouthearted beast pressed on at the lightest command. It was possible, Hepplewood inwardly acknowledged, that Tafford might have taken another route, but somewhere south of town they would surely merge.

  Traffic soon thinned to a trickle, and the outskirts of London gave way to occasional expanses of green broken by places more village than town. Anger churning in his gut, his gaze followed every twist and turn into the distance.

  Halfway along Wandsworth Common, he caught a dull, old-fashioned coach lumbering beneath the canopy of trees. Bloodlust surging, he nudged Colossus forward and waited for just the right angle.

  In the next turn, however, he caught a flash of red wheels. He cursed beneath his breath and pressed on, overtaking the carriage. An hour later, with Croydon in his wake, Hepplewood began to question his judgment.

  After weighing it out, however, he could still see no better plan. Georgina might be placated by sweets and coddling, but Tafford had made the mistake of snatching Jemima, too. She was no one’s fool. There would be no putting that girl on a train without kicking and screaming; not unless she was drugged senseless.

  No, Tafford might be a mindless brute, but his mother was too sly for that.

  Certainly they would not remain in London; Jervis’s information had been very clear on that point. The Canadian solicitor was to travel via Liverpool with every expectation of calling upon Isabella at Thornhill Manor in Sussex. So it was to Thornhill, then, that Isabella must be lured.

  Hepplewood had kept her from Tafford’s grasp just long enough, he thought, to avert true disaster. But he had not managed—unless Jervis was about to greatly surprise him—to have the Canadian gentleman intercepted. And he had not counted on sheer coincidence.

  There remained, of course, the possibility that Tafford had been sly enough to bring an unknown carriage to Isabella’s shop. But that was unlikely; neither Tafford nor Lady Meredith could have known that Hepplewood and Isabella would return with the children on that particular day at that particular time. And Isabella, for all that she’d been distraught, was a sensible woman. She had been very certain of the coach.

  No, this kidnapping had been opportunistic, and driven by desperation. Hepplewood was sure of it. Moreover, it did not escape his understanding that the desperation had been his doing; he had suspected Tafford’s motivations and had taken Isabella beyond Tafford’s grasp or control.

  And because of that, Tafford had panicked, and Isabella’s most precious possessions had been taken from her. If he did not get those children back whole and happy, he realized, Isabella’s life was over—and his, nearly, with it.

  Two miles later he passed a rising, open field and, at the end of it, a small copse of trees from which a pair of farmers was emerging with a large pail, as if from taking a midday meal. A horse hitched to a plow rested in the shade and, with it, a sturdy, low-withered cob.

  On impulse, Hepplewood drew up near a little stile and tipped his hat. “Have either of you fellows seen an old, black coach go past?” he enquired across the fence. “With mustard-colored wheels?”

  The elder of the two removed his hat and scratched his head. “Nay, but t’was one drew up dahn by that little lane,” he said, pointing, “when t’missus brought dinner dahn from the ’ouse.”

  “Drawn up?” Hepplewood repeated.

  “Aye, coachman told our lass thought sommat sheered off in t’ wheel.”

  “The coachman,” said Hepplewood urgently, “what color livery did he wear?”

  But his rapid-fire questions had unsettled the farmer, who narrowed one eye suspiciously. “Dunt recall,” he said, “w’ any certainty.”

  “Ah, well. Thanks all the same.” Hepplewood tipped his hat again. “You sound like a Yorkshire man to me,” he said more evenly. “I’m from Northumbria myself. What brought you south?”

  The old man smiled, showing his crooked bottom teeth. “Oh, that would be t’misssus,” he said. “T’was her father’s place.”

  “The land lays beautifully,” said Hepplewood sincerely.

  Suddenly, the younger man stiffened and set his hand to his ear. “Comes that carriage back again.”

  Hepplewood spun Colossus about, staring down the hill.

  “Black,” said the farmer from behind him. “Black as neet, trimmed in gold, t’ livery is.”

