The flight was accomplished with remarkable ease. Harvey, who had not anticipated any carriages being called for before midnight, had led the visiting grooms and coachmen to the Feathers for a drop of Blue Ruin, a refreshment not provided in the Dowager’s establishment, and there were only two sleepy stable lads in attendance when the ladies came into the yard.
‘Capital!’ declared Miss Honeywell briskly. ‘I’ll take the reins, Mr. Derwent will be here in a few minutes.’
Please God he isn’t, she added in a mental aside as she stepped up into the driving seat. The young horses were a little put out at being disturbed at such an hour, but they were docile enough, and she urged them gently out of the gate, calling back as she did so: ‘Tell Mr. Derwent that I am just walking them up and down outside.’
The two lads looked at each other helplessly then, deciding that it was, after all, none of their business and that they had carried out their master’s orders, they returned to their interrupted game of cards.
It was a full ten minutes before Mr. Derwent, nattily attired in buckskins and boots, came into the yard and looked for his curricle. When he was informed that the lady had taken it outside and was awaiting him there he barely repressed a smile. So she had had her way and could say she had handled the vehicle! The smile was more easily repressed when he stepped into-the street and saw no sign of the carriage or of the ladies. He at once concluded that Miss Honeywell had gone a step further and taken a turn round the Square. With folded arms, he leaned against the gatepost, considering the very cutting remarks he would have to make to her upon her return. Quite another ten minutes passed by in this fashion before it occurred to him that either she had ventured further than St James’s Square or something had befallen her.
‘Saddle up Rosabelle!’ he shouted, hastening back into the yard. ‘Where’s Harvey?’
‘‘E—’e’s out with the visiting parties, sir,’ one of the lads volunteered timidly.
Mr. Derwent controlled himself with an effort. ‘When he gets back, if he’s not too foxed, bid him follow me!’
Even as he rode off he wondered where Harvey was supposed to follow, since he himself had no notion of whither he was bound. Once in St James’s Square, however, he stumbled upon a mine of information in the person of a linkman who spoke freely and with admiration of the lady driving a pair of resty bays who had enquired of him the way to Kennington and the Brighton Road. He made no mention of any other vehicle, and as Mr. Derwent asked him no more questions he supplied no more answers.
‘Just point him in the right direction and don’t be telling him what he doesn’t need to know.’ Those had been his instructions, and he had carried them out to the letter. Whistling contentedly, he strolled off to spend the evening’s profits at the Feathers, where, to judge by the sounds issuing forth, a rorytorious gathering was well under way.
Miss Honeywell had by this time reached the Kennington turnpike, which, happily, had been opened for a stage-coach just ahead of her. She drove through without comment, though the gatekeeper’s eyes widened to saucers as he perceived a lone female driving the slap-up vehicle dashing past him. The moon was nearly full, which, though it afforded the best of conditions for travel, also subjected her to observation from passing carriages. One gentleman, driving a very knowing gig, even put his horse about on Brixton Hill and set off in pursuit of her, but was forced to give up the chase as she gave her pair their heads across Streatham Common.
Croydon, she was resolved, was going to be the extent of this particular adventure. The runaways had had a very fair start and she had no doubt that Retribution in the shape of Mr. Derwent was hard upon her heels. However, the attentions of a fatherly ostler at the Greyhound, where she changed horses, gave her courage to continue some way further. Accepting her tale of a parent taken ill near Horley and a groom gone missing, he had a pair of chestnuts put to in a twinkling and taken her instructions for the return of the bays.
‘Now don’t you go for to stop anywhere, miss,’ he adjured her. °Tis a fine clear night and you’ve a likely-lookin’ pair o’ dancers there. Tell the chief daisy-kicker at the Chequers to send ‘em back ‘ere tomorrow without fail.’
