by Anita Mills
To Rotherfield she wrote, “My dear Marcus, while I am cognizant of the honor you would do me, I have come to the conclusion that I could not be happy where I could not rule the roost. Furthermore, I suspect a sincere attachment on your part for Juliana Canfield. Therefore, I think it best to end our betrothal before we are both unhappy. I am taking the liberty of removing Albert Bascombe from your path. By the time you receive this, Mr. Bascombe and I shall be on our way to Gretna Green. Your Obedient, etc., Caroline Ashley.”
Before her courage deserted her, she summoned Albert Bascombe to Milbourne House, and then she packed her portmanteau. Brief notes to Lady Milbourne and Lady Lyndon explained the true nature of her flight without any reference to Viscount Westover.
Proving he could read better than he could write, Bertie presented himself at the appointed time to find Caro standing in the foyer with portmanteau in hand. He frowned and drew out her letter. “Was you leaving, Miss Ashley? Thought you wanted me to call.”
“I did. Mr. Bascombe, did you bring your carriage?”
“Well, I didn’t come in a hired hackney, if that is what you are asking,” he responded, still perplexed.
“Then would you be so kind as to take me to see my old nurse?”
“Beg your pardon?”
“Mr. Bascombe, it is imperative that I go.”
“Oh—daresay Rotherfield would—”
“Lord Rotherfield is inspecting a property today.”
“Then Lady Lyndon—”
“She is engaged with other plans, Mr. Bascombe. Please—after what I endured on the way to Calais, I believe you owe me this.”
“Well, daresay I do, but—thing is, promised to take Miss Canfield to a damned dinner party—your pardon—a deuced dinner party at Mrs. Chatsworth’s tonight.”
Caroline suppressed a smile. “I knew what you meant the first time, Mr. Bascombe.”
“Ain’t far, is it?” he asked cautiously. “I mean, I don’t see your maid or an abigail.”
“Lady Milbourne could not spare one, but no, ’tis not far.”
His expression lightened slightly. “Daresay I could. It ain’t like I wanted to go to Chatsworth’s, anyway. M’father’s going to be there, and ten to one, he’s going to want to know when I mean to set the date. But Rotherfield—”
“You will merely save him the trouble.” She handed him the bag and proceeded to go out the door. “I see you have your grays.”
It was not until he’d settled across from her in the coach that he thought to ask precisely where they were going. “Got to give my driver the direction, after all,” he explained.
“Just tell him to take the North Post Road, sir, and we shall be fine.”
“The place ain’t got a name?”
“Yes, but I cannot recall it. I shall recognize it before we get there.”
“Oh.”
Caroline’s letter to Juliana was delivered by a footman at almost the same time Bertie Bascombe’s carriage left Milbourne House. Juliana pocketed it and slipped away to read it in the privacy of her chamber. At first, she could not credit it, but after rereading it a second and third time, it sank in that Caroline was not going to marry Rotherfield. Caro and Albert Bascombe. The very idea was so ludicrous that Juliana would have laughed except for what Caro meant to do to the earl. Rotherfield. How could he stand to know that his betrothed preferred the simpleminded Bascombe to him? Resolutely Juliana decided to put her own selfish desire for the earl behind her to save his pride. She would have to stop Caroline somehow—but how? She could not go to Rotherfield on the chance that he did not yet know of Caro’s flight. Chewing her thumbnail, she considered and discarded a variety of impossible schemes, not the least of which was the purloining of her mother’s carriage or her father’s curricle—but then, she could not drive. If only she were Patrick. Patrick!
Heedless of the need for discretion, Juliana dropped Caro’s letter and sped down the stairs past bemused servants and out onto the busy London street. Running like a child escaping punishment, she traversed the entire six city blocks in a matter of minutes. When she arrived, Crump, Patrick’s butler, stared in astonishment at the disheveled picture she presented and started to close the door in her face.
“I must see my cousin!” she gasped as she fought for air.
“I am afraid—”
She clung to the railing and tried to catch her breath. “You … do not understand … have to see him—’tis urgent.”
