Allison Lane

by A Bird in Hand

  “You aren’t going anywhere without giving me your direction. Honor demands mar—”

  “No,” she interrupted, glaring at him. “Honor demands nothing. I have no intention of wedding anyone, and certainly not for such a ridiculous reason. Byron said it best – Wedlock’s the devil.”

  “I would hardly recommend him as an authority on anything.”

  “All right. If you prefer someone less controversial, how about Shakespeare? What is wedlock forced but a hell? I’ll not be locked in a cage, sir. I have done nothing of which I need be ashamed, nor have you. We will drop the subject.”

  “But—”

  Again she ignored his protest. “Good-bye, sir. If you wish to remain here, Sadie will look after you. You needn’t fear her, for she is a widow long past fifty and quite content with her life. If you choose to leave, the center path will take you to the village.”

  Without another word, she walked out, closing the door decisively behind her. By the time he finished dressing, she was out of sight. He had not even seen which of the three paths she had followed.

  Who was this girl anyway? He had never met anyone with even remote claims to gentility who did not cast a covetous eye on his tit—

  She was unaware of his title, he realized abruptly. He must still be half-asleep. Only now did he realize that she had been calling him Mister Randolph. So he must not have introduced himself very coherently.

  But that did not explain her adamant refusal. If she had been married or betrothed, she would have said so. So why had a single young lady of good family refused to take advantage of him? An educated young lady, he added as he returned to the cottage to clean up before heading for the village. Familiarity with Byron and Shakespeare was common enough, but her quote had come from Byron’s first collection of poems, published in 1806 to so cold a reception that few people had even heard of it. And Henry VI was not usually taught to females.

  His cravat was a mess, so he knotted it loosely the way John Coachman wore his, then headed for the village.

  Where was Sedge?

  He had removed the bandage from his head. Most of the scrapes were hidden by his hair, and he did not wish to draw more attention than his muddy clothes already claimed. Until he could honorably deal with Anne, it served no purpose to advertise that he had met anyone. He would hardly have bandaged himself with clean linen if he were dressed like this.

  He had left both hat and greatcoat in the carriage, so the crisp morning air bit through his jacket. His boots had dried into hard creases that rubbed against his feet and legs. Within a quarter mile, he was limping.

  How was he to discover Anne’s direction? Perhaps she had been truthful. Or perhaps she had her eye on someone else. If she cared for another, he would wish her well and turn his attention to Lady Elizabeth. But first he must make sure that no harm befell her over this escapade. If the truth came out, they would have to marry. He had never ruined a reputation, and he wasn’t about to start now.

  What had happened to Sedge? The cottage was well downstream from the bridge, but surely searchers would have reached it long since. It was in clear sight of the river.

  He shivered, then shivered again as the village came into view. The inn looked even worse than the last one he had stayed in.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Sedge’s shout died as Randolph disappeared into the raging water. He had never known his friend to be so reckless. Since childhood, Randolph had been quiet, responsible, and studious, preferring country to city, eschewing the frivolity most of his friends enjoyed, locking himself away with his books and manuscripts. What maggot had eaten into his brain that made jumping into a flooded river seem reasonable?

  But it was too late to stop him.

  “We must fetch help,” he shouted to John Coachman as he vaulted back inside. “Spring ‘em!”

  The carriage lurched forward. The horses splashed through the water and onto the bridge.

  Sedge fingered Randolph’s card case as he squinted at the river. No heads dotted its surface. No arms struck out for the bank. Had Randolph hit a rock with that reckless plunge?

  He shuddered. How was he to face Wyndport if Randolph perished? How could he face Whitfield?

  Fool! Such thinking was unproductive.

  He tucked the card case into his pocket for safekeeping. Randolph was a strong swimmer who would easily rescue whoever had fallen into the water. But he would need dry clothing when he emerged. An inflammation of the lungs could kill him. Yet finding him would require help if they were to manage it quickly. It was anyone’s guess how far downstream he would land.

