A Clandestine Courtship

by Allison Lane

  “You heard nothing else?”

  “If people whispered in private, I would never know. His lies have always isolated me, and not just because of my reputed escapades. You are not the only one who erroneously believed we were close.”

  “Let’s try this another way, then. Who were Northrup’s friends?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why?”

  “He never discussed his disreputable acquaintances, and he had no others.” In fact, he had never discussed anything. The only difference his presence had made was casting a pall of tension over the household, fraying tempers and inciting fear.

  “But you must be able to guess. You were married to the man for seven years.”

  “So what?”

  “Who did he see during his last trip home besides John?”

  “Give it up, my lord. I know nothing.”

  “You mean you will reveal nothing.”

  “Don’t put words in my mouth.” Her temper snapped. “I know nothing. Even when Frederick visited Northfield, he split his time between Ridgeway and the Lusty Maiden. He knew no one and liked it that way. He could have passed the steward or a tenant on the street and not recognized him. I’ve no idea who John knew, so I can’t help you. I know even less about his last visit home because I was in mourning. If you need to find out who he saw, ask your servants.”

  “I already did, but they are a close-mouthed lot. They claim he saw no one, but I suspect they are hiding something.”

  “Perhaps they are telling the truth.”

  “Then what triggered his death?”

  That parting question had teased her ever since. If John had spoken to no one, then who had killed him? And why? No one had liked him, but she had heard of no new tragedies that could be laid at his door. So why was he dead?

  The obvious answer was that an argument had exploded out of control – which explained why James was determined to discover who John had seen that last day.

  She sighed.

  Drat the man. He was forcing her to become involved. Despite her vow to leave well enough alone, she would have to ask questions.

  It was his voice, she decided as she thankfully left the quarry behind. It had deepened since he had left, taking on a honeyed quality she could not resist. Even when he was absent, it echoed at the most inconvenient times, seducing her with promises of things that didn’t exist.

  She must expunge it. Already, under its influence, she had revealed more discontent and more details about her barren life than she had exposed to another living soul.

  The clatter of hooves diverted her thoughts. And just as well. Her agitation had pressed Acorn into a canter. They were rapidly approaching the forest.

  She was reining in when a phaeton emerged from the trees, its team moving at a ground-devouring trot. But the ends of the ribbons bounced along the road. The driver had collapsed across the side, every bump edging him closer to falling out. At the rate he was going, he would do so just about the time he passed the yawning pit of the quarry.

  She spurred Acorn forward even before she recognized the man. James.

  “Easy, fellows,” she called, cutting in front of the team in an attempt to slow them. They were not yet spooked, but without a steady hand on the ribbons, they were picking up speed as the road sloped downhill.

  “Halt! Stop! Whoa!”

  The commands had no effect. The team swerved around her, sliding James closer to disaster. His head and right arm dangled inches from the rear wheel, which posed a more immediate threat than the quarry.

  Curses reverberated in her head. The horses were not trained to voice commands. Her best chance of halting them would be to rein in the wheeler, though she wasn’t sure she could manage it. Yet she had to try. Turning, she gave chase.

  The team responded by breaking into a canter, bouncing the phaeton harder and accelerating James’s slide. Would the carriage overturn? Phaetons were notoriously unstable and this one was becoming unbalanced.

  She fought down terror. The offside ribbon was fluttering out of reach between the horses. But the nearside one had come unhooked from the backstrap and now floated along the wheeler’s right side, so it should be possible to grab it. Yet she didn’t have much time. She would be squeezed between the team and the quarry in another minute, giving her little room to maneuver. And the only way to catch the ribbon was to lean far off her horse.

  Panic licked her veins as she glanced back at James. He was jolting up and down, precariously balanced across the side rail. And the quarry was looming closer.

  She had not seen Frederick’s broken body, but her imagination conjured increasingly horrible images. James must not die. He was important to her – which was the most horrifying thought yet. She would not feel this crazed about another man. He was upsetting her world, changing her perceptions. And he didn’t even realize it.

  Thank God for that. If he again turned his attentions to her, he would destroy her. Somehow, she must deflect these growing feelings. She had no intention of wedding again, and no desire to conduct an affair. Even friendship would not work. It could only cause new pain when they separated – which they inevitably would. Whether he stayed at Ridgeway or not, she would soon be moving to her dream cottage.

  Keep your mind on business.

  She shook away the images. Whatever her fears for the future, she must stop this phaeton.

  Shifting both reins into her right hand, she inched closer to the wheeler. He was in full stampede, with white-ringed eyes and foam-flecked bit. Sweat caked his hide. Gripping the leaping head with her knees – and thanking the fates that she had chosen a saddle equipped for jumping today – she leaned down and tried to catch the fluttering ribbon.

  “Easy, easy, easy,” she chanted, but the wheeler paid no attention. They swept onto the narrow ledge ringing the quarry, the ribbon still tantalizingly out of reach. It flicked across the back of her hand, teased her fingers, then plunged nearly to the road before floating up to shoulder height.

