Miss Richardson Comes Of Age (Zebra Regency Romance)

by Counts, Wilma

Thorne and his cohorts drove their mounts to the limits of the animals’ endurance. They were forced to change horses at inns along the way three times. Even as they rode, Thorne’s mind jumped from one idea to another. They were so sure Beelson was their culprit. What if he were not at all? What if they arrived at their destination and found the place deserted? What if they really had no idea where Annabelle and Luke were? What if? What if? What if? The words pounded a cadence in his mind to match the beat of the horses’ hooves.

  To offset his doubts was the surety that Beelson was their best bet. Marcus had informed him of Beelson’s aborted attempt to blackmail Annabelle and the man’s misunderstanding of the dedication of her book. Thorne knew Beelson well enough to be sure either incident would have infuriated him. Two such failures, coupled with that sordid business at the Mayor’s ball, must have sent him over the edge.

  The sun was getting lower and lower when Stimson said, “I think we are almost there.”

  “We are,” Hart agreed. They had been lucky, for Frederick Hart had remembered a hunting trip in this area some years before. While he did not know the area well, he at least had some familiarity with it—which was more than any of the rest of them had.

  Once they left the main thoroughfare, they encountered no traffic at all, though they had met a single rider some distance from the intersection. The rider had glanced at the five curiously, but rode on. As they came closer to their destination, they slowed the horses to a walk to cut down on the noise of their arrival.

  When they came within sight of the cottage-hunting box, Thorne felt his senses heighten as they always had before a battle. “Looks like a stable in back,” he observed quietly.

  “Nothing else besides the house,” Hart said.

  They dismounted and tied their horses some distance from the main building. They checked their weapons again. Thorne began to bark orders, which the others accepted just as though it were his natural right to do so.

  “Winters, you check the stable and be sure we get no surprises from that quarter, then back up Hart and Stimson, who will come in from the rear. Wyndham and I will take the front. Pistols at the ready, gentlemen. We go in on a count of ten. Go!”

  In the event, gaining entrance was easier than they had expected. Marcus and Thorne merely turned the handle of the door at the main entrance and quietly walked in. They stood in the hall listening for any sound. There was a thump and a curse from the rear, then silence. Total silence. Marcus quietly tried the door on the right. Locked. He did the same with the one on the left and it swung inward on squeaky hinges. Thorne winced at the sound. Marcus, pistol in hand, quickly stepped into the room and out of the way as Thorne followed, his own pistol in one hand, his walking stick in the other.

  “Close the damned door, Jake. You know it creates a draft,” Beelson snarled.

  “Well, now. ‘Jake’ is not likely to obey that order.” Thorne’s tone was casual.

  Beelson jumped up and made a grab for something on the opposite chair, but paused as he saw Thorne’s pistol aimed at his heart. He apparently decided to go for bravado.

  “Rolsbury. What the devil are you doing here? I do not recall inviting you to my little hunting party. And Lord Wyndham, too. I am in exalted company.”

  “ ‘Hunting’ party?” Thorne’s sarcasm was cutting as he moved nearer Beelson. “The only thing you ever hunted here were ladybirds.”

  “Ah, yes. And I have a particularly fine specimen above stairs at the moment.”

  “Why, you—” Thorne dropped his walking stick and planted his fist in the middle of Beelson’s face. Blood spurted, but Beelson remained on his feet. He kicked ineffectually at Thorne’s bad leg and made a grab for Thorne’s gun, which exploded. Beelson grunted and put his hand to his side. Blood oozed between his fingers.

  They heard heavy footsteps running above and then clattering down the stairs. Marcus went to stand near the door. A very large, unkempt fellow burst into the room wielding a vicious-looking knife. The man’s grin was malevolent.

  “I don’t s’pose ye’ve had time to reload,” he said, raising his arm slowly to throw the knife at Thome.

  “No. He has not,” Marcus said in a smooth, icy voice from behind the bounder. “I, on the other hand, had no need to reload, and if you release that knife you will be dead before it reaches your target.”

  The man whirled around and apparently perceived that the game was up. He lowered his knife and it clattered to the floor. Stimson and Hart came in, followed by Winters.

  “We have the one in the kitchen all trussed up like a Christmas goose,” Hart announced.

