by Rue Allyn
Perry laughed. “Come on, let’s go.”
Tyrone climbed aboard his horse taking one last look at the encampment, but the pony was nowhere to be seen. Next time he visited the camp he wouldn’t indulge in the smoke, he promised himself as he rode away.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Damn the bitch!” Augustus slammed his fist on the desk. “Three long weeks and there is still no sign of her. Where could she be hiding, Benson? She will ruin it all, all I tell you.”
The butler poured another glass of port and pushed the glass across the desk to his employer’s hand. “I’ve no idea, sir. It is as if she just vanished like one of those no good gypsies.”
Augustus spat a wad of tobacco into the hearth and then took a deep swig from the glass. “It is all their faults, damned infernal vagabonds. The squire is nothing but a man-whore — but for him I would gain all that should be mine by birthright.”
The butler didn’t bother to point out the idiocy of his complaint, for the former squire was both the means and the end to the baron’s claim to the vast fortune at Delilah Daysland’s fingertips. “There is naught between here and Westpoint except two farms and the woods, unless she went the other way without the pony.”
“We have looked everywhere,” Augustus fumed. “People are starting to talk about her absence.”
“No more than before I am sure, since she was a hermit of sorts before your marriage.”
Augustus scowled at the butler. “For my purpose she must be dead, or at least imprisoned here, not missing.”
“How hard can it be to find a blind wench?”
“Not hard, you would think, especially without the blasted pony.” Augustus gulped down the rest of the port and rolled the glass between his stubby fingers. “I have already raped the Westpoint storerooms, fields, and stables, but without the wench I cannot lay claim to a penny of the estate’s coin or land.”
Benson shook his head. “She wouldn’t have run had you not gotten foxed and tried to force yourself on her.”
“And I suppose your idea of honoring the bargain and leaving her to fend for herself at Westpoint would have been better?”
The butler shrugged. “I’ve no qualms about relieving my needs between a blind wench’s thighs for the right coin. Even so, getting her in her cups would have made it easier and her none the wiser.”
“Think you I want her bastard to claim what is rightfully mine?”
“That is the pot calling the kettle black, if you ask me.” The man grinned.
Fury threatened to escape the baron’s controlled demeanor. “The accident of my birth was just that, an accident. Allowing the likes of you to defile my own deliberately would be idiotic, to say the least.”
“Not as bad as siring your own inbred bastard.”
This time Augustus lost control. “Shut your gob, you daft bastard, before someone hears! Besides, I have no intention of letting her live long enough to give birth to any gypsy spawn. A neat trip down the stairs would have rid me of any guilt after dousing my lust with her. How did it all go so wrong?” he whined more to himself than anyone else.
The butler shrugged. “Perhaps you should offer up a reward for her safe return?”
“Bah! And waste more money on the wench? I already spent a ridiculous amount feeding all those useless villagers at my sham of a wedding celebration.”
“Careful, those who you insult are the ones doing your dirty work for you.”
Picking up the half empty glass, Augustus flung it at the butler. “Get away with you! You are doing naught but annoying me with your prattle.” He grunted with satisfaction when the butler skulked out the study door and closed it behind.
It shouldn’t be this complicated. Killing his father was the result of anger, disgust, and determination to get what was his by right. Augustus should have been able to claim the estate, but the old whore monger refused to acknowledge him for fear it would cost his precious gypsy spawn a suitor. No woman, even one as pathetic as her, deserved his money and land. He needed to find the wench before she ruined everything, but where was she?
Running a hand through his hair, he growled. He needed sleep, but even in rest his deeds haunted him. Storms and blood were the things of his nightmares, often concluded with visions of a demon pony whose human eyes pierced him with accusation. Was he so far gone in dementia a simpleminded beast took on a supernatural essence? No, he was sane, sane enough anyway. Maybe it was some gypsy curse heaped on his head for the death of his sire. He shook his head and poured another drink. Now he was being absurd.
