The Rake's Retreat

by Nancy Butler

  Oh, Lord! She’d have to alert Sir Walter. One of Tolliver’s grooms would have to ride to Withershins.

  She was hurrying out the parlor door when she ran smack into Mr. Kimble.

  He gave a low chuckle and swung her from his path. “Steady on, Lady Jemima.”

  She nearly hugged him with relief as she blurted out, “Oh, Mr. Kimble, thank goodness you are here. I must get a message to Sir Walter.”

  He offered her a low bow. “I am completely at your service. But come now, there’s no need to alarm the entire inn.” He drew her back into the parlor. “Things are already at sixes and sevens at the Prospect. Bryce is acting like a bear—won’t let a soul near him. Troy and Carruthers have gone off to Withershins—I know you and Troy have had words, Jemima. And I thought…um, that you might need a bit of support. So tell me, what has distressed you so? It’s not that murder business again, is it?”

  “That’s exactly what it is,” Jemima stated. “I have some information for Sir Walter.”

  “Yes?” Kimble stopped fussing with his neckcloth and raised his brows.

  “I need to tell him that—” She stopped in midsentence as the gravity of what she was about to do struck her. She might not only be setting the law on the murderer’s trail, she could also be imperiling Bryce. Treason in wartime was a serious offense. She had no care for the bearded man, but she couldn’t face being the instrument of Bryce’s disgrace.

  “What is it, Lady Jemima?” Kimble took up one of her hands and drew it comfortingly to his chest.

  Lovelace was right, she thought, Kimble was truly a kind soul. “I don’t know what to do,” she said forthrightly. “I believe I can help to catch this man, but there are others I don’t wish to imperil.”

  Kimble shrugged. “When a man runs with the foxes,” he pronounced softly, “he risks being taken by the hounds. Dear lady, surely anyone who is in league with a murderer isn’t worth your concern.”

  “It’s not exactly as black or white as that.”

  “Few things are,” he agreed with a gentle smile. “Why not tell me what you suspect, and let me advise you. Oh, I know you think me just another foolish town beau, but I’ve a sound head in a crisis. I might surprise you.”

  “Thank you for the offer, Mr. Kimble.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “But I would prefer to speak to someone in a…legal capacity, in confidence. In case I am mistaken in my suspicions, you see.”

  Kimble looked a tiny bit miffed. “Surely you trust me, Jemima. We’ve known each other forever.”

  “I… I… Oh, please. Just say you will carry a note to Sir Walter for me.”

  Kimble shot her a mutinous look, but then he nodded. “As you will.”

  She went to the writing desk in the corner of the parlor and quickly penned a message to Sir Walter. She wrote of her suspicions about the cave and asked him to meet her at the inn. She sealed it with a wafer and handed it to Kimble. He gave her an encouraging smile, and then went from the room.

  After he left, Jemima tried to involve herself in the novel Lovelace had left on her chair. When she found herself rereading the same paragraph for the eighth time, she set the book down. She tried gazing out the window to compose herself, but she was just too agitated to sit and do nothing. Maybe she should fetch Lovelace back from the stable and entice her with a game of cards, by way of apology.

  Jemima went in search of her. But she was neither in the stable nor anywhere in the yard. The serving girl, Mary, stood beside the kitchen door, beating carpets with a broom handle.

  “Have you seen Miss Wellesley?” Jemima asked.

  Mary goggled as she thumped up a cloud of dust. “You mean the purty ‘un wif all the gold hair? She’s gone orf with a gentleman on horseback.”

  Jemima, who’d never been rude to a servant in her life, had an urge to box the girl’s ears. “No, Mary,” she said with forced patience. “It was days ago when she went off with Mr. Bryce. I meant today, now.”

  Mary rolled her eyes and stopped thumping. “I tol’ yen. She just now rode orf with a gentleman.”

  “Did he force her to go?” Jemima asked, fearing, in spite of Bryce’s assurances to the contrary, that the murderer had come for his reckoning.

  Mary considered a moment. “Din’t appear so to me.”

  Jemima relaxed slightly. “Who was he, Mary? Someone from Bryce Prospect?”

