Prelude for a Lord

by Elliot, Camille

  Lord, help me! I have no one else to guide me in this. The prayer came up as a despairing cry from the depths of his soul.

  They passed the carriage house and rode down the street to the end. Bayard caught sight of a familiar figure—Mr. Oakridge, his horse-mad schoolfellow.

  And he suddenly knew the Lord God had answered his prayer.

  He pulled up beside Oakridge, walking along the road in evening clothes, apparently headed to some event. “Oakridge, well met.”

  Ian pulled up beside him, his face tense with confusion. “Bay?”

  Bayard ignored him and addressed Oakridge. “This is of utmost urgency. Were you in position to see a carriage come from this lane in the past twenty minutes?”

  “This lane? No, I’ve just come from your concert, my lord—”

  “Did you see a carriage pass you, going quickly, which may have come from this direction?”

  “I saw two,” Oakridge said, and Bayard’s stomach dropped. But Oakridge continued, “One was old Mrs. Ramsland’s carriage, going at barely a jogg-trot with a tired old queer prancer that the most bungling thief’d be able to bite. The other carriage had the nicest pair of matched dappled greys I ever saw. Didn’t see the vehicle, it was going too fast and I was distracted by those gallopers, but it was low-slung, I believe.”

  Bayard inhaled sharply, and Ian straightened in his saddle. They remembered the matched dappled grey horses pulling the landau—a low-slung vehicle—which stopped at that inn outside of Bath the day they followed the footman. “Which direction did the greys go?”

  “Turned there.” Oakridge pointed. “Wouldn’t be surprised if it were headed out of Bath. Fine horses,” he said on a longing sigh.

  “Much obliged to you, Oakridge.” Bayard kicked at his horse’s sides and took off.

  They galloped out of Bath. Bayard knew the Lord had heard his prayer and was leading them to Clare. He had to believe it. He had no other clue to follow.

  They followed the same road they had taken in the decrepit gig, but this time they flew over the earth. Moonlight lit the ruts so they could avoid them.

  As they clattered into the yard of the inn, Bayard realized they should have ridden in stealth, for the men who stole Clare and Lucy would surely know they had arrived. Just being led away by a groom were the matched dappled grey horses and the landau. A thunderbolt of relief and elation sent him hurdling from his saddle and into the inn.

  “Where is she?” he demanded of the innkeeper, a round man with a filthy apron and blackened fingernails.

  “I’m sure I don’t know—”

  “Whatever they promised to pay you, I shall pay double.” Bayard slammed his purse upon the pitted wooden counter.

  His bloodshot eyes grew round, and without taking his gaze from the money, he jerked a fat thumb toward the stairs. “First door on the right.”

  Bayard and Ian bounded up the stairs two at a time. The door was locked, but several solid blows by their shoulders made the rickety wood give way.

  They were in time to see the bottom of a shoe as a man tumbled out of the open window to the ground below.

  “Bay!” Clare and Lucy sat on the bed, hands tied but otherwise unharmed. When Bayard turned to Clare, she threw him a fierce look. “Never mind us, go get him!”

  Ian rushed back down the stairs to head the men off in the inn yard. Bayard hurried to the window, which was only ten feet from the ground. The man had landed without injury, for two figures darted away toward the back of the inn. Without hesitating, Bayard leapt over the windowsill and dropped to the ground.

  The landing jolted through his feet, clad only in evening shoes, but he quickly gave chase. As he circled round to the back of the inn, Ian came hurtling from the other side, and the two of them raced over weed-choked ground to the forested area behind the building.

  They wove in and out of the trees, guided by the darting shadows of the two men ahead of them. Then Ian fell with a muffled “Oof!” Bayard slowed, but Ian waved him on, his face crumpled in pain. “Go!”

  Bayard ran on, bushes catching in the cloak flying around him, low-hanging branches slapping at his face. His lungs heaved, but still he ran. He stumbled once, but righted himself. Then he stumbled a second time and pitched forward, hands outstretched to break his fall. The sticks from a bush splintered in his face, and his palms slid through mouldy leaves and freezing mud.

