by Nicole Byrd
He nodded, though she wondered how much of the message he would remember.
“Oh, what time was it when you opened the gate for her?”
He glanced up at the sun. “Early,” he said.
Marianne took a deep breath. What did she expect? The man likely did not own a clock.
Crossing the road, Marianne plunged down the narrow path and into the woodland. Almost at once, she left behind the bright sunshine and found herself in dappled shade. She smelled the rich musky odor of decaying leaves and the fresh scent of new greenery, blending in the snatches of breeze that forced its way through the forest.
Golden light flickered through heavy layers of leaves, which rustled in the wind, and the shifting patterns of light and shadow made the uneven path deceptive. She wanted to run, to rush ahead, but she did not wish to twist an ankle on an unseen root or a loose rock, so she minded her steps and made the best speed that she could.
Birds called overhead, sometimes flying up in alarm when she rounded a bend or stepped on a twig that cracked too loudly. Squirrels ran up wide trunks at her approach, and she saw the flicker of a fox’s red tail displayed behind it like a banner as the animal darted across the path and out of sight into the trees.
Breathing hard in her haste, Marianne wondered if this whole pursuit was futile. Louisa was likely already at the village, might have already boarded the coach for London. But they would find her, and please God, before anyone who meant her harm.
And then Marianne would tell Louisa exactly what she thought of such a harebrained scheme!
Trying to catch her breath, Marianne hurried on. She was just thinking that surely she must be nearing the village when she turned another crook in the path and saw two figures ahead of her.
Pausing, Marianne hardly trusted her own eyes. Louisa!
And—she felt a cold wave of fear rush through her—a man, his form cloaked in shadow as he stood very near to Louisa. He seemed to grip her hand.
Louisa had risen early in the soft darkness just before sunrise. She donned her clothes without help—she had bidden her young maid to stay in bed this morning and plead toothache. Louisa knew Eva was loyal, but she did not trust the girl to keep silent about the details of her mistress’s plan. Besides, she wasn’t sure both of them could slip out of the house undetected.
Last, Louisa pulled on a lightweight woolen cape, tiptoed down the stairs, and unlatched the front door. She hurried down the driveway, the back of her neck tingling with the fear that someone would look out a window and see her, but she heard no outcry. The air was cool upon her face, and the sunlight grew brighter with every minute.
When she rounded the first bend and was hidden from sight by the tall trees, Louisa stopped to catch her breath. She went to the side of the road and retrieved from behind a tall oak the small carpetbag and hatbox she had packed last night, and which her maid had hidden for her.
Supplied with a change of gown, a nightdress, toothbrush and tooth powder, a hairbrush, and small mirror, Louisa felt ready to face the perils of the world.
The iron gates at the end of the drive were only a minor obstacle. A smile and a polite request to the gatekeeper, and the gates were opened. Thanking him nicely, and asking about the best route to the village, she slipped through.
She looked up and down the road. No sign of anyone. So she crossed the narrow lane and made her way into the woods.
The grass at the edge of the barely noticeable path was wet with dew; the hem of her skirt was soon soaked. But despite the occasional rustle in the underbrush that made her jump, or the startling caw of a crow that caused her heart to beat faster, Louisa felt as if a great weight had been lifted from her heart.
She was not going to marry the marquess; if they had not found her note by now, they would soon. And she was certainly not going to be interred in some out-of-the-way French village.
She paused, hearing the snap of a twig. Someone was coming this way. Holding her breath, she waited for the man to come into view. And then she ran—and threw herself into his arms.
Feeling close to panic, Marianne looked about her for a stone to cast at the male silhouette—anything that might distract him and allow Louisa to escape. But the forest floor seemed ridiculously unlittered, not even a fallen branch with which she might attempt to cudgel the man.
Then Louisa looked up and caught sight of her aunt. Her face brightened.
Marianne waved her hand, trying to signal the girl to remain silent. Louisa’s captor had not yet seen the new arrival, and she did not wish to lose the element of surprise.
But Louisa called out, in a voice that sounded quite normal, “Aunt Marianne, you have come. Are you seeking me?”
Of all the inane questions . . . Marianne hurried forward, then paused a few steps away. She knew this young man, and it was not whom she had expected.
“Sir Lucas!”
The young man reddened in confusion when he saw Marianne. Louisa released his hand so that he could give the new arrival a bow.
“Of course. Are you very angry at me, dearest Aunt?” Louisa asked, her tone cautious. Her cheeks seemed a bit flushed; otherwise, she looked quite serene.
“Angry? I should like to strangle you!” Marianne snapped, then sighed when the girl’s face fell. “No, Louisa, I am only so relieved that you are safe. How could you leave the estate so foolishly—and then to find Sir Lucas here—Louisa, you are not eloping?”
Sir Lucas gaped. “Running off to Scotland? I say, of course not.”
“We are going back to Bath, just as I said,” Louisa assured her aunt. “We do plan to be married later, but suitably. I would not give up a proper wedding to jump over the broomstick—and without a real wedding dress?” She sounded aghast at the thought.
