Hazel wore her own morning gown, pelisse, and bonnet. Sir Joseph’s apparel was somewhat rougher—a patched coat and breeches that smelled of horses, a floppy laborer’s hat pushed to the back of his head, and no necktie. But he wore his own boots in case, he said vaguely, he would need to move quickly. But he did dirty them enthusiastically with soil and mud from the kitchen garden so that they quite lost their impressive shine. Over his shoulder, he carried a canvas satchel, containing, among other things, the ugly lady’s hat with the red feather, crushed and folded.
He looked as if he were Hazel’s somewhat disreputable groom, although the curricle was not, perhaps, the sort of vehicle in which most ladies might choose to be driven to market.
They had left the children in a state of hopeful anxiety and gratitude. Edward had helped harness the horses and promised to lock the door behind him. Thanks to Mr. Armitage’s large selection of local maps, they had set off along a back road to Scorton that avoided the village of Carntree.
For some time, they didn’t see anyone at all.
“Do you suppose this means we have gone the wrong way?” Hazel asked.
“No, it means no one else is silly enough to ruin the springs of their vehicles,” Sir Joseph said, wincing as they jolted over yet another bump in the road. “I expect the road through the village is better. But this one should meet up with the main Scorton road soon. I hope.”
She accepted that, but a few moments later, something that had been bothering her all morning, off and on, popped into her head. “Who lit the fire?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“In the kitchen. If the children were all still asleep, who lit the fire and made the coffee?”
His eyebrows flew up. “I did.” For an instant, he searched her face, then laughed and returned his attention to the bumpy road. “Do you really judge me so incapable? On my travels I have, occasionally, been forced to live in perfectly squalid surroundings, where I have been forced to such extremities as serving myself dinner and even going without a shave.”
“Now you are making fun of me.”
“Oh, no. Hard to believe, I know, but I could tell you stories that would make your hair stand on end.”
“I wish you would,” she said wistfully. “It’s as close as I’m likely to come to actual travel.”
He guided his horses around a particularly deep rut, narrowly avoiding the ditch on his left. “You wished to go abroad with the princess?”
“Very much.”
“I believe she took Lady Charlotte Lindsay and a new lady I’m not acquainted with.”
Hazel nodded. She hadn’t known that, but she would try not to be envious that a new lady had taken her place.
“Her Highness is not a great one for emotional farewells,” he observed casually. “Even her daughter was hurt by her apparent hurry to get away. Mere friends did not stand a chance.”
“Did she say goodbye to you?” Hazel blurted, then flushed and looked quickly away.
“No.”
Hazel risked anther quick glance, but his gaze was on the road. “Because you will see her again in Europe?”
“I don’t expect to. I shall be with Lord Castlereagh in Vienna. Ah, this looks like the Scorton road to the right.”
Soon, they came upon other vehicles, heading in the same direction—carts full of vegetables and fruit, covered wagons, gigs, pedestrians with baskets, horses and donkeys, sometimes carrying two people. Where and when he could, Sir Joseph drove past them, sometimes causing fellow travelers to squeak with warning in case he drove the curricle into a ditch. He never did.
At such times, he made his expression particularly villainous, and Hazel had difficulty suppressing her laughter.
At last, they rounded a bend in the road, and a reasonably sized town came into view at the end of a clear stretch of road.
A little thrill of nervous excitement passed through Hazel. “It’s a good plan,” she said, more to remind herself of the fact than anything else.
“But it will change,” he warned. “They always do. The best plans are flexible. So please remember that if you get the chance to get away with Bart, even if I am left behind, even if I’m arrested, you must take it. This is what you agreed to.”
“I know, but it doesn’t seem right to give you up for Bart, especially when you’ve done nothing wrong.”
“They won’t be able to charge me with anything worse than breach of the peace, in which case, I’ll simply give them a false name and be released on bail. I’ll be back at the vicarage for tea. Or at worst, for luncheon tomorrow.”
“Have you done this kind of thing before?” she asked suspiciously.
