by Joan Smith
A sound of horses and wheels in the street caught Corinne’s attention, and she went to the window. Luten’s shining yellow curricle with silver appointments stood at his front door now. Even as they spoke, Luten came pelting out and hopped into the driver’s seat, while his tiger handed him the reins. He had not stopped to change out of formal clothes, nor to have Simon pack a change of linen. His valet would be following then, in the closed carriage.
“He will find Susan, milady,” Mrs. Ballard said. “Now, dry your tears. I will ask Black to make you up a nice cup of tea while I pack your trunk.”
Corinne changed into a green worsted traveling suit while her trunk was being packed, then went below, just as Black came up from the kitchen with the tea tray. He revealed his eagerness to accompany her, but the offer was declined. Coffen made excellent time. She had taken only one sip of her tea when he arrived at the door, sweating at every pore.
“I figured if I rushed, we might join up with Luten,” he said.
“Too late. He has already left.”
He gave a longing look at the tea, said, “We’d best be off, then,” and rushed her out the door.
Chapter Three
The footmen secured her trunk to the roof, she and Coffen studied his map and chose their route.
“Looks like the Great West Road to Twickenham Road and on to Hampton Court Way is our best bet. It will take us right past Hounslow Heath, but there’s no avoiding it. I have left my cravat pin at home and wrapped my blunt up in this handkerchief,” he said, showing her a knotted piece of muslin.
“Susan made this handkerchief for me,” he continued, gazing at it fondly. “Gave half a dozen of them to me for my last birthday. The cloth is a little funny. Seconds, she called it. Something went wrong in the weaving, but as it was stitched with her own dear fingers, I treasure it.”
Corinne had encouraged Coffen Pattle in his laggardly pursuit of Susan. She thought they would make a good pair, both so friendly and undemanding. She had believed that nothing had come of it, but if Susan had sent him a birthday gift, perhaps she’d been mistaken.
“Should you not cut a slit in the lining of your hat and hide the money inside?” she suggested.
“What, destroy my hat? It’s one of Baxter’s finest curled beavers. I value it as much as the blunt I’m bringing. I’ll just hold the hankie in with a pin. You wouldn’t happen to have a pin on you?”
“No.”
“Then I will put it under my shirt, hold it in the pit of my arm if we are stopped. Where have you hidden yours?”
“In different places—pockets, the toes of both shoes. I folded some bills under the ribbon of my bonnet and some in ... more private places.”
“Ah, in the top of your stocking. I hope they don’t look there.”
“I doubt he will find all my hiding places. And I am wearing this little glass brooch that I don’t mind losing. He might mistake it for a diamond and be content with that. We’ll have footmen riding with us as well.”
“Just one, I fear. The others didn’t care to come,” Coffen said sheepishly. “I asked Raven—my valet, you know. I would like to have him along, but he don’t care for travel. Young Eddie will ride with Fitz on the box.”
When the trunk was stored and the driver given the map, Coffen called, “Spring ‘em,” and they were off.
The trip out of London was executed with no problems. Once beyond the bustle of the city, the road stretched dark and menacing before them. A fingernail of star-dogged moon floated high overhead. It did not even begin to dissipate the shadows. When they reached the deserted heath, a tension crept into the carriage. Coffen sat with his eye trained out the left window, while Corinne peered out the right side. A low-lying fog curled close to the ground, with darker forms of shrubs and an occasional tree protruding above. At one point they entered a tunnel of trees. A breeze moved the leaves with a soft, hissing sound.
“This is where he’ll get us,” Coffen said in a tense voice.
“Stop it, Coffen. You’re making my flesh crawl.”
In the darkness of the coach, a ray of moonlight caught the gleam of metal from his pistol.
“Don’t point that thing at me,” she said.
“It ain’t loaded.”
“Coffen! You came without loading your pistol! What is the point of that? Charge it at once.”
“I didn’t have any bullets at home. I thought the gun might scare him off.” He heard a distinct sigh of frustration.
“I hope Fitz and the footman have loaded guns,” she said.
“Just told you, I didn’t have any bullets.”
