by Kit Donner
What was that? Very faint, almost like horse’s hooves, but no sound of carriage wheels. Matthew rose from his hard seat and pulled his pistol from his belt. If it wasn’t Madelene, it could be a highwayman. Who else would be traveling the road this late?
A lone horse and rider. Too far away to discern the identity. Matthew hid behind a thick bush near the clearing until he could be confident of whether this person meant him harm or not.
The moon shone on Gabriel Westcott’s face. Matthew frowned. What could this mean? Where was Madelene? Before he could contemplate further, he heard his name.
“Matthew Colgate. Are you here?” Westcott called. Matthew watched as his brother-in-law halted his horse and leaned across the pommel, searching the clearing.
Matthew hesitated. Westcott must have the dagger. Otherwise, why had he come and not Madelene? Was his enemy still in pursuit of some kind of revenge for his sister? If it was some type of trick, he would make Westcott pay. He stepped out from the tree. “Over here, Westcott.” Not trusting his sister’s husband, he kept his pistol steady in front of him.
Westcott dismounted, ignoring the pistol aimed at him, and led his horse to a nearby tree to tie him. He glanced over his shoulder at Matthew and shook his head. “No need for weapons.”
Impatient to get this meeting done, Matthew demanded, “Where is my sister? Why is she not here?” He remained in his stance, watchful of any sudden movement from his foe.
Shrugging, Westcott told him, “You wanted the dagger. I have the dagger. I decided it would be best if I meet you and give it to you. I thought it would be safer for your sister.”
Taken aback, he almost spewed, “Safer? I’m her brother. She couldn’t be safer in my presence.” Matthew replaced his pistol.
“I beg to differ. She is with me because of you and your wager. I’ve heard of some of your other schemes, too, from which, no doubt, she helped you avoid any uncomfortable consequences.
No, Madelene is definitely well protected back at Westcott Close. She is now my charge and no longer any concern of yours. And because she loves you and worries, like a sister does, she wanted to make sure you received this dagger.” He withdrew the silver-hued dagger and leather sheath from his coat pocket.
Although Matthew might have been affronted by Westcott’s words, they were quickly forgotten at the sight of the long sought-after dagger. He started toward it but stopped when Westcott spoke.
“I can only imagine you are planning to return this dagger to Count Taglioni.”
Matthew opened his mouth to speak but no words issued forth. How did he know who owned the dagger?
With a thin smile, Westcott informed him, “It wasn’t difficult to learn the owner’s name. I presume the count has also offered a sizable purse for its return.” Westcott stepped closer to Matthew, his hand outstretched with the sheathed dagger.
“On your sister’s behalf, I ask you to agree never to involve Madelene in any further schemes you might create for whatever reasons—most likely funds, I forecast.” His words sounded harsh, like a vow. “Do I have your promise Madelene will no longer be distressed over any future antics of yours?”
Before Matthew could reply, he saw movement over Westcott’s shoulder. His eyes widened in alarm. What was he doing here? In astonishment, he watched as the count hit Westcott with a heavy stick and knocked him to the ground, where he lay still.
“What, what are you doing here?” Matthew asked, his voice shaky. Why had he not insisted Brelford accompany him? It should have been so simple.
The count leaned down and picked up the dagger, which had fallen from Westcott’s hand to the leafy clearing. “You’ve been a piece of trouble,” he said to the dagger, pulling it out of its sheath and admiring the dull shine.
The night still held surprises. Matthew watched in amazement as the count twisted the hilt apart from the blade. He soon realized it wasn’t the dagger the count wanted but something in the handle.
Taglioni turned it upside down and shook it, holding his hand beneath to catch—what? Nothing fell out. He turned to look at Matthew, his lips thinning.
The look in the count’s eyes scared Matthew, frightened him as if he could read his own death in those black eyes. Matthew stepped back fumbling for his pistol and tried to determine how long it would take him to run to his horse.
“You betrayed me. I want the diamonds. What did you do with them?” The count walked toward Matthew, screwing the hilt and the knife back together again.