“Proper?” Marianne said, incensed beyond the bounds of temper. “You talk about proper? You’re going off alone with a man—”
“I have hired a village girl to travel with us as Louisa’s maid,” Lucas assured them, sounding almost prim. “Really, we have considered the proprieties.”
“And what about the danger?” Marianne demanded. “Have you considered that?”
Louisa looked stubborn. “I don’t think that it’s so great,” she argued. “Perhaps it was all a series of accidents, after all.”
Marianne drew a deep breath, but the girl rushed ahead.
“I’m sorry, Aunt Marianne, but I don’t wish to go to France just now, and certainly not to some dull little village. It would be just like here, only worse, because my French—despite my governess’s best efforts—is not very good.”
“Louisa, what do you think this will accomplish? Your uncle Charles will be most displeased with your behavior!”
“But that is why I must speak to him in person,” Louisa said, as if it were all self-evident. “I’m sure I can make him forgive me—he must be made to understand that what I really want is to go back to London.”
“If you think I shall take you back with me, after this!” Marianne frowned. “Louisa, this is beyond the pale.”
Louisa looked contrite, and stubborn, at the same time. It was quite an accomplishment, and if Marianne had not been simmering with annoyance, she might have admired it more.
“Lucas says his aunt might very well be willing to extend an invitation to me to visit her in London. I’m really a very good houseguest, Aunt, wouldn’t you say?”
She smiled sweetly, and Marianne found herself truly speechless.
“We must go back to the house,” she told them when she could find her voice again. “The marquess must be told that you are safe.”
But a bird called, and Marianne paused at the sight of a thin gentleman striding jauntily down the path toward them. He carried something long and slim under one arm, draped in some kind of concealing cloth.
Not a gun?
Marianne’s anger faded, replaced once more by apprehension. She motioned to the two young people to retreat.
But the stranger came closer and greeted
them first. “Good morning, is this the right way to the marquess of Gillingham’s estate?”
Marianne stared at him. “May I ask who needs the information?”
“I do,” the man said simply. “I am a connection of his future wife—my name is Alton Crookshank.”
Seventeen
Marianne drew a deep breath. “I cannot— that is—you should not—”
But his expression stern, Crookshank raised one hand in admonition.
“Do not move,” he warned.
She stopped, afraid he would hurt Louisa if she did not obey. The girl had gone pale. Oh, dear God, Marianne thought. John, where are you? Louisa had walked straight into the path of the man who wished her harm.
Young Lucas balled his hands and seemed ready to launch himself at the older man.
But instead of pointing the long object at Louisa, Crookshank, moving with surprising speed, pulled off the cloth and waved the pole high above his head, then dipped it swiftly toward the ground.
Lucas had taken one step, but now he paused, looking confused.
Eyes wide, Marianne watched. Crookshank bent to twist what she now saw was a net so that the small object inside would not escape.
“A very nice Celastrina argiolus,” he said, his tone reverent. “How fortunate I brought my net with me.”
“What are you doing?”
“I am a collector, of course. Only, now I must get this specimen fixed as soon as possible; I do not wish it to damage its wings by fluttering against the strings.”
Marianne wondered if they had all gone mad. What was the man talking about? Then she looked closer and saw that it was a small silvery-blue butterfly imprisoned within the net.
“But what are you doing here?” she demanded.
“Ah, the marquess has kindly offered to fund some of my research. He came to see me in London, you see, but when I asked at his house in town, they told me he had gone into the country. Fortunately, his country seat is listed in one of the books detailing the noble families.”
So much for their retreat from the public eye, Marianne thought.
“If you will excuse me, I must return to the inn now. I shall have to call upon his lordship a little later.”
Holding his specimen carefully, Alton hastened back down the path.
Marianne hurried to Louisa. “You are all right?”
“Of course,” Louisa said, although she reached to lean upon her swain’s arm.
Sir Lucas still stared after the man. “I think he’s light in the head. Chasing about after butterflies?”
Marianne felt such a wave of relief, she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “You are more fortunate than you deserve, Louisa. He could have been the villain we feared.”
Then she stopped, rigid with shock. If it was not Alton who had fired that bullet in the square in London, or who had spooked the horse that had almost run down Louisa in Hyde Park, who had?
She felt cold.
“The gunshot hitting John was not a mistake!” Marianne exclaimed. “You’ve walked calmly through the woods, and no one harassed you. It was John who stopped a bullet. Oh, God, what if we have been wrong all along? Perhaps it is not you, Louisa, who is the target?”
She felt her heart beat fast.
“I am returning to the house,” she told the couple. “Lucas, escort her back, please, instead of running away like errant children. We shall work this all out. Lord Gillingham has no wish for a reluctant fiancée. But I have no time to argue about it just now. I believe the marquess may be the one in danger!”
Then she picked up her skirts and ran.
The distance seemed to take forever to traverse. She had to stop once to catch her breath, then she walked and ran and walked until she approached the estate once more. When at last the house loomed up before her, Marianne rushed inside.
“Has the marquess returned?” she asked a startled housemaid.
