“Take her away and keep her secure in the scullery.”
The sound of Lord Vansittart’s languid voice, as much as his words, threw Isolde into rebellion. Resisting the footman’s efforts to pull her in the direction of the green baize door, she hurled defiance at her uncle.
“You won’t get away with this, my lord Vansittart. I know what you would be at and it won’t work. You mean to use me to make mischief with Richard.”
“Mischief? No indeed, my dear. I am merely taking advantage of a tool that came to my hand.”
“Yes, for you mean to ruin him.”
A light laugh floated down the stairway. “Is that what the estimable Richard told you? Dear me. I fear he overrates my powers.”
“He knows you for what you are, and so do I. You won’t best him.”
“I don’t need to. I have only to hold you, and wait. Take her away.”
Isolde pulled back, kicking out at the man who was trying to drag her away.
“No! Let me go,” she yelled again, desperate to make an impression. “You think he’ll come here, but he won’t. He doesn’t even know I’ve left Bawdsey Grange.”
“Hold!”
The footman paused and Isolde breathed more easily for the respite as she watched her uncle descend the stairs in a leisurely way. His gaze was fixed upon hers as he came towards her.
“You show pluck, I’ll give you that, Isolde.”
“Don’t call me by my name!”
He gave this no attention. “Tell me, what makes you so sure Alderton will not come for you?”
Isolde glared at him. “Yes, you thought you could use me as bait, did you not? I came to you for succour and you pretended to offer me a home only so that you might take advantage.”
“All very true, but that does not answer my question.”
Isolde thought fast. “In the first place, Richard is in London. He is not expected back for days.”
“Indeed?”
She did not like the mocking smile glimmering in her uncle’s face. Striving for as sneering a tone as his own, she pursued her purpose. “Even if he did think to follow me when he comes back, he has no idea where I’ve gone. He doesn’t even know I’m related to you.”
The moment the lie was out of her mouth, she knew she’d made a mistake. Triumph glittered in Lord Vansittart’s eyes, so dismayingly a mirror of her own.
“I can’t make up my mind which of you is the greater fool, you or Alderton. Had he told you of his visit here, no doubt you would have known better than to try to pull the wool over my eyes, my dear.”
Isolde’s pulses quickened. “Richard came here? You said he never spoke to you.”
“I said he did not write to me about you. How little you know of the man, my poor dear Isolde. He is far too righteous for his own good. He played his hand too well. I believe he expressly stated that nothing would induce him to abandon you to my tender mercies. So you see, my dear, I am far better acquainted with his probable actions than are you.”
Isolde gazed at him appalled, yet prey to a sputter of hot feeling that threatened a prickle at her eyes and a thickening in her throat. Richard had cared enough, even then, to wish to protect her from her uncle.
His peculiarly mocking smile reappeared. “Dear me, I appear to have taken your breath away. I do trust you will not suffer too many pangs of remorse for presenting yourself here, like a lamb to the slaughter.”
She did not trust herself to speak, closing her lips upon the futile words of heated recrimination that rose to her tongue.
He laughed gently. “I shall go and dress. It would not do to be taken unawares. Jarvis, you have your orders.”
Isolde made no resistance this time as she was hauled off towards the nether regions, beset as she was by too many conflicting emotions to have the strength to fight back.
On tenterhooks, Isolde tried to thrust down the rising panic and work out a plan. Who knew how long it might take Richard to catch up with her? The one grain of truth in the story she’d used to try to fob off her uncle was that she had no notion when Richard planned his return from London. The only certain thing was that he would not be long delayed, with Christmas right around the corner. She might be held here for days, which must at least afford her an opportunity to get away. She began to hope Richard would indeed be held up, giving her longer for a way to evade her uncle. She was not a soldier’s daughter for nothing. Her pistol had been confiscated, but she still had her sword. Unless it had been discovered when the groom unsaddled the mare?
