Crowden noted how Kerrington physically recoiled with the Baloch’s goading. Lord Worthing had married Brantley Fowler’s sister Eleanor within the past year. The enceinte viscountess had soothed Kerrington’s loneliness and had brought the viscount contentment. Gabriel had admired Eleanor Fowler from the moment he had laid eyes on the woman, and he had envied how Kerrington had finally achieved happiness.
“You lie!” his friend growled.
Jamot glanced in Gabriel’s direction. He edged further into the shadows, and Gabriel countered by easing up behind a high-backed wooden pew. Having found a target, the Baloch continued his insulting burlesque. “Do I?” he called confidently. Crowden knew Mir’s agent would use Kerrington’s love for Lady Worthing against his friend. The Baloch jeered, “Less than a week past, I found my way into Ashton’s home.”
Baron Ashton was former Realm and the maternal uncle to the Aldridge sisters, who Thornhill and Wellston had chosen as their wives. “Lady Worthing,” Jamot called contemptuously, “interrupted my dispensing with the one you call Lexford.” Gabriel counted Aidan Kimbolt, Viscount Lexford, among his closest friends. They had left Lexford in Cheshire when the viscount had suffered a debilitating head injury in this caper. “Unfortunately, the lady insisted. I held no choice,” Jamot snarled. “You lost a wife and a child, Lord Worthing.”
Gabriel’s stomach lurched in anguish. It could not be so. God would not be so cruel as to snatch happiness from Kerrington’s grasp a second time. Worthing’s first wife had died in childbirth. It was the event that had driven Kerrington from his home to serve with the Realm.
“Do not trust him, Captain,” Crowden called to Kerrington, whose shoulders had hunched with regret. “If Lady Worthing was no more, you’d know. Your heart would know.”
His words had hit their mark. Kerrington’s chest rose with hope. “I plan to kill you, Jamot,” he called lethally.
“You plan to try, Worthing,” the Baloch answered confidently.
Before the words could die in the confines of the medieval cathedral, the bullet hissed as it struck the arch above Kerrington’s head. Gabriel saw his friend dive from the way. Immediately, Gabriel returned fire, but the cathedral’s architecture hid Jamot well. In the next instant, the echo of Jamot’s retreating footsteps filled the air. A curse from Kerrington signaled their pursuit. Bursting through the fog of gunpowder, Gabriel pulled a hidden pistol from the harness under his jacket, but they were too late. Jamot rode away into the setting horizon.
*
Grace Nelson rushed through the manor house’s upper floors. For days, she had expected the commotion below, but now it had come, she had found herself totally unprepared for the violent response of Samuel Aldridge, Viscount Averette, her employer. Things had not been right in the Averette household since the family’s return from London.
Grace had suspected Lord Averette greatly regretted his sojourn into England. On a pleasure trip into the Lake District, His Lordship had received an urgent message informing him of the demise of William Fowler, the Duke of Thornhill. With the news, Lord Averette had thought it incumbent on him to rush to Kent to secure the safety of his niece Velvet Aldridge.
Their journey had come to a screeching halt when His Lordship’s carriage had broken an axel outside of Linton Park, home of the Earl of Linworth. There, Averette had discovered Eleanor Fowler awaiting her marriage to James Kerrington, Linworth’s son. Lady Eleanor had welcomed her cousins, the Aldridges, to her betrothed’s home, and, at first, Grace had considered the case of serendipity a fortuitous one for the family she had come to call her own.
But that foolhardy idea had come before she had heard Lord Averette’s admonishments to his niece, when the girl arrived at Linton Park as part of Lady Eleanor’s family. Grace quickly deduced Lady Eleanor’s brother, the new Duke of Thornhill, had set his eye on his cousin, Velvet Aldridge, but it had also become apparent Lord Averette had held other plans for his oldest niece. The viscount had recently accepted an arrangement with a brute country gentleman named Lachlan Charters for Miss Cashémere Aldridge. The girl lived in Averette’s household, and Grace had watched the viscount manipulate the young woman for his own benefit.
