by Jenny Hambly
A small, sweet smile curved her lips. “You have always rescued me, thank you. Dear Nat will be so cross. I am going to sleep now.”
Sensing this was not a good idea and unable to bear seeing one who was so usually full of life, energy and mischief lying so still, he gave her a firm shake. “No, you must stay with me, Belle, you can sleep later.”
Her eyes fluttered open again. “But I am so weary.”
“Even so. I need your help, Belle. I will have to carry you before me on my horse which will be a much harder task with you asleep. Besides, Rosalind managed to ride herself back home after her ordeal, you surely do not want to show less spirit than she?”
His appeal to her competitive nature worked; she frowned up at him. “I do not believe I am known for lacking spirit.”
Her fond brother smiled down at her. “Then show it, my dear. You do not want Lord Gifford to think you one of those swooning females you are usually so contemptuous of.”
Lord Gifford paused in his paddling to reach into the pocket of his coat. “Give her some of this,” he said, passing a small hip flask to Lord Atherton.
“Here, just a small sip,” he said, gently tipping some brandy into her mouth. It made her cough but seemed to revive her.
Lord Atherton took a swig himself before passing it back. Darkness had fallen by the time they pushed through the doors again, but the moon was up and it felt almost like daylight compared with the dense black of the tunnel.
Lady Gifford had ordered water to be readied and after warming Belle by the fire, wrapped in blankets, Lady Atherton and Rosalind bathed her and put her to bed. She was soon in a deep sleep, her breathing regular, and had regained some colour. Feeling there was nothing more to be done the ladies returned downstairs to await events.
Chapter 12
They had not long to wait. Soon footsteps were heard in the hall and the entire party got to their feet as Lord Hayward, Sir Philip and Sir Thomas were announced. They looked tired and rather careworn. Lord Hayward had a handkerchief tied around his forearm and it was noticeable that the knuckles of his right hand were red and swollen.
“Belle?” he demanded imperatively as soon as the door had shut behind him.
“She’s safe, upstairs asleep but I am afraid she had a tough time of it,” Lord Atherton replied.
When he had given his brief recital of his part in the evening’s work, Lord Hayward shook his hand.
“If ever you are in the briars, George, I am your man,” he said gruffly. “Now I am going to see my wife.”
It was understandable that etiquette should have been overlooked under such circumstances but now the men exchanged greetings with their hosts.
“I hope that scoundrel came by his just desserts,” said Lord Gifford sternly. “If you have him incarcerated somewhere, all the better, I will know how to deal with him.”
Lord Atherton had his eyes fixed on Sir Philip, it had not escaped his notice that his friend looked exceedingly grim.
“That won’t be necessary, sir,” he said softly. “As to his fate, I suppose that depends on your definition of justice but I have seen too many dead men to take it so lightly.”
“Dead!” exclaimed Lady Atherton, shocked. “Not that he didn’t deserve it but I would rather he lived than any of you should be had up for murder! Do not tell me Nathaniel was responsible! It would be more than Belle could bear!”
“Only indirectly, ma’am, do not disturb yourself, he did not murder him,” he assured her. Turning back to Lord Gifford he added, “Though we will need your help in tidying up, sir.”
Overcoming her amazement, Lady Gifford remembered her duties as hostess and insisted that her guests should sit down and be fortified with a glass of wine before sharing their tale.
It seemed that they had had just such a difficult time locating the inn as Rutley had hoped when he had chosen it, but eventually they had discovered its whereabouts by asking at a local farm. They had discovered that he had not many options if he stuck to the roads, and as he was not known for hunting they felt it was fairly certain he would; he could head only for Shrewsbury, Telford or Stafford initially.
It was Lord Hayward to whom the luck, if you could call it that, fell. He was covering the smaller roads that led indirectly to Shrewsbury. He had been startled at first to see George’s phaeton coming towards him but had soon realised who was driving, and sticking to the agreed plan, had sent his groom off to alert the others. However, he found when confronted with the man who had had the audacity to steal his wife, he could not stick to the rest of it, and instead of waiting for the others’ arrival before he began his pursuit, he had drawn his horse across the road.
