The Regency Romances of Mira Stables: Part One

by Mira Stables

  “There are just the three of them?”

  “I have seen only three, and Will has not spoken of any others, but I cannot vouch for it.”

  “And you are well fed and cared for?”

  “Well fed enough. Will has been good to me. But oh! So dirty and unkempt and lonely! You cannot think how blissful it is to hear a friend’s voice! If only I could see you, and touch you. When you are gone I shall wonder if you were real.”

  “Real enough, my girl, as I’ll willingly prove to you once I have you out of this. You may expect the rescue party tomorrow. Till then, look as despondent as you can. And to help you in such dissimulation you may pass the time in considering the married state, as it is lived in the far Antipodes. That should give you a sufficiently anxious and dejected air!”

  There was a brief stunned pause. Then an indignant voice, forgetting all about the need for lowering its note, exclaimed, “Piers Kennedy! Are you by any chance proposing marriage? Under these circumstances?”

  “I am indeed, my darling. Let me assure you that there is a beautiful moon, even if you can’t see it. And if a man is so far gone in love — or idiocy — that he proposes marriage through a pigeon entry, while hanging upside down on a damned slippery gable end, at least his beloved may well be convinced of his sincerity, if not of the stability of his wits!”

  A tiny silence, while the lady assimilated this. Then a gurgle of laughter. “You pay a pretty compliment, Sir — proposing marriage in one breath and claiming in the next that your wits are disordered! I regret that I am quite untaught in dealing with such pleasantries. Moreover, if you could but see the — object — that you have just honoured, I fear you might withdraw your very obliging offer. The amenities of my prison do not include soap and water!”

  “As to that, my sweet, you should see me! Othello in person, though less magnificently dressed. Perhaps you are in the right of it, and we should defer our love making to a more gracious occasion. But I give you fair warning. Your answer had best be favourable, or I may be tempted to try a little abduction on my own account.”

  There was an impish chuckle, and a mischievous voice said, “In that case, Sir, the answer is certainly, “No”. I have always had a yearning for romance in the high old fashioned style.”

  “Why! You wicked little thing! Count yourself safe behind your impregnable walls, do you, offering such blatant provocation! Just wait till tomorrow and see how I’ll deal with you.”

  “You terrify me, Sir,” came back to him, mock meek. “Perhaps after all I had better strive to bring myself to a submissive frame of mind.”

  “That’s a good girl,” he said contentedly. “No need to tell you to keep a brave heart. Be patient just a little longer — and I’ll have Aunt Eleanor buy you the largest cake of soap to be found in Yorkshire! Till tomorrow!”

  He held his impatient mount to a walk until they were a good half-mile from the cottage, and then dismounted and removed the flannel boots, an attention welcomed with a snort of approval. He grinned and patted the sheeny neck as he swung up into the saddle again. “And a fine handsome pair we are, to go a-courting,” he confided to an attentively flickering ear. “Get on with you, now, and not a word, mind, as to where you’ve been tonight.” He chuckled at his own absurdity as he shook the mare into a trot. They were almost home when suddenly he lifted his head. The mare, obeying the check on the rein, stopped, and her rider sat motionless, his face tilted to the skies.

  A man who has served the sea for most of his life is always aware, without conscious thought, of any change in the wind. There was no mistaking it. There was a softening in the air, a dampness that presaged fog and rain. The wind had backed westerly. Piers was not particularly well versed in the outward forms of religious observance. Perhaps the heartfelt, “Thank God!” which the smell of that breeze evoked from his lips was as sincere as any prayer couched in more elegant phrases. His last lingering anxiety was allayed. By morning there would be no traces left to mark his recent activities.

  Chapter Nineteen

  HE spared a wry grin for the travesty of the classic elopement in which he was destined to play a leading part. The ladder that he and Beach were constructing should, of course, have been of rope; the element of danger supplied by an irate Papa. He had even rejected the time-hallowed owl’s hoot as the agreed signal between the rescuers — there were likely to be too many genuine owls in the vicinity. Despite a strong case made out by Beach for the opening bars of Hearts of Oak, they had finally agreed on the first few notes of the British Grenadiers. The military tune was readily recognisable and easy to whistle.