Many a time, he had forced the girl to spend hours upon her knees in prayer while the viscount had led anything but a life of devotion. Perhaps, Lady Averette and Miss Cashémere had accepted the viscount’s explanation of the man’s sudden influx of income, but Grace had been reared in a household where “creative finances” were commonplace. She had quickly construed Lord Averette skimmed funds from the parish tithes, and as the viscount had “sold” Miss Cashémere to Charters, he would sell Miss Aldridge to another of his cronies.
And Grace had been accurate in her predictions; Lord Averette had seized upon the first opportunity to remove Miss Aldridge from Thornhill’s guardianship and had demanded the girl join them in Edinburgh, where he immediately bargained for Miss Aldridge’s hand in marriage.
However, all the man’s stratagems had imploded when a foreigner, of whom she was later to learn was an enemy of both Lord Worthing and Thornhill, had abducted Miss Aldridge from under the viscount’s nose. Lord Averette had given pursuit, and even Miss Cashémere had launched a search for her older sister, but Averette had returned to Scotland without either of his nieces to show for his efforts.
Grace had privately celebrated each girl’s escape from the viscount’s perfidy. She had learned from Alice Aldridge, Viscountess Averette, that over Lord Averette’s objections Thornhill had claimed Velvet Aldridge as his duchess, and Miss Cashémere would reside with her maternal uncle, Baron Ashton, in Cheshire. The viscount had let his disdain be known throughout his household. He had retreated to his study, had taken to drinking privately, and had reamed each of his servants for the least infraction.
The madness had escalated with Mr. Charters’ recent appearance on Lord Averette’s doorstep. The Scot had not taken well the news of Miss Cashémere’s extended stay in England. Grace had witnessed Charters threatening Viscount Averette. “I paid good money for the gel, and I’s want her back,” Charters said right before he delivered a meaty fist to the viscount’s chin.
Then only yesterday, Lord Worthing had made a mysterious visit to The Ridge, the Averette’s estate. Grace had wanted to speak privately with the English lord, but she could not manage an encounter without raising an eye of suspicion from Lord Averette’s servants. She had yet to discover the purpose of Viscount Worthing’s inquiries, but the household had been in chaos ever since James Kerrington’s departure. A man that Blane, Averette’s butler, identified as Baron Ashton, the girls’ maternal uncle, had also made a brief appearance at the manor house; however, Samuel Aldridge had sent the baron away empty handed. Following the baron’s departure, Aldridge had set the household into action to pack his belongings for an extended journey.
When Grace had learned from Blane that Lord Averette had sent Callum, one of the footmen, to arrange passage to the Continent, she took it upon herself to protect the thoroughly innocent Viscountess Averette. “Send for me if things advance,” she had told Blane.
Grace had come to the family when the Averette’s daughter Gwendolyn was but three. She had faithfully served as the child’s governess and, upon occasion, as a companion to the adventurous Miss Cashémere. But on this particular day, she placed herself between the posturing Averette and his cowering wife.
“Please tell me,” Lady Averette had begged. “I’ve a right to know what is happening.”
“You have a right!” the viscount had accused in his customary disdainful manner, and Alice Aldridge had recoiled involuntarily. Grace had lingered outside Lord Averette’s study door in anticipation of her employer’s reaction to his wife’s intrusion. “Since when do you have a right? You’re my wife, and you will do what I say.”
Averette had raised his hand to strike his wife, but Grace had set her feet to intercept his blow. In her years at The Ridge, she had witnessed the viscount’s anger take a physical
slant. On more than one occasion, Lord Averette had struck his servants, his niece, and his wife–but never had the man raised his hand to her or to his daughter. Grace had never understood the deference the viscount had shown her. She liked to think it was because he knew she would retaliate–that no man would be her master. She had surreptitiously taught Gwendolyn Aldridge something of that resolve. Perhaps, that was the secret to why she the child had been spared from Samuel Aldridge’s violent tendencies. “Your Lordship!” she spoke with authority.
Aldridge had turned his rage on Grace. “No one asked for your presence in this matter,” he declared viciously. “Take yourself from my sight.”
Grace glared defiantly. “Gladly, Viscount Averette, but first I shall see Lady Averette to her room.” She placed her arm about the woman’s sunken shoulders. “Come, Viscountess. Gwendolyn requires your attention,” she encouraged as she directed Alice Aldridge’s unsteady steps toward the still open door.