Backing up slowly, Matthew shook his head. “I, I don’t know about diamonds. I agreed to meet, meet, Westcott there with the dagger.” His heart beat rapidly. Matthew was flustered, seeing the look of pure evil and mercilessness on the count’s face.
“I want the diamonds.”
Madelene stood at the second-floor window, which afforded her a view of Gabriel on horseback as he rode down the lane toward the main road, circled the lake, and continued onward. She could see the faint outline of a horse and rider, but the dark left everything else to the imagination.
After his departure, she grabbed a thin shawl and left the house, having determined to meet Gabriel by the lake on his return home. She would wait for him there, since she dared not try to find their meeting place in the dark and on foot.
The wait back at the house had only served to make Madelene fretful and worried. She had to do something, and not even her guard, Alec, could stop her. Although truth be told, Alec appeared to have no interest anymore in Madelene’s whereabouts. Perhaps she and Gabriel no longer worried about her fleeing back to London and her brother.
With a lantern to guide her, Madelene found the path they had taken only the night before. A wonderful night that had ended in his bedchamber where they slept locked in each other’s arms.
Earlier in the day, Gabriel had tried to quell her fears, assuring her nothing could possibly go wrong, but Madelene remained unconvinced. After Matthew received the dagger from Gabriel, what might happen? Would Matthew want to hurt Gabriel for past grievances? She didn’t want to consider any other outcome but that both men would return to their homes safely.
Madelene brushed a lock from her forehead and sighed. All she wanted was to know that Matthew had the dagger and could finally return it to its rightful owner. It would be a great burden lifted off her shoulders to know he was not in danger, and hopefully, out of trouble for a time.
A slight breeze tickled her nose as she gathered her shawl around her and continued up the path and through the notch of trees. She heard the bullfrogs in the lake, the comforting chirp of the summer crickets, and the leaves restless and rustling. The night wrapped her in its near stillness, and yet she shivered. It was a peaceful summer night, like any other night. But it wasn’t, and she couldn’t say why she felt differently.
The lake came into view, the water calm, the cattails on guard. It was their special place, and she felt welcome, like she belonged to this present moment. Fanciful thinking indeed.
The mirrored-moon lake tempted her to dip a foot in and test the waters, but she refrained. Safer to remain on the bank, admiring the view.
With little to do but wait and worry, Madelene held her lantern high and continued to stroll along the lake, wanting its peacefulness to steal over her and protect her from her cares.
Snap.
She whirled around, her heart in her throat, unable to breathe. Was someone nearby? Madelene stopped to listen.
Nothing.
“Is anyone there?” she called, not expecting an answer. She must have imagined she heard something. After all, who would be out this time of night, near the lake, following her? She certainly knew how to frighten herself. Maybe it would be best to wait back at the house, she thought.
Another sound right behind her. Before she could turn or scream, someone pushed her hard, right into the lake.
Warm water hit her face and arms, stunning her, before she realized it was deeper than before. Her shoes couldn’t touch the bottom. Quickly, she san
k into the dark lake, swallowing mouthfuls of water, her arms ineffectively pushing the water aside and her gown pulling her farther down to the deepest end.
Madelene kicked hard to push herself to the water’s surface. Coughing and sputtering, she called out feebly, “Help, help,” before she went back under, swallowing more water.
Did she hear a dog barking?
Frantic, she pushed at the water, again breaking the surface. Flapping her arms on top of the water, she tried to keep her head from submerging.
And went back under a third time. Her strength began to fail her. If only she could move her legs to pull her closer to the edge of the lake, it might be shallower, and she could find purchase.
With one great kick, Madelene wrenched every part of her body above the water one last time to gain breath and scream for help. Then the water dragged her gown and her back under.
In a weakened state, but still flouncing in the water, she wouldn’t give up, although her mind began to dull. Her arms began to ache.
Strong hands wrapped under her arms and pulled her up against a hard chest, where a hand cupped her chin to hold her head out of the water. She snatched valuable deep breaths, her heart still frantic in its fear.
