Araminta (Regency Belles Series Book 2)

by Caroline Ashton

  ‘Friend? Of Trelowen?’ Air was drawn in through narrow nostrils. ‘Be frank, Lord Frederick. Do you mean she was his mistress?’

  ‘I do, ma’am. I’m sorry to have to mention such a –’

  Wilhelmina flapped a hand. ‘Never mind that nonsense. I’m not a green girl.’ She rose, somewhat agitated. ‘I have the directions to her house.’ Quick steps took her to the small table by the window. She reached for a square of paper. ‘Here. I beg you will make haste. I do not like the idea of such company.’

  Frederick all but snatched it from her hand. ‘Immediately, ma’am. Immediately.’

  He dashed from the room, heading for the mews and his horse.

  Quickly mounted, he urged the animal down George Street with vigour. Two gentlemen crossing the road had to hasten their steps. Their cries of protest barely registered. He turned into Gay Street, looking at Queen’s Square at the end. Heads turned at his headlong gallop. Halfway there he heard his name called.

  ‘Lord Frederick! Lord Frederick! My lord, stop.’

  He dragged at the reins. A woman, obviously a maid and in some distress, ran up to him and grabbed his stirrup. ‘Oh, my lord. Save her. You must save her.’

  Frederick looked down at the flushed face, the skewed cap, torn sleeve and tumbling hair. ‘Save who? What are you talking about woman? Who are you?’

  ‘Hollins, my lord. Miss Neave’s maid. They took her, my lord. T’were that Lord Trelowen.’

  ‘Ye Gods. Took her where?’

  ‘I don’t know. He tumbled her into a carriage and off he drove.’

  ‘His carriage? With his arms on the door?’

  ‘No, my lord. It were an old one. Real dirty. It drove down the street to the river.’

  ‘My God.’ Frederick’s stallion took objection to having its head dragged round and let him know it. He patted its neck. ‘Right. Right. You go to Miss Orksville. But tell her gently. And walk properly. Don’t go screaming and carrying on. We don’t want the whole city to know. Tell her I’ve gone after them. They’re in a carriage. I’m sure to catch them.’

  He dragged his protesting horse further round and galloped off pell-mell through the crowds to the Avon, regardless of the attention he caused.

  Araminta kicked, thumped and struggled in Trelowen’s grasp. Despite her efforts he held her easily until she sank her teeth into his smothering hand again. It forced a surprised yelp from him and wiped the smirk from his face.

  ‘Vixen,’ he spat, shoving her across the small carriage.

  She landed on the dusty leather bench. Her head banged on the wall. Her straw bonnet flattened. For a second the impact stunned her. The carriage slowed at the turn for the bridge. Collecting her senses she hurled herself at the door.

  A long leather strap held up the window. The hole where slotted over a metal peg was worn. She grabbed the leather with both hands and heaved. It broke suddenly and the window crashed down into its niche in the door.

  She toppled backwards. Struggling up, she lashed at Trelowen’s face with the tail of the strap and leaned out. ‘Help,’ she shouted. ‘Help me, please.’

  The nearest of a pair of street cleaners looked up from shovelling horse manure into a barrow. ‘Oi. What yer about?

  ‘Mind your business,’ the driver called from the box. He whipped the horse. It spurted along the bridge.

  Trelowen grabbed at the neck of her spencer. He dragged her back inside. The fine wool ripped in his clutch. She fell across his legs. ‘Bitch,’ he cursed as the strap lashed his cheek again. He caught it, wrenching it from her fingers. ‘I’ll teach you to behave.’ He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. ‘And I’ll be less gentle ’til you do.’

  Araminta’s eyes shot fire at him. ‘Don’t you dare touch me. I’ll see you whipped for this.’ She raised her fist.

  He grabbed her wrist and twisted it. ‘Oh, yes? You and who else? That shabby Ellonby sprig? He’s only interested in horses.’

  ‘He’d punch you down. Will punch you when he finds me.’

  ‘That’ll be a match for the books. He’s never set foot in a ring. Stands no chance against me.’ He pulled her towards him. She landed on her knees on the carriage floor.

  ‘Leave me be, you coward.’

