“Find a wife of your own,” Lord Richard suggested blithely, as if he were offering the highest treat imaginable.
“So she may pay a call on your Belle in the full light of day with half London looking on,” Davenham ground out.
Three heartfelt male sighs echoed through the cozy private room. “She’s naught but a child,” Dickon protested. “Not an ounce of town bronze. Can’t expect her to know how to go on.”
“Knows quite well she ain’t supposed to visit her husband’s mistress,” Adrian muttered. “Every female knows that. Born with that kind of knowledge. Trust me, I’m cursed with four sisters.”
“Sal was always a hoyden,” Dickon conceded, frowning past the haze induced by being well into a second brimming bowl of the landlord’s special blend, “but she never went beyond the line—”
“Until we were married,” Harlan growled. “Since then, I swear it’s been one thing after the other.”
“Tormenting you,” Adrian offered, nodding sagely. “Willing to wager at least half her escapades were carefully planned. Take my word for it, females don’t like to be ignored. In fact”—he cast a bleary eye toward Dickon—“why ain’t you with Miss Twitchell at this very moment?”
Looking more than a little sheepish, Lord Richard examined his fingernails with elaborate interest. “Thought it best to take a day to become to accustomed to the shackles, don’t you know? No sense flaunting ourselves before the ton with the ring still hot upon her hand. Need time to gather our wits. Not easy for a girl to gain a father and a betrothed on the same day.”
Solemnly, all three refilled their glasses, raised them in a silent toast, and drank.
Harlan plunked his mug onto the table, staring into its empty depths. “It’s all been a farce,” he declared with considerable feeling. “Nothing has gone as we planned. No, no—no insult to Sarah, I assure you,” he added as Lord Richard’s head jerked up, his face distorted by a scowl. “I meant only that no matter how hard I try to continue my old life, nothing is the same. The agreement Sarah and I made seemed simple enough, but at the time neither of us had been married. We had no idea of the way the mind works to remind us of our vows. No concept of the feelings aroused in a man when he realizes the beautiful young woman living under his roof is his wife. Legally his, to have and to hold for all of their lives together.”
“You love her!” Dickon chortled.
“Devil a bit,” Harlan muttered, “but I am far from indifferent. To the extent, in fact, that I fear I must give Ryl her congé. Other men must be more agile than I, for they seem to have no difficulty juggling wife and mistress, but I am forced to admit my life, as it is now, is not going well.”
“Perhaps if you stopped trying so hard not to notice Sarah, you might discover she is close enough as makes no difference to the age of the other young ladies making their come-outs,” Adrian Chumley contributed, with a wise nod.
“The harder you try not to notice her,” Dickon seconded, “the harder Sal will work to capture your attention.”
“At which she is rapidly becoming a master.” Harlan sighed.
The three inebriated gentlemen ladled out another round, raised their mugs. “To Sarah,” Lord Davenham pronounced.
“To Sarah,” his friends echoed.
Even as they drank, warning bells clanged through Davenham’s none-too-steady head. His little Sal, his viscountess, Lady Davenham—what would she do next?
“Dickon, you look perfectly frightful,” his sister declared the following afternoon. “Did you drink the night away?”
Lord Richard collapsed into one of the scarlet chairs in Sarah’s drawing room. He winced, putting a hand to his head. “We were celebrating,” he told her through clenched teeth.
“I understand ‘commiserating’ is the word Davenham used.”
“Men’s idea of a joke, Sal. You are not meant to take such things seriously.”
“Humph!”
“Now tell me what was so important that I must rise from my bed only shortly past noon and come dashing over here. And be quick about it. No roundaboutation, for I’ve a devil of a head.”
“Very well.” Sarah sat up straighter, folded her hands in her lap. “I need fifty pounds.”
“The devil you do! Surely Davenham does not keep you short of funds.”
The Ainsworth chin inched up. “Davenham has been most generous with my pin money, but I will not have a full fifty pounds until next quarter day. I would have had more than enough if the Runners had not thrown themselves on my winnings, but it is all gone and—”
“Good God, Sal, just ask him. Newly wed. Bound to give you anything you ask.”