  Hepplewood glanced back over his shoulder, crooking an eyebrow. “Then that’s the carriage I’m after,” he said calmly. “Thank you kindly. What’s along the lane, by the way?”

  “Smithy,” said the farmer, spitting into the grass. “Well, good day t’ thee, sir.”

  Hepplewood shot him a grim smile. “It’s not been an especially good one so far,” he said. “And now there’s going to be a spot of trouble, I’m afraid.”

  “Aye?” The farmer squinted. “O’ what sort?”

  “There were two children taken in that coach, and I mean to get them back,” Hepplewood said, reaching around to extract his carriage pistol. “I’m in the right of it, just so you know. And the driver’s a good sort. But still, there might be a dustup.”

  “None o’ my business,” said the farmer, turning and heading back toward the copse. “Ey up, lad, come out t’way now.”

  The young man followed, the pair observing from the shade as Hepplewood remained on the verge, his carriage pistol low behind the horse’s withers. From this angle, Tafford likely could not see him. And the coachman, a stoop-shouldered fellow of middle years, did not know him. But he was watching warily as he rumbled up the slight rise.

  When the coach was within range, Hepplewood nudged Colossus into the middle of the road and leveled the large pistol between the coachman’s eyes.

  “Sir, you will kindly stop,” he calmly ordered, “or I will be obliged to shoot.”

  Eyes wide with alarm, Brooks not only stopped but also threw up both hands with a cry of alarm.

  “What the devil?” called a male voice from the carriage.

  “H-highwaymen, my l-lord,” cried the unfortunate Brooks.

  “Nonsense!” Someone was wrenching on the ancient door handle, which seemed stuck.

  “Not highwaymen, Mr. Brooks,” Hepplewood called up, shifting his aim to the door, “but merely Mrs. Aldridge’s emissary. I mean you no harm, but I’m taking those girls Tafford kidnapped.”

  Brooks’s alarm faded to what looked like relief, his shoulders sagging.

  “Jemima,” Hepplewood shouted at the carriage, “get out, and bring your sister with you.”

  There came a muffled shriek—followed by a succession of loud thumps, as if someone was kicking at
the door. The bastard had gagged her.

  Suddenly, the handle gave and the door flew wide, almost striking the carriage. Tafford leaped down, a nasty sneer upon his face. “Stand aside, you fool,” he shouted up at Hepplewood. “These children are my wards.”

  Hepplewood drew a bead between Tafford’s shifting eyes. “I don’t give tuppence, Tafford, if they’re your own blood—which, by the way, Jemima is not. I mean to take them regardless.”

  “Be damned to you!” Tafford flicked a glance into the depths of the carriage.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Hepplewood warned, motioning him away from the door with the pistol’s barrel. “Step to the verge, Tafford, or I shall have to shoot you in the knee.”

  “Stand aside,” Tafford ordered, even as he leapt sideways onto the grass. “This is none of your concern. Georgina Glaston is my ward. As to the other girl, I’ve her uncle’s permission to take her anywhere I please.”

  “Then he is either callous or ignorant of what you are.” Calmly, Hepplewood drew the hammer back. “Now tell the girls to climb out,” he said, flicking a glance up at the box. “And you, Brooks, hold your damned horses in case I have to fire this thing.”

  With a sharp nod, Brooks seized the reins.

  Tafford’s bravado faded. “Mother, let Jemima go,” he said in a tremulous voice. “Put them out, both.”

  “I shall not!” cried a sharp female voice from the carriage. “Drive on, Brooks, you fool.”

  “Mother!” bellowed Tafford.

  Brooks looked at Hepplewood, lifting one eyebrow in silent enquiry.

  “Hold those horses, Brooks,” he warned again.

  Suddenly, there came a short, sharp scream, followed by a flash of blue silk. “Why, you little witch!” shrieked Lady Meredith, who was descending awkwardly without the steps, clutching her hand. “The ungrateful brat bit me!”

