“Of course, my lord.” The coachman ran back to the carriage and collected a length of rope from beneath his perch.
“You are not to give anyone anymore problems, Samson,” Triston seethed. He didn’t have time to deal with the disloyal servant. He needed to help Edith. “Do we have an understanding?”
Samson shook his head vehemently, spittle flying from his gaping mouth.
“Good, now give your hands to my driver,” Triston demanded.
He barely paused to watch the coachman secure Samson’s wrists.
“What is going on?” Lady Lucianna called from his carriage.
“Who is that man?” Lady Ophelia chimed in.
But Triston was already stalking toward the cottage, the cliffs surrounding it on three sides as the morning ocean spray relentlessly hammered the sheer rocks. He was uncertain if it was the din of the waves or the sound of his own blood thrumming through his veins that echoed in his head, blocking out all other noise.
His steps faltered when the silhouette of a woman passed the large window—a pocket pistol held in her hands.
The tousled midnight hair and hurried, frantic movements did not fit the Esmee Triston knew. Something had broken loose within the woman, sending her into a manic spiral. He wracked his brain, attempting to remember any specific thing—either said or done—that would send Lady Downshire into such a maddened state.
His heart dropped as he looked closer. Edith was bound to a chair, her eyes widened in terror as Esmee advanced on her, the pistol pointed squarely at Edith—the rising sun gleaming off the pearl handle.
Triston moved in slow motion, his body not responding as quickly as he demanded…his breath heaving as he raced to stop Esmee.
The door to the cottage stood ajar, and Esmee’s deep, throaty voice drifted toward him, halting his movement.
“…you see, I am to have a baby—the next Marquis of Downshire. My dear husband, Horace, is so deeply excited for our babe.”
“Lord Torrington is to be the next marquis,” Edith challenged.
“Correction, my dear Lady Edith, for I can see you are a bit daft,” Esmee laughed. “Our poor Lord Torrington, my beloved stepson, will fall to his death this day. You see, he will be overcome by grief when he learns I am with child. He is still desperately in love with me. Everyone knows this to be true, even though I chose his father. He cannot handle I am to give birth to another Neville heir.”
Triston lifted his foot to kick in the door, ready to remove the pistol from Esmee’s hands and untie Edith, but her words halted him.
“And how do you know the child belongs to Lord Downshire and not Abercorn?” Edith’s words were laced with conviction.
His pride—and affection—for Edith grew. She’d discovered Esmee’s treachery when Triston, and his father, hadn’t noticed anything amiss. His stepmother not only sought to dupe his father, but also do away with him to make way for her own child to inherit the Downshire estate. And there was no proof the child even belonged to the marquis’ bloodline.
The woman was sadly mistaken if she thought he was so easy to be rid of.
“With you and Triston out of the way, no proof will exist to the contrary.” Esmee waved the tiny pistol about.
Triston leaned close and peered through the crack in the door.
Esmee lowered the weapon and paced back toward the hearth. The tiny shot certainly wouldn’t kill Edith from any distance, but up close, the pistol could cause serious injury. Especially if Esmee’s aim were true.
“What of Abercorn,” Edith asked. “Will he not suspect the babe is his?”
The woman threw her head back and cackled, it was the only way he could describe the sound, as if Edith had said the most insane thing.
His hair stood on end, and a shiver ran down his spine at the sound—so cold and emotionless.
“Enough.” Esmee sobered, lifting the pistol once more and pivoting back toward Edith. Crossing the five paces to stand before her, she shoved the weapon in Edith’s face. “You will keep your mouth shut!”
Triston noted that her hand shook, and the pistol wavered slightly.
He needed to end this charade.
Glancing over his shoulder, Triston saw Lucianna and Ophelia staring at him from the safety of the carriage.
Bloody hell, what had possessed him to travel without a weapon of his own? He clenched his jaw. Regardless, Esmee should not be hard to overpower. Taking a final deep breath, Triston pushed through the door.
