by Deb Marlowe
“I already knew something was amiss.” The butler from Half Moon House, who also acted as protector and sometime bodyguard to Hestia Wright, held out an arm. She rushed over to give him a long, tight squeeze.
He set her back after a moment and looked her over, as if checking for damage. “You’re all right, then?”
Sudden tears welled, but she refused to let them fall. She nodded. “But I don’t understand how you are here?”
“That letter Hestia sent,” he said, shaking his head. “I could tell by the wording that things were not right. And the work she’s doing shouldn’t be so challenging.” He paused and glanced over at the closed door. “You know I arrange all of her travel.”
“I do know.”
When Hestia traveled she rarely took the common roads and never the same route twice. Isaac made her arrangements himself, and they were ever varied and kept quiet. If Marstoke and his minions knew where to find her, then Half Moon House likely had a traitor in the ranks.
“She wouldn’t make changes, not without letting me arrange it. Not unless there was good reason. So I set up a patrol of guards at the house and through the neighborhood and I came to intercept her.” He lifted a hand, indicating the house. “I stopped here this afternoon, to see if the duchess had had any word. Your note arrived right after. I sent Brynne and Aldmere on to Town, but waited, hoping you’d come in tonight.” He shot her an approving glance. “You must have traveled like the wind.”
“I wish I had. I wouldn’t ache so.” She frowned. “But Isaac, where do we go now? I was hoping to discover her here. If she’s taking a new route, how can we possibly find her before Marstoke does?”
“We discussed alternatives before she left. She’ll take one of those routes—and I believe I know which one.” He nodded. “We’ll find her. But we’ll have to move quickly.”
Francis slumped a bit in relief. She grabbed up a biscuit from a nearby tray. “Are you sure you set enough watches on Half Moon House? It would be just like Marstoke to entice us away and strike there as well.”
“They are safe. Callie and her Lord Truitt had not left London yet. They are moved in and I left him in charge of a small army,” he said blandly, pouring her a cup of tea. “I know you are tired and hungry, but if I feed you up and spoil you with blankets, pillows and warm bricks, can you leave with me tonight and sleep on the way?”
She yawned and snatched up another sweet. “Fill my belly and I’ll likely sleep on the roof of the coach, I’m that tired.”
“No need for such heroics,” Isaac said blandly. “The duke has left us his posh traveling carriage and arranged for fast horses after that.”
“All right, then,” Francis said, stifling another yawn. “Let’s go.”
It hadn’t been a gentlemanly thing to do.
But Rhys had left neutrality behind and jumped with both feet into a war. In war, one used guile and lies when one must. One took advantage of foolish men, circumstance—and laudanum.
Easy enough, then, to slap the drugged Welfield into a state of semi-consciousness and sit back in the shadows of the darkened coach. Imitating his father’s sharp, clipped tones, he harangued the man with his failures until, protesting, Welfield let slip where the confrontation with Hestia was to occur.
Rhys turned the man over to the first village constable he found, leaving him to sleep off the rest of the drug and to await charges on kidnapping. He’d left the coach behind and hired a big, fast horse and he’d ridden hell for leather, switching horses several times, barely stopping to rest until he reached Kendal, a market town situated in the southern end of the Lake District.
The Smithland Arms was a smallish inn at the western end of the town. The ostler who came to take his latest hack told him they only had two guests at the moment.
Two guests? If this was a trap, wouldn’t there be more? Tired and travel worn, he’d stood in the courtyard and fumed, furiously convinced that Welfield had sent him to the wrong spot.
But then a man had moved to stand at the window of the taproom. Awash in relief, Rhys had spun away to face the ostler. He knew the man inside. Cade. One of his father’s lieutenants, as he liked to call them. A misnomer. They were mere chessmen, pieces in Marstoke’s Great Game. Less than that. They were checker pieces, interchangeable and disposable.
