The Kidnapped Bride

by Amanda Scott

  But twenty minutes later, there was still no sign of anyone, and there had certainly been no sounds to indicate that Darcy had been helped upstairs. Finally, her curiosity got the better of her, and she got up, adjusted the thin shawl carefully around her shoulders, and moved slowly toward the door. Except for the click of the dog’s claws on the hardwood floor as he trailed behind her, the house seemed entirely silent.

  She reached the door and hesitated. Having got herself out of a sticky situation, it would be sheer foolhardiness to put herself back in the lion’s den, so to speak. But she could not sit still while her thoughts played merry havoc with the possibilities. The worst one, of course, was that perhaps Darcy had injured himself more seriously than she had thought, but the simple fact of the matter was that she could not bear not to know what was going on.

  One hand on the latch, the other reaching for the key, she turned to gaze at her furry companion. “I am no doubt a fool, Erebus,” she said softly, shaking her head with a wry smile when he wagged his tail. “All right, then. But I hope you know enough to protect me if I need it.” A moment later, she pulled the door slowly open.

  With Erebus at her side, she made her way to the first floor without incident. But she had taken only a step or two toward the gallery landing when suddenly the stillness was shattered by a barely muffled explosion of sound. Sarah froze, but the big dog’s ears lifted, and surging forward, he began to bark as though he would rouse all the inhabitants of the Common. Bounding down the stairs, he came to a skidding halt at the library door, only to demand entry by scratching madly at the wooden panels.

  Sarah followed more slowly. After that one loud noise, silence had fallen again except for the noise of Erebus’s onslaught. She wondered why no one else seemed to have heard the explosion. The maidservants had, no doubt, retired to their rooms at the top of the house, but Tom at least ought to be about somewhere.

  “Hush, Erebus.” She laid a hand upon the dog’s broad head, and he seemed to understand her, falling silent as she reached to open the door. Sarah gripped his collar to prevent him from bursting into the room as well as to keep him near enough to protect her against whatever or whomever she might find.

  At first, since her gaze moved directly to the solitary pillow lying on the hearth, the room seemed empty. She noted briefly that the French doors were standing wide open. Then, she saw him. He was no longer lying in front of the fireplace, to be sure. Instead, he was lying, face down, in front of his desk.

  Clapping a hand over her mouth, Sarah managed to stifle the scream in her throat as she moved closer. She loosed her hold on the dog, who promptly bounded into the night through the open door, but she scarcely noticed his barking. Her attention was focused on Darcy.

  Did he breathe? She could tell nothing by looking at him. She knelt beside him and felt at once the sticky, wet stuff soaking through her skirt from the carpet. Her hand came away red with blood.

  “Darcy! My lord, answer me!” As she grasped his shoulder, shaking it, trying to turn him, she saw the pistol. It lay between him and the desk, and dazed, Sarah reached to pick it up. She was as certain as she could be that he was dead. Still clutching the pistol and feeling rather sick, she got to her feet. A sudden chill shot up her spine, giving her gooseflesh, and without taking her eyes off the body, she clutched her shawl more closely around her shoulders.

  “Foolish beyond permission, madam, but I must admit I wondered how long it would be before you murdered him.”

  Sarah nearly jumped out of her skin, whirling and dropping the pistol as though her fingers had been scorched. “Sir Nicholas!”

  He stepped in through the open French doors, regarding her with narrowed eyes. “I trust you had good reason for this, my lady.”

  She had been staring at him as though he were a specter, and it took a moment for his words to penetrate. Then, even though she knew what he meant, it was as though her brain refused to accept it.

  “But … I … he … it’s not as you—”

  “’Tis plain as a pikestaff what happened here,” he said grimly, moving closer but eyeing her warily as a new thought struck him. “I don’t suppose you’ve got the mate to that pistol in your possession? I’ve no wish to join Darcy in hell.” She shook her head, still struggling with his original accusation. Why was it that that particular tone of his always had the power to reduce her insides to jelly, to deprive her of the ability to think clearly?

