by Joan Vincent
"What is this about?"
"Juliane is gone. Mallatt should be getting to your room soon.” He looked into the corridor. “Follow me."
They hurried down long hallways, pausing at the door to the comte's room.
"That was the most unusual tour of your house I have ever had, Adrian. You should treat more of your guests to it,” said Cavilón, brushing dust from his sleeves.
Lord Adrian grimaced at him. “Here is Mallatt—let's go in."
The door shut behind the three, Cavilón looked to Adrian and Lord Adrian looked to Mallatt.
"Lady Juliane took Belle out early this morning. She had a small valise with her and her cloak as well. The groom said she intimated she would be back in a short time but there has been no sign of her."
"Do you suppose she...” Cavilón began.
"Yes. She probably decided to find the children on her own. It would be just like her,” Adrian answered.
"But what to do about Dougherty? He seems to be set upon speaking with her."
"I know. That would involve telling him far more than I desire to. Something I refuse to do, in fact. It is my fault that she is in this position,” Lord Adrian swore.
"My lord, if I may make a suggestion,” offered Mallatt. “I and a handful of men can look for Lady Juliane this afternoon while you keep Mr. Dougherty occupied. I believe he has asked to speak with Lady Tretain.
Her ladyship, your mother, my lord, is indeed Lady Tretain. She could give Mr. Dougherty a most interesting time of it—enough time to allow you and the comte to get away and find Lady Juliane if we are not successful."
Cavilón nodded. “If we fail, you can always explain matters to him."
"I can explain matters?” quizzed Lord Adrian with a cocked eyebrow.
* * * *
Endless as the yards of tulle making up the ruching on Lady Cecile's gown was the day. The rays of the setting sun streaming through the salon windows caught Lord Adrian's attention.
In France he had spent many such lingering days but, having never been quite so personally involved before, Lord Adrian found the pleasantries and inanimate activities of this day a sore trial. By dint of heavy restraint he displayed only a slight sarcasm and this was laid to his changeable temperament.
"We must dress if we are to dine on time,” Lord Adrian threw out. “We keep country hours here, Mr. Dougherty. I do hope it isn't too bothersome."
"Of course not, Lord Tretain. I do hope I'll have the pleasure of Lady Tretain's company at dinner."
"Till later.” Adrian escaped with a sigh. The man had become like a leech. The fact that Louís had not yet returned worried him greatly.
A short white later Cavilón strolled into the earl's bedchamber shaking his head. “There is no sign of Lady Juliane. We did learn she had stopped at a cottage or two early in the day asking if anyone had seen the children. Then nothing."
His brow furrowed with concern, Lord Adrian paced.
"They are still searching,” his friend tried to console him. “She may return on her own."
Shaking his head, Lord Adrian frowned. “The nights are still severe. She has only a cloak. What if she takes a deathly chill?"
"Come, Adrian. If you will forgive me, Lady Juliane is as healthy as le cheval de proverbe and of quick intellect."
"Which she is not using!"
"We had better dress for dinner. Have you attended to Dougherty's interview?” asked Cavilón with a smile.
"No. I had best hurry to Mother's apartments. What explanation I will give for asking her to do this is beyond me."
"Ah, Adrian. You are doing it ‘too brown’ as you Englishmen are fond of saying. I have yet to see a tale beyond your means.
"True, yours are sometimes a bit fantastique but they are manageable, nevertheless,” the comte laughed.
"But never so close to my heart,” said Adrian grimly.
* * * *
Michael Dougherty sensed something was very out of sorts at Trees. His reception had been usual enough and his treatment, to be truthful, was far more pleasant than he had received in some of the gentry's homes he had visited on occasions of business.
Lord Adrian was just a bit on edge, it seemed to him, but he liked the man. There was an air on the part of some of the servants that bespoke unease, especially in his presence, as if there had been an occurrence of which he must not learn. It was odd that he had neither seen nor heard any sign of the two children. On such a lovely day he would have expected their nurse to arrange an outing.
"Mr. Dougherty,” coughed Holdt. “Lady Tretain will see you now. Follow me.” He led the runner up the stairs and through corridors, finally halting before an imposing set of doors.
"Her ladyship awaits,” the butler said opening the doors for the runner.
Dougherty passed through and Holdt pulled them shut.
The candlelight in the room was soft and dim. Mr. Dougherty scanned the room with a keen eye. He would not have thought that Lady Tretain had been at Trees long enough to add such a personal mark to the decorations. She apparently had in this sitting room.
And where was her ladyship? Walking to the centre of the room, he cleared his throat loudly.
"Mr. Dougherty?” came the question from behind a large screen to one side.
"It is, m'lady."
"Please be seated by the fire. I will be with you shortly."
The runner seated himself, thinking how different voices generally are from what one expects.
A half hour later, Mr. Dougherty cleared his throat again—loudly.
"Just a few more moments, my good man. I have not been well today."
Twenty minutes later, his patience expended, the runner rose.
At this there was movement behind the screen. “You young people,” complained Lady Tretain, coming grandly into view, “are always rushing."
Dougherty stood, mouth agape. Then he regained his composure. “I am sorry, but I believed I was brought to see Lady Tretain."