“I want you from my house,” Averette called to her retreating form. “Before the day is out,” he added triumphantly; yet, Grace refused to so much as turn her head. She would not give Lord Averette dominion over her. No man would hold such a place in her life.
Ignoring the man’s posturing, Grace had spoken to the lady of the house, a timid woman chosen because of Samuel Aldridge’s propensity for coercion. “I have ordered your maid, Ma’am, to pack several items for you and for Gwendolyn. I suggest you spend some time with your parents in the North.”
She guided Alice Aldridge’s steps to the main staircase. The viscountess glanced over her shoulder to where her husband ranted about the lack of assistance from his servants, “Viscount Averette will object,” she said tentatively.
Grace steadied the woman’s stumbling steps. “His Lordship plans a journey of his own. He has ordered his coach,” Grace said softly. “The servants have their orders. Something bad is happening at The Ridge, and you and Gwen must not be a part of it.”
“But what of you?” Lady Averette allowed Grace to lead the way toward the mistress’s private chambers.
“I have long wished to return to Lancashire,” Grace said softly. If not for Lady Averette’s faltering composure, the house’s mistress would have heard the falsehoods, which laced Grace’s words. “I have family there.” Grace reached for the door latch. “If you would provide me a letter of reference, I shall find another position. Perhaps, something closer to my home,” she had added for good measure.
Lady Averette stopped suddenly and gazed questionably upon Grace. “What of Gwendolyn? My daughter shall miss you terribly.” The woman caught Grace’s hand in her two. “My husband is simply out of sorts. Something concerning the estate or his nieces. I am certain Lord Averette will forgive your interruption of a few moments prior. You shall see. Everything shall return to normal.”
Grace had experience all the normal she could tolerate in this household. Even a few days under her brother’s roof would be preferable over the madness Samuel Aldridge invoked. She said evenly, “On more than one occasion, His Lordship has voiced his displeasure for my part in the Duke of Thornhill’s revenge on Sir Louis Levering. Although I was an unknowing participant, Viscount Averette has made his ire known. I am certain my most recent interference has sealed my fate in this household. And as to Gwendolyn, she shall have your parents to dote upon her and cousins with which to play. She shall adjust quickly. I have spoken to her of my departure, and Gwen understands my reasons for leaving. I have explained I miss my brother and younger sister.”
“I shall always think of you kindly, Grace Nelson,” Lady Averette said reverently. “You have been a Godsend. When you are prepared to take your leave, your letter shall be waiting for you.” Wiping the tears from her eyes, the viscountess permitted her maid to lead her into her private quarters.
Grace sighed heavily. “I shall be happy to be free of this place.”
*
Tired of permitting life to pass him by, Gabriel Crowden had ridden leisurely, but with a new determination to discover his own future. With Jamot’s escape from the abbey, he and Kerrington had given chase. They had scooped up Baron Ashton’s private papers from the ground where the Baloch had scattered them as part of his escape diversion before mounting to pursue the shadow of Murhad Jamot. Neither man had spoken. After having served together for five years, Crowden and Kerrington had known what to expect–the nuances of the quest.
Kerrington had taken the lead, and Gabriel had ridden some two lengths behind. As his former captain followed the Baloch’s trail, Gabriel had scanned the landscape, searching for possible subterfuge. As Jamot’s attempts to locate Shaheed Mir’s missing emerald among the Realm members had failed three times, Gabriel had expected Mir’s man to act with desperation. His eyes had scanned every tree–every rock, expecting the Baloch to expose himself–to take aim against them, but Jamot had once again done the unexpected: Jamot had made a full out retreat. Retreating to fight another day.
That knowledge had not deterred their initial efforts, but after a quarter hour they, instinctively, eased away from the urgency. Lathered with foam, both horses labored under the hilly conditions, and as he and Kerrington topped yet another crest, they slowed their animals to a stop.
Out of breath, Gabriel wiped his sweaty brow with a handkerchief. A bit of dust rose from where the road twisted into a loop and turned toward the east. From their position atop the hill, they could see the Baloch had, at least, a half-mile on them. “Jamot heads into the Southern mountains,” Crowden gestured to the wisp of dust lingering above the hedgerows. Dejectedly, he said, “Will we continue to search.” Above all things, he wanted the madness to end. He had longed for home for so long, and he could no longer muster a taste to do the government’s business.
