by Jane Ashford
The first piece of information appeared to reassure Jarrett, but at this last remark, he swore. “They’ll overtake us, then,” he muttered. “I should have bespoken a team.” He looked up toward the driver again. “Go as fast as you can,” he told him, “but if they wish to pass, let them by.” He closed the window again and leaned back uneasily. “You see what it is to be poor,” he said bitterly to Elisabeth. “I hired a pair instead of a team, trying to economize, and now I must fear every equipage on the road behind me.”
Elisabeth said nothing, but a small hope began to grow in her mind. Surely she could make some opportunity to cry for help when this vehicle came up with them, she thought. If necessary, she would shout from within the closed carriage.
Time seemed to pass very slowly, but in reality, the following carriage came up with them quickly. It had a clear advantage in cattle, and the driver traveled with a speed that suggested he knew the road well. Jarrett peered out once again as it neared. “Damn fool,” he murmured as he did so, “driving at this time of day in a curricle. Must be some town sprig out to show his mettle.” This reflection seemed to comfort him, and he pushed the window nearly closed again and sat back.
Before long, the other vehicle was directly behind them. They drove thus for a while, and Jarrett began to mutter, “why does he not pass,” just as the curricle pulled out to do so. Their own driver moved as far to the side of the road as possible in the dim light of the lamps, and the curricle pulled level with them.
Now, Elisabeth thought, was her only chance. The noise of the horses and wheels was loud, but if she shouted she might just be heard by these travelers. She took a deep breath and turned toward that side of the chaise. “Help,” she cried, “help me, please.”
Immediately, Jarrett was upon her, grasping her waist and putting a hand over her mouth. “That was very foolish,” he said between his teeth. “I’d thought you cleverer.”
Both of them listened intently to see whether her cry had been heard. It seemed not. The curricle pulled ahead of them gradually and continued along the road. Elisabeth had given up, and Jarrett’s grip on her was easing when the sound of a carriage being stopped abruptly came from ahead. Their own vehicle began to slow, and Jarrett shouted, “What are you doing, you fool?”
“Can’t help it,” came back the muffled answer. “We’ll hit ’em else.”
Jarrett pushed Elisabeth roughly to the floor of the coach and flung open the window once again. He peered out fiercely. Their driver was hauling desperately on the reins, trying to avoid colliding with the curricle, which was now pulled up across the road ahead of them. They approached so rapidly that at first it seemed they would crash, but at the last moment, their driver managed to stop the plunging horses.
Elisabeth had scrambled back into her seat amid the jostling, and now she cried again, “Help, help me,” as loudly as she could.
“Keep quiet,” said Jarrett, aiming a blow at her, which she dodged. “Turn,” he called up to the driver. “Back them and turn.”
“I’ll try, guv’nor,” replied the man, and he began to urge the pair backward.
At that moment, a voice came out of the darkness ahead. “Stop,” it said. “Get down and release Miss Elham immediately. I have three men with me. You are outnumbered.”
“Derek,” whispered Elisabeth. A wave of relief and joy spread through her.
Jarrett glanced at her sharply, then leaned further out the window. “Back them!” he insisted again.
“I’m tryin,” said the driver. The horses had indeed begun to move back from the curricle, and the man now started to turn them, a slow, awkward process.
The curricle also started to move. “Give over,” called Derek Wincannon, “you can’t get away now.”
In the dimness of the chaise, Jarrett bared his teeth. “Can we not?” he said to himself. He reached into the pocket on his side of the coach and brought out a large pistol. Before Elisabeth could do more than stare in horror, he had aimed and fired it at the other vehicle.
The sound of the shot galvanized her. “No,” she cried, and threw herself upon Jarrett’s arm. Cursing, he flung her back.
Elisabeth sought to catch hold of Jarrett’s arm again, but this time he did strike her, dazing her for a moment.
He fired once more as the chaise concluded its turn, and then they were galloping back the way they had come, paying no heed to ruts, mud, or darkness.