Miss Honeywell, after it had been explained to her that the chief daisy-kicker was the head ostler, assented willingly and went on her way. Soon that way became very lonely and she was tempted to wonder just what she was about driving strange horses in a strange country at such an hour. She also began to feel thirsty and, steadying her pair down to a walk, she felt about her in case Mr. Derwent was in the habit of keeping a supply of refreshment to hand. Her probing fingers discovered a low-crowned, wide-brimmed hat, hidden deep under the seat. As so mundane an article could not possibly belong to Mr. Derwent, it was presumably part of Harvey’s off-duty wardrobe. She was about to thrust it back, then changed her mind and drew the chestnuts to a halt while she considered her situation.
If Mr. Derwent had not had word of her passage by now then he never would, so there was no point in advertising her progress further. There was also the question of where she was to spend the rest of the night if he did not come up with her soon, and, while she could not expect to pass herself off as other than a female in daylight, hopefully the lateness of the hour might prohibit too keen a scrutiny of her person.
Snatching the scarf from her disordered locks, she secured them with the blue ribbon she had forgotten to discard before leaving Charles Street and tucked them under the hat, pulling it well down to her ears. Then, wrapping herself closely in her cloak, she resumed her journey at a more leisurely pace, wishing that Mr. Derwent would make haste to overtake her, for she was becoming uncommonly sleepy.
CHAPTER
NINE
If luck had favoured him Mr. Derwent would have caught up with Miss Honeywell before she had left the Greyhound, but he was not halfway to Kennington before his mare went lame. He was walking her home when Harvey, driving Mr. Dacres’ phaeton at breakneck speed, almost ran him down. It was a matter of moments to hand Rosabelle to the groom and take over the phaeton, saying as he did so:
‘Don’t let them know at the house that anything is amiss. The ladies cannot have gone far.’
‘Mr. Dacres may well look for his vehicle, sir,’ Harvey thought fit to point out.
‘Give him my compliments and request him to hold his tongue!’ snapped Mr. Derwent. Then it occurred to him that Lord Wayleigh might well look for his sister, and he delivered a more reasoned message. By the time Harvey got back the alarm would be up in any event, no sense in hiding the facts. But where, in the name of all that was probable, had the ladies gone? He could only presume they had taken leave of their senses, and devoutly wished they had not taken his new curricle as well.
He made all possible speed to Kennington, where he learned that a sporting vehicle, driven by a lady, had passed through some time before. He, strangely, never thought to enquire about a passenger, but pressed on feverishly, his eyes scanning every carriage coming towards him in the full expectation of seeing the miscreants return. The thought of what could happen to two unprotected females on such a highway at night agitated his sensibilities still further.
‘She deserves a sound whipping for this!’ he ground out between his teeth; and again, strangely, he scarcely gave a thought to Sophia.
At the Greyhound he was fortunate enough to encounter the same kindly-intentioned ostler who had attended on Miss Honeywell. A few words with him, and a glance into a stable where his bays expressed their pleasure at seeing their master, confirmed the story.
‘But you say she was alone?’ he asked, puzzled.
‘Aye, that she wur,’ asserted the ostler. ‘Unless t’other one was actin’ baulky.’
Lysander could not think of any reason why Sophia should conceal herself, nor indeed how she should unless she had stepped out of the curricle before it had entered the Greyhound’s yard.
‘‘Er was on ‘er way to ‘Orley,’ volunteered his informant, and related the sad story o
f Miss Honeywell’s mythical parent.
‘That’s all my eye and Dick’s hatband!’ Mr. Derwent’s patience was wearing thin. ‘She’s running away with my—good God, she—!’
The ostler eyed him sympathetically, suspecting an affair of the heart, there being no other reason that he could see for such a picksome lass to be running away from such a likely young fellow. Had he but known it, Mr. Derwent was never less amorously inclined, for it was becoming plain to him that Miss Honeywell and his intended bride were conspiring together to steal his curricle. Urged on by Wayleigh, no doubt! Small wonder that he and she had dealt together so famously at the dinner-table.