  The carriage bucked wildly as it raced along the uneven road. Mud sucked at the wheels. Rain battered the roof, though he had been right about the estate wall. It kept the wind away.

  A sudden swerve sent them into a skid. Sedge caught a glimpse of gates flashing past the windows, their posts topped by huge stone birds.

  Ravenswood.

  The gatehouse was a tumbled ruin, so he would find no help there, but the manor was visible in the distance, perched on a rise across the valley. And seeking assistance from an estate was better than in a village. Lord Fosdale could command the servants to help, so Sedge would be spared enlisting the cooperation of strangers. He had no doubt Fosdale would do it. Allowing harm to befall a duke’s heir would create a scandal that would cling to him for life.

  John slowed the team. Away from the sheltering wall, the wind slammed into them. Trees might have offered protection, but few dotted the park grounds. Gusting gales whipped those few into frenzied dances that bowed the smaller ones to the ground and back in an orgy of curtsying lit by flash after flash of lightning. Pines shivered, their heavy foliage fighting blasts that sought to strip them bare. Leaves and twigs battered the windows.

  Sedge grimaced. How was John faring under this onslaught? Or the horses?

  A loud crack boomed outside, sharper and more immediate than the ubiquitous thunder. Ripping sounds filled the air. The horses screamed.

  “Hell and damnation!”

  A huge pine toppled, swooping straight for him. Sedge lunged across the carriage, but there was no escape. His shouts joined John’s curses. The moment stretched endlessly, punctuated by rending, cracking, and dizziness.

  Then silence.

  Sedge opened his eyes. He was alive. The wind continued to wail, though his thudding heart dulled its sound.

  Pine needles and splintered wood nearly buried a wad of fabric an inch from his face. His greatcoat. The remains of Randolph’s hat peeked out nearby.

  It took him a moment to realize that he was hanging headfirst off the seat.

  “Aayaahh!” Pushing himself up stabbed pain through his left arm. His shout trailed away into curses.

  A new blast of wind shook the coach. Water spattered the back of his head.

  Gritting his teeth, he fumbled about until his right hand found a sturdy hold, though he was shaking so badly he could barely hang on. Fierce effort pulled him upright, but not without painful contortions that more than once threatened him with unconsciousness. He wiped the sweat from his forehead, swallowing nausea as he took stock of his narrow escape.

  The coach sat on a slant, skewered by a tree limb that entered through the roof and continued through the floor. Jagged splinters stuck out at intervals. Broken branches and wet foliage filled much of the interior, leaving only this cramped corner where he had landed. Rain battered the wreckage. He needed to escape, but the door was blocked.

  The window was broken, but another limb speared the ground inches beyond it. The pine was suspended overhead, its thick trunk held up by splayed branches.

  “John!” he shouted, repeating the call several times. Was the coachman unconscious, or worse? A horse whinnied in fear, so something still lived.

  He gave up, concentrating on his injuries. His left arm was broken a handspan above the wrist, but the skin was intact, so it could have been worse. Fighting pain, he wrenched loose a short branch and a piece
of the roof, then used his cravat to bind the makeshift splint in place. The bone was not set, but at least jarring would not damage it further.

  Jarring was inevitable. He couldn’t stay here.

  Scrapes and cuts testified to the violence of flying splinters and glass. Bruises had already formed on hip, shoulder, and head. Wind blew into the carriage, lowering the temperature alarmingly. He shook away the creeping lethargy and concentrated on escaping his prison.

  Using another stick, he broke out the remaining window glass. But he could not squeeze past the branch. He tried pulling down more of the roof, but once he worked a hand outside, he discovered a tangle of branches he had no hope of penetrating.

  Cold water leaked onto his head.

  Kicking at the coach wall did nothing beyond hurting his foot. The interior was too cramped to put any force behind the blows.

  The window offered his only escape. Wrapping his coat around the largest glass shard, he attacked the wooden frame, shaving it away strip by strip. Sweat was trickling down his back by the time he reached the carriage wall.

  Randolph needed help.

  John Coachman needed help.