  “Please, Sir Nicholas … I didn’t—”

  “Don’t bother denying it, madam. What with that dog running loose outside, there’s no way a footpad got in here to do this. I shall help you all I can, but we’ll never wrap this business in clean linen.” He moved past her to examine the body. “Shot through the heart,” he observed, turning the body over. “A pretty piece of shooting.”

  Strangling a frustrated sob, Sarah turned away, bringing both hands to her eyes to blot out the brief vision of bloodstains across Darcy’s white shirt. Sir Nicholas got to his feet, fastidiously wiping his fingers upon a linen handkerchief. He glanced at Sarah, and his eyes narrowed speculatively. She faced away from him, her shawl clutched tightly around her, anchored at the elbows, her hands still covering her face. The expression in his eyes softened, and without a word, he stepped nearer to lay a gentle hand upon her shoulder.

  “I trust you don’t mean to subject me to a fit of the vapors, my lady, for we must talk.”

  Sarah stiffened at his touch, but her hands dropped away from her face, and turning to face him, she made a serious attempt to regain her composure. The shawl slipped, and she twitched it back into place, finding odd comfort in the familiar motion. “There is little to discuss, sir,” she said with only a slight tremor in her voice. “If you persist in this—”

  “There is much to discuss,” he countered sharply. “I had thought you cared for Darcy, and yet—”

  “Please, sir,” Sarah interrupted with careful dignity. “My feelings toward his late lordship are immaterial at this point—”

  “The devil they are!” he growled. “They must have had a great deal to do with the matter at hand.” He gestured toward the body. “No doubt, you would like me to believe you had nothing at all to do with this. But I am not such a fool, my girl. You’d do better to—”

  Sarah stamped her foot. “Will you be silent, sir! You must listen to me!”

  Sir Nicholas gave her a searching stare. “Very well, but I cannot imagine what you think you can tell me that I shall swallow. Why, with that dog running loose—”

  “Erebus was with me.”

  “With you!” His eyes narrowed as the full impact of the simple statement struck him. “Then, how—”

  “I let go of his collar when I saw the body. He went out through those same doors. He was growling. Barking, too.”

  Sir Nicholas let out a long breath. “I see. Maybe you’d better tell me the whole.” And not before time either, Sarah thought with a sigh. He took her hand and led her to the settee, seating her so that she faced the fireplace, away from the desk. Then he moved to shut the French doors, pausing before he fastened the lock to open one again. “Well, come in then. I suppose you’ve cleared the premises of all intruders by now.” And Erebus, tongue hanging again and tail wagging, galumphed into the room and collapsed, panting, in front of the fireplace.

  Sarah watched silently as Sir Nicholas selected a pair of clean glasses from a tray on the side table before turning toward the desk, where someone had replaced the heavy cut-glass decanter from the floor. Miraculously, it still retained nearly a third of its contents, and he poured out two brandies, then returned to her side. She protested rather feebly when he handed one of the glasses to her.

  “Drink it,” he ordered, but with a gentle note in his voice. “You’ve had a shock, and whether you know it or not, you need this. It will help calm the trembling in your hands and bring some color back into your cheeks.” He stirred the coals with his boot, an action which his valet would no doubt roundly deplore, a
nd then seated himself opposite her. “Drink, Countess.”

  Her hands were trembling. She hadn’t noticed before. Obediently, she lifted the glass and sipped. The heady wine burned her throat and nearly made her choke, but she could feel the effect of its soothing powers almost before the first fireball hit her stomach. She glanced at Sir Nicholas. He seemed relaxed as he swirled his own brandy, giving her a chance to collect her thoughts. She wondered how to begin.

  “Why on earth did you elope with him in the first place?”

