by Mira Stables
As she fired, Charles seemed suddenly to become aware of his assailant and swung round in one smooth powerful sweep, his left fist coming over to catch the groom a heavy blow on the temple which dropped him in a limp heap on the floor. Then he stared incredulously at the slim little creature in the shadows.
“Nell! What the devil? I thought ’twas our dear friend Rudd or your loving uncle shooting at me!”
She tried to smile at him, though rather shakily, and reached out to lay the pistol on a convenient shelf with fingers now a little tremulous.
“No. Just me,” she said in a funny little husk of a voice that quivered between tears and laughter. And then, more anxiously, “I haven’t killed him have I?”
Charles grinned. “You’re much too good a shot for that, my child. Dead on target I suspect. Through the fleshy part of his forearm. Wasn’t that what you intended?”
But Nell was still too shaken to respond in equally lighthearted vein. “Then why does he lie so still?” she asked doubtfully.
“Ah! That’s my handiwork. He should sleep peacefully for quite some time. Meanwhile I’ll tie him up snugly and dump him in the loft.” He jerked his head at the trap door which gave access to it, just above them.
“And you’re sure he’ll be all right?” insisted Nell, with feminine inconsistency.
“Quite as well as is necessary,” said Charles grimly. “The gentleman has a few questions to answer before I concern myself unduly with his comfort. Help me now, will you, Nell? There’s no time to lose. With any luck they’ll take your shot for another crack of thunder, and we’ll have him safely tucked away and no one the wiser. A bandage to stop this bleeding first—not that he deserves any particular consideration, but we can’t have him bleeding all over the floor and betraying us.”
This callous attitude had the intended effect of steadying Nell, so that she was able to assist in the task of binding Charles’s handkerchief over an ugly looking wound with comparative fortitude in spite of her lack of experience. After that she was dispatched to bring a couple of spare halters and some leather straps, while Charles hauled the unconscious groom to the foot of the ladder, hoisted him over his shoulder, and managed to climb far enough up to slide his burden through the open trap, after which he climbed over him and dragged him to the far corner of the loft. So much accomplished, it took only a few minutes to ensure that he was securely bound and that the hay was so disposed about him as to conceal his presence from any cursory inspection. He had just completed this to his satisfaction when a voice from the region of his ankles enquired, “Did you gag him? Because if you didn’t, and he recovers consciousness and calls for help, we shall have had all this trouble for nothing,” and turning, he saw Nell’s head and shoulders projecting through the trap in most unladylike fashion.
He bit back a strong inclination to laugh. This was no comedy, and in spite of her brave words he guessed that she was more anxious than she was willing to admit. “There’s just the one difficulty,” he explained. “No gag. I used my handkerchief on his arm and yours is much too small.”
Nell promptly suggested using a strip of fabric from the skirt of her dress. “It’s ruined already,” she said, her voice echoing oddly as she retired down the ladder, “I tore it climbing out of the window. Here you are,” and she tossed up an ample length of material rolled up into a ball.
Charles adjusted the gag carefully, since he had no wish to suffocate the captive, and then followed her down the ladder. He cast a quick glance over the scene of the recent operations and stooped to pick up the cudgel which had fallen from Ransome’s hand. There was a metallic clang as he lifted it, and Nell turned curiously, to see him frowning thoughtfully at a piece of a horse shoe which had been nailed to the wood.
“I see,” he said softly. “Very neat. Tragic accident. Officer dies after being kicked by his own horse. I don’t suppose you thought that one out for yourself, Master Ransome. Well—perhaps you’ll not meddle with my horses again. I wonder what you gave this poor old fellow,” and he turned to look at Marquis, now standing quiet, even dejected, head a-droop after his wild display of temperament, and then went quietly into the loose box and ran a knowledgeable hand over the horse’s neck and withers. “Not much amiss with you now, is there? Come to think of it I’ve a notion he’d hate to do you any real damage, whatever he did to your master.”
