"How long did he stay, Laddock?" Robin asked.
"Five minutes, perhaps, Your Grace. Certainly not long enough for me to become alarmed or I would have found some pretext to enter the room and see that things were as they should be."
"Do you know what they discussed?"
"No, Your Grace. Their voices were low and calm so I didn't think it proper to actively eavesdrop."
"Does this mean... Do you think that Sir Winston Rochedale is involved in all this, Your Grace?" Valeria asked, astonished.
"Oh, surely not!" Amaryllis cried. "Such a polished gentleman! So charming and witty! Why, only the other day..."
"Can't abide the man myself!" Lady Easterbury interrupted. "He's so polished, he's too slippery by half! Shocking bad ton!"
"Stay away from him, Ryl." Robin frowned. "He's not what he appears to be and he's devilish dangerous. He'd as soon kill you for ha'penny as a hundred pounds."
Amaryllis set her cup down, a sulky pout puckering her lips. Sir William squeezed her hand in his and took up the conversation. "What shall we do now, Rogue?"
"I'm going after them. If Lucia went willingly with Rochedale, I'll not interfere, but I'll lay you a monkey she did not. She's more terrified of that scoundrel than she's ever been of...of anyone." Robin lowered his eyes guiltily to his empty cup.
"But what about Mountheathe and Concordia, Rogue?" Tracy asked.
"I leave their fates to you and Norworth. I must find my wife before that demon destroys her...if he hasn't already."
Setting down his cup, Amberley bowed to the assembled company and left the room, Laddock in his wake. His packing orders echoed through the house as servants scurried to obey. A quarter of an hour later, his stallion's hooves rang urgently against the cobblestones as he entered London's noon traffic.
After Robin departed, Tracy turned to Valeria. "As soon as I've packed a few things, I'll be leaving to help Norworth find Concordia, Val." He looked into her worried eyes. "We'll find Concordia, my dear. We'll find them both!"
Sir William cleared his throat. "If you need an extra hand, Tracy, I'd be glad to accompany you."
"I need someone here to look after Val, Will. I was hoping you would..."
"My pleasure." Blayne clapped Tracy on the back. "Hadn't you better be going?"
"Yes, you must hurry, Tracy!" Valeria cried, grasping Malkent's hands. "My poor, little Concordia! How dreadful it must be for her!"
"Don't fret, my love!" Malkent brushed a tear from her cheek. "I will get Connie back. If I cannot catch up to Giles and his captive, I shall await them at the Crown and Thistle since I know they intend to go there."
"Oh, do be careful, Tracy. After all, the Crown and Thistle is the inn where..." She paled as hazy memories flashed through her mind of rapiers, sharp and shiny silver; of a floor splattered with blood; of young Lord Robin laying on a couch, ashen and deathly still, an ominous red blot staining his snowy white shirt...
As Tracy started out of the room, Valeria grabbed his hand and brought it to her cheek. "Do not do anything foolish, Tracy," she begged, her love and fear naked in her eyes. "I could not bear to lose you, too."
Chapter 26:
In Which Her Grace Fights Her Way Out of the Frying Pan and Into the Fire
Outside a little village a few hours from London, Giles's leader cast a shoe and he had no choice but to stop at the blacksmith's yard for repairs. Discovering that the blacksmith had gone off to attend a local fair, he sent the boy who tended the forge after him.
Another hour passed before the blacksmith finally arrived. Then the forge had to heat. 'The blasted fool had actually been working on the horse's shoe for only a few minutes!' Giles fumed, kicking savagely at a chicken unwise enough to cross his path.
Concordia, still drugged, slept peacefully in the coach parked in a corner of the yard, , but Giles knew her serenity was deceptive. She had already proven a severe trial to him, clawing, scratching, and biting him every time she awoke. The last time he had dosed her, she had savaged him, her fingernails leaving bloody gashes down the right side of his face. Those scratches, coupled with Miss Twyll's scarlet weals across his nose, gave him such a demonic aspect that the few people he encountered in the village leaped to do his bidding.
Giles crossed the yard to check on Concordia. Peering into his coach, he saw only her black cloak draped over the seat, part of it hanging out of the open, offside door. On the other side of the carriage, he glimpsed shimmering green as she disappeared behind the blacksmith's shed.