Then he was away again, the ostler’s last injunctions sounding in his ears. ‘The Chequers, I told ‘er, sir, an’ to leave the tits there.’
But Miss Honeywell had decided against calling in at that reputable hostelry. She had arrived at the stage where she did not care how soon Mr. Derwent found her, just so long as he did find her. What if the whole plot had been discovered and he had gone in pursuit of Bredon and Lady Sophia? Miss Honeywell was not unduly alarmed by this possibility, but nonetheless, when she discerned a small tavern still with one or two windows alight, she resolved to end her journey there rather than press on to Horley.
The innkeeper granted the cloaked figure no more than a surly nod and the information that there was stabling and to spare for his horses and in the room above for himself. He then slammed the door shut, as if that was an end of the matter.
Miss Honeywell stepped into the stables, wrinkling her nose in distaste at their unkempt appearance. Then the sound of voices from overhead brought her to realise that she was expected to share her bedchamber with several other persons, all of them male and, if the snatch of discussion that came to her ears was anything to go by, most of them in merry pin.
Quickly she mounted again into the curricle and was away before anyone had time to remark upon her strange conduct. This episode induced in her a strong aversion to hostelries in general so that, when she saw a low line of farm buildings and the nearby shimmer of water, she at once turned the curricle down the rough track which led to them.
Here she freed the horses and took them to the water, feeling greatly tempted to join them as they imbibed noisily. So absorbed was she in watching them that she did not observe a figure approaching her at a slow gait, bearing a lantern, until a man’s voice spoke almost in her ear.
‘Good evening, and what might you be doing here at this hour?’
Taken completely aback, she could only stammer incomprehensibly at first. Then, recollecting the part she had set herself to play, she burst into hasty explanation.
‘‘Tis my master’s carriage, sir. He requires it at Brighton in the morning and I—’ She rubbed her eyes convincingly and looked meaningly towards the barn, ‘I be mighty weary, sir.’
‘And over-young, by the sound of it, to be sent alone on such a mission.’
‘Well,’ said Miss Honeywell, elaborating carefully, ‘the groom should have been with me, but he was a—a bit on the go, so it was me or no one, sir.’
‘I see.’ By his voice she judged him to be a gentleman well stricken in years. ‘If you take my advice you’ll go no further tonight, young fellow. You can lodge your horses and vehicle in the barn, and there is hay in the loft to make you a comfortable bed. I wish you a very good night.’ He began to walk away then turned and came back to the vastly relieved Kate. ‘You’d best take the lantern, you’ll have more need of it than I. I only carry it that others may see me while taking my nightly walk. And I suggest you put the bolt across the door once you’re safely in.’
She stammered her thanks and, as she watched him leave her, his stick searching out the ground ahead of him, she was brought to realise that her benefactor was totally blind.
She had got the curricle and pair out of sight in the barn and was slaking her thirst at the little stream that fed the pool when she heard the sound of a vehicle being driven furiously past on the nearby road. The possibility that it might be Mr. Derwent who was proceeding at such an unwise pace sent her back to the barn in haste. Now that she was securely established for what remained of the night, Retribution, she considered, could hold off until the morning.
As there appeared to be no ladder, it was with considerable difficulty and the assistance of an upended wheelbarrow that she contrived to pull herself up into the hay-loft, where, within seconds, she fell soundly asleep.
Mr. Derwent it had been, and when he arrived at the Chequers to be informed that no carriage of the description he gave had called there, his consternation far outreached his annoyance. A moment’s reflection convinced him that it was pointless to continue his quest that night, but, despite every attention and a comfortable bed, sleep eluded him tor the few hours that were left before dawn and he was up again at first light and back on the road without delay, retracing his journey of the previous night. This inevitably led him to the small tavern favoured by a visit from Miss Honeywell, where he met with an indignant innkeeper complaining that some varmint had left without paying his shot. Mr. Derwent was not greatly interested in the innkeeper’s troubles until mention was made of a curricle and a pair of chestnut horses. More detailed questioning revealed that the lad had not spent the night there at all, which appeared to satisfy the landlord but did nothing to soothe the irritation of Mr. Derwent’s nerves.