Nell, who had been examining the deadly cudgel with fascinated horror, now said, “Wasn’t it the storm that upset him then? I’ve known horses terrified like that by thunder and lightning.”
“That’s what we were meant to think. But they don’t know Marquis. Neither thunder nor gunfire ever disturb him. Steady as a rock. And he’s gone through storms in Spain that make this one sound like a spring shower.”
As though to refute this rash statement there was another crash of thunder, followed almost immediately by the steady drumming of rain on the stable roof.
“We must get back to the house,” Charles went on. “Can you manage to forget all that has happened in this last quarter of an hour?”
“I’ll try,” she said dubiously. “But I hope Sir Nicholas doesn’t ask what we’ve been doing. I should blush or stammer, I know.”
“Nonsense,” declared Charles hearteningly, “you’ll be as cool and steady as you were just now. And I’d not wish for a better comrade in emergency.”
At this high praise Nell did indeed blush furiously, and to cover her confusion made a great business of picking up the pistol and moving towards the door. “You’re quite sure he’ll be all right?” she asked again, glancing up at the trap door. “I mean—I don’t want him to die or anything.”
“No need to fret for him,” said Charles unsympathetically. “He’ll be worse before I’m through with him. Now—can you manage to climb in through your window again? For you’re in no case to meet inquisitive eyes.”
Nell glanced down at her dress. Apart from a long rent which ran from high waist to ruffled hem and permitted a snowy petticoat to foam out rather enticingly, she had completed the wreckage by kneeling on the stable floor, thereby acquiring sundry mud and bloodstains.
“Oh dear!” she said ruefully. “What will Miss Smithson think? I’ll have to hide it until I’ve time to think up a credible story. This is one time when I couldn’t tell the truth.” She turned to leave the stable, adding shyly, “Do you think you could help me up to the window? I don’t think I can manage on my own without a ladder. I’m not very heavy.”
“After heaving Ransome around, I should think I could toss you up with one hand,” he replied cheerfully.
In the event it took two, to lift her until she was able to scramble in over the window sill, with, alas, a most improper display of slim ankles, of which Charles, even in his pre-occupation, was not unappreciative.
Chapter Thirteen
In spite of the frantic haste with which their respective toilets had been performed, both lady and gentleman appeared perfectly elegant and point de vice when they met again over the dinner table. Nell had been conscious of a fast beating heart and a certain dryness in the mouth as she had come into the dining-room prepared to face her uncle. He was not there. And when Charles joined her a minute or two later, Rudd had come in to ask whether he should serve their dinner at once, or whether they would wait for Sir Nicholas. His niece, he explained, was fretting for fear the cutlets would be scorched. No, in reply to Charles’s query, Sir Nicholas was not yet come in. No doubt he had taken shelter somewhere to wait for the storm to pass.
They decided not to wait for him and sat down to dinner, but it was, of course, impossible to discuss the subject that was uppermost in both their minds while they were being served. They talked spasmodically on various innocuous topics, with Charles bearing the greater share of the conversational burden and Nell a little inclined to fall into abstracted silence. She came to life eagerly enough when the covers were finally drawn and it seemed safe to assume that the landlord would now be fully occupied in the taproo
m. “Now,” she breathed urgently, “tell me what you are going to do with him, and why did he attack you like that? Quickly, before Sir Nicholas comes back.”
“Not so fast,” reproved Charles. “First we must set the scene a little. It won’t do to be found deep in talk which breaks off abruptly on Sir Nicholas’s entry. He would be bound to suspect us, and it is my object, should he return, to puzzle him a little by appearing completely ignorant of any untoward happening. I think—yes—we shall have had a lovers’ tiff. You should occupy yourself with your sewing, and I shall play patience.” He began to lay out the cards. “Though I do not expect his early return. He will allow ample opportunity for the shocking discovery to be made first.”
