by Nancy Butler
The interior of the boathouse was dim, the ceiling prismed with pinpoints of light. A rowboat floated beside James’s pleasure barge. This one had two oars, Diana was pleased to note. She was untying the line, when the door behind her banged open. The two gardeners stood there, backlit by the sun.
“Miss Diana!” the elder one called as he ran toward her. “You must come in now.”
She quickly undid the line, scrambled into the boat, and pushed away from the dock.
The men leaned far over the side, reaching for her. “Miss Diana, please! We have our orders!”
Fighting back her panic, she drew the boat up beside the outer doorway and hefted the wooden rod that held it closed. The door swung outward, just as the younger groom pitched into the water beside her boat. In seconds she was out on the open river. She began rowing determinedly for Treypenny, moving with the current. If Mortimers’ servants chose to follow her on the river, they had only the pleasure barge, and it required six strong men to row it. She knew she was safe from pursuit for the time being.
Let Niall be in the Gypsy camp, she prayed. He was her only hope of contacting Lady Hamish.
As she neared the water stairs, a group of cygnets floated past, unaccompanied by an adult swan. Were these some of Rom’s babies, she wondered, stroking so boldly over the water?
“He’s coming back,” she called softly as they swam past her. “I promise you he is.”
After she had grounded the boat beyond the village, and hidden it in the reeds, she hurried through Treypenny, making sure to avoid the Waterthrush. She was breathless when she reached the Gypsy camp.
Niall saw her as she came along the lane and ran to meet her. “Allegro!”
She threw herself into his arms.
“Ach, lass. No, don’t cry. There now. That’s better.” He wiped her eyes with a large red kerchief.
“Oh, Niall,” she wailed, “I am so happy to see you. I thought you had forgotten me.”
His eyes darkened. “Not a bit. I came to see you the day after Romulus was taken. Argie Beasle was bragging in the ‘Thrush over his part in the dirty business, so I knew what had happened. But they wouldn’t let me see you. Mortimer’s butler threatened to have me flogged if I didn’t leave. I came back three days in a row. I even left a note with one of the gardeners, but I gather you never got it.”
“No,” she said sadly. “And I’m not surprised. I was not allowed any reminders of Romulus.”
“I’ve been looking after the swans,” Niall said, holding her in the crook of his arm. “I found Rom’s skiff near the village and knew he wouldn’t mind me using it. I’ve been spending time on the island, sifting through the debris from the fire. I found this in his trunk.”
He had pulled a medallion from his pocket and now offered it to Diana. She turned it over in her hand. It was a commendation for valor engraved with the Prince Regent’s own seal.
“May I keep it?” she asked, trying to restrain her tears. “He might want it back again.”
“If he ever returns,” Niall said crossly. “I can’t believe he’s stayed away so long. It’s been nearly a week since they took him off to London.”
“He never got to London,” Diana said darkly.
Niall’s eyes widened. “But Argie said—”
Diana shook her head slowly. She then told him what Lady Vivian had discovered from her abigail.
Niall gripped her arms. “Beveril’s holding Rom on the estate? We’ve got to find him, Allegra!”
“No,” Diana said intently. “It could take days to locate him in a place the size of Hamish House.”
“Then I’ll snatch Beveril off his horse, and torture him until he tells us where Rom’s being kept.”
Diana grinned. She liked his bloodthirsty plan. Except then it would be Niall who ended up in jail.
“No,” she said with more calmness than she was feeling. “We’ve got to find Lady Hamish in London.”
After she’d told him about the woman in Grosvenor Square, Niall whistled for his stallion.
“When you locate Lady Hamish,” Diana said urgently as he vaulted onto the beast, “tell her she must return here at once. Tell her about Romulus, Niall. She will come then. I know she will.”
“Stay here,” he said. “I’ll likely be back by nightfall. But I promise I won’t return until I’ve found her.”