"And so you were. No one has ever asked to see my marriage lines all these years past, but I can produce them, I assure you."
"I did not mean—I apologize, m'lady. It..."
"I can understand your confusion.” She waved a hand elegantly at him, then stood silent.
"May I ask..."
"Why that is what I understood you wished—to ask questions. It would seem senseless for you to disturb me and then not ask them, would it not?” she asked, enjoying herself thoroughly.
"It is my understanding ... Lord Tretain has a wife,” stuttered the runner. He tried to remain calm.
"Of course he did,” Lady Tretain said, cutting in before he could complete his question. “How do you suppose we came by the present heir?” she asked exasperatedly.
"That is who I am speaking of—Lord Adrian Tarrant—and his wife—Lady Juliane."
"Well, for heaven's sake why don't you make yourself clear?"
Dougherty stared at her, waiting for more. When no further information came, he asked, “Am I not to be allowed to see her then?"
"No one is preventing you, but then, I am not certain where she has gone."
"Lady Juliane is not at Trees?” the runner asked, all his suspicions aroused.
"No, nothing of the sort. It is just that she flits about so—to the nursery, to the salon, to her room."
"She is very nervous then?” asked the runner with satisfaction.
"No, the calmest woman I have ever met.
"Mr. Dougherty, could I not interest you in a small glass of ... refreshment?” asked Lady Tretain, deeming the timing appropriate.
Dougherty scratched his head. “Not my usual habit, you understand, m'lady. But a spot wouldn't hurt just now."
"I am certain it would not. Let us be seated.
"Satter,” the dowager countess called. “Glasses for the gentleman and myself."
Her abigail entered from a side door carrying a silver tray with a bottle of sherry and two glasses. The glasses did a merry danc
e upon the tray as she nervously approached them.
Dougherty noticed this and thought it odd but, as her ladyship made no comment, he dismissed it.
Lady Tretain removed the stopper from the decanter and poured the two glasses full. Indicating for the runner to pick one up, she chose the other and raised it. “Shall we say, to your health. You do look a bit tired.” Smiling, she raised the glass to her lips.
"To yours, m'lady.” He quaffed the drink.
Lady Tretain lowered her glass without having taken a sip. “Sherry should never be gulped, my man. When one does it that way, strange things happen."
"Such as?"
"Why, I am told one becomes sleepy. Now there you are yawning. You must remember never to gulp, mustn't you, Mr. Dougherty. Mr. Dougherty?
"My, my. Satter,” the dowager countess called once more. “My guest has found my conversation most boring. Would you fetch Holdt and some others to remove him?"
Watching the men carry the runner from the room, Lady Tretain puzzled over the brief explanation Adrian had given her.
The children were missing, Lady Juliane was off somewhere searching for them, and now he and the comte were looking for her. A runner was not needed in all this confusion.
Surely, she asked herself, one could get into trouble meddling with a runner? But it was only a harmless sleeping potion. Mr. Dougherty would get a good night's rest and he couldn't be angry with her for that.
I do hope Adrian is pleased, she thought with a smile. This is the most fun I've had in years. But then her thoughts took a darker turn.
Were the children and Juliane safe? What was happening?
CHAPTER 22
Darkness had fallen an hour past. Lord Adrian, Comte de Cavilón, and Mallatt arrived at the Oaks, an ale house which also served as an inn, just as a group of local men left it.
They remained in the darkness as the men passed close by, their thoroughbred horses the only evidence of their high station in life. Mallatt had secured clothing that no one who had attended the ball could ever be convinced either the comte or Lord Adrian would deign to touch, much less wear. The garb suited well their purposes on this evening.
Leaving the horses in Mallatt's care, they entered the public room. Their appearance drew little attention from the motley group assembled. An equally ragged fellow at a table to the rear beckoned to them. Ordering mugs of ale, they joined him.
Nodding a silent greeting, the three men waited until the ale had been served and the innkeeper was out of hearing.
"What news do you have for us?” asked Lord Adrian.
"It is as you thought. They are using the empty cottages and huts on your estate. They have been moving every few days, and separately.
"As you know,” the man frowned apologetically, “we lost three of them last night. The fourth, however, we have kept in our sights. We expect him to lead us back to the others."
"What do you mean—he'll lead you? Have you no idea where they are?” asked the comte.
"Unfortunately we have only a fair idea. Wait, here's Tom."
A fourth man pulled a chair to the table. He glanced cautiously about before beginning. “The coves have settled for the night—or so we think. Can't be too certain of anything these frogs do. There are two men keepin’ watch till we can get there."
Lord Adrian reached across the table and took hold of the man's arm. Did you see anyone with them—two small children, the girl, a young woman?"
"Nay, m'lord, I'm sorry to say—none of them."
"Let us ride and see where this is,” said the comte, rising. “We shall decide what is to be done from that point."
The others also stood, tossed coins on the table for the ale, and strode from the inn.
* * * *
Half-score miles away, the two men left to watch the hut were engaged in earnest conversation.
"Who can that be? What? A woman. What would a woman be about this time a night? And alone!"
"She must be with ‘em."