“Misspent youth,” he murmured.
Although it was only nine of the clock, the town was already busy, especially the streets leading to the market square. The nearest inn yard, where Sir Joseph had planned to leave the curricle, already seemed full of vehicles.
“We would get hemmed in there,” he murmured. “Here will do.” Just beyond the inn was an oak tree growing out of the street. Sir Joseph halted his horses beneath the branches for shade and jumped down to loop the reins around the lowest branch. With a subservient touch of his hat, he helped Hazel alight. “I’ll tie the new horse to the same branch,” he murmured. “It will have a lady’s saddle if I can get one. If all goes well, we’ll wait for you a hundred yards beyond the town, on the same road we came in.”
“I remember.” She rather enjoyed waving her hand in a dismissive fashion and watching him slouch off with his satchel, hiding his amusement behind a surly expression.
While he went to buy a horse and a lady’s saddle as previously agreed, she strolled around the outside of the market until, between houses and shops and narrow closes, she found the recently built courthouse. And from there, she walked almost directly opposite it to the ancient-looking building that housed the jail. There seemed to be nothing happening at either, so Hazel, using money Sir Joseph had given her, made use of her time to buy meat and vegetables and fruit. She bought two loaves from the baker’s shop, and then, with her basket full, walked back to the curricle and placed it on the floor of the vehicle.
Pausing only to pat the horses’ noses, she returned to the square and looked around at prettier things. She was tempted by a length of delightful, emerald green ribbon but, reluctant to fritter Sir Joseph’s dwindling supply of money, she refrained.
At last, she glimpsed Sir Joseph again, weaving among the stalls, so presumably, he had bought a suitable horse from among the animals being sold in one of the side streets off the square. As she turned casually away, the jail door opened, and her stomach lurched.
Sir Joseph had said he expected the bound prisoners to be brought out in a line and marched across the square between, hopefully, no more than two guards. But it was only one prisoner who emerged from the jail, and his arms were held by a guard on either side.
It was easy to see that the miscreant was not Bart Sprigg, but a much older man with a stoop, who seemed resigned to his fate. Hazel suspected he had made this journey several times before. In less than a minute, he vanished into the court building with his escort.
The two guards emerged soon after, returning to the jail, and a few minutes later, emerged with a gaudily but scantily clad woman who kept nudging her wooden guards and winking at some of the men in the market—including Sir Joseph, now playing pitch penny with some other men outside the court. He grinned at her, much to Hazel’s unreasonable annoyance.
The woman seemed inclined to linger, until one of her guards said impatiently, “Leave off, Elsie. Save it for later!” And she, too, was dragged inside. A moment after she went inside, the first prisoner emerged alone, not looking remotely chastened, and hurried off toward the inn.
The guards reemerged a minute later and returned once more to the jail. And this time, Hazel was sure it was Bart. Young and straight, but looking constantly at the ground, as though ashamed. Her heart thudding, she walked nearer, trying to ge
t a good look at his face. She had no desire to free some wicked felon by mistake. She needed to see in the face of this young man, the features of the boy she remembered. Brown hair, a square chin, an almost sullen mouth that broke quickly into smiles. There were no smiles today, but she knew suddenly without doubt that this was Bart.
Her heart drumming, she swung away as though a looking glass at the nearest stall had caught her eye, and just at the right moment, she stepped suddenly two paces backward, as though to admire it from a distance. Of course, she walked straight into the guard and clutched wildly at his arm to prevent herself from falling.
She only hoped Sir Joseph was close by.
It was clearly the guard’s instinct to save a lady, for he released Bart at once to support her.
“What’s going on here?” Joe demanded in rough, London accents. Appearing suddenly, he grasped Bart’s free arm as though to tug him farther away from Hazel. “What you been doing to her ladyship?”
“Oh, I’m fine, man, don’t make a fuss,” she exclaimed. “This gentleman has been so kind as to… Oh, my ankle!” She sank again, bearing down on the guard’s arm for a second time.
