An Earl To Remember

by Jasmine Ashford

  The laugh came again. “Not as demanding as arms, either, good man,” the voice said. It was haughty and cultured, and Emilia realized that it was not what she would expect of a robber. She leaned back, feeling terrified. If they were not robbers, then who were they? And what might they want?

  “Well, then,” Jackson shouted boldly. “If you don't want nothing from us, then I bid you let us pass! I have nothing of value to give you. I must be on my way.”

  “On the contrary,” the man said silkily. “What we want you are ideally placed to give. We wish to speak with the countess of Lonsdale. Now. Alone.”

  Emilia thought she would faint. The countess of Lonsdale. Her. They wanted to speak to her.

  Jackson cleared his throat. “Never!” he spat. “I'll see you dead first...” Emilia could hear him scraping about for the carbine, and she heard the man laugh.

  “I'll take your knee first,” the man shouted in warning. “Maybe then you'll be more compliant?”

  As she heard the pistol click, Emilia opened the door. She hated violence and she would not have a man perish or maimed to save her.

  “I am the countess of Lonsdale,” she said in a clear, light tone. “I will hear your case.” She stepped down and stood before the coach, in the midst of the circle of horsemen that surrounded them. She felt very small. She kept her back straight and looked up at the threat, chin defiant.

  The man rode toward her. He was on a tall dark horse and he stopped it menacingly close, tilting his hat back to look down imperiously at her.

  Emilia felt her knees turn to water. Below the hat there was only darkness.

  It took her a second to realize that he was wearing a mask. She could, if she looked carefully, see two eyes staring down at her over the black cloth he had wrapped around his face. It was still terrifying, though, and she took a step back toward the carriage's shielding form.

  She heard Jackson clear his throat again.

  “I'll shoot that man if he moves,” her assailant said calmly.

  “Jackson?” Emilia said quietly. “I will be well – do not do anything...uncalled for.”

  Jackson drew in a breath to protest, but her assailant laughed. “You'd do well to obey your lady,” he said harshly. He thrust the pistol back into his belt, though he left his hand alongside it.

  “State your case,” Emilia said boldly.

  He looked down at her. “We cannot do that here. You are coming with us. You will walk to the side of the road, where you will observe a carriage awaits you.”

  Emilia turned to where he gestured and saw there was indeed a carriage drawn up on the side of the roadway.

  She drew a deep breath. She was not unaware of the dangers of a place such as London. She was a gentlewoman, but neither her family nor her husband believed anyone should live in ignorance of facts, and Emilia was painfully aware of the dangers facing travelers, particularly ladies, in or near large cities. Especially London.

  She stared. “I see no reason to obey that suggestion.”

  He had his hand on the reins, turning his horse toward the coach. He paused. “I can give you a sound reason if I shoot you in the foot,” he retorted.

  Emilia tensed. He meant it. She knew he did. She considered the alternatives. If she listened to him, she would risk being sent into slavery or killed. However, if she did not, she would face unbearable pain, a lasting injury and probably life unable to walk, if she did not die of infection from the wound over several weeks. She was not sure at that moment which she preferred.

  “If I do as you say, can you swear I will not be harmed?”

  He laughed in that spine-chilling way. “If you do as I say, yes. If you disobey or try to lie, then no. I guarantee nothing of your safety.”

  Emilia bit her lip. “Very well. I will go with you. I expect you to release me back to my coach later this evening.” She looked up at Jackson, imploring him to wait for her.

  This time, the laugh sounded quite real. “You are demanding! I am afraid,” he added, still laughing genuinely, “That we cannot accede to that request. I do not trust your coachman. My men will...escort him on his way. And if you comply with what I require, you will be returned to your home again when we have talked. Agreed?”

  Emilia swallowed hard. “Agreed.”

  She wiped her hands on her white muslin gown and walked proudly, tall and straight backed, across the clearing to the other coach.