A log rolled from the pile aflame in the hearth, sending a shower of sparks and uncanny apparitions to dance about the room. For the briefest second he thought he saw the pony’s eyes flickering in the coals. It alarmed him enough that he sloshed the liquor he was pouring over his hand. It wouldn’t due to waste his means of a dreamless sleep. To hell with the glass. Turning from the fire he raised the bottle to his lips and proceeded to drink himself into oblivion.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“My lord, there’s a maid here to see you.”
Tyrone looked up from the paperwork he was trying to concentrate on and ran a hand through his hair in exasperation. The butler shifted his weight and gave him an apologetic grimace. “A maid? Tell her I am not hiring and send her on her way.” He rubbed his eyes, regretting the night spent with the gypsy girl and her “magic” pipe.
“She’s not here for a job, my lord. The woman insists on speaking to you about Miss Daysland … I mean the baroness.”
“Very well, send her in.” Tyrone tidied his papers and set them back in the file on the desk.
A young lady was shown into the room and the butler closed the door behind her with a soft click.
Tyrone frowned. “You are Teresa, are you not?”
“Yes, my lord.” The maid curtsied with her eyes fixed on the floor.
He leaned back in his chair. “What can I do for you?”
She glanced up, an uneasy expression crossing her face. “I wouldn’t have bothered you, but I have nowhere else to turn.”
With a sigh he leaned forward and propped his elbows on top of the desk. “What kind of trouble are you in, Teresa?”
Her eyes widened. “Oh no, my lord. ‘Tis not what you think. ‘Tis not me in trouble, but Miss Daysland. At least I think she is in trouble, though I can’t say for sure and Miss Daysland bade me promise not to tell. I would not even think to betray her confidence either, my lord, except under the most dire of circumstances. Not very becoming in an employee — ”
He held up a hand to put an end to her rapid commentary. “Slow down and get to the point, please.”
She cleared her throat and took a deep breath. “Well, Miss Daysland thought to fool you, not to be dishonest you understand, but to protect herself.”
He nodded, growing more and more annoyed by the moment with his own inability to understand what she was referring to. Impatient, he waved her on.
The woman’s hands fluttered, washing each one with the other in distress. “She made a deal with the baron where she would have a marriage in appearance and return to Westpoint the day following her nuptials. You see, the baron has need of her inheritance and didn’t really want to marry her, either. You know how it is with nobles, my lord.”
He rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes, get to the point. Why is it you believe Miss Daysland is in trouble?”
“Well, it has been weeks now and Miss Daysland has not returned to Westpoint. I sent a note to inquire of her plans with no response, and then went to the baron’s myself to ask after her, but was turned away by the butler who said my mistress was too busy to see me. ‘Tis not like her to turn me away, my lord, not like her at all.”
“I see.” A bad feeling welled up in the pit of Tyrone’s stomach. In truth Delilah was very close to the household servant, and the idea she would snub one of her favorite maids was disconcerting. “Rest assured I shall inquire after the baroness.”
The
maid wrung her hands. “I should not like it to be known I betrayed my mistress, my lord.”
“I will keep your visit in the strictest confidence.”
She nodded and then hurried from the room with a shaky smile.
Tyrone pondered the situation as the door closed behind her. I knew it. Delilah agreed to the marriage too readily after all the fuss about having to give up her freedom. Opening the desk drawer he rummaged for the file on Westpoint. Was Delilah back at the baron’s as he claimed, or did something happen to her the night of the storm? If she wasn’t there, then where was she, and why would the baron lie about it? The matter of the missing property still remained and the strange note in the squire’s log about the baron and Delilah. He scanned the papers and then rang for the butler.
The man poked his head around the corner of the door within moments.
“Tell my valet to pack and send for my coach. I am returning to Westpoint on business,” Tyrone instructed.
• • •
Tyrone leaned forward and peered out the window at the baron’s manor as his coach rounded the bend. Though at first glance the estate appeared more prosperous than before, there were still subtle signs of disrepair. Shakes loosened from the recent storm littered the ground around the barn. Whitewash peeled on the ornamental gazebo, perched amid the overgrown roses in the circle of the carriage turnabout. He jumped down from his conveyance and marched to the door. It opened after he pounded on it twice.