She gasped breath after breath as her rescuer swam toward the edge of the lake, which was closer than she realized. The water swirled and pulsed around them, as if wanting them to keep them, but the man who held her proved indefatigable. He grabbed her by the waist, lifted her out of the water, and pushed her onto the side of the bank before he dropped down beside her.
“Ruff, ruff.” Falstaff? What was he doing here? And who had saved her?
Falstaff ran over to Madelene, who lay sopping wet with her hair hanging in drenched strands around her face, and eagerly licked her face, glad as she was that this stranger had happened by.
The stranger, when she swept the wet curtain of hair from her face and out of her eyes, was their neighbor, Mr. Bush. He lay beside her, breathing heavily, too. A few long minutes, neither could speak.
Madelene, still in shock, could not comprehend why one moment she stood by the lake waiting for Gabriel, and the next, she had been saved from certain death by Mr. Bush.
She bent over and coughed up more water before she reached over to shake Mr. Bush by the shoulder. “Mr. Bush, Mr. Bush, can you hear me?” She couldn’t bear to think anything terrible might have happened to him.
“Yes, Mrs. Westcott? Is that you? Are you, will you, how are you feeling? I’m terribly sorry I wasn’t here sooner.” His handsome face turned toward her, as if he could see her and assure himself she would be fine. He leaned on his side to catch his breath, wiping his face with his hand before sitting upright.
“What matters is that you were here soon enough,” she told him, before hiccupping. Then shivering. Then the tears fell, and she couldn’t prevent them.
Mr. Bush, sitting quite close, reached and gathered her in his arms as she sobbed on his shoulder. “My shoes, I lost my shoes,” she managed between tears.
“I don’t think it would be worth the effort to retrieve them,” he told her ruefully, while rubbing her back.
“I hated those shoes,” she told him, sniffing. “They were the wrong color of mauve.” Her weeping continued on Mr. Bush’s already wet shoulder, sending a thankful prayer to heaven that their neighbor took late-night walks past their lake. Falstaff sat next to Madelene and every now and then brushed his nose against her arm, reminding her of his presence.
When longer moments of quiet occurred between her subsiding cries, Mr. Bush told her gently, “I think I should get you home. Rather, if you could help me, I could perhaps help you. Between the two of us, we can ensure no more baths in the lake tonight, hmmm?” His sense of humor went awry because Madelene started sniffling again. It was some time before they could stand, collect the lantern, and make their way back home.
Mrs. Lavishtock soon had Madelene and her savior, Mr. Bush, sitting by the hearth in the kitchen, enjoying a spot of brandy for what the housekeeper claimed was medicinal purposes. She bustled around them, moaning and gasping, as she heard their almost tragic tale.
Her face white, Mrs. Lavishtock was indeed worried, first over Madelene and Mr. Bush’s nearly drowned conditions, then the missing Mr. Westcott. She kept claiming her heart and her feet couldn’t take this shock. In her anxiety, the housekeeper would sit heavily at the table, then rise to waddle around the kitchen. She couldn’t find solace in either sitting or walking.
Falstaff, who had first raised the alarm to Mr. Bush, Madelene had learned, lay by her bare feet. From time to time, he would lift his head, to see if anyone had food to share.
Mr. Bush finished his brandy and stood, ready to take his departure. He insisted he needed no help returning home, a path he had taken many times before.
A sudden noise broke the quiet when the kitchen door swung open. All eyes turned to see Mr. Westcott’s grim face and a body slung over his shoulder.
Chapter Nineteen
“Matthew?” Madelene leapt from her chair by the hearth and ran to her husband, her heart in her throat. Please, God, let it not be Matthew. Eyes bright with unshed tears, she looked for comfort or answers or something from Gabriel, who shook his head.
Her husband walked slowly into the kitchen, a bit unsteady with his burden. “It’s Matthew. He’s lost a lot of blood.” Directing his attention to Mrs. Lavishtock, he told her, “I need a room nearby. Please send Cappie or one of the other groomsmen to fetch the surgeon. He needs immediate attention.”