No way to stay inconspicuous as one of only three guests at the inn. Rhys watched the boy lead his horse away. The stable sat a little way beyond the inn, the doors facing the courtyard. Doubtless a design that lent itself to speed and efficiency, if not beauty. And it might also lend itself to Rhys’ needs.
Following his horse, he went in search of the stable master. He offered to work a few days in return for a bed in the barn and board for his hack. The man eyed him up, doubtless weighing the complicated equation of his size, how much work he might wring out of him and how much he’d have to feed him. After a moment, he shrugged and agreed.
Rhys set to work. It was a good arrangement. He kept busy, but was also able to keep an eye on the comings and goings at the inn. More of Marstoke’s men arrived as that day and the next wore on. They were smart enough to come in from different directions. Disappointing, as he couldn’t make a guess as to where his father’s latest hideaway might be. All of the men booked rooms, and the inn began to fill. They settled in, playing cards, flirting with the taproom maids and keeping them busy fetching drinks.
Rhys was called to carry more than one keg from the storeroom. Judging by the relaxed attitude of the group of men, he figured that nothing was expected to happen today. He was relieved, too, to see no sign of Francis. He’d left her with no way to discover this rendezvous point—which was exactly how he wanted it. She could stay safe for once. He would handle this confrontation between his warring parents.
Somehow. Sometime. His nerves were wearing thin and he wanted this over with so he could find Francis and tell her—everything.
The next morning, it looked as if he would get his wish. He brought out a horse for an early-departing guest and found a well turned out traveling coach recently arrived in the courtyard. Several of yesterday’s arrivals spilled out of the inn to greet a new gentleman standing next to it.
“Did Welfield arrive? With the son?” the new arrival demanded.
Rhys stepped around to the other side of the horse.
“No. There’s been no word,” one of the men answered.
“They’ve all just disappeared,” the other said. “Welfield, the girl, the son. There’s no trace of any of them.”
“Damnation.” The newcomer reached into the carriage and pulled out a rich looking, lined cloak. “Well, then, our orders have changed.”
“What? After we’ve set everything up?”
“Marstoke’s changed the game. A new plan, in case Welfield didn’t show. That’s why I haven’t traveled alone.” He sighed. “Where’s Cade?”
“Inside, seeing the old man set up—and seething. You know what he’s like. His interest is the revolution. He’s impatient to get to the politics and violence. He gets riled when Marstoke goes off on these personal tangents.”
“Who could blame him?” the newcomer said bitterly. “The last time he ended up in Newgate and we had to get him out.” He shook his head. “What did they do with the old man?”
“They’ve put him in the private parlor. He’s already ordered breakfast.”
Rhys’ grip tightened on the horse’s lead. The old man? Surely Marstoke’s minions wouldn’t speak of him in that way? Who had arrived with the newcomer?
The horse’s owner emerged and Rhys helped him mount, plans whirling in his head. The inn was only large enough to boast one private parlor. Last night, Rhys had carried firewood there and laid the fire. As the room had been empty at the time, he’d taken the opportunity to unlatch the window, just as he’d done in the storeroom in the basement, when he was fetching kegs.
“I’ll take my meal in the taproom,” the new arrival was saying as the guest moved off and Rhys stop
ped at the edge of the building to pretend to pick something from the sole of his boot. “And I’ll have a damned large glass of ale to wash it down with.”
“I’ll join you,” one of the others told him with a shake of his head. “This whole thing is a bloody nasty business.”
“Yes? Well, you may ride inside and listen to the litany of complaints on the way back,” the newcomer snapped. “I’ll ride outside and be glad of the quiet.” He looked over at the groom unhitching his team. “Feed them lightly,” the gentleman called. “We’ll be needing them again, later today.” He moved toward the inn, but stopped and turned back. “And leave the doors open to let the inside air out!” he shouted to the boy.
Today. Rhys’ heart tripped into a gallop. He got to his feet and strode off before the three men headed inside. Once they were gone, he slipped around the side of the inn, moving quickly to the back. Bending low, he approached the window, crouched beneath, and waited.
