The man bowed, then wheeled his horse. Galloping back to his men, the Montgomery soldier dismounted, as did his companions. Standing by the side of the road, clearly deferring to Sampson and his party, they waited as Sampson rode by.
“Godspeed, Yer Grace,” the soldier said, bowing as he passed them.
“And to you,” Sampson replied. “Best of luck in reaching the Prince Regent.”
“Welsh brigands dressed at English soldiers?” George asked, after Sampson relayed what the Montgomery man had said and after they had ridden past them. “What devilry is this?”
“Until we know,” Sampson replied. “We trust no one. Not Welsh, not English. We travel as though we are at war.”
Pointing to a fresh outrider, Sampson directed him to ride ahead and scout. As the man saluted and galloped down the road, Sampson said, “I want another following as a rearguard. We do not need to be taken by surprise from our rear.”
“Your Grace,” James said, pushing his horse up alongside his stallion. “I would have you ride in the midst of us, no longer at the front. For your protection.”
Sampson shook his head, smiling a fraction. “No. I ride in front, as always.”
The managers of his Monmouth estates greeted him warmly, just as the weather turned for the worse. At the estate house, they were shown to opulent chambers to rest and refresh themselves, but Sampson wanted to ride out to inspect the crops before cleaning up. As George elected to remain in front of a fire with his feet up in the huge library and a snifter of brandy at his elbow, Sampson rode out into the misty drizzle with Oliver, James, and a few footmen connected to the estate to visit the tenants.
“He grows lazier every year,” Oliver complained of George. “How does he manage his own lands and tenants?”
Sampson shrugged, wiping raindrops from his face. “By messengers, I suppose. Then he has someone else to blame when things go ill.”
“He has changed, hasn’t he?”
Glancing at his friend in surprise, Sampson replied, “You noticed?”
“Ever since his mother died last year,” Oliver said. “You know, I did not realize that they had been close.”
“They were not.”
Oliver glanced at him sharply. “Then why would he behave as though he’d lost his nearest and dearest?”
“Nearest, yes. Dearest, no. He and the Dowager Baroness cared little for each other once George came of age. Their relations dwindled further after the late Baron died.”
“Perhaps he pines for a lady wife,” Oliver said, grinning. “Just as you are.”
“I do not pine.”
“Long for, then.”
“Bite your tongue.”
“Lady Henrietta’s governess is quite an attractive woman,” Oliver said. “One could not tell by looking at her she is not a lady of gentle birth.”
“Do you have a point to make or are you merely wasting my time?”
“I am dropping hints, my dear Duke,” Oliver said. “You could do far worse than marry the woman. Unless you prefer the Dowager Duchess of Burgham. She is what, fifteen, twenty years your elder?”
“Her son, the Duke, is older than me.” Sampson retorted.
“Exactly my point. Marriageable heiresses are somewhat scarce these days. The Prince Regent’s daughter is yet a child.”
“Why do you not marry my sister’s governess, then?” Sampson asked. “You, too, are in need of a wife.”
“Ah, no,” Oliver answered, pressing his hand against his chest. “I yearn for the loving embrace of my cousin, Lady Regina Hopwright. She has already accepted my proposal of matrimony, and we will be wed after her twenty-first year.”
Sampson gazed at him in surprise. “I did not know of your feelings for her. Why did you not tell me?”
“You have not a romantic bone in your body, Sampson,” Oliver replied, shrugging and grinning. “I expected that you would dismiss my feelings as a mere nuisance.”
“I fear you judge me harshly,” Sampson said. “Yes, I agree I feel that love and all its bounty is not for me. However, I can still be happy to see it in my friends.”
“Nor are you as rock hard, cold, and unemotional as you would have most people think. One day, you will be struck by true love’s tender touch.”
“Now you make a mockery of me.”
“In that you are wrong, my friend,” Oliver replied. “I would see you living in bliss with your one true love.”
Sampson rolled his eyes.
Upon their return to the manor house, the pair washed and changed clothes for supper, then walked companionably to the library. Expecting their friend, they discovered George was not there. He had said he wished to sit by the fire in the library, but only his snifter sat on the table nearby. “Where did he go?” Sampson asked the house butler.
“Your Grace, he did not advise me to his intentions. I am sorry, I do not know.”
He turned to James. “Will you check the stable? Is his horse missing?”
The steward bowed and left on the errand. Sampson walked amid the rows of books, wending his way amid the small oak tables and comfortable armchairs. Pulling a book from its shelf, he brought it with him to sit beside the fire.
“Why are you so adamant to know where he is?” Oliver asked, pouring them both brandy. “He has outgrown his swaddling clothes, you remember.”
Sampson scowled. “With rumors of brigands and discontented commoners about, it is not safe to be out riding alone.”
Flopping into an overstuffed armchair, Oliver lifted his snifter in a dubious salute. “Your health.”
