A Proper Guardian

by Carolyn R. Scheidies

  He smiled. However many times he failed Winter, he doubted she would ever fail him. Her innocent love held him captive and her faith was holding more and more appeal.

  Almost he had the coachman drive him home, but knew there was one other thing he must take care of first: a visit to the secretary. Melton sat nearby behind a desk.

  The secretary appeared haggard. “Lord Alistair. Though your Arabella slid through again, our other run met with disaster. We suspect sabotage. Our ship sprung a very large and suspicious leak and limped back to port before getting halfway across the channel.”

  He stared at Alistair. “I hear tales of British citizens starving, men, women and children hiding like fugitives to keep from being hauled away to unspeakable horrors in some French prison. It is untenable!” His fist crashed down on the table before him.

  “We have brought out several families. Our runs will continue.”

  The secretary sighed. “I doubt history will even record the importance of this work or the bravery of those who have undertaken the task. Mayhap they will never know.” He smiled ruefully. “What about Mary?”

  “So far, the information we have fed her—slightly too late for use—has kept them happy.” Alistair rifled a hand through already disheveled hair. “I did discover some interesting things. Seems Hollingsworth’s fiancée is a colorless little French miss entirely under the domination of her father, the Count Abjour.

  “The count has quite the tale of evading his own people to come to England, and he is ‘ever so grateful’ to our country for taking him in. Personally, I cannot imagine what that daughter of his had to offer a man like Hollingsworth, unless her father has some hold on him.”

  The secretary nodded toward Viscount Melton, who shuffled through the papers on the desk, handing one to the secretary. Somberly the secretary handed the sheet to Alistair. A low whistle escaped from Alistair’s lips as he scanned it.

  “So Hollingsworth was deep in dun territory until his prospective father-in-law bought up his vowels. This might be the key. Surely he didn’t need do that just to provide his daughter with a bridegroom.”

  “It has been done before.”

  “But why Hollingsworth? The two will not suit. Besides I would think Viscount Derik would have been a nearer target. He, too, is in debt from what I have discovered, though not as deeply.”

  “Unless—” the secretary let out a sigh before continuing “—he was looking for something more.”

  “Blackmail?”

  “Ugly word, that. Think Hollingsworth would betray his fellow Horse Guards?”

  Sucking in a deep breath, Alistair let it out slowly. “The man is a rake and a bounder, but a traitor...I can’t say.”

  “Won’t be easy catching him out. Mayhap, he simply gets his friends who are in places of security into their cups and pumps them for information. They would have no reason to believe him anything but a fellow soldier.”

  “Any leads?” Alistair scanned the paper again.

  “We have spoken to everyone directly involved, but have turned up no solid leads. Whoever is passing on our secrets isn’t about to divulge it. Could be, after a night with Hollingsworth, most don’t recall what was divulged.”

  “If Hollingsworth is being blackmailed, he in turn may be blackmailing one of your people.”

  “My thoughts exactly. What about Lady Renton?”

  “I warned her away from him.”

  “Don’t underestimate either Hollingsworth or Derik. Both could use her against you.”

  “Are you saying she could be in some danger?”

  “It’s possible.” The secretary handed Alistair another sheet. “Here’s a list of British citizens we believe still to be in France.”

  “That is quite a list.” He pointed to several marked in red ink. “These the ones?”

  “They’re waiting for you.”

  Getting up, Alistair tucked the list into the pocket of his jacket. “The Arabella makes a run tonight, as planned. Pray there’ll be no trouble.”

  After meeting with the captain of his ship and handing over the information, Alistair headed home. Lord Alistair leaped from the carriage before it came to a complete stop and hurried into the house. He stopped first in the library hoping to encounter Winter, but the large room was silent and dark. He felt a vague disquiet at the silence.

  “The duchess,” James intoned from behind him, “is out for the afternoon.”

  “Very good, James, thank you.” Alistair dismissed the man. Of course Winter was with his aunt. For some time he worked at his desk, reading reports, making notes and catching up with his correspondence.

