by Anne Ashley
Grasping the banister-rail, she took her first tentative step down the staircase, and felt the pistol in the pocket of her skirt brush against her leg. The comfort it brought was immense, giving her the courage to descend further. How glad she was that Samuel had insisted, much to dear Martha’s intense disapproval, on teaching her how to handle firearms so that she would be in a position to protect herself in the unlikely event that there was ever any trouble at the inn.
For someone who deplored any form of violence, Emma had been astounded at her surprising skill at handling a pistol. But shooting bottles set on top of fence posts was one thing, she reminded herself; levelling a pistol at another human being was quite another. Would she have the courage to fire it? She wasn’t certain and could only hope that she wouldn’t be put to the test.
Several of the stairs creaked in protest, sounding like thunder to her ears, as she made the slow descent to the hall. To her intense relief no one came out of the library to investigate, so she did not delay in commencing her search.
Lady Luck, it seemed, had decided to favour her thus far, and generously continued to do so, for within a very short time Emma discovered her quarry, arms and feet bound, lying prone upon the sofa in the small salon into which she had been shown on the night of Clarissa’s party.
Although it was by now quite dark, there was still sufficient light for Emma to see the crust of dried blood in Richard’s blond hair. How long he had lain there unconscious she had no way of knowing, but blessedly he murmured as she removed the gag and began to free him from the constricting ropes.
Once this task was successfully completed, she did not hesitate to make use of the contents of the conveniently positioned brandy decanter nearby. Gently supporting his head, she placed the glass to lips that were alarmingly blue, and quickly tipped a small quantity of the liquor down his throat. He coughed in protest, but did not attempt to prevent her from repeating the process, and thankfully after a further moment his eyelids flickered open.
‘Richard…Richard, it’s Emma,’ she whispered, as he gazed up at her in frowning silence, as though he were having difficulty in bringing her features into focus. ‘Richard, can you hear me?’
‘Emma?’ He made a feeble attempt to raise one hand, then let it fall. ‘My head…’
‘Yes, my dear. You’ve sustained a severe blow. But there’s nothing I can do for you now. I must get you out of here.’
Placing the glass to his lips again, Emma encouraged him to sample a little more of its contents, before coaxing him to sit up. It was quite obviously an effort, but eventually he did succeed in swinging his feet to the floor. The dazed look was beginning to leave his eyes, but she was not so foolish as to suppose that in his present state he could walk very far. The best she could hope to do was hide him somewhere, perhaps in one of the outhouses, and then go for help.
‘Where the deuce am I?’ he demanded, gazing about the shadowy room in obvious confusion.
‘At Ashworth Hall. You rode over in the afternoon, remember?’
‘Yes,’ he said after a moment’s frowning silence, ‘I remember. My aunt wished to see me.’
‘Yes, I know she did,’ Emma muttered sardonically. ‘It was she who administered that blow to your head. She wants you dead, Richard. I, on the other hand, intend that you shall remain very much alive.’
‘And how, may I ask, do you propose to ensure that?’
The half-empty glass falling from her fingers, Emma swung round to discover the figure of Isabel Ashworth staring across at her from the open doorway.
Emma had never considered Isabel Ashworth a handsome woman; she was far too angular and sharp featured to be considered even remotely attractive. Yet now she appeared almost ugly, with her thin lips twisted by an unpleasant smirk, and with a sinister glint in her hard and pitiless dark eyes.
‘I was right, Flint, I did hear something,’ she flung over her shoulder, before moving to one side to allow her steward to pass into the room.
For a moment Emma focused her attention on the pistol in Flint’s hand before offering her assistance to Richard who was attempting to rise to his feet. He swayed slightly as he clung to her for support.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ he demanded, proving to Emma that there was precious little amiss with his mental faculties. Whether he would prove of much help in the present situation was unlikely. He was undoubtedly still suffering badly from the blow to his head, but he certainly did not lack courage, as he proved when he suddenly thrust her behind him, shielding her with his own body.
