by M C Beaton
“I don’t know,” said Lady Canon wretchedly. “I do not see what we can do. She says in her letter that she and Channington are to be married, so we may as well make the best of things.”
“If Channington marries her, then it will be a miracle. If she is married by the time I get my hands on them, then she will shortly be a widow.”
“My dear Lord Alistair, you are becoming overexercised—”
“Your servants must have known,” he interrupted.
Lady Canon drew herself up. “My servants would not go against my interests. Only see how concerned Beecham was when Miss Honeyford went to the hanging.”
“Has Beecham been with you long?”
“He came to me as a footman when my husband was alive. He has been my butler for twenty-five years.”
“During which time he has had many increases in salary?”
“His pay was naturally increased when he became butler.”
“But not since then.”
“Of course not. I do not see what this has to—”
“Good day to you, Lady Canon.”
“Lord Alistair, what am I going to do about Honoria?”
“Pray,” he said savagely.
Lord Alistair saw Beecham hovering at the foot of the stairs.
“Beecham,” he said, “I am not going to waste time with accusations and recriminations. My Lord Channington greased your hand heavily to aid and abet him. I know this, so there is no point in lying. Unless you want me to persuade Lady Canon of this, and have you turned off without a character, you will tell me when she left.”
Beecham looked at Lord Alistair’s implacable face. “I could not help myself, my lord,” he said. “I asked my lady for more money a month ago and she refused. She said butlers were ten a penny and I should consider myself lucky to have a roof over my head. Lord Channington gave me enough to settle my debts and to pay the other servants for their silence. He is very much in love with Miss Honeyford, and he is an earl, and it didn’t seem wrong to help him.”
“When did she leave?” demanded Lord Alistair.
“This very morning, just before seven. She went off in a closed carriage with Lord Channington.”
Lord Alistair walked past him and out into the street. His grain was in a turmoil. She could not be in love with Channington. Why? Why had she left? Even if Lady Canon had told her about the plot to woo her away from Channington, she must have received his letter, and would know he planned to marry her. But what if she had not received his letter?
Channington did not mean marriage. His estates lay to the north of Bedfordshire. He might head in that direction to reassure her he meant to marry her from his home.
He must find her. He could not bear it if she returned to town as quiet and broken as Pamela Hudson had been. It was hard to imagine Honey being seduced by such as Channington. He decided to ride north in pursuit. He would not take his carriage. He would go on horseback and hunt them down.
Once at his town house, he changed into riding clothes, and had his servants put a change of clothes in his saddle bags, along with a pair of pistols.
And then he rode like the wind.
He decided to change his horse as frequently as possible, and to cut across country where the road took too many turns and twists.
He had his first news of them at Barnet and changed his horse for a great rangy hunter and set out without even pausing to eat or drink.
Although they had had a long start on him, they were obviously making a leisurely journey. He had news of them again at St. Alban’s and rode doggedly ahead, a picture of Honey always before his mind’s eye.
And then, as night closed in, he lost track of them. Precious time was lost doubling back on the road. He was tired and hungry and worried to death. He stopped the Royal Mail to ask about posting houses in the area and nearly had his head blown off by the terrified driver, who thought he was a highwayman.
But when the driver calmed down, he proved to be a useful source of information. He was a Luton man and knew of a new inn called The Goat in Boots which stood a little way off the road, about eight miles ahead.
It had become so firmly fixed in his mind that they would be there that he could hardly believe his ears when the landlord told him he had never heard of or seen such a couple. He gave Lord Alistair a list of posting houses and inns in the neighborhood together with directions to them all.
Lord Alistair’s horse was weary. He had to find a good posting inn in order to get a fresh one, for he meant to search all night if need be.
The night was very dark and a thin drizzle had started to fall.
He was riding through a small dark wood which edged either side of the road when two dark figures plunged out of the trees.
“Stand and deliver,” said a hoarse voice.
Lord Alistair’s first weary thought was, “Why, tonight of all nights?” He had never been held up by highwaymen before, although he had spent a great deal of time on the roads of England.
He studied the two men. He could not make out whether they were armed with pistols or not, but he decided it safer to assume they were.
He swung down from his horse and faced them.
“Stand over there,” growled one. “Bring us the glim,” the robber said to his companion, “and we’ll see what we have here.”
Lord Alistair stood in the rain, dejected and weary. Then he remembered that in one of his saddle bags was a ruby ring which he had bought for Honey. All at once he knew they must not touch that ring.
From being a menace, the two robbers became a nuisance standing between him and his beloved.
Quick as lightning he sprang straight at the man who was covering him with a pistol—or what he assumed was a pistol. He lashed out in the dark and smashed his fist down onto the man’s arm. There was an explosion as a gun went off. He slammed his fist into the man’s face. His eyes were now accustomed to the blackness, and he neatly jumped sideways and ducked as a cudgel wielded by the other robber whizzed harmlessly past his head. He punched the second man in the kidneys and then, in a mad rage, picked him up bodily and threw him full at the first, who was just struggling to his feet.