With a muttered oath, he ran after her, overtaking her as she crouched, gasping for air, in the tall grass behind the shed. Grabbing her wrist before she realized he was there, he hauled her to her feet. Eyes wide with fury and fear, she jerked against his grip and broke free, fleeing through the overgrown weeds.
Giles chased her, tackling her just as she rounded the far corner of the shed. "You can't escape me, my dear! You might as well resign yourself to the prospect of becoming Lady Mountheathe." He grinned as he pulled her once more to her feet.
Angry tears streamed down her face. "Let me go, sirrah! I despise you! I'll never marry..."
"Enough of your impudence, my girl! You'll do as I say or I'll knock your teeth in!" His crushing grip bruised her wrists. The eyes she had once thought soft as a doe's were brutally hard. Deep scratches and hideous red welts stood out against his pale skin. An ugly, contemptuous sneer played about his mouth.
She squared her shoulders and leveled her gaze chillingly at him. "I will not marry you, my lord,...ever!"
Dragging her back to the carriage as she screeched her protests, he flung her through the open door, then slammed it shut. The blacksmith and the urchin, attracted by the commotion, rushed into the yard.
Giles faced the pair with his back pressed against the coach door while, inside, Concordia screamed and kicked at it. Giles smiled a little self-consciously at his audience. "My sister! She's a bit queer in the attic and her medication has worn off. She's having one of her spells." He turned his head to address the shaking coach in falsely soothing tones. "Everything will be alright, Concordia, my dear. You're safe now and we'll soon have you home. Nanny will bring you a nice cup of warm milk and...Ow! Damnation!" He cursed as one of her kicks jutted the door open just enough to catch his finger. Sucking the tip of his injured finger, he smiled apologetically at the blacksmith who stared at him in round-eyed amazement. "As I was saying... rather unstable in her mind, do you see? Thinks I'm abducting her! Under some delusion that I'm trying to force her to Gretna! Have you ever heard anything so ridiculous?" The blacksmith and the boy laughed uneasily. "The only thing that will calm her is this medicine I have in my pocket, but it's hard to give it to her without her cooperation. I was hoping that perhaps one of you could hold her down, gently, of course, while I administer the dosage."
The screaming and kicking inside the coach had abated during Giles's speech and suddenly he saw a flash of green satin hurtle from the other side of the carriage. At the same moment, the urchin jumped up and down, shouting, "Milor'! Milor'!" and pointed frantically at Concordia as she fled.
"Oh, no, you don't!" Giles rushed after her, the others trailing him. He and the blacksmith leaped upon her, throwing her bodily to the ground while the boy stared into the wild-eyed face of the first mad lady he had ever seen. Concordia kicked and thrashed about, trying to buck off the men who were pinning her to the ground. "Hold her!" Giles grunted to the blacksmith as he pulled the vial from his pocket. Firmly grasping Concordia's chestnut tresses, he poured the foul-tasting stuff down her throat, watching with satisfaction as, despite her struggles to remain awake, the drug dragged her into unwelcome oblivion.
By the time Giles and his hostage were once more on their way, it was late afternoon. Sir Winston Rochedale, with nothing to delay him, had long since passed the narrow lane that led to the blacksmith's village and was several miles ahead of Mountheathe.
***
At approximately the time Giles left the
blacksmith's yard, Robin was inquiring for Sir Winston Rochedale at an inn...the eighth he had visited...some ten miles away.
"A man in his forties... A gentleman... Straw colored, thinning hair or perhaps a wig... Not too tall..." At the landlord's blank look, Robin mentally cursed the nondescript appearance that had always enabled Rochedale to slither through the most nefarious schemes undetected. "Perhaps he had a younger man with him? His companion would be little more than a youth, really. Black hair, blue eyes, as tall as my shoulder, slim, effeminate?"
The innkeeper's eyes lit up. "Yes, I recalls a young gen'leman such as you describe, Your Grace, an' think on, 'e was wiv an older cove! 'E stayed in the coach 'til the older man went into the taproom, then 'e got out. 'E tried to walk, but 'e were that groggy... Drunk-like! 'E staggered across the yard and collapsed. The older cove come a-runnin' out, scoldin' 'is sick nephew, as 'e said 'e was, an' carried 'im back to the carriage. One o' the grooms said as 'ow the young cove were out cold the next time 'e looked through the coach window!"