Chapter 15
Edith shrieked at the same time Esmee turned sharply toward the door as it slammed against its frame. The shiny pistol slid from her grip and clattered along the floor until it hit the far wall.
Triston. Relief flooded Edith when he finally entered the cottage.
Both he and Lady Downshire followed the weapon’s progress across the room, and Edith sighed, comforted to know the woman no longer held the gun.
Both Triston and Lady Downshire took off after the pistol; the woman scurrying across the room on her hands and knees, attempting to arrive at the far wall first, but Triston was quicker. He took hold of the weapon and held it high, out of the woman’s reach, and she clawed at him and pulled on his shoulders to bring it back down. A deep sense of compassion welled inside Edith to notice that Triston did not aim the pistol at Lady Downshire, but only sought to keep it from her.
“Enough!” Triston commanded, his tone filled with power and leaving no room for argument; however, Lady Downshire seemed undeterred—and out of control—continuing to beat at Triston’s chest.
Edith could not take her eyes off Triston—his hulking presence overtaking the room, commanding all present to heed his fury. His intense stare took her in next, from the obvious knot on her forehead, which ached with a fierce intensity that matched his stare, to her bound wrists, her uncontrollable shaking, and finally, coming to rest on her petrified gaze.
She knew exactly how she appeared—Edith had had a few opportunities to taken in her reflection in the window before her. She knew her hair was knotted, a twig tangled in her golden tresses. Her face was smudged with dirt from the carriage boot. And worst of all, her journal was gone, her hidden pocket ripped at the seams. Lady Downshire said she’d left it in London—odd to be concerned with a silly journal in such a terrifying moment.
Finally, Esmee stepped away, her heel catching on her gown, sending the woman tumbling, her arms pinwheeling and grasping for anything to stop her fall.
Edith watched as the woman’s mouth opened in a silent scream as her head hit the table and she crumpled to the floor.
“Are you well, Edith? Tell me if you are injured.” Triston set the pistol down and rushed to her side, reaching behind her to untie her wrists. “If she so much as—” He breathed.
“I am as well as can be expected after spending several hours in a carriage boot and many more tied to this chair, but nothing that will not heal with time and rest.” Edith flexed her wrists, bringing them before her as Triston gently massaged the indentations from the rope. Feeling and warmth quickly returned to her fingers. “I shouldn’t have been so foolish as to journey back to Abercorn’s before going home…”
Triston placed a quick kiss to her lips, his heat banishing her chill.
“As heartwarming as this is, I will need to ask you to step away from Lady Edith, Triston,” Esmee purred, rubbing the side of her head.
Glancing over his shoulder, she saw the woman had collected her pocket pistol and held it aloft once more; however, this time, her hand was steady, and her gaze alight with a fury so deep, her icy blue eyes glowed in the dim cottage.
“Triston!” Edith couldn’t say anything more before he flipped around.
As Edith stood, he pushed her behind him. “Go, Edith,” he whispered. “Out the door, now!”
She didn’t want to leave him, couldn’t imagine fleeing and letting him get hurt—or worse yet, killed—because she wasn’t here to help.
Her gaze assessed the room, looki
ng for anything she could use as a weapon.
Triston slowly advanced on Lady Downshire. “Esmee, put the pistol down. You do not need to do this. It is over. Do not give me reason to restrain you.”
“I am with child, you brute,” the woman wailed, swinging the gun wildly at Triston. “You stay back from me. Your father will never forgive you if he learns you assaulted me in my delicate condition.”
Triston sidestepped, attempting to keep one step ahead of her as she swung her pistol and he moved in a circle, leading the woman away from Edith. She knew the wise thing would be to hurry to the carriage as she’d been told, but her desire to remain and help Triston would not allow her to depart. It was her fault he was in danger in the first place. If she hadn’t gone to Abercorn’s townhouse again, if she hadn’t followed Triston from the park—heaven help her, if she hadn’t climbed into the tree all those weeks ago—he would have never been dragged into any of this.