"We've seen no sign o’ the likes of her before—it's too dark to tell who she might be."
"See—goin’ right to the door. Look..."
"I tell you, she ain't with ‘em. See, one is creepin’ up behind her—and, look, another is gettin’ her mount. Somethin’ funny goin’ on here."
"They're takin’ her in. Must be a local wench—couldn't be of the Quality. She'd a fainted dead away if she was,” said the one with utter certainty.
Unknown to him, Lady Juliane had never been closer to fainting in all her life. Once confronted, only the cultivated voice and polite manner of the apparent leader slightly eased her fears. Deeming nothing to be gained from a struggle but the loss of her dignity, Lady Juliane entered as bade without protest.
From what she could discern in the light of the single flickering candle, no one had lived in the hut for years. The dress and manner of the men were foreign.
As the door shut, the three men broke into rapid French. That confirmed Lady Juliane's guess as to their origins. They must be the men who had followed them from Rouen. But where were Alva and the children?
The refined man the others referred to as monseigneur silenced them. Making a leg, he said in English, “Please forgive my men. Their manners have been sadly neglected. It was most obliging of you to join us, Lady Perrill. You have saved us much time."
"Then you have the children?” she asked eagerly.
"Mais, oui, madame."
"Where are they—not here?” She looked about. It did not seem possible that they could be held here.
"Do not trouble yourself about where they are. As of the present, they are well. Let us hope you ensure that they remain so,” he taunted.
"I must see them. They will have been frightened."
"You shall.” At a sign, the three men melted into the darkness as the fourth snuffed the candle.
Lady Juliane felt her hand gripped and dared not draw back. If only she had the pistol.
"Be still, madame. It would be such a shame to permanently silence you."
Outside, the men watching were confounded. The three who had left the hut could rode away from it, each in a different direction.
"Now what do we do?"
"I'll stay here. Lem said their lordships would join us. You get your mount. Follow the two that haven't left yet."
As the sounds of the three horses grew faint, the man holding onto Lady Juliane tugged at her to follow. She was thankful for the split skirt of her riding habit as he forced her out through a rear window.
Brush and branches caught at her skirt but he pulled her on ruthlessly. Bumping into him as he halted suddenly, she saw that they had come upon his horse.
Balking at first when he indicated she was to mount, Lady Juliane quickly changed her mind when he grabbed her about the waist. Somehow she contrived to get into the saddle and settle her skirt decently as he led the horse off.
When they were some distance from the hut, he vaulted onto the mount behind her. Lady Juliane cringed as he reached around her and took hold of the reins he had laid across the horse's neck. At first they walked, but soon he prodded their mount into a gallop.
Back at the hut, the two watchers still waited for some sign of life.
"I don't like this—they should have left by now. There's not been a light since the others left."
"Perhaps they're gone."
"Gads! Not again. It's too late to follow any of the others. What should we do?"
"You had better go around the hut and check. We know the direction he came from. It's logical he'll head back that way. See if you can spot anything—if you do, follow it. I better stay here and wait. Come back if you find their nest."
In the meantime, Lord Adrian, Comte de Cavilón, and the others rode steadily. Tom halted and signalled them to dismount a short distance from where he had left the others.
With the mounts secured to various brush, he led the way, crouching low. His hoot was answered as a man emerged from the darkness. He
and Tom spoke briefly; then Tom turned to Lord Adrian.
"We are at a standstill, m'lord. They have departed with a woman, perhaps your wife, who either blundered onto them or joined them. Her mount is still here."
"Have it brought here. What is being done?"
"Davey is followin’ the man and woman that left together. He will return here."
The mare was led before Lord Adrian. “That's Belle all right,” he confirmed to Cavilón. “It is my wife they have."
* * * *
Two hours later an impatient Lord Adrian had almost worn a path in the grass. The others huddled together for warmth. Suddenly all heads cocked at a sound—a horse approaching at a dead gallop.
They remained hidden until it became clear the rider was heading for them. The horse plunged to a halt in their midst.
"Did you find them?"
"Aye. We had better hurry. The man and woman I followed have gone to a farm. There is a coach and four all ready to travel there. I saw two of the others before I left. I figure they will depart as soon as the last one arrives."
These words mobilized the group. Horses were brought forth.
"Take the mare, Davey,” ordered Lord Adrian. “She is fresh."
The switch was made and they were off, the moon lighting the way.
* * * *
"Time to depart, ma belle,” ordered the leader of the band at the farm cottage.
"Where are you taking us?” Lady Juliane demanded. She held André while Alva clutched Leora.
"Far enough from here to be safe until we get what we came after."
"Why not tell us what you want?” she pleaded.
His bitter laugh startled her. “As if you did not know."
"But I do not!"
"Bah! Why else did you go to Rouen? They sent for you. If you are not careful, your end will be like your sister's."
Lady Juliane tightened her hold on André's hand. She had never expected to come face to face with Judith's murderer.
"Move now. We waste too much time,” he commanded. He grabbed André from Lady Juliane and set him on his feet before shoving him toward the door.
Stumbling, André dropped the toy soldier he clutched. As he reached to pick it up, the man stepped on it, grinding it beneath his foot.