She watched him gallop off, a prayer on her lips. Every instinct compelled her to row across to Hamish House and accost Beveril herself. But she feared to show her hand. He could move Rom from the estate and then they might never find him. But it was killing her that he was imprisoned so close by, and that she had no way of freeing him.
She made her way to Gizella’s caravan. The old woman clucked over her, fed her, and then tucked her up on the padded bench beneath a colorful woven comforter and ordered her to nap. Diana didn’t want to sleep, couldn’t imagine she could ever sleep again until Romulus was set free. But when she stirred awake at last, she saw that the sky outside the open door of the caravan was quite dark.
Find her, Niall, she prayed. Find her and bring her home.
* * *
Romulus knew he wasn’t back in the French prison. There was some solace in that.
The voices he heard in the less clouded part of his brain were definitely speaking English. But he didn’t like to dwell for long in that place of lucidity—for that was where he saw an endless vision of Allegra running into a burning house. It was easier to sink into the black nothingness, where he could convince himself that she was still alive, that the woman he had loved beyond all thought and all boundaries had not perished in the blaze. That the cygnets he had been fostering had not been burned to death, trapped in their crates. That everything that had meaning for him had not been reduced to ashes.
But with the immutable logic of a fevered brain, he knew for a certainty that all those things had come to pass. Still he called out her name, over and over, pleading with the fire not to take her.
“The woman’s gone,” a particularly whining voice responded with great relish. “Dead in the fire.”
Before that revelation, Romulus had thrashed about, his disordered dreams flaying him into resistance. But now, now that he knew she was in truth gone from him, he lay as one dead.
The men who hovered over him slapped at him sometimes, and prodded him to force him awake. Buckets of water were dashed over his head, until he swam up into consciousness. But then the memories came crashing back—the reminders of all he had lost, of the blue-eyed, black-haired witch he had loved so fiercely—and he quickly submerged again into the beckoning abyss.
Days passed. He knew it by the shift of light on the wall of the rude building where he was kept. But even when his eyes were open, his mind stayed shut to any external intrusions. He neither ate nor drank, though his jailers often carried food and water to his mouth.
“Told you he was mad,” the whining voice pronounced, after another fruitless attempt to rouse him.
“He’s in shock,” a deeper voice countered. “From the blow on his head, no doubt. See that he’s kept warm, Beasle. I’m paying you and Chipping a pretty penny to watch over him. If he hasn’t stirred by tomorrow, I’m afraid I’ll have to call in a physician.”
“You don’t want no doctor sniffing around here, sir. How would it look for her ladyship’s nephew to be keepin’ a man locked up against his will?”
“We’ll be accounting to more than doctors, if he dies.”
Not going to die, Romulus wanted to reply. He would have welcomed death—his only conscious desire was to find his way across the void, to the woman who surely awaited him on the other side. But he knew he was a long way from that blessed release.
After the man with the deep voice had gone away, the whining man began to lash at him with a switch. “Wake up, ye bloody begger! Wake up, I say!”
Romulus felt the harsh sting of the limber wood upon his arms and his body, and then, when the whining man had worked himself up to a
frenzied pitch, upon his face and throat.
Fine, he thought. Anything to help him along toward oblivion.
Chapter 12
Sir Beveril opened the door to the shed slowly. His prisoner was lying in exactly the same position he had been in last night. Beveril stepped forward and prodded his leg with one booted toe. The man on the ground groaned softly. Beveril knelt then, and raised his head from the straw. Though the swelling on his mouth had gone down days ago, there were now raised welts on his throat and on both cheeks.
“What’s this?” Beveril called sharply over his shoulder. “What are these marks on his face?”
The little man standing behind him shifted his shoulders uncomfortably. “I was only tryin’ to rouse him a bit. I feared you would be bringin’ in the doctor.”
Damn you, Argie Beasle! Beveril swore to himself. He should have known better than to let the man anywhere near his prisoner. A smattering of remorse swept over him as he gazed down at the marked face. Beveril had only wanted to see Perrin brought to his knees—because he had dared to keep Diana from him, because he had befriended his aunt, and most of all, because he had cast his eyes on Lady Vivian. For all his self-love, Beveril was truly enamored of the beautiful widow, and it was a measure of his desperation that he had agreed to James Mortimer’s edict that he give her up.