No sound from within. No one spotted him out here. Slowly, slowly, with two fingers at the corner of the window, he swung it outward, opening it just the smallest bit.
No alarm rose. He could hear the faint click of silverware on china. With luck, no one would notice the slight opening.
Tension swirling like a live thing in his gut, he went back to work.
For hours, nothing happened. He mucked stalls and got harangued for stopping to go to the stable door at every stray noise. He could scarcely keep his eyes from the inn. Was it Marstoke, in there? Briefly, he considered dunking his head in the trough, putting on the clothes in his saddlebag and going in there to find out. But truly, he had no desire to confront his father. Anger and disgust lay too close to the surface of his skin. He didn’t think he could go in and act as if he didn’t know that the man who had sired him planned to murder Hestia and let him hang for it.
He saddled up mounts for a couple of Marstoke’s men. Were they being sent on errands? Or on watch? He pitched fresh hay and fetched a bucket for water. Standing at the pump, he looked up when one of the lackeys returned, riding in fast. Breathing heavily, the man threw Rhys his reins and ran into the inn.
Automatically, Rhys began to walk the horse, cooling it down. He had to get to the back, to see if he could hear anything at that window. He motioned for one of the young ostlers to take the horse—and then froze.
Two more arrivals cantered into the courtyard. A great bear of a man, dressed impeccably, who dismounted and called for the innkeeper in a haughty tone. And behind him, his servant, a young man who glanced casually about as he dismounted.
Flightly.
A series of complicated sentiments whipped through Rhys. Relief, fury, resignation, affection and a deep, abiding joy. He felt them moving fast, like he was riding full tilt again, through a whirlwind of Francis-inspired emotion.
He wasn’t ready for her to see him. And what if the sight of him jarred her out of character?
Stepping behind the horse, he watched, waiting to see what she would do.
Chapter Twenty-Four
I had to go to Vienna. Almost, I could not leave my son. Only the thought of keeping us safe and fed allowed me to go. I learned from my mentor, all of the ways to keep a man happy and wanting more, in secret. When I was ready, she announced an auction. Men from across Europe bid to be first to see my face, to meet me in person, to become my protector.
--from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright
Francis had worked with Isaac countless times. He was the silent, hulking threat behind Hestia’s right shoulder. Usually, his bulk did the persuading for them all. Occasionally, he allowed his fists—and his pugilistic skills—to chime in.
Today, though, she had to fight to keep her mouth from hanging open as Isaac climbed down from his horse and turned into an urbane, cultured, utterly annoying nobleman.
He gave the ostler detailed instructions on how to store his tack and how to rub down his horse. He requested a precise mix of grain for his mount’s feedbag, right down to the percentage of barley and oats. He lectured at length against the evils of too-cold water for heated horses.
And it worked. Because they were still there, lingering outside the inn’s doors when Hestia Wright walked around the curve in the road and into the courtyard.
It was all right to stare, because that’s what any young groom would have done—but no stranger’s heart would have been filled with the relief, longing and trepidation that Francis felt, seeing her mentor once again. Nor would a random boy have felt the same pride.
Slowly, Hestia drew close, moving at the head of an odd procession. She looked a little flushed, but otherwise just as beautiful, calm and regal as she always did—despite the horse she led, the man slumped over its neck and the tired, bedraggled looking woman at her side.
Isaac didn’t even glance in their direction. He moved into the inn, calling for the proprietor. Francis looked after him, then back to the dust-covered group, as if torn. Finally, she ran to help ease the injured man down from his horse.
“Thank you, young sir.” Hestia betrayed not an ounce of recognition. Neither did Francis. “As you can see, we’ve had a bit of trouble on the road.”
A maid came running from the inn, wringing her hands over the injured man. One of the stable boys took the horse.
