Lord Satan

by Judith Laik

  A small clearing gave access to the faint light of the moon. Later she did not know if her horse saw or heard something, or if she herself caught some flicker beneath her conscious awareness. Pandora whickered and shied; light flashed from the shadows ahead of them, and an earth-shaking boom shocked Libbetty.

  The bay half-reared, then leaped forward as Libbetty reacted by instinct, digging her heels into the mare’s flanks. The horse ran straight ahead, jumping a bush and crashing into something alive that grunted with pain and panic.

  Libbetty tumbled into the bush, tangling with clawing branches, a long metallic object and a hard body that struck at her. Pandora screamed and kicked, and Libbetty curled herself into a ball, trying to avoid hooves and blows.

  Lord Neil was there. He grabbed the reins and led Pandora away from the maelstrom, then plucked Libbetty out of the bush, his hands gripping her arms with fierce strength. Instinctively she melded against him, shaking, and felt his arms close tightly, possessively around her. His lips descended over hers. As their mouths met, she sucked in her breath and threw her arms around him, kissing him back wildly. The world swirled away, all sensations reduced to the hot taste of him and the molten incandescence at the core of her body.

  At last he pulled away. “Are you hurt?” His voice shook. His hands squeezed her arms painfully, but he loosed her to urgently brush his hands over her. “You aren’t shot, are you?”

  “No, I’m all right.” Libbetty trembled, hardly knowing if in reaction to the terrifying events or to Lord Neil’s kiss. She leaned against him, grateful for his warmth and the concern she heard in his voice. “Did he take a shot at me?”

  The assailant had lain stunned after his encounter with the horse, but now she realized he was trying to crawl away. Lord Neil pounced on him, tearing the musket from his grip. The gunman offered little resistance as Lord Neil dragged him out into the clearing, where the moon revealed his face.

  “That’s Owen Whitelow!” Libbetty exclaimed.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “What?” Neil slackened his hold in surprise, and the assailant sat up, but Neil pushed him down again.

  “Owen Whitelow. Mrs. Whitelow’s nephew—or her late husband’s nephew. He worked on the vicarage repairs. I think he’s White.” Elizabeth stood behind him, peering at Owen over his shoulder. The shakiness in her voice revived the sick wave of terror that had washed over Neil when he thought she had been shot.

  Rage swamped the terror. His fists clenched with the urge to fasten around the younger man’s throat. Controlling his impulse, he hauled Whitelow up, twisting his arm behind him.

  “Ow!” said the gunman. “Be careful! I am bruised all over from that savage of a horse.”

  “Tell me why you tried to kill Miss Bishop, or you’ll have worse than a few bruises.”

  “I didn’t try to kill Miss Bishop.”

  “No doubt you were shooting at pigeons.” Neil applied more pressure to the arm, and the younger man cried out.

  Elizabeth gasped, “He must have thought I was Lord Cauldreigh. I rode his horse, and I have his cloak.”

  “You say he worked on the vicarage repairs?”

  “Yes. Mumms said there was a man named White on the crew.”

  “He was the man on the roof?”

  Elizabeth stepped closer to Neil, grabbing hold of his arm. “He must be the one who has made all the attempts. But I can’t understand why he should want to harm Lord Cauldreigh.”

  Staring at Whitelow, Neil demanded, “What do you have against Cauldreigh?”

  Owen did not answer, but regarded Neil sullenly.

  “You’ll answer that question for the magistrate.” Neil pulled Whitelow’s arms forward, pinning the wrists together in front with one hand. He whipped off his cravat, wrapped it tightly around the younger man’s wrists, and searched Owen’s pockets, finding the pouch with powder and shot.

  Neil looked at Elizabeth. “We must see you home, but I have to ensure this miscreant is never able again to harm anyone.”

  “I’ll walk,” she offered. “We aren’t far from my house.”

  “I can’t let you go home unescorted. It’s full dark.” He eyed the two horses grazing nearby. Picking up Whitelow’s musket, he hauled Whitelow over to Pandora. “Mount.”

  The would-be murderer managed to clamber up.