  So the ladder was, in fact constructed of wood, in three sections convenient for stowing in the carriage but easily assembled, and so that the enterprise proved successful he would thankfully flout tradition.

  The plan for a rescue was simple enough. Beach was to form the outer guard, returning to wait with the carriage as soon as he had helped transport the ladder to the purlieus of the Wyke barn. Giles would be posted at the boundary wall, to give warning of any sign of activity in cottage or lane. Piers himself was to effect the rescue, with a minimum of noise, and to this end had equipped himself with every imaginable necessity for dealing with stubborn rusted bolts.

  Lady Eleanor and Prudence had been dispatched to Ilkley, with instructions to buy not only the ‘largest cake of soap in Yorkshire’ but such other sweet scented unguents and essences as might appeal to the feminine fancy. Also, in a private conversation between aunt and nephew when Pru had run out to speak with Giles, the prettiest bedgown and wrapper that the Ilkley shops could produce.

  “Piers!” his aunt had exclaimed, much shocked by such an improper commission. The blue eyes had gleamed wicked mischief at her, but then he had sobered and said quietly, “My poor infant has spent days in wretched squalor. When I bring her back to you tonight, I want her to have every frivolous luxury that we can contrive.”

  Lady Eleanor’s air of severity vanished, despite the wicked look in her nephew’s eye as he went on, “I know, dearest, that I shall not be privileged to behold the charming fripperies that you will purchase in my behalf — at least not yet — but the future promises well, and, if I have my way, will soon become the present.”

  “And so you have really lost your heart at last?” she probed gently.

  His whole expression softened. “It is all so different,” he tried to explain. “Until — well, no matter for that. The thing is that I have always found my work adventure and excitement enough. It is exciting, you know, Aunt Eleanor, to make a new, young country yield fruit. I never looked for anything more. But Clemency —” He stopped. Then the blue eyes lifted to hers. “I cannot do without her. I need her. And I think she feels the same about me,” he said simply.

  She could not resist a mild teasing. “I thought that you considered your exciting new country an unsuitable domicile for a delicately bred female,” she reminded him.

  He had the grace to look abashed, the grave face flushed, as he defended himself in the age old way of lovers. “I did not then know Clemency — her courage, her steadfastness. She will put her hand in mine and come adventuring with me and never a backward glance. And it will be my proud privilege so to cherish her that she shall never regret putting her happiness into my hands.”

  Pru had come running back then, and the shopping party had set out in good heart, returning considerably later than expected with a quantity of parcels intriguingly wrapped that Mattie was bidden to carry to Miss Clemency’s room.

  Then it was time to be moving. “No soot tonight?” asked Giles gaily, and expressed deep disappointment when his cousin pronounced it unnecessary.

  “We know exactly where we are going and what we have to do. No need to venture into places where we might be picked out by our white skins.”

  “Pistols, then?” Giles was determined to have his full measure of excitement. And this time Piers nodded.

  “A good notion. Though you’ll have difficulty with t
hat shoulder of yours. Any use with your left hand?”

  Giles shook his head ruefully and unlocked the cabinet which held the late Sir John’s small arms. They looked admiringly at his duelling pistols, beautiful and deadly, but by far too long in the barrel for their present purpose. Eventually Giles selected a neat little pocket pistol by Henry Nock while Piers chose a tiny weapon no more than six inches long which Giles rather thought his father had brought back from Brussels — or was it Liege?

  “And remember,” cautioned Piers, as his cousin re-locked the cabinet, “no chivalrous notions. These people are probably murderers half a dozen times over, and they will have no scruples. If we are attacked, shoot, and shoot to kill. Clemency’s life as well as your own may depend upon it.”

  Giles looked dubious. “I might be able to regard the two big fellows as the vermin they undoubtedly are, but I don’t think I could bring myself to shoot Overing,” he confessed.

  “Indeed no! My apologies, cousin. I was not thinking of him, though if need be you may knock him out with my very good will. But he has been kind to my girl, so he certainly deserves some consideration from us.”