  “There was no one in the stable,” Winters said. “You fellows had all the fun.”

  The round of relieved laughter that followed this was all the distraction Beelson needed. Thorne was scarcely aware of seeing him reach into the top of one of his boots and extract a very small but very deadly pistol.

  “Thorne, look out!” Marcus yelled. Despite his lame leg, Thorne instantly dove away, but felt the sting of the bullet as it grazed his upper arm. In the same instant, Marcus fired his own pistol. Beelson fell with a heavy crash and lay still.

  Hart bent over him and felt for a pulse. “Dead.”

  This took every particle of resistance out of the man who had wielded the knife, for when Thorne growled “Where are they?” he pointed upstairs.

  “Are you all right, Rolsbury?” Stimson asked, looking at the blood on Thorne’s sleeve.

  “Yes. ’Tis only a nick, I think. Will you keep an eye on this one?”

  Stimson nodded and motioned the man into a chair.

  Thorne led the way up the stairs. Despite the fact that any of the others could have taken the stairs two at a time, they held back to allow him the lead. On the second floor, there were four doors, all closed.

  “Listen,” he said.

  “I tell you, Annabelle, that was a shot—two of them,” a male voice, high-pitched in its excitement, said.

  “Well, we are still locked in here, so do you not think it just might be the better part of wisdom to continue working at that window?” This was expressed in a sarcastic know-all voice that brought a smile to Thorne’s lips. Annabelle had lost none of her spunk.

  Marcus grinned at Thorne and said loudly enough for those within to hear, “Maybe we should leave them in there to dig themselves out.”

  “Marcus!” Annabelle screamed happily.

  “No, too cruel by half,” Thorne said, turning the key that had been left in the lock.

  “I told you Thorne would come for us,” Luke said triumphantly.

  Thorne was the first to enter the room. He simply opened his arms and Annabelle threw herself into them, sobbing with relief. “I was so afraid,” she whispered.

  He hugged her to him, as oblivious to others as she seemed to be. “You are safe now, my sweet,” he said softly.

  He reluctantly let her go and hugged his brother even as Marcus embraced Annabelle.

  Thorne looked around and spied the tray. “Maybe we can find something to drink before we start back.”

  “I’ll go downstairs and arrange things,” Hart said with a speaking look at Thome. Thorne knew he meant he would see to Beelson’s body.

  “Once you take care of . . . that matter, we will put those fellows in here to wait for the local magistrate.”

  “Yes, sir, Major,” Hart said with a mocking salute.

  “What happened? How did you find us?” Luke asked.

  Thorne and Marcus explained, with an occasional correction or addition from Winters.

  “And Lord Beelson?” Annabelle asked. “What will happen to him?”

  “The man is dead,” Marcus said gently. “He tried to kill Rolsbury.”

  “Oh!” She turned shocked eyes toward Thorne and for the first time seemed to see the blood on his sleeve. “You are hurt.”

  “A minor matter. See?” He swung his arm and winced.

  “All clear,” Hart called from below.

  They
all trooped downstairs to the small drawing room, where Hart had already located a bottle of brandy and some glasses. Thorne noticed that he had also thrown a small rug over the spot on the carpet where Beelson had lain. He, Wyndham, Luke, and Annabelle took chairs in another part of the room.

  Hart announced that he would look for some glasses in the kitchen and Stimson and Winters took care of seeing that Chet and Jake were incarcerated in the very jail they had assigned to Annabelle and Luke.

  “We need to speak,” Marcus said to Annabelle, his glance also including Luke and Thorne.

  Twenty

  Annabelle drew in a deep breath, afraid she knew what Marcus would say. Then he uttered precisely the words she feared he would.

  “Annabelle, it appears that you have been thoroughly compromised.”

  “I know,” she said softly, unable to look at Thorne.

  “Never mind, Annabelle,” Luke said, sounding very grown up and very brave. “We shall marry as soon as it can be arranged.”

  Her words came out more forcefully than she intended. “Luke Wainwright! You know very well that that is a perfectly ridiculous idea!”

  “I have already procured a special license,” Thorne said, drawing the document from a pocket inside his coat.

  Annabelle was devastated. Thorne was—just willy nilly—going to marry her off to his brother? Then her temper flared. Nobody—and certainly not the lofty Earl of Rolsbury—was going to control and manipulate her life!