  When she reached it, she paused. She squinted at it. She knew enough of voices to know this was a nobleman who addressed her – he had not a trace of regional accent and his speech was polished and clipped by a Cambridge or Oxford education. She also knew enough of coaches to know that if he was a nobleman, there should be a device on the door of the coach – a coat of arms of whatever family he hailed from. This door was carefully neutral. As the man dismounted, waiting for her to enter the coach, she had an idea.

  She cried out and swept her hand across the door, and, as she expected, the boot-black that covered the device came off on her palms. She had shouted to alert Jackson and she did not have a moment to notice if he had seen whatever she managed to reveal so briefly, for the man seized her hand and opened the door. He pushed her into the carriage.

  Someone fired a shot into the air and the horses of her own carriage bolted, sending Jackson and his entourage of armed, masked men, flying along the street toward the town.

  In the coach, Emilia sat back, terrified, while the man slammed the door and she heard him mount up and command the driver on ahead. She huddled there and wiped her hand surreptitiously on a silk handkerchief, removing the thick black polish with a disgusted grimace.

  She was terrified.

  The coach was moving, taking her away to an unknown destination. She was with a band of brigands – for all that they were cultured and well-raised, at least their leader, she could not think of them as anything but brigands and thieves. She knew they wished to talk to her but she had no idea about what, or, even when she did know, if she had any ability to give them the information that they wished from her. She also had no idea whether she could trust them.

  Hunched and terrified, she sat on the leather-covered seats of the coach and listened as the wheels turned and the horse's hooves clicked on the cobbles and someone rode alongside, keeping pace with it.

  She wanted to cry. She wanted to run. She very, very badly wanted to escape. However, the door was shut fast and she could see a horse keeping pace alongside. Even if she risked almost certain death and threw herself from the window of the coach, the man on the horse would see her. She could not leave.

  Leaning back, thinking of Lucian and wishing he was there, she closed her eyes and tried not to think too much about wherever she was headed.

  Evelyn will be expecting me, she thought, holding onto that slender thread. She will hear of this. She and Bronson both will know what to do.

  CHAPTER THREE

  MISSING PERSONS

  MISSING PERSONS

  Evelyn had barely slept the previous night. She could not stop the sense of impending doom which filled her each time she thought of Emilia.

  The drive from their manor to the London house took just under an hour. That meant that Evelyn and Bronson arrived in Chelsea house at ten of the clock that morning. She met him, white-faced, in the parlor where they broke their fast.

  “I cannot stop worrying,” Evelyn confessed. “Bronson, she could be anywhere. What if she's wounded...” she trailed off, covering her face with her hands.

  “I know,” Bronson said gently. “I know, my dear. But we cannot help her simply by worrying. I have sent Jarvis back to the inn to wait for any word from her. He sent a party back along the road we know she uses, to look for any signs of her. We will find her. You should not worry yourself.”

  Evelyn bit her lip. She looked down at her teacup and the dish of pastries in the center of the table. She could not settle to eat a single bite. “I know it will not help her if I am distressed,” she agreed. “But,
dear, I feel so helpless!”

  “I know,” Bronson agreed. “Mayhap we can do something too. If we took the coach out later and searched the roads ourselves, we might feel more at ease. We could go further than the groomsmen on their horses. I think we could find her then.”

  Evelyn breathed a gentle sigh. “That is a good idea, my dear.”

  “Now, try to eat some breakfast? These pastries are rather good,” he encouraged, taking a sip of tea. “You should not waste away.”

  Evelyn gave him a wan smile. “I shan't waste away, dear. I promise. You needn't worry about me.”

  He shot her a disbelieving look and covered her hand with his own.

  They finished breakfast and stood, about to leave to check the roads. Jarvis appeared in the doorway. He looked pale, but more sure of himself than he had the night before. Evelyn swallowed.

  “You have news?”

  “Yes, my lady. My lord,” he bowed to them both and waved a hand. “I was at the Hillhead Inn. I met this man. He is Albert Jackson, a coachman. He works for the countess of Lonsdale.”