  She drew closer to the horse’s head. He snorted, shifting toward the cliff and again swerving the phaeton sharply. James’s arm brushed the wheel.

  “Slow down.”

  She tried using her crop to catch the loop where the ribbon split into two reins. No luck. Acorn tensed as the road narrowed. They were approaching that sharp corner.

  In desperation, she lunged farther, her knees barely clinging to the saddle, her hand banging against the wheeler’s shoulder, increasing his panic. The ribbon slapped her fingers once… twice…

  She had it. Acorn was fretting over the unexpected weight shift, so she spared a moment to pull herself back into the saddle – a more difficult task than she had expected.

  “Easy does it,” she crooned, pulling back as sharply as she dared.

  The wheeler tossed his head, fighting the pressure, but he broke stride, throwing his teammate into confusion.

  “We’re going to stop now, fellows.” She managed to keep her voice even. Another break slowed them to a trot. But they didn’t halt until they had reached the narrowest point in the road.

  She stayed atop Acorn, gasping for breath. Reaction was setting in. Her legs were so weak that standing would be impossible. All three horses were trembling.

  Now what?

  A quick glance showed that James still hung half out of the phaeton. His right glove was shredded, revealing a bloody hand. But she could not attend him just yet.

  She stroked Acorn’s neck. Her voice might calm the team, but it would take time. They were rolling their eyes and twitching. The wheeler stamped one foot in agitation.

  “Easy, there,” she crooned softly, adding words of praise and even a song or two. Forcing gentleness into her tone calmed her own nerves. Gradually, their ears began flicking in her direction. Less white showed around their eyes. Tails swished more naturally.

  It took several minutes before she dared dismount. Several more minutes of stroking the horses’ heads and necks finally settled them
enough that she could attend James.

  He remained unconscious, but he did not smell of wine. Had he suffered a seizure? New fears made her hands shake.

  She was trying to push him back onto the seat when something landed on her boot.

  Blood. And not from his hand.

  “Dear Lord,” she murmured as another drop fell. A good-sized patch had already soaked into the road.

  His head had grazed the wheel, but the resulting scrape was not responsible for the blood. A deep cut lacerated a large knot just behind his left temple. Swallowing nausea, she pushed his hair aside. It was a fresh injury, but positioned where it could not have been inflicted by the wheel or railing. Yet there was no trace of blood on his coat, so he had not incurred it before beginning his drive.

  She had to stop the bleeding before the smell spooked the horses. They were still nervous. Ripping the bottom flounce from her petticoat, she fashioned a bandage that pressed a thick pad into the wound. Now all she had to do was move him back onto the seat.

  Easier said than done. He was a big man, broad-shouldered and well over six feet tall – intimidating even in unconsciousness. Pushing did no good. The side rail was so far above the ground that she could get little leverage. If only he woke up, he could help, but nothing roused even a flicker of awareness. Giving up, she tied Acorn to the back, retrieved the offside ribbon, then climbed into the phaeton.

  A rock was wedged under his boot.

  Shivers stood her hair on end despite the heat of the day. The rock was roughly four inches across, with jagged edges. And one of those edges was smudged with blood that had trapped a dark hair.

  Someone had tried to kill him.

  She glanced at the forest a quarter mile away, suddenly feeling far too vulnerable. The quarry yawned its sinister mouth only a few feet beyond James’s head. The phaeton sat at the base of a cliff, open to attack from above. She had to get him away before his enemy could strike again.

  Tugging moved him only an inch before his coat caught on the rail. Pulling harder had no effect and left her panting from exertion.

  The attacker had arranged a very clever accident. The rock might have killed James outright, but its main purpose had been to knock him across the right side of the phaeton, where he would eventually fall. Even if he did not immediately roll into the quarry, a helpful push would have ensured his death. The landing would erase any sign of the initial attack.

  Just like Frederick.

  Dear God. Frederick had been riding along this same road in the same direction, headed for Ridgeway after an evening in the Lusty Maiden’s taproom. Everyone had assumed that he’d passed out from drink and fallen. Now she had to wonder.

  Later! This is no time to panic. James has no connection to Frederick.

  Invisible eyes bored into her back. Was the killer still watching?

  James needed help. She could not drive with him draped over the side, but she dared not leave him alone while she fetched assistance. Fear and desperation gave her a new burst of energy. Tugging finally tore a button loose and pulled him onto the seat, but tears were streaming down her face by the time she was finished. His sprawl filled the space. He remained unconscious, with new blood trickling down his cheek.

  She frowned as she retied the bandage. His breathing was fast and shallow – not a good sign. At the very least, he had a concussion, but his injuries might be worse than that. He needed a bed and care.

  Perching precariously on the edge of the seat, she set the horses to a walk, fighting the urge to spring the team. Jarring could only make things worse.

  Was the culprit still watching? A fast horse could have circled the hill to get ahead of her. She had no idea how much time had elapsed since she had first spotted James. Would the man waylay her at the park gates or the stone bridge? Who was he? And why had he attacked?