He laid one hand upon Rom’s brow. It was clammy to the touch.
Jesus! He’d wanted to break Perrin’s insolent pride a bit. But this man, whose head lolled back in the crook of Beveril’s arm, appeared to have had a deal more than his pride broken. Beveril looked down again and saw that his prisoner had opened his eyes. At first they were unfocused, but then as recognition dawned, Romulus smiled grimly and rasped, “Both gone to perdition, have we, Hunnycut?”
Beveril’s relief that Perrin had at last regained some form of consciousness, was short-lived. From outside the shed there came the sound of carriage wheels and the jingling of harness. And the thud of rapid footfalls as Argie Beasle made a hasty retreat.
He lowered his prisoner onto the straw and went to the doorway. With a sinking heart he watched as Lady Hamish’s barouche drew up on the cart track that edged the field. Behind it rode the black-haired Gypsy boy. He swung down from his lathered horse as Lady Hamish descended from her carriage.
Beveril! she cried in a ringing voice that set the hair on the back of his neck on end. “What in God’s name is going on here?” She crossed the space that separated them until she was standing directly before the shed. “What have you done with Romulus?”
He shifted to one side, trying to block the sight of the unconscious man from her vision. “This is my own affair, Aunt. It’s nothing you need trouble yourself over.”
She disregarded his words and brusquely pushed past him. He heard her gasp of shock as she recognized the man lying in the corner of the shed. She sank to her knees on the dirty straw, heedless of the elegant carriage dress she wore, and lifted his head into her lap. Beveril watched in stunned disbelief as she tenderly stroked the damp hair back from his brow.
Gad, was every woman he cared about beguiled by this redheaded rogue?
“I wouldn’t believe it when the Gypsy boy told me,” she said softly, almost to herself. “I refused to believe you could do such a foul thing.” She looked up at him, her eyes now blazing with contempt.
Beveril took a step back. “Please, Aunt Estelle!” he cried. “It’s not what you think. He…he was keeping Diana with him. There on that accursed island. Now she fancies herself in love with him. I-I planned to set him free once she and I were wed.”
“And what of these?” Her fingers were tracing above the raised weals that marred Rom’s face.
“One of the villagers did it. He had a score to settle with Perrin. I didn’t condone it, Aunt. As God is my witness, I meant him no real harm.”
She rose slowly to her feet. “You have done him irreparable harm, Beveril,” she uttered in a searing voice. “He was in a French prison for six months, did you know that? He managed to escape with eight of his men, got them across France and home to England. But I doubt that would have weighed with you.”
Beveril was shaking his head in disbelief as he fell back before her wrath.
“He was a hero, Beveril,” she continued as she advanced on him. “He was commended by the Prince Regent himself. I brought him here to heal, because he was scarred and damaged by his time in prison. Damage it has taken him ten months to get over.”
“You never told me any of this,” he protested.
“It wasn’t my story to tell. But you had only to meet the man to know how fine he was, how noble.”
“He was…a-above himself,” Beveril sputtered. “He cozened you, Aunt, could you but see it.”
“No,” she breathed. “You cozened me. I’ve learned a great deal about you today, Beveril. I knew of your gaming debts, and your liaison with the Partridge woman. But I did not know until this moment what a gutless, self-serving coward you are.”
She turned away, calling to her driver. “William, please, would you carry Romulus to the carriage?”
Before the driver could climb down, Beveril had moved forward and lifted Romulus from the straw. He walked past his aunt with the lifeless form of the river warden in his arms. As he neared the carriage, he staggered slightly. Niall rushed forward and caught Rom’s legs, and together they laid him on the seat.
Beveril turned then, weaving slightly on his feet. “I am most sorry, Aunt Estelle.”
