by Jane Toombs
Until this morning he had been impatient to return to town but now, with the sudden and unexpected departure of Lord Devon followed by the rebuff obviously suffered by Gavin Spencer, his mood had abruptly changed from one of weary sufferance to one of keen anticipation. His blood raced with the excitement of the hunt, the expectation of first outfoxing and then ensnaring his prey, of making her his to do with as he pleased.
Closing his eyes, he pictured her as he had seen her the night before at the masquerade, her black hair short and curled, the exquisite curves of her body invitingly revealed by the tight-fitting leggings and the belted tunic of her Robin Hood costume, her flashing dark eyes and slightly parted lips hinting of a long suppressed passion seething just beneath the placid surface of her facade of virginal innocence.
Justine Riggs was naïve, while at the same time she was a woman of daring, a tantalizing and dangerous combination. Tantalizing to him; dangerous for her. Lord Alton had first realized how bold she was when he became aware of her tryst with Devon beneath the weeping willow. Recognizing the two horses beside the stream, he knew at once that the two of them had ridden to the meadow to be alone together. Pretending to see nothing, he had ridden on, but now he intended to make good use of his knowledge.
Smiling to himself, he imagined her as his prisoner. Helpless. Completely in his power. His to do with as he wished. He had pictured her this way many times during the last few weeks, seeing her with her hands tied behind her, an imploring look on her lovely face as she pleaded with him. God, how this vision of her helplessness excited him.
He imagined reaching to her and unbuttoning her tunic to reveal the rise of her breasts and the shadowed valley between them. She cringed away from him, obviously afraid, nay, terrorized, and yet when he stroked the bare flesh of her shoulder he saw something besides fear in her eyes, he recognized the vivid spark of hidden desire.
Enough, he told himself, opening his eyes and shaking his head. He was not a man who was satisfied by mere imaginings. He wanted Justine Riggs and he would have her. This very day.
Lord Alton rose and walked to the window where he thrust aside the draperies, squinting in the sudden glare of the noonday sun. Crossing the room to the desk, he stood rummaging through a thick and disordered pile of papers until he unearthed the two-month-old letter from Devon.
Although politely phrased, the brief note was a dunning demand for monies owed by Lord Alton in the sum of three hundred and fifty guineas. The gambling debt, only one of many, was so ancient that Alton could no longer recall the occasion of his loss. He chortled with malicious glee. How fortunate, he told himself, that his procrastination in satisfying the debt—he would, of course, since he was a gentleman, deliver the paltry sum but only when it pleased him to do so—had resulted in his friend Devon taking pen in hand to request payment.
Sitting at the desk, Alton placed Devon's letter to one side before opening a drawer and removing several blank sheets of paper. Using a quill, he penned a brief note, scowling as he read and then reread it. Following prolonged thought, he proceeded to cross out words and add others until he was moderately pleased with the result.
My dear Justine, I acted the fool. Will you ever forgive me? I must see you. Alone. Tonight at ten beneath the willow. Tell no one.
Devon
After once more reading what he had written, he was still not satisfied. Should he address her as “My dear Justine?” Perhaps simply “Dearest” without her name? No, her name must appear on the note, but he settled on “My dearest Justine” as sounding appropriately intimate. The signature, “Devon,” seemed wrong; he should use just the initial, Q. Yes, Q struck the right note. Should he warn her his life would not be worth living if she failed to come to him? Or hint he was in deadly danger? No, those touches would be much too melodramatic.
He rewrote the message with the changes. The result was imperfect, he admitted, but it was the best he could do and would be good enough. Taking still another sheet of paper, he wrote another note, using the same wording except for one small but vital alteration. This note he wrote several times, imitating Devon's flowing handwriting.
When he was finally satisfied, Alton folded and sealed both of the messages. As soon as the wax had hardened, he broke one of the seals and unfolded the letter, wrinkling it slightly. He placed three guineas in a neat pile on the desk beside the two letters, frowned and added two more.
