She pressed suddenly damp palms against the skirt of her ivory Merino wool dress and followed the footman. What had happened? Her body was signaling alarm, but her brain was mystified.
When Elise arrived in the hall, her future brother-in-law said, “Ah, here she is. Elise, these are Bow Street Runners from London. They are looking for Peter.”
She moved forward and addressed the men directly, looking from the suspicious squint of one man to the curious stare of the other. “What is your interest in his grace?”
“He killed a man.”
Elise’s mouth dropped open, and her heart dropped into her midriff. That area promptly revolted, and she grasped Roger’s shoulder to keep herself upright. Finally, she was able to say, “You must be mistaken.”
The shorter of the two Runners stuck his thumbs in the armholes of his vest and rocked back on his heels. “No, ma’am. Saw the corp myself. By way of bein’ a viscount, the gent was.”
All the blood drained from her face. “A viscount?” She swallowed desperately, trying not to be sick. Looking around herself wildly, she could not see one chair in the hall. Instead, she sank to one of the red-carpeted steps and leaned back against a column. “You are certain it was the duke who killed this man?”
“It was a duel,” Roger said. “Do you know a Viscount Chessingden?”
“A duel?”
“Yes, ma’am. Now, it wouldn’t be somethin’ this serious, but this viscount, he died, as I told you. His second called us in. Hired us to bring the duke to justice.”
The taller Runner, who had greasy slicked-back hair, said, “You heard of the corp, ma’am?”
“Uh, yes. I knew him.” The finality of this statement struck her so hard that the edges of her vision turned black and moved inward until she collapsed.
When she came to herself, she was lying on the couch in the downstairs library. It took her some moments before she recalled the words of the Runner. Keeping her eyes closed, she tried to gather her scattered thoughts. Why would her fiancé kill Chessingden? And, most importantly, where on earth was he? Had he fled to the Continent? Was he gone for good? Would she ever see him again? In her shocked state all she could do was run through these questions over and over again. Finally, she opened her eyes most unwillingly.
“Now, miss, it won’t do anyone any good if you don’t tell us where he is. Do you have him hidden somewhere in this big pile?”
“No. He is not here. Roger, tell them.”
But Roger said, “As you’ve said, this is a big pile, sir. He could have arrived anytime after dark and concealed himself. We’ve the odd priest hole and at least two secret passages.”
Elise’s eyes grew large. “Roger! You would give your own brother away?”
His eyes were cold as he returned her stare. “We must help the law.”
“You want him to be hanged so you can succeed to the dukedom!” Turning to the Runners, she said, “Do not listen to him. He is a snake!”
The Runners paid her no heed and in moments were being led away by Roger to examine possible hiding spots. She felt like the heroine in one of her early melodramas as she remained immovable on the sofa, the back of one wrist held to her damp forehead.
Suddenly, she began weeping. The tears oozed out of her closed eyes, running into her ears and hair, down her cheeks to her neck. Dearest Peter! Was he wounded? Was he holed up somewhere in London? She would go to him immediately if only he would get word to her where he was. Or was he afraid she would be followed? Roger would be watching the post like a hawk, lest the duke try to communicate with her. What could she do?
Someone must have sent her aunt to her, because suddenly she was there with her hartshorn and lavender water, caressing Elise’s temples.
For two days, Elise remained in her room, while the Runners searched every inch of the palace and every step of the surrounding park and its woods. To her relief, the duke was not to be found.
Sukey and her aunt made up tasks to keep her occupied. She made labels in laborious Latin script for the new beetle specimens Sukey had found, listening all the while to humorous anecdotes of the years during which Devonshire had pursued Sukey’s hand in marriage. Her aunt drew up patterns for new covers for the chairs in the state dining room and set Elise to needlepointing them.
The second night, when everyone else slept, Elise and Kitty packed a pair of portmanteaux with all the essentials that Elise would need for a life on the Continent. She had decided that despair was counterproductive. The duke would find some way of contacting her. She knew from the bottom of her heart that he wanted her with him, wherever he was.
