by Valerie King
She had only one intention of the moment, to escape from Three Rivers Cross, and the sooner the better. She had made yet another wretched error in judgment, and it was simply time to leave.
She could not be entirely downcast, however. Mr. Ditchling had offered for Sarah’s hand in marriage and had been accepted. Mr. Lavant had not pressed even the smallest objection, with one exception—should his daughter show even the minutest symptom of reverting to her former childish ways, Mr. Ditchling was to tear up the marriage contracts on the instant.
Abigail, however, had conversed with Sarah several times since the night of her come-out ball and truly believed her pupil had crossed the threshold, once and for all, from the schoolroom to the drawing room. Every day that passed, she exhibited increasingly the maturity required of her to become mistress of Mr. Ditchling’s home.
Abigail sighed deeply as she hefted Blinkers off the portmanteau and settled him on the chair by the window. She then began storing her packed bandboxes and portmanteaus secretively beneath her bed. She had just completed this task, when Sarah scratched on her door.
“May I come in, Miss Chailey?” she called out.
“Yes, of course.” Abigail glanced around the chamber and noted a bandbox peeping from beneath the footboard. She kicked it hastily out of view as Sarah opened the door and entered her bedchamber.
Abigail took one look at the distress on her pupil’s face and cried out, “Whatever has happened, for I have never seen you so pale? Is Mr. Ditchling well? Are plans for your wedding progressing as you hoped?”
“Yes, yes. All of that is fine. Something greatly oversetting occurred in town, and I felt I should discuss it with you. Something should be done, but I cannot imagine what. Oh, there you are, Blinkers.” She crossed the room to the chair on which Blinkers was presently reclining. She lifted the cat to her shoulder and sat down on the chair, afterward arranging the yellow-striped beast on her lap. She looked up at Abigail and continued. “You will not credit what Lady Waldron said to Mrs. Stawell. It was the greatest unkindness. Indeed, I am still reeling from the effects of it.”
Abigail sat down on the edge of the bed. “Tell me everything.”
Sarah launched into her story. She had accompanied Sophy and Mrs. Stawell to the Mermaid Inn. They had just stepped into the taproom, Mrs. Stawell in her Bath chair, of course, when Lady Waldron emerged from the parlor, eyeing Mrs. Stawell coldly. Mrs. Stawell whispered for Sophy to turn her away, but it was too late. Lady Waldron, accompanied by Lady Adling, approached her. ‘How do you go on, Elizabeth?’ she asked in that imperious, cold manner of hers.
“I vow, Miss Chailey, I disliked Lady Waldron so much at that moment. Mrs. Stawell answered politely that she was going on very well, and then Lady Waldron looked her up and down with such a disgusted expression on her face and said something to the effect; ‘You lived in Plymouth. Did you ever come to know our highwayman? It is rumored he lived there.’
“Mrs. Stawell said she did not. Then Lady Waldron continued, something to the effect: ‘I vow I do not know why your brother brought you to Treyford Hall. What a nuisance for him. He ought to have taken you to Bath and left you in the infirmary there. Now that he has been accepted into Three Rivers Cross society again, I would imagine he will be regretting having carted you all the way from Plymouth. Well, I promised Sir Christopher that I would be home at a reasonable hour, since he and I are to journey to Plymouth tonight. It is the most ridiculous thing, but my husband and Mr. Burwash have laid another trap for the highwayman. Sir Christopher means to carry in excess of two thousand pounds. I told them they were both sapskulls to attempt it, since the highwayman would not dare to accost our coach tonight. Oh, and you might take a hint from me, Mrs. Stawell. Remove to Bath before your brother grows fatigued of you.’”
Sarah drew breath before continuing, “She then walked on as pretty as you please.”
Abigail was stunned. “I do not understand. Lady Waldron is perhaps many things, but I never thought she could be so cruel.”
“Even Lady Adling was shocked and said so within our hearing, but Lady Waldron silenced her with an abrupt raising of her hand, after which she whispered loudly, ‘Something must be done.’ What do you suppose she meant?”