At this point, the second guard was supposed to release his prisoner into the clearly capable custody of her angry servant, in order to aid the other guard in supporting Hazel, for whose injury they were very likely to be held responsible. But as Sir Joseph had pointed out, plans rarely ever worked out as one intended.
The second guard had clearly not been paying attention. With a slightly bewildered expression, he saw only that someone was dragging his prisoner from his grasp. At least he let go of Bart, but before Sir Joseph could pull him away, the guard took a swinging punch at the interloper. He put all his force behind it, and Hazel couldn’t help her genuine cry of horror.
Sir Joseph, however, ducked and jumped clear. The guard who had tried to hit him staggered forward with the force of his own swing and crashed into the stall full of looking glasses and knick-knacks. It collapsed under his weight as Hazel stumbled out of the way and found herself beside Bart.
“Oh, dear, sorry, mate,” Sir Joseph exclaimed, extending a hand while the other guard bent to help his fallen colleague. He grasped Sir Joseph’s hand from blind instinct, but just as he began to rise, his fingers must have slipped free, and he fell back down again, causing even more havoc.
Hazel grasped Bart’s arm, mindful of Sir Joseph’s instructions, which she chose to think of as advice. “Run,” she breathed and tugged his arm. By then, the crowd had closed in, more interested in the comedy unfolding than in the forgotten prisoner. From blind instinct, Bart followed her. She almost fell over the familiar canvas satchel and swiped it up in passing.
As they weaved through the oncoming people, Hazel set about opening the bag. From behind, came gales of ever-increasing laughter, intermixed with the stall keeper’s screeches of outrage. Hazel dragged a cloak from the bag and flung it hastily over Bart’s shoulders.
“What the devil is…” he began, halting. She pulled him on. “Good God. It can’t be. Miss—”
“Be quiet and hurry,” she said urgently and clapped the crushed, ugly hat on his head. The red feather waved bravely in the breeze.
Chapter Five
Much to the disappointment of his ever-growing audience, Joe kept his little farce going only until he glimpsed the red feather waving on the other side of the square. He felt a glow of pride in Hazel. She had adapted the plan, taken the boy, and kept her head enough to disguise him as they’d slipped away. Joe hadn’t even been sure she would see the bag he’d deliberately dropped for her when it had become clear their scheme needed a bit more creative involvement from him.
“What a damned muddle,” he commented, finally yanking the jailer to his feet. “Most of it, my fault. Really sorry for my clumsiness.”
“’Ere, where’s his nibs?” the first guard demanded, looking about him.
Joe scowled. “More to the point, where’s my lady? I’ll be dismissed for this.”
The crowd, seeing the fun was over, drifted back about their business of buying or selling, while Joe and the two men glowered about the square in all directions. Toward the inn, a bright red feather disappeared around the corner. Two women, arm-in-arm, not remotely interesting to the jailers.
“No, she’ll have got out the way and limped off to find the master if she’s able,” Joe concluded. “I’ll help you look for your prisoner if you like. Is he really meant to be up before the court? What did he do?”
“Highway robbery,” came the grim reply. “And we’ve just lost him.”
“No, no, we’ll find him again,” Joe insisted, giving Hazel all the time he could to get herself and the prisoner clear.
“I’ll fetch the others from the court,” one of the jailers said morosely.
“No point in telling them you lost him if we get him back,” Joe countered. “Let’s think. Which way would he go when your attention was off him? Best way to get out of your sight… round the nearest corner. This way!” Joe pointed and strode off, hoping the guards would follow him. If they didn’t, it wouldn’t matter hugely, for they still had to get across the square, and even then, they would see no more than two women walking together. It wouldn’t even matter if they recognized Hazel from the back. He hoped.
In fact, they did follow him, and he managed to waste a considerable amount of time, searching a tavern and the yard around it, while one of the guards kept watch in the street for any sign of the escaped miscreant. After that, they toured around the back streets in a big loop until they came to the inn and the oak tree where the horse he had bought earlier still waited patiently.