The action caused him to sway yet again, and he took an unwary step forward. Before Emma could reach out a supporting hand, there was a deafening report, and the next moment Richard had slumped to his knees, grasping his left shoulder.
‘You damned fool!’ Isabel rounded on her henchman in a cold fury. ‘I didn’t want him shot.’
‘Shot…battered to death, what’s the odds? I thought he was going for the pistol,’ he growled back at her, before turning his attention to Emma who had not been slow to act during the brief altercation.
Having extracted her own pistol, she held it hidden between the folds of her skirt, no longer troubled about making use of it, when she detected the telltale glint in Flint’s dark eyes as he cast an insulting glance over her figure. His intent was patently obvious, as his next words proved.
‘You can leave the wench to me. I don’t intend to dispose of her quite yet. I’ll take her to the lodge.’
‘I do not think so,’ Emma countered, raising her right hand. ‘Take one step nearer, and I shall fire.’
The unexpected sight of the pistol clasped in her steady, slender fingers certainly gave Flint pause for thought, but Isabel merely sneered. ‘Don’t be a fool! I doubt she even knows how to fire the thing. Take it from her!’
‘I would strongly advise you to disobey that order,’ Emma cautioned, while deep down knowing that she was wasting her breath and that she would ever afterwards be forced to live with the knowledge that she had taken a human life.
As anticipated he chose not to heed the warning, and made to dash forward, leaving Emma no choice but to squeeze the trigger, and a moment later Flint lay on the ground, with a lethal piece of lead shot firmly embedded in his chest.
Hardly had the second deafening report died away than there came a thunderous hammering on the front door, quickly followed by the sound of breaking glass, and a beloved voice frantically shouting Emma’s name. She was so overcome with relief that she discovered it was as much as she could do to answer his call, and a moment later Benedict came striding into the room.
In one sweeping glance, he took in the deplorable scene. His eyes momentarily focused on the smoking pistol still clasped in Emma’s hand, before he rounded on the woman now cowering in the doorway.
It was obvious by her distraught expression that Isabel knew it would be useless to attempt to convince him or anyone else of her own innocence, and he did not hesitate to assure her of this fact. ‘Sir Lionel will be here in a very short time, and then you, madam, shall be brought to book for your crimes.’
A spark of defiance returned to her eyes. ‘At least when I go to the scaffold I shall have the satisfaction of knowing that he shall never reside under this roof.’
Emma, having dropped to her knees to examine Richard’s wound, was appalled by Isabel Ashworth’s expression of unholy satisfaction, and gained no little amount herself in announcing that the young Baron was not dead yet. ‘And be assured, madam, I shall do everything within my power to ensure that he remains alive.’
A piercing scream rent the air as Isabel made to dash forward, but her frantic attempt to lay violent hands on Richard, or Emma, or perhaps both, was easily foiled by Benedict who grasped her arm and almost flung her back against the wall, his expression one of utter loathing.
‘You have committed your last evil deed, madam.’ He almost spat the words at her, and the answering shout of hysterical laughter clearly revealed the stat
e of Isabel Ashworth’s mind, before she slipped quietly from the room.
‘Do you not think you should go after her, Ben?’ Emma suggested, momentarily raising her eyes from the task of placing her handkerchief over the wound in Richard’s shoulder in an attempt to stem the flow of blood, which had already alarmingly stained a large portion of his shirt.
Benedict, who had been watching Isabel’s headlong flight up the stairs, came across to kneel beside Emma, and examined the wound for himself. ‘If she attempts to escape, she’ll not get far. My first priority is to get this young man to a doctor. If he continues losing blood at this rate, your desire to thwart that fiendish woman will come to naught.’
Agonisingly aware of this herself, Emma did not attempt to argue. She watched him leave the room, and was relieved when he returned only minutes later with his groom. Richard was then carried out to the carriage, and Emma quickly scrambled in beside him in order to hold both her own and Benedict’s handkerchiefs over the wound, which she prayed would not prove fatal.