It would be politic to retrieve the pistol if she could. She had ball and shot in her saddlebags. Unfortunately, the footman had possessed himself of the gun, taking it away from Aggy and sending the girl about her business. It was a setback, but perhaps not altogether impossible.
Glancing sideways at the fellow Jarvis, she weighed her chances at deception. He had been persuaded easily enough to allow her to remove to the kitchen. Likely he had no wish to remain in the cold scullery himself, when a welcome fire beckoned. Isolde had seated herself at the kitchen table, deliberately cultivating a pose of dejection, as if she was defeated.
The cook was busy at the oven in the wall, from which emanated the aroma of fresh-baked bread. Isolde’s hunger revived. She adopted a conciliatory tone. “Do you think I could have something to eat?”
The cook looked round. The footman glanced up from his position to one side where he leaned against the wall, hefting the gun from hand to hand.
“Suppose there’s no harm in that.” He nodded to the cook. “Give her one of them rolls.”
The woman scowled. “They ain’t ready.”
“Make her something then.”
“Haven’t I got enough to do as it is, getting the master’s breakfast?”
Jarvis clicked his tongue. “Just do it.”
Grumbling, the cook set a flat pan on the stove and ambled over to her cupboards. Isolde watched her hover over a bowl of eggs and her mouth watered.
If the footman was well enough disposed to procure her a portion of breakfast, perhaps he might be amenable to reason.
“Would you let me have my pistol back?”
Jarvis let out a rude crack of laughter. “You must be off your head, miss. The master would have mine if I did.”
“But even he knew it was no longer a danger to anyone. I can’t reload it.”
“Then what d’you want it for?”
Isolde schooled her features to what she hoped was an expression of sadness and put a plea in her voice. “You see, it belonged to my papa, and he died. I would hate to lose it.”
The footman looked at the pistol in his hand and back to Isolde. Then he shrugged.
“Why should I trouble my head about it? Dare say the master will take it from you if he wants. Here.”
He held it out, and Isolde took it with a word of thanks and a heart teeming with triumph. She tucked it into the pocket of her cloak before he could change his mind.
The cook’s bulk intervened between him and Isolde as she laid down a tankard with a plonk. “You can drink this, if you like.”
Isolde gave her a smile. “Thank you.”
She picked up the tankard and looked inside. Was it ale? She took a cautious sip. A tang of citrus snaked into her nostrils and a sweet, cloying taste hit the back of her throat and turned unexpectedly hot. Isolde coughed and set the drink down, looking at the cook’s back where she was now busy with a skillet in the pan on the stove.
“What is this?”
“Ginger tea.” The woman glanced over her shoulder. “It’ll warm you up.”
Isolde was touched. The cook was more sympathetic than she had supposed. Taking another sip, she took care to suck it back to mitigate the shock of heat. The liquid slid down and she felt it all the way to her stomach.
For a few minutes she sipped in silence. By the time the cook set a plate of scrambled eggs before her, she was feeling decidedly warmer and her nerves began to settle.
She had just l
ifted a forkful of food to her mouth when a sound from outside that had been hovering in the background of her mind abruptly took shape. She glanced at the footman, who, from his stance, had clearly heard it too.
“Is that horses?”
They were muffled, but it was certainly the sound of hooves. Jarvis did not answer, only crossing to the back window and looking out.
Just then a bell pealed through the hallway beyond the kitchen and the footman’s head jerked round. “That’s the front door, that is.”
Isolde’s heart jerked. Richard! Could it be? It seemed unlikely so early.
The footman brushed past the cook, throwing a command over his shoulder on his way to the door. “Watch her!”
Waiting only for the fellow to leave the room, Isolde leaped from her chair and ran to the back window.
“Hoy!”
She turned quickly to find the cook lumbering in her direction.
“It’s all right. I’m not going anywhere. I just want to see who it is.”
She peered out, aware of the woman coming up behind her.