Lord Alistair mounted his horse and set off down the road at a gallop.
By the time the lights of the next town began to flicker through the trees, Lord Alistair Stewart was praying hard that he might find Miss Honeyford and Lord Channington soon while he still had the strength to strangle the one and to shoot the other.
* * *
Honey sat in front of the glass in the best bedroom that The King’s Head had to offer and studied her reflection. Care and worry did not seem to have aged her in the least. Her skin was smooth, her color was good, and her now longer hair shone with health.
She was glad to be on her own for a little. Lord Channington’s behavior had been faultless. He could have been taking her for an outing in the Park instead of eloping with her. But Honey was uneasy. She decided she must be tired. That would surely explain her increasing uneasiness.
The King’s Head stood a little outside Leighton Buzzard. Honey had expected they would press on to Luton and had a feeling that Leighton Buzzard was surely out of their way. But Lord Channington had obviously stayed at this inn before. The landlord had hailed him as an honored guest and had promised the best bedroom for my lord’s “sister.” The news that she was to masquerade as his sister and that she was to have a separate bedchamber filled her with—what she privately thought as disproportionate—relief. And yet Lord Channington had done nothing to even hint he would expect any intimacy before marriage.
Honey thought of Lord Alistair. It was like having a death in the family. Time would heal the wound and by the time she saw him again it was more than likely she would be amazed that she had ever fancied herself to be in love with him.
She had put on the brown silk gown, finding to her dismay that these old clothes she had worn for the journey to London evoked more memories of Lord Alistair than any of her new
finery would have done.
The inn was very quiet. The stone-mullioned windows, the rich oak cornices, and the wainscoted corridors showed the old building’s Tudor origin. Like so many other inns, it was probably called The Pope’s Head at one time and had had its name changed at the time of King Henry the Eighth in order to save the landlord from losing his own head.
Honey tidied her hair again. She was reluctant to go downstairs to join Lord Channington in the dining room. Now that she was on the road, now that she had left London behind, a little voice in her head was beginning to accuse her of being too precipitate. She raised the hairbrush again and her hand stopped in midair. She had been very ready to believe Lady Canon. What if… just supposing that Lord Alistair had set out to woo her on Lady Canon’s instructions and then found himself in love?
But that was ridiculous. Lady Canon was an eminently practical woman. If there had been any hope of her niece’s marrying the son of a duke, then she would have encouraged Honey for all she was worth.
Honey sighed and put down the hairbrush. The most comforting thing she could do was to live entirely in the minute, neither mourning yesterday or dreading the morrow.
Honey made her way downstairs at last, feeling more at ease.
Lord Channington jumped to his feet as soon as she entered the dining room. He pulled out a chair for her and then seized her hand and kissed it.
“You should not do that,” whispered Honey fiercely, her eyes on the waiter. “I am supposed to be your sister.”
“Of course you are, my love,” said Lord Channington gaily. “I had forgot.”
After all, Honey was not to know she was by no means the first “sister” he had brought to this inn.
He sat down opposite her and poured her a glass of wine. He eyed her covertly as she shook out her napkin. What a dreadful gown! Leighton Buzzard was still conveniently close to Town. He would have her this very night, and if she pleasured him well, he might consider keeping her for a little. But it was the initial seduction of a female which was more important to Lord Channington than the love-making itself. Once the prize was won, he soon lost interest.
“If we make good time,” he realized Honey was saying, “we should reach your home tomorrow. I hope your mother will not be put out by my visit and the announcement of our marriage.”
“Nothing in the world ever shocks and disturbs my mother,” laughed Lord Channington, and since that good lady was reposing in the family vault, he spoke nothing but the truth.
“There will be a lot of explaining to do,” said Honey. “She will wonder at my not having a maid. She will wonder why we ran away together instead of staying in London.”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Lord Channington. “Have some more burgundy. The landlord keeps an excellent cellar.”
Their food arrived and they ate in silence. Lord Channington was pleased to see that Honey was drinking a lot of wine.
Honey looked around once the cover had been cleared and noticed that they were alone in the dining room.
“Are you in love with me, my lord?” she asked abruptly.
“My love,” he said, “how can you ask such a thing? I have never loved any woman the way I love you.”
Honey found herself wishing his eyes would show more what he was thinking and feeling. But his dead brown eyes observed her steadily although his mouth smiled.
Again, Honey experienced that feeling of unease. All at once she wanted to be alone, but put her nervousness down to fatigue.
“My apologies,” she said, rising to her feet. “I must retire.”
“By all means, my sweeting. We are both anxious for bed.”
Was it a trick of the candlelight or did his eyes gleam with a reddish light?
“At what time do we leave in the morning?” asked Honey.
“I will get the chambermaid to call you in plenty of time,” said Lord Channington, who had, in fact, told the landlord not to disturb them. But he had to admit to himself that he had drunk too much and he did not feel energetic enough to begin the siege of Honey.
She hesitated. “I have something on my conscience,” she said.
“My love?”
