by Jo Beverley
Resolutely she got out of the bed, stretched, and moved around until she felt more the thing. She drank some more of the lemonade and realized she had eaten no breakfast before dashing off to find Verderan and Randal.
Planning carefully, she sent the maid to fetch quick, simple food, some footwear, and the news.
Sophie dressed in her habit, wondering when she would see her boots, stockings, hat, and jacket again, and what people would think when they were found. She didn’t really care but it brought back memories of that kiss. That wonderful kiss and then his anger. Why had he been angry? What had he said? “What I feel for you ...” What had he been going to say?
All such thoughts seemed irrelevant now with Chelmly in such straits. If the wound proved fatal, Randal’s days of carefree adventuring were numbered, married or not. If the wound proved fatal ...
She went to the window. Despite the heat, there was a darkening heaviness to the sky. They were surely building to a storm. She wished it would come, and quickly. Perhaps if it was cooler she could think more clearly.
The smooth croquet lawn was below this window, surrounded by herbaceous borders. Beyond was part of the kitchen garden and she could see one of the orchards. She thought with dread of the succession houses, the fish ponds, the formal gardens and the wilderness ... It was no different than Stenby, she told herself.
But she had never thought to run Stenby. In fact she remembered teasing Jane about having to undertake such a horrible task. She and Randal had planned to live at the small manor of Fairmeadows, and have a neat house in London. They had been going to travel. Even if he couldn’t fight with the army they could travel to Greece, to the Americas, to look for hippopotami in Africa ...
She pulled herself out of the black thoughts. Chelmly was not dead. He would not die. It wasn’t possible. But the picture of the marquess, so still and pale, rose up to argue against her. He could and that would signal a terrible change in all their lives.
When the maid returned, Sophie realized she had tears running down her face and no handkerchief. She wiped them with her fingers.
“It’s all right,” said the maid anxiously. “There’s no change. Lord Chelmly is holding his own.”
The girl laid out a simple meal. Sophie looked at the food with distaste, seeing nothing she could face but then she disciplined herself. If she didn’t eat she’d probably faint again and that wasn’t going to make Randal’s life any easier.
She took up two slices of bread and butter and slapped some chicken between them. She poured herself some tea and managed to wash down about half the food. It was all she could manage.
She stood and put on the slippers the maid had found. They were a little large but once she had tied the laces she knew they would do. In the mirror she thought she looked a wreck but doubted anyone would care today. She also looked pale and almost haggard. She splashed water from the bowl over her face and rubbed at her cheeks. It helped a little, but not much.
At last she ventured out. Was it her imagination that the Towers was ominously silent? It had not been a lively house for years but now the ticking of clocks was the only sound. She walked along deserted corridors and down to the main hall.
A footman was on duty there.
“Do you know where Lord Randal is?” she asked.
“He is in the Adams Room with the doctor, milady,” he replied in a muted voice. Sophie could tell there had been no good report of Chelmly’s state in the last little while.
Dreading the news she might hear, she went to the cool blue and white room. The doctor and Randal stood talking together near the empty grate. Randal had still not found time to dress and was in his open-necked shirt. A smear of dried blood ran down the sleeve. His features were as pale as the bleached linen.
He sensed her and turned. It was not welcome she saw on his face, or even relief that she was all right. She was another, and distracting, strain. Even through her sick misery his strange expression pierced her, and she raised a hand as if to ward off a blow. He had already turned away. Verderan was in the room, standing away from Randal and the doctor, and he came swiftly over to her.
“Chelmly has not recovered consciousness and the doctor fears the worst,” he said softly. “The duke has taken it quite well but his health too is a matter for concern. Everything is falling on Randal’s shoulders. Are you recovered?”
“As much as possible,” said Sophie from an aching throat. “Should I go?” she asked hesitantly.
“No,” he said and took her hand firmly. “Of course not. He is bewildered. Too many things are coming at him at once. Just be here.”
In a few minutes the doctor bowed and took his leave to go back upstairs to the duke. Randal just stood, staring at nothing.
