The Earl's Captive

by Lorna Read

  There was only one thing she could do and that was to confide in Martha and Matthew and enlist their aid.

  As soon as Philip had dismissed her, she made her way to the kitchens where she knew she would find Martha helping the doddery old cook. As soon as she started to explain her problem to the red-faced housemaid, whose brow dripped with perspiration as she stirred a bubbling pot which hung over the roaring fire, Martha dismissed her with a wave of her hand.

  “No use talking to me o' these things. Matthew's the one. He's out yonder somewhere, sweeping the path or summat. He'll know what you want.”

  Indeed, to her surprise, Matthew knew exactly what Lucy needed – and why. It was obvious that Philip kept little from Adam, and Adam kept nothing from his parents, no matter how secret. Lucy found herself wondering if, trustworthy though she knew them to be and much as she liked them, they perhaps knew more than was good for them to know.

  But who was she to suggest that a son should not confide in his own parents? In any case, she felt she trusted Martha and Matthew more than she did Adam. It was a wonder he didn't harbour a deep-seated grudge against Philip for forcing him to work at Rokeby Hall. And yet, surely he could have taken a job elsewhere? He did not have to work at the Hall. Maybe he stayed there purely out of loyalty to Philip, in order to aid him with his plans. After all, if Philip succeeded, and wealth and property were to be his once more, would not Adam benefit also?

  Matthew informed Lucy that she should leave it to him. He even offered to mix up the paste for her, but a slight niggle of distrust prompted her to thank him but inform him that just obtaining the ingredients would be sufficient. She would do the rest.

  She felt certain she could remember Smithy's method, though she hoped Matthew would not think that her father, that most reputable of horse dealers, dabbled in such underhand and illegal practices.

  She saw Philip only briefly the following day as he was busy making arrangements for his father's burial, which was to take place the following Monday. Messages had to be sent out to relatives and old family friends and the Manor was to expect several sombre and sympathetic visitors. He still found time, however, to run through the next day's arrangements in a manner which made her feel rather like a child having a lesson drummed into its skull by an over-strict tutor.

  She felt pathetically grateful to him for smiling at her in a kind fashion once she had repeated his instructions, then hated herself for feeling that way. What had happened to her pride? Had it totally deserted her? She despaired of herself. She might want him, but she would never win him. Why could her benumbed brain not understand this fact?

  The moment her next ordeal was over, she would leave and at last be free of the ill-luck which had dogged her ever since she had set foot in the Manor.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Galloping at breakneck speed over the moorland path in the dangerous dimness of dusk was a joy indeed. A wild notion came into Lucy's head simply to keep on riding, right past Rokeby Hall and out to whatever lay beyond – new surroundings and people who knew neither her nor her history and didn't care, being content to accept her as she was.

  Yet, attractive as the idea was, it would mean never seeing Philip again, and that she could not bear. Better to help him carry out his plan and hope that maybe, just maybe, something would make him soften his attitude towards her, bring back that warm light that sometimes crept into his eyes when he looked at her.

  She still harboured a niggling fear that, if she disobeyed him, she might find herself accused of his father's murder. In any case, she had no desire to run from him. She was mad with desire for him, and the further her horse travelled from Darwell Manor, the more she found herself longing to see Philip speeding after her.

  But no figure approached her in the twilight. There was nothing but trees, rocks and gathering gloom. Ahead, in a hollow between two rocky ridges, she could see the clump of dark evergreens that marked the front boundary of Rokeby Hall.

  Lucy kept to her instructions and slowly walked her horse past the line of sturdy oaks that separated the formal gardens from the surrounding land. The gate leading into the stable yard was unlocked, as Philip had promised. The messenger from Adam had reported that, as Philip had suspected, the greys were to be used that night, four magnificent, powerful animals which, fortunately, shared adjacent stabling.

