by Jo Beverley
Verderan smiled as he admired the other. “Isn’t it. I got them from India. Indian women must be remarkably flexible... Perhaps I should try to get hold of one or two. I’ll invite you—No, of course not.”
“Of course not,” said Randal frowning slightly. Verderan admonished himself to watch his tongue. He topped up Randal’s glass.
“Do you know that silly chit asked me if I loved her?” Randal muttered, draining it.
“I hope you said yes.”
“Of course I did! I told her—That was about the time we heard Major,” he said, frowning over the puzzle again. “Do you think those notes had anything to do with it?” he asked.
Verderan realized the process of distracting Randal from his problems would not be easy. He ignored the question and quickly rolled the dice. “Seven,” he said.
Randal sat down. “How the deuce do you tell?”
Verderan smiled. “You count the number of visible legs, of course. Are you on?”
“I’m on,” said Randal with a grin. “By sunrise I’ll have lost every last acre and stone to you.”
By sunrise he was safe in his bed, deposited there tenderly by his still-steady friend. Verderan took the precaution of forcing Randal to drink as much water as possible before letting him sleep. It was the best preventive for a hangover he knew and though a night’s oblivion was prescribed, tomorrow Randal would once again be called on to run the Duchy of Tyne.
Beth was just collecting a candle to make her way up to bed, exhausted after her sickness and then long hours of work, when Sir Marius and Lord Wraybourne walked into the hall.
“Is there any news?” she asked quickly.
“No. Nothing new,” said the earl. “Do you know where Jane is?”
“I believe she is in your study at the moment, my lord.” The earl went swiftly off in that direction.
Beth and Sir Marius looked at each other in the gloom.
“I’m not going to apologize for last night,” he said at last.
“You’re not?”
He shook his head. “Now is hardly the time to pursue matters further, Elizabeth. But there are matters to be pursued. You look done in, my dear.”
“So do you,” she said, finding his rumpled tiredness overwhelmingly endearing.
He came over and brushed her tousled curls back from her brow. “Good night, my dear.”
Beth smiled. “Good night.”
Sophie had spent a restless, sleepless night and was heavy eyed and weary when she reluctantly kept her appointment to breakfast with Mrs. Haven. At least today would see the back of the uninvited guest.
“Sit down, my dear, and let me pour you a cup of tea,” said the woman comfortably. “Such a day as you must have had yesterday and little sleep in the night what with the storm and your worries. Drink the tea and you will find it helps.”
Sophie relaxed under the gentle fussing. “I didn’t sleep very well,” she admitted.
“And who could expect you to?” said Edith soothingly. “You are like me, one of the sensitive ones. We take things to heart.”
Sophie had never thought of herself as sensitive before but she certainly felt fragile this morning. “Perhaps I wish we could turn the clock back,” she said, mostly to herself.
“Ah yes, but it does no good to repine. The future must be faced with courage.”
Sophie nodded. “You are right. It is not like me to will so.”
“If you think of your love, your true love, it will strengthen you,” said Edith with what seemed to be a genuine tremor in her voice.
“Yes,” said Sophie, touched by this romantic feeling in such a dry old thing. “That is true.”
The woman leaned forward. “I cannot leave without urging you once more, dear child, to resist this hasty marriage.”
All Sophie’s kinder feelings evaporated and she assumed an untypical hauteur. “We will not discuss it if you please. How long do you expect your journey to be, Mrs. Haven?”
Edith Hever accepted the rejection. She had not thought the girl could be stiffened to rebellion here in her family home. “About five hours, Lady Sophie, if the roads are not too muddy from the rain.”
They discussed roads and traveling as they ate and Edith ran over her plan in her mind, her plan to kidnap Sophie. It would have been better if the girl had come willingly but if trickery was necessary, so be it.
When news was brought that Mrs. Haven’s carriage had arrived, she gathered her things together, refusing to let Sophie call for a maid or footman. Sophie led the way briskly through the passages, anxious to see the last of this unsettling visitor. She came to an abrupt halt at the sight of young Stevie sitting alone on a windowsill.
