The Stolen Princess

by Anne Gracie

  There were three grooms, each leading two or three riderless horses. A dark-haired, swarthy man mounted on a powerful-looking roan horse seemed to be in charge. Was that Harry? she wondered.

  “Good day to you, Captain Renfrew, sir, and where would you have me put these beauties?” he called out in a broad Irish brogue.

  “Good God, it’s Sergeant Delaney!” Gabriel exclaimed. “Through the archway, Delaney,” he called. “You’ll find the stables with no trouble.”

  “I’ll go and see to it, Mr. Gabe,” Barrow said. “What a fine collection of horses! Good day to you, Ethan,” he called to Delaney.

  The dark man’s face split with a grin. “Barrow, is it? I didn’t know you’d be here. Old home week it is to be sure! You’ll take good care of these lovelies, I know.” Delaney dismounted and tossed his reins to one of the grooms. “Right, boys, take ’em round and get ’em settled—Mr. Barrow is in charge. I’ll have a word with the captain here.”

  The herd of young horses, mainly mares, streamed around the side of the house and disappeared through the arch into the courtyard. At the same time Barrow shot back through the kitchen, the shortcut to the courtyard, followed by Nicky and Jim.

  Mr. Ethan Delaney came up the steps, and the two men shook hands. A man of no more than medium height, the Irishman was thickset and powerful. He walked with a roll that was only too familiar to Callie: the walk of a man who’d been practically born on a horse. His tough-looking face and pugilist’s build contrasted oddly with his attire, for though he was in riding dress, he was very neatly and stylishly turned out, with shining black boots, an elegant neck cloth, and a well-cut coat of dark blue superfine.

  “Where did you spring from, Delaney?” Gabriel exclaimed. “The last time I saw you was at Salamanca, bleeding all over your beautiful uniform like a stuck pig.”

  “Your brother ran into me, hanging around Tattersalls.” He shook his head. “I’ve not exactly been havin’ a run o’ luck, sir. No London gentlemen wants to take an ageing Irishman on; old soldiers are a penny a dozen. But your brother seemed to think I might be useful for this new scheme of yours, so he’s appointed me his head trainer.”

  “So I should hope!” Gabe clapped him on the shoulder. “Once they see what a wizard you are with horses, they’ll be trying to steal you from Harry.”

  “Well, mebbe they’ll be findin’ I’m not such an easy man to steal,” Delaney said. “Now, do you want to take a look at those horses, Captain?”

  Gabe glanced at Callie. “Delaney, this is Mrs. Prynne, who, with her son, have been my guests. I’m about to escort Mrs. Prynne to her friend’s house near Lulworth, so I won’t have time to look at the horses until after my return.”

  “Lulworth is it?” Delaney said after they’d exchanged greetings. “Would you mind if I came with you, then? I picked up a whisper of a stallion near Lulworth that might be for sale, and the sooner we get on to it, the better.” To Gabe he added, “A fellow called Blaxland, a devil for the tables he is and havin’ to sell up. The whisper is that he’d sell Thunderbolt for the right sum—”

  “Thunderbolt! The derby winner?”

  Delaney grinned. “Aye, the very one. Harry and I mean to make Blaxland an offer.”

  Gabriel’s brows rose. “Harry and you?”

  The Irishman nodded. “I’ve some savings put by, a nest egg. I’ve been looking for an investment in my future to keep me in my old age.” He shifted awkwardly. “I’d not be just the head trainer but a junior partner—that’s if you’re amenable, sir.” He eyed the younger man uncertainly. There was a difference in station as well as age here, Callie could see.

  Gabriel shrugged. “It’s Harry’s dream and Harry’s scheme, so it’s for Harry to say. But if it were up to me, I’d say welcome, Delaney. A man of your talents is a valuable acquisition. You’re no shirker and an honest man. We’ll work well together.”

  The Irishman’s face lit up. “That’s grand, sir. Harry said you’d not mind, but I wasn’t sure. I mean, you’re a lord’s son, and I’m just a poor bog Irishman—”

  “—who’s a genius with horses,” Gabriel finished. “Now, I’d rather not keep Mrs. Prynne standing about any longer, so—”

  “I am very well able to stand about a little longer,” Callie interposed. “Certainly long enough for Mr. Delaney to refresh himself after his journey. And I can see you’re itching to see those horses he’s brought, so shall we delay my departure for an hour or two?”