Verderan and Sophie shared a concerned look and then Sophie took matters into her own hands. She walked forward and grasped his arm. “What can we do?” she asked.
He looked down at her with a slight frown, but she saw it was bewilderment, not rejection. After a moment his expression lightened slightly and he slipped an arm around her and pulled her to him with a sigh.
“Did you hear he’s no better?” he asked softly and she nodded.
“Killigrew says he could die at any minute. I can still hardly believe it,” he said. “We spoke to him there only minutes before ...”
“He won’t die, Randal,” said Sophie, trying to sound certain but hearing her own desperation. “He’s always been so strong and healthy. He’ll pull through.”
“I pray to God,” said Randal with a sigh. Without letting go of her he shifted slightly and said, “Ver?” The Dark Angel came over.
“The doctor suspects foul play,” Randal said baldly.
Sophie pulled back. “What? But it was a fall from his horse. We were there.”
Randal released her and moved restlessly about the room. “Not quite. We got there soon after. Dr. Killigrew says such a head wound could only have been caused by a severe blow from a hard object. Did you see any rocks on that path?”
Sophie thought back. It was a dry, sandy bridle path and she had noticed no rocks near Chelmly’s head. She shook her head.
“Nor did I,” said Randal and turned to his friend. “Ver, will you take Justin and go and check? See what there is to be found.”
The Dark Angel left swiftly.
Randal turned to face Sophie with a slight bitter smile. “Well, how do you feel about the prospect of being a marchioness?”
“Not too wonderful,” she admitted, “but I’ll manage, I suppose. Besides, whatever happens I am unlikely to come to that for some time. We can’t have the wedding now.”
He looked at her sharply. “Yes, we can. This business has brought my father’s concern over the succession to fever pitch. The only thing that will hold him together is a grandson.”
“With the best will in the world,” said Sophie, “that’s nine months from now, Randal. A month or so delay will not matter. We can hardly be married with Chelmly at death’s door.”
“Yes, we can,” he said tersely, “though it will have to be a simple affair. I’m sorry you’ll have to do without the celebrations but that way we can get it over with.”
“Get it over with ...” He made it sound like something terrible—a whipping or a tooth-drawing. She couldn’t handle this now. “Randal, I don’t care about the bridesmaids and dancing but—”
“Good,” he said sharply. “Just you and me, Sophie. That’s all that matters.” It could have been a moving declaration except for the tone.
Sophie forced herself not to squabble with him. She went over to take his fidgeting hand but was arrested when she saw the ring on it. It was heavy gold set with a large piece of obsidian carved with the arms of the Ashbys—the ducal seal that Chelmly always wore.
He followed her eyes. “Disgusting, isn’t it? My father took it off Chelmly’s hand and forced me to wear it as if he was already dead—” A scratch at the door interrupted him and they turned to see the marquess’s
secretary, Mr. Tyler. Sophie could see that the sandy-haired man had been crying.
“Yes, Tyler?” said Randal wearily.
“I have prepared the list of those who must be notified of the marquess’s condition, my lord. Would you care to scrutinize it?”
Randal waved him away. “No. I’m sure you know better than I who should be told.” When the man had left he turned to Sophie. “We’ll have to send out couriers to stop the guests from coming to the wedding. Just the family here will attend and we’ll have to stay here afterward, Sophie. I have to look after the duchy for him...”
Sophie remembered their tryst for the twenty-eighth at Fairmeadows in the big front bedroom overlooking the rose garden. Oh God, why did such things matter? It was just she and Randal that mattered, as he had said. “If you want it that way, Randal, it will be so. But think on it a bit more,” she asked.
“Very well,” he said, clearly with little intention of doing so.
Another scratch at the door brought Willerby, the groom of the chambers. “Your pardon, my lord, but there is a man here to collect documents the marquess was to have prepared. He says they are of importance.”
Randal made an impatient movement but then said, “Put him somewhere and send Mr. Tyler to see what it’s all about.”