“My lady must have gone back in her carriage,” he observed. “Just as well, with a sore ankle. Do you want me to help you some more?”
“No, I think you’ve helped quite enough,” one of the guards said. “We’ll have to go and admit we lost him. He’d better not rob anyone else, because if I get hold of him, I’ll—”
Joe heard no more, for he had untied the horse and mounted into the lady’s saddle, one foot dangling without a stirrup. He kicked the horse into motion, making it look as if the beast was bolting down the road with him. He hoped it amused the jailers, for he owed them that much.
*
Joe rode at a gallop, knowing he could only rest once he was sure of Hazel’s safety. How the devil had he got involved in this? How had he ever let her convince him she should come with him?
He had always possessed a curious mind. He liked unusual people, which was one reason he had been drawn to the Princess of Wales. But Hazel Curwen was a different matter entirely.
He had always understood her disapproval of him. She was young and innocent, and she should not have been confronted by the sight of a gentleman emerging from Her Highness’s bedchamber half-dressed. He was not proud of that.
On the other hand, he was good at divining people’s characters very quickly, and in Hazel, he had recognized not only a quite unconscious beauty but an intriguingly sweet, passionate, and even adventurous nature that she hid most effectively behind a frown and a brisk manner. He wanted to know more.
But she had spurned his overture of friendship and apology, and with the departure of Her Highness from British shores, he had begun to doubt they would ever meet again. Until the Blue Boar.
And now they were allies in this somewhat questionable adventure. Despite his rare anxiety, Joe was delighted.
He caught up with the curricle in the bumpy lane that led back to the vicarage. It had come to a halt, though apparently not because Hazel had driven it into a ditch. The feather still waved from the head of her companion, though they both appeared to be looking over their shoulders at him. Perhaps they were afraid he was one of the magistrate’s men in pursuit. As he urged his horse into a canter, Hazel actually stood up in the curricle, shading her eyes from the sun with one hand. The horses moved restlessly, and she had to grasp the back of her seat to keep her balance.
Wi
th a spurt of laughter, Joe waved to her. She let out a cry of delight, and her face lit up in a breathtaking smile that dazzled him as he drew up the horse alongside the curricle. It was mere relief, of course, but her beauty seemed to glow with it.
“Oh, thank God you got away!” she exclaimed. “I didn’t know whether to laugh or collapse in a terrified heap.”
“I’m very glad you did neither. I congratulate you on your swift actions.” With difficulty, he tore his gaze away to regard the young man in the crushed lace bonnet.
Hastily, the boy snatched it off, blushing almost as red as the feather. He was wrapped in one of the charity cloaks and held a large basket full of food on his knees.
“Oh, this is Bart,” Hazel said. “Mr. Bartholomew Sprigg, to be precise. Bart, this is Sir Joseph…” She broke off in alarm. “Oh dear, am I supposed to tell him who you are?”
“I think we know enough of each other’s secrets for it not to matter,” Joe said wryly. He reached out his hand to Bart. “Joseph Sayle. Here to tell you that your plan was cork-brained in the extreme, but since it has afforded us so much entertainment, I’m prepared to forgive you. On condition you don’t do it again.”
Clearly baffled by this speech, the boy reached out to shake his hand but could think of nothing to say.
“We’ll talk about that back at the vicarage,” Hazel said. “Do you wish to drive, Sir Joseph?”
“No, I’ve got quite used to this bizarre saddle. Let’s just move on.”
Obligingly, she set the horses in motion, and just as on the journey from London, he found himself admiring her light, firm hands on the reins.
“What happened when we slipped away?” she demanded as he rode beside them along the lane.
He told her about the farce and the broken stall, and then how he had “helped” the guards to look for their escaped prisoner. He made it deliberately entertaining, and the laughter he had always suspected lay beneath her disapproving exterior kept bubbling up, breathless and joyous. Even Bart smiled unhappily on occasion.
Pursued by the Rake Page 5