  Whistling tunelessly, Alistair ran up the staircase to his room, where his valet waited for him. After a long hot bath, he dressed in his evening clothes and went downstairs. He found his aunt about to enter the dining parlour.

  Pecking her on the cheek, he said, “I see you got back from your afternoon outing all right. Where is Winter? Shouldn’t we wait for her?”

  Something in her sharp gaze gave him pause. She told James they would be along in a moment. “Justin.”

  “What is it? Is Winter ill?”

  “Your ward is no longer here.”

  His insides congealed with fear. “Not here? Where is she?”

  “She went home, Justin.” She raised her hand to stem his protest. “After you left, I knew she was unhappy, though she tried hard not to show it.”

  Alistair grimaced, but let his aunt continue. “The other afternoon she ran into Hollingsworth while out riding that horse of hers. She was in a dither when she returned and nothing could stop her. She didn’t even tell me until she was packed and ready to leave.”

  “You could have...”

  “Stopped her? I don’t think so. But I did insist she take Mary and Terrance.” The duchess sighed. “She was in a taking about something.”

  “I can imagine. Did Hollingsworth frighten her? Surely she did not ride unescorted.”

  “I had made it known that Terrance would always accompany her. You could speak with him.”

  Reaching the bell pull, Alistair gave it a jerk. When the butler answered the summons, he told him, “I want to see Carlyle, now.”

  A few minutes later, Carlyle sauntered jauntily into the room and took a seat without leave of either the earl or the duchess. Alistair smiled indulgently at the younger man. “I understand you escorted my ward on her rides.”

  “I did. Good hands, good seat. That horse of hers is a handful, but he is a kitten in her hands. Bet the two could give you and your roan a good run.” He grinned.

  “Impertinent as always,” said Alistair, but his dry tone was belied by a grin. “Truth to tell, she did give me a good run in the country.” His smile faded. “But I want to know what happened to make her leave so precipitously. Did Hollingsworth do or say anything to frighten her?”

  Carlyle studied the earl’s dark face. “Like that is it,” he murmured before answering. “What can I say?”

  “I want to know everything that happened.”

  “All right.” Carlyle settled more comfortably as Alistair leaned against the mantel. “He insinuated she was dallying with me, first of all. Accused me—” he grinned before adding “—of being from the wrong side of the blanket.”

  Alistair started. “He didn’t suspect?”

  “I don’t think so, but Winter certainly looked at me rather queerly.” He paused, continued. “Hollingsworth told her you were out chasing your ‘bit o’muslin’ as he put it. Told her you might besmirch her innocence, but never offer marriage any more than he would.”

  Alistair’s face darkened and despite his attempt at control, his hands fisted. “Go on.”

  Carlyle cleared his throat. “He said you’d be subtle with a hug, a touch, you know. That sort of
thing.”

  Alistair’s face paled. No wonder she headed for the safety of Renton Hall.

  When the younger man hesitated, Alistair growled, “Out with it.”

  “The blackguard asked if you’d already had her.”

  The duchess gasped, and Alistair paced the floor. “I’ll kill him. How dare he!”

  “She’s a brave one, your Winter, Justin. She stopped the man from flogging both his animal and his poor groom. You might like to know the horse dumped him neatly onto the ground. Such language.”

  This did not placate the earl. “Aunt Helen, how long has she been gone?”

  “A week...” She glanced toward Carlyle for confirmation. He nodded.

  “Terrance, get the roan saddled. There is no time to lose. I must go to Winter.”

  The groom got to his feet. “Be ready within the hour, Justin.”

  “Make it sooner.”

  “I think you should see Mary before you go.” The younger man nodded as he exited.

  His aunt regarded him carefully. “Are you in love with the girl, Justin?”

  Alistair swung away sharply to hide the expression on his face. “Later, Aunt Helen. I must go to Winter. She could be in danger. First I have to find Mary.”