Mrs. Lavishtock, fast on her feet despite her size, led the way. “Follow me, Mr. Westcott. We shall put him in the old butler’s room.”
Madelene felt overwhelmed and thankful her brother’s life might yet be spared. She hurried behind Gabriel, resolute to not be a burden of sorrow. Her husband, with the heavy weight of her brother, climbed up the short flight of stairs to the servants’ hall. Following her husband, she leaned on Mr. Bush, unaware of the tears slipping down her cheeks, her heart quite heavy with worry.
Gabriel hadn’t spoken a word to her since his arrival. Indeed, when she caught a glimpse of her husband, his visage appeared pinched and white. Madelene determined that as soon as her brother was seen to, she’d have the surgeon look at Mr. Westcott.
At the butler’s former rooms, Mrs. Lavishtock waited for them with the bed linen rolled back. “Easy now,” she instructed as Gabriel laid Matthew on the bed.
In the center of the narrow bed, Matthew, of average size, looked as if he was melting into white snow, his face pasty white, his breathing labored. Much blood painted his right chest and continued to seep out. Madelene dashed her tears, refusing to believe her brother could be beyond saving.
Fanny must have heard the news because she arrived soon after with a handful of white cloths, followed by Hazelby and Windthorp with pitchers of water. They all stared at the patient, not knowing how to minister to Matthew.
In the small, serviceable room, lit by only two candles, Madelene sat at the head of the bed and pressed cool compresses to her brother’s brow. She watched Mrs. Lavishtock and Mr. Westcott try to stanch the flow of blood from the wound to what looked like his upper right shoulder. Why was there so much blood?
The pale, sickly look on Matthew’s face frightened Madelene. She could only help in a limited capacity, and prayed with all she had Matthew would make it through this dreadful time. Perhaps if she promised to be a good and obedient wife, God would answer her prayers. She always kept her promises or tried to.
The surgeon Longhorn finally arrived to the relief of everyone crowded into the small room. Upon entering the room, he ushered everyone out except Madelene, Mrs. Lavishtock, and Mr. Westcott.
Longhorn worked competently and intently on the patient as the night turned into the wee hours of the morning. He was able to stop the bleeding and sew the wound with several stitches. Confident Matthew would pull through, he still kept vigil like Madelene until he rest assured nothing more needed
to be done.
Wiping his brow and straightening his tall form from the bed, he turned to Madelene waiting by the window and gave her the good news. When they both turned to speak with Mr. Westcott, they found him slumped in a chair.
Eyes widened in horror, she rushed across the room to her husband. What was wrong? Had he fallen asleep from exhaustion or had he been hurt as well? Guilt welled up inside her; all this time worrying about her brother, she had forgotten about her husband.
Kneeling beside his chair, she took his hand, looking into his face to see if she could discern his condition. “Mr. Westcott, Mr. Westcott.” She looked up at Longhorn standing nearby. “Doctor, please, my husband. You must do something.” Concern and fright weighted her words. As Longhorn went to the door to call for assistance, Madelene put her husband’s hand to her cheek. “Please wake up,” she whispered. “Please forgive me.”
The surgeon called urgently to Mrs. Lavishtock to find two footmen to help move Mr. Westcott in order that he could better examine him. They left Fanny to watch over Matthew sleeping soundly from the laudanum given him.
Because Longhorn didn’t want Mr. Westcott to endure the long climb to the first floor, the two footmen carried Mr. Westcott to the study on the ground floor. In the study, Madelene found Mr. Bush and Windthorp waiting for news of her brother, and quickly informed them of Matthew’s condition and of Mr. Westcott’s present state.
Windthorp waited in the corner of the study, constantly sending dark looks toward Madelene, who ignored him. Somehow she knew Gabriel’s man believed she had something to do with her husband’s injury, but she couldn’t fret about the valet’s feelings, so worried was she about her husband.