  He scowled. ‘That’s enough of your insults.’ Trapping her arms between his thighs, he pushed the crushed bonnet off backwards. In a second he had the handkerchief bound over her mouth. She twisted her head in vain. The linen cut between her teeth silencing all but the deepest of growls.

  He lifted her bodily onto the bench. ‘Settle yourself,’ he ordered. ‘There’s no help for you. You must do what I say.’ His eyes sparked. ‘In everything.’

  Her face flushed and denied speech, Araminta glared at him. Her fingers scrabbled at the handkerchief.

  Trelowen snarled in his throat. ‘You tiresome filly.’ Ignoring her fists flailing on his back and shoulders, he bent down and ripped the frill from the bottom of her shift. Catching one flying fist, he wrapped the cotton round it then bound in the other.

  Panting with the effort to escape, Araminta subsided against the shabby cushions. Angry tears sparkled in her eyes Anxiety edged over her fury. She looked away from Trelowen. She must try to think. Think where they’d be going. Where he was taking her. And how – or if – she could escape.

  Frederick galloped down to the river, his horse sweating and speckling his pantaloons with gobbets of foam. The two shabbily-dressed labourers eyed his approach with misgiving.

  ‘If’n he’s riding that animal so breakneck, it’ll mean more work for us. You see if it don’t.’

  The taller and shabbier of the two dragged his barrow off the bridge. They leant on the stone pillar and watched Frederick approach. One of them coughed loudly from wheezing lungs. He spat.

  Frederick urged his skittering horse towards them. ‘You there, have you seen an old carriage pass here? Moments ago?’

  The coughing one cleared his throat and spat again. ‘Well now, yer ’onour. We sees many such in our work.’ He sniffed disgustingly. ‘Watching out for ’em takes time an’ stops us from earning.’

  Frederick mastered the response that sprang to his lips. He rummaged in his pocket and produced a penny. ‘Will this prod your memory?’

  ‘Well, it might at that, yer ’onour. It might be as there were two carriages crossing over just now.’

  ‘Two?’ Frederick’s hand holding the penny drooped. ‘Damn and blast.’

  ‘A course, if it were the one with the screeching female inside, we saw where that went.’

  ‘What? Where?’

  The man craned his scrawny neck to eye the coin. Frederick tossed it to him.

  ‘It turned up the Bristol road.’ He pointed.

  ‘Good.’ Frederick flexed his heels, then paused. ‘I’ve seen your faces. Be warned, if you’ve told me a rum ‘un I’ll seek you out for a good whipping.’

  ‘Ah, no, sur,’ the shorter one said. ‘It be God’s own truth. It were that way. An old green carriage with a bay mare.’

  ‘Good.’ Frederick spurred his horse across the bridge.

  Inside the carriage Araminta slumped in the corner and pretended to be overcome. Away from any chance of attracting help, he had pulled the handkerchief down from her mouth. Her lips and cheeks still tingled where it had cut into them. She lowered her eyes and allowed her head to droop. When she was sure she looked defeated, she cast a sidelong glance out of the left hand window, shielded by her thick lashes.

  Beyond the few trees the river ran in a loop across a field. She thought furiously. Her back was to the front of the carriage. The sun was doing its best to shine in through the grimy window on the right. They must be travelling west.

  What was to the west? How she wished she had better studied England’s geography. She knew more of India’s than here. Her hands in the folds o
f her gown clenched. The west? The west? What was to the west?

  Of course. Bristol. Some of Pa’s boats landed at Bristol. Boats. The word struck fear into her. Could it be he was planning to sail her out of the country? Fingers tightening even further, she prayed he was not. No matter how resourceful she was, escaping from a boat at sea could only be beyond her. Her heart thumped. If it was a large boat, it must be moored at a dock. With stevedores about. Her father was well-known at many docks. What was today? Wednesday? No? Yes? Anyway, not Sunday. Some men must be working. If she screamed Pa’s name and a promised reward, someone would surely help.

  Her heartbeat slowed. A plan formed in her mind. She’d appear subdued and weak. That would avoid another bout with the gag. Nor could he tie her up where people would see. When he took her out of the carriage, she’d pretend to faint. Then she could grasp her skirts and run towards help as fast as she could. The corners of her mouth lifted.