“Dickon!” Sarah could not hide her blush. Obviously, her brother had no inkling of the dire state of her marriage. He was assuming Harlan came to her bed and . . .
She gathered her dignity. “I cannot ask him,” she told Dickon. “It is to be a surprise.”
“And what makes you think I have fifty pounds?” Lord Richard countered, sounding very much as he had in their younger years when they were squabbling at Ainsworth Abbey.
“And how many times have I loaned you money?” Sarah demanded. “I know perfectly well gentlemen can always find fifty pounds. You gamble away ten or a hundred times that each night. You owe me, Dickon. And you shall have it back, every penny, come quarter day.”
“Sal . . . you’re up to no good, I can tell.”
“No, truly, it will be a grand surprise, I assure you,” Sarah proclaimed with angelic innocence.
Lord Richard scowled at her. “I do not believe Davenham wants any more surprises, Sal.”
His sister favored him with an inscrutable smile. She held out her hand. “A kindness in honor of your betrothal, Dickon. Fifty pounds. Now.”
With a groan, Lord Richard reached inside his jacket for his pocket book, extracting the necessary bank notes. Hauling himself to his feet, he handed them over. “I swear, Sal, if you use this to get up to one of your larks, Davenham should lock you up and throw away the key.”
“And, perhaps, if he locks himself up with me, I shall not mind.” Sarah stood on tip-toes to kiss her brother’s cheek. “Thank you, and if I have not already said so, Congratulations! Essy will make you a splendid wife. And, Dickon,” Sarah added softly as her brother reached the door, “do not make the mistakes Davenham has made. Repeat your vows with honor and keep your love forever shining bright.”
Lord Richard shut his eyes, rubbed his forehead, bit his lip. “I—I am sorry, Sal. I never intended . . . never thought to cause you harm.”
“It is not your fault, Dickon. I wanted to marry him, truly I did. I never thought it would be so difficult to honor our agreement. But I find I am not patient. I cannot wait for the life Davenham has promised in the distant future. I want it now. Perhaps . . . no matter.” Sarah shrugged, smiling bravely. “Hopefully, my surprise will be the last of my escapades.”
“Sarah Ainsworth, don’t you dare do something—”
“Good-bye, brother dear. So kind of you to drop by.” Sarah waggled her fingers. “Hughes, you may show Lord Richard out.”
“A splendid morning!” Adrian Chumley exclaimed several days later before his brow furrowed as he recalled his pet grievance. Sorrowfully, he shook his head. “A shame, a veritable shame we’ll have so few such excursions in the future.”
Lord Davenham and Lord Richard exchanged private looks of wry amusement over Chumley’s oft-repeated complaints about the break-up of their triumvirate. The three friends had just maneuvered an open landau, borrowed from the Earl of Marchmont, into an advantageous position in Hyde Park, where they would have an excellent view of a balloon ascension.
“Did Sal not wish to come?” Dickon asked. “I would think it impossible to keep her away from such a sight.”
“She said she had other plans.” The truth was, Harlan admitted to himself, it had not occurred to him to invite her. He should have—of course he should have. No wonder Sarah had made such a point of tel
ling him she and Miss Twitchell were attending a lecture on plants and animals of the Antipodes. His thoughtlessness knew no bounds. He had broken with Ryl, his parting gift of an ruby and diamond parure doing a good deal to ease her pain, yet still he seemed unable to treat Sarah as a wife should be treated. Tomorrow—nay, this very night—he would turn over a new leaf. He would take himself in hand, learn to be a proper husband. He would no longer leave his bride to her own devices. He would . . .
The thought of making Sarah a true wife stole his breath away. Hastily, Harlan transferred his tall beaver from his head to his lap.
“Look there!” Adrian called. “They’ve begun to fill the balloon.”
“Hydrogen,” Davenham said, grateful to have everyone’s gaze focused on the undulating mass of scarlet silk. “Amazing thing, balloons. Look at it rise!”
“Straining at the ropes,” Adrian said. “There—you can see the basket!”
“Two men in there,” said Lord Richard. “Brave souls. You’d not get me in one of those things.”
