Denning leaned back in his chair and murmured, “I find the country boring. I thought perhaps that you would be up for a hand or two of piquet to while away the hours.”
“Last night’s winnings weren’t enough for you?” Ormsby asked sourly.
Denning regarded his glass of hock. “Well, you know there is a piece of land I’m thinking of buying to add to the Apple Hill holdings.” He looked over his glass at Ormsby. “And you know how very expensive land can be.”
Ormsby ground his teeth together. “And if I decide not to play?”
Denning smiled gently. “Oh, then I think I shall have to have a long conversation with my stepson. I think he would find what I have to say most illuminating, don’t you?”
Chapter 14
Ormsby took a long swallow of his wine. Denning had him strangling in his coils for the moment, but it wouldn’t, Ormsby thought savagely, stay that way. He would get his own back sooner or later. Calmed by the realization that this was only a momentary bit of unpleasantness, he forced a smile, albeit without humor. His pale blue eyes cold and hard, he said, “I find that a game or two of cards with an old acquaintance is precisely the way I wish to spend a quiet Sunday afternoon in the country.”
Having enjoyed another spectacular run of luck at the marquis’s expense, it was nearing two o’clock in the morning when Denning rose from the table and rode home. Once Denning had ridden away, Ormsby’s polite mask fell and, his face dark with fury, he stormed up the stairs to his room filled with impotent rage.
In his palatial rooms, he stripped off his clothes and, leaving them in a trail behind him on the floor, sought out his bed. Lying in the huge silk-draped bed, he tried to focus on the problems before him, but half drunk, exhausted from the congenial facade he’d worn all evening, he fell into a restless sleep.
Waking the next morning, his head clear but aching, after bathing and dressing, Ormsby walked slowly down the grand staircase. Ordering Baker to prepare him a tray of some mead and smoked ham, cheese and bread to be delivered to his study, he continued on down the hall.
While he waited for his breakfast to arrive, Ormsby paced back and forth across the Turkey rug, his thoughts on the situation, not only the one with Denning, but also the theft of the letters. Even when he had been smiling and losing to Denning, his mind had been on the theft but befuddled with alcohol, he hadn’t been able to fully concentrate. But this morning he was able to put together some interesting facts.
Cordell’s sudden affinity with the Kirkwoods had not escaped Ormsby’s notice. After all, until yesterday he’d had a spy in the Kirkwood stables and Willie had dutifully reported that first visit to Thalia by Asher and Mrs. Manley. Ormsby might have dismissed it as simply a neighborly call, but Cordell and Manley had also been at that humiliating dinner at the Kirkwoods. Again, it could have been a coincidence; he knew that Mrs. Manley and Kirkwood were longtime friends, but there had been something in the way Mrs. Greeley had looked at Cordell when she thought herself unobserved that made him wonder about her true feelings for Cordell.
The rap on the door was no surprise since he was expecting Baker with his breakfast, but Baker’s news did cause his eyebrows to raise.
“Dockery wants to see me right away?” he asked, wondering what the devil his head stableman wanted at this hour. His breath caught. Of course. Willie!
Baker bowed. “Yes, milord. He is presently waiting in the kitchen.”
“Bring him to me.”
Dockery came into the study a few minutes later, his cap in his hands. Dipping his head, he muttered, “Sorry to bother you this early, my lord, but Willie came home from Kirkwood last night.” Under Ormsby’s icy stare, Dockery cleared his throat and said nervously, “He didn’t do anything wrong. He was minding his own business and first thing he knows, Mr. Kirkwood comes down to the stables and orders him gone.”
“Yes. Yes. I know that—now tell me something I don’t know,” Ormsby snapped.
Wetting his lips, Dockery said, “Well, Willie did have something interesting to say about the day before he was fired. Willie said that early yesterday morning a servant from Fox Hollow was at Kirkwood delivering a message from Mr. Cordell and that Mr. Cordell himself came to call and had a private meeting with Mr. Kirkwood a few hours later. Willie don’t know what the meeting was about, but later on he overheard Hudson gossiping with the housekeeper about Mr. Cordell’s unexpected visit and that Mr. Kirkwood had mentioned that Mr. Cordell was leaving for Lunnon this morning.”
