Her imprisonment suddenly seemed a God-sent respite from struggling with her demented brother-in-law. She needed to think. Her only chance of escape would be the moment Richard or someone came to let her out of the cellar. She would have the advantage there in the darkness. She would have to make whoever it was come in to get her, and then—what?
She had no weapon. She thought of the stones that lined the walls and wondered if any were loose or could be loosened. Only the intensity of her anger would give her the strength and the will to knock a man out with one, but she believed she could do it. She searched in the darkness for the walls, moving cautiously with her hands outstretched. Her biggest fear as her eyes strained in the darkness was that she would touch something other than air or wall. She had given no thought to spiders, or rats, until that moment.
She found what she needed by stumbling over it. One of the bricklike stones lay on the floor close by the wall from which it had fallen. She judged that she was quite far from the door, for the tiny cracks of light she had seen between the planks were barely perceptible now. She settled down there to wait, the solid stone in her hand offering comfort in the great dark void. She thought about what she would do once she escaped from the cellar.
It seemed that only a few minutes passed before she heard the rattle of the door bolt and a bright shaft of light pierced the darkness. She was startled that someone had come so soon and scrambled to her feet to be ready, her fingers wrapped around the rectangular stone.
The door opened slowly, cautiously, as if someone did not wish to make a noise.
“Lady Brodfield?”
Phoebe’s heart leapt with joy at the whisper. She dropped the stone and rushed to embrace the silhouette in the partly opened doorway. It was the earl.
***
Devenham had found his way out of the artificial garden temple, for that was what he decided it had been, by way of an equally artificial garden grotto that had been built on the other side of the natural outcrop of rock. To his intense annoyance the grotto had featured several cleverly intersecting passages open to the sky, but only one that had led out to the remains of the partially filled pond and ruined garden. Gradually he had followed what was left of the ancient paths until he was within sight of the house and stables.
A cavalry-trained scout, the earl had reconnoitered from a protected position at the edge of the abandoned garden. Beau Chatain was a stuccoed Palladian-style manor house set in the midst of a rolling, grassy lawn studded with specimen trees. A long carriage drive swept into a circle in front of the house. The stable block was at an angle from the house, off to one side with a paved yard between them. A garden designed in a newer, less formal style had been installed behind the house in what must have been a simpler alternative to razing the entire area of the old garden.
Hiding behind some overgrown shrubs, Devenham had seen Brodfield’s carriage arrive and the way Phoebe had been manhandled out of it. It had required a supreme act of self-control not to rush out in anger against his enemy’s superior numbers. Instead, he had been forced to wait, watching helplessly as they carried her off. The house had blocked his view of their ultimate destination, and he would have assumed she was a captive in the house itself had she not uttered the cry of anguish and anger that led him to the root cellar.
Devenham came down the steps inside the entrance and let the door fall to behind him, engulfing them both in darkness. He took Phoebe into his strong arms and held her tightly. He could feel her shaking. “Sh-h, my precious Phoebe,” he murmured. “I am here with you now. Are you all right?”
“Now,” she said in a voice muffled against his coat. “I am all right now. How did you find me? Where did you come from? He was going to kill you.”
“Sh-h, I know. I must explain later. We cannot stay here. We must get out before someone comes back. I could not get you out until no one was about.” Taking her by the hand, he started to lead her up the steps, but she pulled back.
“Wait. What will we do once we are out? There is no place to hide.”
“There is a whole part of the park that is abandoned and overgrown. There are many hiding places there. We could wait until night, then slip away.”
“I have another idea,” Phoebe said, and quickly outlined the daring plan she had conceived while sitting in the dark.
“All right,” Devenham agreed. “There will be risk no matter what we do. Sometimes the boldest approach is the best, the least expected.” He thought the boldest plan of all would have been to confront Brodfield in the house, but there were too many unknowns.
Running across the open expanse of grass, the pair of fugitives managed to reach the stables unseen. Devenham hid around the corner as Phoebe ran to the entrance. She had no need to fake the stricken expression on her face as she appeared there, breathless and disheveled, before the startled grooms.
“Hurry,” she cried to them, “your master needs you! He’s had a bad fall, down by the back edge of the far garden. I think he’s badly injured.”
Feed buckets, harnesses, pitchforks, and brushes were all dropped in an instant as the stablehands rushed out in the direction of the gardens. The youngest, no more than a boy, was the last to go, and as he went past her, Phoebe pulled at his sleeve. “Please, help me,” she begged. “I’ll make sure the authorities know that you did so. I need your fastest horse.”
The lad looked at her dubiously, as if he did not understand what she was about. “You’ll never ’andle ’im, miss.”
“Then saddle him for me,” said Devenham, suddenly appearing in the doorway. “There is no time to lose.” He spoke with unquestionable authority in his voice and grabbed a saddle from the blocks nearest him even as he spoke. “I want your next fastest for the lady, and the rest turned loose. Now!”
“Hurry, please,” urged Phoebe, glancing back to the stable door.
The lad glanced back, too, the light suddenly dawning. “’E’s not even where you sent them, is ’e, miss? Cor, what a row there’s goin’ to be.”