  The girl scrunched up her face. “Din’t see ‘im from the front. He had on a blue coat, though.”

  Well, that limits the candidates to half the male population of Kent, Jemima muttered to herself. Not to mention the bearded man also wore a blue coat. Though even Mary would have been hard put to describe him as a gentleman.

  She hurried into the inn, calling for Tolliver, who promised to have a horse saddled for her at once. She paced restlessly in the front hall while she waited. There was nothing for it now—she’d have to ride back to the Prospect and enlist Bryce in the search for Lovelace. Because Troy had gone off with Carruthers to see spaniel puppies, and Kimble was doubtless in Withershins by now. Which left Bryce as her only ally. And in her heart she wanted to turn to him. He had never failed her before, and she had no reason to think he would send her away this time. They had quarreled, it was true, but what was a quarrel when Lovelace might be in danger?

  There was a second reason she wanted to see him—so she could tell him that she had alerted Sir Walter. It was the only fair thing to do. Bryce had rescued her from Armbruster, and she couldn’t just cold-bloodedly betray him to the magistrate without some forewarning. She’d do everything in her power to prevent him from being implicated. Though, knowing how riled Bryce was at present, he’d probably admit his guilt boldly and damn anyone’s eyes for judging him.

  She recalled the look on his face after he had kissed her so fiercely up against the bookcase. Anger had warred with hunger in those blazing platinum eyes. He had every reason to expect betrayal from her. He had already received the full measure of her scorn and mistrust.

  Lord, there was no point in replaying that scene. They had both been guilty of intolerable behavior—she’d been precipitous for assuming he was in league with the spies, and he had been unforgivably highhanded for misleading her about the threat to Lovelace.

  Tolliver came into the hall then, to announce that her horse was ready. He grinned and pointed to the register book, which lay open on the reception table beside Jemima. The name “Marlborough” had been scrawled at the top of the right-hand page in a bold, rounded hand.

  “Just a prank,” he said. “One of my guests must have gotten a bit bosky yesterday and written it. Not a bad notion. It appears we’ve both a Wellesley and a Marlborough staying at our humble inn. Next thing you knew, a Hanover will come bowling up in a gilded coach and request a room.” He chuckled dryly.

  “If Sir Walter comes here,” she said as Tolliver handed her onto the mounting block, “tell him to wait for me.”

  She quickly guided the horse out of the stableyard, along the lane, and through the gate that led to Bryce’s cow pasture. As she crested the hill that edged the pasture, she saw a figure on horseback off to her right. It was Bryce. She couldn’t mistake his easy grace or wide shoulders even from that distance.

  Her first instinct was to call out to him. Lovelace needed rescuing after all. But when she saw he was riding in a northeast direction, she had a sudden inkling of his destination. She turned her mount and sent if after the lone rider, staying some distance behind him—not difficult with the less-than-spirited horse Tolliver had given her. After following him for several minutes, she watched him ride across a wide field and then disappear in its center. She was smiling smugly as she drew her horse up beside the dead crab apple tree.

  It was exactly as she had anticipated. She was finally going to see the bearded man up close.

  She quickly tied her horse to the tree and went forward until she came to the edge of the ravine. Bryce’s chestnut gelding was grazing in the distance, halfway down the grassy slo
pe of the incline.

  Jemima crawled along the rim until she was opposite the cave. Then she crouched down in the tall grass that overhung the lip. Bryce was fifteen feet below her, speaking with the bearded man. It was a wonder they couldn’t hear her heart beating, it drummed so loudly in her chest.

  “It’s impossible,” the bearded man was saying. “I’m not the only one at risk. There are fellows in London who are involved in this; they’ll be targets too, if this gets out. And I found out only this morning that someone registered at the inn yesterday as Marlborough.”

  Jemima frowned. That was the name Tolliver had pointed out to her. A prank, he’d said.

  “Christ,” she heard Bryce mutter. “That’s all the more reason for me to tell Jemima the truth, so I can get her to return to the Prospect. Who knows what sort of trouble she’ll get into at the inn.”