He turned away and ran his fingers through his hair. “I haven’t had a moment...” he said distractedly. “Can no one do anything without my word?”
“They are as disordered as you are, Randal,” she said, soothing his hands down from his face. She drew him to a sofa and sat, holding his hand. “I know you don’t want all this,” she said, “but you have the ability to run the duchy.” She tentatively tried for a little humor. “Chelmly will be awfully cross if you let the place go to wrack and ruin.”
He gave a slight laugh but then leapt to his feet to wander the room again. “He has no enemies. The doctor suggested a disaffected tenant or even a radical but it seems absurd. Who would want to hurt Chelmly?” He stopped dead. “Oh God, Sophie,” he whispered. “If he dies, how am I going to cope?”
Before she could try to find an answer, Mr. Tyler was there reporting drily on an investment which had been planned in a shipping enterprise and the documents which needed to be signed. As the matter was technically business of the estate and not personal to the marquess, he related, Randal could sign.
“Does my father know anything about this?” asked Randal helplessly.
“Only the bare bones, my lord. He does not entirely approve of mercantile ventures.”
After a moment Randal said, “Get the man and I’ll come and go over it all with you.” He turned to Sophie. “This place is Bedlam. It would be best if you went back to Stenby for now, Sophie. Mrs. Hawley is here with the carriage and I would like you to ride back in it with her.”
“Mrs. Hawley?”
“She came seeking you earlier and was overtaken by a sick headache.”
“Oh. But I can ride back.”
“I’d rather you didn’t. If there’s a madman about I want you safe. I’ll send a pair of armed grooms as well.”
He was already moving away and it seemed to Sophie it was mental as well as physical. She was losing him in some way. “When will I see you again?” she asked desperately. “Shall I come over tomorrow?”
He shrugged. “If you wish but it will probably be even worse by then.” He turned and left.
Sophie pressed her hands to her face, seeking the strength she needed. It was all very well to understand the pressures which were besetting her beloved, but it didn’t make it any easier to handle the fact that he seemed almost a stranger. She had to believe that even if the worst should happen and Randal became the heir to the dukedom the ease would return, the humor come back into life.
Meanwhile it was for her to help as best she could.
She made a decision and sent for Willerby. She noted that despite his stately manner the man was distressed. She supposed the whole household was in a state of turmoil.
“Willerby,” she said, “I understand this is a considerable shock to everyone and that you look to Lord Randal to take care of everything. But you mustn’t overload him, Willerby.”
She saw the man absorb her words. “I see, milady.”
“You, Mr. Tyler, Mr. Sedgewick and Mrs. Young must be able to run this place with your eyes closed. Do so. Don’t come to him for every little thing.”
He bowed. “I understand perfectly, milady. Thank you.”
Sophie hoped that would give her beloved a little respite. She went off to find Mrs. Hawley.
A few hours’ rest had largely dispelled Beth’s sickness but she was shocked to see how pale and drawn Sophie looked. It was not unexpected, of course. It was just that Sophie had always seemed a golden child, untouchable by life’s harsher winds.
“Oh Sophie,” she said. “This must all have been terrible for you.” She opened her arms and the girl came into them.
“We were just speaking to him,” she said. “And then that happened. And now he might die, Beth. It’s not fair!”
Beth tightened her arms, remembering her husband. He’d been a naval officer and had courted death in his profession, but she had never expected him to die. He’d been young and he’d enjoyed life so.
There was nothing adequate to say and so she said the inadequate. “Accidents do happen, my dear.”
“It wasn’t an accident,” said Sophie flatly, pulling away. Tears rolled down her face and she sniffed. “Oh Beth, do you have a handkerchief?”
Beth provided one. “What do you mean, it wasn’t an accident?”
Sophie blew her nose. “The doctor thinks someone attacked Chelmly, deliberately tried to kill him.”
Beth sat down abruptly in a chair. “It’s not possible.”
Sophie shrugged. “It happened. Randal wants me to return to Stenby in the carriage and he’s sending outriders. It’s all quite outlandish, isn’t it?”