“Think of all the church spires,” Chumley added. “Damned fool thing to set up an ascent in the city.”
“But who would see the spectacle if ’twere in the country,” Harlan countered.
The majestic silk balloon, fully inflated, strained at its tethers, the willow basket teetering on the ground below. There was a sudden flurry as a third figure surged out of the crowd and ran toward the basket. A figure cloaked and hooded in heavy dark blue velvet. The two men in the basket reached out, hauling the newcomer aboard. During the scramble, the hood fell back.
A shout, a wave of a hand, and the tethers were loosened. The balloon surged upward, one of the men in the basket standing at the valve that controlled their rate of ascent. The colorful scarlet balloon, painted with gold and white swags and medallions, rose up and up, taking its swaying basket with it. The balloon caught the wind and began to move east, still ascending. The figure in the cloak leaned over the edge of the basket and waved.
Far below, three stunned gentlemen sat in the Earl of Marchmont’s landau and cursed. Lord Richard for being such a flat as to have lent his sister fifty pounds to bribe the balloon men. Lord Davenham for a multitude of reasons too numerous to list. Adrian Chumley because of his friends’ anguish and—well, dash it all—he was fond of the daring little chit.
“After them!” Harlan cried. “Quickly now.”
“My lord,” his father’s coachman protested, “we’re hemmed in. “Half the carriages in London are here today.”
“Fight your way through, man. That’s my wife in that infernal thing.” If they survived this . . . if Sarah survived . . . never, ever again would he be such a fool. Lord, dear Lord, this is a sacred vow. A terrible moment to discover he was in love with his wife. His gallant, determined, impossible minx of a wife.
Up in a balloon!
He would make love to her only after he’d wrung her neck.
It was all his fault. He had driven her to it.
No time for castigating himself. There were more important matters at hand. Davenham joined his shouts and imperious gestures with those of his friends as they forced their way through the sea of carriages and skittish mounts. Fortunately, the balloon was high enough that it was clearly visible, though moving rapidly away. At last they made it through a gate onto the Kensington Pike. The coachman dropped his hands, and the horses broke into as brisk a trot as could be managed on the busy road.
The balloon was now so high, so small, that the color was lost. A mere blob drifting through a sea of air, held up by lighter-than-air gas that could so easily leak through the valve designed to hold it in. That could, with mishandling, come out in a great whoosh, causing the balloon to plunge to earth onto a steeple, into a river, or into a stand of trees. Or it could simply explode, as had happened to an unfortunate French balloonist some years earlier.
Where? Yes, there it was. Harlan looked to the right where, thank God, the balloon now seemed to be above fields and hedgerows and no longer in imminent danger from the spires of London. He sent up another prayer. Lord Richard placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.
“It’s lower, I think,” Chumley said a good ten minutes later. “They’re coming down.”
“You’re right,” Richard agreed, “but there’s not a sign of a road in that direction.” They had already made a right turn onto a side road off the Kensington Pike, but the lane they were on seemed to be taking a turn back to the left.
Harlan swore with vicious fluency.
The balloon’s scarlet color was once again visible, its basket now a separate entity dangling below. Caught in a sudden gust, it swooped to the side. Even the coachman joined in the shocked exclamations as the basket swayed, then tilted to an alarming angle before resuming its customary position. The men’s fears worsened. If a gust caught the balloon just as it was setting down, it seemed likely the occupants of the basket could be thrown out or the basket dragged over the ground, or . . .
Harlan groaned and ordered the coachman onto a narrow farm track that seemed to be heading in the correct direction.
The balloon’s descent was controlled, Harlan assured himself. It was not plunging out of the sky, truly it wasn’t. But it was very low and anything could happen. Lord, I’m the sinner. Sarah’s an innocent. Keep her safe.
