“It is fortunate,” came a voice from a dark comer, “that it has not been my object to please you.” Clem started and whirled around, her heart pounding in her ears. Foolish to have thought herself alone. It was doubtless an effort of the drug that still lingered in her mind.
“You!” She glared at Alastair Bechard. “I should have known, for no other would dare treat me so shamelessly!” Lord Bechard made no reply, but busied himself with the lighting of a candle. Clem wrinkled her nose at the smell. “I suppose it was also you who set upon me in the wood, knocked me senseless, and transported me here?”
“Who else?” inquired her captor. Clem did not appreciate the quality of his smile. “Did you think to easily escape me? You were not the prey I had in mind, but I am adaptable and immediately altered my plans when I saw you enter the wood.”
“Had I known,” Clem retorted bitterly, “I would never have gone next or nigh the place. What is it you want of me?”
Alastair’s teeth flashed wickedly as he moved across the room. Clem took a prudent step backward. “Do you not recall,” he inquired, “that I once offered to take you into my keeping, to provide for you? I had thought the matter settled, but you gave me the slip. It was not wise of you. Observe the predicament that you find yourself in.”
Clem was determined not to reveal her very precise knowledge of the devilish fix she was in. Shocking enough to have been an actress; now that Alastair had kidnapped her, she was truly ruined. Even Kenelm would balk at marrying a female whose reputation was so tattered. “What is it you want?” she repeated. “It is very good of you to wish to provide for me, but I’d as lief not be under any obligation to you.” Clem felt a wall at her back and glanced quickly around the room for a means of escape.
“The door is locked,” remarked Lord Bechard, “and the key safely secreted on my person.” He noted his captive’s expression. “You may fight like a wildcat, my pet, but you stand little chance of successfully wresting it from me.”
Clem frowned at the endearment, but was reluctantly forced to the agreement that she could do her tormentor little harm. “Tell me,” he said, “were you truly making your escape from Wilmington’s home? And were you so thoughtful as to leave a note behind?”
“Not at all,” Clem improvised wildly. “I was merely out for a stroll. My absence will have been remarked. They will be searching for me.” Since Lord Bechard had abandoned his pursuit, she perched gingerly on the edge of a chair. “You should let me go. In such an event I would, naturally, say nothing of our encounter.”
“A good try,” commented his lordship, “but you can’t pull the wool over my eyes. Young ladies seldom carry bandboxes when they set out on a leisurely stroll.” Clem glowered at that article, which sat upon a crudely fashioned table near the fireplace. “The truth, if you will.” Lord Bechard surveyed her. “Or shall I force it from you?”
The man’s tone indicated that such a pastime might be of enjoyment to him, and Clem hastened to reply. “I was on my way to London,” she snapped, “to place myself under your protection.”
“I am honored.” Lord Bechard’s smile was saturnine.
“You need not be,” Clem retorted. “I have since changed my mind.”
“Due to my use of force?” Alastair appeared quite unmoved by the rejection thus received. “I confess great disappointment in you, but it is as well.” He regarded her confusion with a kindly air. “I, too, have changed my plans.”
“Then why did you abduct me?”
“That will, in time, become clear.” It was evident that Lord Bechard enjoyed playing a cat-and-mouse game. “And now, the note? Did you think to leave one behind?”
Clem clutched at a straw. “No. So you see, they will come looking for me.”
“Excellent.” The man’s satisfaction puzzled Clem.
“I do not understand,” she mourned.
“Poor poppet,” sympathized his lordship. “But you must have known that I was never interested in you in the ordinary way.”
“Then why all this?” Clem asked with a bewildered glance. She thought it best to avoid the subject of where his lordship’s amorous inclinations led him. “Why bring me here?”
“So that your young swain might follow.” Lord Bechard smiled in a most unpleasant manner. “I do not doubt that he will soon appear, in hot pursuit of his missing ladybird.”
“Kenelm?” Clem frowned in an attempt at rational thought. “Why?”
“Kenelm,” Lord Bechard repeated. “Let us say that I have no wish to see you wed to Kenelm Jellicoe.”