  It was all she needed. The story seemed to pour from her as she explained about the abduction and Grandpapa’s ridiculous will. She could not bring herself to explain why she had encouraged Darcy in the first place, so she glossed over those details, and he did not press her. She told him nothing about the afternoon’s affair either, merely stating that Darcy had already been displeased with her when Sir Nicholas arrived, that her dress and behavior at dinner had angered him further, and that they had quarreled. “I think he must have had quite a bit to drink, too,” she added.

  “He did,” Sir Nicholas agreed grimly. “Then what?”

  She told him that there had been a struggle. Since she left out most of the details, he responded with little more than a grimace. But when she added that, later, she had feared she might have hurt Darcy seriously, even killed him, Sir Nicholas set his glass down and got up, moving with quick, athletic grace to kneel beside the body again. Carefully, he examined Darcy’s skull.

  “There’s a beautiful lump there all right,” he said, “but it didn’t break the skin, let alone his head. He may have been groggy when he was shot, but I’d swear he was on his feet. He was certainly alive, at any rate. No bullet ever brought that much blood from a dead man.” He returned to his chair with a further order to finish her brandy and continue her tale.

  Flushing, Sarah took another sip. It felt smoother going down, so she tried another. “That’s all, sir. I let Erebus in and took him upstairs with me. I was a little afraid that Darcy might come looking for me. And, even if he did not, I expected someone to find him and put him to bed. But no one came, and that’s when I began to wonder if I’d killed him after all. I was just coming to see when I heard the explosion.”

  “Pistol shot,” he corrected. “I heard it, too, down at the stables. Came as quick as I could.” He looked at her sharply. “Where were you exactly?”

  “On the landing. Erebus just lurched downstairs, barking, and scratched at the door.”

  “So you could see the library door when you heard the shot?”

  “Yes.”

  “And those French doors were open to the terrace?”

  “When I came in. I’m sure I shut them earlier.”

  “No matter. Just means Darcy let someone in. Be quiet a moment now. I must think.”

  Sarah watched him. He was still sipping brandy and leaning once again against the mantel shelf. He looked strong and capable and relaxed, for all the world as though the fourth Earl of Moreland still breathed. A new thought entered her head, and she stared at Sir Nicholas with great intent.

  “You are his heir.”

  The sharp blue gaze encountered her own. “If that means you think I’m responsible for this, you can put that silly maggot straight out—”

  “No, no!” Sarah protested, shocked that he would think such a thing. “I only just realized that you are the new Earl of Moreland … my lord.”

  He relaxed again, a tiny smile just touching his lips. “I suppose I am at that,” he said, then eyed her more sharply yet, “unless … is it possible that….” He hesitated. “Pardon the indelicacy, my lady, but could you possibly be with child?”

  Sarah blushed, shaking her head. “No, my lord.”

  “How can you be so certain?”

  Flushing painfully, she turned away. “I’m sure,” she said firmly.

  Nicholas’s eyes narrowed, but he spoke calmly enough. “Then, I suppose I’m the new earl. Who would have thought it? Certainly not Darcy. Nor I, for that matter.” He looked a bit dazed by the notion, but the effect was momentary. He gazed down at the body again, speculatively.

  “What shall we do, sir?”

  He looked at her again. “You are going to finish your brandy and go to bed. No, don’t argue. I’ll take you up myself, if necessary, and lock you in.”

  “You wouldn’t!”

  “Don’t be melodramatic,” he advised her. “Of course I would. I suppose Tom’s gone off somewhere. Someone will have to find him. I’ll send Timmy, my tiger, for the nearest magistrate. I assume Sir William Miles still holds that position.” Sarah confessed that she had no idea. “Well, Tom will know. At any rate, you would be well advised to play least in sight. There’s little I can do to prevent your being suspected of this, but I’ll do my possible. The less anyone sees of you now, the better. So drink up.”

  Glaring, she demanded, “Why should anyone else suspect me?”

  “Because he was shot with his own pistol. I recognized it and so will Tom. So will Beck, if anyone shows it to him. How would a housebreaker manage to kill Darcy with his own gun?” She swallowed. “I don’t know. But I didn’t do it!”

