“I’m off, sir,” Hugh whispered. “I’ll try to be right back.”
He couldn’t possibly return soon enough. Furious, frustrated, wishing he could ride up to the house with sword and rifle and shoot anyone who moved, Ash recognized his irrationality. This could all be an innocent romp in the country or just a drunken Bryght looking for an easy hand out—nothing worth shooting over.
That Bryght had given an alias to the twins was not promising, but perhaps he was wrong at guessing who this Mr. Garrett was. A rabbit’s foot fob was not completely unusual, or Bryght would never have adopted one. He wasn’t a creative thinker, which made this whole episode unlikely.
Once Hugh was safely on his way, Ash inched forward. His boots trampled a soft bed of needles. Long branches swiped at his clothes and face. He gripped his whip and walking stick, but he hoped his wits would be all he needed for weapons.
Waiting was not one of his many accomplishments. Months of confinement as an invalid and learning to navigate without eyes had taught him to slow down, but they had not taught him patience. He locked his jaw, listened to a squirrel chatter, and stiffened when he heard distant voices. Had Hugh already reached the house?
The horses snuffed and crunched branches. Was that Hugh’s shout? Perhaps he’d found Hartley.
Ash forced himself not to step out until he better understood the situation. The sun was higher now. Light and shadow played across what he assumed was a lawn. He couldn’t discern the house, so it must be a large yard. He heard more voices from in front of him and slightly to his left. The house and outbuildings were no doubt in that direction. He tightened his grip on his limited weapons.
“Ashford, I know you’re out there,” cried a jovial voice.
Bryghtstone. He’d given the man a bed in his own damned home last night.
“And what of it?” Ash called back, counting on the cover of the evergreens to disguise him until he knew what the situation required.
“I’m having a Defeat the Revolutionaries party. Come join me.”
“You’re a moron,” Ash said in disgust, tapping the whip against his thigh. “The only revolutionaries in this country are the dunderheads rioting in the streets because they believe machinery will doom their miserable occupations.”
“They have a point. The world spins too fast, for the benefit of only a few like you. The old ways work better for the rest of us. Come along, you can’t stand there freezing in the hedgerows while your sons huddle with the filthy hounds. I really didn’t expect you to care, but now that you’re here, we may as well make the best of it.”
“Who did you expect to come?” Ash asked out of curiosity, trying to determine how many others were out there.
“Your brothers, of course. But we had other plans if this one didn’t work. It was a stroke of brilliance giving out the location, wasn’t it?”
Christie would question his absence before his brothers would. The thought of his wife panicking when she discovered his departure churned Ash’s innards. He could see only one shadow approaching. Bryght was slightly younger than Ash, but he wasn’t large, and he spent his time gambling and wenching, so he wasn’t strong. Even blind, Ash could beat the sot into the ground with one hand behind his back—if Bryght had no companions.
Hearing Hartley’s shout and a dog’s howl in the distance, Ash breathed a sigh of relief. If Hugh had freed Hartley and the dog, his sons would find their way to him. Finally, he could act.
Locating Bryght’s shadow approaching, Ash stepped from the cover of the trees.
“There you are,” Bryght said, not too brightly since his voice gave Ash better distance and location. “You’ll forgive a man for doing what is necessary to save his home, won’t you?”
“I won’t forgive a man who uses children as his shield.” Gauging Bryght’s height from memory, Ash swung his fist in the direction of his opponent’s soft lower jaw, connecting soundly before the younger man knew the blow was coming.
For good measure, he aimed the solid brass ball of his walking stick into the man’s gut. Bryght groaned, bent in two, and from the sounds of it, lost last night’s supper into the grass.
One solid whack of the stick across the back of the coward’s neck toppled him into the dirt.
Before Ash could even whistle at the boys to come out, another voice spoke from the shadows where he couldn’t see him.