“But I have no wish to marry him!” Clem protested. “I shall marry no one, I am done with men.”
“I think you truly believe what you say,” Lord Bechard mused, “but it will not do. I have no desire to see young Jellicoe waste away from unrequited love.”
“What have you against Kenelm?” Clem nervously wiped her hands on her skirt. It was obvious that her captor wished Kenelm no good.
“Nothing at all. I daresay he is an admirable young man.” Lord Bechard inspected his immaculate fingernails. “But it is not in my best interests that he continue in such excellent health.”
Clem’s nails bit into her palms. “You mean to murder him!”
“It is the de Villiers family against whom I hold a grudge,” Alastair replied obliquely. “It will at long last be repaid.”
“Kenelm,” Clem was quick to point out, “is not a de Villiers, but a Jellicoe.”
“Kenelm is the Comte’s heir.” Lord Bechard lovingly inspected an antique dueling pistol. Clem’s skin crawled. “And as such he is the perfect victim for a murderous attack.” He gazed upon his captive’s uncomprehending countenance. “Did you know that I was once betrothed to the Lady Henrietta? I thought not.”
Clem considered that Maddy’s mother had made a fortunate escape, and wished that she might do the same. “But how will you benefit from Kenelm’s death?”
“It is not I who will benefit, but Claude de Villiers.” Lord Bechard’s expression was bland.
“And what is my part in this?” Clem feared greatly that she already knew. Alastair grasped a heavy rope and eyed her contemplatively.
“I am very sorry, my pet,” he replied, but you, too, must die. It is to be a crime of passion, you see. The disinherited brother comes upon the current heir in a lovers’ tryst, and dispatches him speedily. I cannot imagine, in such a situation, that he would allow a witness to live to tell the tale.” Again that chilling smile. “It has all the features of a splendid melodrama, don’t you agree?”
“And,” Clem inquired desperately, “if Kenelm comes with others, as he surely must? What, then, will you do?”
“You must have faith in me.” Lord Bechard carefully slipped the pistol into his pocket. “I have considered even that contingency.”
* * * *
Tilda walked purposefully through the woods, like a terrier following a scent. She was, again, acting imprudently, she knew, but if her suspicions proved correct, she wished no interested audience. Agatha was correct in stating that Lady Tyrewhitte-Wilson’s retainers were unanimous in their devotion to her, but Tilda knew full well that she was a favorite topic of conversation in the servants’ hall. Her retainers would be aghast at the notion of discussing their mistress with outsiders; but this ban did not extend to gossip among themselves. And there were certain matters that Tilda did not wish to come to those faithful ears.
Micah would be furious at this latest enterprise, fraught with peril as it was, but Tilda spared little thought for the Earl. She concentrated on remembering the layout of the gamekeeper’s cottage where Dominic and Alastair had once spent considerable time. Tilda had no notion of what activities transpired there, though she imagined orgies of the most bizarre, and had made no effort to discover the truth. She was only grateful that Dominic had refrained from conducting his nefarious activities in the Abbey, for then she could not have remained so determinedly uninvolved. But Tilda had not been so prudent that she av
oided the cottage altogether, and had explored it to her satisfaction during one of her husband’s occasional absences. It was with mingled disappointment and relief that she had discovered nothing there, no indication of depraved rites, or of the presence of certain members of the Paphian set. Indeed, there had been no sign of recent habitation at all, save for a waxen candle stub set amid the cobwebs and the dust.
Tilda paused as the cottage came into view, but saw no sign of occupancy. She moved forward cautiously, careful to make no sound. Had she attached more significance to her suspicions, Tilda would never have ventured forth unaccompanied, but she was merely exploring a vague possibility, or, as Claude de Villiers might have said, playing a hunch. It was extremely unlikely that Alastair Bechard would choose as his base a place as ill kept and lacking in the amenities as Tilda remembered the cottage to be.