The pasty faced butler peered at him. “May I help you, my lord?”
“Yes, I would speak with the baron immediately.”
“I am afraid it is not possible, my lord, but I shall tell him you came ‘round.”
Tyrone glowered at the man. “Is the baron here?”
The butler tossed a hasty look over his shoulder. “He asked not to be disturbed, my lord.”
“Disturb him.”
“But — ” The man jumped back when Tyrone stepped forward.
“Now.” With the flat of his hand Tyrone shoved the door open and entered the baron’s foyer. “March!”
The servant trailed in his wake as Tyrone stomped down the hall in search of the baron’s study. “See here — ”
“Stubble it! I will speak with the baron now, and God help him if he should give me the wrong answers to the questions I have to ask.” He located the study and flung open the door.
The baron looked up from his spot behind a desk cluttered with papers. “Frost? What brings you here?”
Tyrone crossed to the desk, leaned forward and placed both palms on it to look the baron in the eye. “Where is my ward?”
The baron blanched. “I beg your pardon? Are you referring to my wife, Frost?”
“She is exactly who I am referring to, March.” The baron was afraid. The tension in the air, the sweat beading on his brow, and the nervous tick of his right eye all gave testimony to guilt and deceit.
“She is resting right now. Do you have a message I may pass on to her, on your behalf?”
“No. I will speak with her now.”
The man paled even more, his complexion taking on a ghost-like hue. “It is not possible.”
Tyrone grabbed him by his shirt front. “Why not?”
“She’s gone,” Augustus squeaked, his eyes growing huge when Tyrone twisted the shirt tight around his fist.
“Where?”
Augustus shook his head. “I have no idea, been searching for her for weeks.”
“Why?” Tyrone released the baron’s shirt and thrust him back in his chair. “What did you do to make her run and hide?”
“Nothing.” The baron rubbed his neck where a red mark remained from the shirt’s pressure. “We had an agreement. She was to return to Westpoint Manor the day after our nuptials.”
“She did not arrive there according to her maid, who came to you when she became concerned. Why did you lie and tell the servant her mistress was here?”
“Well, I did not want the whole land to know I misplaced my wife. I’ve no notion to be a laughingstock because the girl flew the coop and is playing games.”
Tyrone’s anger got the better of him and he slammed his fist against the desk, turning a stony stare on the baron. “Did it ever occur to you Delilah might be in grave danger? That she is not playing a game? You have wasted weeks nursing your own imagined wounds and left a blind woman out there, all alone, to whatever horrors might befall her! If anything has happened to her, rest assured, I will hunt you down and hang your scrawny body from the cliffs for the vultures to pick!” With a growl he stormed from the room and back to his waiting coach. Delilah was out there somewhere. Alone.
• • •
The night at the gypsy camp nagged Tyrone’s mind as he trotted along the road from Winningham to the neighboring village of Four Corners. Was there any truth to the old woman’s prophecy? She claimed Delilah was nearby. Where would he find the gypsies now? In exasperation he thumped his fist against his leg. His gelding skittered to one side in protest. Without thinking, he tightened the reins and patted the animal. He’d spent the last week looking for Delilah without a single sign of her to be seen. How could she have just disappeared without a trace like a gypsy? Like a gypsy … His mind returned to the fortune teller’s prophecy. Who better to ask than the nomads themselves? Perhaps in their journey they came across a blind woman and a fuzzy guide pony.
At a crossroad he turned his mount east to the place the gypsies camped a mere week ago. Would they follow the road to the next town, or keep to the fields where they could poach livestock to feed themselves? Urging his horse on, he cantered down the wheel-rutted trail.
The sun was dipping below the horizon when he came to the outskirts of Four Corners. He rode down the dusty street of the little village in search of the local tavern. If gypsies were about, someone there would know. A narrow band of light shone across his path, the disjointed sounds of peasant music filling the air. He reined in his horse and dismounted, tying the trusty animal to a hitching post beyond the fringe of light. Wisdom warned him to check the pistol at his hip before arranging his great coat to cover it. One never knew what could befall him in a small town tavern.