  * * *

  Jupiter cantered up the well-worn path to Renton Hill. Mutton-head raced alongside the horse.

  In the past couple of days, Winter had found a measure of peace. Without the intrusion of shopping and receptions and balls and teas, she spent time in the Word and in seeking God’s guidance.

  Her prayers often turned to her guardian. “Will he be angry with me, Lord? Or will he be relieved I am gone?”

  That thought pained her, for far away from his presence, she found her love for him growing rather than diminishing. Winter sighed. Would she ever forget his eyes gazing into hers, his hug, his strong arms?

  A sharp retort shattered her reverie as Jupiter, screaming in pain, reared. Unprepared, Winter grabbed for the mane, missed and tumbled from the saddle. Her head hit a small outcropping of rock and blood spurted from the jagged cut in her forehead.

  Whining, Mutton-head licked her face, but she lay still.

  * * *

  Around midnight, Alistair stopped at a posting inn, but after a few hours of tossing in his bed he resumed his ride. Anxiety drove him onward. Something was amiss. Though he told himself his disquiet was solely in his mind, he knew differently.

  The world he had created for himself spun out of control. If something happened to Winter, life would not be worth living. He sucked in a breath. Had his life begun to revolve around her? What if she wanted nothing more to do with him? His heart sank.

  “Oh, God,” he groaned. There was no one else to turn to. He sensed Winter was in danger, and he must get to her as soon as possible.

  Midafternoon, the earl swung off the heaving roan and ran up to the colonnaded porch. Duncan opened the door.

  “Winter. Where is Lady Renton?”

  “She is riding,” Duncan informed him. “Up the hill, I believe she said.”

  “Thank you, Duncan.” Hurrying back to the tired roan, he swung aboard.

  Patting the sweating animal, he said, “Sorry, but our errand isn’t finished yet.”

  The animal snorted as though understanding and headed up Renton Hill. The earl prayed he wasn’t making a fool out of himself. Once he reached the summit, he began to pray in earnest.

  He heard the dog’s frantic yipping, then a growl, a snap of the jaws. A curse followed. Slowing the roan, he walked the animal to the edge of the clearing. Head down, Jupiter stood trembling, his front legs apart, the reins trailing. Blood trickled from the animal’s hindquarters. Jupiter was nuzzling Winter, who lay unmoving on the ground.

  To the side, Viscount Derik cursed loudly as he made another attempt to get close to the girl. Derik used a large branch to swipe at the dog, who growled and circled, always keeping the viscount from his mistress.

  A pistol lay under the horse, successfully keeping it out of the viscount’s reach. “Go away!” He waved his arms.

  Jupiter shied, but refused to leave Winter. Derik dived for the gun and rolled away. Getting up, he pointed it straight at the inert girl.

  Surging forward, Alistair leaped from the roan and grabbed Derik. Wrestling the gun from his hand, Alistair tossed it over the crest of the hill. Pulling the surprised viscount around, Alistair smashed his fist into his face. Derik dropped and lay still.

  Leaving him lay, Alistair knelt beside Winter. Turning her over slowly, he gasped at the blood pouring down her face. There was so much blood Alistair found it difficult to assess her condition. He needed something clean.

  Ripping a strip from her petticoats, he wiped the blood from her face, then probed gently until he found the jagged wound on her forehead. Shrugging out of his jacket, he rolled it up and placed it under her head.

  His lips tight, Alistair ripped another strip from her petticoat to hold firmly over the gash in her head until the flow of blood eased. Quickly ripping several more strips, he folded them awkwardly and improvised a bandage around her head.

  Still, Winter had not moved. Unbuttoning her jacket, Alistair laid his hand lightly over her heart. “Thank You, Lord,” he murmured, feeling the slow, rhythmic beat.

  He patted Mutton-head, who whined, then licked his face. “We’re taking her home,” he told the animal. With a bark, the dog started down the trail, turned and waited for Alistair to follow.