“Are you quite all right, miss?” he unbent to ask.
“Ran from Canfield House … had to … Patrick …”
“Very well,” he answered not unkindly. “You may come in while I determine if he is at home.” But he’d scarce turned to find his master before Juliana was up the steps in front of him and on her way to invade Patrick’s chamber.
She found her cousin conferring with Jenkins, his valet, as to his requirements for Scotland. Now totally out of breath, she could only grasp his shirt sleeve for attention.
“Juliana! What the devil … ? Jenkins, a chair! Ju, what ails you? Here, sit down and try to breathe easy.” He took the straight chair from the disapproving valet and shoved it under her. Leaning over her, he brushed back her wild blond hair and mopped her perspiring brow with his handkerchief. “ ’Tis all right, Ju,” he soothed. “Just rest until you can speak.”
“Patrick,” she gasped, “ ’tis Caro!”
“Caroline! What … ? Ju, get hold of yourself, girl! What about Caroline!” he demanded anxiously. “Is she in trouble? If Rotherfield—”
“No … no … ” She shook her head vigorously and panted, “Ran away—”
“With Rotherfield?” His face had gone white in sharp contrast to the dark red hair. “No, by God!”
“With Bascombe!” she managed to choke out. “Patrick, she’s bolted with Albert!”
“Oh, for lud’s sake, Ju!” Relief washed over him. “You ran all the way here to tell me a farradiddle like this?” he asked incredulously. “I can assure you that neither has the least interest in the other. Jenkins, see if Crump can find some brandy for Miss Canfield, will you?” He turned to the valet, who was watching Juliana with fascination.
“But, Patrick, ’tis true!” Ju protested. “I had it of Caro! She wrote to tell me she was leaving with Albert!” Juliana colored and looked at the floor. “There is more to it, of course. Last night—when you found me in the Dark Walk—I’d gone there to see Rotherfield, to tell him I loved him … and …” She looked up to see the incredulous expression in her cousin’s eyes. “Well, I do! But it wasn’t Rotherfield—’twas Ponsonby. Anyway, Caro came after me to save me from my folly. Patrick, she overheard what I said.”
“That doesn’t explain—”
“But it does! Caro’s eloped to Gretna Green with Bascombe so that I may have Rotherfield!”
“Fustian! Ju, you read too many silly romances.”
“But she wrote to me—I swear!” She dug in her reticule and then stopped still. “Lud! I left it at home. Oh, dear! Mama—”
“She said she was going to Gretna with Bertie?” The memory of his last encounter with Caroline Ashley came to mind. “When did they leave?”
“I don’t know—she said they would be gone by the time I received the letter. Patrick, we’ve got to go after them! Rotherfield—”
“Hang Rotherfield! Jenkins! Tell Barnes to put the currricle to.”
“Now?” the valet howled in astonishment. “My lord, I am not ready!” He set down on a table the tray he’d brought up and shook his head. “There’s boots to be blacked, shirts to be ironed, cravats to be starched, and—”
“I’ll be back—right now I am for Gretna!”
Jenkins stared from Patrick to Juliana in dawning horror. “Gretna!”
Juliana waited until the valet had gone down. “I am going with you, you know.”
“No.”
“Patrick, whether I like him or not, Alber
t Bascombe is my fiancé, after all. If we find them, ’twill not look so bad if we return together. Rotherfield will never have to know what happened.”
He started to make an acid comment about the earl and then stopped. Putting his hands on his cousin’s shoulders, he peered intently into her face. “You really do care about him, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“All right then, but I warn you—’twill not be a pleasant ride, my dear.” He dropped his hands and moved to a narrow cabinet. “There’s no time to waste.”
“What are you doing, Patrick?”
“Taking my pistol.”
Lenore Canfield, on returning home from a trip to Gunther’s, the pastry cook’s, was apprised of her daughter’s mysterious flight. Fixing Thomas, the footman, with a cold stare, she demanded awfully, “And where, pray tell, did Miss Canfield go?”
“I tried to follow her, Lady Canfield, but I lost her.”