Rutley must have been mad, for he whipped his horses harder, driving them at him. His blood was up, however, and there was no way on earth he was going to let him go by. At the last possible moment, Rutley had pulled them up. He had managed to control them, just, but in doing so he had lost his advantage and found himself plucked from the phaeton in an undignified manner. Lord Hayward had never before experienced the blood-thumping anger that had taken him over at that moment and he found he was holding Rutley down and repeatedly punching him in the face before he knew it. That he was very likely to murder him if he carried on did vaguely cross his mind, but it was not enough to stop him.
It was a sudden sharp pain to his arm that temporarily disabled him (Rutley had had a knife concealed about his person). It was just enough of a distraction for him to try to make his escape. Ignoring the pulsating burn in his arm, Lord Hayward had hastily mounted his agitated steed and given pursuit. Unlike Rutley, Lord Hayward was a hunting man and having acquired an intimate knowledge of the road earlier, he did not hesitate to take a high hedge into the field beyond. He knew that he would cut off at least a half a mile this way, and when he again jumped a hedge to land on the road below he landed only a few feet ahead of a sharp bend in the road.
Rutley swept around it moments later at an insane pace; Lord Hayward could have been killed but Rutley panicked, as did his horses and as they swerved sharply to avoid him, the phaeton slewed dramatically before coming to an abrupt halt, half in and half out of the ditch that lined the road. Rutley was thrown beyond the ditch and into the field beyond. Stopping only to calm the horses, Lord Hayward had swiftly followed. His rage was still up and he would have liked to have continued where he had left off but what he saw had sobered him in an instant. Rutley lay unmoving, his pallor ghastly, and it had suddenly hit Lord Hayward that his neck was broken.
“We arrived soon afterwards,” explained Sir Philip. “We managed to rescue the phaeton so I drove it back, carrying Rutley with me.”
“He is here?” Lady Gifford said, alarmed, looking about her as if she expected to see his lifeless body stretched out in her drawing room.
Sir Philip nodded. “I am sorry for the inconvenience but we could hardly leave him there for the crows to peck at.”
“No, no, you did the right thing,” said Lord Gifford. “I will have him carried up to a room and send for the doctor, keep everything above board.”
“But what will you tell him?” asked his good lady. “Why just that these good fellows are my guests and they came across the accident whilst out for a ride, nothing more will be needed for the doctor, a bit of a rum fellow; looks like he lost his sense of humour and never found it again! However, I will also send for the coroner tonight, Squire Fellows. As the death was sudden he needs bringing in, he will need to record the death formally. We will have to tell him the truth but he is a reasonable man and once we have the inquisition we can send Rutley home.”
“I will have a cold supper laid out in the dining room, no doubt we are in for a long evening,” said Lady Gifford faintly before bustling out of the room.
The doctor and the squire arrived within the hour and were in stark contrast to each other. Doctor Swallow was spare, with a long, thin face and a serious demeanour whereas the squire was of a more portly nature, with a jovial round face domin
ated by a pair of bushy sandy eyebrows.
They became quite animated as he nodded at the doctor in a friendly manner. “Well met, Swallow, I see you’re still looking as sour as if you’d swallowed a lemon!”
The joke was obviously an old one as the good doctor all but rolled his small, close-set eyes.
“I believe I have been sent for on quite a serious matter, sir,” he said punctiliously.
“Indeed, indeed,” rumbled the squire, “but let’s get over heavy ground as light as we can, eh?”
The good doctor merely bowed his acquiescence.
“Well, lead on, Miles, we had better see the body first, although I had a damned good venison pie for dinner tonight and no doubt it will curdle in my stomach! Still, I’ll have a good snifter of your fine brandy afterwards, which will no doubt set me to rights!”
It was not a pretty sight. Lord Rutley had always been pale but now the chalky pallor of his face jarred against the dried blood and livid bruising around his nose and eyes.
The doctor looked dourer than ever. “You did say he was thrown from a vehicle and not in a skirmish?” he asked at first sight of the body.