His preparations were complete. “Now let the hunt begin,” he murmured to himself.
* * * *
Later that afternoon, Justine was strolling along a path in one of the Manor's neglected gardens when she heard Daphne calling her name. Turning, she waited until the other woman hurried to join her.
"Have you heard the news?” Daphne asked, evidently hoping she had not. “The news concerning Lord Devon?"
"Oh, yes.” Justine, having been told of Quentin's departure several hours before, was able to keep any hint of her disappointment from her voice. “He left for town this morning. Everyone seemed surprised he had stayed at the Manor as long as he did."
Daphne shook her head. “No, no, not that news. Only seconds ago I learned that after leaving the Manor with the announced intention of driving to London, Lord Devon actually drove no further than Tyburn. At this very moment he is lodging at the Unicorn Inn in the village.” She raised her eyebrows. “Have you ever heard of such strange behavior, making everyone believe he was on his way to town and then going only a few miles? We all wonder what his motives might be."
"Are you certain he went only as far as Tyburn?” Justine asked. Was it possible Quentin changed his mind about going to London because of her?
Daphne raised both hands as though to ask how certain she was expected to be. “If you mean, did I see Lord Devon in Tyburn myself, no, I did not, but one of the Kinsdale stableboys not only saw him arrive at the inn, but was told by the hostler that he had engaged a room there. A most peculiar business all around."
What could Quentin be about? Justine had no ready answer and was still pondering his possible reasons for changing his mind when, on leaving the drawing room after taking tea later in the afternoon, she heard her name called and saw Hodgkins approaching carrying his silver tray. Hodgkins, she noticed, was no longer the slouching servant she had encountered when she arrived at the Manor. Some days before she had glimpsed him walking with a wine glass on his head as Rodgers stood nearby nodding his approval. Now, erect and well-groomed, he seemed every inch a butler.
"A letter for you, miss,” Hodgkins explained when she gave him a puzzled look.
Taking the letter from his tray, she turned away from the butler before tearing open the seal. “My dearest Justine,” she read, “I acted the fool. Will you ever forgive me? I must see you. Alone. Tonight at ten beneath the willow. Tell no one.” The message was signed, “Q."
Her breath caught. Although she had never seen his handwriting, she knew the message must be from Quentin for only he knew about their encounter beneath the willow. So he had stayed in Tyburn because of her. Was he in trouble of some kind? In danger? Did he need her help?
Turning to question Hodgkins, she found him lingering a few paces away running his white-gloved forefinger along the ridge at the top of a door lintel.
"This letter,” she said, sensing Hodgkins had tarried because he expected her to question him. “Do you know who brought the letter here?"
"A lad from Tyburn,” he told her. “Said a gentleman at the inn gave him a shilling to deliver it."
She nodded and, thanking him, turned away.
Her first impulse was to go to the willow at ten, to go to Quentin. Why, though, did he want her to meet him not only in secret but in the dark of the night? There was a wrongness about his request that troubled her since he was well aware that if she were discovered with him their being together would make a spicy broth of scandal certain to be savored by the gossips of the ton.
On the other hand, she longed to see him again, to have his comfortin
g arms enfold her, to feel his lips warm on hers. She tingled at the thought. But how frightfully foolish it would be to meet Quentin knowing that seeing him now would only make their parting, when it came as come it inevitably must, unendurably painful.
She would not go.
Her decision made, she sat through a lengthy dinner even though her appetite had deserted her. After the final course, Gerard proposed an evening of whist, a suggestion applauded by his guests. When they prepared to play, however, Gerard made an annoying discovery.
"Unfortunately,” he announced to one and all, “we find ourselves with thirteen players."
Without conscious thought, Justine said, “I feel slightly out of sorts tonight, so I believe I should go to bed early rather than play."
"You do look feverish,” Prudence concurred, “and I noticed you ate hardly anything at all at dinner. Not enough to keep a bird alive."