However, in view of the remote possibility that his fastidious lordship had secreted himself within, Tilda approached the cottage from the rear. Few knew of its existence, for it lay deep within the wood, and had long been unused, circumstances that made it ideal for Lord Tyrewhitte-Wilson’s mysterious purposes. Anyone coming upon the place unexpectedly would naturally approach the front door, and, if Alastair were truly within, it was that portal he would guard.
Tilda looked once more at the deserted structure, amused by her imaginings. Folly to tarry longer, when Agatha would grow anxious about her prolonged absence. Tilda considered Micah’s probable reaction were it necessary for him to send out another search party, this time for her. Still, since she had come this far, little would be lost if she spent a few more moments and glanced inside. Tilda gingerly pressed her shoulder against the door that led to the kitchen, and shoved. The door opened reluctantly, but with a minimum of noise. Tilda slipped inside. Her eyes widened as they fell upon a loaf of bread that lay upon the table, and some cheese. Heart in her throat, Tilda debated whether to go on or to return with help. There was little question of the conclusion; Lady Tyrewhitte-Wilson moved cautiously toward the cottage’s main room. She firmly grasped the pistol that an acute survival instinct had prompted her to bring.
A dilemma presented itself; there was no way she could enter that room unseen, no way to catch the trespasser off-guard. Tilda frowned and moved stealthily down the dark and narrow hallway.
In the end, it was easy, due to Clem’s resourcefulness. Even with her arms and feet securely bound to a chair, Clem was a force to be reckoned with. “You see?” she inquired of her captor, who had grown increasingly surly with the passage of time. “I told you that no one would come. Kenelm knows I will not marry him, and has abandoned me to my fate. Doubtless they all believe that I have returned to the stage.” Alastair regarded her with none of the affection that one might reasonably be expected to cherish for a lady whom he’d once pursued diligently.
“I can see,” he said grimly, “that I must gag you if I am to have any peace.” He placed the dueling pistol on the table and proceeded to divest himself of his exquisite cravat. It was then that Clem saw a shadow in the doorway. She opened her mouth and screamed, most dramatically. Lord Bechard bounded toward her, his arm upraised to strike, and Tilda aimed her gun.
“One more step,” she announced calmly, “and you’re a dead man, Alastair. Turn around slowly.” The expression on Lord Bechard’s face was one she would surely remember all her days. “You would be very foolish to reach for that pistol.”
Alastair cursed the whim that had led Lord Tyrewhitte-Wilson to while away an idle autumn teaching his wife to handle firearms. Tilda, as a result, was a notable shot. “And now what do you propose to do?” he inquired, having regained his poise.
“Shoot him,” advised Clem.
“I had not considered,” Tilda mused. The gun did not waver. “It would probably be best to allow Micah to deal with you.”
“You will not march me at gunpoint through these woods,” Lord Bechard sneered. “Think of my opportunities to escape! And I warn you, Tilda, if I should escape, it will not go well with you.”
Tilda felt rather like one who has a rattlesnake in hand and does not know how to safely dispose of it. Nor was Clem of potential assistance, bound to the chair and with murderous intent written all over her.
“There is something else to consider,” said Alastair. “You would not care to have our last meeting made public, I fancy.”
Tilda shrugged. “Your credibility has been severely damaged, Alastair. That tale would do more harm to you than it would to me. Unfasten the girl.”
Lord Bechard made no move to comply with this request. He knew that Tilda would not shoot him in cold blood, and he had also begun to suspect that Lady Tyrewhitte-Wilson had undertaken this brave mission alone. If so, luck was truly with him. He shifted his weight, moving imperceptibly closer to the table and the pistol thereupon.
“Shoot him,” Clem repeated. She grew increasingly weary of being trussed up like prime game. “Then you can free me and we may leave this wretched place.”
Tilda frowned. “The plan has merits,” she observed. She grew desperate for an alternative.
“The maiden has scruples,” Alastair remarked, with another slight movement. Tilda glared at him. Pleased to have struck a response, Alastair embroidered upon his theme. “How do you propose to explain your condition to your next husband, my dear? Will you say that Dominic found you so unappealing that he could not bring himself to consummate the marriage, even for the sake of an heir? It would be the truth, you know. Many is the time poor Dominic lamented his folly in marrying you.”