Abigail thought she understood. “She means to provoke Treyford, but to what purpose I am not certain.” She had a suspicion, however, but in order for such a suspicion to be true, Lady Waldron would have to know that Treyford, was indeed, the highwayman.
Her mind began whirling in circles. She thought of the duel, of Treyford’s love for Lady Chandos, of Lady Waldron’s presence at the time of the affaire, and finally of Lavant’s suggestion so many weeks before that Lady Waldron was in love with Treyford. Her thoughts coalesced quite suddenly. “I understand now,” she said aloud.
“Understand what?”
Abigail glanced at Sarah and debated telling her everything, but she felt it both inappropriate and unwise to burden her with the truth that her “Uncle Trey” was the highwayman. She therefore shook her head. “Perhaps I will tell you later. For the present, I feel I must call upon Lady Waldron. Hopefully, she has not yet left for Plymouth.”
“You think there is something you can do?” Sarah’s frown deepened.
“I hope so,” Abigail responded.
Within a quarter hour, Abigail was seated in Mr. Lavant’s carriage and traveling at a brisk pace to Sir Christopher’s home.
Less than an hour later, Abigail was ushered into Lady Waldron’s elegant gold-and-rose salon. Lady Waldron had not yet left for Plymouth.
“Miss Chailey,” she began smoothly. “To what do I owe this unexpected visit? And at such an hour. Really, I consider it quite extraordinary. But please, do sit down.”
Lady Waldron waved her to a seat opposite her Grecian couch, upon which she began to settle herself, as Cleopatra might have so long before, as though she were ruling a vast domain instead of a manor house in the west of England.
Abigail did not take up the seat offered to her but instead remained standing as she addressed the difficult subject at hand. “I came to speak of Lord Treyford.”
She watched Lady Waldron start slightly, then recover herself so completely that she might have been an actress. “Lord Treyford? Whatever for? I mean, what can you and I possibly have to discuss about him?”
Abigail took a deep breath. “I wish to know if you are still in love with him, and if you are, why you would treat him so harshly, even going so far as to wound his beloved sister—”
“As he wounded mine,” she countered readily.
Abigail blinked. How quickly she had answered. She said, “Treyford wounded your sister twenty years past in a manner I know to have been forgiven for a very long time by both Lord and Lady Chandos.”
Lady Waldron sat up from her half-reclining position. “My dear Miss Chailey, I fear you have no business involving yourself in the matter and I consider your presence in my home an impertinence if this is the only subject you intend to discuss with me today.”
“If I am impertinent, it is because I am in love with Treyford.”
Lady Waldron’s color receded quite abruptly. “How unfortunate for you,” she stated coolly, “and what a sad want of character. I warned you at the outset, when you first arrived at Three Rivers Cross, of his reputation. What a silly chit you have proven yourself to be after all, since you so stupidly ignored my counsel.”
Abigail advanced to stand close to her. She held a knife in the words she was about to speak but felt she must open the wound Lady Waldron simply refused to let heal properly, especially since she believed that Lady Waldron held Treyford’s life in her hands at that moment. “If I am a silly chit,” she stated forcefully, “then what are you to have loved him all these years?”
Lady Waldron’s eyes widened. “You go beyond the bounds, Miss Chailey,” she whispered, blinking rapidly.
“Someone must, Lady Waldron, else I fear you will go too far and Treyford will hang at Tyburn Tr
ee. Is that what you want, what you truly want for the man you love, to die a criminal’s death and all because you had so poisoned the neighborhood and your husband against him that you would block even the building of a much-needed orphanage?”
“You are speaking nonsense now. Why should Treyford be slain like a criminal, and why do you keep saying that I love him, for I do not. I love my husband.” She was breathing rapidly and her eyes had a wild appearance.
“You know very well why, because Treyford is the highwayman.”
Lady Waldron gasped. “I-I did not know. What do you mean? How is it you know?”
“I know because I have kissed them both and there is no difference between them.”
“You have kissed Treyford?” For some reason, this acknowledgment above anything else Abigail had said caused Lady Waldron to begin trembling.