“Our driver has been injured. His leg is broken. He’ll need a doctor.” Hestia kept her arm around the man on one side and Francis helped support the other side. He moaned with each step, one leg dragging uselessly. The woman trailed behind as they followed the maid into the building, untying her bonnet and holding it by the enormous brim.
“We’ll send someone to fetch the doctor,” the maid said. “The innkeeper is with another patron, but I’ll send for a lad to help us carry him up to a room.”
“Take them into the private parlor,” a haughty voice ordered.
Bloody, sodding hell. The old street expression crept up on her, along with a shocking jolt of surprise and fear. The man who emerged from a shadowed passage was Cade, one of Marstoke’s most trusted men—and also one of the most intelligent and ruthless. He might easily recognize her. She ducked her head, pretending to grip the poor man more securely.
“We left our carriage a couple of miles back,” Hestia told the maid. She ignored Cade. “The driver’s assistant is waiting there with it and with our luggage. I told him we would send help.”
“As he is the man who arranged your accident, I assure you that he has been taken care of and is not lingering there.” Cade looked them all over with a detached gaze. “Into the parlor with them. All of them.”
Two men stepped up close behind them. Marstoke’s flunkies, no doubt, although she didn’t recognize them. They crowded close, but didn’t offer to help with the burden of the wounded man.
Hestia stood a moment, still and straight, her chin lifted high. Francis glanced between her and the door. Was Marstoke in there? She knew Hestia and the marquess had glared daggers at each other across theatres, ballrooms and receptions, but this might be the first time they’d come face to face in years.
“Let’s go,” ordered Cade.
Hestia set her shoulders. Then she bent down to support the injured man once more. They all moved awkwardly into the room.
A man sat in a chair facing the door, straight-backed, proud, dressed in fine clothes and wearing a fur draped around his shoulders.
He was not Marstoke.
“You!” Hestia dropped, all color leeching from her face.
The driver groaned and leaned more heavily on Francis as Hestia’s support faltered. There were two other chairs near the unlit hearth. She maneuvered the poor man into the closest one. His head fell back and she turned to leave.
One of the two men following them stepped in her way.
“’Scuse me, guv,” she said, low. “Gotta get back.”
“My God! It’s true!” The older gentleman in the chair had locked his gaze on Hestia. He half arose, then sank back. “You’ve scarcely chang
ed at all. In all of these years!” Everyone turned toward him, he sounded so frightened, and perhaps a little in awe.
“Well, I cannot say the same for you,” Hestia said bluntly. “Captain—No, it is Mister Wilson now, is it not?”
Francis fought not to react. Captain Wilson? Her fists clenched. The man had betrayed Hestia, lied to her. He’d seduced a young Hestia into eloping, a girl not yet old enough for her come-out into Society. He’d pretended to marry her and turned her over to Marstoke instead, allowing the marquess to take his place in her bridal bed and leaving her trapped in the wicked man’s clutches.
Hestia’s brow elevated. “So changed you are—and without even suffering the prison time you deserved. Something has sucked the health and vitality out of you, sir. What could it be?”
“Hard living, my dear.” He coughed. “Hard living. And the pain and regret that come with it.”
Hestia’s expression did not change, her calm remained unruffled. “Pain? I dearly hope so. But regret? You’ve never showed an ounce of it.” She folded her arms before her. “How did you avoid a court martial and hanging, by the way? Did Marstoke intervene? Or was it that you included an admiral’s son in on your scheming when you cheated the navy and endangered our brave lads at sea?”
“A bit of both, my dear. A bit of both.” The words were followed by a long, eerie wheeze.
“I’m not so sure it was a blessing,” Hestia said directly. “You look like death warmed over.”
The old man laughed, but it turned into a nasty cough that got the better of him and went on and on.
Cade sighed. One of the other men went to pound on the old man’s back—and Francis tried again to slip out of the room. She had to get out of here and bring Isaac back to help—preferably before Cade looked too close and recognized her.
“Here, now.” The man who had stopped her before grabbed her by the wrist. “Cade, do we need to keep these others?”