And she never would have discovered how much she could care for a man. Her heart ached at the very thought of a life without him.
Lady Downshire would have continued her trysts with the duke, unbeknownst to her husband or Lord Torrington.
They would not currently be in the wilds of Essex in a cottage overlooking sheer rock cliffs—a severe drop Esmee thought to cast both her and Triston over. All to save herself the embarrassment of being exposed as a lying, cheating adulteress, pregnant with another man’s child.
The entire debacle was preposterous. Edith, and her friends had been in the business of collecting gossip and exposing the next scandal for almost a year now, but this was nothing Edith had ever wanted to be embroiled in.
Triston’s Hessians scraped along the wooden floor, and he led Esmee away from Edith toward a door that opened in the kitchen.
Her pulse raced as she scrutinized the room one last time. The cottage was empty except for a lounge, table, chairs, and a few tarp-covered objects. Not so much as a fire poker to grasp if the need arose. It’d been too dark outside when she’d been let out of the carriage boot and her hood replaced before entering the cottage. There had to be something to use as a weapon outside. Maybe an ax to chop firewood or a long piece of wood…anything.
Triston was backing up through the door into the kitchen area with Esmee following, her pistol trained on Triston’s heart.
If Edith hurried, she could find her own weapon and return within moments.
Edith followed Triston’s lead and began backing up toward the front door which remained open, but kept a watch on Lady Downshire. The woman was mad enough to change course before either Triston or Edith suspected her switch in target.
Suddenly, an arm wrapped around her neck, and a voice hissed, “Where do ye think ye be makin’ off ta?”
The servant’s stale breath assaulted her neck, hot and sour.
Why hadn’t she thought about what had become of the man who’d brought her in from the carriage?
Edith begged herself to remain still, to not say a word to distract Triston from his target. The servant began to pull her from the cottage and out toward the cliffs beyond, her feet coming out from beneath her as she tried to gain purchase. His free hand snaked around her waist, firmly pulling her to his body to cut off her struggles.
Glancing around the yard, she saw another man lying unmoving on the ground. Edith would never forgive herself if she were the cause of anyone else being injured.
Within a moment’s time, they were around the house, and the prone man was blocked from her view by the cottage. The violent thrashing of the waves against the cliffs made it impossible for any screams to be heard. At least if she kept the carriage driver occupied, it was only Lady Downshire whom Triston need overtake before coming for her.
All hope was not lost.
Edith trusted Triston—he came for her even after learning she’d been spying on him.
Blast it all, she more than trusted him.
He would come for her again; she only need slow the driver down.
“Do not do this,” Edith said, the man’s arm tightening around her throat. “You will lose everything. And for what? That senseless woman inside the cottage?”
“Shut ye mouth!” He pulled up with the arm around her midsection, lifting her feet off the ground and moving faster toward the cliffs, no longer pulling but carrying her. “M’lady has never been senseless, ye best bet. She be a wondrous lady—who not a single soul appreciates. Not her husband, nor that nob Abercorn.”
“You are in love with her,” Edith croaked, her windpipe slowly crushing under the servant’s tight hold. It wasn’t a question…there was no other way to explain why a man would throw away his life to help a woman who’d kidnapped an innocent woman and lured a gentleman—a master within his household—to his death. “She does not love you.”
Edith needs must make the man see reason. Lady Downshire loved nothing but herself and the status that came from marrying a wealthy, titled man.
“As soon as you do as she says, she is going to leave you—blame everything on you. You will be the one locked away at Newgate or hung for your crimes. Not her. She will return to London and live as if nothing happened.” At her words, he tightened his grip even more, cutting off Edith’s air and sending her head swimming.
“You, there!”
Edith’s mind cleared instantly when Luci’s voice thundered from behind them, causing the man to speed up.
“Duck!” Ophelia shouted.
Edith didn’t need any more encouragement. She whipped from the man’s hold and fell to the ground, rolling to the side and away from the cliffs.
There was no time to ponder how Luci and Ophelia had gotten all the way to Essex or even knew she’d been taken.