Excusing herself, Justine hurried up the stairs. As soon as she closed the door of her bed chamber behind her, she changed into her Robin Hood costume. There was no doubt in her mind that being the thirteenth player at whist had been an omen telling her to do as Quentin requested.
She crept down the rear stairs and, she was almost certain, slipped from the house without being seen. Although the first stars were beginning to appear in the clear sky, the last rose-tinted light of the dying day lingered in the west. After hurrying through the kitchen garden, she turned away from the Manor, deciding to walk the mile or more to the willow, realizing that asking for a horse from the stable would only call attention to herself.
As she walked along the lane in the deepening dusk, she listened to the sounds of the night, the evening songs of the birds, the croaking of frogs from a nearby pond and the barking of dogs in the Manor kennel. Hearing a rumbling ahead of her, she peered into the gloom and saw the outline of an approaching wagon. Rather than risk being seen and perhaps recognized, she hastily left the lane, climbed into and out of a ditch, and hid behind a hedge, anxiously watching through the branches as the wagon carrying two farm laborers returning from the fields, both hunched on the raised seat, drove past her.
Detesting the necessity to hide, ashamed to be skulking about in the dark like a footpad, Justine debated whether she should return to the Manor. No, she had made up her mind, she would go to Quentin. He was depending on her. He would never forgive her if she failed him. She would never forgive herself.
She returned to the lane and walked on, finally seeing the dark silhouette of the willow looming against the faint glow on the horizon. Leaving the lane, she crossed the meadow, cautiously approaching the tree, all the while listening for the sound of Quentin's tethered horse, but hearing nothing except the murmur of the stream.
When her groping hands touched the trailing branches of the willow she hesitated, warning herself that this was her last chance to turn back. What would happen when, in a few minutes, she would be with Quentin? Recalling the other time they had met here, she sighed with pleasure at the memory of his embrace. The die, she realized, had been cast then and so, come what may, it was already too late for her to change her mind. Tingling with a fear laced with anticipation, she used both hands to spread aside the hanging fronds and stepped into the deeper darkness beneath the canopy of the tree.
"Quentin?” she called softly.
There was no answer.
"Quentin?” she called again, louder than before.
A man's form separated itself from the enshrouding shadows and walked slowly toward her. Quentin? Hands gripped her arms, pulling her forward and, for an instant, she leaned to him, ready to surrender herself to his embrace, but almost at once she felt an urgent sense of wrongness and instinctively drew back.
"Quentin?” Now her voice was sharp and wary.
"No, not Quentin, this is Alton."
Dumbfounded and startled, she gasped. “Let me go,” she demanded. After the briefest hesitation, he released her and she stepped away from him. “Where is Quentin?” she wanted to know.
"To the best of my knowledge,” Lord Alton said in his nasal drawl, “our good friend Quentin is in London. At least I was told he was bound for town when he left the Manor this morning."
She fought back panic. Shaking her head, not wanting to believe him, she said, “The stableboy saw him at the inn in Tyburn."
"I paid the boy to bring that bit of false information to the Manor."
"His letter, Quentin's letter—"
Justine's breath caught in her throat as she realized the truth. Lord Alton had written the letter and signed it with Quentin's initial. But how had he known about the willow? Of course, Alton must have seen her with Quentin on the day he rode past the meadow.
She turned to flee.
"Wait.” Alton's voice rang as cold and sharp as a steel blade. “Before you try to run, hear me out. You may change your mind about leaving."
While she hesitated, he said, “I can easily overtake you if you dash off, but I dislike violence, especially when it's really so unnecessary."
Justine shivered. What did he want with her? Could he actually be threatening to force her? She had never liked Alton, had from the first felt an unease in his presence and had distrusted him ever since and now her worst fears were being borne out. Was he merely trying to frighten her?
Would he dare try to do more?
"You must concede, my dear,” he told her, “that in the eyes of the world you came here to meet me, absolutely alone and in the dark of night."
"You tricked me into coming."
"Tricked you? How did I trick you?” From the tone of his voice, she could sense his self-satisfied smile. “I gave a boy in Tyburn a message to deliver to the Manor, a message asking you to meet me here. You came freely, even eagerly."
