In the distance, she spied a likely row of trees. Since the moor stretched for miles in every other direction, she set off toward the greenery. As she walked, thirst burned her throat. Her body demanded a search for water, but she held her course. I would give the Fitzcarry pearls for a draught of ale. Those pearls were her family’s most valuable heirloom, once rousing such envy in Queen Elizabeth, she’d offered thirty-five-thousand acres of Scottish soil for them.
At last, Claire ducked between the branches of the closest tree only to find that the lane was not beyond it. Overcome with disappointment, she pressed her forehead against its bark. She would have wept if she weren’t so parched.
Poor Robespierre, he was probably thirsty too. Visions rushed through her head; Arabella hoping to watch them die; Flavian’s arms encircling her at the lake; his question about having children of her own, and how much she loved him... Using the trunk to keep herself on her feet, she spoke out loud, because a statement of fact had to be made. “I won’t die here either, Arabella.”
A branch on the next nearest tree hung low. As children, she and her sisters had shimmied up a lot of timber. Arms trembling with exhaustion, she tied the hem of her shift just below her bottom. Bare feet would gain better purchase on the bark. She unlaced her boots and removed mud-soaked garters and stockings.
On closer inspection, the first limb seemed so high she doubted she had the strength to mount it. And if you don’t, you succumb to Arabella and die. A hard rod of determination replaced apprehension. She backed away then, giving herself a running start, hurtled toward the tree. At the last second, she leaped and threw her chest over the limb then, fighting weakened muscles, managed to swing her right leg up and over.
Breathless, she lay with a cheek against the bark. Minutes passed before she felt able to so much as lift her head, and there was so much further to go. If I could just have some water…
Despite a wave of dizziness, she willed her body to obey, and began climbing. The limbs were closer now, and grew closer still as she haltingly ascended.
Near the top, a crook offered thin foliage and a clear view. Miles of empty moor stretched to the horizon, broken only by rocks and scrub. Nothing looked familiar. No lane. No manor house turrets. Not even a church steeple. Swallowing, she rubbed her eyes and looked again, craning her neck to see past clumps of leaves. To the left—nothing. To the right—nothing. Sagging with despair, she slumped low. Under a branch, and so distant its edges blurred in the afternoon light, was the tower at Bingham Hall.
* * *
“But if the ladies aren’t here, where did they go?” asked Flavian at the barn.
A little boy in tattered hose and shoes too big for his feet, wrung his hands and stammered, “That’s wot I’m in the way of worrying, my lord. The young ladies don’t come back at all.”
“Have you been here all morning?”
“Aye, my lord, and I paid extra attention, too. Old Robespierre, he’s my charge.”
But they hadn’t been on the lane, either. If the old horse were struggling, they wouldn’t have ridden into town… The moors? But why? Talons gripped his stomach. “Fetch someone to saddle a fresh horse for me.” The lad darted halfway down the stable corridor before Flavian shouted again, “And get a man to round up everyone from the fields. We need to form a search party.” The boy waved in answer and then raced away.
A few minutes later, the stable yard filled with men, barking dogs, and sly cats that spied from the corner of the barn.
“Do you think my Robespierre be dead?” the lad said, wringing his hands.
“Best to bring a hay wagon, my lord, in case the old horse dropped on the road,” said a groom. He patted the lad’s shoulder paternally.
“Blast it,” Flavian fumed. “Why did I leave them alone?” Visions of the ladies taken by highwaymen, of Robespierre collapsing on top of Claire, of jealous Arabella harming— No, she wouldn’t, she wouldn’t… The talons dug deeper. “Where’s my horse!” he shouted. A frightened groom trotted a heavy-set roan to him. Throwing a leg over the animal’s flank, Flavian joined about a half dozen men, mounted on anything with four legs—plow horses, carriage horses, and the few other riding beasts kept on the estate. The little cadre wasn’t nearly enough.
“Can you ride, lad?” Flavian asked the boy who stood holding the reins to his father’s mount.