  Lucy slid the bolt on the door of the first stall and the startled animal whickered softly in surprise as she stood beside it, running an expert hand down its flank before picking up a hoof and daubing it liberally with her foul-smelling ointment. The well-trained gelding made no fuss as Lucy treated each hoof in turn. Then, giving its long, dappled nose a stroke, she vacated its stable and entered the next.

  The second horse, however, was of a decidedly different temperament. It snorted and shied at the presence of a stranger and Lucy could not corner it and as it skittered from one end of the loosebox to the other. She let herself out just in time, before the nervous beast took a nip out of her shoulder.

  The third carriage horse, however, allowed Lucy to do what she wished and rewarded her with a slimy lick from its gigantic tongue which left a line of equine spittle right down her cheek.

  Wiping it with her sleeve, she was just stealing off to the shadow of the trees where she had left Philip's bay tethered to a branch, when she heard a door opening and the sound of men's voices spilling out in the clear night air. One of them was unmistakably Adam's.

  Due to the skittishness of the second horse, her task had taken several minutes longer than she had intended. How was she to get away unseen, now that the stable staff were milling around the yard, throwing open the gates of the coach-house, rushing around with newly polished saddlery?

  She was worried that the pungent smell of the unguent might still be lingering inside the loose-boxes. Nobody with a sharp nose could fail to wonder at the odour and she prayed that the strong smell of the animals and their droppings would cover up the alien traces.

  At last came a moment when no one was in sight. Lucy crept out of the stable yard, swung herself into the saddle and urged her horse into the shadow of the massive, leafless trees.

  Suddenly, her mount shied, snorting in terror as a shadow detached itself from the gloom and came to an arm-waving halt before her. Lucy almost lost her seat and had to struggle for control of the frightened animal. As soon as she had calmed it down with a pat and a soothing word, she saw who it was who had had caused the trouble. Adam.

  “I kept the men talking as long as I could. You should be half a mile away by now. What happened?” he inquired.

  She explained and when she had finished, he took hold of her horse's bridle, placed a hand on her knee in far too familiar a fashion, and whispered in a low, urgent voice, “Philip should never have sent a girl on an errand of this nature, especially you. You know that I care for you, and about what happens to you. How did he persuade you to come over to the Hall and put yourself in danger like this? What is his hold over you?”

  When Lucy refused to answer, not wishing to incriminate either herself or Philip in any way, he continued, in the same tense, hurried whisper, “No matter. I can see that you are prepared to do anything for him. Though what Philip has done to deserve …”

  His voice tailed off. “Hasten now,” he said. Stepping back, he gave her mount a hefty slap on the rump which sent it charging off in the direction of the fields beyond the trees.

  Lucy hung on grimly, cursing Adam for what seemed an act of spite and jealousy. By the time she was safely out of sight of Rokeby Hall and had nothing but open moor between herself and Darwell Manor, she had come to several more conclusions about Adam Redhead and she did not like their implications in the slightest.

  She could understand one man being jealous of another over a woman, but here there seemed to be more than jealousy involved. Far from acting the subservient slave to Philip, Adam was not only criticizing his former master, but displaying signs of positive enmity which boded ill for any
future plans of Philip's in which Adam was involved.

  Philip must be blind to trust him, she thought. There had been something in Adam's voice as he spoke the words, “What is his hold over you?” which implied the possibility of Philip's having a hold of some kind over Adam, too. There was the way he had stressed the word you, so slightly that it took a sharp pair of ears like hers to pick up the emphasis.

  Or was he merely referring to the love affair which he imagined the two of them to be having? Perhaps the phrase had been mere sarcasm, and by Philip's “hold” over her, he meant a handsome face and a lusty pair of thighs, and was sick with envy at the thought.

  If only he knew the truth! Yet if he did, he would be bound to try to pay court to her and she would be bound to reject his advances once again. Better to leave him thinking that Philip and she were in love. It was at least half true.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Matthew's weather prediction had been right. Philip took up his vantage point on a hill overlooking the moorland road in a chilly swirl of mist that grew thicker by the second. It was too dark to check the time by his father's heavy gold pocket watch but he guessed it must be somewhere in the region of a quarter past seven. Any time within the next half hour, he might hear the Hardcastles' coach come rumbling up the steep track.