On the third day, one Runner left. With him he carried the locations of the duke’s hunting box in Leicestershire and two other smaller estates in Dorset and Sussex. The remaining Runner waited, concealed somewhere on the grounds for the duke’s probable arrival. Only then did Lord Roger inform her that the duke was wounded and might possibly be lying low somewhere in London with a fever.
With this new worry, Elise tried to think of all the places her fiancé might have gone to “lie low.” She had confidence that wherever he was, the devoted marquis was by his side. But memories of the last fever that nearly took his life had her sick with dread.
She could not face Roger and his unfilial treachery, so she took meals in her suite, relying on her aunt to inform her of anything of interest said at the dining table. Sukey put herself in charge of the post. Roger, apparently, watched for the postman out his ground floor library window. Sukey stationed herself at the approximate hour of delivery in a chair which the butler produced for her and placed in the domed hall. Henry Five roamed like a watchdog in the huge columned room. As soon as the post was delivered to the sympathetic butler, he allowed her to peruse it before he took it into Roger in the library. Either Peter was too ill to send word or he guessed at his brother’s collusion with the authorities. There was no letter from Peter.
Elise had half a chair cover done when the Marquis of Somerset was announced the day after the first Runner left. She had never been so happy to see the round little man in her life. He actually looked heroic to her.
He, however, was unusually put out by the welcome he had received from the second Runner, who obviously thought him to be the duke. He was obliged to show his signet ring to prove by its crest that he was not Ruisdell.
When he was brought into her sitting room, Elise immediately searched his countenance. He was annoyed, obviously, but not worried or dismayed. “Oh, my lord! How happy I am to see you. Isn’t this an enormous place? I confess myself to be most fond of the gardens. They were designed by Capability Brown, you know. There hasn’t been a frost yet, so there are blooms aplenty. I simply must show them to you!”
She put down her work and rang for Kitty. When her maid appeared, she said, “Tell Cook to brew up some hot rum punch for the marquis and bring it up yourself to my sitting room. We are going for a walk but shall return shortly, and I know the marquis will appreciate something hot. Oh, and bring my Merino pelisse now, please, and my fur muff and hat. Thank you, Kitty. Isn’t it splendid to see the marquis?”
The little maid grinned broadly and went to do as she was bid.
Elise showed the marquis out to the gardens through the terrace doors in the immense jade silk ballroom. He waited until they were a long distance from the house and, arm in arm, they strolled through the rose beds, which were a long way from any hiding place.
The marquis began to speak a bit more loquaciously than usual. “Chessingden spread the tale he told you all over ton when book came out. He was cheat, not the duke. I was there. Ruisdell has covered for him all these years. Ton gave him cut direct. Ruisdell forced to challenge him. Viscount cheated again. Shot before the count.”
“And Peter was wounded! How is he? Has he a fever? I’m so glad he thought to send you.”
“He’s stout as a stoat. In Yorkshire at your aunt’s hideaway. Runners will never guess.”
Relief washed over her,
and for a moment she stood still with her eyes closed, thanking God. Then, her thoughts turned to a reunion. “I must go to him, of course. But what are we to do about the confounded Runner? He will follow.”
“Brought a big carriage. Your aunt, your maid, Lady Susannah, you, and I will leave tomorrow morning. Have post chaise ready for you at Grantham. You’ll take off in the middle of the night with your maid . . .”
“That’s just what the Red-Breast will expect, my lord. I must think!” Sitting down on a stone seat in the midst of the bare rose branches, she concocted a scheme that might have been a plot from a novel. “I think I’d better hire a horse and ride to Yorkshire. Listen. Grantham has some fine inns, does it not?”
“Er, I suppose.”
“We will all go out to dinner in the carriage. Before we leave our inn, you will arrange for a suitable steed to be saddled and taken to where we are dining. Spare no expense. Buy the best horse available, no matter what the cost. The duke will reimburse you.