“Where?”
The footman squirmed uncomfortably and then blurted out, “Near Westover’s, madam!”
“Patrick!”
Lenore spun on her heels and marched back to her carriage. “Take me to Viscount Westover’s,” she ordered imperiously.
When she arrived, Patrick’s drive was blocked by an impressive black conveyance with the arms of Rotherfield blazoned in red and gold on the side. Lenore stepped down and marched up the stairs to where the earl was banging the knocker. Ignoring him, she waited for Crump to answer.
“My lord! My lady!”
Rotherfield and Lenore measured each other coldly before she stepped past him to demand, “I would see my nephew, Crump!”
“I regret that he is not at home, madam,” was the stiff reply.
“Nonsense,” she dismissed as she pushed him aside. “I have come for Juliana.”
Rotherfield followed her inside while the butler threw up his hands helplessly. Jenkins, hearing voices and hoping Patrick had come to his senses, came down the stairs from above.
“Well?” Lenore demanded. “Where is my daughter?”
“Ahem.” Jenkins cleared his throat and prepared to lose his position with Westover. “Madam, I regret to inform you that Lord Patrick has eloped.”
“What?” Both the earl and Lady Canfield stared in stunned disbelief. Rotherfield was the first to find his voice. “With whom?”
“I do not know the young lady, but he said she was his cousin—Juliana, I believe he called her.”
For the first time in her life, Lenore Danvers Canfield swooned. The earl caught her and carried her past the much-tried Crump to dump her unceremoniously on a sofa in the nearest saloon. There he delivered first a series of gentle taps and finally a resounding slap to bring her around.
“Control yourself, madam,” he ordered curtly. When he perceived that she’d regained her faculties, he stepped back. “You may rest assured that I am going after them. I meant to speak with Danvers on another matter, anyway.”
“Lord Rotherfield, I demand to go with you.”
“Nonsense.”
“She is my daughter, after all,” she snapped, “and nothing to you.” Then realizing that Rotherfield was virtually her only available ally, no matter how distasteful, she added in a more conciliatory tone, “Who can play propriety better than a mother, after all?”
“Very well then, but I warn you, Lady Canfield, that I cannot abide a harping female. One word out of you and I shall set you down on the spot and go on alone.”
24
“I say, Miss Ashley—are you quite certain that we have not passed it?” Albert Bascombe asked anxiously. “I mean, we have been on the road two hours and more.”
“No, we are not there yet.”
“Thought you said it wasn’t far.”
“Well, I was not precisely sure of the distance.”
“Miss Ashley, I am deuced hungry,” Bertie complained. “If it ain’t coming up in the next few minutes, I mean to stop at the nearest inn and eat. I didn’t have nuncheon today.”
“Neither did I.”
“You didn’t? Then I insist we stop. There’s a place Patrick and me ate the last time we came up this road—ain’t half bad if you like pork pie.”
Caroline stared out the carriage window anxiously. It was growing late and there was no sign of any pursuit. Surely Juliana and Rotherfield must have received her letters by now.
“You all right, Miss Ashley?” Bascombe cut into her thoughts.
“Yes. I am a trifle tired, that’s all.”
“Thought you was. Trifle hagged, too.”
“Thank you for noticing, Mr. Bascombe.”
“Didn’t mean it like that, Miss Ashley—assure you I didn’t. Got no address, that’s all.” He stared into space for a moment and then sighed glumly. “You know, if a man had to get married, I mean, if I had to get leg-shackled, you are more the sort of female I’d take. Oh, I know, you cut up a devil of a dust at Dover, but you ain’t given to freaks of distemper like Miss Canfield. If one of us don’t cry off, I might as well put a period to my existence.”
“Mr. Bascombe, you would not!”
“No,” he admitted miserably, “but I ain’t going to like being married to her.”
“Perhaps it will not come to that,” Caroline soothed.
Just then, they became aware of a curricle careening precariously close to theirs. Bertie’s driver cracked the whip to pull away on the narrow road, sending the coach swaying. Caroline grabbed the pullstrap and looked out to see the door of the other conveyance mere inches from her window. Her eyes widened as she saw its occupants.