They soon came out the other end of the tree tunnel, fortunately unscathed, and continued their perilous journey. Once they were clear of the heath, the worst of the trip was over and they could devote their worries to Susan.
Appleby Court lay in a sheltered glen of the weald at the northern edge of Ashdown Forest. As they drew near, the farms and estates were familiar to them. When they heard the clatter of hooves come thundering out of a meadow, they took it for some local buck on his way home from his late night revels. Even when the rider cantered alongside their coach, they felt no real fear. It was not until a shot rang out and the driver slowed to a stop that they heard the fatal words, “Stand and deliver. You two, on the ground, facedown.” The carriage lurched as the driver and footman followed orders. One lone masked rider suddenly appeared at the carriage door, leveling a pistol at them.
Corinne sat, frozen as a statue with fear, clutching at Coffen’s sleeve. It was the second time she and Coffen had been held up in his carriage. But on the other occasion, the coachman’s gun had been loaded, and he had managed to scare the thieves off.
“This is it,” Coffen said in a hollow voice. “If I don’t come out of this alive, Corinne, I want you to tell Susan ... well, you know. Very fond of her. Love her, in fact.”
With this heartfelt speech he opened the door and stepped out, holding his left arm suspiciously close to his chest. His coachman and footman were already on the ground, facedown.
“The lady as well,” the rider ordered. He pitched his voice low to conceal his normal speaking voice.
Corinne felt sick with fright. She was by no means sure she could stand, but somehow she got out and stood, clinging to Coffen for dear life, while her heart throbbed in her throat. She noticed that Coffen had forgotten to bring the uncharged pistol with him, which was perhaps just as well. A pistol might frighten the highwayman into firing.
“Take off your hats and shoes and hand them up to me,” he ordered, and they complied. With one hand he examined Coffen’s hat and tossed it aside. Then he took the bills from beneath the ribbons of Corinne’s. While they removed their shoes, she tried to gauge the highwayman’s size and shape, but as he never dismounted, it was difficult. Every inch of him except his hands and chin were hidden, by either hat, clothes, mask, or boots. Neither hands nor chin were unusual in any way. He wore no distinguishing rings. If he walked into her saloon the next day wearing no disguise, she would not recognize him.
“Shake them out,” he ordered.
They both shook their shoes. When the bills fell out of Corinne’s, he ordered her to pick them up and give them to him. “I’ll have the brooch as well, milady.”
She unpinned the brooch and handed it to him. He ran one finger around its edge, felt the roughness of glass, and tossed it aside. Then he cocked his pistol at Coffen.
“No one travels this light. Your money or your life, sir,” he said, in a voice that raised goose bumps, although it was perfectly civil. Perhaps it was the pistol, aimed at his victim, that made the whole affair so terrifying.
Coffen felt cold all over, as if his heart had turned into a block of ice. He reached into his shirt. The handkerchief had slipped down to his waist. He fished it out and tossed it to the man, who caught it with his left hand, weighed it in his palm, then stuck it in his pocket.
“A pleasant journey to you both.” He kicked his heels into the
flanks of his dark mount, tipped his hat, and galloped off in a thunder of hooves.
Coffen and Corinne exchanged a frightened look, then drew a deep sigh of relief.
“No point going after him,” Coffen said. “By the time I had a nag unharnessed, he’d be miles away.”
“Let him go. It’s only money.” They picked up their hats and brushed the dirt from them.
“Not much I could do, when the pistol was unloaded,” he said.
“I’m glad you didn’t try anything foolishly heroic— but next time bring a loaded pistol. I wonder if he got Luten as well.”
“No such luck. Not that I wish Luten ill, but there’s no denying a few knocks would do him the world of good.”
While they talked, the groom and footman got up off the ground and came forward.
“He just seemed to come from nowheres,” Fitz said apologetically. “I made sure we was safe once we got clear of the heath.”
“It’s not your fault, Fitz,” Corinne said. “He didn’t harm you?”
“No, milady. I picked up this rock ready to heave if he touched you.” He held out a largish rock.
