Guy rose from the floor with relief as John and his cronies rounded up the conspirators. Delaney spat at Guy and cursed him as the men were dragged outside. Guy kept his pistol aimed at the hunched figure of Smith, who groaned and clutched his wounded shoulder.
John came to Guy’s side as Smith joined the rest of them in the wagon on their way to gaol. “Forney’s gone missing – out through a back door. My men are searching for him, but I think he had a boat waiting.”
Guy grabbed John’s arm. “Never mind Forney. Did Horatia get away safely?”
“Yes, you need not worry on that score.”
“Merde! How did she come to be here?” Guy would never forget the shock of seeing Horatia dangling from the thug’s beefy arms.
“She and the duchess were shadowing you,” John said.
“My sister? Where is she now?”
“We had a terrible time convincing Her Grace to go home. Sent her off in a hackney.” A reluctant grin stretched John’s mouth. “She was dressed like a solicitor’s clerk from Lincoln’s Inn.”
“Couldn’t you have stopped Horatia? We were almost killed because of her foolhardiness,” Guy said. “And I must say that you lot cut it as fine as the hairs on a gnat’s bollock.”
“I’m very sorry, my friend.” John shook his head. “Some of these men have influence. We needed enough proof against them to put them away permanently, but things got out of control very fast. Don’t blame Miss Cavendish too much. She acted without delay, alerting us to your exit by the back lane.”
“Did she indeed?”
John nodded. “And she kept on your tail. She’d make a damn good agent.”
Guy scowled as he climbed into the carriage beside Strathairn. “So you and your cronies lost sight of me, John?”
“There’d be devil to pay if we did, Guy. We had no intention of it. Several of our men followed you. You could not have escaped us.”
Guy huffed out a tired laugh. “No sense in telling Horatia that.”
“It’s wise not to reveal all to a woman.”
Guy grimaced. “She’ll be in a terrible fix though, arriving home dressed like that. Her aunt will be livid.”
“You’ll have to put things right.”
Guy frowned. “Can you drop me off in King Street?”
“I’ll be pleased to. Come back to me afterwards, will you?”
When they arrived outside her aunt’s brick townhouse, it was in darkness. “She may have been able to sneak in unobserved. I won’t be thanked for knocking on the door. I’ll go first thing in the morning. I’m for a bath, a whiskey, and a few hours’ rest.”
John stretched out his legs and tipped his hat over his eyes. “An excellent idea.”
Knowing Horatia was safe, Guy enjoyed being back in the luxurious surroundings of John’s home. He lay back in the bath tub in his chamber and let the warm water soothe his tight muscles. Might this business be at an end? They would capture Forney surely. While John’s valet fussed around him, he thought about Horatia. He admired her spirit and her quick thinking, but her rashness worried him. Once married, it seemed his life would continue its unpredictable course. He was more than ready for a quiet life. She had only leapt to his defense, he argued with himself. And he loved her but had begun to wonder if he could give her the kind of life she craved. Water mixed with blood as he stepped from the bath into the towel his valet held for him.
Hobson peered at him. “Why, my lord, you have a fresh wound in your side.”
“It’s just a scratch, Hobson. But I’ll allow you to dress it for me.”
He and Smith had grappled for the pistol, and it had gone off. The bullet struck Smith in the shoulder. Guy had attempted to staunch the flow of blood gushing from Smith’s wound with his handkerchief; unfortunately, the big bounder had pulled a knife and slashed clean through Guy’s coat and shirt, the blade finding his ribs.
Hobson shook his head. “Might need a couple of stiches in it, my lord.”
“I doubt it, Hobson. It’s not that deep. Please wrap a bandage around it. Then I’m for bed.”
Candlelight flickered from the windows when Horatia arrived home. She limped into the house, praying everyone had retired. Her father stood in the front hall. His mouth dropped open, and his ears reddened. “Horatia!” he bellowed. “What is the meaning of this…this mode of dress?”