“Juliana!”
“What?” Bertie gasped. “No!” Pounding on the roof of the passenger compartment, he yelled above the din, “Pull into the Hawk ahead!”
The wheels brushed, nearly sending Bertie’s carriage into a ditch. Caroline closed her eyes and prepared for the worst. Bascombe lost his grip on his strap and was flung into her lap. She tried to hold on to him with one arm as the other coach edged past.
“Are you all right, Mr. Bascombe?” she asked shakily when they were again on the road.
“No, I ain’t! Of all the cow-handed things to do! Ought to be a law against driving like that!”
The carriage slowed and rolled into an innyard. Almost before it stopped, the door was yanked open.
“You fool! You bloody fool!”
“Patrick!” Bertie goggled. “What are you doing here?”
“Well might you ask,” was the grim reply. “Pistols or swords?”
“What? Patrick, you’ve taken leave of your senses! Miss Ashley, you tell him—”
“I am afraid I left word with Juliana we were eloping,” she apologized.
“No!”
“Are you getting down, Bertie, or am I dragging you out of there?” Patrick demanded.
Bascombe pulled at his cravat, which had suddenly become uncomfortably tight, but he managed to jump down. “Pat, it ain’t—”
They were interrupted by the arrival of another, more impressive carriage, which came to a stop a bare ten feet from them. Both Bertie and Patrick had to jump away from the horses. A tall, hard-faced man stepped down grimly.
“Rotherfield!”
“Westover,” the earl acknowledged. “I had hoped it would not come to this between us, but I cannot allow you to elope with Miss Canfield.”
“My lord!” Caroline pushed past the stunned Bertie and Patrick. “Did you get my letter? Oh, dear—I can explain everything!”
“Caroline!” It was Rotherfield’s turn to be shocked, and for once the usually impassive face betrayed a parade of emotions. “What the deuce is going on here?”
“I will be happy to settle with you, Marcus,” Patrick interrupted, “but first I mean to deal with Bertie.” His eyes met Caroline’s for a moment. “As for you, my dear, if you could not stomach Rotherfield, you should have turned to me—at least I love you! I may not have as much money as Bertie o
r Marcus, but I’m not in Paupers’ Row either!”
“Caro”—Juliana reached for her friend’s hand—“I know what you would do for me, and I am grateful. I’m truly sorry for what I said to you, but—”
Caroline wasn’t attending. A becoming flush had crept into her cheeks as she faced Patrick Danvers. “Is it true?”
“That I love you?” A wry smile quirked at the corners of his mouth. “Caroline, if I cannot have you, I don’t want anyone.” He opened his arms and she moved into his embrace. “Of course I love you— wanted you from the first.”
“But … your wager …”
“Didn’t have a thing to do with you after you refused me the first time. I never thought to collect on it, anyway. I’d have gone back to Charlie the day I made it, but I was too proud to let him crow.” He cradled her against him and ruffled her hair with his free hand. “Lud, girl, but you’ve led me a merry chase—I thought I’d lost you to Rotherfield, that you wanted to be a countess. But then when Ju said you’d eloped with Bertie, I couldn’t let you do it.”
“Oh, Patrick, I do love you,” she admitted mistily against his shoulder. “If you still want, I’ll marry you.”
“If I still want …” His arms closed tighter. “Aye— above all things.”
“Very affecting, I am sure.” Lenore Canfield pushed past the earl to face her daughter. “And now, miss, what is the meaning of this? I came on the information that you had eloped with Patrick. If you did not, then I demand to know what is going on!”
“Mama”—Juliana faced her mother resolutely—“I am not going to marry Albert Bascombe. You can send me to Crosslands to die on the shelf. You can starve me, if you wish, but you cannot make me marry him.” Her eyes lit on her erstwhile betrothed and she shook her head. “And it is not because he is a slowtop, either, because I do not believe he truly is—he just thinks more slowly than the rest of us. What I am saying, Mama, is that I am crying off.”