Thwack.
Edith turned and attempted to push herself to stand. Her friends were immediately at her sides with Ophelia grasping her elbow to help her stand. From the corner of her eye, Edith watched Luci throw a long piece of wood to the ground before nudging the servant with her slippered toe.
Luci turned back to Edith with a shrug when the man didn’t move. “I guess he wasn’t expecting that.”
Edith’s chest burned, and she sucked down a large gulp of air before doubling over in a coughing fit. The pounding in her head intensified once more, and her throat ached.
“How—I mean when—I cannot—”
“Shhhh.” Ophelia rubbed her goose pimple-covered arms. “You are freezing. Let me get you back to Lord Torrington’s carriage. There is a wrap waiting for you.”
“Lord Torrington! Have you seen him?” Edith pulled from Ophelia’s hold and started back toward the cottage. “Lady Downshire had a pistol trained on him. We must stop her!”
Luci bent to retrieve the wooden branch she’d hit the servant over the head with, but Edith shook her head.
“She is with child. We cannot harm her, or the babe might be injured, as well.”
“But she kidnapped you.” Luci’s words were laced with disbelief. “How can you feel any sympathy for this woman?”
Edith hadn’t contemplated her feelings for Lady Downshire; honestly, she only knew her for this one action. Though it was deplorable, she longed to know the many actions that came before it to bring the woman to such a place where she sought to harm a woman she’d never met—or Lord Torrington.
“It is not sympathy, Luci, but a sense any of us could have ended up in a similar position.” Edith turned back toward the cottage as a set of double doors on the back side of the house were flung open, though the never-ending slap of the waves covered any sound. “We can discuss this later. We need to help Triston.”
The women shared a knowing look, but Edith didn’t pause long enough to question it.
Triston was slowly backing toward the cliffs with Lady Downshire in pursuit—her hands steadily holding the pistol. He didn’t allow his eyes to stray toward Edith or her friends, though by the way his shoulders tensed, he’d seen them.
If they didn’t act quickly, Triston would
be forced over the cliff—taking Edith’s hope for the future with him.
Waving to Luci and Ophelia, the trio sidled close to the cottage wall and followed it until they were directly behind Esmee, who pressed forward toward the cliffs at a slow pace.
Edith couldn’t imagine the horrible, senseless, and hurtful words the woman spouted.
Lady Downshire’s voice was swallowed by the increasing wind, only heard by her and Triston.
Edith, with Lucianna and Ophelia close behind, edged their way along the cottage wall until they were directly behind Esmee. He was torn between pride at their bravado and a desire to shout at them to save themselves. Triston could not comprehend how Esmee hadn’t noticed the trio or Samson lying prone on the ground only fifty feet away.
She’d always had a one-track mind, focused on the thing she wanted at that precise moment. It had been winning him once upon a time, but it had quickly changed to snaring a marquis—Triston’s father—and eventually, having her own family. Odd he hadn’t realized how much she’d changed over the years. She’d been willing to bed another man to make certain she carried a child as soon as possible, but Triston doubted she’d slaked her lust only with Abercorn.
Had Samson fallen prey to Esmee’s viperous ways?
If Triston hadn’t been able to resist the woman’s treacherous charms, there was little possibility a mere coachman would turn away if his mistress took an interest in him. The depth of her manipulation sickened him. He felt an immense sense of pity for Samson, though that did not overshadow his part in Edith’s disappearance.
“Esmee.” He held his hands out, not wanting to incite her further. “Let us return to the cottage and discuss this. I am certain things are not as dire as you suspect.”
He’d kept up the pretense that what had been said before he’d entered the cottage was still unknown to him. She thought him still pining away for her, continuing to miss what they’d briefly shared two years prior. No lit candle was held for the woman before him—it had been snuffed out the moment he’d caught his father in a compromising situation with Esmee in his study.
The Disappearance of Lady Edith (The Undaunted Debutantes Book 1) Page 12