“He can,” the father answered.
“Then take Arabella’s old pony and gallop to the house. Tell everyone to start searching the moors. The ladies are missing—possibly hurt. And tell them to hurry!”
* * *
Pushing aside a twig, Claire surveyed the area starting at Bingham Hall for landmarks indicating the lane. A straight line of shrubs grew like a fringe along what must be the road. It passed about a tenth of a mile away.
She was about to descend the tree when movement caught her eye. Whatever it was, it disappeared instantly. Seconds passed as she stared into the distance. At last it returned—a black dot moving this way.
Her heart thudded wildly as she lowered herself branch by branch. Thinking of nothing but getting to the ground, of getting to the lane, of Flavian coming to help, her foot slipped. With arms too weary from fighting the bog and climbing the tree, she couldn’t catch herself. Down she fell, crashing through the branches, grasping desperately at leaves that tore through her fingers.
She landed hard, her ankle snapping to the side, and blinding pain tore like lightning up her leg, ending in a horrific burst that sent an agonized scream ripping through her dried throat. Another scream followed, and then another even louder, because she knew the ankle was bad—that she couldn’t walk—and that whomever was on the lane would surely ride by and never find her.
The ankle turned red, and swelled instantly; a tickle on the side of her face proved to be blood from a gash to her forehead. A dozen other cuts and bruises throbbed, and salty tears burned her scratched cheeks, but there was no time to sit and count wounds. Using the abandoned stockings she’d left under the tree, she bandaged the ankle and tried to wedge her foot into the boot. Too late—the inflammation made it impossible.
On hands and knees, she began crawling toward the road, tormenting pain pulsing at every movement, but she willed herself to feel nothing but anger—to see nothing but Arabella’s jeering face watching from the edge of the bog. The jab of pebbles in the duff, the slice of sharp grass, the agony of her ankle as she banged it over and over again on the hard earth—she ignored all of it. “Wait!” she called out again and again, the word rasping against her raw throat. “Please, please wait.”
* * *
Fortunately, no travelers other than he, Beverage-Haugh, and the ladies had ridden the lane since morning, Flavian observed as he walked the roan down the road. Still, it wasn’t easy to distinguish days-old hoof prints from the ones they’d left on their way to the north pasture. Indians in America could track a rabbit over rocks, he’d heard. How he wished he had some of their skill.
Coming upon a straightaway, he thought he saw the cleft of a deep hoof print ahead. The earth had not yet dried, making the print stand out on the road. Perhaps a horse, pivoting to turn, left the mark. He pushed the roan to a trot, when the animal suddenly shied, bolting forward a few paces.
Reining in, Flavian spun to see what had frightened the horse. In the lane about fifty yards back, lay a strange beast, mottled brown and green with splashes of red. The creature lifted its head. Hair, stringy and caked with mud, swung over its eyes, and a red blaze cut down its cheek. Be it man or beast, whatever it was, his gut churned at the sight, and he wanted nothing more than to ride on before it haunted his dreams. Then it raised a limb in a gesture that seemed almost beseeching, and emitted the faintest croak. Slowly, his mind identified the repugnant sight, and the true horror of what he beheld hit him like a broadsword. “Dear God, Claire!”
He didn’t wait for the horse to stop before he leapt from the saddle and ran to her. Cradling her head in his arms, he brushed her
mud-filled hair back from the gash on her face. She couldn’t speak, only lay in his arms like something dying. “My love, my love, what has happened to you?” Claire only closed her eyes. Her chest heaved with rasping breaths, and one hand drifted about her face as if seeking something to hang onto.
He tore off his coat and laid it over her. From his saddlebags, he dug out a flask of ale. Holding her close, he poured it slowly into her mouth. She swallowed, and her eyes fluttered open. “Drink more.” Cracked lips opened, and he administered more of the ale. It was as if he poured life back into the dead. With each swallow her strength seemed to grow.
“Bless you,” she said, panting for breath. “Bless you for finding me.”