“Stevie!” she said with exasperation. “What are you doing here?”
He pointed out at Mrs. Haven’s coach. “Watch horsey,” he said.
“Where on earth is that flighty maid?” asked Sophie, looking around. There was no sign of the girl. Sophie sighed. “Well, young man,” she said, “you’ll have to come with us and have a closer look at the horses.”
She prepared to lift the child down but Mrs. Haven intervened. “Lady Sophie, do you think that wise? There is still some dampness in the air and children are so very delicate.”
Sophie looked skeptically at the sturdy infant. “We can’t leave him here,” she said. At that moment, the problem was solved by the arrival of a flustered nursemaid.
“Master Steven! You’ll be the death of me, I swear you will!” She bobbed two hasty curtsies. “Begging your pardon, miladies. I only turned my back for an instant. Come with me, you naughty boy!”
The boy pulled back and said, “No.” His face began to pucker.
“Well really!” said Mrs. Haven frostily.
Sophie said, “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Let him stay and watch the horses, Rosie. I can’t abide another screaming session.”
Now it was the departing guest who chose to make difficulties. “It is most unwise to indulge children, Lady Sophie,” said Mrs. Haven icily. She fixed the maid with a frosty eye. “You must take him back to his quarters immediately. And you,” she said, looking at the child, “will obey.”
Sophie watched his reaction with amazement. For once Stevie set up no objection. Instead, he moved, wide-eyed, to cling to Rosie’s skirt. Perhaps they should hire Mrs. Haven to control the child. Then she put the notion out of her head. If Stevie was afraid of Mrs. Haven, she was not surprised. The woman made her feel as if caterpillars were down her back.
She turned to lead the way down the final flight of stairs. With a final commanding glare, Mrs. Haven followed.
Rosie watched her resentfully. “Nasty old trout,” she muttered. “What right does she have, may I ask? Tell you what, Master Steven—if you’re a good boy, you can stop and watch the horseys. How’d you like that?”
The boy nodded.
“Good. Now you stay low-like, so they won’t spy you. I just have to collect the laundry basket. I’ll be back in a tick.” She took two steps and then looked back. “And if you move from this spot, Boney’ll come and get you!”
With that she picked up her skirts and hurried off. Stevie turned to watch the coach and horses, resting his chin on the windowsill. He saw the nasty old lady come out with her bag. A man stood ready by the coach and swung the door open. The lady stopped and spoke to him, then climbed the steps. She turned and beckoned.
Auntie Sophie went close to the coach. She climbed the stairs to kiss the lady good-bye. Stevie was glad he didn’t have to kiss the lady good-bye. Then Auntie Sophie sort of fell into the coach. The horses set off. The man swung up behind.
Stevie stretched up to watch the coach as long as he could. When it had disappeared he looked around. He thought about going up the stairs to see what was there. But it might be Boney. Boney had big teeth and claws.
He sat down on the stairs, stuck his thumb in his mouth, and waited for Rosie.
Sophie reached for the door handle. “What are you doing? Let me out!
” she cried.
Her hand was knocked away by something hard and cool and when she looked she saw it was a pistol. She stared at Mrs. Haven. “Have you gone mad?”
She had been persuaded to approach the coach to kiss the lady farewell. She had agreed merely to see her the sooner gone. As soon as Sophie had been on the steps she had been pushed in and the coach had taken off.
“No, my dear,” said the woman with a smile. “I am not mad. Don’t be afraid. We will not hurt you, but I need your help.”
Sophie was too affronted and pure bloody angry to be afraid. “If I may say so,” she said tersely, “this is no way to go about it. Moreover, ma’am, this is abduction and I’m sure the penalties for that are severe.”
Her captor was unimpressed. “You are doubtless right, my dear, but I doubt we will be caught. My name is not Haven, you see, and I do not live near Stone. All I want is to talk to you for a little. Then if you do not agree to help me we will set you down. By the time you have raised the alarm we will be far away.”