  His conscience relieved on this head, Giles announced his perfect willingness to shoot any number of villainous strangers, whereupon his cousin dryly pointed out that, since there would scarcely be time to reload, he had best make sure of his aim at the first one.

  Conditions tonight were so much in contrast to those of his previous sortie that Piers might well be forgiven for feeling that they were Fortune’s favourites. A light mizzle of moisture was in the air — half mist, half falling rain — perfectly designed to blanket such small sounds as they might make, and to persuade any sensible comfort-loving highwayman to remain snugly indoors.

  In silence and with well practised smoothness the sections of the ladder were carried to the barn and assembled. Beach and Giles then retired to their respective posts while Piers mounted the ladder to the hay port. And again found luck on his side, for the door was held in place by wooden wedges, swollen by the damp but still easy to remove without undue noise. Once he had forced out two or three of them the rest came easily enough, and he was able to pivot the door through the opening and prop it against the wall. And there was Clemency, eager and expectant, and no wall between.

  Danger, good sense and the need for haste all forgotten, Piers held wide his arms and Clemency melted into them. For a moment they clung together, her head nestling against his breast, his cheek on her hair. Then he put her from him, urgent fingers still gripping her shoulders.

  “Yes?” he whispered.

  “Yes, please,” she whispered shyly back.

  For a moment it seemed that he must snatch her to his heart again, but this time practical considerations prevailed.

  “Come then,” he said softly. “I’ll go first, and you follow close. That way I can steady you if you’re nervous.”

  She managed the awkward business of lowering herself from the floor of the loft to the ladder, his hand ready to guide her feet to the first step. “Just take it easily,” said the calm voice. “No need for haste, and I’m here to catch you if you slip.” But she accomplished the descent without difficulty, even in the darkness. It seemed that they would be able to effect their withdrawal undetected and without risk of pursuit — and it was in that moment that disaster struck.

  The loft door which Piers had left propped against the wall fell over with a resounding thump. Startled, Clemency sprang aside, stumbled against the ladder and brought that down too, and immediately the furious squeal of the stallion blared out into the night.

  No one was going to sleep through that racket. Piers swept the girl into his arms and raced for the corner where Giles was peering anxiously towards the cottage. It showed no signs of life as yet, but someone must have heard the uproar.

  “Get back to Beach as fast as you can,” snapped Piers. “Tell him to drive like hell. I’ll stand them off to give him a start.” He thrust the reluctant girl towards Giles who obediently seized her hand and began to run, pulling her along with him despite her breathless protests.

  “Don’t be a stubborn little idiot,” he shot back at her. “The sooner you’re safe away the quicker I can get back to help him.”

  That made sense. She stopped struggling to pull her hand free and ran as fast as she could, slipping and stumbling on the rough turf, and listening anxiously for any sound of activity from the cottage.

  Piers meanwhile had replaced the ladder, climbed it, and pulled it up after him. Fumbling frantically in the darkness he had fitted the fallen door into its framework and propped it into place with the ladder. From the outside a cursory glance would see nothing amiss. Then he felt his way along the wall to the far end of the loft, the space above the loose box, and waited, pistol in hand. It had seemed to him certain that the kidnappers would first visit the loft to discover the cause of the disturbance before commencing a search of the fields, but he could not wholly suppress the horrid thought that they might have heard the departure of the fugitives and started at once in pursuit. So the minutes of waiting lengthened into an agony of doubt as his fears grew that he had miscalculated and had left Clemency and Giles to fall an easy prey to the hunters.

  It was with deep thankfulness that he heard at last the sound for which he had been waiting — the scraping of the barn door being pushed open — and saw a square of faint yellow light which indicated the position of the trap door, with the top of the ladder protruding through it. There had indeed been quite a long delay. Pelly had wakened at the stallion’s outcry, but had then had to pull on his boots and light the lantern, after which it took some time to rouse Harry from a gin sodden slumber and wrest the key from him. He did not really expect to find anything wrong. Lucifer was still kicking up the deuce of a rumpus, and he had not Overing’s knack of quietening the enraged brute. It took time to secure him so that it was safe to mount the ladder. By that time Harry, too, had arrived, blear eyed and cursing, but determined to see that Pelly did not harm the girl who represented a fortune.