‘John will take you back to the inn now, Emma.’ Benedict cast one last anxious glance at the young lord’s unconscious form. ‘The sooner he’s in the hands of a physician the better. I shall remain here until Sir Lionel arrives.’
He took a step back from the door, and was about to issue orders to his groom to return to the inn as swiftly as possible, when Emma uttered a strangled cry, and he swung round in the direction of her pointing finger to see Isabel Ashworth, framed in flames and billowing smoke, standing at one of the upper floor windows in the west wing.
Cutting across Emma’s demand to remain, Benedict successfully thwarted her attempt to alight by slamming the carriage door firmly shut. He remained only until his groom had given the horses the office to start, and then hurried back into the house.
By the time he had mounted the stairs the gallery passageway was thick with choking smoke. Isabel in her frenzied state had attempted to set light to each and every room in the west wing, undoubtedly in a determined last effort to ensure that her nephew would never reside in the house she had always considered her own. Her vindictiveness knew no bounds, it seemed, and Benedict very much feared that her last malicious act would turn out to be wholly successful.
Flames began to appear beneath several of the partially closed doors, and swiftly spread across the red carpet, halting his progress towards the room where he guessed Isabel was to be found. He called out frantically, and was answered by a cackle of demented laughter, before a firm grasp on his arm checked any further attempt to save her, and Harry’s anxious voice begged him not to try.
As they reached the foot of the stairs, the whole of the gallery was ablaze, and even though Harry rode straight back to the village to get help, little could be salvaged. The fire continued throughout the night, and could be seen for miles around. By morning the house was a smouldering shell, its roof completely destroyed, its few remaining walls smoke-blackened and crumbling, a ruin beyond repair.
Chapter Twelve
During the following days Benedict was destined to see too little of Emma. Naturally he apprised her of the total destruction of the Hall, and of Isabel Ashworth perishing in the blaze, and she in turn managed to find time to relate the conversation she had overheard between Isabel and Lucius Flint. None the less Benedict very much doubted that Emma was granted much opportunity to dwell overlong on either the damning revelations or the ensuing tragedy, for her time was taken up in nursing Richard.
Although Dr Fielding successfully extracted the piece of lead shot from Richard’s shoulder, the wound became inflamed. This, coupled with the considerable loss of blood, resulted in his patient becoming feverish, and requiring constant attention. For three days and nights the high temperature raged, and Richard’s life hung in the balance, but thankfully midway through the fourth day Benedict received word that the fever had broken, and that Dr Fielding considered his patient no longer in danger. Richard’s appetite gradually began to return, and by the end of the week he was betraying definite signs of regaining his strength.
Returning to the inn after a midmorning stroll about the village, Benedict came upon Emma emerging from the sickroom. He nodded in approval at the scant remains of breakfast on the tray she carried. Unfortunately her own appearance did not afford him any such satisfaction.
She was looking pale and tired, which was only to be expected after all the time she had spent taking care of Richard. Both he and Harry had spent time in the sickroom during those first few days, when Richard had been feverish and had needed constant attention. Martha too had been of immense help, but, with the inn to run, she could not be on hand twenty-four hours a day. Consequently the brunt of the nursing had fallen upon Emma.
‘The young invalid is continuing to regain his appetite, I see. A very good sign, I think.’ He chose not to add that this would result in her being able to spend more time with him.
‘Oh yes. I was speaking to the doctor earlier and he sees no reason to continue his daily visits, though he thinks it will be a while yet before Richard is fully recovered.’
‘By which time, if I know anything, the only condition plaguing our young friend will be rank boredom. Which I shall do my best to alleviate now by paying him a short visit.’
He paused with his hand on the door-handle as he bethought himself of something. ‘Emma,’ he called, arresting her progress towards the stairs. ‘I came upon Sir Lionel during my walk. He intends to call here later and would appreciate a word with you in private. I’ll let you know when he arrives.’
Receiving a nod in response, Benedict entered the bedchamber to discover Richard propped against a mound of pillows, looking remarkably well considering the ordeal he had been through. The bandage had now been removed from his head, but his left arm was still strapped tightly across his chest in an attempt to stop him from straining the injured shoulder and reopening the wound.