The curricle followed. Jarrett was busy reloading his pistol, and Wincannon soon began to close the distance between them. But then, Jarrett leaned out the window and started to fire again, one shot hitting a lantern and forcing their pursuer to drop back a little. Elisabeth sought to impede him in any way she could, but he hung so far out the window, she could not reach the pistol.
The chaise careened wildly about, hitting deep ruts, and the two passengers were thrown one way and then the other. Jarrett hung on to the window frame grimly, most of his shots wild, but Elisabeth was less well anchored, and she fell to the floor several times.
The curricle neared them again as Jarrett was forced to pause and reload his gun. The bouncing of the chaise made this difficult, and it took him some time. Just as he finished, the vehicle gave an extraordinary lurch, throwing them both down, and then began to slow. “What are you doing, man?” shouted Jarrett, scrambling up.
There was no answer at first, only more lurching and a diminished speed. Then, the driver’s voice drifted down to them, strained with his efforts. “One of the beasts stumbled. He’s gone dead lame. We’ve shot our bolt, guv.” The chaise came gradually to an unsteady stop, and Wincannon’s curricle pulled up directly behind them.
Jarrett swore fiercely. He looked around him, then seized Elisabeth’s arm, thrust open the carriage door, and pulled her out. Standing in the muddy road, he pulled her against him and held his pistol to her head. “Keep off,” he called into the darkness behind, “keep off or I’ll shoot her.”
Derek Wincannon appeared before them out of the gloom. “Let her go, Jarrett,” he said quietly. “Your game is over.”
“Not yet, I think,” answered Jarrett. “You dare not try to take me while I hold her thus. And don’t think I won’t carry through my threats. I have nothing to lose now, you see.”
Derek ignored him. “Are you hurt, Elisabeth?” he asked.
“No,” she responded carefully, very aware of the gun, “only shaken.”
“You don’t seem to understand,” said Jarrett. “I’ll kill her unless you stand off and allow us to continue our journey in peace.”
“It is you who don’t understand,” said Derek coldly. “It is over. Your chaise is surrounded by my men, and your driver is taken. You must give up,”
“Do you not believe I’ll fire?”
“I don’t believe you’re such a fool, no.”
Elisabeth’s eyes widened a bit, but she said nothing.
A tense silence began and stretched long in Elisabeth’s mind. The gun remained pressed to her temple. She could feel Jarrett’s nervousness in the taut trembling of his muscles. Derek watched them, a grim look growing about his mouth. When Elisabeth thought she would scream with anxiety and fear, a sound broke the tension. A single horse, hard-ridden from the sound of it, was approaching from the open fields on the left.
All of them looked toward the sound, startled. “Every idiot in the countryside is out tonight,” muttered Jarrett, and he tightened his grip on Elisabeth. The horse came on fast. As the hoofbeats came closer and closer the little group appeared transfixed by them, unable to move. Then, as Derek made a hasty gesture, the rider burst upon them from the darkness of the field.
“Stop, let them go,” cried a very disheveled and nearly hysterical Jane Taunton from the horse’s back. “I have a gun.”
“Jane!” exclaimed Elisabeth.
There were several moments of confusion. Jane couldn’t co
ntrol her foam-flecked and overexcited mount, which plunged here and there about the road. Elisabeth saw a man materialize from the gloom beyond the chaise, catch the horse’s bridle, and pull Jane down. As Elisabeth watched, she was knocked to the ground as Derek Wincannon threw himself upon Jarrett. In a moment, he had wrested his pistol from him and was holding it aimed at his heart.
His man brought Jane to stand next to Jarrett, handing Wincannon her tiny gun as he did so, and another man brought the driver to join them. Derek handed the large gun to this man and turned to help Elisabeth to her feet. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I had to take the opportunity when it was offered.”
“Of course,” agreed Elisabeth warmly. “And very well done it was. I’m not hurt; I was merely catching my breath.”
But Derek’s arm did not leave her waist, and she didn’t move away from him. He continued to look at her as he said, “Take them to the nearest town in the chaise, Tom. I’ll drive the lady home in the curricle.”