“I’ve been wanting to do that for some time now,” Montfort said. “The boy is an idiot. But I’m not. There are three shotguns aimed at your heart and your sons are locked in the dog pen. I think we’ll wait in the house for all your brothers to ride up. Without anyone to shore up their courage, the Whig mongrels will go down in defeat.”
30
William Ives-Madden and a giant mastiff waited at the corner of the rural Chelsea lane to which the driver of the berlin had been directed.
Riding their horses beside the carriage, Jacques, Pascoe, and a Cousin Zack, who looked just as big and tough as the other Ives, rode up to consult with the dog trainer. Inside the carriage, Christie twisted her fingers in nervous anxiety. Once upon a time, she had wrung her hands while listening to a ticking clock and waiting for a suitor who never arrived. She hadn’t known then how shallow and meaningless the pain of rejection was. The fear for others was much more agonizing.
Aster patted her hands. “You haven’t lived with Ives as I have. You did the right thing coming to me. It’s a pity your bone-headed husband chose to be the lone hero in this instance, but that’s how he was brought up. The others are more civilized.”
Celeste laughed. “To a small extent. I wish Erran could have come. He would have terrified the lot into fleeing with just his voice. I’m quite certain he’d be angry enough to bellow them into the next kingdom—which may very well be the reason he stayed to reassure visitors. He thinks it’s unethical to bully people with his gift.”
“But even if he can persuade Ash’s guests that all is well, he can’t read Ash’s speech in the Lords,” Christie fretted. “What are the men saying out there? Perhaps Hartley really is just visiting a dog kennel.”
“Judging by their frowns, I’d say not,” Aster said. She opened the window and spoke sharply to the one they called Uncle Pascoe. “Speak to us or we’ll order the driver to proceed without you.”
Garbed in a finely tailored green riding coat and fawn breeches, sporting gleaming knee-high boots, the sophisticated Pascoe Ives kneed his gelding toward the carriage, leaned over, and lifted his hat. “Good morning, my ladies. Looks like it should be a fine day for a ride.”
Christie pushed Aster aside and glared out the window. “You will take me to my husband and his sons now. We may discuss the weather later.”
Pascoe’s thick dark eyebrows shot upward. “Spoken like a true marchioness. William has scouted the grounds. There appears to be a small army present. We need to develop a plan.”
“We don’t have time for delicacy if we’re to return Ash before people start worrying about his disappearance. Tell Zach to take his bucket down from the back, then have the driver let us out and drive the carriage somewhere less conspicuous.” Christie shut the window to prevent argument. She was shaking in her shoes. She’d just ordered about a man she’d been told acted as the king’s personal envoy. He looked astonished, but unlike Ash, he wasn’t beating the door down to rip at her.
Pascoe hadn’t denied that Ash was here, which meant Hugh was too. She was relieved that the pair of nodcocks had arrived safely, but she was terrified that they weren’t racing down the drive to meet her. Where was the curricle? If she’d only been faster . . .
The carriage door opened and the steps were let down. Wearing the old gown she’d donned to direct the housekeeping, Christie didn’t feel like a marchioness as she took a footman’s hand and climbed out. But her country gown didn’t require yards of stiff petticoats. She could tramp for miles like this.
She checked to see that Zack unloaded the bucket of yellow paint he’d brought over just thi
s morning for her bedchamber. He set it beside the road without questioning her command. She knew the paint was madness, but to her, it was a symbol of hope and courage and defiance. She needed to convey confidence when all looked lost.
Celeste and Aster were also dressed in morning dishabille, although their gowns were of a more frivolous than sturdy nature. Since they were both in the early stages of pregnancy, Christie didn’t want them involved at all. But their husbands’ futures depended on Ash as much as hers did. She couldn’t hold them back.
“William, will you please explain what you have found?” she asked the intimidating giant with his enormous dog.
“Ash’s equipment and animals are in the hedgerow,” he said in taciturn brevity.
Christie closed her eyes and thanked the heavens they’d arrived in one piece.