  Catching up Jupiter’s reins, he tied them over the saddle. When he probed the wound on the horse’s side, Jupiter danced away skittishly. A cursory examination convinced the earl the wound was only a flesh wound. He prayed Winter’s wound would also not prove serious. “Please, Lord, let her be all right.” Prayer already didn’t seem so strange on his lips. Something had definitely changed inside.

  With another long strip from Winter’s petticoat, Alistair tied Derik’s hands together and threw him over Jupiter’s saddle. Turning to Winter, he tenderly lifted her onto the roan and held her while he mounted. Cradling her in his arms, he gathered the reins.

  “Jupiter,” he called, hoping the horse would follow him back to the stables.

  Blood seeped through Winter’s makeshift bandage. By the time they arrived, blood was making rivulets down her cheeks and soaked Alistair’s shirt and breeches. Mutton-head sounded the alarm.

  A young groom came running. At the sight of his mistress unconscious and bloody, the groom yelled for help. Gingerly, he took the woman from Alistair’s arms and lowered her to the ground. Another took the roan.

  “Someone get the doctor,” commanded the earl, and he saw a groom run for a horse.

  A stable boy carried the news to the hall, bringing the housekeeper. “My poor child. My little lamb.”

  Alistair soothed, “She’s alive, Mrs. Duncan.”

  Another groom held Jupiter, who pranced and shied until Alistair pulled the viscount from his back. Derik swayed dizzily, groggily trying to focus his eyes.

  Shaking him, Alistair shouted, “What were you doing on Renton Hill?”

  Sullenly Derik answered. “Trying to help, that’s all.”

  The earl’s gaze penetrated his false bravado. “I saw you point the gun at her.”

  “No, I was merely going to wing that fool dog so I could get close enough to help her.”

  “Will Winter tell the same story when she wakes up?”

  Fear flitted across Derik’s features. “If she wakes up.”

  Alistair clenched his fist. How he wanted to pound the insolent peer into the ground, but he glanced toward Winter and pushed the viscount away. Derik was right. He had no real proof.

  “Don’t you ever, I repeat, ever put one foot on Renton land again.” He turned to a nearby groom. “Give hi
m a horse and let him go.”

  “What about my horse?” Derik straightened his jacket.

  Alistair glared. “We’ll send it along later.” Though the viscount made a show of indifference as he mounted the less-than-prime animal brought for him, Alistair noticed that his hands shook.

  Kneeling, he lifted Winter and carried his light burden into the house, where he followed Mrs. Duncan to Winter’s bedchamber. She closed the door behind them after giving orders to the flustered housemaids.

  Alistair said, “We have to get her out of this habit.”

  “We? It is not seemly for you.”

  “This is no time for false modesty. We’re talking about her life. Now are you going to help me or must I do this myself?”

  “At least turn your back.”

  By the time he turned around, Winter was under the covers and had begun to shiver. He watched as the housekeeper deftly cleaned her wound. The cut still oozed and, while the housekeeper folded a bandage for Winter’s head, Alistair held a clean cloth against it. Winter stirred, but did not awaken.

  Before the housekeeper was ready with the bandage, the old family doctor briskly strode into the room. Moving aside, the earl let the doctor take his place beside Winter.

  Dr. Morgan, a man of quiet efficiency, examined the wound. “Any other injuries?” he asked on being told of the situation.

  “There don’t appear to be,” Alistair responded. Noting the doctor’s raised eyebrow, he declared, “I am the girl’s guardian.”

  “Never thought she needed one,” the doctor grunted, expertly bandaging Winter’s head.

  “I don’t want her left alone,” he said, turning around. “She has a concussion.”

  Mrs. Duncan gulped. “Will she come out of it?”

  “Hard to tell.” The doctor sighed. “We know so little about head wounds.”

  Alistair frowned. “What can we do?”

  “Stay with her...and pray.” Wiping his hands, he repacked his bag. “If she comes around, send for me. Otherwise, I’ll be back first thing tomorrow.”

  The housekeeper moved toward the bed. “I’ll sit with her.”