“Yes, there’s going to be a row no matter what,” Phoebe said hurriedly. “Perhaps you should take a horse, too! Now, quickly, which ones do we take?”
She did not wait for him, but began to move along the line of stalls. Decisively, the lad grabbed a halter from the hooks beside him and tossed it to Devenham, pointing to a stall.
“That there’s the master’s own horse, sir. Take him.” He took down another halter and hurried down the row past Phoebe to open another stall. “This ’ere’s Nessie—she’ll do for you, my lady.”
Phoebe moved quickly to take the halter from his hands. “I can do this,” she said, surprising him. “Do you get the saddle, quickly!” All the while she was listening for the sound of running footsteps returning to forestall them. She assumed Richard was in the house, but how long would it be before he noticed the commotion outside? She thought her heart must be beating so hard it would frighten her horse.
Devenham’s mount was saddled and ready, and he was busily opening the other stalls and chasing out the horses. He saw Phoebe into her sidesaddle and then turned to the young boy. “Mount behind me, lad, there’s no time to saddle another one. You’ll have your pick of fine jobs when this business is through.”
They dashed out of the stables and headed for the carriage drive just as the angry stablehands returned from the garden. Their shouts had roused Richard, and as Phoebe looked back, she saw him step out of the house into the chaos that now filled the yard. She had no doubt that the escaped horses would delay them no more than a few minutes.
The carriage drive seemed endless. Phoebe realized that when they reached the road, they would have to ask which way to go. She knew Beau Chatain lay outside the village of Hampstead, but she had no idea in which direction.
Just before they reached the end of the drive, however, they saw a carriage with two outriders turni
ng in. Phoebe recognized the landau immediately. “Edward!” she cried.
Sure enough, the Allingtons’ own John Coachman was driving the carriage, with Edward and a rather groggy Mullins inside. Goldie and young Tom were riding horses hired hastily in Willesden when it became clear the original plan had gone awry.
“’Twas only my guess that Brodfield might have come here,” Edward explained modestly. “When we saw the bits from your dress and found poor Mullins, I didn’t know where else to try! The innkeeper at Willesden Green sent a postboy back along the London road to meet and give word to the police. I pray they’re not far behind us.” He looked at Phoebe and Devenham, his face filled with emotion. “You can’t know how very glad I am to see you!”
“You cannot be more glad than we are to be here,” Devenham replied, relieving the company with a moment’s laughter. “However, we must go back, now that there are more of us. I’ll be damned if I’ll let that devil escape justice.”
There was general agreement from everyone but Phoebe, who refused to be left behind at the end of the carriage drive while the others went back for Richard. Edward insisted on moving outside by exchanging places with young Tom. It was a motley crew that arrived in the yard of Beau Chatain in time to face the small mounted party Richard had just finished gathering.
Phoebe was astonished to see Edward, Goldie, Mullins, and John Coachman all produce pistols, apparently loaded and primed. The men pointed them at Richard with steady hands, and the servants who were with him nervously eased their mounts a little away from him.
Richard appeared more astonished than Phoebe for a moment, but he recovered himself quickly.
“Heavens, gentlemen, what is this all about?” he asked, feigning innocence. “We were just preparing for an afternoon’s hunt.”
“I’m certain you were not expecting so much company,” the earl said acidly, “nor were you expecting to become the quarry. However, I’m afraid Lady Brodfield and I have chosen to decline that honor.”
His horse moved restlessly, as if it felt the barely restrained impulses of the man in the saddle. Phoebe thought she had never seen Devenham’s eyes look so piercing as they did now while he stared at Richard Brodfield.
“Be thankful, Brodfield, that I do not also have a gun. In my present shaky state, I feel certain that my finger would slip on the trigger. It would be such a shame for you to be dead before the authorities who are on their way ever got here.”
Chapter Eighteen
Only after the Bow Street officers arrived and took Richard and his henchmen into custody did the little group of Wigmore Street heroes relax. The men dismounted and climbed down from Edward’s carriage, congratulating each other with handshakes and very undignified slaps on the back.
“So they’d been wanting some evidence to hold against him, eh?”
“Said they’d had complaints ’bout him but nothing they could act upon.”
“Seems he generally used doxies to carry on his activities, but a few times he brought in shop girls or maids instead. They weren’t nearly so willing, and there’d been some complaints.”
“Their word against his and hushed up with a generous bit of the ready, I expect.”
“Yes, I expect so. Going to be quite a scandal this time.”
“Indeed. Murder, that’s something. Lord Tyneley’s son! The old man don’t know that he’s better off dead, but he is. Likely Brodfield’ll hang.”
Most of Richard’s servants had gone with the officers to give information, with only a few left behind to look after the house and the remaining livestock. Edward’s horse and gig that Phoebe and Mullins had used were discovered behind the stables. For the most part, Beau Chatain was deserted.
Edward watched the earl go to Phoebe to help her dismount. They walked away from the others, their heads bent, talking. He thought of Judith, waiting at home, worrying about them all, and thanked his stars that he had found himself such a sensible wife, who had not failed to carry out her important part in alerting the police. Unless he had learned nothing about love after a dozen years of marriage to her, he’d not be wrong to say Phoebe and Devenham made a handsome couple. He hoped they had the sense to see it themselves.