  Trelowen saw the movement. He was pleased she’d stopped struggling and screaming. But surprised. From what he knew of her, particularly the way she rode neck-or-nothing, he disbelieved her docile pose. No, she was not overcome. If he judged her aright, she was planning something.

  Chapter Thirty

  Frederick urged Stirling over the bridge. His alarm at Araminta’s capture and his anger at the kidnapper could not override his concern for the animal. The ride from London had been slow because he was leading Pegasus. He hoped that would stand Stirling in good stead now. He knew it should be resting in a stable, not hunting an unknown carriage.

  Gaining the other side of the Avon, he stared up and down the road. The road-sweepers had pointed to the north. He pressed his heels gently into the horse’s flanks. It tossed its head, sending its chestnut mane flying and set off willingly. There was plenty of activity around him. Riders and pedestrians, carts laden with produce heading for the city, even some grubby urchins splashing in the mud at the river’s edge. One of the youngsters ceased his search for treasure and, dirty thumb in mouth, watched him pass.

  Why, Frederick asked himself, would the kidnapper come this way? Was he aiming to hide her in some hovel not far from the city? More than that, what was he intending for her? Beads of fear broke out on his brow. God forbid it was a harm of any sort. How he wished he had brought his pistol with him. But then the most excitement he had expected was a stroll to Sidney Gardens. Being cannoned into a headlong chase across the Somerset countryside had never entered his most worst imagining. Fear drove him on.

  The road wound westwards through the gentle countryside. Cantering along it as fast as he dared, Frederick saw none of it. He rounded a corner shaded by tall horse chestnut trees. Twerton tollgate spanned the road ahead.

  Beside the tollhouse, an old woman was bending over a wicker basket of linen. Every now and then, she straightened, in as much as she could to drape an item over the bushes where the sun could dry it.

  Frederick urged Stirling towards her. The woman might have news. A few quick strides brought him to the tollhouse. He reined in.

  ‘Good-day, ma’am. Can you oblige me please? Has a shabby carriage passed by in the past few moments?’

  The woman brushed the frill of her cotton bonnet away from her eyes and stared up at him. She was the oldest crone he had ever seen. Her nut-brown face bore so many wrinkles its features were almost concealed. For all that, she was neatly, if plainly, dressed.

  ‘I see’d many this day. ‘Tis the Bristol road, sir. There be so many folks in need of their folderol’s there’s nerry an end to the comings and goings.’

  ‘It’s a carriage I’m asking for, not a cart. An old one I believe. You might have heard a lady . . . er, crying.’

  ‘Ah.’ The wrinkles on the old face formed themselves into a smile. ‘It be your lady-love you’re after. Has her Pa whisked her off from you?’

  Frederick only just stopped a sharp reply. ‘Nothing of the sort. It’s . . . it’s my sister. I fear she has fallen foul of . . . of some footpads.’

  The old eyes twinkled. ‘As you say, sir.’ She sniffed. ‘There was a carriage went past not long ago. Once been green, I’d say. Pretty bay nag looked too good for it.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am. That’s all I wish to know.’ Frederick held out ha’penny to the woman before turning his horse’s head up the road.

  ‘That be fine, sir.’ The woman bent her ancient back and hoisted her basket onto her hip. ‘I hope you find your sister,’ she called after him with a chuckle.

  The keeper of the Newton St Low turnpike told him a carriage of the sort he was seeking has passed through bare minutes ago. If his worship were to put his heels to his horse, he could catch it by the next at Corston.

  Frederick further depleted his hoard of coins and rode on, deep in thought. If – when – he did catch the carriage, what would he – could he do? There must be something. The afternoon sun was sinking. The thought of Araminta in the clutches of some brigands overnight was unbearable. If only he had his pistol. He could hold them up like a highway man. Them? There’d be at least two for certain. The driver and the villain. There might even be three. A cold shiver ran up his spine. His fingers tightened on the reins.

  Stirling’s head was drooping by the time they had covered of the three miles to Corston. Frederick slowed him to a walk. They rounded a bend and he reined to a halt. A carriage was standing by the toll house. A carriage that had definitely been green in better days. He could just see the rump of the bay hauling it. The driver was bending down, holding out his hand to a stout young man. This must be it. But there was no sound of a screaming female. If he challenged it and was the wrong one there’d be an embarrassing scene. If he did not and it was the one . . .