After summoning the butler, Sampson gave orders regarding their supper, and read a few pages of the book. James returned with word that George’s horse was not currently in the stable. “According to the lads, he ordered his horse saddled and rode out not long after we did, Your Grace.”
“He is too lazy to join us,” Sampson said, picking up his cut crystal snifter, “but he rides out into the rain, which he hates, anyway? I am not understanding this.”
“Leave it,” Oliver suggested. “What is for supper?”
About an hour later, George entered the library, freshly clothed for supper. Minutes later, the butler announced the meal was ready for them. Over the meal of baked pheasant, fried potatoes, an egg and eel pie, sweet meats, and a delicious cherry cake, Sampson asked him where he had gone.
“Why do I feel that I am being interrogated?” George complained, as he was served succulent pheasant.
“You are not, of course,” Sampson replied, annoyed. “But when you claim to not want to ride in the rain, and refuse to join us, then ride out anyway, it merits conversation.”
“Truth be told,” George replied, somewhat reluctantly, “I changed my mind about not going, then rode out after you.”
“Why did you not join us then?”
“I, well, I, er, got lost.”
As George attempted to cover his embarrassment with taking a bite of his pheasant, Oliver guffawed and clapped him on the shoulder. Sampson only offered a small smile.
“I commiserate, my friend,” he said.
* * *
Three days later, Sampson led his friends and his servants eastward toward England and home. The rainy weather had cleared and the sun dried the damp land quickly. Taking the King’s Road east toward the border, they traveled at their ease, refusing to hurry. Once again, Sampson ordered an outrider to ride a mile out in front to scout, and an outrider to watch their rear. He rode his stallion in the front, Oliver beside him, while George rode in the midst, often making conversation with James.
As the outrider had not returned with any warning, Sampson paid little heed to the bend in the road where thickets of bramble and overgrown hedges concealed what lay beyond it. His stallion snorted a warning, his ears flattened as he reared. Instantly, Sampson clawed for his blunderbuss, yelling the alarm.
“Ambush!” he screamed. “Ambush!”
Instantly, armed men swarmed from concealment, firing pist
ols, charging with raised weapons. Sampson kicked his stallion forward, firing his pistol into the face of a brigand, then whipped the blunderbuss across the face of another who fought to drag him from the saddle. Yet another leaped from cover, wielding a long quarterstaff. Spinning it, he lashed out, connecting solidly with Sampson’s head.
Stunned, his blunderbuss slipped from his grasp, and he knew he was falling, then tipped from his saddle. The ground rushed to meet him, and the blackness took him.
Chapter 10
Lucretia woke in her own rooms.
For long moments she stared at the ceiling, trying to remember how she got there. Her head felt puffed, like the dried flower of a dandelion, and her mouth was dry with a nasty taste in it. What happened?
Licking her lips did not help, and only made her thirst worse. Little by little, she recalled the horseman with the flintlock, Henrietta’s terror, bleeding, and the visit to Mr. Kirkwood. Anything after that remained a blur.
“Rosemary, her eyes are open.”
Turning her head, Lucretia found Henrietta leaning over her, staring down into her face. “Luce?”
“Hello, sweetling.”
Behind Henrietta, Rosemary got up from her chair and stood beside the bed, smiling. Her white cap had fallen to one side of her head, and she adjusted it absently. “How do you feel, Miss Brent?” she asked.
“Strange.”
“That would be the laudanum Mr. Kirkwood slipped you. He washed and bound up your arm, he did. Then had that lovely young footman, Mr. Kelley, bring you up here.”
“How long – have I been asleep?”
“Oh, a good while now. Lady Henrietta had her supper, but insisted she come sit with you until you woke.”
“Does your arm hurt?” Henrietta asked.
Lucretia tried a smile, but it felt wrong. “Not right now, sweetling. May I have some water?”
Rosemary hurried to a sideboard where one of the maids had filled a pitcher of water, and poured some into a small goblet. Bringing it back, Lucretia lifted her head long enough to drink it down. “Thank you.”
“You are most welcome. Mr. Kirkwood instructed me to bring you tea after you had awakened,” Rosemary said. “I will fetch it now.”
As the plump woman turned and bustled from the room, Henrietta took Lucretia’s hand and held it. “I am so sorry you got hurt.”
Lucretia smiled. “I am not.”
“Why not?”
“Because if I had not been hurt, you would have been.”
Without losing her grip, Henrietta sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, her fine brows lowered over her hazel-green in worry. “I was so frightened, Luce. I know you and Mr. Kelley saved me, protected me. Rosemary explained it after she talked with Mr. Kirkwood.”
“I am so very glad you are safe.”
“Why did that man shoot at me?”
“I do not know, Henrietta,” Lucretia said, her tone low. “It is all so strange.”
“Mr. Kirkwood set the grooms and footmen to searching for him. But they did not find him.”
“Perhaps he will be caught someday.”