Judith would rejoice when he got back with the news of all that had happened—as Wellington had said of Waterloo, it had indeed been a very near-run thing. Edward realized suddenly that he was more than a little tired. He was getting too old to stay out at night till all hours and then go chasing after madmen and kidnappers.
***
Devenham walked Phoebe away from the other men to protect her ears from their rather unsuitable conversations. He paused on a small rise of ground near the house, pointing out a pair of large trees.
“I wondered if there were truly any chestnuts at Beau Chatain, or if they had all disappeared long ago,” he said. “I believe those are chestnut trees, are they not?”
Phoebe nodded, but he had not successfully distracted her. “You are kind to try to make conversation after all that has happened,” she said, turning to him. “Are you truly all right?”
In truth, he was not. He had made a brave showing during all their efforts, but the opium withdrawal was taking its toll on him. His head throbbed as did every muscle in his body, or so it seemed. He felt as if he had performed heroic feats of strength and endurance while suffering from the worst aftereffects of too much drink. He found it ironic that the royal physicians prescribed laudanum for the Prince Regent to counter those very same effects. There were uglier symptoms he might yet suffer; he did not want to be with anyone but Mullins when those began to set in.
When he did not answer, Phoebe took his hand and began to walk with him again. “Richard said you would be suffering without your laudanum. Is it very bad? I do not know how you have managed to be so courageous and dashing if you are feeling very ill.”
Devenham looked at her in surprise. “He knew about that?”
She turned her head away but not before he noticed she had tears in her eyes. “He—he was going to use laudanum to kill you. He said you would be in such misery you would never notice the strength of the dose.” She turned back to him, her beautiful face streaked with tears. “He said it would give you relief, permanent relief.”
Devenham was overwhelmed to think her tears were for him. Surely, such a thing meant that she cared for him, at least, enough to feed his hopes. But now—now was not the time to pursue them. That Brodfield had said such things to her was just another measure of his cruelty.
“Phoebe, I am sorry he upset you so. I can assure you that I would not have taken the laudanum if he had offered it. In a day or so I shall be fine, and my body will be free of the need for it. Our adventure is over. You must try to put it out of your mind as soon as possible.”
He did not tell her that Brodfield’s unusual knowledge of opium made him wonder if the man had been addicted to it himself, nor did he mention that Brodfield would have found some other way to kill him. He searched vainly for a handkerchief to offer her, and finally, removing his soiled gloves, with her permission he used his hands to very gently wipe away her tears. How much he would have liked to take her in his arms again!
“You must admit,” he said, trying to coax a smile from her, “the past eighteen hours have been a good deal less boring than the Duke of York’s reception would have been.”
She gave him a very shaky smile. “We are a sorry pair, are we not? Look at your uniform.”
He had already taken in the condition of her gown, which he could see had been quite lovely before it became torn and soiled. Through all that had happened, she had somehow managed to preserve her shawl. His own immaculate breeches were streaked with dirt, and his jacket looked as if it had seen battle duty after all. There was a tear in the sleeve, and at least two silver buttons had disappeared from one side. His sword, his sabretasche, and his sha
ko had been missing along with his curricle and horses since the attack on him in London the previous night.
“Poor sir! Will you tell me what you went through?”
He agreed to tell her some of it, provided she would do the same for her part. “But not now,” he added with a hint of his usual mischievous smile. “Think of how many others are waiting to hear these details and of how many times we will be forced to repeat them. Let us at least cut down on that number as much as we can.”
***
There was no avoiding the scandal to follow. The news of Richard Brodfield’s arrest spread through London faster than the Great Fire and was carried out into the country with every carriage that left the West End in the grand exodus for the start of the shooting season.
Of course, those immediately involved in the episode found their travel plans delayed.
“I have never missed the start of the shooting season before,” Edward was heard to lament, but he was quick to assure Phoebe that he would survive perfectly well under the circumstances.
Devenham, after recounting his part of the story in the Allingtons’ drawing room upon their return, retired to the Clarendon with Mullins and was not seen or heard from for two days. When he reappeared at Wigmore Street on the second day of September, only the faintest of shadows under his eyes gave a clue that he had been ill. His curricle and prized chestnuts had been found in Lady Tyneley’s stables behind the house on Charles Street, along with his saber and the missing articles from his uniform. He had sent his belated excuses to the Duke of York and had learned that his absence was forgiven due to the rather unusual circumstances. However, the duke now required him to appear in three days time for an audience with the Prince Regent himself.
Devenham and Phoebe tried to spare their families and friends from the most sordid aspects of their experiences. The Allington children now worshiped their aunt and the earl so thoroughly they could hardly be separated from the pair. So it was that Phoebe and Devenham found themselves walking in Hyde Park on the afternoon of the earl’s reappearance while four Allington children cavorted with Henrietta under the somewhat distracted watch of Lizzie and her own object of adulation, Goldie.
Persistent Earl : Signet Regency Romance (9781101578841) Page 23