The day was considerably lightened by this time, and the snow out the back was criss-crossed with patterns of footsteps. The hoofbeats were slow, but coming closer. As she watched, a curricle rounded the corner and headed towards a block of buildings some little distance from the back of house. Was it the stables?
Her breath had misted the glass and Isolde brought up her arm, brushing at the window with her sleeve. As the image cleared, she saw the equipage more clearly and recognised the face of the groom who was driving the team. She’d seen him at Bawdsey Grange. Her pulse skittered. Then Richard was here!
Imperative to get out of this kitchen. She must talk to the groom. Get to the stables if she could and retrieve her sword.
When she turned, she found the cook in her way. The woman nodded towards the window.
“Know him?”
Careful now. Subterfuge was necessary. Isolde shrugged. “I have no idea who he is.”
She shifted around the cook’s body and made for the table, while surreptitiously glancing across to the back door and judging the distance. She’d need to be quick.
She sat down and took up her fork again, waiting for the woman to return to her cooking pots. The instant her back was turned, Isolde rose, picked up her plate and threw it across the room towards the inner door.
The woman cried out and turned towards the sound. Isolde bolted for the back door, dragged it open and fled into the snow.
Chapter Twenty-one
“His lordship is not yet up, sir.”
Richard eyed the footman. Was there a shifty look about him? The fellow could not meet his gaze and slid a glance up towards the stairs. Watching for his master?
“Go and tell him Lord Alderton is here and wishes to see him immediately.”
The footman hesitated. “I don’t think his lordship —”
“Enough. Fetch him down!”
The sharp tone had an effect as the man visibly blenched. Remembering where he had been received before, Richard moved to the door on the right.
“I’ll wait in here.”
The footman hurried to open the door for him and bowed him in. “As your lordship pleases.”
Richard marched into the room, still clad in his outer garments. He took off his hat and threw it on the nearest chair as he passed, pacing. Something was up. He felt it in the footman’s attitude, in the unnatural quiet of the house. His instinct had not led him astray. Anxiety built again, his head full of Isolde.
At least he was here, on the spot. Whatever had occurred, he could act swiftly.
Moments passed. They felt like hours. If Vansittart was abed, it could take a while for him to dress. But the apparent calm of his household was spurious. At this hour, servants should be busy preparing for the day. Part of Richard wanted to bypass all common sense and set up a search of the house. But that would be futile. If the fellow had Isolde stashed somewhere, she could be in any of the rooms.
Before he could work himself into a lather of worry, the door opened and Vansittart walked in. To Richard’s irritation, he looked as point de vice as ever, in grey breeches and a salmon coat. His manner was suave to the point of insulting.
“You choose an early hour to pay morning calls, Alderton.”
Richard wasted no time. “Where is Isolde?”
The pale brows rose. “My niece? But, my dear Alderton, she was surely in your charge, was she not?”
With difficulty, Richard suppressed the desire to drive his fist into that complacent face. “Don’t play games with me, Vansittart. I know she’s here.”
“And how do you come by such certainty?”
“Deduction. And my knowledge of her. She lost her home with me in my absence, and came to you, as she had intended to do in due course.”
Vansittart’s mocking smile appeared. “Admirable, my dear fellow. No doubt you are also able to foresee my reaction?”
Richard almost snorted. “With ease. You don’t want her, but you hope to use her to force my hand.”
“I make you my compliments, Alderton. Your intelligence is like to save us a deal of time.” He moved in his leisurely way towards the two chairs by the fireplace, where their earlier discussion had taken place. “Come, let us be comfortable while we negotiate.”
Richard stood his ground. “There will be no negotiation. I repeat, where is Isolde?”
“Oh, safe enough, I assure you. I wish you will sit down.”
“I do not stir until I have had a sight of her. I trust you as little as I would a snake. Until I know she has received no sort of hurt at your hands, I have nothing to say.”
He looked to see how the other took this, and found him smiling with the smug expression Richard itched to spoil. But a turn-up would not help them. He resisted the urge to demand Isolde once again, and waited.