  “That’s very considerate of you, ma’am,” Delaney said. “Thank you kindly. I’ll be off and see the mares are settled and then I’ll have a quick wash and brush up. And mebbe a quick cup of tea.” He bowed and hurried off.

  Gabriel took Callie’s gloved hand. “Thank you,” he said in a low voice, and he raised her hand and kissed it. “We depart for Lulworth in an hour then.”

  She blushed as she watched him run down the stairs, two at a time. Even through the glove, she could still feel his kiss.

  “That’s West Lulworth, down there, and over there is Lulworth Cove.” Gabriel gestured with the handle of his whip. They were traveling in his curricle, a sporty vehicle painted in dark gray with cherry-red trimmings and pulled by two gray horses.

  “What a lovely view,” Callie exclaimed, looking at the perfect horseshoe-shaped stretch of water beyond the straggle of thatched cottages that comprised the village. Lulworth Cove shone a dazzling blue in the sunshine. It was dotted with a few small fishing boats and a large, sleek white yacht.

  “Where exactly does your friend live?” Gabriel asked.

  “A house called Rose Cottage. It’s half a mile to the west of the village. There’s a kind of map here.” Callie drew a letter from her reticule and gave it to him.

  Ethan Delaney rode alongside the curricle, on his big, ugly roan horse. It suited him, Callie thought. Mr. Delaney had the look of a man who’d lived a hard life. He had a large nose that had been broken more than once, a number of scars on his face and hands, a chipped tooth, and an ear that appeared to have been chewed at some stage. His hair was thick and dark, beginning to go gray at the temples, and cut brutally short—to hide the fact that it was curly, she suspected. Yet his waistcoat was splendid, if a trifle loud, and his boots gleamed with polish.

  “A grand job you’re doing there, young Nicky,” Delaney called out. “It’s never your first time with the ribbons!” Nicky straightened his back and gave a quick, shy nod of acknowledgment.

  Callie warmed at once to the man. For all his rough looks, Mr. Delaney had a kind heart. Nearly as kind as Gabriel’s.

  Gabriel had decided to pass the journey showing Nicky how to drive a pair, demonstrating and explaining in a quiet, deep voice. Then, on this open stretch of road he’d handed Nicky the reins, showing him how to hold them and letting him get the feel for himself. No stream of advice to make the boy nervous, no anxiety. He’d simply sat back, trusting Nicky with his precious matched grays.

  “Yes, he’s a natural,” Gabriel agreed, perusing the letter. “Handles the ribbons with a nice light touch.”

  Callie saw her son dart a sideways glance at the big man beside him, trying to gauge if the compliment was genuine or not. He almost visibly swelled with pride as he turned his gaze back to the road, frowning with fierce concentration.

  Callie bit her lip. Why could his father not have offered such casual advice and praise? Callie could not remember a single instance when Rupert had told his only son he’d done something well. In his father’s eyes, Nicky could never measure up: he was a cripple, therefore an unworthy heir.

  Ironic that here, among strangers, her son should begin to blossom. Both of these very different men had shown Nicky casual acceptance and the sort of undemonstrative kindness that only men who were very sure of themselves could show a shy, needy boy.

  After a brief perusal of Tibby’s letter, Gabriel took the ribbons back from Nicky and turned up a narrow, rutted roadway. After a few minutes, they came to a rose-covered cottage. It stoo
d at the end of a muddy track, too narrow for the curricle to pass. The front door was not visible, but in a window, a curtain twitched.

  “Someone’s home there,” Gabriel observed.

  “I’ll nip down and ask,” said Ethan Delaney, and rode his horse down the track. The garden was as neat and well-ordered as a picture, Ethan thought. His footsteps crunched as he walked down the cinder path that led around the side to the entrance.

  The front door had a well-polished brass knocker. Ethan rapped a smart tattoo. He was aware of being observed.

  There was a short delay before the door opened a crack. A small, pale, severe-looking woman of about thirty-five stood there, looking…angry?