  Neil pulled Pandora’s reins over her head as a lead rope. He reloaded Whitelow’s gun, mounted his own horse and pulled Elizabeth up behind him. She clung to him, her shivers apparent through their clothing. An ice-cold wave swept through Neil at the renewed realization that he had almost lost her. “Are you all right?” he asked. She murmured an indistinct affirmative.

  He could not almost lose her—she was not his. He must remember this, despite the wondrous sensation of her clinging to his back.

  He had thrown aside all his resolutions and kissed her again. The desire that had roared through him rushed back at the memory of her eager response. He pushed it aside ruthlessly. He would have to emphasize to her that the kiss changed nothing.

  “Why does the reckless Miss Bishop attire herself in men’s clothing?” Whitelow drawled. “Was she doing something shocking? Eloping? Did you catch her running away with your nephew? Not with the nephew—I saw that tender moment. It was you. Has parson’s mousetrap caught you at last? No, I think you had no plans to marry her, just to have some sport.” He snickered.

  “Shut up! Don’t try to blacken Miss Bishop’s reputation.”

  “I can hardly harm anybody’s reputation after I am hanged.”

  “That’s for a jury to decide, but before that you have to deal with me. If you value your skin, you won’t push further.” Neil waved the musket at him.

  Elizabeth said nothing. What did she think of the exchange? Did she think he trifled with her? She might as well draw that conclusion. For practical purposes it was true. Never mind that he was even more caught than she—he could never tell her so.

  They approached the back of the vicarage. “You may leave me by the garden shed,” she said. “My clothes are there.”

  The shed stood in darkness, shaded from the moonlight by a huge oak. Neil halted the horses under the tree and helped Elizabeth down. He hated to leave her alone after her ordeal, but if he stopped to help her, he risked Whitelow’s escape.

  No lights showed on the ground floor and only a dim glow in a first floor hall window. “Will you be safe?”

  “Owen Whitelow is the only danger. If he doesn’t escape, I shall be fine.” She faded into the shadow of the shed.

  Neil tugged on the reins and turned his horse. “I advise you to make no attempt to escape. I am a fair shot, and I can see you well enough in the moonlight.”

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “To The Castle.” Disinclined for further conversation, he set Camisard to a trot. They rode silently through the woods.

  At length Whitelow asked, “What do you plan to do—imprison me in the dungeons?”

  “I will notify Mr. Hogwood. He will take you in charge and place you in jail in Peasebotham—for now at least.”

  Why should Maude Rose wish to kill Trevor? The attempts must be laid at her door. Could she hate the Coltons enough to kill her lover’s son? A thought struck Neil like a blow. Good God, how old was Whitelow? He could not tell in the dark, but the boy must be around nineteen—the right age for Tipton’s son.

  They came to the archway that led into the courtyard and rode to the stable. Light from lanterns hung at each side of the double doors illuminated the yard.

  Neil called to his chief groom, who came running, along with two stable hands. Neil hauled Whitelow down from the horse, grabbed his collar and held his face to the light. He could not be sure, but the young man had a certain look, very like Tipton.

  “Woodbridge, take this culprit in charge. He has made all the attempts on Lord Cauldreigh’s life.”

  The men glanced at each other and at the horses. Woodbridge said, “That’s the Master�
�s horse.”

  “Yes, but Trevor is unharmed. He will come home later. He took Captain from the stable for a friend to ride this evening?”

  The head groom nodded.

  “Captain cast a shoe. It will take Trevor some time to walk him home. Bring this criminal in and lock him in Mrs. Browning’s room. She may bring him something to eat and drink if he wishes, but keep a guard on him to make sure he doesn’t escape.”

  Neil handed the gun to an under-groom and strode to the house. “Woodbridge has a prisoner. You might help in securing him,” he said to Salton. “Bring me a fresh bottle of brandy, and send Lord Cauldreigh to me as soon as he arrives home.”

  In the library, he paced and waited for Trevor. He had a right to be consulted. If Whitelow is his half-brother…

  Remembering the heart-stopping moment when he believed Elizabeth had been shot, he still shook with murderous rage. Probably her quick thinking had saved her again—and saved Trevor as well. If she hadn’t run the horse over Whitelow, he might have escaped to make another attempt—one that succeeded.