“I’ll slip out while you are eating and . . . wait! Yes. I will have Kitty dress in my clothes. Have you riding dress with you? We are of a height.”
The marquis nodded, transfixed by her narrative.
“Good. Then I need not worry about a side saddle. Dressed like a man, I will start for Yorkshire. Dawdle over your meal, if you will. Have port and a cigar. Then, when you have finished your meal, have the coach brought around to the front. Board as quickly as you can, before the Runner can see I am not with the group. I will be safely away, but it would be best to give me even more time.”
“You’ve done this sort of thing before?” Somerset looked as though someone had just thrown him an unexpected ball.
“I’m a writer, you know. That’s what got us into this coil. So when you leave the next morning, the Runner will see that I’ve gone.”
“He’ll inquire for you.”
“He will be looking for a woman.”
“By jove! Think this will do!”
“I very much hope so.”
“Ruisdell will be shocked. Probably pull my cork for letting you get up to such a stunt.”
“He’ll be happy to see me, I hope?” she said, a little anxiously. “How did he take it about the book?”
“Angry. You’d expect that. But knew Chessingden was behind it. Ruisdell knew you had good reason to be angry at him. My fault—that bet. Forgive me. Trying to make it up to you both. Spread it about that Chessingden was the cheat. Easy to believe when they heard stunt he pulled at duel.”
Moved by this simple apology and determination to put things right, Elise kissed him on the cheek.
The next morning, they set out exactly as planned. Elise did not bother with good-byes, nor did anyone else. The coach was heavily laden on top and in the boot with several portmanteaux. Elise had her embroidery bag with her in the coach. Inside were George’s breeches and other riding attire, carefully folded.
Once they were away, George reported that their red-breasted tail was behind them. She told everyone in the coach of her plan. Sukey was especially approving. “Better than even I would have devised!”
Fortunately Queen Elizabeth chose to sleep through the ride to Grantham, and Henry Five, in his wicker kennel, was beside the coachman on his seat. Elise tried to sleep as well in preparation for her night’s ride, but the suspense was too much, even for a seasoned writer of melodramas. She longed to lay her eyes on the duke once more. Eyes closed, she imagined a whole series of greetings. She was certain that the smile on her face was a silly one.
They arrived in Grantham at dinner time. At the Angel Inn, the finest that Grantham had to offer, George managed the other details he was assigned.
Everything went as smoothly as Elise could wish, except that the night was black as ink with no moon. Her horse was a fine one. She took a path from the back of the stables, through a spinney, and then round to the road. George had told her that she should go straight on to connect with the turnpike to Yorkshire. He even gave her the money for tolls.
Elise had not ridden so hard since the last hunting season in which she had participated in Shropshire. She could not imagine where George had found her such a worthy steed. Obviously fresh, he easily slipped into a full gallop.
Once she was on the toll road, she relaxed and slowed the horse to a steady canter, patting him on the neck. When he began to sweat in the cold night air, she let him slow to a trot, pulling over occasionally to rest.
She was congratulating herself on how well everything was going when lightning rent the night sky so fearsomely that she could see the entire landscape. Torrential rain followed it a split second later, dousing her immediately. Being November, it was cold and miserable. She hunched over, and her steed slowed as the roads became slick with mud. They rode on in this state for close to an hour before her gelding stepped into a muddy pothole and went down, pitching her over his head into the mud.
George’s elegant riding attire was now slimy with mud, as was her face. Worse, the horse seemed to have strained a fetlock. Seeing no alternative, she led him gently forward through the rain until it became only a heavy mist. She was frozen through. Elise hoped her normal good health would prevail and she would not develop an inflammation of the lungs. Fortunately, The Larches was in the south of Yorkshire. Elise kept repeating to herself this piece of good fortune, though she was so tired that her head pounded. She was also hungry. But she had no red-breasted tail.