“I trust you tended to the animals?” Jacques asked in amusement, climbing up on a stile and using one of Theo’s portable telescopes to scan the field.
William scowled. “Yes. The farm has a dog pen full of half-fed hounds, but the boys aren’t there.”
“We’ll rescue the hounds, too,” Christie said reassuringly, sensing the man’s concern. This was Hartley’s hero, a man who loved animals and avoided people. She was grateful for his aid, but she needed to understand the situation. “Guards?”
William nodded while emanating a degree of approval. “None.”
“That doesn’t mean there aren’t men with weapons inside,” Pascoe reminded them.
“I do not understand what they hope to accomplish by holding a marquess hostage,” Celeste said in puzzlement.
“If Montfort or Lansdowne is behind this, then they mean to either stop the vote or distract enough of Ash’s politicians to prevent them from overthrowing Wellington,” Aster said with a frown. “It is a very close call as it is. Perhaps they are expecting Theo and Erran to lead a rescue party out here, thus reducing the number of votes as well as creating uncertainty.”
No one argued with this assumption, although Christie wondered if there might not be more to this than Aster was seeing—or mentioning. Danger to family meant something more personal than an election, didn’t it? Neither Theo or Erran had votes—they only helped Ash negotiate deals with voters.
But harming any of Ash’s family would drive him mad—and lose the confidence of the Commons he’d worked so hard to gain.
“Let’s set fire to the privy,” Jacques said, studying the farm’s layout through the glass. “That ought to bring a few of the louts out, give us an idea how many there are.”
“I can cry out as if I’m in distress,” Celeste suggested. “That could draw out a few more.”
“You really think men like this care about damsels in distress?” Zack asked cynically.
Aster vigorously nodded her red curls. “She’s dispersed rioters and led an entire factory of workers into the street with her voice. It will work. The fire would be fun too. Perhaps they’ll believe Celeste’s inside.”
“Give me a big stick,” Christie demanded. “I’ll trounce them as they come out. The rest of the men can go in the front door and find Ash and the boys.”
All the men except Jacques protested. None of them provided a stick. Jacques returned to studying the house.
Without persuasive words to argue against an experienced diplomat and Ives stubbornness, Christie examined the sycamore branches overhanging the road. Finding what she sought just out of reach, she leaped, caught the dead branch, and snapped it with her weight. Another tug broke it off entirely. Channeling her fury, she decapitated an entire row of weeds, then glared at the stunned men—who had finally quit arguing.
“That’s what I do to people who stand in my way. I am a country girl, gentlemen.” Actually, she was a terrified shy miss who had spent far too much time hiding. But for Ash, she would be a war goddess. Later, she could hide in her room and fall apart.
“If we take the mastiff through the front, he will scare any left inside,” William said, accepting her at her word. “I’ll chase them out the back, toward you. But a stick isn’t enough. They’ll have weapons.”
“I have Erran’s pistol with four bullets.” Delicate Celeste removed a deadly-looking weapon from her bag. “I am a good shot, but if there is someone better . . .”
Pascoe snatched the weapon and placed it in his pocket. He handed his smaller pistol to Cousin Zack. Snapping a trigger, the king’s envoy opened a deadly sword in his walking stick. Whistling in admiration, Jacques leapt down from the stile to claim it.
Aster took the whip they’d commandeered from the driver earlier. She looked dubious about its use, but she stuck her jaw out stubbornly. “We don’t have much time. Shall we proceed?”
“You do realize this is patently insane?” Pascoe said genially as they traipsed into the woods. He glanced at the bucket Christie carried but courteously didn’t question the eccentricity of a marchioness.
Taciturn William merely grunted. Slender Jacques whacked an evergreen branch with the sword stick. Zack—an architect Christie had been told—merely sighted along Pascoe’s small pistol before shoving it into a belt containing a collection of tools. He took the heavy bucket from her and swung it easily.
“We will be fine,” Celeste said in her sweetest, most reassuring voice.