  Hepplewood chuckled.

  “But you certainly shan’t have them, Lord Hepplewood,” she added, regaining her composure. “Dare to try it, and I’ll have you up on charges of kidnapping. Georgina is ours, and we’ll take her where we please. If Isabella wants her back, we are not unreasonable people. She may come down to Thornhill and negotiate.”

  “Good afternoon, Lady Meredith,” he said calmly. “I’m now negotiating on Isabella’s behalf. So take careful note that I’m aiming a gun at Tafford’s knee and that I have a horsewhip lashed to my saddle. Then ask yourself if I seem overly concerned with the niceties of the law.”

  The lady shot a nasty look at her son. “Everett, do something!”

  “By the way, Tafford,” Hepplewood added, “I’m not the best shot, and this gun pulls a tad high. About eighteen inches high, sometimes. Consider where that might put a bullet.”

  “Mother,” said Tafford, “get the girls out.”

  “You sniveling coward!” declared his mother, whirling on him. “I should let you starve to death.”

  “The two of you may insult one another at your leisure as soon as you reach the next inn,” said Hepplewood dryly. “But I’m on a tight schedule. Jemma, get out of the carriage, and bring Georgie with you. Do it now.”

  Jemima poked her head out. “Y-yes, sir.” She leapt down into the dust of the road, a man’s handkerchief now hanging loosely about her throat. “I’m so sorry, sir. Everett snatched us before I could get Georgie inside our door.”

  “Jemima Goodrich, you ungrateful little liar!” Lady Meredith declared. “Get back in that carriage this instant!”

  Jemima’s anxious gaze shot to Hepplewood’s.

  “It is all right, Jemma,” he said softly. With his free hand, he extracted his purse and tossed it toward the stile. “Just hand your sister down, then go across that stile with my purse. Tell those farmers exactly what happened to you in London, and offer them fifty pounds for the cob and its saddle. I’ll deal with Cousin Everett. You don’t faint at the sight of blood, do you, Jemma?”

  Jemima cut a derisive glance over her shoulder. “Not his,” she said coldly.

  Then she reached up for her sister and dashed with her across the road. Georgina’s eyes were wide, her cheeks streaked with tears. She snuffled, screwing one fist into her eye. “I w-w-want Bella!” she cried.

  “Shush, Georgie, and run to those trees,” said Jemima, hefting her onto the stile. In an instant, the girls had clambered over and were running toward the copse, purse in hand.

  “Now,” said Hepplewood, “we are going to settle this business. Mr. Brooks, you have before you two choices. You may come down off that box, go up the hill with those girls, and consider yourself out of Tafford’s employment and into mine. Or you may remain on the box and drive this hapless and venal pair back to Sussex.”

  Brooks started down at once. “I tried to trick ’em, m’lord, into thinking the wheel damaged, but the smithy was no help.”

  “But—But this is unconscionable!” declared Lady Meredith. “I shall have you before the magistrate, Hepplewood! You cannot come between a man and his ward.”

  “Lady Meredith,” said Hepplewood, dropping his voice, “by no one’s definition is your son a man. He is a pervert and a coward. I do not mean him to add incest to his list of sins—which he might well try to do if those girls remain long in his possession.”

  “And that, sir, is slander!” she said, “and I shall tell the law.”

  “Madam, if you think you can prevail over me,” he said, “then by all means find yourself a magistrate. You’ll find me at home in Clarges Street.”

  “Everett, do something!” Lady Meredith stamped her foot. “Do you mean to marry Isabella or not?”

  “That,” said Hepplewood calmly, “will never happen. Brooks, go mount that cob, and take Georgina up before you. Tafford, you will reach into your coat pocket and pull out that special license you’re carrying.”

  Tafford’s eyes widened. “But—But—how—”

  Hepplewood reached out his hand and snapped his fingers at Tafford. Brooks went hurtling over the stile with nary a backward glance.

  “Everett, do not you dare!” gritted his mother, hands fisting.