He smiled to himself as he made use of the chair placed by the bed. ‘You will be pleased to know that you are beginning to look quite disgustingly healthy.’
‘And not before time!’ Richard muttered, betraying clear signs of tedium already. ‘The pain in my head has gone completely, but the shoulder is still a little sore.’
‘More than just a little, I suspect, you lying young rogue! Don’t attempt to do too much too soon.’
‘Not much chance of that.’ Richard grimaced. ‘The doctor insists I remain in bed for another week, possibly two.’ He gazed into the intelligent blue eyes which betrayed a trace of sympathy now. ‘I say, Ben, I’m glad you’ve taken the trouble to pay me a visit. It grants me the opportunity to thank you for everything you’ve done. Sir Lionel explained yesterday, when he called to see me, just how much I owe to you.’
Benedict dismissed this with a wave of one shapely hand. ‘He exaggerated, my dear boy. If you should be grateful to anyone, then it is Emma.’
‘By Jove, yes! And don’t I know it.’ There was more than just a hint of affection in Richard’s lazy smile. ‘What a girl, eh? You’re a damned lucky fellow, Ben.’ He looked up at him a little self-consciously. ‘Harry warned me on the day I arrived here not to poach on his uncle’s territory.’
‘Oh, he did, did he?’ Benedict was much struck by this. ‘I didn’t realise my nephew possessed such powers of penetration.’
Richard chuckled at the dry tone, and then winced at the pain which shot through his shoulder. ‘No, I could never repay what she’s done for me during this past week. Not to mention putting herself at considerable risk to come searching for me at the Hall. I understand that it was she who shot Flint.’
Benedict regarded the younger man in silence for a moment, before nodding his head in confirmation. ‘But you will oblige me by not remarking upon that fact, especially not in Emma’s hearing, for unless I much mistake the matter, that is the one incident in the whole wretched business with which she will find it difficult to come to terms.’
‘Understood,’ Richard responded, his eyes
glowing with respect. ‘She’s a dashed brave little soul, none the less! A pearl beyond price!’
‘You think so, young man?’ was Benedict’s laconic response. ‘My opinion of her behaviour differs somewhat from yours… A fact that it will afford me the utmost pleasure to make perfectly plain to her at the first available opportunity.’
Benedict then changed the subject by informing him of the precise condition of his ancestral home, lest Sir Lionel had omitted to do so. ‘With half the village at the Andover Fair, we couldn’t round up enough people even to attempt to contain the blaze. Believe me, no one regrets its destruction more than I,’ he went on to confess. ‘I would have given much to have been able to thwart Isabel Ashworth’s determination that you would never reside in that house.’
‘Don’t give it another thought, my dear fellow,’ Richard surprised Benedict by announcing cheerfully. ‘Although she didn’t know it, my aunt did me a good turn by destroying the Hall. I only ever set foot in the place three times, but I was certain that I would never feel comfortable there. Now I can build a new house overlooking the lake, which will be mine from the first.’
He shook his head in wonder. ‘When I first arrived back in England, I wasn’t at all sure that I would wish to remain. I thought I should find life devilish dull. How wrong can one be! It has been anything but!’
An hour later Benedict wandered through to the kitchen to discover both Emma and Martha seated at the table, effecting necessary repairs to various items of household linen. ‘If you have no objection, Mrs Rudge, I shall deprive you of your helpmate for a short while. Sir Lionel arrived a few minutes ago, and is wishful to have a few words with her in the privacy of the parlour.’
Benedict clearly detected the suddenly assessing look in her dark eyes. It was much to Samuel and Martha’s credit that neither of them had attempted to uncover precisely what had taken place at the Hall a week ago. Sir Lionel had not delayed in extracting a promise of strict silence from both Emma and Harry, and although there had been much talk and speculation amongst the villagers since the tragedy occurred, very few remained in possession of all the facts.