Several things coalesced in Ormsby’s mind. Asher Cordell! White lines of fury appeared around his mouth and, nearly choking on rage, he barely got out, “Why wasn’t I informed of this last night?”
“Begging your pardon, my lord, but you had company last night.” Dockery swallowed, frightened of the expression on his master’s face. “I didn’t want to interrupt. It didn’t seem important.”
“Not important?” Ormsby screamed at him. “I’ll decide, you idiot, what is or isn’t important.” His face purple with temper, he snarled, “Get out of my sight.”
Alone in his study, the worst of his rage under control, Ormsby walked over to the French doors that overlooked the manicured expanse of oaks and lawn. There were many reasons Cordell could have called upon Kirkwood yesterday morning, but in view of his own mortifying meeting later in the day with Kirkwood, he could think of only one reason for Cordell’s presence in the Kirkwood household on Sunday…. That hell born whelp had been returning Thalia’s letters to her father, letters he had stolen from him!
He stared blindly at the charming scene in front of him. Cordell’s trip to London today only confirmed his suspicions of the identity of the thief who had invaded his home, stolen from him and been the cause of him having to endure a humiliating tongue-lashing from Kirkwood. Asher Cordell, he thought savagely, was becoming a very big problem and he knew just the solution….
His business in London taken care of, eager to return to the pursuit of Juliana, Asher set out for home at first light Wednesday morning. It was a long hard day in the saddle and he stopped only long enough to change horses and for a quick meal of cheese and bread and ale at the various posting inns along the road before heading out again. The need to see Juliana, to hold her in his arms and kiss that tempting mouth was a siren’s call that gave him no rest.
Only paying half attention to the road, his thoughts on Juliana and all the decadent things he would like to do to her at the first opportunity, he was still several miles from Fox Hollow when he became aware of a rider behind him. It was a public road and it wouldn’t be out of the ordinary that someone else would be on the road, but there was something about the rider that aroused his suspicions. Dusk was falling and as the minutes passed and the light lessened, Asher realized that whoever was behind him was hanging back, deliberately keeping pace with his own mount.
Expecting some sort of move, Asher wasn’t so very surprised when another horseman appeared on the road ahead of him. He smiled grimly. If he had been planning a trap this was exactly how he would have played it out. A blue scarf covering the lower half of his face, the newcomer positioned his horse across the road and, pointing a pistol at Asher’s breast, he cried out, “Stand and deliver!”
Asher pulled his horse to a stop, his eyes on the horseman in front of him, but his ears were pricked for the sound of the rider behind him. A moment later, the second horseman came trotting up and halted his horse beside Asher’s mount.
“Well, well, what have we here?” drawled the rider next to Asher. Asher glanced at him, noting the burly build and the black scarf concealing the lower half of his face. He also noted the strong odor of gin floating in the air between them.
“As fine a gentry cove as these glimms have seen in many a day,” said blue scarf, urging his horse nearer.
Asher remained still, calculating the odds of being accosted by not one but two highwaymen on a sparsely traveled country road. The odds that this was a simple robbery were zero, so it was unlike
ly this would end well for him…unless he could change the odds.
He considered the man with the pistol. If, as he suspected, they’d been hired to kill him, why not shoot him and get it over with? The road never carried much traffic at this time of the evening, even less than would normally be found during the day, but every minute that passed increased the possibility that someone might come upon them. So why wait? There was no point to it unless, he thought slowly, they wanted something from him before they killed him?
Blue scarf approached and sidled his horse next to Asher’s. Trapped between the two men, Asher glanced from left to right, wondering how to play this scene out. His pistols were in the greatcoat strapped to the back of his horse; a knife was in his boot and a smaller one rested snugly in the sleeve of his coat in the special sheath his tailor had sewn for him. The pistols were useless at the moment, but the knives…
Still appraising the situation, Asher asked, “What do you want?”