“Then Sampson will hang him, I know he will.”
Before Lucretia could reply to that, Rosemary returned to her room, carrying a tray with a steaming pot and cups. Setting it down on a nearby table, she bustled over to the bed. “You should sit up, Miss Brent, to drink the tea.”
“Please, call me Lucretia.”
“She likes to be called Luce,” Henrietta said firmly.
“Very well, then, Luce,” Rosemary replied, “I will help you to sit up. Here, lean on my arm.”
As she carefully sat up, Rosemary plumping the pillows behind her shoulders, Lucretia expected the pain to hit. Yet, she felt only a dull throbbing ache that spread from her shoulder to her elbow. If she had been dosed with laudanum, then her pain most likely would not truly begin until it wore off. Cradling her injured arm with her healthy one, she accepted the hot cup of tea Rosemary handed her.
“Thank you so much for looking after me,” she said.
“Why, I am happy to, Luce,” Rosemary replied, her ruddy cheeks rounded as she beamed. “The way you care for our lovely Lady Henrietta is the talk of the estate. And, of course, I can look after you as well as my lady.”
The tea tasted delicious, yet held a hint of something Lucretia could not identify. She drank it all, and Rosemary poured her another cup.
“Are you hungry, Luce?” Henrietta asked. “Rosemary can get you something if you are.”
“No, My Lady, I am not. The tea is enough.”
Rosemary plucked her empty cup from her fingers. “Mr. Kirkwood instructed that you have another dose of laudanum, and you are to sleep the rest of the night.” Turning back to the sideboard, she picked up a small brown bottle and poured a dollop into a spoon.
Lucretia thought of the nasty taste. “Must I?”
“Yes, you must, Luce,” Henrietta piped up. “It will help make you well again.”
Obediently, Lucretia accepted the spoon of thick liquid, and swallowed it down as quickly as she could. Trying not to grimace in front of Henrietta, she did wrinkle her nose in disgust. She drank more water to rinse her mouth, then leaned her head back against the pillows with a sigh.
“Come, My Lady,” Rosemary said, holding out her hand. “We must permit Luce to sleep.”
Bending, Henrietta planted a soft kiss on Lucretia’s cheek. “Good night, Luce.”
“Good night, sweetling. I will see you tomorrow.”
Rosemary turned out the lamps, and by the time they softly closed the door behind them, Lucretia was asleep.
* * *
Around noon the next day, Lucretia made her careful way down the stairs with Rosemary’s help. Washed, her hair brushed and coiled at the nape of her neck, and dressed in a clean gown, she felt well enough to eat a small lunch with her charge. Afterwards, she and Henrietta sat in the garden under a parasol to protect their skin, enjoying the warmth of the sun and each other’s company.
“Do you like my brother?” Henrietta asked.
Lucretia took a sip of her honey-laced tea and glanced over at her. “Whatever do you mean?”
“Do you like him?”
“Well, I cannot say I do,” Lucretia answered slowly. “I know I do not dislike him. He is my employer. I do not know if I am supposed to like him.”
“You should,” Henrietta said. “He is a good man.”
“I realize that.”
“When our mother died,” Henrietta continued, her voice soft, “he took her death almost as hard as I did. But being a man, and a Duke, he would not let his grief show.”
“You are remarkably observant.”
Henrietta smiled. “It is only because I know him. He buried himself in his duties so he would not feel the hurt.”
“But in doing so, he left you utterly alone.”
“True. But then he brought me you, you see. I needed another sibling more than I needed a governess.”
Lucretia gazed out over the green hills. A hunting hawk screamed from on high, its voice drowned under the light wind that rustled through the hedgerows. “I expect I did not realize this,” she said at last. “What would have happened, do you think, if we hated each other on sight?”
Henrietta shrugged. “He would have dismissed you and tried another governess, I suppose.”
“I am quite glad we did not.”
“Me, too.”
“So why is it so important I like His Grace?”
Rather than answer, Henrietta drank her tea, and artfully changed the subject. “What do you suppose he will do when he comes back and finds out that man shot at me?”
Lucretia stared down at her arm in its sling. “I am almost afraid to find out. He will be so angry.”
“Why would he be angry?”
“If you were my sister, I would be furious.”
“You are like my sister,” Henrietta stated, staring at her. “Were you angry?”
“Yes.”
Lucretia turned in her chair and faced her fully. “What gain would someone have by killing a ten-year-old girl?”
Henrietta’s lower lip trembled. “I do not know, and it makes me so scared. I do not want to die!”
As Henrietta sobbed, Lucretia knelt in the grass at her feet and held her against her shoulder. The girl wept as though her heart had broken, clasping her arms around Lucretia’s neck like a person drowning. Stroking her hand down Henrietta’s blonde head, she murmured nonsense words that had soothed the frightened, the bereaved, for time out of mind. Over her head, Lucretia eyed the footmen lounging nearby, watching over their lady.
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