Beth thought it certainly was and those strange notes came into her mind. But what possible connection could there be between demented notes to Sophie about her marriage and an attack on the Marquess of Chelmly?
As they were preparing to climb into the carriage, Chloe Stanforth came hurrying over with her son in her arms and his nursemaid in tow.
“Sophie,” she said breathlessly. “Can you take Stevie and Rosie to Stenby? This is no place for a child and his happy nature is out of order with Chelmly so ill.”
Perhaps sensitive to atmosphere, Stevie was sucking his thumb and clinging to his mother’s gown looking solemn. Sophie looked at Beth for guidance. Beth could not imagine Jane refusing such a request and nodded.
“Of course,” Sophie said and the maid took the child into the carriage.
“Thank you,” said Chloe, brushing damp hair distractedly off her face. “This is the most terrible thing... I can’t believe it. I will send a groom over with some of Stevie’s toys and clothes.” She looked at Sophie closely for the first time. “I’m so sorry about your wedding,” she said.
“Randal wants it to go ahead,” Sophie said.
“Next Wednesday! But what if Chelmly should...” Chloe stopped herself from uttering the dreaded word. “And why not,” she said resolutely. “Whatever happens, Randal needs you more than ever now. Take care of Stevie for me, Sophie, please. I would go with him but I am concerned for Grandmama.”
With that she hurried off and Sophie and Beth mounted the steps. “Do you too think it shocking?” Sophie asked Beth a little defiantly.
“To carry on with the wedding?” Beth responded. “I think no purpose would be served by delay, Sophie, and Lord Chelmly would be the first to say so. At times like these we must sometimes go against convention to find the true path.”
As she said it, Beth thought of herself and Sir Marius. Did she have the courage to follow her own advice?
Randal was with Chloe and his grandmother when Justin Delamere and Verderan returned from their investigations. He crossed the room halfwa
y to meet them and Verderan placed a turnip-size rock in his hands. It showed damp earth on one side and blood on the other.
“In the path?” asked Randal.
“No,” said Justin. “There was a trail of someone leaving the scene and the rock was off there to one side, as if thrown away. It was a planned attack, Randal.”
Randal looked down at the rock blankly. “But why?”
“There’s no way of knowing yet. But we found something else.”
“What?”
“There’s a mark on a tree there,” said Justin. “A rope was stretched across the path to trip the horse. When Chelmly fell someone tried to finish him off with that.”
Even Verderan made a slight movement of protest at this blunt telling. One remembered that Justin Delamere had been a soldier in the thick of the Peninsular War and was no stranger to violence.
“How is he?” asked Justin soberly. “Will he pull through?”
Randal gave a slight gesture of helplessness. “There’s no way to tell,” he said. “He just lies there. Killigrew refuses to give up hope but even he has to admit that the longer he is unconscious, the worse it looks.” He looked down at the blood-stained rock and his hand tightened on it. “I want the man responsible. Come.”
He went as if to leave the room but the autocratic voice of his grandmother stopped him. “Randal,” said the dowager duchess. “Come here with whatever that is.”
After the briefest hesitation he obeyed.
The dowager’s eyes took in the stone and needed no explanation. “How could anyone!” she demanded in broken outrage. “How could anyone? Chelmly has never injured anyone.”
Chloe Stanforth leaned over and put a hand over the older woman’s. “They’ll find the villain, Grandmama,” she said softly and looked up at the three men; her husband, her cousin, and the Dark Angel whom she didn’t trust but believed capable of almost anything. “Won’t you?”
“Yes,” said Randal, “we will.”
Men were sent out to search, others to alert all nearby villages, inns and coaching houses. Assistance was called for from the military at Shrewsbury and a Bow Street Runner was summoned from London. Randal, fretting, was left to care for the Towers and support his father while Justin and Verderan rode out to personally supervise matters. Soon David and Marius, alerted by Sophie’s recounting of affairs, were assisting.