A hysterical giggle rose to block her throat. ”Might we talk in the parlor, Father?” She wished she could shed the smelly clothes but knew he would not be inclined to wait for her to do so.
He clamped his lips into a thin line. “The servants have retired. Come to my chamber.”
Conscious of the unpleasant smells rising from her breeches and filthy feet, she hovered in the middle of the room, her hands tightly clasped. She didn’t want to add spoiling her aunt’s chair to her long list of wrongdoings. “I have a story to tell you that may take a while.”
Her father removed his handkerchief from his pocket and laid it on a chair. “For heaven’s sake, sit, child. Then please do so.”
He had not called her “child” for many a year. Would he ever trust her again?
She took a deep breath. “It all began when I took The General for a ride...”
“You rode The General?” he roared.
“Father,” she rasped as her throat ached for water, “if you interrupt me after every sentence, we shall be here until morning.”
He gave her a look that would have made many a soldier quiver from head to toe. She trembled. “As I was saying, while riding The General, I came across Guy unconscious on the road…”
By the time she had covered this evening’s debacle, her father’s face had gone from white to puce.
There was a long pause while he struggled to control his temper, and when he spoke, his voice didn’t sound like his own. “I must say I doubted my sister’s ability from the first. She is too wrapped up in her own pursuits to be the right chaperone for a spirited girl like you. But I did trust Guy to take good care of you in my absence. I can see I asked too much of him. It seems it was too much for any man. But I never expected you to be so rash in your judgment and to deliberately lie to me.”
“I’m sorry, Father,” she said in a small voice.
“And I must say I am disappointed in Guy for encouraging such behavior.”
“But he didn’t. Guy is a brave man. He endangered his life working for the government.” Was it true he had a wife in France? Tears filled her eyes. “I hope he’s all right. I’m not sure if he was shot tonight.”
Her father jerked forward on his chair. “There was a shooting? Indeed I hope not. I quake at the idea of you in such danger.”
She sniffed and wiped her nose with the back of her grimy hand. “We’ll learn more tomorrow.”
His nostrils quivered. “Go to bed. I shall tell you what I’ve decided when I’ve had time to think about it, Horatia.”
“I’m sorry, Father,” Horatia said again. What more could she say? She rose and picked up the handkerchief. He shook his head with distaste when she offered it to him. Blinded by tears, she stumbled to her chamber; she had never felt so alone. It seemed her entire life had come crashing down around her.
The next morning, she entered the breakfast room, heavy-eyed from little sleep. She rubbed her eyes and seated herself at the table. Her father put down the newspaper. “I intend to depart for home after luncheon.”
She straightened and eyed him cautiously. “Oh, will you? I’m sorry your visit has been so brief and so—”
His chest swelled with indignation. “You are to return with me, Horatia. I have no intention of leaving you here. London is a den of iniquity. It is a miracle you were not hurt or worse. I shall not trust to luck that you’ll remain so.” His tone softened when he saw tears well up in her eyes. “My concerns are for your safety, my dear. I would hate it if you died before me.”
“Guy and I planned to wed very soon. If he’s…” She fought a strong desire to dissolve into hysteri
cs.
He rose from the table. “I also need to think about that, Horatia. I’ve sent a note off to Eustace. I wish to discuss this with him.”
Her hands clenched in her lap. “Yes, Father.”
It appeared that, at this moment, Eustace was the only ally she had, and she hoped he might persuade her father to allow her to remain in London. She could not leave until she’d heard from Guy. Was he hurt? Was he already wed? So many unanswered questions filled her mind she feared it was in danger of exploding.
Chapter Twenty
Guy woke under the impression he’d been trampled underfoot by a herd of cattle. Then the night’s disastrous dealings came back to him, along with the pain in his side. The wound appeared to be deeper than he’d first thought and had bled in the night. He visited a physician who put eight stitches in it, bandaged it up again, and warned him to rest. He shrugged painfully into his coat and shuddered as he recalled how close Horatia had come to death.