“Toad,” commented Clem. Tilda wore a stricken look. “There are men, my lady, who find pleasure only in the company of other men. This is such a man.”
Startled by this observation, Tilda glanced at Clem, and in that instant, Alastair leaped for his gun. Earlier scruples forgotten, Tilda fired.
“Excellent!” cried Clem. Had her hands been free, she would have applauded so richly deserved an act. Tilda cautiously moved past Alastair, who huddled in agony on the floor, clutching his injured leg, and untied the ropes that bound the girl. “I was afraid, at the last moment, you would lose heart.”
Chapter Fifteen
“It astonishes me,” the Comte murmured, “that my sister-in-law served as the inspiration for such single-minded emotion, particularly in so discriminating a gentleman as Alastair Bechard.” Motley turned her head slightly to gaze upon Lady Henrietta, who wore her usual serene expression. Though it had been many years since Motley had assumed a position of importance in the drawing room, she found it as pleasant to abandon her self-effacement as it was to arrange her hair in a becoming style. Motley could not see what the future might hold, but she was done with governessing. Letty Jellicoe was scandalized, as might have been expected, by this abrupt change in attitude, for Motley had dared remark that a mother’s first concern should be for the happiness of her offspring and not for their consequence, but Motley had no care for Letty’s disapproval. Damian Darlington’s lineage was so illustrious that the Jellicoes appeared mere social upstarts in comparison.
“Henrietta dealt Alastair a severe blow,” Motley replied. She, too, had trouble envisioning her employer as a femme fatale. “She broke off her engagement to him and then eloped with Claude, who already had a reputation as a reckless gambler and not a penny to his name. Lord Bechard could not forgive so grievous an affront to his pride.”
The Comte regarded his brother with disapproval. “Claude,” he remarked, “has always been a heedless scamp. I doubt not his attitude rubbed salt in the wound.”
“Heedless,” Motley agreed, “but at least not a potential murderer. And I fancy Lady Henrietta means, in future, to curb his worst excesses.”
“It is an ambitious undertaking.” Emile did not sound as if he foresaw great success. Motley, who had closer acquaintance with the stubborn will that lay beneath Lady Henrietta’s placid exterior, smiled.
“It seems a trifle extreme,” she mused, “to plot Kenelm’s murder me
rely to implicate Claude.”
“Nothing is too extreme for a Bechard.” The Comte took Motley’s arm. Eunice Scattergood goggled and quickly drew Letty’s brooding attention, which was centered on her son, to this intimacy. “Ask Wilmington. He experienced that particular trait firsthand.”
The Duchess was an imperturbable hostess, even when confronted by callers at an hour when she might reasonably be expected to be still abed. All were eager to discuss the miraculous rescue. Motley knew that she prompted a great deal of whispered comment, for the Comte showed no interest in the rest of the company and no inclination to leave her side, but Motley cared not how tongues might wag. Even were she condemned to spend the rest of her days as an old maid, she would at least have the memory of this triumph.
“Poor Kenelm,” she murmured, as they made their way slowly to the magnificent chair where Agatha was enthroned. “All his misfortunes stemmed from the fact that Lord Bechard thought him your heir.”
“Rather, fortunate Kenelm,” the Comte retorted. “Alastair did not succeed. It was the curse of the Bechards that no matter how painstaking their plans, the execution was faulty.” His smile was wintry. “I find it ironic that so much has depended on my selection of an heir.”
“And who holds that enviable position now? Claude?”
The Comte wore a distant look. “I have lately begun to consider plans to prevent that contingency.”
This topic was one worth pursuing, but it was impossible to ignore a peremptory summons from their hostess. “Wretched creature,” commented the Duchess, but with approval. Motley looked quite fetching in the elegant frock that Lady Henrietta had insisted she wear, and not in the least like a governess. “I thought you were familiar, but I could not determine why.” She lifted her cheek to be kissed. “I was present at your come-out, child, though you will not remember it.”
“I remember quite well.” Even then Agatha had been a figure of considerable influence. “I was atremble lest you recognize me.”
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