“That was well done,” she said. “We had best continue on our way before another of them comes along.” She glanced around the ground, but seeing no sign of the brooch, she left it there. They recovered their shoes and took them into the carriage to put on there.
“I still have ten pounds in my stocking,” Corinne said, as the carriage rattled along the now familiar roads. “How much did you lose, Coffen?”
“Fifty and my watch. It’ll leave me short, no denying.”
“It’s not much to pay for our lives.”
“That’s true.”
They sank into a companionable silence, each thinking of their close call, and inevitably of that other time they had been robbed. A few lights still burned as they approached the village of East Grinstead. The first building of note was the Rose and Thistle, a half-timbered inn and coaching house. A small knot of people stood in the yard, apparently waiting for a stagecoach. A man straggled on unsteady legs through the deserted village.
“Foxed,” Coffen said.
Somewhere a dog barked.
On the far side of the village they passed Oakhurst, the estate of Jeremy Soames, Susan’s cousin who had written to Luten. It was all in darkness. Oakhurst was a small estate and not very profitable. Soames had sold his land on the other side of the road, which was an apple orchard. The blossoms had fallen, leaving traces of petals on the ground. As they drew close to Appleby Court, they passed a little farm called Greenleigh, owned by a yeoman fanner, Rufus Stockwell. The lower story was in darkness; a light beamed in one bedroom abovestairs.
It was one-thirty when they reached Appleby Court. The iron gate standing between the stone pillars was open. A long sweep of pebbled drive curved in a graceful circle to the house. Luten had taught Corinne and Susan to drive on this road. There by that big elm he had proposed to her—and perhaps to Susan as well. And now Susan was gone, kidnapped. It didn’t seem real to Corinne. Surely when they opened the door, Susan would come flying out and throw her arms around them.
From halfway through the park, she could see the general outline of Appleby Court. Its pale stone stood out against the darkness. It was not a palatial house designed by some famous architect but a big, rambling three-story building that had grown over the generations with more attention to use than beauty. A light burned in the saloon window. Someone was still up, then. That was good. She could certainly do with a cup of tea.
She wondered what Luten would say when he heard they had been attacked by a highwayman. She was not an ill-natured lady, but she secretly hoped, with Coffen, that the highwayman had got Luten as well, or they would never hear the end of his “I told you so’s.”
Chapter Four
“I told you to wait and come in the morning!” Luten exclaimed when they finally roused him up from the sofa to answer the door. His tone displayed disgust, yet he was aware of a leap of pleasure to see that Corinne had come running after him. It would be the devil of a nuisance having her here at this time, but a constant worry if she were in London without him. He would just have to make sure that she didn’t discover certain details about his recent doings with Susan.
“We are fine, thank you. I am sure your failing to inquire for our safety does not intimate a lack of interest,” Corinne said, and strode into the saloon. She sat on a faded sofa that rested on a faded Persian carpet, facing a pair of faded velvet window hangings, once blue, now a dusty, opalescent gray. The cold grate across the room seemed a symbol of their cheerless welcome.
“I can see you are safe,” Luten said. “I assume you managed to traverse Hounslow Heath without incident.”
Coffen lowered his brows at Corinne. “We’re here, ain’t we?” he replied.
Corinne wanted to frighten Luten with the tale of their attack, but to spare a lecture, she said, “What have you been doing to find Susan?”
“Resting, so that I might have an early start in the morning.”
“After darting off from the party like a madman, you didn’t bother to speak to Soames?” she asked.
Luten seldom apologized, but he did deign to explain. “His house was in darkness when I passed. It seemed uncivilized to disturb him.”
“Surely manners take second place when Susan’s life is at stake.”
“You are not in Ireland now, Countess. Manners are always in fashion in England.” She was only Countess when Luten was angry with her. Recently she had been elevated to Corinne.
“Don’t be tarsome, Luten,” Coffen said. “You knocked at his door and there was no answer.”
Luten shrugged his elegant shoulders. “If you say so.”
“I hope he ain’t out on the road, or the highwayman—a highwayman might get him,” Coffen said, and turned as pink as a peony.