  He was up before he drew another breath. He staggered a step or two, then continued running.

  Except he could no longer see the figures ahead of him.

  He searched the dark and light between the trees for movement, the flap of a coat, a wildly swinging arm. He saw nothing.

  He paused and heard nothing. An owl hooted and then was silent.

  The cold bit at his neck and jaw, and bitterness lingered on his tongue. He’d lost them.

  “This will not happen again,” Bayard ground out.

  “You shouldn’t blame yourself, Bay.” Clare wore a long-sleeved morning gown, but he could see the redness of her wrists from the rope that had bound her last night. “They were after Alethea, just as you had intended. They simply made a mistake.”

  Alethea sat on a chair, her sister sitting beside her. In the light streaming from the music room windows, the two looked remarkably alike. Lucy had lighter eyes and a softer face than Alethea’s determined one.

  “It was clever of Clare to step on my slipper so that I could slip my foot out and rip the ribbons off,” Lucy said.

  “If anything, it is my fault,” Clare said. “It was I who insisted Lucy wear a more elegant gown and dress up her hair for last night’s event. If I had not, the two men would not have mistaken her for Alethea, and they would not have taken me simply because I was with her.”

  Bayard turned away from her to control the wild anxiety that still rose up in him when he remembered his helplessness last night. They had found Clare solely by the grace of God.

  He never wanted to feel so powerless again.

  Ian looked deceptively casual where he sat at the pianoforte, but Bayard could see his clenched fist as he said, “Bath is too full of strangers. There were too many ways the carriage could have taken. I thank God for whatever made you stop to ask Oakridge. I would not have thought of that.”

  Raven spoke from where he leaned against the front of the desk. “You are guests in my house, your servants mingling with mine. Two strangers in Ravenhurst livery were easily overlooked.”

  “You did not recognize either of them?” Bayard asked.

  Clare shook her head. Lucy said, “Neither of them was the grey man, nor Mr. Golding from Alethea’s description of him.”

  “I doubt it was the grey man,” Ian said. “You injured his knee, and the blighters last night weren’t limping.”

  “One of them could have been the man from Sydney Gardens,” Raven said.

  “I didn’t get close enough to see their faces.”

  “We never saw the man in Sydney Gardens,” Clare said, “but the two men who took us were large fellows. I should have noticed their livery fitted them ill when they entered the library last night, but I was watching the performance. They were strong enough to hold us and put their hands over our mouths so we could not call out.”

  “That one fellow in Sydney Gardens was like a mountain.” Raven rubbed his knuckles in remembrance.

  “Even if you had seen them, Mr. Golding could simply hire new men next time,” Alethea said.

  “I am tired of Mr. Golding’s client hiring underlings to do his bidding,” Bayard said. “It is time the scoundrel came out into the open.”

  “We must force him to do so,” Raven said. “He will not be tricked into it.”

  “Which is why I think we must move to Terralton Abbey.”

  “Leave Bath?” Clare said. “Mama will not like it.”

  “I need you to convince her, for she must act as hostess for our ‘house party.’ ”

  “I am assuming you mean myself and my aunt as guests?”
Alethea said. “Aunt Ebena will not like it overmuch either.”

  “You must convince her, in light of the danger.”

  “But you will need to include Margaret as well,” Alethea added.

  “I intended to.”

  “My mother will not like me to leave her alone in Bath,” Raven said.

  “Would she join us? Without her retinue of servants,” Bayard qualified.

  Raven’s light blue eyes surveyed Alethea, then Bayard. “I believe so,” he said.

  “At Terralton Abbey, the servants will be all ours,” Bayard said. “The countryside is known to us, the neighbors are friends. Any strangers will attract attention where they would not in Bath.”

  “The villain may not follow us to such a dangerous situation for him,” Alethea said.

  “He will if he has incentive to do so. We fooled Mr. Golding into believing the fake violin was real. In the country, we will have time to create a more credible forgery. If you show it around the village, and let it become known that it is being stored in the Terralton Abbey music room, he will try to take it.”

