by Regina Darcy
Blake was a pragmatic man. He had never before sat down on one of the chairs in the entranceway, but he did so now. One of the other men came over and tied his hands behind the chair.
“Where are the others?”
“What others?”
The man sighed.
“He won’t talk now,” he said. “So see that he doesn’t later.”
A handkerchief was knotted around Blake’s mouth, preventing him from calling out a warning. He watched in dread as the men fanned out, swords drawn, into the house.
Blake held no hopes that the staff would be able to resist the invasion of Ivanhoe’s men. They were servants, accustomed to obedience, not leadership. Mrs Thompson was, of all the household, most likely to put up a protest but Blake hoped that she refrained. He did not think that the Duke’s men wished to harm anyone, but things often went haywire in the heat of the moment.
But what of Lady Honora, he worried. She was the reason for this invasion, he was sure of that. If the Marquess had been here—
But he was not. And Blake wondered if, perhaps, that had been the Duke’s intention.
Blake’s conclusion had already been reached by the Marquess who, having arrived in Bristol in search of his quarry, had gone with his men to the inn to which he was directed, only to find that the man who had reserved the room in the Duke’s name was actually a hireling paid to masquerade as Ivanhoe.
Michael was enraged. He had been duped, he realised, and while he had left Dennington with his trusted servants, the household was undefended and at the mercy of the real Duke, who was very likely to be en route there now if he had not already taken over the establishment.
“Sterling,” Michael said, “you are to teach this man a lesson.”
The false duke, his arms bound at his sides and his mouth gagged, began to struggle against the rope imprisoning him to the chair.
“Don’t kill him,” were Michael’s instructions as he prepared to return home, “but leave him wishing that he were dead. Or that he had not accepted this assignment.”
To his valet and his footman, Michael’s instructions were terse. “Back to Dennington, fast as we can. We’ll split up if we need to, speed is of the utmost. The Duke is there. Go in by the estates underground cellar, the Duke won’t know of that entrance, it’s seldom used. Whoever arrives first is to go in. Make sure you are not found or detected.”
“What do we do if he’s there and he’s got Her Ladyship?”
“If he leaves with her, follow them,” Michael instructed his valet. “But do not be seen. If he remains there, stay out of sight. I will come as fast as I can.”
As it happened, Michael had the fastest horse and the most pressing need. He rode swiftly, urging his horse to maintain a punishing pace so that time would not be wasted. He thought only of Honora. What a fool he had been to neglect the opportunity to declare his affections. He had been so accustomed to his bachelorhood that he had failed to perceive the danger they were in.
The Duke had not been so foolish. He wanted the woman who was promised to him and he would force her to succumb to marriage. Michael knew now that Ivanhoe was ruthless. Summersby had not fully described the nature of his cousin, but events had proven Ivanhoe to be deceptive and cunning.
Honora, lovely, innocent, vulnerable Honora, would be at his mercy. In his attempt to confront Ivanhoe, Michael had left her without protection. He gritted his teeth and urged his horse to gallop even faster.
He arrived as night was falling. The shadows made it easier for him to stealthily make his way to the hidden entrance after he tied his horse to a concealed tree in the grove next to the entrance to the grounds. The horse needed rest and Michael needed him to be nearby in case pursuit of the Duke was necessary.
Michael knew that he had the advantage of the Duke because he knew every inch of his estate. As a boy, he had explored all the entrances and hidden places of the state which had been in existence since Charles II had returned to England. But none of his boyhood games had been as desperate as the effort in which he was now engaged. Then, his sword had been made of wood, a lacklustre imitation of the prized heirloom from his family line. Now . . . Michael rested his hand on the hilt of the sword. It would perform its purpose tonight. Of that, he had no doubt.
Silently, he strode up the steps that led from the cellar to the first floor of the manor. He listened at the door for noise but heard nothing. The house was eerily quiet. No candles were lit, no fires blazed. He suspected that the servants had been bound and locked in their rooms so that they would not be able to interfere with the Duke’s mission. Doubtless there were guards stationed throughout the manor, for Ivanhoe surely realised that, upon understanding the trap that had been set for him, Michael would return home.