On the way to King Street, he reflected soberly on the whirlwind months since he’d come to England. Vincent’s reappearance and subsequent death had left him bitter with disappointment and sadness. Eustace’s distrust of him rankled; he’d been bailed up by footpads, shot at by highwaymen, and thrown into a den of mad conspirators, escaping by the skin of his teeth. Any desire for excitement had vanished, and at this moment, it seemed entirely possible it would never return.
Guy longed to live a quiet life at Rosecroft Hall. He didn’t want to spend another season in London anytime soon. The way he felt now, the grouse season would provide ample excitement. Would it be fair of him to expect Horatia to be content with that? Hadn’t she been adamant from the very beginning that marriage would shackle her to a restricted existence? She loved London and enjoyed her aunt’s poetry recitals. She had not been able to mix in the literary circles she sought. She’d accused him once of being like her father. Might he be? She didn’t want to marry someone like her father, much as she was too loyal to admit it. Guy didn’t want to live without her. Wasn’t sure he could. But was it fair? Weighed down by his sense of failure at keeping her safe from harm, he could only surmise that Horatia’s father and Aunt Emily would be rightly angry. They had put their trust in him, and he had failed again and again.
Horatia toyed with a piece of toast in the breakfast room, exhausted after the night’s events. Aunt Emily entered, and she winced. “Try and eat a little, Horatia. It will make you feel better.”
“Aunt, are you angry with me along with Father?”
“I am dismayed, my dear. This has not reflected well on me, and I feel rather guilty about it. But I believe your good heart has led you astray.”
Before luncheon, several visitors crowded into the small house. Eustace arrived first. He hurried in with a worried look and gave Horatia a reassuring hug before her father ushered him along with her aunt into the small room she called her bookroom.
The three of them had been closeted there for half an hour when Geneviève rushed in to take both of Horatia’s hands in hers. “What happened last night? Those men sent me home. Dis-moi tout!”
With an eye on the bookroom door, Horatia drew her into the parlor. She gave Geneviève a potted version of the evening’s events, leaving out any mention of the pistol shot she’d heard.
Perhaps her voice had given her away, for Geneviève pursed her lips and frowned. “But Gee… Is he all right?”
“I hope so.” Horatia cast her eyes down. “Father is very angry. He is taking me back to the country in a few hours. I doubt I’ll be allowed to visit London again.” She bit her lip at how gloomy her prospects now appeared to be.
“Mais pourquoi? You are engaged to my brother, are you not?” A look of horror tightened the duchess’s features. “Your father blames Gee for this?”
“Father is angrier with me more than anyone.”
“Pourquoi?”
“He saw how I was dressed. I had to tell him.”
“Oh.”
Horatia huffed in a breath. “There was talk that a Baroness Fortescue exists. She resides in France.”
She looked puzzled. “Our mother died many years ago.”
“No, Guy’s wife.”
Geneviève’s brows rose. “But Gee has no wife.”
Hope took root in her breast. “Might he have married and not told you?”
Geneviève glowered. “Absolument pas!”
“Then perhaps it is Vincent’s wife.”
“Then she is not the baroness,” Geneviève said.
Some of the tight knots eased in Horatia’s body. She’d known in her heart it couldn’t be true. Guy was not the type of man to live a lie. “Do you think we should write to her? I mean, she should be told that her husband is dead.”
“I will seek her out when I return to France.”
At the rap on the door, the frazzled maid rushed along the passage to open it again. Horatia jumped up as her aunt emerged from the bookroom to greet the next visitor.
“Lord Fortescue!” her aunt exclaimed. Her heart racing, Horatia grinned at Geneviève, whose eyes danced with relief and anticipation. They both rushed to find Guy divesting himself of his hat and coat. He looked entirely whole and his usual unflappable self.
Her first thought was to throw herself into his arms, but she held back. On closer inspection, he seemed reserved and rather distant. Had he not forgiven her for her interference? She desperately needed him to, even though their marriage might not go ahead.