Christie almost believed her—for a moment. The others nodded as well. And then they began frowning as logic overpowered whatever spell she cast with her voice. If Celeste truly had a siren voice, it did not last long.
“Disbelievers,” Celeste scoffed, evidently ascertaining the same. “If you’re all so certain we’ll fail, why don’t we turn back now?”
“No time,” Aster said prosaically. “And we’re all just smart enough to know nothing is certain, so your voice isn’t effective on us. Formulate a call that will convince anyone listening, something no one can argue with.”
“Shouting fire should do it,” Jacques suggested.
“No, because that won’t draw out everyone,” Celeste explained. “It must be more like—‘fire, I’m trapped. Come help me.’ The compulsion is in the call for action.”
Explaining magical, other abilities to Ives men was much akin to pounding one’s head against a wall, Christie decided. Once they smashed out their brains, the men would examine their gray matter for evidence of insanity.
Ignoring male disbelief, she inquired of Celeste, “If they hear your call, will even Ash and the twins try to escape and help you?” She stopped at the edge of the evergreen line to study the house ahead.
“Possibly, although Ashford will catch on faster. He’s particularly hard-headed and will be more concerned with escape once he recognizes my voice.”
If he was alive or conscious, Christie mentally amended. Or not tied up or locked in a dark room where he couldn’t even see the door. Their plans had more holes than a spider web.
Glancing at the location of the sun, she concluded they didn’t have time for better. “The boys will be so hungry, they’ll gnaw their way out,” she said, hoping to lighten the gloom as they studied the fortress of brick.
“Cannibalize their captors?” Jacques suggested. “Well, I’m off. By the time I have a good fire started, you should all have found your battle stations. Celeste, are you going back with me so your voice will carry from the direction of the fire?”
He gathered dry sticks and twigs as he trotted along the hedgerow toward the back of the house. Celeste followed in his path, using the front of her gown to hold the tinder.
“Aster, perhaps you could study the dog pen and see if they might be released if necessary?” Christie asked this diffidently, since Aster was usually the one giving orders.
The shorter woman reached up to hug her. “It will work. You’ll see. Be very careful. My chart shows the part of Expected Birth in your family sector this time next year.” Stooping low, she hurried along the hedgerow of the drive, toward the far side of the house.
Christie barely had time to recover from the shock of
that prediction before Pascoe spoke—ignoring the implications of Aster’s usually correct prophesies.
“We can’t cross the lawn until we know the guards are running out the back,” he said, gauging the distance.
“I’ll stand between the front and back,” Christie suggested. “I’ll signal when the fire is visible. After I signal, storm the front and find Ash and the boys. Does that work?”
“Then you’ll run to the back and bash heads as they come out?” Cousin Zack asked, eyeing her stout stick. “This wrench is sturdier than that stick.”
“I need the bucket and the brush,” she insisted. “But I can tuck the wrench into my skirt band.” The paint made her feel as if she was competent and in charge. She wanted Ash to see what they were doing.
Stupid foolish thought, but madness kept her going. Carrying the bucket, awkwardly wrapping her pelisse tighter, as if that would hold her together, Christie trudged between the evergreens until she had a good view of the outbuildings in the rear. A kind of peace settled on her as she regarded the house where her husband—her family—was held.
She had family. If they survived this, she might bear Ash a babe by this time next year. She had been so busy trying to learn so many fascinating things at once that she hadn’t had time to consider a child or how she felt about carrying Ashford’s heir.
With the peace of the forest around her, she let the knowledge of her new life seep in. For one who was so quick to identify emotion in others, she was slow to understand herself. But understanding that she could lose Ash and the twins forced her to recognize the source of the anxiety eating at her confidence.
She loved Ash—with all her heart and soul and every breath she took. She even loved the devilish twins. She adored her new family—a family that accepted her as she was, weirdness and all. It didn’t matter if they might never love her back. Her fear was that she would lose the only people who made her life worth living.
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