After a moment, Vansittart went to the bell-pull and tugged. As if he had been waiting outside, the footman appeared through the door, but his words belied the impression.
“He’s gone, my lord! I mean, she’s gone. She gave us the slip.”
The change in Vansittart was startling. Thunder leapt to his face and his eyes flared.
“Fools! Idiots! Where the devil is she then?”
A voice in his rear spoke up. “I am here, Uncle.”
The man turned sharply and Richard’s heart kicked. Across the room stood Isolde, sword in hand. In seconds she was at full lunge, the point inches from Vansittart’s chest.
“Do not move, or I will spit you where you stand.”
The room froze. Richard saw momentary terror in Vansittart’s face. It was veiled swiftly. To his credit, the man achieved a semblance of his normal drawl.
“Is this your influence, Alderton? What in the world have you been teaching the chit?”
A faint laugh escaped Richard despite his inner tension. “It has nothing to do with me. This is who Isolde is.”
There was time for no more. Isolde pulled back to the on guard position, but the menace remained in both stance and voice.
“You won’t use me against Richard. I won’t let you. I’ll die first.”
“Tut, so fierce, my dear? Put up your sword, I beg of you. There is no need for violence.”
“Yes, there is. Every need. I never wanted to come to you and I see I was right. You are an evil man and my mother was well rid of you and your foul family.”
Richard heard the upset under the venom and a dart pierced him. The child had been hurt in more ways than one. He judged it time to intervene. “Isolde!”
An error, as he saw at once. Her eyes turned towards him. The split second off guard was enough. The footman pounced. The impact took Isolde at the shoulder and bore her to the ground.
Richard moved, but he was not fast enough. The struggle lasted but seconds. Before he well knew what had happened, Vansittart was in possession of the sword, the footman was struggling with a kicking and screaming Isolde and a third man, ap
pearing suddenly among them, added a hoarse shout to the mêlée.
“Behind you, my lord!”
Recognizing Reeve’s voice, Richard turned fast and found himself confronted by a maid wielding a warming pan. With instant presence of mind, he batted the thing away and it flew from the maid’s hands. The clatter as it landed added to the cacophony.
“Help Miss Cavanagh!” Richard shouted, grappling with the maid, who had attacked without her weapon, throwing her weight into his chest and battering at him with curled fists.
His attention on how Isolde was faring put Richard out of kilter and he was aware he was not operating as sensibly as he should. He pulled himself together, seized the maid’s wrists and manhandled her to the door, which was open. He hurled her into the hall, where she fell and slid across the floor.
Without pausing to see where she landed, Richard slammed the door and raced to the grunting battle in the middle of the room. The sword was nowhere to be seen and his groom was wrestling with Vansittart, whose appearance was now considerably the worse for wear. A momentary satisfaction did not vanquish Richard’s wits.
Rather than enter the fray, he extracted his pistol from his pocket and levelled it at Vansittart. “Reeve, desist! Let him go. Help Miss Cavanagh.”
Released, Vansittart swung towards Richard with fists raised to strike. He met the muzzle of the gun as Richard shoved it into his chest.
“I wouldn’t, if I were you. This pistol is cocked and it has a hair trigger.”
Vansittart was already still, his eyes on the weapon. He shifted a step back, from somewhere dragging up the remnants of his habitual manner.
“Well, well, perhaps I should no longer wonder at Isolde’s tricks. You appear to be two of a kind.”
Richard paid no heed. Without taking his eyes off Vansittart, he addressed the groom. “Is she safe?”
The noise of struggles had ceased. He could hear panting and grunts.
“Got him, my lord. She’s safe enough, but still on the floor.”
Richard did not dare look, though every instinct screamed at him to check. He called out instead: “Isolde, can you stand?”
“I think so.”
In Honour Bound (Brides By Chance Regency Adventures Book 1) Page 15