Michael removed his boots before entering the main floor of the manor so that his feet would not reveal his presence. He spotted a man, clearly one of the Duke’s men, standing in front of the closed doors of the drawing room.
Michael was not unwilling to dispose of the guard, but he did not intend to reveal that he was in the house. He returned his drawn sword to its scabbard.
He picked up the poker from the cold fireplace. Moving soundlessly from the concealment of the shadows in the dark foyer, he made his way to where the guard stood.
He clasped his hand over the guard’s mouth, brought the poker down with force on the man’s back, and held him as the guard’s body slumped backwards.
He dragged the guard across the foyer to the library, rolled him up in a blanket that was on the window seat, tied him inside it with the decorative binding which tied back the draperies during daytime, and left him there, locking the library behind him.
Once again, in stealth, he travelled from wall to wall until he was standing before the doors of the drawing room.
“You will pay for humiliating me!” thundered a voice maddened by rage. It could only belong to the Duke of Ivanhoe. “I will not be made a laughingstock, you will be my wife!”
“I will not!” Honora declared, her voice trembling only slightly. Whatever fear she was undoubtedly experiencing was, held at bay for the moment. He was proud of her, knowing that the Duke terrified her.
“I say you will. Your parents require it. Our engagement has already been announced. You will return with me to London and we will be married. Then we will leave London and I shall take you to my estate, where you will not have any means of flight. You will be an obedient, dutiful wife, or you will face the consequences!”
“Will you kill me, as you did Lady Amelia?”
“You know nothing about Amelia!”
“I know enough!”
“Silence! I will not have a wife who does not recognise her duty to her husband!
“Then you had best not seek my hand, Your Grace, because I will not submit to a brute!”
“You would defy me? Maybe you need a lesson in the passions of a man!”
Michael took advantage of the moment to burst into the room. Lady Honora saw him first and for a moment, joy suffused her features, immediately replaced by apprehension as the Duke turned around and saw Michael.
“Ahh, Dennington,” he said, his lean face alight with the promise of vengeance. “You have returned. As you can see,” he said, drawing his sword and gesturing toward Lady Honora, who was tied to the very chair upon which Michael had sat when she reclined on the settee as his aunt ministered to her.
“I have found my wife.”
“She is not your wife, Ivanhoe, nor will she be,” Michael replied, as he pulled his sword from its sheath.
Bound to the chair, helpless to intervene, Honora watched in fear as the two combatants approached one another, each seeking the vulnerability of the other, each wielding his weapon with expert skill, neither one averse to killing the other. There was no conversation between the two as they probed for a killing hit with lethal intensity.
She had heard that the Duke was a man of surpassing mastery with the sword, but as the two men moved b
ack and forth in the room, their swords poised to strike, she could tell that the Marquess was no novice. She recalled what Mrs Thompson had said about his dedication to practising swordplay.
This battle showed the results of that daily discipline, for this was not practice. This was a battle to the death.
Honora knew this, although neither man voiced their intentions. She could see it in the straining muscles as they leapt and pounced and parried the other, in the taut lines of jaw and chin, and in the fearful loathing which was evident in the Duke’s relentless green eyes and in Michael’s blue stare.
Then she gasped. The Duke’s blade had sheared the sleeve of the Marquess’s shirt and a thin line of blood began to drip from his arm. But the Marquess, seemingly unhindered by the blow, pressed on as if he only needed one good arm to achieve his goal. Then he struck, entirely without warning, piercing the Duke’s shoulder with the blade of his sword, forcing Ivanhoe down and, taking the Duke’s sword, using it to pin him to the floor through his clothes. Panting he took a moment to look at his foe. Somehow the defeated look in his eye brought him no pleasure.
Quickly, the Marquess came to Honora’s side and cut her loose from the ropes that had bound her.