“No, ma’am.” The servant looked bewildered.
“We have to find him,” Marianne said. “He may be at risk. Is there a back gate to the wall?”
“Yes, ma’am,” she said. “At the west end of the orchard.”
“Come with me.”
She hurried outside, remembering John’s plan. How far could he have gotten? They ran past the formal garden, past the rose garden at the side of the house, then the kitchen garden, with its neat rows of vegetables. At last, panting, Marianne stopped and pressed her side until she caught her breath. There, just ahead, was the orchard that lay at the back of the grounds. And he was there! John stood next to a tree, his posture somehow too stiff.
And there was someone else.
Marianne felt a chill sweep over her. What she saw left her silent with shock.
Instead of the brawny—and male—assailant she had feared to see, Marianne made out a much more surprising sight.
A young woman stood beneath an apple tree, in a slightly mussed but perfectly respectable brown traveling outfit. She did not appear to be a servant, and her ashen face was unfamiliar. Her expression was twisted, and her eyes—her eyes were big with strain and distress. And in her hand, she held a gun.
“She has a pistol,” Marianne murmured to the maid, whose eyes were also wide. “Go and bring help!”
The servant nodded and set off at a lope. The stranger did not seem to notice; her stare was fixed on John.
John had detected the new arrivals, and he felt his heart sink. He saw Marianne hesitate, just beyond the girl’s range of vision. If the stranger turned her head at all—
Go back, he thought, my love, go back! But Marianne did not withdraw, and in his fear he spoke quickly, trying to hold the young woman’s attention.
“I could not think, at first, why I knew your face,” he told her. “But I met you when I first came to London. You are Sir Silas Ramburt’s granddaughter—I came to pay a call, and you said he was ill.”
She didn’t answer, but he did not wish her to turn her head, so he continued as another memory flashed through his mind. “I’ve seen you since, though I did not remark upon it at the time. You were in the park when—when the horse ran away and almost trampled Miss Crookshank.”
The young woman watched him, as if waiting, and beneath that fixed gaze, John put the pieces together.
“It was you.” John took a step forward, and the girl lifted the old-fashioned dueling pistol a little higher. “You’re the one who startled the horse. You meant it for me. And then when it failed—was this the pistol which fired the ball that pierced my arm?”
She nodded. “I was aiming for your heart.”
He was the focus of her strangely blank stare. It was he who was the target upon which the gun centered, he had always been the target.
To his dismay, Marianne stepped forward. The young woman turned, pointing the gun for an instant in her direction.
Marianne paused a few feet away; she seemed to have realized the answer, too. “It’s not Louisa; it was never Louisa. She has been attacking you, John! But why?”
“Why do you wish me harm?” John asked, keeping his voice controlled. “Why would you wish me dead?”
He did not think she would respond, then something sparked inside the dull-eyed stare, and she spoke with more passion than she had yet shown.
“It’s too good for you, a fast and easy death,” she told him. The gun in her hand trembled, but at least it was pointed, again, toward him and not Marianne.
For a moment he could hear the savagery that was so at odds with the girl’s prim facade. He wondered if she had gone totally insane.
“My grandfather was granted an end much less easy than a quick gunshot . . . he was spared not one moment of agony, not until he drew his last breath two weeks ago. When I buried him, no one was there but me and the vicar and a few of the servants.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” John began. “If you had sent me word—”
“Could you think that I would have wanted you there!” She laughed, and the peal held a quive
r of hysteria.
“I think the strain of your grandfather’s long illness, the responsibility of looking out for him, nursing him, may have affected your judgment,” he suggested, keeping his voice gentle.
“You have no idea what I have seen, or how badly he died. Death should be clean and quick and simple—I was granting you that much. You should have thanked me.”
“But why should he die, at all?” Marianne demanded, her face flushed with anxiety. “This makes no sense.”
“Because he is his father’s son, and I cannot murder a man already dead,” the girl declared, her voice dulled by years of pain and rage.
Once again, his father’s shadow had reached out to touch him, soil him, John thought. He shook his head to brush away the notion.
Miss Ramburt seemed to take the movement as a dispute, because she went on, her voice louder. “I know it was he, my grandfather said so. He told me—well, he talked, perhaps not to me—when he was in his deliriums. He relived the days of debauchery when he followed your father, the infamous marquess, into every gaming hell and tavern and brothel in the direst streets of London. And it was there that he contracted the pox.”
“He had the smallpox, too?” Marianne asked.
The other young woman, who must be much the same age as Louisa but who had faced agonies Louisa had never dreamed of, shook her head. “No, you fool, the pox, the French disease.”
The disease of sad-eyed whores and rakes who shared their beds—syphilis the physicians called it, John thought in a sickening wave of understanding. A fearful disease without a cure, and one which took years to kill as it gradually destroyed the body and the mind. And this girl—only a child when her grandfather had begun to fail—had been there to watch as her last surviving family member died inch by agonizing inch. No wonder her wits had been addled. Out of the years of shared pain, she had apparently plotted a plan of revenge.