“I know I promised you I would not tell anyone, and I did not, in a way.”
He sat down and carefully poured himself a glass of port, tipping the glass idly backward and forward and watching the heavy drops of liquid cling to the sides.
“Go on,” he said softly.
“I did not tell you all about… about Lord Alistair.”
The deuce! he thought. Never tell me Stewart has had her first.
Honey sat down again. She rested her chin on her hands. “It was like this,” she said. “Lord Alistair was courting me, most assiduously. He led me to believe he had marriage in mind.”
“Odd’s Noddikins,” drawled Lord Channington. “He always does.”
“Lady Canon then told me she had asked him to court me so as to divert my attention from you.”
“And?”
“And after that, I naturally wished never to see Lord Alistair again.”
“Quite right,” said Lord Channington. “Is that all that is on your conscience?”
“No-o. You see, the previous evening, because I wanted to pack, I told Lady Canon I had the headache. She surprised me by being most kind and solicitous. I hated her, you see, for conniving with Lord Alistair. I felt betrayed. But I began to realize she has not much understanding of the softer feelings. I do not think she has ever been in love. She had done her best to puff me off in society and has, I believe, gone to a great deal of personal expense.”
“And so?” asked Lord Channington, trying to stifle a cavernous yawn.
“And so I left her a letter.”
“The devil you did!”
“I did not tell her where I was to be found,” pleaded Honey. “I only said I was leaving with you and that we were to be married.”
Lord Channington briefly closed his eyes. Already coaches full of enraged people could be scouring the countryside for them. If he was going to have this chit, it would need to be tonight or never.
He forced himself to smile. “Do not look so worried, my darling,” he said. “Go to your room and do not worry about anything. I am here to take care of you.”
Honey gave him a watery smile. “There are times when I think you are much too good for me.”
She rose to her feet and leaned forward and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.
Honey left the dining room and crossed the hall to the staircase. The landlord bowed low before her. “Goodnight, my lady,” he said, and to Honey’s amazement one of the landlord’s eyelids dropped in a fat wink.
She went up the stairs, feeling puzzled. Why had the man been so rude and familiar? But she was so tired, too tired to think any more. She would complain to Lord Channington about the landlord in the morning.
But the innkeeper’s insolence made her feel nervous. She undressed and brushed out her hair, tied a nightcap on top of her curls, and climbed into bed. She blew out the candle beside the bed but left the rushlight burning in its pierced cannister. After she had been lying for some moments, she got up again and took the pistol out of her reticule, primed it, and put it under her pillow. Then she turned on her side and composed herself for sleep.
Suddenly there came a scratching at the door.
She stiffened. Perhaps it was the landlord. Perhaps the overly familiar landlord was drunk. She drew the pistol out and, holding it firmly in her hand, called out, “Who is there?”
The door swung open and Lord Channington strolled into the room in all the glory of a cambric nightshirt and a red Kilmarnock nightcap.
She was jerked toward him, her feet slipped on the polished boards, she shot down and through his legs, twisted around, and turned and fired.
There was a terrific explosion and Lord Channington screamed and clutched his left buttock.
“She shot me. Help! Help! Murder!” he roared.
Downstairs
, the landlord was just climbing into bed when the loud commotion from the best bedchamber came to his ears. He hesitated. But my lord had been most insistent that he was not to be disturbed. The landlord pulled his nightcap down around his ears and got into bed.
Lord Channington threw himself face-down on Honey’s bed, still howling for help.
“Get to your own room, sirrah,” said Honey. She reloaded her pistol and held it to the side of his head.
He twisted about and stared straight up into Honey’s implacable eyes.
Somehow he got himself from the bed and walked to the door with Honey following close behind.
His room was next to Honey’s. He tried to shut the door on her, but she pushed her way in behind him. The back of Lord Channington’s nightshirt was stained with blood and blood dripped on to the floor.
Honey felt herself growing faint. But there was one thing she had to make him do before she ran for help.
“You will write a letter, Lord Channington,” she said grimly. “It is only a few lines. I will dictate them. When you have finished, I will send for the surgeon. Do you understand?”
“Anything,” wailed Lord Channington. “Oh, hurry. I am dying.”
He stood in front of the writing desk and pulled forward a sheet of paper.
“I, the Earl of Channington,” said Honey, “do hereby state that I came by the wound in my left buttock when cleaning my pistol. I laid it on the floor and stood on it by accident, and it went off. I am shortly to be married to Miss Honoria Honeyford who resides with me at this inn, and who will handle all my affairs until such time as I am fit to take control of them myself.
“Good,” said Honey, when he had signed the paper. “I have no mind to hang. My father wishes me to bring home a husband, and that husband is going to be you, my lord. Get into bed and I will fetch a surgeon.”
She hurried from the room, taking the key with her, and locking Lord Channington in.
Once in the corridor, she leaned her head against the wall and shivered violently. It was a few moments before she could compose herself enough to make her way downstairs.
She picked up the handbell by the door of the inn and rang it violently. The landlord would appear soon enough if he thought he had a new customer.