  “Well, that was foresight on your part, Rolsbury,” Marcus said.

  “See?” Luke cajoled. “It’s not so ridiculous at all.” But Annabelle thought there was little enthusiasm in his voice.

  “Well, I will not have it!” She rose and stood looking into the ashes of a cold fireplace. “I have an aunt in the former colonies. She married a Boston banker. I shall go to her.” Her voice became softer as she turned to look at Luke. “Luke, you and I are friends. You do not care for me as a man should care about his wife. I do most sincerely appreciate your willingness to protect my name, but I will not allow you to do it for me. And I will not marry where my heart is not engaged.”

  Thorne pushed himself out of his chair to go and stand beside her. “And if your heart were engaged, would you marry then?”

  She held his gaze and spoke softly. “Yes . . . but only if the man in question loved me, too.”

  “Even if he also considered himself a friend?”

  “Especially if we were also friends.”

  “Look at this license, Annabelle, and tell me it is not wasted.”

  She read it with a growing sense of wonder. “Thorne? It ... it has your name . . . and mine.”

  “Yes, it does. And I meet your qualifications, I think. You will marry me, will you not?”

  “Yes! Yes, I will. But . . . but . . . how did you know?”

  “I read your book.” He laughed softly and enclosed her in his arms. He kissed her very gently, but very soundly. “And now you are truly compromised here in front of your guardian and my brother. You will have to marry me.”

  She looked at the grinning faces of Marcus and Luke and then back at Thorne, who had an equally silly grin on his face. “Yes, I suppose I will.”

  Stimson and Winters returned, followed by Hart with a tray of glasses in which he poured brandy for all. These three were quickly apprised of what had transpired as they were out of the room.

  “I thought there was a distinct odor of April and May in here,” Stimson said. “Congratulations, Rolsbury. And to you, dear heart, my very best wishes.” He kissed Annabelle on the cheek and she felt tears in her eyes.

  Hart raised his glass. “A toast to new beginnings.”

  Others said, “Hear! Hear!” and downed their drinks. Annabelle took only the smallest sip of the burning liquid as her eyes met Thorne’s in a time-honored promise.

  “At the risk of casting cold water on this happy occasion,” Winters said, “I feel I should point out that it is getting late. If we are to have a prayer of making it back to town before it is pitch dark, we need to leave now.”

  Annabelle rode double with Thorne and Luke rode Beelson’s mount to the nearest village. There they informed the magistrate of what had happened back at the hunting box and left the matter in his hands. Thorne hired a post chaise for Annabelle and himself and the others secured new mounts. She thought Thorne welcomed not being in the saddle, for he rubbed his leg rather vigorously.

  “Does it hurt so very much?” she asked.

  “No.” He placed an arm around her, drawing her closer. “I hired this closed carriage mostly to be alone with you.”

  “How did you know none of the others would join us?”

  “I threatened them with dire consequences if they did.”

  She giggled at this and raised her face for a rather resounding kiss.

  “Thome?

  “Hmm?”

  “Did you really know I love you from the book? Catherine told me it was a declaration of love.”

  “And she forced me to read it because it was.”

  “You were not offended . . . or embarrassed?”

  “Humbled is more like it.” His breath at her ear was doing strange and wonderful things to the rest of her body.

  “Humbled?”

  “By the miracle. The miracle that you could love me with the same depth and feeling as I love you.”

  This declaration was punctuated by a very long, very satisfying kiss.

  “I think the sooner we use this special license, the better,” he said, going back for another kiss.

  She merely responded in kind.

  A few days later, the Earl and Countess of Wyndham hosted the grandest ball of the Season to celebrate Miss Richardson’s coming of age. Only she was no longer Miss Richardson at that point. She was already the Countess of Rolsbury—and she was contemplating a new book tentatively titled Love Returned.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  WILMA COUNTS lives in Nevada. She is currently working on a historical romance set in the Regency period. Look for it in May 2002! Wilma loves hearing from her readers and you may write to her c/o Zebra Books. Please include a self-addressed stamped envelope if you wish a reply. Or you may e-mail her at wilma@ableweb.net.

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  Copyright © 2001 by J. Wilma Counts

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  ISBN: 978-0-8217-7042-9