  “I know that now. And you are not alone, Countess.”

  Sarah smiled gratefully. “Could we not remove the pistol?”

  “No,” he replied firmly. “We will tell the truth. The facts may tell against you now, but when the answer is found, they will tell against the real criminal even more. If we monkey about with the evidence, we can only help him escape.”

  Little though she liked it, his argument made sense, so Sarah drank the rest of her brandy and stood up, casting a last glance at her husband’s body. “It is difficult to believe he is dead,” she said, half to herself.

  “Send for your maidservant,” Nicholas said harshly. “You should not be alone up there.”

  Reluctant to admit to him that she had no personal maid servant, Sarah only nodded and turned away toward the hall. Erebus trailed after her.

  “Lock your door, Countess.”

  Sarah glanced back at him. “I will. G-good night, sir.” He said nothing at all, but as she wended her way back upstairs, Sarah had little fear of being hailed before the magistrate, despite his rather pessimistic warnings. It did not occur to her to wonder why she should trust a man whom she had hitherto thought to be censorious, overbearing, and dictatorial. She only knew that she did.

  By the time she had locked herself in her room, she had begun to wonder what would become of her and nearly chuckled at the thought that she was now a dowager, the Dowager Countess of Moreland. The title sounded perfectly stuffy. But the next thought sobered her quickly. She could not stay here. Surely, the new Lord Moreland would expect to take up residence at Ash Park, principal seat of the earls of Moreland since whenever, and even Penny’s presence would not be enough to make living in his house with him an acceptable option. No doubt, he would expect her to return to her aunt and uncle. Sarah plumped down on the window seat, depressed at the very thought.

  Her window was slightly open, and she soon heard the sound of hoofbeats on the drive. That would be Timmy going for the magistrate. She didn’t know the exact time, but it was surely after eleven and would be midnight before they returned. It would be as well if Sir Nicholas—no, she must remember now to think of him as Lord Moreland—could claim that she was asleep by then.

  Accordingly, she undressed herself, grimacing at the sight of the bloodstains near the hem of her skirt. She wondered if Betsy would be clever enough to get them out so that she might wear the flattering gold dress again. But of course she would not be able to wear it anyway, she realized, as her spirits plunged to a new low. She would be expected to mourn her husband’s death for at least a year!

  Snuffing the candles; Sarah crept into bed, feeling very sorry for herself. What had she done to deserve such a fate? It was not fair that, at the tender age of seventeen, she should first be stolen away from the gaieties of London, then forced into marriage with
a man like Darcy Ashton, and finally cast into widowhood with all its attendant restrictions without so much as a thought by anyone for her own wishes. How had it happened?

  A tiny voice deep within whispered that it had happened because she had played foolish games, had willfully disregarded her aunt’s very sensible warnings, and had defied a cardinal rule of respectability by getting into a closed carriage with a gentleman. In other words, the tiny voice insisted, refusing to be stifled, the whole business was Sarah’s own fault.

  Knowing the voice spoke only the truth did nothing to make the accusations more palatable, but she virtuously decided then and there that in future she would heed the advice of those who had her best interests at heart, that she would never again give way to impulse, that she would strictly curb her willfulness. Sarah might have sunk even more deeply into the arms of self-pity, had she not suddenly shocked herself by gripping the pillow and wishing that whoever had murdered her husband had seen fit to do so before that damned assignation in Bond Street!

  Caught up by the wicked thought, she came to her senses and began to think more practically about her situation. What were her options? At first, there seemed to be none, except to return to Berkeley Square and beg forgiveness for her sins. Then she thought that perhaps she might convince Miss Penistone that the two of them should find a cottage somewhere—not London—and set up housekeeping. They would need money, but surely Darcy had made arrangements for an independent—an annuity or something—or perhaps her grandfather’s money would now come to her. These thoughts and others spun around her mind, and though she had been certain she would not sleep a wink, she soon drifted off.