“Let me clean your face a little or the cut may go septic.” He yanked off his cravat, used ale to dampen it, and wiped the mud away from the wound. “You’re a mass of cuts and bruises. What happened to you? Where’s Arabella?” But Claire had drifted out of consciousness.
“Dear God, look at the blood.” Rattled to the core by a slash on her upper arm, he thought of how many men he’d witnessed torn limb from limb in battle, yet seeing Claire in this state sent a bolt of fear through him unlike anything he’d ever known—more terrible even than coming upon poor Valencia.
“Let me bind your arm and get you home.” There was no time for modesty. In one swift maneuver, he pulled his shirt over his head and applied the white lace cuff to the oozing wound. “I will kill the man who did this to you.”
“Arabella,” she whispered, as he took her into his arms, propped her on the saddle, and mounted the horse.
“Did he attack her, too? Is she alive, do you remember?” he spurred the roan to a gallop. “I swear he shall die by my hand.”
Then he thought she said, “Murderess,” but the wind and the sound of the galloping horse drowned her words.
His Lordship's Darkest Secret: Chapter Twelve
The next day, Claire sat in bed with her back propped against a mass of pillows. Hands bandaged, sprained ankle elevated, she balanced Sir Walter Scott’s novel, Waverly, on her knees and tried to read. Her mind refused to settle on the words, listening instead for a knock on the door. Flavian had promised to come see her. She could not forget the stricken look on his face yesterday when she told him what his ward had done. Bolting from the room, she’d heard his boots pounding through the house as he yelled, “Arabella!” Shortly thereafter, he’d returned, and told Claire the girl had run away. Her jewelry, plus some of her clothes and toiletries were missing. The brooding, haunted look had returned to his eyes.
A faint knock now came on the door, but it was Collingwood’s voice asking to enter. The lady’s maid came in with the breakfast tray. “Oh, it’s a blessing you’re awake. His lordship is so anxious. He’s been in and out of your room all night.”
“I didn’t hear him.”
“You were as asleep as the Regent on his throne,” the maid said, handing Claire a cup of chocolate.
“What of Robespierre?”
“Mr. Beverage-Haugh says it’s a blessing the girth of that saddle was good leather. His lordship swim into that ’orrible muck and fasten some ropes to old Robespierre. They hooked a team to ’im, and dragged the poor devil out, with his lordship keeping that ’orse’s head out’a the water. Mr. Simmons says Robespierre just lay there while a lad fed ’im bran mash. Warmed ’im with fires and blankets and such, till around midnight and then the beast kicked ’imself to a stand.”
“Oh, what wonderful news!” Claire couldn’t wait to visit the stables the moment her ankle allowed.
A firm knock sounded. She slapped the covers of Waverly together. “Come in and see me.”
Flavian entered. His smile, though tired and troubled, beamed in her heart like a thousand gold pieces. “You look well this morning.”
Claire snuggled into the pillows. “Everything is so comfortable.”
“Let’s get the hard part over with quickly then.”
He sat in a chair beside her. “Give me your hands. Let’s change these bandages.” She held them out. With utmost care, he peeled off the old dressing and held a basin of water for her to wash in. “Your salve is doing a lot of good. Look at that,” he said, tracing a nasty gash where she’d split her palm during the fall from the tree.
“I don’t want laudanum. I can do without it today.”
“My love,” he murmured, stroking her arm. “I’m not sure that’s wise. Give your body the rest it needs.”
Tears stung her lids. There was nothing harder on exhausted emotions than sympathy. Before devolving into a puddle, she said, “How is Robespierre—have you seen him?”
Flavian smiled. “Do you know that old horse once saved my mother’s life, too? His reward will be to die in his pasture, not in a nasty bog or the knackers’ yard.”
“Lady Monroe come upon a wild boar when she were out riding,” Collingwood said, using the chocolate pot to stand in for an imaginary Robespierre, “That horse kicked that boar, but gentle-like so her ladyship don’t fall off the sidesaddle. Brought her home in one piece, and he’s a sweet old dear to boot. All the staff’s fed him carrots and apples today.”