  “And if he hired local men to do his bidding, he or Mr. Golding would still need to arrive in the area to do so,” Ian said.

  “I doubt he would hire men,” Alethea said. “They would not know which violin was the true one. He would need to reveal himself in order to have opportunity to see if the violin is the one he seeks.”

  “And we shall be watching,” Bayard said.

  “If we can seize Mr. Golding, we may induce him to reveal the name of his client,” Raven said. “We could offer him more money than the man who has hired him.”

  Lucy said tentatively, “His client may have more caution than you assign to him. He may not follow us at all.”

  “If he does not, it will enable me to continue my investigations into the violin,” Bayard said. “I have received a letter this morning from Lord Hazardfield. He is a prodigious art collector, especially pieces acquired from Italy. I wrote to him and asked for any information on the Count of Sondrono’s descendants, since he is familiar with Italian noble families. He writes that he does not know, but it happens that his father bought three paintings commissioned by Sondrono, and he has given me the direction of the man who acted as the agent in selling the pieces. The agent’s name is Guido Manco, and he is in London.”

  “Very Italian name,” Ian murmured.

  “I have written to him. Since he or his employer somehow acquired Sondrono’s family treasures, he may know more about the family, or who we may contact, or even about the violin. I asked him to reply to me at Terralton.”

  “When do you wish to leave?” Clare asked.

  He glanced to Alethea. “It will depend upon your aunt agreeing to this scheme. We shall convey you all to Terralton Abbey. I believe that would be safest.”

  Clare stood. “I shall convince Mama. After the events of last night, she may be eager to leave Bath.”

  The threat to his family and to Alethea plagued him. It was an enemy he could not touch. He could not simply knock the bounder down with a solid blow to the chin. “The sooner we can stop this man, the sooner everything will return as it was before.”

  There was a sadness and also a firmness to Alethea’s face and figure as she also stood. “Yes. The sooner this is over, the better for us all.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Margaret was thriving in the country. If alienating every child between the ages of ten and fourteen within a twenty-mile radius could be considered thriving.

  Just returned from visits to Dommick’s neighbors with Lucy, Alethea sighed at the sight of Margaret, the scruff of her dress held in the firm hand of one of Dommick’s grooms, her lip bloodied, her skirt torn, and a long twig sticking straight out of her tangled brown curls like a feather in a lady’s headdress. She also had enough mud upon her face and dress to create her own flower garden.

  Before Alethea could say anything, Margaret said, “I did as you said, I didn’t provoke them. This was entirely unprovoked. They . . . besieged me.”

  “A siege typically involves waiting, not attacking.”

  Margaret thought a moment. “It was a very aggressive siege. Much like . . . the Vikings. Do you see, I am learning something from my history book.”

  “I cannot recall that the Vikings besieged anyone. I rather think they attacked without mercy.”

  “That is exactly what happened to me,” Margaret declared.

  Alethea sighed, too tired to follow the circular logic of a twelve-year-old. She looked to the long-suffering groom, who had apparently seen the melee and waded into the fray to rescue Margaret. “Thank you. I shall take her.”

  “Alethea! Did you see the child?” Aunt Ebena’s strident voice carried down the main stairs of Terralton Abbey to echo in the entrance hall. Her aunt appeared at the top of the staircase, and the sight of Margaret in her miry glory sent her hands and eyes into the air.

  “I shall take Margaret to be cleaned,” Lucy said. “You should calm your aunt.”

  Alethea hastened up the staircase, removing her bonnet as she met Aunt Ebena on the landing. Below, Lucy marched Margaret toward the back of the house.

  “Where have you been?” Aunt Ebena walked with her toward the drawing room.

  “I have been visiting Mrs. McDonald and Mrs. Wyatt.”

  “Did you not call upon them with Miss Terralton only a few days ago?”

  “Mrs. McDonald’s daughter favours the pianoforte and Mrs. Wyatt’s daughter enjoys the harp, and they both asked for new music to play, so I lent them some of mine.”