Lord Gifford merely nodded, exchanging a serious look with the squire as the doctor bent to examine the body. After a few moments he straightened again and confirmed that although Rutley’s face was quite bruised, the cause of death was undoubtedly a broken neck, consistent with his having been thrown out of a vehicle, which may or may not have also accounted for his other injuries.
Having been told that Belle had got lost and come home very chilled and was in a delicate condition, he took a look at her but thankfully pronounced her to be in need of no more than some rest.
Lord Gifford was closeted with Squire Fellows for some time. On hearing the unvarnished tale, the squire, much amazed, had asked to see Belle to verify her part in the events and afterwards felt he was in need of more than one glass of sustaining brandy.
“I felt it best to tell him everything as I know it,” Lord Gifford explained to the others. “He has seen Belle and is very much shocked that she should have been used in such a manner. Fortunately, it has made him very sympathetic to our situation,” he said, his glance encompassing everyone but especially Lord Hayward, who had finally torn himself away from Belle’s bedside with the attendance of the doctor.
“He will need to interview everyone who attended his death, it is just a formality really, he has already seen the grooms who all confirmed what I had told him. He will see you next, Lord Hayward.”
Nodding, he rose and silently left the room.
“Poor Nat is very quiet,” said Lady Atherton into the ensuing silence.
Rosalind had kept very much in the background throughout the evening. The relief and happiness she had felt at the safe return of Belle and Lord Atherton had been overshadowed by the disturbing knowledge that Lord Rutley was lying dead upstairs. It had unsettled her and tapped into some of the emotions she had generally kept under a tight guard since the death of her father.
“It is a sobering thing to see a dead man who has died violently. Especially if you feel you are in some way responsible,” she said softly, almost before she had realised it.
“Indeed it is,” agreed Sir Philip. “As usual you say little, Lady Rosalind, but what you say is to the point and worth listening to. If we don’t feel some ember of sympathy or regret when we see another’s death, what is to separate us from animals?”
Rosalind blushed as she realised she had spoken her inner thought aloud and that all eyes were upon her. “I think I will go and check on Belle,” she said, hurrying from the room.
She expected to find her new friend either fast asleep or chomping at the bit to get up. Neither possibility was in fact, the case. Instead she found Belle awake but pensive and unusually subdued. She was sat up against her pillows, her golden hair falling about her shoulders, looking more like the young girl she was than the society Belle she liked to play. Her quicksilver eyes, so usually full of mischief, had dimmed to the dull pewter Rosalind was more used to seeing in her elder brother.
“Rosalind,” she smiled tremulously, patting the bed beside her, “come, join me. I bet it is all horridness downstairs. Nat told me everything, is it not awful?”
Unable to resist such an affectionate appeal, Rosalind overcame her normal reserve and clambered up beside her friend and took her hand.
“Yes, it is not very pleasant but at least it is over,” she said gently.
Belle’s eyes suddenly glimmered with unshed tears. “I have been such an idiot,” she declared with her usual frankness. “I remember that I was so cross that I hadn’t been part of your adventure with Lord Rutley and George took me to task for wishing any such thing, assuring me that I would not have enjoyed it at all, and he was right, Rosalind, dear Rosalind, it was horrible!”
Turning to her friend, she sobbed unreservedly into her shoulder for a good five minutes before she finally hiccupped and gave a shaky laugh. “Look at me, I believe I am having the vapours, what a lowering thought when I have always scorned those ladies who are so easily overcome by the merest mischance!”
Rosalind smoothed her hair, suddenly feeling older than her years. “But you were not easily overcome and you did not suffer the merest mischance, so on this occasion you are allowed to cry,” she replied. Then lowering her voice to a whisper, she added, “Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.”
Although Belle smiled warmly at her, Rosalind could still see the trouble in her face.
“What else is worrying you?” she said calmly. “Come on, you might as well get it all off your chest.”
Belle’s face puckered up again but she took a resolute gulp and scrubbed quite roughly at her eyes with her handkerchief. “I have not just been an idiot,” she admitted quite vehemently, “I have been a selfish, unthinking idiot!”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Rosalind with mock severity. “Welcome to the club but you will have to get behind me in the line for that particular award!”