  A footman arrived and set a brandy decanter on the side table next to Neil’s favorite leather armchair. He lingered, as if curious about the events of the evening, but Neil said, “You may go,” and the footman bowed himself out.

  If only Neil had not been forced to deal with Whitelow, he could have comforted Elizabeth. He had wanted to keep holding her, to reassure himself she was safe…but he could not. He had vowed to leave her free, to relinquish his own happiness and allow her to marry a man with an untarnished reputation…

  Perhaps he could now forgo his decision, as the true culprit was caught. His primary worry was past—the fear that, despite his attempts to protect Trevor, the assassin would succeed, leaving Neil to carry the blame. He could never have allowed someone he loved to bear that stain along with him.

  He would be free from suspicion of evil intent toward his nephew. No, the suspicion had existed before anyone tried to kill Trevor. Nothing could restore his character, and she was too young to truly know her heart.

  Would Trevor wish the scandal of a trial if Whitelow were his half-brother? Without the conviction of the actual assailant, he could not clear his name. Should Whitelow be handed over to Squire Hogwood and charged with attempted murder? He poured a measure of brandy into the snifter and sipped it.

  If Whitelow’s crimes came to trial, Elizabeth would have to testify, and reveal her adventure that evening. It would ruin her. He could protect her by marrying her, but, however tempting that solution, it negated his efforts to ensure her free choice.

  If he could not keep Trevor safe any other way, there was no alternative.

  He must also consider Whitelow. Neil jumped up and stalked about the room again. Trevor’s brother, or half-brother—his own nephew—according to his theory. Why had Maude not contacted them? Did she think he would not have helped them? He must get Maude here and question her as well.

  He could not forgive Maude Rose and Tipton. Their selfishness had ruined several lives. Both Tipton’s wife and Neil’s father had given up on life and died too soon. Trevor suffered the pain of abandonment, and Neil’s undeserved reputation for callousness dated from that time.

  However, Owen was innocent of his parents’ sins—at least until he had bent on murder to redress whatever wrongs he had suffered. How deeply did young Whitelow owe his actions to Maude’s influence? Was the boy completely unredeemable? Could he really be as inept as he seemed in several murder attempts? Or had he not given his whole heart to his endeavors?

  Neil flung himself into his chair and drank the remainder of the brandy in his glass. He could not gamble Trevor’s life on the hope he could persuade Whitelow to give up his purpose.

  *

  Left alone at the garden shed, Libbetty’s shakes came back. She relived it all: the flash and crashing noise of gunpowder; the disturbance in the air as the bullet shot past her; the sulphurous scent of gunpowder; the feel of the horse surging forward to her signal; its screams and those from Owen; her pain—from falling, the scratchy branches, and the blows from Owen and the horse’s kicks—all jumbled in her mind as one horrendous impression.

  She gritted her teeth and forced her aching limbs to move, shed her male attire and don her dress. Slowly her body warmed, easing the chill of realizing how close she had come to death.

  Lord Neil was innocent of the attempts on Cauldreigh’s life. She had known it in her heart, but allowed her doubts entry. She wished she had thought to apologize for those doubts, to blurt out her love for him. No, she could not say such a thing. He would be embarrassed, would have to think of an answer to negate her declaration. He was leaving soon, and she must let him go without any awkwardness between them.

  Did the kiss mean anything to him? He had kissed her before. Was there hope? No, she must not think that. Lord Neil had kissed many women. She must go on with her life and not expect he would find a kiss as shattering as it had been to her.

  What did she look like? She had left a comb and hairpins, and a broken bit of mirror in the shed with her clothes, but she had no lantern to see by. She ran the comb through her hair and inserted pins anyhow, managing to secure it. She could only hope her luck held and that her appearance would pass muster or that she would make it to the sanctuary of her room unseen.

  The back door was locked, but she and Tom had foreseen this contingency and armed themselves with the housekeeper’s extra key, kept on a hook in the pantry.

  Letting herself in, she stole down the hall and upstairs. She had nearly reached the chamber she shared with her sisters, when Mrs. Berkfield rushed out of her parents’ room.

  “Oh, Miss Libbetty, where have you been?” the distraught woman moaned. “Your mother’s about to give birth, and your father’s gone to see a parishioner. I don’t know what to do.”