  “The fellow ain’t at the inn,” the man said. “Just signed in and left. He wants me to know he’s here, Bryce, but he obviously suspects a trap. So you see, it’s still too dangerous to reveal anything. It’s even dangerous for you to have come here.”

  “What? Afraid that I’ll scare off Marlborough?” Bryce said.

  His companion grunted. “He’ll make himself known to me in his own good time, I suspect.”

  “As for Jemima,” Bryce went on, “I believe we can trust her. I feel I’ve got to trust her.”

  “What if you’re wrong? I’ve yet to meet a woman who could keep a secret for five minutes.”

  “She’s not like other women,” Bryce said. He added softly, “Not at all like other women.”

  The bearded man cuffed him on the arm. “So you’ve fallen at last, eh, Beech. I’m surprised the earth didn’t tremble when you hit the ground.”

  “Oh, it trembled, right enough,” Bryce responded.

  Jemima felt herself blushing. She grit her teeth; she had other fish to fry right now—chiefly, discovering the identity of this unkempt man with whom Bryce clearly shared the secrets of his heart.

  “She found the poem I’d locked away,” Bryce said. “And is furious with me for keeping the truth from her. Not that I blame her. I fear she won’t stop prying until she discovers your identity. She’s relentless.”

  The bearded man chuckled. “Well, then, there’s nothing for it, old chap. If she does discover who I am, we’ll just have to put her out of the way.”

  Jemima nearly gasped at his words, and then waited for Bryce to rush to her defense. To her dismay, all he did was shrug. “I wish you luck,” he drawled. “She’ll not go peacefully, I can promise you that.”

  Jemima pushed herself away from the edge of the ravine, still simmering at Bryce’s callous response. As she drew back, a few pebbles dislodged themselves and went clattering down into the gully.

  “Who’s there?” a voice hissed up.

  Oh, Jehosephat! She winced and closed her eyes as she froze in place, her breath trapped in her lungs.

  She heard a slight movement from below her and then all was quiet again. She waited, unmoving, for the men to resume their conversation. She waited and waited…all the while feeling enormous empathy with Lovelace who had endured a similar torture in the wooded grove.

  “Good afternoon, Jemima.”

  She opened one eye. And saw Bryce’s top boots. She opened the other eye and twisted her head up to gaze at him. He was observing her with a taut expression of extreme displeasure on his face.

  Wonderful, Jemima thought. The ultimate humiliation—Bryce discovers me belly down in afield.

  “Who is it?” the bearded man shouted up.

  “Who do you think?” Bryce called back as he reached down for her. “My own personal bloodhound.”

  She rolled away from his hand and scrambled up. Then she was off and running, as fast as her long legs would carry her. Bryce cried out for her to stop, but she only increased her speed.

  Suddenly, a tall, brawny man sprang up from the grass, directly in her path. She tried to avoid his outstretched hands, but his long arms snagged her. He caught her up and held her against his chest. When she started kicking against his shins, he drew a wide-bladed knife and set it at her throat.

  “Belay that!” he growled as he began to drag her back in the direction of the ravine.

  She refused to look at Bryce, couldn’t bear to see his smug expression. Like an idiot she’d run straight into the arms of his accomplice. But when they finally came up with Bryce, his face was pale and taut.

  “Be a good lad and throw down your pistol,” the burly man purred, “if you want the lady left alive.”

  “I am unarmed.” Bryce held his arms away from his body as the man quickly patted down his waistcoat and coat pockets with his free hand.

  “So you are. Now move.” He nodded toward the incline. “I’ve a hankering to visit yon hermit.”

  Bryce walked in front of the man, along the edge of the ravine. “Let her go, Tarne,” he said softly through his teeth. “She’s no part of this. Cosh her if you must, but don’t make her a witness to anything—”

  “Stow it!” the man snarled. “And keep movin’.”

  Jemima met Bryce’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” she rasped.

  He gave her a thin-lipped smile before he started down the slope. The man called Tarne tugged her down in Bryce’s wake and half carried her along the streambed. There was no one else in the bottom of the ravine.

  “Where the hell is Ripley?” Tarne roared directly into her ear. “I know he’s been hiding down here.”