As he walked slowly back to his carriage, he reflected bitterly that his suspicions were being fully borne out. Somewhere on the road the ladies had handed over his curricle to this youth to drive away while they, no doubt, were by now safely back in London with some carefully concocted tale of having been waylaid and their vehicle stolen.
He came to the instant conclusion that the clue to the matter lay with the unknown youth, and in this he was greatly assisted by the testimony of a yokel who declared that, having risen from his bed in order to attend to a call of nature, he had seen the curricle being driven away in the direction of Horley.
Mr. Derwent supplemented his thanks with a suitable douceur and once again retraced his steps. There were other inns than the Chequers at Horley; no doubt the fellow had lodged at one of those. It was the merest chance that he should have been driving past the farm buildings at the precise moment Miss Honeywell had harnessed up her pair and was leading them out of the barn.
She, quite unaware of having attracted undue attention, went back into the building to ascertain that she had left nothing behind her. The next thing she heard was a clatter of hooves and the sound of a carriage being driven up to the door. Not knowing who this might be, she decided to play least in sight until she could be sure of the new arrival’s intentions. Tucking up her skirts, she was drawing herself up through the trap when Mr. Derwent entered.
One glance had assured him that his curricle, if rather dusty, was in prime condition, and in the dim light that obtained in the barn he could just perceive a pair of nether limbs protruding from the trap to the loft. Here at least was someone on whom he could justifiably vent his wrath, and, snatching up a hazel switch from a bundle propped in the corner, he advanced upon his unsuspecting victim.
‘Got you, my lad!’ said he triumphantly, and proceeded to apply his weapon with hearty goodwill to the target so temptingly offered. ‘It would have served you well did I lay my whip about your—good God!’
A sharp scream had rewarded his efforts, and the object of his attentions ceased its futile attempts to escape his blows and dropped to the floor. The wide-brimmed hat fell off and a luxuriant mass of brown curls cascaded about the shoulders of a flushed and fulminating Miss Honeywell.
‘You—you odious brute! How dare you!’ she choked, and would have flung herself upon him with fists clenched had he not, with great presence of mind, clamped his arms about her, holding her prisoner.
‘I beg you to forgive me! I thought you to be some fellow who had made off with my curricle. I—I trust you have not suffered—you are not—’
Words
failed him. While a few hours previously he had been contemplating such an outcome with equanimity, not to say satisfaction, the realisation of what he had done now filled him with utter dismay.
‘Release me, if you please!’
She was all outraged indignation, and at once he stepped back, looking the very picture of contrition. As it happened there was no cause for him to distress himself unduly, for Miss Honeywell’s cloak was of stout cloth, upon which the hazel switch had made little impression. Her dignity had taken the greatest hurt but her irrepressible sense of the ridiculous was fast restoring her good humour. She was not, however, minded to let him off lightly, and the hauteur of her tone when next she spoke would have done justice to the most top-lofty dowager.
‘I have been taking the utmost care of your wretched vehicle,’ she said frigidly, ‘and to be rewarded thus is the outside of enough.’
In taking this high tone with him she found herself to be at fault. Lysander had all the virtue of being in the right, and the more he thought about it the more he considered himself to have been hardly used. Lack of sleep and weariness served to exacerbate this sense of injustice and remorse was soon swept away by annoyance.
‘Where is Lady Sophia?’ he demanded curtly.
‘I haven’t the least idea,’ returned Miss Honeywell with equal brevity.
‘What d’you mean? You went off together last night.’
‘She—she left me in St James’s Square.’ This, Miss Honeywell told herself, was going to be very difficult. Overbearing, arrogant creature though he might be, she could wish it had not fallen upon her to tell him of his lady’s defection.
‘Are you saying she went back to Charles Street?’
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