“Then you think”—obediently she was unfolding her needlework—“that he is behind this attempt on your life?”
“Sure of it. But being sure isn’t proof.”
“But why? What grudge can he have against you?”
Charles shrugged. “I can think of several. Certainly I am a hindrance to his plans for you. But no matter for his reasons. The thing is to bring the attempt home to him. Even if I can get an admission out of Ransome, it will serve us little. No court of law is going to listen to his allegations against a man of Sir Nicholas’s standing. And Sir Nicholas, you perceive, is not even here. Doubtless he is several miles away, with, I daresay, any number of perfectly respectable people to vouch for his whereabouts. As things stand we can do nothing. But I may be able to pick up some hint from Ransome that will enable me to set a trap of my own.”
“Do you think Rudd is in the plot too?”
“In league with your uncle and Ransome—yes. Aware of this particular attempt, I think not. I was observing him closely and could see no hint of surprise or disappointment in his face when I walked in perfectly sound and well. No doubt it seemed good to Sir Nicholas to leave him in ignorance of the actual plan. He’s no actor, and might play his part better if it were spontaneous. I should think, having been foiled at the first attempt, they will wait a little before trying again.”
Nell looked doubtful and anxious. “Emma says there’s no knowing what necessities are driving my uncle. Please be careful. I could not bear it if anything were to happen to you because of me.”
Charles reassured her as best he could, promising extreme watchfulness and expounding cheerfully on the general superiority of one Light Bob to any number of clumsy plotters. She smiled dutifully in response to his rallying tones but was not comforted. It seemed to her that the plot had been far from clumsy and had come dangerously close to success. But her anxieties could not help Charles, so she did her best to conceal them. When, however, he suggested that he had better proceed with his interrogation of the prisoner before anyone set up a hue and cry over his disappearance, her courage wavered a little, and she asked if she could go with him, not from any wish to be present at the interview but because she did not relish the prospect of being left alone to face Sir Nicholas.
Charles shook his head. “It might be necessary for you to cover my absence,” he said, and did not add that it might also be necessary to use methods of extracting information that would be quite unsuitable to a lady’s sensibilities. “I plan to carry Ransome over to Trevannions as soon as Giles is back,” he went on. “Rascal though he is, we shall have to dig your bullet out of him, and it can scarcely be done here. At Trevannions I can hold him safe. We cannot let him go scot free, but I have no time now to devise his ultimate fate. Now pay heed, Nell, for this is of vital importance. I may well be gone all night, for we must first find a suitable vehicle in which to transport our prisoner. I can scarcely drive about the countryside in a curricle, displaying him to anyone who might be interested. While I am away, trust no one. See that your pistol is ready to hand and keep your bedroom door locked. And that window—far too easy of access. Closed, please, and the shutters too. Above all,” he emphasised, “go nowhere alone with your uncle or Rudd. Feign a headache and keep your room. Is it understood?”
She nodded, looking up at him, wan-faced but trustful.
“Good girl. I think you must be safe for this evening. Sir Nicholas will surely wait to ascertain my fate, and if Ransome and I are both missing, that will pose him a pretty problem. And I promise you that either Giles or I will be back as soon as is possible.”
He smiled down at her—the smile she was learning to look for—the corners of his mouth indrawn as though he was reluctant to let the smile have full play, the firm lips curving and softening in a way that aroused certain reprehensible longings in her girlish heart. “And I have never thanked you for coming to my aid in the stable,” he went on, considering the matter thoughtfully for a moment and then saying the thing he knew would please her best. “Your father would have been so very proud.”
She looked down shyly, pleased but embarrassed by his praise. He held out his hand, and after a momentary surprised hesitation she put hers into it. Her slim cool fingers showed pale against his brown fist, and on a sudden impulse he raised the small hand to his lips and lightly kissed it. It quivered for a moment in his clasp and then was gently withdrawn.