  His horse shifted restlessly beneath him, seeking an escape from the damp, bitter wind, and Philip's hands were numb on the reins by the time his lonely vigil was rewarded by the sound of an approaching carriage. He spied the yellow flare of the lamps, illuminating the hindquarters of the horses … But something was wrong.

  Instead of the four greys he had been led to believe would pull the carriage that night, there were four chestnuts instead. What had gone wrong with his plan? The silly bitch must have mixed the ointment wrongly, causing the greys to fall lame before leaving the stables – or maybe she hadn't carried out his plan at all!

  A rich stream of curses left Philip's lips. He could not believe that such a simple strategy could possibly have failed. Here were the Hardcastles, a mere quarter of a mile away, with his jewels, boxed up inside the coach, so close, so nearly within his grasp and yet so impossible to retrieve. When would he get another opportunity as perfect as this one?

  He shrank back, merging into the shadows of a clump of trees as the Hardcastle's coach drew level with him, fifteen feet below. The driver's whip lashed out and curled round the flank of one of the rear horses which put on a sudden spurt so that, for a moment, the carriage jerked diagonally across the path before resuming its rhythmic forward trundle up the stony track. A streamer of mist curled around the hillside and blanketed the road. It was impossible for Philip's eyes to penetrate the thick haze, but he knew that, by the time it cleared, the Hardcastles would be out of sight around the next hill.

  He patted his horse's neck and gave the impatient animal the signal to walk. Horse and rider picked their way carefully over the rocky ground and had just descended onto the level surface of the road when a tremendous crash and a barrage of shouts and curses, mingled with piercing female screams, caused them to stop in their tracks. The ears of Philip's mount flickered to and fro and Philip strained to catch the sounds through the darkness and work out their cause.

  Quickly, he guided his horse off the road again and plunged up the hillside. The veil of mist shredded and parted before him and there, stationary, a short way ahead of him, was the Hardcastle's carriage, two puzzled coachmen arguing over the prone form of one of the two leading chestnuts, which was sprawled on its belly.

  It was unable to rise, due to the fact that it had steered too close to a tree in the fog and a branch had snagged the traces, causing the horse to twist and fall and snapping the harness into the bargain. The shocked gelding's eyes were rolling in a terrifying manner and its flanks were shuddering with the effort of trying to untangle itself. Maybe it had even broken a leg! Philip's prayers had been answered after all.

  Without a moment's consideration of whether or not Hardcastle or his attendants might be armed, he drew his pistol from his belt and, with a shout of “Ho, there!” he urged his horse towards them at a fast canter.

  Harriet Hardcastle pressed her hand to her chest and seemed about to faint at the sight of the armed, masked man who was wrenching open the carriage door. The colour drained out of George Hardcastle's ruddy face as he splutteringly protested that they were carrying no money or valuables.

  Philip gestured with the barrel of the pistol towards the necklaces and earrings that the two women were wearing. Harriet snatched off her earrings, lacerating one ear lobe in her haste to hand the delicate amethysts to the dangerous-looking villain who was standing there in such menacing silence. Then, without any urging, she handed over the ruby necklace and rings.

  Without a word, Philip pocketed the jewels, then turned to Rachel, who was regarding him with a look of icy, imperious disdain. He moved the muzzle of the pistol close to her neck, but still she refused to hand over the gems with which she had proposed to dazzle Lord Emmett that evening to a common highwayman. Philip was forced to speak to her.

  “Unfasten those trinkets you're wearing and hand them over quickly, or I shall shoot!”

  He spoke in a rough, grating tone, to disguise his voice as much as possible. Rachel's eyes were fixed on him in such a penetrating look that he felt she was stripping him of his mask.