  Just the two of them. And only one at a time could mount the ladder. Piers thrust the pistol back into his pocket. Best not to fire. The sound of a shot would certainly bring Overing on to the scene, possibly others, and there was no sense in lengthening the odds. He waited, tensed to spring, as the first man stepped through the opening, holding up the lantern to make sure that the prisoner was still there and ripping out a furious oath when he saw that she was not. In that moment, as he swung round to scan the rest of the place, Piers sprang, landing on his shoulders and bringing him to the ground. The lantern fell, shattering the glass and putting out the light. It rolled slowly towards the trap door, hesitated for a moment on the lip, and then, as of deliberate design, gently toppled over, to crash down on the head of the ascending Harry and roll him off the ladder in a flurry of arms and legs, his afflicted head striking the flagstones below with a force that stretched him quiescent on the floor.

  Above his unconscious head a desperate battle was fought out in the darkness. It was well for Piers that he had seen a good deal of the seamier side of life and knew in some degree what he might expect. for Pelly was both vigorous and powerful, knew every vicious twist and crippling blow that ever defiled a clean sport, and was capable of swinging the lighter built man clean off his feet by sheer superiority of weight. The initial advantage was with Piers, who, in his surprise attack had succeeded in establishing a half nelson grip on his opponent and was grimly striving to complete the hold that would give him the mastery, while Pelly was straining every sinew to dislodge the incubus that clung so threateningly. Now he kicked up and back, aiming for the groin, but failing to land the disabling blow that he had intended flung himself backward, bearing Piers to the ground pinned beneath the weight of his body. His lips writhed back in a snarl of triumph. But in that instant there came a sharp explosion, and sudden agony wrenched a deep groan from him as his hands clutched wildly at his belly. His tortured convulsions ca
rried him clear of Piers, who, winded by the fall, was sucking air into aching lungs and staggering groggily to his feet, fingers fumbling dazedly for the pocket that had held the pistol. The scorched cloth crumbled, at his touch. The bullet had seared his thigh as the gun exploded, and penetrated his opponent’s body, inflicting a wound that was plainly serious, since it had so abruptly terminated the fight.

  With the quite illogical intention of seeking aid for the wounded man whom he had done his utmost to kill, Piers began to grope his way towards the ladder, and had just found the trap opening when he heard a familiar air whistled from below.

  “You there, Giles? You’ve made good speed, Kindle a light will you? It’s black as the pit up here, and I’ve wounded one fellow — or rather not I, but your father’s pistol.” And in reply to Giles’s exclamation, “It went off when he threw me, and shot him.” Then, urgently, “Did they get clear away?”

  Giles reassured him on this head, saying nothing of the dire threats by which it had been achieved. “I promised we’d be close behind them,” he was beginning, as the tinder caught alight. “Good God — there’s another one!” as the tiny flame revealed the still unconscious Harry. Then his eye fell on the broken lantern with its fragment of candle, and he picked it up and lit it. “That’s the fellow that kept guard over me,” he recognised. “Best tie him up before he comes to his senses. Must have fallen off the ladder. Drunk, I should think,” he added, catching the fumes of gin as he stooped to the task.

  “Now — what next?” he enquired, buckling the last strap round Harry’s legs. “Had we not best take a look at the house? There may be more of them. And where’s young Overing got to?”

  This was not long left in doubt. As they stepped into the entry a heavy pounding assailed their ears, and led them to a locked door whence a terrified voice was loudly appealing for aid. Turning the key, they came face to face with the wretched Overing who had wakened at the sound of the shot to the realisation that he was trapped. He cowered away in terror at the sight of his visitors, but with some pains was eventually persuaded into submissive coherence. Then the whole story came tumbling out. Once started, it seemed he could not stop talking, rambling, dramatic, inconsequent, as he hurried about helping Piers carry the wounded man from the loft and bestow the hapless Harry in the cottage kitchen.