What in all creation had made him do that? He had never, in all his life, kissed a woman’s hand or even wished to do so. It was his turn to feel shy and awkward, not sure whether to be glad or sorry that there was no time for more of this rather pleasant dalliance. It would have been easy to yield to a strong temptation to turn the confiding little hand in his and set his lips to soft palm and delicate wrist.
His leave taking was abrupt almost to curtness, but Nell did not notice. Left alone, she very gently raised the hand that he had kissed and held it against her cheek, savouring again the blissful moment when his warm mouth had caressed it. Sewing abandoned in her lap, she sat dreaming of even more rapturous possibilities. Nor did she rouse from her happy reverie until the door opened quietly and Sir Nicholas strolled into the room.
“Why, my dear,” he said on a note of gentle surprise. “All alone? What has become of your devoted suitor?”
Charles had asked her to cover up for him, and she had wasted the time in idle dreaming. Frantically her mind sought for some plausible tale. Sir Nicholas was watching her, bright-eyed, expectant. Then, blessedly, inspiration came with the memory of Charles’s laughing remark about a lovers’ tiff. She tossed her head slightly and did her best to look affronted. “I’m sure I don’t know.” She did her best to make it sound petulant rather than merely sulky. “Did you wish to speak with him, sir? For if so, I will retire. I have the headache a little.”
Sir Nicholas’s brows twitched together. It was difficult to remain quite unmoved at this crisis in his affairs. With his plans so delicately balanced a quarrel between his niece and her betrothed was the last thing he wanted just now. It would sort ill with the pathetic picture of a lovelorn maiden driven to self destruction. He disclaimed any especial desire to talk with Charles, sympathised with his niece’s headache, which he unhesitatingly ascribed to the thunderstorm, and graciously pressed her to try one of the cachets which he himself used to alleviate the occasional headaches brought on by over application.
With a memory of Emma’s warning ringing in her ears, Nell’s refusal was more curt than courteous. Her headache, she said, would be better by morning, and she never took strange medicines.
“Ah you young people!” smiled Sir Nicholas, still gracious. “What a wonderful thing it is to have such powers of recuperation. And I am sure you are quite right, my dear, not to be for ever quacking yourself. But these cachets of mine are not just in the common way. They are made especially for me by a friend who is a very learned physician. If your headache is not better by morning, I shall certainly insist upon your trying one,” and he wagged a finger at her playfully.
She made no further protest, though she had no intention of submitting to the promised medication. She would have liked to plead the headache as an excuse to withdraw to her room, but she could not be sure that sufficient time had elapsed to allow the two
men to get clear away with their prisoner, and she dare not leave Sir Nicholas free to go in search of them. She busied herself in sorting out some tangled silks, and began to ply her uncle with questions about her aunt and cousin and life in London, hoping that this sudden interest didn’t sound as forced and artificial in his ears as it did in hers.
The evening dragged its interminable length, and it was with difficulty that she restrained a sigh of relief when the clock at last struck ten. Surely by now it must be safe to relax her painstaking efforts. Thankfully she laid aside her work and bade her uncle a polite good night.
Her small room felt like a haven of refuge after the strain of the evening. She locked the door as she had been bidden, and carefully cleaned and reloaded the pistol, discovering a new and delicious excitement in the thought that she was submitting to Charles’s commands. To be sure the room would be dreadfully stuffy with the window closed, but he had said that she must close it, and obedience to his will was her present delight. She leaned out of the window for a moment, sniffing the delicious smell of the rain cooled earth. There was no gleam of light from the stable block. She must be patient and wait till morning to hear the final outcome of the affair. She closed and latched the casement and unfolded the heavy shutters from their recesses in the walls, drawing them across the window and swinging into place the heavy bar that locked them into position. The room was beginning to look like a beleaguered fortress. She only hoped that the inn didn’t catch fire during the night, for barricaded as she was it seemed highly probable that she would perish in the flames before help could reach her.