"You made me think the letter came from Lord Devon.” Her distaste for him tinged her voice with acid.
"If you decide to behave in an unreasonable manner, the boy will swear that I, not Lord Devon, gave him a shilling to deliver the message to you at the Manor, which will be no more than the truth. Not only will the boy so testify, a letter will be discovered in your chambers asking you to meet me here, a letter in my handwriting and signed by myself, not by Devon. Your denials will be seen as nothing more than the desperate pleadings of a guilty young woman."
Justine backed away from him, shaking her head.
He said, “I have little liking for rustic surroundings such as these. Perhaps if we could—"
Justine spun around and ran. Alton sprang after her, his hand grasping her arm and swinging her toward him. She clawed at him, her nails raking the side of his face, and she heard his sharp intake of breath. Twisting out of his grasp, she ran blindly, ran as hard as she could only to trip and sprawl face down on the ground.
She turned on her side and looked up. Though she couldn't see Alton in the darkness, she heard his footsteps coming nearer and nearer, then stopping and retreating. Peering around her, she what appeared to be a column darker than the surrounding gloom. The trunk of the willow. Cautiously, her body aching from her fall, she crawled to the tree and crouched behind it, afraid that if she ran Alton would hear her steps and find her.
She thought she heard the rustle of fronds. Holding her breath, she listened, but the sound wasn't repeated. Did Alton think she had left the shelter of the tree, or was he patiently poised only a few feet away listening for some sound that would reveal her hiding place? Vainly trying to quell the pounding of her heart, she waited breathlessly, hoping against hope he would decide she had escaped into the meadow.
Each passing minute buoyed her hopes, easing the cold grip of fear. He had given up, she told herself, he had left. But she heard no sound of retreating hoofbeats, only the rustle of the night breeze in the branches around her and the whisper of the nearby brook.
A light appeared and disappeared. She blinked. Had she really seen a light? Yes, there it was again, the bobbing of a light seeming to flash on and off through the screen of the willow branches. A
lton had left only to return with a lanthorn. When she saw him part the branches, she drew back behind the tree and, as he paced to and fro, she frantically tried to keep in the shadow of the willow's trunk.
The light was lowered and stopped moving as though he had placed the lanthorn on the ground. Alton's grotesque shadow appeared on the pale fronds behind her. Her breath caught. Suddenly Alton loomed over her, smiling in triumph. She whirled away from him, but he was on her at once, bearing her to the ground, tearing at her clothes.
She screamed.
"Enough!"
Alton froze. She looked past him at the figure of a man, his face in the shadows. Who was he?
"On your feet.” The newcomer's long-barreled pistol pointed menacingly at Alton.
Alton rolled away from her and slowly pushed himself up.
"Are you all right?” When the armed man turned slightly to look down at her, the light struck one side of his face. Only then did she recognize him. Rodgers!
Justine nodded uncertainly at him. Rising, she edged away from Alton.
"Have you gone mad?” Alton asked, advancing slowly on Rodgers.
"Take one more step,” Rodgers warned, the pistol steady in his hand, “and I fire.” His voice was calm but deadly. Alton stopped.
"Listen to me,” Rodgers told him, “and listen well as though your life depended on it because it does. If you come near Miss Riggs ever again, I shall seek you out and I shall kill you. In cold blood, without warning, without preamble and without a sporting chance of any sort. Being only a humble servant, my lord, I will have no compunction whatsoever in killing you, no need to follow a gentleman's code of honor.” He paused. “Do you understand?"
For several minutes, Lord Alton said nothing. Finally he nodded. “I understand,” he muttered.
"Capital.” Rodgers motioned with his pistol. “You will now depart, my lord, and that will be the end of this little misunderstanding. Unless—” He allowed the threat to remain unfinished.
Alton turned on his heel and pushed through the willow fronds. A few minutes later Justine heard the sound of hoofbeats fading into the distance.