Collingwood turned her attention to loading Claire’s freshly polished boots into the armoire, and Flavian used the moment to kiss Claire quietly on the lips. He wiggled his brows, and the green sparkled in his eyes. “When you’re feeling up to it, I’ll take you to the barn for a visit.” He winked, and Claire felt a blush rise to her cheeks; the man intended to visit more than old Robespierre in that barn.
* * *
As Flavian read, he paced the library, hessians clicking on the parquet. “Mr. Clamp believes he’s found her,” he said to Claire, snapping a piece of stationery with the thief-taker’s name printed at the top. “She joined a troupe of strollers. He believes they’ll continue following their usual circuit west to Poole. Strollers stop in every little hamlet, so she couldn’t have gone far.” Claire’s hands clenched involuntarily. She forced the fingers open and adjusted a throw pillow behind her on the chaise, trying to keep her features neutral, though her heart quickened.
“Ha!” Flavian said, still reading, still pacing. “He says Arabella garnered high praise the very first time she sang with the actors.” A smile crossed his lips, which only increased Claire’s dread.
Two blissful weeks had passed—weeks of peace, tranquility, and delicious intimacy. Claire tried to deny that her happiness stemmed from the girl’s absence, tried to fear for her and worry that she would fall victim to unscrupulous men, but her usual self-discipline failed. Life at Bingham Hall, with or without babes of her own, now seemed not just tolerable but a joy, and the thought of Arabella returning was as bleak as an icy wind. Yet, it was time to ask the question they’d both seemed to avoid during this happy respite. Claire cleared her throat. “When she’s found, what will you do with her?”
He ceased pacing. “She will never harm you or anyone else again, I promise it.”
“But you’ll bring her here?”
Flavian crossed the room and stroked her cheek, careful to caress far from the scab that still ran from brow to chin. “There’s nowhere else for her to go.”
She swallowed and her body shook. “How can I live in the same house as a woman who left me to die in a bog, who tried to kill me with a wine barrel, who . . . who . . . destroys everything?” The last words came out in a thin stream of near hysteria, so she stuffed her knuckles in her mouth to stop the flow.
Flavian crouched beside her, holding her hands. “She’ll have no freedom to come near you.”
Claire jerked away. “That’s not true! You haven’t the heart. Inch by inch, she’ll press you, and you’ll come to me in despair. I’ll give in because I haven’t the heart, either. I tell you, I cannot share this house with her.”
“But what choice do I have?”
“Send her back to her mother!”
As if she’d landed a blow to his solar plexus, Flavian sank to his knees beside the chaise
. “Arabella’s mother hanged herself.”
Claire gasped. “What are you saying? You told me her mother is still sending her money.”
He shook his head, shoulders slumping as if a great weight pressed them down. “Hernando’s sister, Valencia, was Arabella’s mother. And she took her own life.”
“Oh, how dreadful.”
“I should have guessed her state of mind, but I’d been banished from the Vargas Duarte home, and I was still in hiding. When I saw her, it was nearly a year later, at a masquerade ball. She’d dressed as Death, all in black; but magnificently, in embroidered silk with a mantilla of the finest Spanish lace.” He seemed about to rise, but instead sank lower on his heels. “She shone like something divine, and the men were at her feet. It was as if she absorbed all the light from the chandeliers and the other guests moved in shadow. I had to stay masked, or they would have killed me as an English spy, but I whispered to her, and we danced. And then her own whispers began; her father was starving her, beating her and worse. There was no milk for the child and she feared for Arabella. How she implored me to help them escape.” He rubbed his face, digging the knuckles into his eyes. “And then she disappeared from the party.”
He went still, as if frozen in that moment when he’d realized Valencia had gone. “Suicide is not an easy choice for a devout Catholic, but that night—the night of the ball…”
Her Perfect Gentleman: A Regency Romance Anthology Page 89