“What do we want?” demanded black scarf on his left. “Why, anything that we take a fancy to!”
Both men laughed and though he was half prepared for it, the vicious blow from blue scarf nearly knocked him from the saddle, the pistol butt striking his cheek. Reeling sideways, Asher fought to stay on his horse, but blue scarf followed up with another, more powerful clout and he tumbled to the ground.
Dazed, Asher fought to clear his head but black scarf jumped down from his horse and kicked him in the head. The world went dark.
He had to have lost consciousness for only a few minutes, but when his senses returned, Asher found himself in a small copse slumped against a tree with his wrists tied behind him. Feeling as if his head would explode, he bit back a groan and feigning unconsciousness, through slitted eyes, took in the situation.
There was very little light left, but he could still discern shapes and shadows. All three horses were tied to some beech saplings directly across from him and standing in front of them were his two attackers. They hadn’t realized that he was conscious and were speaking freely.
“I dunno about this, killing a gentry cove,” one man said to the other. From his voice, Asher determined that it was black scarf, the fading light making it hard to see colors. “It’s was one thing to beat up that young lordling in Lunnon awhiles back,” black scarf continued, “but I ain’t so keen on bloody murder. What’s to stop us from just taking his blunt and be gone?”
“The nob says that we was to kill him. Dead.” Blue scarf hesitated. “Said that first we was to mill him down and then get them letters. After we get them letters we’re to kill him—the nob didn’t care how. Said not to hide the body. He wants it found.”
Asher closed his eyes. The nob could only be Ormsby. While his mind gnawed on that bone, the fingers of one hand were cautiously edging up the sleeve of his coat on his opposite side. Touching the cold steel of the small knife hidden there, he almost smiled, but aware that his best chance of survival was to keep his captors thinking he was still unconscious, he kept his expression blank and his body motionless.
With the knife in his hand, it took only seconds to cut through the ropes that bound his wrists together. His hands free, he considered his next move. The knife he held was small and he wondered if he could reach the larger, more effective blade in his boot before they noticed he was awake.
His eyes mere slits, he stared across the small area that separated him from them. Both men were looking at each other, involved in their conversation, not paying any heed to him….
“I still don’t like it. Don’t like doing the dirty work for a cove not man enough to do it himself,” muttered black scarf.
“I ain’t saying I’m dancing a jig myself,” admitted blue scarf. “We ain’t done a murder before, but he’s promised us a rum cod for the killing.”
“A purse of gold ain’t going to matter if we get snapt. Why should we risk a date with the nubbing cheat? I say we nab his prancer and blunt and leave him here. When he wakes we’ll be far way.”
Absorbed in their exchange, neither man noticed Asher’s stealthy movements. His head hurt fiercely and he worried that any swift action would make him dizzy—which could determine the success or failure of his escape. Moving slowly, he reached for his boot and his fingers just closed around the knife hidden there, when one of the men shouted, “The cove’s awake! Get him!”
Both men rushed Asher and, gritting his teeth against the pounding in his head, he bounded to his feet, meeting their attack. In the near darkness neither man had been aware that their once helpless victim was now armed and it was only when Asher’s knife slashed black scarf’s arm to the bone and blue scarf was stabbed in the shoulder that they retreated. Asher followed after them, intent upon blue scarf. He pegged blue scarf for the leader; blue scarf had been the man who had held a pistol on him and he wanted blue scarf eliminated—not dead, just out of the fight.
Asher closed with blue scarf and, using the rounded end of the handle of his knife, struck him solidly on the temple. Blue scarf moaned and crumpled to the ground. Bending over the fallen man, Asher snatched up the pistol from his waistband.
Pistol in hand, quick as a cat, Asher spun around and leaped toward black scarf. Black scarf, clutching his bleeding arm and backtracking as fast as he could, cried out, “Let us go! We’ve no quarrel with you.”
Almost swaying on his feet from his swimming head, Asher said, “That’s not what I heard while I was lying on the ground over there. I seem to remember that the word ‘murder’ was mentioned.”