“What is it? Did you suppose after your sister, Lord Treyford had never kissed another woman?”
“No, of course not.”
“Confess that you love him,” Abigail commanded.
“What? How dare you press me in this odious manner. I despise Lord Treyford. Everyone knows that I do.”
Abigail pitied her. She truly understood Lady Waldron then. “It is of no moment to you that should your schemes succeed, Mr. Burwash will undoubtedly capture him and he will be prosecuted as a thief and hanged like one as well?”
“I would say that Treyford will be getting only what he deserves if he is, indeed, the highwayman.”
All the color had now drained from Lady Waldron’s face.
Abigail dropped to her knees before her and forced her to look at her. “You are not speaking the truth from your heart, are you?” she asked softly. “If it is of any consequence to you, I do comprehend how you feel. I know that Treyford still loves your sister. I saw it in his eyes the night of Sarah’s come-out ball.” The pain in her own heart was so great that she sank back on her heels and tears started of their own volition to her eyes. “I did not mean to begin weeping.”
Lady Waldron met her gaze and suddenly she dropped her hard veneer as she said, “I do love him. I . . . I have always loved him with all my heart. But I could never forgive him. Not for the affaire, but for choosing Marianne over me. Not that he even chose, for I know he never loved me, not even a trice. Maybe that was why the betrayal was so profound. Don’t you understand, Miss Chailey? My sister was unworthy of him in every respect. She was dimwitted, selfish, and a terrible flirt—he was not the first of her lovers, though I believe he was the last, yet for all these flaws he loved her so . . . so passionately. There I stood, ready to give him my heart, and he could not even see me.”
Abigail let several tears escape her eyes. “I do understand.” She thought back to the moment he had recognized Lady Chandos in Mr. Lavant’s entrance hall. She had never seen such a love-drenched expression before. She doubted she would ever forget it.
Lady Waldron reached a hand toward her. “You do understand,” she breathed softly. Tears trickled down her cheeks as well.
Abigail nodded, taking her hand. “Only, I do not wish him dead, my lady, and I believe deep in your heart you do not either. You have known all this time he was the highwayman, have you not?”
She nodded. “Of course.” She chuckled a little hysterically. “I . . . I recognized the fragrance of his shaving soap and . . . and the way his hair curls just so at the nape of his neck. Oh, dear God, was there ever a woman more foolish than I?”
Abigail shook her head. “I must argue the point with you. I tumbled in love with an outcast and a highwayman who was in love with another woman.”
Lady Waldron met her gaze. “Perhaps, then, we share this dubious honor together.”
“I believe we do.” For a moment the ladies wept and laughed and wiped their cheeks. After a time, Abigail said, “Only tell me, was there, as I suspect, a terrible purpose to the unkind words you spoke to Mrs. Stawell today?”
Lady Waldron’s shoulders slumped. “Indeed, there was. I cannot credit I spoke to her as I did. I am not a horrible person, Miss Chailey, I wish you to believe that.”
“I do, which is why I am here. I must ask you, were you and your husband laying a trap for Treyford in your forthcoming journey to Plymouth?”
At that, Lady Waldron’s hand flew to her cheek. “Oh, dear God, what have I done? Sir Christopher is gone. He left just a few minutes before your arrival. I have already consigned Treyford to prison.”
“What do you mean? You never intended to go with him to Plymouth as you told Mrs. Stawell?”
“No. Burwash is within the coach with Sir Christopher. I suppose I can only hope that Treyford will not have heeded the terrible things I said to his sister.”
“We can hope he might have ignored the insult, but I truly doubt it.”
“You are right. What man of honor could? What have I done?”
“We must pursue your husband’s coach. Ring for your butler and have an additional pair harnessed to Mr. Lavant’s coach. It is exceedingly well sprung and I believe would cover the distance quite rapidly.”
Lady Waldron did not hesitate but rose to her feet and ran to the bell-pull. When she delivered her orders to her butler, there was such a sense of urgency that her servant gave every evidence he would tend to the matter with all speed.