It was clear to Sophie that her suspicions had been correct—the woman was deranged. But was it some harmless eccentricity or an insanity much more dangerous? “Talk then,” she said, watching Mrs. Haven closely.
The woman drooped with sadness. “It is for the sake of my son, my only son, I have come to this pass, Lady Sophie. He is a good lad, my John, strong and honest and true. He loved... he loved a darling girl. Oh, you remind me of Polly. She was pretty and lively but with a kind heart and a serious nature beneath her youthful frivolity. My dear John’s feelings were reciprocated, of course, and they were to be wed not many weeks past.”
“What happened?” asked Sophie, caught despite herself.
“A terrible thing,” said the woman, raising her free hand to her face. Sophie eyed the pistol, but by the time she had decided to grab it, the woman’s attention was once more upon her.
“Polly was seduced,” the woman said. “No, let us put the plain word to it, raped... by a rich nobleman who promised her heaven knows what and then cast her aside when he’d used her. Cast her aside to bear a child in shame!”
“That is terrible,” said Sophie. “How fortunate she was to have a loving man like your son to give the child a name.”
“Give his name to another man’s brat?” asked the woman in amazement. “He did no such thing! He had little chance, anyway,” she said flatly, “for Polly drowned herself on the day they were to have wed.”
Sophie could think of nothing to say. The unknown nobleman was doubtless a villain, but so too were the unforgiving John and his uncharitable mother. “What has this to do with me?” she asked.
The woman looked at her with fire in her eyes. “The seducer, Lady Sophie, was Lord Randal Ashby!”
“What!” exclaimed Sophie in outrage. “That is a lie!” She knew once more Mrs. Haven was mad. She must be to even think such a thing.
The woman seemed taken aback at this. “How can you say so? Even you recounted his abominable attempt at seduction.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Sophie. Randal had never tried to seduce her, she knew that only too well. Then she remembered Verderan’s attack and fleeing to Mrs. Haven’s bedchamber. The woman had clearly misunderstood. Had that triggered this whole fantasy?
The woman leaned forward. “Don’t try to shield him. He no longer is able to terrorize. I know him for what he is, my dear, and so does John. I warned my boy to leave it be, not to meddle with those too powerful to touch but he would not. When he heard of your marriage it was the final straw. He knew the monster had to die.”
Sophie felt as if she were in a horrifying maze. Randal? A rapist? Terrorizing? Die? What was this about Randal dying?
“I sent letters to you,” the woman explained. “Letters to encourage you and to warn the libertine.” Sophie shrank back. “I followed John,” the woman carried on. “I tried to stop him but the strain was too much for me. The accident was the ultimate blow and my poor mind betrayed me. As soon as I regained my wits and heard of the awful events at Tyne Towers I knew”—her voice sank to a whisper—“I knew that John had struck.”
Sophie stopped breathing. She felt a chill spread through her body. This woman’s son had been responsible for the attack on Chelmly?
Her breath came back, and her wits. “But Chelmly was harmed,” she protested. “Not Randal.”
“So I gather,” said the woman bitterly. “Were they alike?”
Dumbly, Sophie nodded. Shivers seemed to be taking over her body at the thought of what might have been. But for that chance exchange of horses Randal could be lying close to death... And the assailant was still at large.
“Mrs. Haven,” she exclaimed. “We must inform the authorities!”
The pistol in the woman’s hand raised to point straight at Sophie’s heart. “Hand over my son to the hangman?” cried Mrs. Haven. “Are you mad?”
No, but you are, thought Sophie. You and your son both. “What are you going to do then, and why do you need me?”
“I am going to rescue him,” said the woman firmly, lowering the firearm. “I will take him out of the country. It is not that I would mind him killing Lord Randal,” she said with frightening indifference, “but the risk is too great now. I can only save him, though, if you can convince him you will not marry the debaucher.”