"Collapsed, do you say?" Icy fear clutched at Robin's heart.
Seeing the stricken look in Amberley's eyes, the innkeeper hastened to add, "The older gent said as 'ow 'is nephew 'ad a touch o' the influenza, Your Grace."
"How long ago were they here?"
"Their coach left about three hours ago, Your Grace."
"Do you know which direction they went?"
"As to that, I couldn't tell you, Your Grace. It gets kin' o' busy 'round 'ere often an' often."
Robin thanked the innkeeper and slid a coin into his hand before trudging into the taproom. He would have liked to travel on, but bitter experience had taught him not to ignore the necessities of life. Both he and his horse needed food and rest. He had no desire to repeat that disastrous episode of a decade ago.
He was rapidly devouring a humble meal and a pint of good brown ale when Tracy and Peter strode into the taproom. They fell immediately to questioning the landlord and a few minutes later, Lynkellyn, having finished his repast, joined the group. "Any luck, gentlemen?"
"Well met, Rogue!" Tracy greeted him in an earnest aside while Norworth pursued his intense conversation with the innkeeper. "We got lost and had to double-back, but we've finally picked up Mountheathe's trail again. I fear he has greatly outdistanced us, though. And you?"
"I've had word of Lucia and Rochedale. They, too, seem far ahead and I'm worried lest he's hurt her. They...the landlord says he saw her collapse in the innyard." Robin's eyes were shadowed. "My stomach churns when I think of what she must be suffering at his hands!"
Ending his interrogation of the proprietor, Peter acknowledged Robin with a distracted nod. "The innkeeper says Mountheathe's carriage left some four hours ago. If we ride now, we might catch up with him tonight," he said to Tracy.
"The horses are spent, my lord, and the landlord says there is nothing to rent in his stables. We must feed the animals and ourselves before we resume the chase. We are all famished," Tracy said.
His face etched with worry, Peter was about to suggest that he go on without Tracy when Robin said, "Bridland will stop to eat, my lord. He was never one to ignore his own comforts."
Unable to deny Robin's logic, Peter followed Tracy to a table. Robin joined them, ordering another pint of ale. While Tracy and Peter made short work of their meal, all the talk was of the road to Scotland and any possible stops along the way.
"Gentlemen, since it seems we are traveling in the same direction," Robin said, "I would like to ride with you, if you have no objection. Three men will be a most persuasive force against our villains when we find them and I would not have either of them escape because of a lack of strength on our part." Malkent and Norworth agreed.
***
Lucia battled upward through the blackest depths of oblivion, the darkness in her mind fading... fading... fading... until she struck pulsing, blinding pain. It flooded her head and heart and soul, dragging her into full agonized awareness. She lay quiet and still, willing the torment to recede, endeavoring to pull herself away from her physical anguish so that she could think clearly.
Eventually the throbbing pain curled itself tightly into one corner of her skull, no longer overwhelming her. She dared to open her eyes onto what she at first thought was the blackness of night, then she realized that Robin's ebony cloak, still fastened at her neck, was covering her face and creating the illusion of darkness. She heard the jingle of a harness, felt the rumble and sway of a moving coach, and knew she was traveling. She continued to lie still, apparently unconscious, as she quelled her rising terror and forced herself to wait calmly for a chance to escape.
Earlier, she had tried to slip away at a posting inn, but all she had received for her trouble was a crack on the head twice as agonizing as Sir Winston's first blow. Yet she was determined to escape or die trying, for she could not abide the thought of being Rochedale's slave.
When she heard a series of rumbles and snorts from the opposite side of the coach, she stiffened a moment, then relaxed. It was a snoring sound. Rochedale must be asleep!
A plan suddenly presented itself to her and she stealthily pulled the cloak from her eyes to peer at her captor. The silver- grey of late twilight danced across Sir Winston's sleeping form, propped against the wall of the carriage. His chest rose with every rumble and fell with every snort.