“My love,” he said, “my horse is in the grove. You will recognise him. Go to the first house you find and ask for the constable to come.”
She nodded.
“You are not afraid?”
Honora shook her head. “Now that you are here, no, I am not afraid,” She whispered breathlessly. As their gaze locked, something wordless passed between them. As the Marquess’ eyes lingered on her lips, the memory of their kiss came crashing down on her.
“Not now,” he said, in a voice as soft as a caress. “Go now.”
Suddenly dry-mouthed and unable to answer, Honora just nodded her head and rush to do as she was told.
As incredible as it seemed, she felt no fear as she hurried from the room, not even bothering to don her cloak or hat. As she went through the entrance, she saw Blake bound to his chair.
“I am going to fetch the constable,” she told him. “His Lordship is in the drawing room. He has bested the Duke.”
She stopped only long enough to say this and to loosen the bonds around the butler’s wrists.
“Stay here,” she whispered, “lest one of the Duke’s men sees you. They will think that you are still bound and will not perceive you as a threat. I will return as fast as I can.”
Blake, his wrists no longer tightly restrained, nodded as he worked the knots looser so that he could be of use if he the Marquess needed him.
Honora found the Duke’s horse and she mounted him, not without difficulty. But she managed and, reins in hand, she rode the path through the forest until she came to a tenant farm.
She knocked on the door.
“Who be out there so late at night?” A voice inside the house murmured.
“The Marquess of Dennington needs your help!” she replied as loudly as she could.
Instantly the bolt was drawn and the door opened.
“The Marquess?” repeated the farmer at the door. “What help could His Lordship need at this time of the night?’
“I must fetch the constable,” Honora said. “The Duke of Ivanhoe is at the manor. He tried to kill the Marquess.”
“Peter!” called a woman’s voice from within the house. “Who is it?”
“A lady,” her husband answered. “Won’t you come in, my lady?”
“There is no time to lose,” Honora insisted. “The constable must be fetched right away.”
“Aye, my lady, but I must put on my boots, mustn’t I?”
“Peter Roberts r’ you pulling my leg. It ain’t better be that drunken Joe Sinclair.”
“Mary, it’s a lady!”
A woman came to the door, dressed for bed, her hair in a nightcap and a blanket over her nightdress.
“Bless me,” she said, “if it ain’t a lady.”
“Told you it was. I’m off for the constable. Her Ladyship says there’s evil up at the manor. The Duke of Ivanhoe.”
“Him what kilt his wife all that time ago?”
“None other,” Mr Robert said solemnly. “My lady, you’d best stay here. I’ll fetch Constable Lurch.”
“I shall come with you,” Honora declared.
She would not be denied, although Mr Robert said it was not fit for a lady to be out in the dark of night. Mary brought out a shawl for Honora to wear, “to keep off the night chill.”
Mr Robert didn’t have a horse, but he said it was no walk at all, and he helped Honora mount the Marquess horse and then he took the reins to lead him through the forest until they reached the constable’s house.
Unlike Mrs Roberts, Mrs Lurch was accustomed to being awakened at all hours and by the time her husband had dressed, she had brewed tea and pressed a cup into Lady Honora’s hand.
“You ought to stay here, my lady,” she said, “and let the menfolk handle it.”
“No, I cannot,” Honora exclaimed. “I must—” she could not finish, but she didn’t need to. Mrs Lurch understood.
“It’s the way of things,” she said. “God go with you, my lady, and bless you.”
The men, who knew the pathways even if the dark, walked purposefully through the forest from the village to the manor, leading the horse carrying Honora by the reins.
These brave, stout-hearted men had not hesitated upon learning that the Marquess had need of them, even though it meant that they would incur the ire of the Duke of Ivanhoe. She was impressed by their courage and also by the testimony that it provided of the Marquess’ stewardship.
As soon as they arrived at the manor, Peter helped Honora down from the horse. Constable Lurch, mindful of his duty, charged forward, a cudgel in hand, and opened the door.