That did the trick; Belle’s inquisitive nature was never far beneath the surface and this brought it right back to the fore.
“I knew it!” she breathed. “I knew there was something more to your sudden arrival in our lives than my close-lipped brother would admit but Mama warned me off from enquiring too closely because she said it would upset you greatly. Do tell me, Rosalind.”
Feeling that anything was better than seeing the wounded look in Belle’s eyes she finally told her all her story. Surprisingly, she found it was less painful with each telling. But this time it gave her pause for thought. She had found Lord Rutley contemptible in all her dealings with him but she now found herself questioning what was ever more appearing to her as her own prejudices and hypocrisy.
“You see, I am not so different from Lord Rutley after all, am I? Finding himself in a corner he tried everything in his power to gain back some sense of justice, some control of his life, as did I,” she said thoughtfully.
Belle considered this for a moment then squeezed Rosalind’s hand. “No, it is not at all the same thing. You were not responsible for the position you found yourself in, and you were trying to avenge the wrongs done to a loved one, I would not have hesitated to do the same. Lord Rutley was alone responsible for his downfall and was only trying to put the blame for it on dear George’s shoulders. People like him never like to accept the blame for their own actions,” she pointed out with unusual perspicacity. Then she looked solemn again.
“Thank you for sharing your secret with me, Rosalind, it was a secret worth keeping. But I, I kept mine to myself from purely selfish motives,” she said quietly, her hand unconsciously moving over her only slightly rounded stomach. “It is my duty and my pleasure to give my brave, darling Nat an heir, but I kept it to myself, frightened that all my pleasure, my gallivanting would be at an end.”
“It is understandable...” Lady Rosalind began, but Belle fiercely cut her off.
“No, no it is not!” s
he cried. “When I was tied up in that cold, dark place, wondering if I would ever be found, I realised for the first time that it wasn’t only me! I had another life inside me, one that I had ignored, one that I had placed in jeopardy for my own selfish ends and in that moment, I realised that I loved it, that more than anything in the world I wanted it to be safe and ashamed though I am to admit it, it is the first time I realised that it was more important than me!”
“No, Belle,” Rosalind disagreed, “but as important as you. Without you, Lord Hayward’s life would be a desert, he loves you to distraction.”
A little imp of mischief once again danced into Belle’s eyes. “He does, doesn’t he?” she smiled. “When I saw his poor hand I almost felt sorry for Lord Rutley, I never thought Nat was the sort to beat anyone!”
Happy to see her friend restored to some semblance of her former sense, Rosalind got up to take her leave. “You need to sleep now and so do I!” she said.
“Wait,” Belle insisted. “There is something else you should know as we are being so honest tonight.”
Turning obediently back towards the bed, Rosalind raised her brows. “Such as?”
Belle began a little awkwardly, “It is something I overheard, I had not meant to listen but that’s me, incurably nosy and forever listening at keyholes!”
Rosalind waited calmly, her amber eyes fixed with the unnerving focus she had whenever she was interested in something.
“It’s about my father,” blurted Belle. “He didn’t win any money from yours although I understand why you thought he did. My father hated gambling, he thought it a fool’s game.”
“Whilst I understand that you wouldn’t want to think so, Belle, his name was on the list,” Rosalind said with certainty. “Not that it really seems to matter anymore.”
Belle shook her head. “Well it matters to me. I heard raised voices coming from his study the last time George was down before Papa died, and wondering what trouble he was in now, I listened outside the door. Papa was suffering with his gout, which made him out of reason cross, and when George asked him to advance him some of his allowance to purchase a new horse, Papa kicked up all sorts of dust! He ended up calling poor George all sorts of things, but when George protested that he was not as bad as a certain person my father was known to have lent a large sum of money to, he went apoplectic! He was very harsh with George and that was the last time he saw my father before he died, I am afraid he feels he is in some way responsible as if that last argument brought on his heart attack. It is all nonsense of course, it was just a coincidence.”