  “She can’t be,” gasped Libbetty. “The baby is to be born next month. It’s too early.”

  “Early or not, she’s in childbed,” snapped Mrs. Berkfield.

  “We must send for Mrs. Crockett.”

  “She’s gone to Evesham to attend her daughter’s lying-in.”

  “Then we must have Dr. Hayes come. Where is Cranshaw?”

  “I sent him to bring Mr. Bishop home.”

  “Oh dear. In that case, Floss must go after the doctor. Stay with Mama and I’ll go tell her.”

  “I can’t stay with your mother.” The cook’s white face proclaimed her ready to swoon. “And Floss has gone to bed.”

  “All right, go wake Floss. Then come and attend me. I don’t know what to do, either.”

  Opening the door to her parents’ bedchamber, Libbetty paused to gather her courage. Her mother lay on the bed, arched in a paroxysm, while low, guttural sounds tore from her throat. Libbetty forced her body forward to the bedside.

  As Mrs. Bishop’s body relaxed, she noticed Libbetty. “This is not a fit place for you,” she said, her usually neatly pinned hair tangled and damp, her face sweat-bedewed.

  Libbetty stroked her mother’s forehead, smoothing her hair. “There isn’t anyone but me right now, Mama. We have sent for Dr. Hayes. Tell me what to do until he gets here.”

  “There’s no time. The baby is coming now. Ahhh!” Another pang clutched at her as she spoke. It seemed to go on and on, and Mrs. Bishop gasped, “You must go there and catch the baby,” waving a hand toward the foot of the bed.

  Libbetty pulled back the blanket, and, as her mother’s swollen belly clenched, she could see the dark head emerging between her legs. The heaving body paused and gathered itself for a final thrust. Then the baby slithered out onto the bed with a gush of blood and fluid that stained the sheet.

  The baby lay unmoving. Mama croaked, “Help her breathe.”

  Libbetty lifted the infant, indeed a girl, and looked a question at Mama. “Hold her by the feet and slap her back.”

  Libbetty followed the instructions, and the baby gasped and let out a strong cry. She clasped the tiny chil
d to her chest, a rush of emotion she had never experienced sweeping over her.

  “You must wrap her. I have wrappings prepared in the clothes press.” Her mother’s voice weakened.

  Libbetty could not move the baby, still attached at the navel. She laid her beside her mother and went to the clothes press. As Libbetty returned, Mama’s body tightened with another spasm, but she seemed to be asleep or unconscious. Hurrying to her mother, Libbetty noticed the enlarging stain of blood on the bed. Surely too much. The purplish-red afterbirth emerged, carrying with it another gush of blood.

  Mrs. Bishop’s skin had gone from the flush of her efforts to shockingly white, and still the bleeding continued.

  Floss came to the door. “Dr. Hayes wasn’t home. He’s gone to the Murchisons’ with your father. Their bull gored the oldest boy today, and they don’t expect him to survive. Mrs. Hayes sent a servant to fetch the doctor, but it will take time.”

  Libbetty could see the truth of this. The Murchisons lived a full seven miles away. “We have to have him. Look at Mama!”

  The girl’s eyes widened when she took in the still form and the blood staining the sheet.

  “Oh, Floss, I’m afraid my mother’s dying!”

  Chapter Twenty

  The two girls stood, paralyzed by horror. Libbetty prodded her benumbed mind to operate, to plan what to do. When a wound on the arm or leg would not stop bleeding, one put a tourniquet on it. What could one do when a person bled inside?

  “Where’s Mrs. Berkfield?” Libbetty asked Floss.

  “In the kitchen. She said she had to boil some water.”

  “Whatever for? It’s no time to have tea.”

  Libbetty picked up her new sister. She was still attached to the dark red afterbirth, and Libbetty did not know what to do. She wrapped the baby, afterbirth and all, in blankets, and handed the bundle to Floss. “Wake up Catherine and give her the baby. Then go ask Mrs. Berkfield to tear sheets into strips and bring them to me immediately.”

  The baby, quiet while she lay next to her mother, began to cry at Libbetty’s brisk handling. Mrs. Bishop stirred but did not awaken. Floss took the infant and hurried from the room.