They galloped past a farm house, bouncing over potholes that rattled their teeth. A hayfield flashed by; sheep . . . hedgerows . . . cows. The balloon disappeared behind trees dotting yet another hedgerow. The coachman whipped the horses to a faster pace. They cleared the hedgerow in time to feel the staggering power of a gust that caught the balloon some two stories off the ground, driving the basket into the earth with such force the balloonist controlling the valve was thrown clear. The balloon, only partly deflated, attempted to rise, revealing the second balloonist fighting scarlet silk and tangled lines in an effort to reach the valve. There was no sign of Sarah in her blue velvet cloak. Had she, too, been thrown from the basket?
Another gust sent the balloon skittering over the meadow, with the basket dragging behind, bouncing, tilting, bouncing . . .
“The fence!” Dickon choked out.
Stone. The fence on the far side of the meadow was stone, and the errant balloon was dragging the basket straight for it. The sole remaining balloonist appeared to have reached the valve but was being knocked about so badly it was difficult to tell if he would be able to turn the valve to full open in order to empty the hydrogen as fast as possible.
Their coachman, unable to follow, brought the landau to a halt. Harlan, Dickon, and Adrian leaped down, scrambled over the stone wall on their side of the meadow and raced after the balloon, oblivious of the startled cows around them. They passed the first balloonist, miraculously staggering to his feet, but there was no sign of anyone else in the meadow. No splotch of blue standing, kneeling, or lying on the ground. No Sarah. No wife. By the time they arrived at the far end of the meadow, the balloon had collapsed over the stone wall, its scarlet silk settling into its final sigh, completely covering the basket as well as a goodly portion of the stone wall.
For a moment Harlan paused, staring at the still pulsing mass of silk. His stomach roiled. Mustn’t think. Just find her. Mustn’t think! Just do it!
Three pairs of hands tore at the huge mass of finely woven silk, dragging it off the stone wall. Not dead, not dead . . . she could not be dead!
Off the woven willow basket.
Not there!
Vaguely, Harlan was aware that Dickon and Adrian were helping the second balloonist out of the basket, which was lying on its side. But Sarah, his little Sal . . . where?
He vaulted over the stone fence, pulled frantically at the scarlet silk draped over the ground beyond. Beneath the balloon he felt something solid, definitely not a rock. Burrowing under the silk, he found . . . a half boot, a glimpse of dark blue. So still, so very still. “Sal? Sarah?” he whispered, batting at the enveloping canopy that threatened to choke him a
s he crawled forward toward her face. “Sal?”
No answer.
Harlan set up a shout, and the balloon was quickly ripped away, leaving a sight that almost made him wish he was still buried under the balloon, clinging to his wife and wishing this entire day away, willing it to be a ferocious nightmare from which he would soon awake. For Sarah was fully exposed now with her face white as chalk cliffs, except where blood ran freely from a gash on her forehead, streaking her cheeks, her lips, her chin . . . her velvet cloak and even the grass below. The fence. She’d hit the stone fence.
Slowly, afraid of what he would find, Harlan placed his fingers in front of her nostrils. If she was breathing, it was so shallowly he could not feel it. Shoving aside Sarah’s cloak, he laid his ear against her chest.
“Well?” Lord Richard demanded. “Have you killed her?”
Davenham straightened, resting on his knees, head bowed. “I do not believe I have managed it quite yet,” he said through stiff lips, “but I surely gave it a good try, did I not?”
“Do not be absurd.” Adrian Chumley glared at his two best friends. “This is scarcely the moment for casting blame. We must find a way to get her to the carriage. And be quick about it. I understand it is very cold in a balloon, so there is also the danger of lung fever.”
“You are a true friend, Chumley,” Richard murmured. “Twisting the knife of our guilt an extra measure.”
The problem of transportation was solved as farm workers began to arrive from every direction. A cart was sent for, and Lord Davenham cradled his wife in his arms on the short but infinitely slow journey back to the carriage. “If it makes you feel any better,” Lord Richard declared as he walked beside the cart, “I lent Sal fifty pounds. Which is, I suspect, the sum it took to convince those two idiots to take her up.”
But Harlan did not hear him. He had used all their handkerchiefs to wipe away the blood from his wife’s deathly pale face, and still red welled up and overflowed the wound. His only comfort—while the wound bled, it was a sign she stilled lived. Fool, fool, damnable fool! How could he ever have thought to ignore her?
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