“God!” Kerrington appeared as frustrated as he. The captain had not removed his gaze from where Jamot sought refuge. “I know I should continue our pursuit, but, in reality, all I want is race to Cheshire to assure myself Ella is well. I am tired of this life. Is it beyond reason to simply want to live out my days as Eleanor Kerrington’s husband?”
Crowden’s heart lurched. He had witnessed the happiness both Kerrington and Thornhill had discovered upon their returns to England. Knowing Wellston’s tenaciousness, Gabriel held no doubt the earl would join the viscount and the duke in wedded bliss. Gabriel had lost his family because of a youthful indiscretion. He wished to salvage what remained. “I believe you should go home, Captain. You have a family to protect. Chasing the kidnapper of your wife’s cousin is one thing. A family obligation should always take precedence. Chasing a crazy Baloch across Scotland is someone else’s mission. Have we not given enough years and faced enough dangers?”
“You sound introspective, Crowden.” Kerrington’s gaze had shifted to Gabriel’s countenance. “Is there something you wish to say?”
Staring off toward the trail they should be following, Crowden remained silent for several minutes. “I want what you have,” he said into the stillness. “What Thornhill has. What Wellston has obviously found. If I possessed it, I would be on the road to my estate so quickly people would question whether I had ever been here.”
Kerrington turned his horse in a tight circle. The captain’s eyes glanced to the disappearing evidence of Jamot’s retreat before returning to Gabriel’s countenance. “You have the right of it, Crowden. Someone will find Jamot, or the Baloch will return to his homeland. Either way, I am to Manchester. I will deliver Ashton’s papers, and the baron can choose whether to prosecute Aldridge. At the moment, all I wish is to sleep with my wife held tightly in my embrace.”
Crowden nodded his agreement. “I will assure myself Lord Yardley and Swenton have recovered the ladies, and then I will be to Staffordshire. I am of the persuasion I can serve England more by being a voice of reason in Parliament than I can by tracking Jamot.”
“We will report we lost the trail,” Kerrington confirmed.
Crowden extended his hand in parting. “Farewe
ll. Be safe, Captain.” Kerrington had accepted it with a nod of approval. His friend turned his mount toward England, his wife, and his home. Gabriel watched the man he had blindly followed into hell wind his way to the west. He watched until he could no longer decipher his friend’s form before hoarsely saying, “If I possessed what you have discovered…” Gabriel gave his head a shake to clear his focus. “Soon,” he murmured. “Very soon.”
*
Gabriel had spent barely twelve hours with his friends before he made his excuses and set himself upon the task of returning to Staffordshire–to what remained of his family. Upon taking his leave from James Kerrington, Gabriel had made his way to Leith to discover Marcus Wellston, John Swenton, and Lucifer Hill had been more successful than he and Kerrington. With the earl’s ability to scale heights, and Swenton and Hill’s brute strength the three men had staged a dramatic rescue of Miss Cashémere Aldridge, the woman Wellston intended to marry, and the lady’s twin sister, Miss Satiné.
During the Season, Gabriel had made Miss Cashémere’s acquaintance during the Realm’s staged ploy that had brought about Sir Louis Levering’s forced transportation and eventual death at Murhad Jamot’s hands. At the time, everyone thought the lady was marked for Viscount Lexford, their friend Aidan Kimbolt; but even upon his limited interactions with Miss Cashémere, Gabriel had never thought her a fit match for Lexford.
The remainder of the Realm did not know women the way he did. The moment he kissed the back of a lady’s hand, he could tell anyone who bothered to ask the depth of the woman’s guard for a man. Cashémere Aldridge might have possessed a childlike innocence, but the lady also held a deep, passionate independence–one Kimbolt would have smothered rather than nurtured. The lady’s disposition was better suited to Wellston. On the earl’s Scottish border estate, the woman would rule her land with controlled fervor. As if she were a warrior princess. As with Kerrington and Lady Eleanor and Thornhill with his childhood love, Velvet Aldridge, Wellston would know contentment with Miss Cashémere, and she with him.
Realm 04 - A Touch of Grace Page 2