Honora was right behind him and she hurried into the drawing room where she saw Blake kneeling next to the Marquess, who was sprawled on the floor.
“Where is the Duke?”
Blake was applying a bandage to the Marquess’ arm. “He managed to get free. He must have attacked the Marquess. His Lordship needs a doctor.”
Honora turned to Peter.
“Will you take the horse and fetch the doctor?” she entreated.
“Aye, my lady,” he said, dazzled at the opportunity to offer his service. “I’ll be back in a trice.”
“What of the guards?” Honora asked, looking anxiously around.
“The Duke and his men are gone. He didn’t know that you’d loosened the rope, so as soon as he left, I hurried in here. I found His Lordship as you see him.”
“He’s so very pale,” Honora mumbled, concern colouring her face.
“He’s young and strong,” Constable Lurch reassured her. “He’ll come round. You’ll see.”
TWELVE
The constable proved to be an excellent predictor of the future, for the Marquess, although he had lost a considerable amount of blood after the Duke had unpinned himself from the floor and attacked him, had reason to thrive.
Honora insisted on nursing him, unmoved by Lady Eleanor’s remonstrations that it was not suitable for a young woman to tend to a man’s wounds.
“It is his arm that is in need of care,” Honora said, “and not—”
“Yes, yes, my dear, of course,” Lady Eleanor hurriedly interrupted the young woman. “All the same, it is unheard of for an unmarried woman to be at a man’s bedside.”
“I am willing to share the duties, Lady Eleanor, but I will not abandon them.”
When the Marquess was finally strong enough to do more than open his eyes, it was Honora who was at his side.
“I take it I am not dead,” he said, his words slightly slurred by the draught which the doctor had prepared for him. “Or am I in heaven, tended by an angel.”
Honora smiled. “You are quite alive, my lord, even if there were moments when we feared otherwise.”
“Ivanhoe?”
“He escaped. It seems that h
e was not so gravely wounded as it seemed and he attacked you. Do you remember?”
“Very little. I remember feeling a sword pierce my flesh. I fell to the floor. Poor Aunt Eleanor. I’m afraid I must have done damage to the carpet.”
“She said she was tired of that carpet anyway,” Honora replied gaily. “She is ordering a new one. I helped her choose it.”
“Did you indeed?” he asked, sounding thoughtful.
“She asked me to do so,” Honora said. “Should I have refused?”
“No, no, it is quite fitting that you would do so,” he answered his gazed fixed on her.
There was silence.
“Ivanhoe,” he said again. “Has he been run to ground?’
Honora shook her head. “The rumour is that he has gone to Scotland. The authorities mounted a search to investigate the story of Lady Amelia’s murder.”
“What did they find?”
“Nothing. There is no trace of her body and without a body—”
“There is no crime,” the Marquess finished, sounding frustrated. “It seems that a villain may do what he pleases. Poor Lady Amelia, she had no one to defend her.”
“It is a shame that women are expected, nay, encouraged, to be defenceless,” Honora said vehemently.
“I agree!”
“You do?”
“Certainly, I do. Should I have a daughter, I will see to it that she has the training and the means to protect herself against blackguards such as Ivanhoe.”
“You will?”
“I have said so. Of course, I do not have a daughter. Not yet, anyway.”
“Most men prefer sons.”
“What man would not want for each?” he countered.
“But what man would raise both son and daughter to be equals? To choose their own wives and husbands, to be educated so that they may make wise choices no matter what their lives offer, and to avail themselves of opportunities which will be of benefit to them, not solely because of their parents’ wishes but because it is in their best interests?”
“Not all men wish to be tyrants, my lady. There are men who value a woman of spirit and independence who will follow through on her own wishes rather than the orders of her parents who may not be aware of all the circumstances,” Michael said with a sly smile. “Certainly, it is to be hoped that parents will provide wise guidance for their children. But a daughter and a son ought not to have their wishes disregarded as if they had no value.”