“Her, too?” asked Tom, gesturing doubtfully toward Jane Taunton.
Derek looked up, seeming surprised to see Jane there. “Ah. I’m not…just what are you doing here, Miss Taunton?”
Jane appeared very weary and bitterly disappointed. She glanced toward Elisabeth, but the other girl looked at the ground. Though she wouldn’t betray her former friend, neither would she help her. “I…I came to…” began Jane.
“She came to further our scheme,” put in Jarrett. “She helped me plan the whole.”
Derek looked shocked. “Is that true?” he asked Jane.
She seemed to hesitate a moment, then her chin went up defiantly. “Yes,” she replied. “And you’ll be making a mistake if you have us imprisoned.”
Wincannon’s eyes had hardened at her affirmative. “I think not.”
Jane turned to Elisabeth. “We’ll make the duchess’s story known to the ton,” she said coolly.
Elisabeth gripped Derek’s arm. “I’d nearly forgotten,” she whispered miserably.
“What is it?” Wincannon looked down at her with concern.
Very quietly, Elisabeth explained to him what the duchess had told her and Jane’s eavesdropping. As Derek’s frown grew, self-satisfied smiles spread across the faces of Jane and Jarrett. “So you see,” finished Elisabeth in a whisper, “we cannot let them talk to anyone. We must let them go.”
“I doubt that many would credit their tale, coming from the prisons,” answered Derek. Elisabeth pulled at his sleeve. “But since it upsets you, we must make it impossible for them to spread it about.”
The smile faded from their captives’ faces. Jarrett especially whitened. “What will you do?” he asked.
Derek smiled. “Not have you shot out of hand, if that’s what you’re thinking. You may threaten such things, but I don’t promise what I will not perform.” He surveyed the two. “No, I shall do justice only. Do you know the penalty for what you’ve done?”
Jane looked blank, but Jarrett said, “Transportation,” with a grim shake of his head.
Derek nodded. “And oddly enough, it happens that a ship leaves the London docks tomorrow for the Pacific islands. I know this because two of my tenants are to be on it; they wished to try their fortunes in Australia, and I outfitted them. Tom here and his friends will escort you there and put you in their care. They’ll see that you make the entire voyage safely.” He turned to Elisabeth. “It’s a journey of three months out and as much back. I don’t think they’ll have the will, or the means, to return. And it will be kinder done in this way; they’ll arrive as settlers, not convicts.”
Elisabeth looked distressed. “Jane,” she said, “if only you would promise me, on your life and honor, not to speak of the duchess. I don’t wish to send you on such a voyage.”
Jane looked tempted. “You can’t trust her,” said Jarrett.
She looked at him venomously, shrugged, and shook her head. “Why not Australia?” she replied. “It can be no worse than London, after all, and I shall see the world, at least.”
Elisabeth bowed her head, and Derek gave his men an unobtrusive signal. As he led Elisabeth back to his curricle, the three kidnappers were put into the chaise. Derek handed her up, then returned to his men for a moment. When he came back, he said, “They will go slowly with the lame horse to a nearby village where they can get a fresh pair. They are trustworthy.”
“I suppose Jane will tell them about the duchess,” answered Elisabeth uncertainly.
“They will say nothing,” replied Derek as he climbed up beside her and took the reins. He pulled out of the way, so that the chaise could be turned and headed south. The two of them sat still to watch the large coach move slowly away, then Derek signaled his horses, and they started home.
There was a short silence. “There is a lap robe behind the seat if you are cold,” said Derek after a while.
“Thank you,” responded Elisabeth, looking around and reaching for it. “It is cold for the season, is it not?”
He laughed. “Can you talk of the weather after the day you’ve had? You are incredible, Elisabeth.”
The girl reddened slightly. “It’s easier to talk of commonplaces.”
He slowed the horses to a walk. “Very true,” he replied dryly. “However, we have put off a rather important subject for too long now. Don’t you agree?”