  “Can I help you?” she said. Her tone was in direct contradiction to her expression. She fixed him with an intense stare and, in a furtive manner, produced a piece of paper from her sleeve and showed it to him.

  Ethan glanced at the paper. It meant nothing to him. “Good day to you, ma’am, I’m wondering if this would be—?”

  She shook her head, staring at him so hard he thought her eyes would pop, and thrust the paper at him. Bemused, he took it. “And what would you like me to do with—”

  To his astonishment, she reached up and pressed firm fingers over his mouth. “I’m sorry,” she said in a clear voice, “but the place you want is on quite the other side of the village. You have wasted a trip. You must turn around and go the other way.” She pushed urgently at him with her hand, glared at him, and rolled her eyes backward, first right and then left.

  Ethan frowned as it dawned on him. She was in trouble. And she was trying to send him away.

  In an easy, carrying voice he said, “Well, drat the fellow and his poor directions. Sorry to have bothered you, ma’am. See, we’re looking to inspect a stallion—Thunderbolt—perhaps you’ve heard of him, ma’am? A champion he was, now owned by Mr. Blaxland, of Rose Bay Farm. I’ll be off now, and thank you for your assistance.” He gave her a nod and ambled back down the path, whistling in his teeth. He heard the door close behind him.

  Mr. Delaney mounted his horse and trotted back to the waiting curricle.

  “It wasn’t Tibby’s house then?” Callie said.

  Ethan shook his head slightly and waved vaguely up ahead. He walked his horse away.

  “Mr. Delaney?” Callie prompted him.

  He did not answer her until they had gone over the hill. Then he stopped and turned to her. After a moment he said, “Your Tibby, now—would she be about thirty-five, little, neat, with brown hair and brown eyes and a way of looking at a man as if he was lower than a worm?”

  “Yes!” she exclaimed. “That’s my dear Tibby exactly. Why are we leaving, then, if she is back there?”

  “Because your dear Tibby is in trouble,” Ethan Delaney told her. “She did her damnedest to get rid of me just now. She gave me this.” He passed her the scrap of paper.

  Callie read the note. “Oh my God. It’s my fault.” She crushed it in nerveless fingers.

  She’d gone quite white, Gabe saw. “What does it say?” he asked, but she was beyond hearing.

  Gently he freed the paper from her fingers and read the note aloud. “Help. I am being held prisoner by evil foreigners. Please inform the authorities. Miss J. Tibthorpe. Rose Cottage.”

  Gabe looked at Callie. “And you know which evil foreigners, don’t you?”

  She shivered and nodded. “Count Anton and his men. He’s my husband’s cousin.” She gave him a bleak look and said in a lowered tone. “He—he wants Nicky dead. Me, too, I suppose.”

  “Well, he won’t succeed,” Gabe told her calmly, “So stop looking so miserable. Now, tell me, how many men is he likely to have?”

  She shook her head helplessly. “I don’t know.”

  “My guess is there are three or four in that cottage,” Ethan said. “Don’t worry, ma’am,” he added. “The captain will have a plan.”

  She turned to Gabriel. “Have you?”

  “I have,” Gabe said with a faint smile. “Don’t worry, we’ll get your friend safely out of there.”

  He spoke with a calm confidence that worried Callie. Count Anton was a ruthless, evil man, and here, where nobody knew him, he didn’t even need to pretend to be otherwise.

  There was an intersection up ahead and Gabriel used the extra space to turn the curricle around. “Nicky, I hope you remember what I taught you because I need you to drive back the way we came—”

  “I can drive,” Callie told him. “I don’t enjoy it but Rupert—my husband—made me learn.”

  “Excellent, in that case, you shall drive. But first, put this on.” He pulled off his driving coat and thrust it at her. “My hat, too. I don’t want the men in the cottage to see you’re a woman.” He reached for her hat and helped her to remove it, then helped her into his coat. It was far too big. He folded the sleeves back for her and buttoned her into it, then placed his hat on her head.

  “I feel ridiculous,” she muttered.

  He smiled. “You look delightful. Tuck this rug over your skirts—good, that’s it. Now, drive the curricle home—to the Grange. Tell Harry what has happened and he’ll take care of everything.”

  “What about Nicky?” she asked. “They will be looking for him, too.” She glanced back at the dog box on the back and asked him a silent question with her eyes.