Geneviève didn’t suffer any such hesitation. With a flood of incomprehensible French, she placed both hands on her brother’s waistcoat. “I talked Horatia into following you last night, Gee. It was me. I brought the clothes.” She clutched his coat and peered up at him.
Guy winced and eased her away. “That was rash of you, Geneviève.”
Horatia saw the pain in his eyes. “Guy! You’re hurt,” Horatia cried.
Before Guy could respond, Horatia’s father and Eustace appeared.
“Might I have a word, my lord?” her father asked.
Horatia’s rush toward the bookroom was abruptly halted when her father held up his hand. “Alone!”
The colonel greeted Guy with disappointment writ large on his face. Despite his concerns, the thought he might put a stop to the wedding was unthinkable.
Closeted in a room piled high with tomes of poetry, Colonel Cavendish was at pains to express his displeasure. He had depended on Guy to take care of Horatia in his absence. He shook his head. “I would never have allowed her to come to London otherwise.”
“I am désolé, Colonel, that I’ve fallen so far in your estimation,” Guy said in a tired voice. “But your daughter is quite spirited, you know.”
The colonel flushed and looked chastened. “That is indeed true. I have failed also, my lord. I can hardly blame you, can I, when Horatia rode my stallion around the countryside without my knowledge? And goodness knows what else.”
Guy moved painfully on the seat. The gash over his ribs throbbed. He could only be glad that Horatia’s father couldn’t possibly be aware of the half of it.
The colonel formed a steeple with his fingers. “Firstly, I must offer you my condolences on the death of your brother. How extraordinary. It must have been dreadful for you. I’d like to learn more when it’s less painful for you.”
Guy nodded. “I’d like that, Colonel.”
“Horatia tells me you have been on a dangerous mission for the government. I understand you cannot tell me more. I am impressed by your bravery. Most impressed. And I’m glad you’ve emerged from the mission unscathed. Mighty glad.”
“Merci. You are too kind, Colonel.”
“Eustace had expressed doubts as to your claim to the title. But now that your sister has arrived in London that has quickly been put to rights.”
With Guy’s nod, he went quickly on. “Excellent. Quite right. Horatia is to return to Digswell today with me. Mrs. Illingworth and I plan to wed next week. We extend an invitation to you to attend
, my boy, so don’t look so down in the mouth.”
Congratulations, sir,” Guy said. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
“Good.” Colonel Cavendish climbed to his feet. “Come and see Horatia. I was so angry when I saw her dressed as she was last night, without even shoes on her feet! I led her to believe I opposed your marriage. I do not, but you two must talk.” He frowned. “She is impulsive, but a good girl, of whom I remain very proud. You must begin the way you wish to go forward, Guy. Lay down some rules.”
“I couldn’t have put it better myself, Colonel,” Guy said with a grin of relief. He felt lighter and more sure of the future. He didn’t want a marriage governed by rules, but he and Horatia did need to talk.
In the parlor, Horatia wished she could put her ear to the library door, but Geneviève and Eustace sat beside her. When Geneviève put her mind to it, she could charm any male living; Horatia was certain. Geneviève patted Eustace on the hand, sympathizing with him about his gout in her voluble Gallic manner. Eustace, who was on close speaking terms with the Prince of Wales no less, was flushed with a foolish smile. At least the problem of Guy’s claim to the title had been put to rest, Horatia thought, turning back to the library door. Her aunt had gone off to the kitchen to arrange luncheon, expressing the notion that when everyone was talked out they would be hungry.
The bookroom door opened, and her father emerged, followed by Guy. He looked serious and very pale. She leapt to her feet.
Guy took her by the hand. “I must speak with you.” With a nod to those watching open-mouthed, he drew her into the empty bookroom and shut the door.
“You have attempted to save me again, Horatia.”
Horatia’s stomach clenched, and she felt a bit sick. “Yes, but I don’t think you’re going to thank me for it.”
“You are never to do anything like that again, do you hear me?”
“To be honest, I didn’t really want to do it. I’ve had quite enough excitement of late…”
“Promise me,” he said firmly, tipping up her chin and searching her eyes.
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