Luten cast a steely gray eye on the new arrivals. “The highwayman? Don’t tell me you’ve been robbed again!” He flashed a quick, worried glance at Corinne, to confirm that she was unharmed. He saw her small smile of satisfaction at the unwitting gesture and turned at once to examine Coffen. He noticed the dusty rim of the curled beaver on the sofa. “And you hid your blunt in the lining of your hat. Why not just hand it to him on a platter?”
“I did nothing of the sort! I had it hidden under my shirt. The wretched fellow threw my hat in the dust for nothing. I believe his mount must have stepped on it.” He picked it up and brushed at it. “And it was my favorite hat, too. If Fitz had had the pistol loaded as he ought to—”
Luten rolled his eyes ceilingward and murmured, “Spare me.” Then he turned again to Corinne. His sharp eyes darted over her body from head to toe, looking for signs of violence. Finding none, he said in a thin voice, “I trust you had the wit not to carry your jewelry nor any considerable quantity of blunt in an unguarded carriage at night, Countess?”
“You will be happy to learn he took the little glass pin you have so often disparaged.”
“Did you report it at East Grinstead?”
“No,” she said shortly. “Actually, I am not that fond of the brooch.”
“Damn the brooch! You shouldn’t have left the man running loose to attack other travelers. You should have told the local constable.”
A sense of guilt lent a sharp edge to her reply. “I doubt Hodden even has a mount, let alone the courage to go after the scamp or the cleverness to catch him.”
“The scamp didn’t bother you, Luten?” Coffen asked.
“No, he didn’t.”
“Perhaps he wasn’t in the mood for a lecture,” Corinne said.
“I’ll tell Hodden tomorrow,” Coffen said, and looked at the cold grate. “We could do with a few logs.”
“And a cup of tea,” she added.
“Feel free to help yourselves.” Luten wafted an elegant hand toward the fireplace. “There is the grate. There are no logs, though any of this lumber is fit for the fire,” he said, eyeing the furni
shings askance. “The kitchen, one assumes, is belowstairs.”
“I take it the servants have retired?” Corinne asked, reining in her temper.
“I caught the butler on his way to bed. Tobin was kind enough to provide me with this horse blanket,” he said, nodding to the sofa, where he had been resting. An uncomfortable-looking bolster was at one end, a dark blanket, though not actually a horse blanket, at the other.
“Where is Mr. Marchbank?” Coffen asked.
“He was in his study, drunk as a lord, when I arrived. Tobin and I got him upstairs to bed. There is nothing we can do before morning. Tobin tells me the beds are not made up, but if you prefer an unmade bed to the floor, then I suggest you find a candle and go abovestairs.”
Corinne looked all around the saloon. “The place has gone to rack and ruin!” she exclaimed. “I have not been here for some time, but it was not this bad when last I was here.”
“That was at Mrs. Enderton’s funeral,” Luten reminded her. “It seems our Susan takes little interest in homemaking.”
“I’ve been here since then!”
“Shockin’,” Coffen said, and strolled off to the dining room in search of wine and glasses.
“So you have not learned anything in all the time you have been here?” Corinne asked Luten.
“The half hour by which I preceded you is well accounted for.”
Coffen returned with the wine and handed around glasses.
Luten took a sip, then spoke. “Tobin tells me Susan disappeared yesterday afternoon. It was fair day in Grinstead. Otto—Mr. Marchbank—was at the fair. Susan told the housekeeper, Mrs. Malboeuf, that she was going to the orchard to do some sewing. It seems she often did so.”
“She made me half a dozen handkerchiefs for my birthday,” Coffen said. “The demmed highwayman got one of ‘em.”
“She took her sewing basket with her,” Luten continued. “When she did not return for dinner, Tobin went in search of her. She was not there, nor was the sewing basket. She hasn’t been seen since. Around eight that evening, Otto reported it to the constable, who has been searching the area and asking questions since that time. None of the neighbors saw her. There were, of course, several strangers in town on a fair day. The thinking is that one of them spirited her off.”