  He needed help.

  The reminders circled his brain, prodding him on, forcing action even as cold and shock urged him to rest. When his shard broke, he found another. When slivers sliced through the coat into his hand, he shifted his grip and doggedly continued.

  But his progress grew slower. The heat of exertion no longer countered the chill from wind and rain. Determination could not hold pain at bay. By the time the third shard shattered, his voice was hoarse from shouting, his hand was bloody where glass had penetrated the mangled coat, and his body rebelled against cold, shock, and terror with shudders that destroyed his control. His fingers wouldn’t grip. Pain deadened all thought.

  He closed his eyes, leaning his head back as he tried to gather the strength to continue. Another six inches should allow him to slip past that branch. Only a little more…

  Creeping lethargy blanketed his mind until everything went blank.

  * * * *

  “Yes, Wendell?” Lord Fosdale closed his account book when the butler appeared in the study doorway. Only an emergency would prompt Wendell to interrupt him this late at night.

  “A tree is down across the drive, my lord. There is a carriage pinned beneath it.”

  Symington!

  Fosdale’s heart stalled. Whitfield’s heir should have arrived a fortnight ago, but he had yet to appear – hardly surprising, given the weather this last month. But what would possess the boy to drive through a gale?

  “When did the tree fall?” A glance out the window confirmed that this latest storm was gone.

  “It could have been as early as noon.”

  As much as ten hours ago. He grimaced. And the temperature was falling rapidly. What was he to tell Whitfield if the boy was dead?

  “Summon all the male servants,” he ordered, already striding toward the hall. “We will need axes and shovels. A wagon. Plenty of lanterns. And tell Mrs. Hughes to warm the best guest chamber.” He prayed they would need it.

  The tree had gone down a mile from the house, just inside the gates. At first glance, the results appeared shockingly fatal. One horse was down, pierced through the heart. Another seemed crushed by a heavy branch, but its eyes blinked in the flickering light.

  “Get him out of there,” he ordered.

  Grooms sprang into action, unhitching the two leaders, who were shivering with cold and fright, then cutting loose the third horse.

  “Over here!” shouted a footman.

  The coachman was in the ditch, unconscious, though he was still breathing. But he burned with fever from prolonged exposure. The carriage must have been here since early afternoon.

  They loaded him onto the wagon.

  There was no sign of Symington, who must be trapped inside. Branches had cloven the carriage roof. Others blocked any approach to the crested door.

  “My lord? Symington?” he shouted.

  “He survived the impact,” a groom called from the other side. “He was trying to break out.”

  “Get this branch out of the way,” ordered Fosdale when he reached the window.

  Two groundskeepers with axes soon severed the limb. The inky interior seemed full of pine.

  “Symington?”

  No answer.

  A footman climbed inside, breaking off branches as he went. “He’s breathing,” he reported.

  “Toss a rug over those sharp edges,” ordered Fosdale.

  Two men rushed to comply as the footman grunted from trying to shift Symington’s body.

  “Do you need another hand in there?” Fosdale called.

  “There’s no room.”

  One foot appeared in the opening. Then a second.

  “Easy, lads,” warned the head groom. “Lift before you pull. Don’t slash his backside.”

  They eased Symington from the carriage and loaded him into the wagon. A footman retrieved two trunks from the remains of the boot.

  Fosdale climbed onto the wagon seat, twisting to examine his visitor. Symington was a well-set young lord who seemed to aspire to dandyism. Such gentlemen were often ignorant and easily led.

  If he lived.

  The boy had roughly set his own arm. Blood covered his right hand. He was soaked to the skin. Several tears in his jacket showed where detritus had caught him. Crusting around the wounds proved that he had been there for some time.

  Stars glittered in the clearing sky, making the night feel colder than ever.

  Fosdale’s face was grim as he led the procession into the house. Mrs. Hughes could clean Symington and bandage his injuries, but she was far from skilled in a sickroom. He could not expect the lad to escape without fever – or worse – and there was no doctor in this isolated valley. If only Elizabeth would return from Constance’s sickbed. Much as he hated to admit it, the chit was the most skilled healer available.