  “He’s gone, Tarne,” Bryce said calmly. “I rode out here to see him and found the place deserted.” His eyes beseeched Jemima not to contradict him.

  “How is it that you know my name?” Tarne swung to Bryce. “You in league with Ripley?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Most assuredly I am in league with him. My name is Bryce.”

  Tarne looked dubious. “My man in London never mentioned you.”

  Bryce shrugged. “Perhaps he does not tell you all his secrets.” He added matter-of-factly, “I happen to be the owner of Bacchus.”

  Tarne grinned. “Well, then, you must be a mate of my friend in London. He likes that place.”

  “And that woman you are about to eviscerate happens to be my current ladybird. I would appreciate it if you’d let her go.”

  Tarne looked down at Jemima. He shook his head. “She looks a bit long in the tooth for that rig.” He tightened his hold and winked at Bryce. “Not that I’d hold that against her, if I was of a mind to sample her wares.” He nuzzled her neck and Jemima felt her insides go liquid.

  “Ripley’s bolted,” Bryce said with white-lipped restraint. “But he might have left the papers behind.”

  “There are no papers.” Tarne sneered. “Leastwise not the naval papers my master was after. Bleedin’ frog pinched the wrong lot. My master was fairly vexed over that.”

  “Indeed there are papers,” Bryce assured him. “I’ve seen them myself. Your man, er, Ripley, went back to Hastings’s room and took them. It’s possible they’re still inside the cave.”

  Tarne nibbled his lip and looked uncertain. Clearly decision-making was not his forte.

  “Go on, then.” Tarne motioned with his head. “Climb in there and have a look.”

  “And leave you alone with her? Not bloody likely.” Bryce narrowed his eyes. “Get them yourself.”

  Tarne’s response was to pull a wicked-looking horse pistol from his waistband. Jemima was immensely relieved to discover it was merely the butt of that pistol that had been boring into her spine.

  Tarne aimed at Bryce and cocked the hammer back meaningfully. “If you don’t, you’re a dead man.”

  “If I find the papers, will you leave us, leave her, unharmed?”

  “I ain’t making no promises.”

  “So be it.” Bryce shrugged. He moved to the rock pile and proceeded to climb toward the opening.

  Jemima began to squirm. She’d had enough of Tarne’s foul breath and overly familiar hands. />
  “Jemima, no!” Bryce called across to her. “Jesus, don’t fight him!”

  “It’s more than you’re doing!” she shouted back.

  Tarne shifted the knife slightly and pushed her chin up. He cocked an eye at Bryce, and then lowered his mouth to Jemima’s. She writhed in his hold, wriggled until she got one arm free. Heedless of the weapons he held, she cocked her elbow and jabbed him sharply in the belly. Low in the belly.

  With a bellow of pain he thrust her away. She scrambled back and to one side, crouching to grope for a rock to use as a weapon. When she stood up, clutching a large stone, Tarne’s pistol was leveled at her head and he was grinning evilly. She flashed a panicked glance to the rock pile and whimpered, “Bryce.”

  Bryce lurched upright, braced his legs apart, and swiftly raised his arm. A shot rang out, echoing against the ravine’s walls. A spray of shale exploded to her right.

  Jemima waited…for the pain and the rush of blood. And for the blackness to engulf her.

  Tarne was weaving, rocking unsteadily from front to back. She watched in amazement as he swayed toward her and then toppled over at her feet. A small crimson stain had blossomed on his temple.

  She felt the blackness closing in; Bryce scrambled down from the rock pile in time to break her fall.

  “You’re not hurt,” he crooned as his hands swept over her, reassuring himself that his words were true. “He missed you, sweetheart.”

  He carried her away from Tarne, to the foot of the rock pile, where he laid her down gently.

  “Bring the brandy,” he called out as he stroked the hair back from her face. The bearded man climbed out of his hiding place and then knelt beside her, holding a silver flask to her lips.

  He grinned at Bryce. “I see what you mean about her being a handful.”

  “A blasted idiot, more like. I nearly didn’t get to the pistol in time. Did you have to bury it so deep?”