  The trip to Ridgeway seemed endless, though the Court was barely two miles from the quarry. Her fear increased with every step. As did her uncertainty.

  James had claimed only yesterday that the servants were hiding information. John had hired every member of the staff, so she could not trust them, despite knowing that they had not liked him. She had no reason to believe they liked James, either. A disgruntled servant might have planned this attack. Or an angry tenant. Or any number of other people. Had one of his changes threatened someone? Was there a man who hated all Underwoods?

  But that made no sense. James had not been near Ridgeway in years.

  Think logically!

  The only real threat James posed was to John’s killer. So either his investigation was making progress, or the culprit had decided to prevent it from doing so. Thus she had to help him search for justice. If the culprit was willing to strike at anyone who threatened to expose him, then they were all in danger. They had to catch him before anyone else died.

  But the man was smart. Knowing that a second murder would force Squire Church to reopen his inquiry, he had chosen to stage an accident, taking Frederick’s as his pattern. Everyone knew the quarry road was dangerous. Every few years the pit claimed a new victim. Who would question another fall?

  It fit all too well. But she still had no idea who was behind it. And an unconscious James could not protect himself against a second attack.

  She could not remain in a bachelor establishment to nurse him, so the only protection she could provide was to keep the nature of his accident a secret. The killer must believe that no one suspected the truth. As long as James remained in bed, he was vulnerable.

  “What happened?” demanded Harry, bursting outside in response to a footman’s summons. Edwin followed more slowly.

  She shrugged. “It looks like he fell. I found him out by the quarry. Can you carry him inside?”

  “Of course,” said Edwin.

  They made lifting him look easy. Harry sent a footman to fetch the doctor.

  “He will need constant watching. Head injuries can be quite unpredictable,” she suggested as she held open the door to James’s room – which was not the master suite, she noted in passing. Did he dislike the idea of occupying a bed John had slept in? But this was not the time to think of such things. Especially when the sight of his dark head against the white pillow sent heat sizzling through her veins. She had to leave before she offered to nurse him.

  James had been right about the staff. They were sullen and antagonistic. Would they turn on him? But she had hardly formed the question when Edwin proved that his thoughts matched hers.

  “We will watch him,” he promised, exchanging a thoughtful look with Harry. “We can take turns. The servants are not overly friendly.”

  They were hiding something, but she did not question them. Perhaps they were helping him investigate John’s death. Or they might know of some other threat on his life. It didn’t matter. They would protect him until he recovered, and that was the important thing. Taking leave of them, she headed for home, the rock wrapped in his handkerchief and tucked inside her reticule.

  By the time she reached Northfield, reaction was shaking her in long waves. New fears tormented her. Had the killer watched her stop the phaeton? Had he seen her bandage James’s head or pick up the rock? Did he know that she recognized an attempt at murder?

  She played out the scene in her mind again and again, but she had no answers. He must have remained. If James had not tumbled into the quarry on his own, the killer had to be ready to help him. So he had seen her. Which accounted for her edginess. It had been eyes peering out from the forest that had made her so nervous, not the yawning quarry.

  How obvious had she been when she’d found the rock? She frowned. Had she glanced at the cliffs? Someone who had not seen the phaeton emerge from the woods might believe the rock had fallen. If she was lucky, he would expect her to accept the incident as an accident, but she could not count on that. A rock from above would not have struck the side of his head.

  Thus she had yet another reason to help James find the killer. If the man had attacked because Ja
mes had learned something, then he would have to eliminate her as well. So she had to protect herself. And the only sure way was to identify him.

  Perhaps she should approach the problem from a different direction. She could hardly ask questions about John without drawing attention. But James had found no evidence of an argument or even a meeting on the day John had died, so his death probably had its seeds in his last trip home with Frederick. By investigating Frederick’s final days, she might learn something useful. John and Frederick had always acted together. She had turned a blind eye to most of their escapades, knowing that she had no power to stop them. But perhaps she could use a desire to make amends as her excuse for peering beneath this particular rock.

  That last trip home had been unusually eventful – the inn fire, the damage to Wilson’s farm, a week-long orgy at Ridgeway, and Frederick’s death. What else might they have done?

  She could eliminate one possibility immediately. As soon as she brought her nerves under control, she would pay a call on the Wilsons. She had thought that her intervention had defused his fury, but she may have been wrong. Had he struck out at John for instigating that ride? Was he afraid James would learn about it? If he had been away from the farm this afternoon, she must suspect him.

  Evil had stalked the district for too many years, but it had not died with its perpetrator. It had taken new root in the man who had killed John. Until he was exposed, none of them were safe.

  * * * *

  John’s killer slouched in the corner of the taproom, nursing a pint of ale while he listened to the voices rising from a nearby table.

  “Doctor was called to the Court today. Seems ’is lordship ’ad a little accident.”

  “’Tweren’t no accident,” muttered his companion. “He had a fit. Foaming, he was.”

  “Says who?”