  “Oh!” Evelyn felt her knees go weak. “Mr. Jackson. Come inside. Have you news?”

  The man entered. He was tall and his face was white with nerves. He bowed.

  “My lord, my lady.” He looked at them both, then away, too hesitant to know what to say.

  “You are Lady Sumpter's coachman, yes?”

  “Yes, milord.”

  “Tell us what happened. Where is she now? We can fetch her wherever she went.”

  “My lord,” he looked at Bronson, eyes rimmed with crying. “I do not know where she is.” He choked and swallowed. “It is my fault.”

  “No it isn't,” Evelyn said firmly. “You are exhausted. You should refresh yourself in the kitchens and then address us when you are feeling better able.”

  “No, my lady!” he said wildly. “I cannot risk it. Beg your pardon, but anything could be happening to her. Those foul thieves...”

  “What?” Bronson said sharply. “Your coach was set upon?”

  “Yes. No. My lord, they were thieves, I think. But they were a funny sort of thief. He – their leader, I mean – he talked funny. Not like a servant or a landsman, if you know what I mean. He also had a coach. My lady Sumpter,” he swallowed hard. “She's bold. She showed me the badge...”

  Evelyn could see he was about to faint and she cast a glance at Bronson. Bronson nodded.

  “Sit down, man. Do.” He nodded at Jarvis, whispering his thanks and then walked over to the seats by the fireplace. The coachman took a seat on the chaise, looking as uncomfortable as if he perched on iron rails. He breathed out nervously, evidently relieved to be sitting down awhile.

  “Now,” Bronson said gently, sitting down opposite him. “You said your lady showed you something. Yes?”

  “She was led to a coach and forced to get in. When she did so, she wiped her hand along the door and shouted out – thinking to get my attention, like. She must have known he'd covered up some sigil, for when she did so, I saw a flash of blue. Blue paint, on the door. Where the coat of arms would be.”

  “You saw what the coat was?” Bronson sounded eager. Evelyn sat forward, holding her breath. If they knew whose insignia was on the coach door, they could find her!

  “No, my lord,” Jackson exhaled sadly. “I saw blue – like the color of your lady's eyes, or maybe a little paler,” he added. “I think the shape was some kind of leaf, and maybe the side of a badge. But I could see no more. Someone fired a pistol and startled the horses. I was dragged away on the coach after that.”

  “You should rest,” Bronson said gravely. “Thank you for what you have told us.”

  “You mentioned a man,” Evelyn added, standing as her husband and the coachman also stood. “You could not tell us anything more about him?”

  “I could not, my lady. It was dark. And he was masked. I know not what he looked like. I am sorry. He had a fancy pistol, though, spoke like a lord, and rode a hunting stallion. 'Tis all I can say about him.”

  “Thank you,” Evelyn said, frowning. “Did he fire the weapon, when your horses were frightened?”

  “No, my lady. Another did. He looked like he knew how to use it, though. The leader of the group, I meant. Had a way with it, you understand? A crack shot.”

  Evelyn blinked. That was what she had wanted to know. Her mind was already working furiously, trying to make any links she could to find the captor.

  “Thank you,” she said gently. “Now, if you wait for Wallace or Janet to come back, they can show you where you can rest and break your fast.”

  “Thank you, my lady,” he said gravely. He bowed to her and Bronson. “You will be searching for her, will you not?”

  “I assure you we will not rest until she is found,” Bronson said firmly. “Your news will assist us and we are grateful. Now here is Wallace. He will take you downstairs to the kitchen.”

  Bronson showed the gray-faced, weary man to the door and waited for Wallace to close it carefully behind him with a click.

  Then he went to the wing-back chair and collapsed into it, sighing wearily.

  Evelyn went to sit opposite him.

  “A blue sigil?” she asked hesitantly.

  Bronson looked up. “He said that, yes. We should head onto the road at once...” he trailed off. “She could be anywhere right now!”