  He caught her drift. There was a box built onto the back of the curricle to hold hunting dogs. It would certainly hold a small boy and hide him from sight, Gabe thought. An excellent idea.

  Turning to Nicky, he began, “Nicky, I want you to—” He broke off. Nicky’s face was stark, with huge green eyes, a miniature version of his mother. The boy’s lips were trembling but the small, thin body was held ramrod straight, his little chin clenched firm. Nicky was ready to face his fate.

  No power on earth could have made Gabriel tell this brave little boy to hide in a box—a coffin—like a scared rabbit.

  He gave the boy’s mother a warning look and said to the boy, “I want you to take care of your mother.”

  She frowned at him and opened her mouth to argue. He gave his head a tiny shake.

  “Yes, sir!” Nicky replied like a little soldier and Gabe saw her look at her son and bite her lip.

  “Your mother will drive the horses and won’t be able to take her eyes off the road. You are to be her eyes and ears. You will keep a lookout for any strangers on the road.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “If you see anyone, you are to tell her, and if she thinks there is any danger, she will pass the reins to you—you can manage that, I’m certain. You did very well before. I trust you to keep a cool head.”

  Nicky swallowed, but his chest swelled. “Yes, sir.”

  Gabe helped her to climb into the driver’s seat, then from a secret compartment beside the driver’s seat, he drew out two pistols, which he checked.

  Callie’s eyes widened. “But if you shoot at Count Anton’s men, Tibby might—”

  “I’m not doing any shooting. These are for you.”

  “Me? But—”

  “If you are accosted, all you need to do is point the barrel and squeeze the trigger. They’re primed and ready.” He placed them on the seat beside Callie.

  “It doesn’t matter if you don’t hit them. We will hear and know you are in trouble, and we will come.”

  “But I know how—”

  “Keep the lid of this compartment open. They are designed to keep the pistols ready to hand in case of highwaymen or footpads. All you need to do is pass the reins to Nicky and take the pistols out.”

  “But the men in Tibby’s cottage will be armed—”

  “And so am I, ma’am,” Ethan Delaney said and, with a subtle movement, produced a wicked-looking blade, apparently from thin air.

  She looked at Mr. Renfrew in distress. “Don’t worry about us,” he told her. “We’re soldiers, remember?”

  “But you don’t know how many—”

  He gave a faint smile. “I
t doesn’t matter.”

  She looked from one to the other. “But—”

  He patted her on the hand. “Don’t worry about us. Ethan and I can look after ourselves. Just you concentrate on getting yourself and Nicky—and my grays—back to the Grange in one piece. And tell Barrow. We’ll do the rest. Now, let me see you hold the reins.”

  She gave him a troubled look, but wrapped the reins around her hands in the correct manner and he nodded.

  He leaned forward and before she realized what he was doing, he kissed her on the mouth, a hard, brief, possessive kiss. “Take care. Now go.”

  He sprang down and gave the near-side gray a slap on the rump. The horses moved off rapidly. He watched her until she’d turned left and was heading up the hill back toward the Grange, away from the village of West Lulworth. Not a soul followed.

  He waited until the curricle was out of sight, then turned to Ethan. “How many are we talking about?”

  “There’s at least two of them in there with her, mebbe more. I heard several voices.”

  Gabe nodded. “Good. Then here’s the plan,” he said and explained to the Irishman exactly what he wanted him to do.

  Ethan whistled. “Audacious, sir, not to mention risky to your good self.”

  Gabe grimaced. “Just do as I tell you and I’ll worry about my good self.” He grinned. “To tell you the truth, I’m rather looking forward to it.”

  “Bored with the peaceful life, eh, sir?”

  “A little,” he admitted. Before she arrived.

  Ethan grinned. “Then let’s get on with it.”

  Gabe climbed over the dry stone wall and stealthily circled around behind the cottage. He signaled to Ethan, who trotted back down the road, whistling loudly, then turned in again down Tibby’s lane way. He looped the reins lightly around a bush and strode noisily down the cinder path, still whistling and rapped on the door.

  After a short murmured debate, the door opened a crack and Tibby looked out. When she saw Ethan, her eyes widened.

  He grinned at her and gave her a wink.