  Frederick made his choice.

  He spurred his flagging horse to a gallop. Drawing alongside the carriage he swerved ahead of it and barred the way. ‘Araminta? Are you there?’

  ‘Frederick,’ screamed Araminta.

  Cursing heavily, the driver raised his whip. He slashed at Frederick’s face. Raising an arm Frederick grabbed at the whip and yanked it away.

  ‘Here, I say –’ the tollman started.

  The carriage rocked on its springs. Sounds of a struggled mixed with Araminta’s shouts.

  ‘Help me,’ Frederick yelled at the stout man. ‘This is an abduction.’

  ‘Lordie,’ the man yelped as the driver jumped down beside him. He turned and landed a facer on the driver’s chin. The man went down raising puffs of dust from the road.

  Frederick dragged the carriage door open. The sight inside rocked him stock-still.

  ‘Trelowen. What the deuce –’ He broke off and dragged the Viscount’s nearest arm off Araminta. The respite gave her time to claw at the Viscount’s face. Blood appeared in the streaks from her fingernails. Trelowen back-handed her behind him and leapt out drawing a pistol from the squab by the door. He aimed it at Frederick.

  ‘Stand off. Stand off I say, or by God I’ll do for you.’

  Frederick stared at him. The toll keeper and driver stopped wrestling on the ground and stared.

  For seconds nobody moved.

  Araminta took a deep breath, lifted her skirts and flipped them over Trelowen’s head. She heaved. He cursed and struck out blindly. The pistol discharged. Frederick dived to the left. The driver howled and clutched at his thigh.

  Frederick aimed his best punch at the bulge under the muslin. A cracking sound followed. Trelowen slid gently onto the ground. His eyes were closed. He lay motionless on his side on the road. Blood trickled across his cheek into a small pool in the dust.

  Araminta lowered her skirts. She and Frederick exchanged a long stare.

  ‘Well,’ she said.

  ‘Indeed,’ he answered. ‘I’m mighty pleased to see you.’ He reached out his hand to help her down.

  Stepping down, she pulled at the ribbons of her bonnet. They parted
and the crushed straw slid off. The faintest of twitches lift the corners of her mouth. ‘I fear this is beyond saving.’

  ‘Rather it than you.’ He captured both of her hands. ‘I feared . . . I feared you had come to harm.’ Colour flushed his face.

  For a moment Araminta’s lips trembled. ‘I feared so too.’ Her fingers tightened round his and her eyes moistened. She bit her lip. She shivered then shook herself. ‘I had it all planned.’ She drew back. ‘I’d made my mind he was taking me to Bristol for a boat. I was going to faint like a silly female. Then when I saw help, I’d scream.’

  A gasping chuckle was forced from Frederick. ‘You as a fainting female will not ride. There’s never been anyone less like a fainting female than you.’

  Speech between them died. They stared into each other’s eyes. The gaping tollman, the groaning driver and the unconscious Trelowen were forgotten.

  Frederick was the first to recollect himself. ‘We must return you to Miss Orksville. She will be most anxious by now.’

  Araminta looked at the carriage. ‘I’m not getting into that horrible thing again.’ The bay was standing between the traces, head down. ‘Unhitch her, please, Freddie. Then we can both ride back.’

  ‘’Ere, you can’t take the ’orse,’ the tollman said. ‘It be stealing. You’ll get deported for that. And how’ll they get the carriage moving?’

  Frederick’s comment on that was lost as he bent to unhitch the traces.

  ‘And what about ’im?’ the man continued, pointing at the driver who had dragged off his kerchief and was tying it round his thigh.

  ‘Never mind about him,’ Araminta said. ‘His lordship will see to him when recovers his senses. I shall leave a note saying we have borrowed the animal. They may collect it from the hotel.’

  She bent into the carriage and rescued her reticule from the carriage floor. A small silver case held her visiting cards. A tiny pencil fitted below the hinge. She scribbled on the back of a card. Bending down, she tucked it into Trelowen’s limp hand.