Elisabeth looked down. “I’m not sure…” she began.
“You are,” interrupted Derek.
She raised her eyes and gazed into his. The warmth and love she saw there dissolved all her hesitations. She smiled. “We have,” she agreed.
He stopped the curricle beside the road. “When shall the wedding be?” he asked her.
“Are you not taking a great deal for granted, sir?” answered Elisabeth, still smiling up at him. “You haven’t asked me if I will.”
“I had hoped I knew the answer. But I ask formally, then, if you desire it. Elisabeth, will you be my wife?”
“Very good,” she replied. “I think September.”
Holding the reins in one hand, he embraced her with his free arm. “August,” he suggested.
Elizabeth laughed. “Perhaps.” And then she could say no more for quite some time.
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One
Lord Randolph Gresham attracted more than one admiring glance as he walked along Grosvenor Square toward Bond Street on a Tuesday morning. And indeed he felt unusually dapper. His dark-blue coat had arrived from the tailor only yesterday. His dove-gray pantaloons outlined a muscular leg. His hat sat at a jaunty angle. He’d often been told that he was the best looking of the six sons of the Duke of Langford—tall, handsome, broad-shouldered men with auburn hair and blue eyes—and today he thought he almost deserved the accolade.
He breathed in the early April air, invigorating with a tang of spring, and listened to the birds calling in the trees. For the next four months, in the interval between parishes, he was not a vicar or a model for proper behavior. He had no special position to uphold and no clerical duties. He was free to enjoy the London season, and he fully intended to do so.
A familiar shape caught his eye in passing. He turned, then went quite still. His feet had taken him automatically into Carlos Place. How odd. His body had somehow remembered what his brain had passed over. He would not have come here consciously, although in an earlier season, six years ago, he’d walked this route nearly every day.
Randolph went a bit further and stopped again to gaze up at a narrow brick house. Behind those tall, narrow windows he’d wooed Rosalie Delacourt, asked for her hand, and been delightfully accepted.
A vision of her laughing face assailed
him. She’d so often been laughing, her lips curved in the most enticing way. Her hazel eyes had sparkled like sunshine on water. She’d been elfin slender, with chestnut-brown hair and a few hated freckles on her nose. She was always trying to eradicate those freckles with one nostrum or another.
From the moment they met, introduced by a friend of his mother’s at a concert, he’d thought of no one but Rosalie. The fact that she was eminently suitable—by birth and upbringing and fortune—was pleasant, but irrelevant. He would have married her if she’d been a pauper. She said the same. It had all been decided between them in a matter of weeks. Life had seemed perfect to a young man freshly ordained, with a parish, and ready to set off on his chosen path.
Gazing at the unresponsive house, Randolph felt a reminiscent brush of devastation. Why had he come here? His grief was muted by time. He didn’t think of Rosalie often now. The Delacourts no longer lived in town. Indeed, he’d heard that they rarely came to London. And who could blame them?
Not for the first time, Randolph was glad that only his mother had known about his engagement to Rosalie. Randolph had enjoyed keeping his courtship private, away from the eyes of the haut ton. His brothers had been busy with their own affairs. And so, in the aftermath, he’d been able to stumble quietly off to Northumberland and what he’d sometimes thought of as exile, though of course it wasn’t. He’d found solace in his work and the good he could do, and gradually his pain had eased.
Randolph took a moment to acknowledge the past with a bowed head and then walked on. He wouldn’t come this way again.
A few minutes later, Randolph reached his original goal, another place he hadn’t been in years, Angelo’s Academy on Bond Street, next to Gentleman Jackson’s boxing saloon. Entering, he heard the familiar sound of ringing steel and murmured commentary. Pairs of men fenced with blunted foils, guided and corrected by the famed proprietor and his helpers. Others worked on their stance or observed. Randolph joined the latter until he was noticed and the owner of the place hurried over. “It’s been far too long since we’ve seen you, Lord Randolph,” said Henry Angelo, scion of the dynasty of fencing masters.