  Aunt Ebena snorted. “All this socializing and visiting you are doing.”

  Alethea refrained from answering until they were alone in the drawing room, away from the servants. “I am being seen, which will hopefully draw the thief to this area to attempt to steal the violin. And once he is revealed, we may return to Bath, ma’am.”

  She could not blame Dommick for wishing his life to return to normal as soon as possible. He had a happy family and good friends. He did not need a knotty spinster, her prickly aunt, and her ramshackle young cousin in his life threatening the safety of his sister.

  Aunt Ebena sat upon the sofa and reverted to her original grievance. “You must do more to control that child.”

  “I have spoken to her numerous times about fighting with the rector’s daughters.”

  “I told her the same only hours ago, and you see how she returned to the house. I should think that the offspring of a clergyman would be more agreeable.”

  “I fear that Margaret is overly sensitive to their remarks.”

  “But fighting! I should hope the rector is properly disciplining his children.”

  “I shall go to speak to his wife today or tomorrow,” Alethea said. “Margaret must learn to be more amiable. She cannot pick a fight simply because she does not agree with what her playmates propose to do for the afternoon. That appears to be the common theme of all her altercations.”

  Aunt Ebena’s brows suddenly lowered, and she regarded Alethea in consternation. “Oh, surely not,” she muttered.

  “What is it?”

  “Perhaps I am to blame. When Margaret first complained that the girls at the rectory would browbeat her into submission to their games, I insisted that one must never give in to bullies.”

  “You said something similar to me once, as I recall.”

  “I told you that you must never allow someone to induce you to do something against what you knew to be right. It was quite a different thing, but I am afraid I did not differentiate it for Margaret. She probably took my meaning to be that she should never allow anyone to coerce her to their will.”

  “How did she get that impression? Surely you did not use those exact terms.”

  “I did not, but . . .” Aunt Ebena’s eyes seemed to have the weight of years behind them—painful, heavy years. “I was quite adamant about standing up to those who would intimidate us.”

  Alethea stared. She wante
d to ask who had attempted to intimidate her aunt, but she did not dare. She did not want to jeopardize their current truce with probing, possibly impertinent questions.

  Aunt Ebena said in a tired voice, “How shall you discipline Margaret?”

  “She shall have only bread and water today, and tomorrow I shall have her apologize to the rector’s daughters.” Alethea hoped that would be enough.

  “If only we could somehow force those obstinate children to become friends.” Aunt Ebena was silent a long moment, then she rose to her feet. “I feel the need for solitude. I shall see you at dinner.”

  Alethea sat in solitude herself in the drawing room for several minutes. Her aunt’s strange mood made her thoughtful and melancholy herself. And yet, today’s short conversation had been the most intimate she had had with her aunt since coming to live with her. The two of them had drawn closer, and she was sure that was what enabled Aunt Ebena to reveal this glimpse of herself. Alethea wondered what had put that pain behind her words.

  She was soon interrupted by Lady Ravenhurst. “Good day, Lady Alethea. Am I disturbing you?”

  “Of course not, my lady. Shall I ring for tea?”

  “Yes, please. I feel as though breakfast was days ago.” She gave a light laugh in her low, soothing voice, which put Alethea in mind of warm treacle.

  After the maid had brought the tea and Alethea had poured, Lady Ravenhurst set her cup down and said in a confiding tone, “I do hope you will forgive me if I impose too much, but when I entered the room, you seemed despondent. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “I apologize, my lady, I did not intend to cause you concern.”

  “I would not have remarked upon it had I not seen your aunt leave the drawing room to walk upstairs, and she also looked quite downcast. And from my bedroom window, I spotted Miss Margaret with a terrific split lip.”

  “We are unsure what to do about Margaret. She refuses to get along with the girls at the rectory.”

  “Ah, yes, that can be a difficult situation. Raven’s sister did not often play with the squire’s daughter for that reason. You have spoken to Margaret about being accommodating to new playmates?”