The sight of a lantern ahead illuminating the sign of an inn—The Golden Ball—cheered her immensely. Taking the gelding around to the stable, she found no one, so she merely tied him to the post and stopped to gather her wet hair, plait it, and stuff it under George’s beaver top hat. Then Elise made her way inside the inn.
Congregated in the public parlor was a group of locals who seemed the worse off for drink. They were evidently engaged in a game of darts. She gathered there was a wager on. All the better. Less attention would be paid to her. It was close on midnight, but the host was happy to offer her a pasty and a bowl of hot rum punch. Females did not usually drink this brew, but she had a vague idea that she needed it, and indeed it warmed her clear through. Her next step was to find another horse.
“I must reach Whitcombe tonight, sir,” she told the innkeeper. “However, my horse has a strained fetlock. He threw me, as you can undoubtedly tell by my raiment. Have you any kind of steed that I can trade for him? He’s a nice gelding.”
The innkeeper looked at her suspiciously. She had forgotten to lower her voice and undoubtedly appeared as a very young fellow.
“You running away?” he asked, dubiously, scratching his beard.
“You guessed my secret. I have an evil guardian. He keeps me locked in my room, but I escaped. I must reach my aunt and uncle’s house tonight. They will protect me.”
“And I suspect you’re no youth but a maid,” the innkeeper said.
“You are a knowing one, sir. He is planning my marriage to his son, who is not right in the head, so he can have my fortune. He whips me every day.”
“There now. This is a terrible thing. If you pledge to bring him back, I have a gelding that might serve.”
“My uncle’s groom will ride him back and trade him for my gelding. I suspect that if you apply a fomentation to his front right fetlock, he will be right as rain in a day or two. I will leave my address, shall I? Then you can send me a note when he is ready to be collected.”
After the storm it was near freezing. The job horse managed a half-hearted trot. Elise thought that she might have fallen asleep in the saddle had she not been so uncomfortably cold in her wet garments. Her thighs were saddle sore, and she had begun to sniffle.
It was dawn by the time she arrived in the village of Whitcombe. She knew she must look very odd in men’s clothing with her long plait down her back. Taking a page from Sukey’s book, however, she lifted her chin, acting as though she were the queen of all she surveyed as she looked down her nose at what people were abroad at such an
hour.
She was glad of the rising sun as she negotiated the series of back roads and lanes that she never could have found in the dark. When she finally arrived at The Larches, she rolled out of the saddle, well past exhaustion.
None of the pert remarks she had planned on making rose to her lips when Peter, duly astonished, met her at the door. Instead, she fell on his broad, welcome chest, and said, “I would have swum the channel to get to you, my love. It wouldn’t have been nearly so much trouble.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
OVER THE ANVIL
Ruisdell gathered Elise into his arms and felt her still-wet hair and clothing. The smell of wet wool mixed with the lemony scent that still clung to her, despite the rain she had ridden through. Though there were still many things unsaid between them, never had anyone or anything been more precious to him. He was tremendously moved by what she had endured to reach him. “My little love, how far have you ridden?”
“From Grantham. A Runner was following our carriage, so I had to slip away.”
“Am I mistaken, or have you muddied George’s best riding kit?”
He led her inside and back to the kitchen where Mrs. Dean was baking scones for his breakfast.
The stout woman blinked at the sight of Elise, shivering and muddy. “My dear girl! What has happened to you?”
She explained the bare details of her flight followed by a request for a hot bath, to be followed by breakfast, and a brace of hot water bottles in her bed for an extended nap. “Thank you very much for taking in my betrothed,” she said. “Why did you do it?”
“I remembered that he was very fond of you. Enough to break your door down. Anyone who is fond of you must have a good side to him. But I did warn him about keeping the house in one piece.”
Ruisdell contemplated his beloved with adoration, tempered by amusement. What a woman she was. Imagine riding, alone, through a thunderstorm all the way from Grantham, through the night. Surely, if he had needed proof of her love, here it was. In spades.
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