  “Madam, I have never yet shot a woman,” said Hepplewood, shifting his aim, “but you sorely tempt me. Kindly get back into the carriage and hush. Tafford, the paper? Or the horsewhip? And don’t let me choose.”

  A flash of white paper appeared, though Tafford’s mouth was twisted bitterly.

  “Ah, cooperation!” said Hepplewood. “I’ll confess to some disappointment. Now, kindly rip that into twenty small pieces—and yes, I am counting.”

  “Everett, you damned fool!” said his mother, who had dropped the carriage steps and was stomping back up them. “That license is our only hope.”

  “Tear it up, Tafford,” warned Hepplewood, his left hand going to the horsewhip. “You have no hope. Not where Isabella is concerned. You will not enjoy so much as a ha’penny of her inheritance.”

  “What inheritance?” asked Tafford snidely—but he had torn the paper in two. “Isabella doesn’t have two farthings to rub together.”

  “Twenty pieces,” Hepplewood repeated. “Keep ripping, old boy.”

  When the pieces of the marriage license lay scattering with the wind and Tafford looked thoroughly beaten, Hepplewood motioned him up onto the box.

  “Good. Now get up and play John Coachman. I suggest you drive back to Sussex with your tail between your legs. But you won’t, I know, for that harpy inside won’t allow it.”

  “You’re going to pay for this, Hepplewood!” shouted Lady Meredith through the open door. “I shall have the magistrates down upon you like all the furies!”

  “Have at it, ma’am,” he said, watching Tafford scramble onto the coachman’s seat. “Now, Tafford, drive on. And if you dare trail me back to Town, by God, stay out of my sight.”

  THE NEXT HOUR dragged on interminably, and in his outrage, Hepplewood could think of nothing but Isabella and the distress Tafford had caused her. He passed much of the time reassuring the girl
s that they would soon see their sister, and interrogating Brooks about Tafford’s activities.

  Though he had clearly held his employer in low esteem, Brooks knew little. But he’d been sufficiently horrified by the snatching of the children to be relieved to escape his post.

  By the time the four of them crossed paths with Marsh, Hepplewood’s temper had marginally cooled, though he knew their trouble with Tafford was far from over.

  They stopped long enough in Croydon to leave the cob at a local livery with instructions to return him to the farmer. After putting Brooks on Colossus, Hepplewood climbed inside the carriage to reassure the girls one more time that nothing would come of Tafford’s threats.

  “But he said he and Isabella were to marry,” said Jemima, picking at a bit of darning on her cuff. “He’s giving a ball at Thornhill, he said, to celebrate the wedding. And that we were going to live there again.”

  “Jemma, what’s Thornhill?” snuffled Georgina, her eyes still red.

  “Where we used to live with Mamma,” said Jemima patiently. “But I don’t wish to live there now. Not with Cousin Everett.”

  “But you would not mind it otherwise?” Hepplewood lightly probed. “You would not, on principal, object to living in the country, I mean?”

  Jemima’s eyes widened. “Oh, no, sir,” she said on a yawn. “We like the country very much.”

  “Hmm,” said Hepplewood. “Well, come over here, Jemma, and lean on me. Georgie, you on the other side. This was a fright, but nothing’s come of it, and nothing ever will, I promise. So just close your eyes, and I’ll wake you when we reach London.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Jemima on another yawn. Then she sank against him, following his instructions to the letter as he wrapped one arm around her.

  Hepplewood tipped his hat over his eyes, threw his boots onto the seat opposite, and tucked Georgie to his other side. And in a twinkling, it felt as if all might—just might—be right with the world.

  CHAPTER 21

  In Clarges Street, the arrival of the earl, accompanied by two young girls that were not his own, required some delicate explanations. To his credit, Fording, Hepplewood’s butler, did not so much as crook an eyebrow when his master directed that Jemima and Georgina be taken straight up to Nanny Seawell and be given tea with Lissie in the nursery.