  “Do you want me to kill you, pretty lady?” Philip inquired harshly, jabbing the end of the pistol barrel into her neck, just below the ear, in which dangled a flashing emerald surrounded by small diamonds, the same jewels his mother wore in the portrait which hung in Darwell Manor.

  “Do as he says, daughter. This blackguard will only shoot you if you don't,” ordered Hardcastle, who was crouching in cowardly fashion in the far corner of the carriage's interior, ignoring the moans of his wife who was slumped next to him, a lavender-scented lace handkerchief held to her mouth.

  “Then shoot me, scoundrel,” invited Rachel, with cool insolence.

  His pistol still fixed against her neck, Philip raised his left hand and brought the full force of its leather-gloved power down onto Rachel's right cheek. She screamed and clapped her hand over the fiery marks that scored scarlet streaks across her sallow skin.

  With one tug, Philip wrenched the necklace from her neck, stuffed it into his pocket to join the rest of his booty, then plucked each earring in turn from her ears. Rachel was wearing white kid gloves, beneath which Philip could detect the bulging outlines of the jewels she wore on her fingers.

  “Your rings, too,” he ordered, pressing the gun still harder against her neck. “It would give me great pleasure to shoot you. All of you,” he added, cocking the trigger with a click which made Harriet squeal and press her hands over her eyes.

  Philip's slap had shaken Rachel's nerve and she quickly drew off her gloves and tugged the rings from her square, mannish fingers. She handed them to him, pouring them in a jingling heap into the palm of his hand. Scarcely letting his gaze leave Hardcastle and Rachel for an instant, he selected one, a large emerald on a gold band, the mount of which was fashioned like two hands meeting around the stone, then let the rest trickle through his fingers like so many fairground trinkets onto the carriage's dark floor.

  He moved the gun away and Rachel immediately sank to her knees and began scrabbling about, retrieving them. Philip noted with satisfaction that the marks he had left on her cheek were beginning to turn into purple bruises, which would doubtless ruin her chances of receiving a proposal that evening.

  Bidding the company a cheery “Adieu!”, he slammed the door of the carriage shut behind him. The coachmen were nowhere to be seen.

  He made to mount his waiting horse, then noticed that the fallen carriage horse was beginning to make a wobbly ascent from its prone position. That moment's hesitation nearly proved fatal as a sudden, ear-splitting report from behind him took Philip by surprise.

  He hurled himself sideways just as a bullet whistled past, grazing
his shoulder in its passage. Thoughts pelted through his brain at thrice the normal speed. As soon as he hit the ground he kept on rolling, clutching his shoulder so that his would-be assassin, no doubt one of the coachmen, would think him seriously wounded. Wincing as his body collided with sharp rocks, he directed himself towards a thick cluster of gorse bushes and, shielding his face against their myriad thorns, burrowed into the centre of their thick stalks, where he found himself in a natural hollow with the prickly twigs spreading above and around him in a protective shield.

  He could hear distant shouts, and the scrunching of feet over the hard, pebbly ground. He held his breath as a pair of boots strode over to the clump of bushes where he had taken refuge. The boots paused awhile, then turned and began to move slowly away, and Philip noticed with great interest that affixed to the gleaming leather were a pair of very distinctive silver spurs. Cavalry spurs, they looked like, although it was impossible to tell for certain in the darkness.

  He squirmed forward on his belly to take a closer look, wriggling like a snake around the thick, twisted gorse stems. His eyes had not deceived him. They were cavalry spurs, the very pair which he had given, three years earlier, to Adam Redhead.

  * * *

  Lucy paced up and down, unable to rest. For the third time, she made a circuit of the rooms she had come to know so well, the library, the study, the long, elegant drawing-room, the banqueting hall, even the deserted ballroom, with Philip's hound trotting docilely by her side. Finally, she sank exhaustedly into a chair in the drawing-room and rang the bell for Martha or Matthew to bring her some food and drink to sustain her during her long vigil.