He stepped into the establishment and scanned the dim room through the haze of smoke. Voices hushed when the handful of merchants and townsmen inside turned to stare. With a curt nod Tyrone made his way to the bar and ordered a tankard of ale. The patrons resumed their merrymaking and he turned to the tavern keeper as the man set a foaming tankard of amber liquid in front of him. “It is not busy in here tonight, I see.”
The man nodded, the ends of his thick mustache bobbing where they curled toward his nostrils. “Thanks t’ them crooked gypsies camped out by the brook. Thieving varmints! I had t’ drop the price of me ale jus’ t’ be sure I have customers. Gettin’ so a man can’t make an honest livin’ these days.”
Tyrone nodded in pretend sympathy. “Yes, a scourge to be sure. The gypsies are down by the creek, you say?”
The tavern owner nodded before moving off to pour another round for a group of men plying cards at a far table. Tyrone finished his ale, tossed a couple coins on the counter, a tad more than the cost of the drink, and left. Mounting his horse, he turned it in the direction of the bridge leading out of town. He crossed over it, almost missing the little used trail off to the right on the other side. Wagon tracks marred the grass following a path that wound around a grove of oak trees along the creek. The smoke from the campfires reached him before the wild music floating on the cooling night air. The customary rope picket was strung across a row of walnut and oaks, waiting for visitors to secure their horses.
A smile stirred his lips when he spied a young gypsy boy sneaking between the handful of mounts tied there, searching any saddle bags for loot he could abscond with. No one could say the vagabonds didn’t earn their reputations as cheats and thieves. When the boy spied him, he leaned up against a tree as if he were staring at the stars.
Tyrone dismounted and crook
ed a finger. “Water and secure my horse, boy, and there will be a shilling in it for you when I return.”
A greedy smile spread across the boy’s face as he hurried forward and took the reins to Tyrone’s horse. “Yes, mi’ lord.”
With a glance over his shoulder to be sure the boy was doing as he bid, Tyrone stepped through the grove of trees and into the gypsy encampment. A violin wailed through the night, accompanied by the jingle of a tambourine and the soft tones of a pianoforte. The painted wagons were circled around a large fire pit wherein blazed crackling flames, bathing the clearing in a soft golden glow. A few gypsies in colorful costumes lounged around it, waiting for customers he supposed. As he stepped into the circle of light his attention was drawn to the group of musicians who huddled beyond in the shadows of the trees. The veiled woman he recalled from his last visit was again perched on the pianoforte bench, swaying in time to the notes dancing from beneath her fingertips. Turning away he sought the elder woman who granted his fortune the last time, but didn’t see her among the reclining vagabonds.
A young woman sauntered up, pressed herself against him, and stroked the lapels of his coat. “Have you come for an evening’s entertainment, my lord?”
He disengaged her fingers and held her aloof. “No, I have come to see the fortune teller.”
She smiled. “Delinka is busy. Perhaps you would like your fortune told by fresh eyes, yes?”
He frowned. “I would prefer the same seer I saw last.”
“I understand, my lord, but perhaps try this one, and if you are not happy you may see Delinka tomorrow eve for no charge.”
One seer was as good as another he supposed, as long as he was tempted to believe in such things. “Fine, lead me to this new seeing one.”
She affected a pretty pout. “First you must have a drink and a dance with me until she is ready for you.”
Without bothering to ask why the fortune teller needed to be ready for him, he followed the girl to the fire. As the song faded she handed him a skin of wine. He lifted it to his lips and drank his fill of the potent concoction as a new song began, this time without a pianoforte accompaniment. Instead of dancing with the gypsy, he flipped her a shilling to perform for him in the light of the fire and sat on the grass. The song seemed to go on and on. His eyes grew heavy and his limbs relaxed. The effects of the drink, he concluded when the song ended.