Black scarf gulped. “It’s true—the nob hired us to kill you, but we wasn’t set on it. We ain’t easy with doing murder.”
Privately Asher agreed, though he was just as happy to no longer be at their mercy. After searching black scarf and finding no other weapon on him other than a blade much like the one he carried, he stepped away from the man. He glanced from the man in front of him to the man on the ground and back again. Startling black scarf, he reached out and jerked down the scarf that hid his face. There was still just enough light to make out his features and Asher stared long enough to memorize them.
Keeping an eye on him, Asher walked back to the other man and yanked down the blue scarf. He hadn’t expected to recognize either one of the men and he hadn’t; they were strangers to him. Both men were nondescript, black scarf’s features younger and heavier and blue scarf’s older and thinner; a scar, probably from a knife fight, angled down across the latter’s cheek. He’d remember both men, but there was no reason for him to kill them. Thanks to overhearing their conversation, there was no reason to question them—he knew precisely who had hired them and why.
That Ormsby wanted him dead and would hire this inept pair to kill him was curious. He was to be murdered because he’d stolen some letters from Ormsby’s safe? Asher found it hard to believe—and he would believe a great deal of Ormsby. But perhaps the simplest explanation was the best; Ormsby had had enough of him. Asher half grinned. He’d certainly had enough of Ormsby.
Motioning with the pistol to the fallen man, who was groggily attempting to sit up, he said to black scarf, “Help him to his feet and mount your horses.”
When the men were astride their horses, he said with quiet menace, “I’ll give you fair warning…. If our paths should cross again, I’ll kill you.”
The men disappeared into the darkness and Asher walked to his own horse and, ignoring the waves of dizziness washing over him, swung into the saddle. Though the men seemed cowed and were unarmed, he was alert for an ambush as he urged his horse in the direction the men had taken. A few minutes later, his horse stepped out of the small stand of woodland and onto the road.
It was full dark by now and more by instinct than anything else Asher rode slowly home. Eventually leaving the public road behind, as he traveled down the driveway toward Fox Hollow, the glimmer of the candlelight from the house pierced the darkness and he sighed with relief. Home had never looked so inviting.
Juliana was thinking similar
thoughts that evening as she and Mrs. Rivers enjoyed a cup of tea in the charming sitting room at Rosevale. With Thalia on the mend and the problems with Ormsby resolved, she had sought to escape to her own home for a few days before returning to Kirkwood to begin overseeing the preparations for the house party. Mr. Kirkwood and Thalia had protested, but Juliana held firm. She needed to be among her own things.
She, and her maid, Abby, had returned home to Rosevale on Tuesday morning and since then had been happily rediscovering the pleasures to be found in dearly familiar surroundings. Her housekeeper and cook, Mrs. Lawrence, and the rest of the small staff had cheerfully welcomed them home as if they had been gone to India instead of just down the road.
“Oh, my dear,” Mrs. Rivers cried, her faded blue eyes filling with tears as she had hurried forward to meet Juliana. “I have missed you so! It is so wonderful that you have returned to us, if only for a few days.”
Embracing the smaller, frailer woman, Juliana replied warmly, “And I, you! It seems as if I have been gone an age. Have you been very lonely? Have Mrs. Lawrence and the others been taking good care of you?”
Mrs. Rivers blushed with pleasure at Juliana’s expression of concern. Recalling some of the places she had worked as a nursemaid over her lifetime, Mrs. Rivers was inordinately glad that she had had the good fortune to have been hired by Mrs. Kirkwood over twenty-five years ago. When the family no longer needed her services, to her profound gratification, Mr. Kirkwood had offered her a small stipend and a home in one of the tiny cottages on the Kirkwood estate.
After Juliana had purchased Rosevale, she had asked her old nursemaid to come live with her as her companion. Mrs. Rivers hadn’t had to think twice about it and had instantly accepted the new position with her dear Juliana. In the time since, both women had been quite pleased with the bargain they had made.
Passion Becomes Her Page 22