  “There are not many houses that use blue in their coat of arms,” Evelyn said thoughtfully. “Mayhap if I can find a copy of the list of peers, I can find out who among us did.”

  Bronson smiled at her tiredly. “My dear, you think of everything. I will send Wallace to Lord Epsom's house. He has a fine library – if anyone has Burke's Peerage on the shelf, it would be him.”

  “That would be perfect,” Evelyn agreed. “Thank you,” she added, standing and walking to the window. She was worried still, but now that they had information she felt new life flowing through her veins. She could solve this mystery, given enough clues. They now knew who had taken Emilia and when. They could find her.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  DEATH AND SHADOWS

  DEATH AND SHADOWS

  “My lady,”

  The voice had a trace of mockery in it, if Emilia cared to hear it. She did not. She was tired. She was cold. She was terrified. The voice was flat, expressionless and unaccented, and it served to make the last reserves of her terror flare still brighter, firing her mind with panic.

  She looked around the room into which she had been shown. It was dark, the ceiling was high and the walls were bare wood. She had no idea if there were windows, but noticed heavy drapery on one wall and suspected that whoever was inside did not want others to see in or her to gauge their position.

  “You promised me safe conduct,” she said levelly as she settled herself in the chair. She looked up at the man. He was still wearing a dark cloth over his nose and mouth, though inside, with lamps burning in sconces on the wall, she could see his eyes.

  They were pale – either blue or green, she could not see enough to tell – and they glinted in the lamplight in a way that made her pulse skip. She felt like a deer, sighted down a rifle. Vulnerable and endangered.

  “I did,” he said fairly. “But after our question time.”

  Emilia swallowed and lifted her head. “I would ask you a few questions. But you would not answer and I have no pistol with which to compel it.” She wanted to spit, but was too well-raised.

  He chuckled. “I will not threaten you, my lady. I will only caution. If you lie to us, we will discover it. And you will wish you had told us directly.”

  Emilia tensed. She felt her stomach churn painfully. He was not one for idle threats.

  “Ask me, then,” she said. Her words were soft and she held onto the arms of the chair with a deathlike grip.

  “Very well. First, the easy ones. Where are you going?”

  “To visit my cousin,” Emilia said flatly. She could see no reason to lie about it.

  “A
h. Your cousin. He takes an interest in your late-husbands affairs?”

  Emilia blinked. “She has no such interest. She has invited me as a guest. To attend the season.”

  “Ah.” He leaned back. “Good.”

  “Why?” Emilia asked, before she could stop herself. She saw him tense and felt her stomach twist, fearing a reprisal.

  “A fair question,” the man said smoothly. “And it brings me to the core matter. Your husband's affairs.”

  “I know nothing of what Lucian did in matters of business,” she said, heart thumping. “I was his wife, and though we shared everything else, he did not burden me with his ventures.”

  “Ah.” This time she could hear that he smiled, though she could not see his mouth below the kerchief that hid it. “That explains a great deal,” he added.

  “What does it explain?” Emilia asked, feeling more fearful.

  “Your husband was...not careful in some matters,” he said, steepling his fingers. He had tapered fingers and pale skin – beautiful hands. A gentleman's hands. Emilia focused on them, searching for some identifying marks, but could see nothing. He wore no signet rings, had no scars and there was nothing odd about his joints or anything else. They could belong to anyone.

  “Not careful?”

  “Yes. He offended many people. And left some wanting. Some unpaid.”

  “My husband was a careful man,” Emilia said hotly. “He...”

  The man leaned forward then, fast as a hound, and grabbed her wrist. “You will pay your husband's debts.”

  Emilia froze in shock. The touch on her wrist was so unexpected, and no one in her life had ever approached her in a violent way, not even her brothers when she was a child. She stared at his hand.

  “You will release me,” she said firmly.

  He did so. He was not without manners.

  “Now,” she said quietly. “You will explain.”