Lowering the cape, Lucia straightened slowly, wincing as pain streaked through her head. She reached into her secret pocket, pulled out the loaded pistol she had hidden there, cocked it, and aimed it at Rochedale's head. Then she stared at him, this monster, this man that she hated more than death.
Every torture he had ever inflicted upon her crawled into her mind as her finger caressed the trigger. She had never before shot a man, point-blank, while he slept and a part of her flinched, revolted at the cowardice of such an act. Killing a man without giving him so much as a chance to defend himself or make his peace with God seemed unfair, somehow. 'But Gaston is not a man', she reminded herself. 'He is a malevolent, murdering monster who would kill me whether I was a threat to him or not for the pure pleasure of watching me die. My only chance is to kill him first.' Resolved, she took a deep breath and sighted along the barrel of the gun.
The coach lurched and Sir Winston's arm jerked as he slid sideways. He sat up, gasping as he stared into the muzzle of Lucia's pistol. Evening was deepening into night as the adversaries faced each other above the weapon. Sir Winston searched Lucia's eyes in the failing light, looking for weakness, for the slightest waver in her resolve. "It would seem I am check- mated, dear girl," he drawled at last, giving her a pained smile.
Lucia pointed her weapon steadily at his head. "Order the coach to stop, Gaston. I'm getting out."
"Here? In the middle of Epping Forest?"
"I can't imagine any brigand or wild beast more treacherous than you, Gaston! Halt the coach!"
"And if I don't?"
"My pistol is loaded and cocked. I assure you I haven't the slightest qualm about blowing your filthy carcass off the face of the earth."
"Very well. You win this hand, Lucia, but we shall undoubtedly play again." He reached up as if to knock on the roof of the carriage, but his fingers closed on a pistol hidden in a slash in the upholstery above the doorframe.
Lucia saw the dull gleam of his gun barrel as he brought the weapon down to aim and her pistol jerked with a loud blast. His face froze in pain and surprise as an ever-widening circle of crimson spread across his cambric shirt. Clasped in his convulsive grip, his gun exploded a second later as he slumped back against the seat. A ball ripped through Lucia's right shoulder.
The coach lurched to a stop. While Bertie was climbing down, Lucia flung her door open and tumbled out, plunging, willy-nilly, into the concealing shadows of nightfall in Epping Forest.
"'Ere, you! Stop!" Bertie screamed after her as he frantically wrenched open the carriage door on the other side. When he saw Sir Winston bathed in blood, he paled. "She's escapin', sor!
Should I go arter 'er, then?"
"Forget the bitch!" Rochedale gasped. "Just get me to a village! Get me to a physician before...!" But he knew it was already too late. His agony unbearable, he could feel the life pumping out of him with each spurt of blood. He labored over one last tormented breath, then exhaled with an alarming gurgle and was still.
Bertie stared at the corpse of his master, promptly deciding against alerting the constabulary to his situation. Somehow he could not see himself telling a magistrate that he and Sir Winston had abducted a peeress of the realm... a bloody duchess, no less! ...and that she had killed Rochedale in the course of her escape. No! That would earn him the gallows for certain!
Suddenly the solution flashed into his mind. He would reset the scene to make it look as if Sir Winston had been robbed and killed by a highwayman. That would account for almost every circumstance except his own disappearance and, as the authorities could have no idea what he looked like, he should be safe enough. He would take the money Rochedale had been carrying and disappear. As long as he kept silent, no one would ever be the wiser. As for the duchess, assuming she survived Epping Forest, which was unlikely in his opinion, he doubted that she'd be eager to admit to murder, even in self-defense.
Bertie pulled Sir Winston's body out of the coach. Searching the vehicle and the corpse, he took everything that looked even remotely valuable, stuffing his booty into his capacious greatcoat pockets. Then he draped Rochedale's body artfully across the floorboards so that he lay on his back, half in, half out of the carriage.
Unhitching the horses, he brought his whip down hard on the flank of one terrified animal. With a screaming whinny, it galloped away into the forest. He walked the other horse around the carriage several times to disguise his footprints, then mounted and rode away, leaving behind him the tragic, grisly scene of an apparent robbery gone wrong.
The Rogue's Revenge Page 37