She swept past him and climbed into the carriage. She took up one of Rom’s hands and began to stroke it. “Home, William,” she said without so much as a glance at her nephew. “And when we get there, you must send immediately for Dr. Harley.”
Beveril watched the carriage drive away. Niall had remounted his horse and sat gazing down at him.
“I didn’t know,” Beveril repeated in a hollow voice. “Not about the prison. Not that he was a hero.”
“Neither did I,” Niall said grimly. “And I’ll wager neither did Diana, at first. But we cared for him all the same. As your aunt said, you only had to meet him to know how fine he is.”
Niall kicked his stallion into a gallop and set off across the wide field toward the spot where Argie Beasle was attempting to extricate himself from a thicket of nettles.
Sir Beveril Hunnycut walked numbly to where his own horse was tethered. After one last look at the rooftop of the great house, whose gray slates showed in the far distance, he mounted and rode off in the direction of Vivian Partridge’s home. He knew he was no longer welcome at Hamish House. And he knew he had no one to blame for that banishment but himself.
* * *
The following morning, there was still no sign of Niall. Diana fretted and fussed, striding back and forth between the caravans, muttering to herself and wondering where the devil the boy had gotten to. The Gypsies gave her a wide berth—she reckoned they thought her a fitting mate for the redheaded madman.
When Niall came galloping into camp at last on his wild-eyed horse, she expected to see some sign of victory or defeat on his face. But it was set and stony, offering her no clues. He slithered down from the horse’s damp back—still wet from their swim across the river—and took her firmly by the arms.
Her heart stopped for an instant before he spoke, for she saw defeat now, clearly written in his eyes.
“He’s been found,” he said quickly, ending her suspense. “Lady Hamish found him this morning and had him brought to her house. But he is very ill, Allegra. Something I’ve never seen before. I sat with him after the doctor left, stayed there talking to him, trying to reach him. But nothing I did seemed to rouse him.”
“Is he unconscious?”
Niall winced and shivered. “No, that’s the damnable part. His eyes were open the whole time. But it’s as if he just isn’t there.”
“I must go to him.” She tried to shake off his hands. “He needs me!”
“No,” the boy said evenly. “Listen to
me, sweeting.” He cupped her head between his two hands and gazed into her eyes. “It will shock you—do you hear me, Allegra?—shock you horribly, to see him like that. Trust me—I’m still reeling from it.”
Her mouth quivered. “Wh-what did Beveril do to him, to m-make him like that?”
“Kept him locked in a shed—since the night he was taken from the island, I gather—and placed him in the tender care of Argie Beasle.”
“Ah, no.”
“Yes, though we’ve probably seen the last of that river rat. I left him screaming for help in a patch of nettles.” Niall’s mouth tightened. “He’d beaten Romulus with a switch, and left him covered with welts.”
The tears were flowing unheeded down Diana’s face. “H-he h-hit Romulus that night on the island,” she stammered. “Hit him while he was being held down by three men.” She drew a shuddering breath. “They’ve broken him, haven’t they, Niall? That’s what you’re afraid to tell me. Sir Beveril and Argie Beasle have crushed all the spirit out of him.”
Niall looked away over the green field. He was damned if he was going to cry in front of Allegra.
“Who can say?” he answered softly. “Lady Hamish told her nephew that Rom had been imprisoned by the French for six months. I take it you knew that much about his past.”
Diana nodded. “It nearly broke him that time. That was the only reason I agreed to marry Beveril—to keep Rom from being imprisoned again. But Beveril lied to me.”
“His star is not very high with his aunt right now. She laced into him like an avenging angel. Didn’t think you gentry folk had it in you.”
Diana nearly grinned. How like Niall to make her smile when her heart was breaking.
He caught up one of her hands. “There’s nothing you can do for the present. Lady Hamish is looking after him herself. She cares for him enormously, Allegra. You should have seen the look on her face when she saw him lying there on a filthy pile of straw—”
“Niall, don’t. I can’t bear anymore.”