  And her attendance on the patient was sure to bring his plans to fruition. She must return. She must tend Symington. Even if he did not form an attachment to his nurse, compromise was inevitable under such circumstances.

  He would send for Elizabeth immediately, he decided as a footman roughly stripped off Symington’s clothes. Something clattered onto the floor: a card case fit for a duke. He fingered the jeweled lid, then extracted a card and set the case on the washstand. His eyes gleamed as he noted the confirmation:

  Earl of Symington

  Orchards, Sussex

  The answer to his every dream. Mrs. Hughes must keep his guest alive until Elizabeth arrived.

  * * * *

  Where am I? Sedge cracked his eyes open. He was cold. Shudderingly cold. He drew his legs up, fighting vainly for warmth. Pain stabbed his arm.

  He needed to escape, needed to … what?

  But he couldn’t rise, couldn’t combat the bone-deep cold.

  A clank of metal. Flickering light. Painfully turning his head, he spotted a woman before the fireplace, dumping coal onto a sizable blaze. Another clank echoed as she stirred the fire, then returned the poker to its stand.

  “Wh-whe-where am-m I?” His chattering teeth made the words nearly unintelligible.

  The woman turned. “You are at Ravenswood, my lord.”

  “C-c-cold.”

  “Drink this.” She poured liquid from a steaming kettle and held it to his lips.

  He gulped greedily, but soon pushed the cup aside, exhausted.

  “Rest, my lord,” she urged quietly, tucking quilts around him. The cold receded.

  “R-Rand-dolph…” he murmured as sleep closed over his mind, bringing troubled dreams of dancing trees and storm-tossed waves that swirled about his feet.

  Pain prodded him awake. The fire burned brighter. Too bright. The bitter cold was gone, replaced by broiling heat that sapped his energy, sucking the very air from his lungs.

  He lay in a massive bed under a canopy embroidered with a ferocious rav
en. Its beady eyes glared at him, mocking his weakness.

  As he fought free of a mountain of covers, pain crashed over him in a searing wave.

  Broken arm, whispered a voice in his head. His right hand traced the makeshift splint.

  Fetch help, ordered another voice.

  Drink, commanded a third.

  He rolled his head to clear it of voices. Horsy screams and cracking wood reverberated through his ears. And the hateful whistle of wind.

  Escape, escape, escape…

  “Rest easy, my lord.” A cool cloth wiped his forehead, bringing momentary relief. A middle-aged woman loomed from the shadows, shrouding his burning body with the hated sheet. “You must stay covered or you’ll catch your death. It’s a wonder you still live, considering how they found you.”

  He moaned. “Escape … must fetch…”

  “Lie quiet,” she ordered sharply, pinning his shoulders to the bed when he tried to sit up.

  “Where … help…” His voice slurred drunkenly as he searched for the word he needed.

  “Shush, my lord,” she said. “Drink this. You can talk in the morning.” Lifting his head, she held a cup to his lips.

  He gulped thirstily. Only as the room began to dim did he identify the sickeningly sweet taste of laudanum lingering in his mouth. Damn!

  “Randolph … help … Randolph…”

  * * * *

  “How is he?” asked Fosdale, entering the room an hour later.

  “Delirious with fever. And he keeps calling for his coachman. I gave him a few drops of laudanum to keep him from thrashing about and aggravating the broken arm.”

  “Will he live?”

  She shrugged.

  Fosdale berated himself. It was too soon to tell, and Mrs. Hughes was not qualified to judge in any event. Elizabeth should arrive before noon. She would cure Symington, then wed him.

  Feeling a great weight slip from his shoulders, he took himself off to bed.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Elizabeth glanced up when Fosdale entered the breakfast parlor. Her instinctive wariness stiffened into apprehension when his surprise turned to delight – and to a cunning that set her teeth on edge. His intentions were obvious. She’d known there would be trouble the moment she’d spotted the wreckage on the drive.