Within a scant fifteen minutes, Mr. Lavant’s experienced coachman was hurtling the coach down the avenue and into the lane.
* * * * * * * * *
Treyford saw Sir Christopher’s coach in the distance and felt his blood burning yet again. This last piece of mischief, in which his sister was the target of Lady Waldron’s hatred of him, had gone so far beyond the pale as to be laughable. What? Did Hetty think she could behave so abominably to his beloved sister and not suffer the smallest retribution?
With no small degree of pleasure, therefore, he eased his horse down the decline leading to the highway. The hour was nearly dark, his mask tied securely about his head, and his pistol primed. He knew that Sir Christopher was carrying at least two thousand pounds on his person, enough to complete the orphanage, enough to satisfy the anger that still possessed him when he thought of the terrible things Lady Waldron had said to his sister.
He took up a position in the middle of the road and waited, his horse turned at an angle across the highway.
When the coachman caught sight of him, he immediately drew up his team.
Adopting his Spanish accent, Treyford called out, “Sir Christopher. Lady Waldron. Step out of your coach and deliver.”
Sir Christopher emerged first, then turned to help his lady from the coach. She wore a veil over her bonnet, a circumstance that made him laugh. “Do you fear I will kiss you, senora?”
The lady did not answer, though Sir Christopher turned to scowl him down.
He merely laughed again. “I will have the money now, if it pleases you, that the orphanage might be completed as promised.”
“You must come and take it from me, thief,” Sir Christopher shouted. “If you’ve the bottom for it.”
“I do,” Treyford responded harshly, He kicked his horse and slowly made his way to where Lady Waldron stood behind her husband. He leveled his primed pistol over his forearm. Once more he adopted his Spanish tone. “You may give it to me now,” he said, smiling faintly.
Sir Christopher withdrew a packet from inside his waistcoat. He held it toward Treyford.
“No. Open the packet. I wish to see the money before I take it.”
Sir Christopher obeyed him. How calm he seemed, his lips set in a grim line, as though he had expected to be robbed. Treyford shifted in his seat. He listened for sounds coming from the sides of the road, but everything was quiet. Was this a trap? More to the point, why wouldn’t it be a trap?
Treyford watched him count the banknotes and for an instant debated taking the money. If he rode away then, there would be nothing to implicate him in all his former robberies. Sir Christopher tied up the packet and handed it to him. How simple
this last transaction on behalf of the orphanage was proceeding. He took the packet and breathed a sigh of relief.
The next moment however, Lady Waldron emerged from behind her husband. She lifted her arm quite suddenly and flung an object at him that he could not avoid. He felt a sharp pain to the side of his head. He didn’t know how or why it was happening, but he was falling backward, over the flanks of his horse, the packet flying from his hands. He hit the road with a thud, then all went black.
When he returned to consciousness, the words that greeted his ears told him he was discovered.
“Treyford. Good God. I never would have believed it had I not seen it with my own eyes. The devil take it. A coach is coming, and rather quickly.”
Treyford knew he was lying in the middle of the road. So, it had been a trap after all. He rolled his head toward the sounds of Burwash’s voice. Next to him lay a small wooden club. He tried to rise but couldn’t without a terrible nausea assailing him. He found he had to remain very still in order to keep from casting up his accounts and to keep the world from spinning wildly. His nose was bleeding as well. The sound of female voices greeted his ears next, more than one. Had someone else been in the coach? He felt very confused.
* * * * * * * * *
Abigail saw Treyford lying prone on the road and felt suddenly as though she might swoon. What if he were dead? She slid from the coach and was running past a lady and Sir Christopher before either of them could stop her.
“Miss Chailey!” Sir Christopher called.
“Trey,” she whispered, dropping to her knees and gently lifting his head onto her lap. “Tell me you are not dead.”
“He is not dead, miss. Stunned a little and he will have a bit of a headache but t’were only a club.”
She looked up and saw a lady—no—Burwash dressed in a lady’s garb, staring down at her. “Mr. Burwash,” she said. “Whatever have you done? You might have killed Treyford, and he was only taking part in a rather elaborate joke.”