Sophie put both hands to her head and stared at the woman. “Why? What am I to your son? Why would he pay attention to me?”
“You are just a name,” said Mrs. Haven. “But when he read the announcement he was cast into agony. ‘This must never be,’ he cried, so all the servants heard him. ‘Another innocent,’ he cried. I could not calm him and it was that very day he disappeared. I guessed what he was about and followed. Now with the hunt up he will have sought refuge in our home but in his mind you and his lovely Polly are as one. He needs to protect you from the debaucher, Lady Sophie. Tell him that the engagement is over, that you know Lord Randal for what he is, and he will come away with me content.”
The man sounded as fit for Bedlam as his mother. Sophie remembered her brush with similar madness in Sir Edwin Hever and had no intention of repeating it. “I pity you your son, ma’am,” she said firmly, “but I cannot help you. Put me down, if you please. I will have no charges laid against you for this abduction but I will have the country raised to seek your demented son.”
Demented? Even as her finger tightened on the trigger, Edith Hever reminded herself that her story had been an invention—sometimes it was hard to keep things clear in her mind—and the girl wasn’t talking about Edwin.
But Sophie’s attitude was a disappointment. She had thought such a romantic, tragic tale would sway a young thing. She had been sure that a tale of debauchery would finally convince her to reject marriage to Lord Randal.
“Ah, well,” Mrs. Haven sighed. “If you insist on going free, I cannot hold you. And perhaps it is better that John free you from Lord Randal one day soon.”
“What do you mean?” asked Sophie, fearing she knew.
“Don’t be distressed, my dear,” said Edith kindly. “If you lack the resolution to refuse the marriage, John will rescue you as soon as possible.”
“But—” Sophie bit back the anguished words. She had been about to protest that she didn’t want to be rescued, except from this woman and her son, but such words would be unwise. Somehow the woman had the idea that she was disgusted by Randal. That bizarre misapprehension was a weapon if she could see how to use it.
If she refused to help, would they really let her go? It was likely. After all, it would be no easy task to control a healthy young woman for hours. If they released her in an isolated spot, however, then they might well make their escape and she would never have a moment’s peace again. Every time Randal left the house she would fear for his safety.
Far better to go along with the woman and hope to trap her deranged son. Better still, Sophie thought, to hope for pursuit and rescue. But when would she b
e missed? The trouble with having a reputation as a madcap was that no one would question her absence for hours.
If only Stevie and his maid had been watching their departure, the alarm would already have been given. And that was why, she thought suddenly, the woman had been so determined to send them on their way. Now what could she do? Drop something out of the open window to mark the way? She didn’t even have a handkerchief and the woman opposite was watching her like a hawk watching a rabbit.
“Very well,” said Sophie, trying to sound cooperative. “I will help you. I suppose your son has only acted out of kindness to me. I ...” The words threatened to choke her. “I have long known that Lord Randal is unsavory, and cruel in his dealings with women. As you suspect, it is my family who have forced this marriage on me. Randal promised to reform but now I see it is all a sham. I will come and tell your son I intend to cry off. Then you must certainly take your son far away and make sure he never attempts such a thing again. By now the whole country must be raised in search of him. He has tried to murder a peer of the realm.”
“Not murder,” said Mrs. Haven sharply. “Say rather he sought to avenge a wrong. He sought to protect an innocent.” Despite the sharpness, it was clear she believed every word Sophie had said, and now considered the girl her ally. She even uncocked the pistol and slid it back on top of the portmanteau by her hand.
Sophie eyed it for a moment and then gave up the notion. The one thing she couldn’t risk was the escape of Mrs. Haven and her murdering son. She must stay with the woman, appearing to have sympathy with her notions, until she could somehow arrange the capture of them both.
She was in no danger, she told herself. It was merely a matter of telling Mrs. Haven what she wanted to hear. Sophie could lie like a flat fish if it was the price of Randal’s safety.
She could not help a slight shiver, however. She felt so alone. Silently she was crying, Randal, come for me.