by Corwin, Amy
“They would have been better off alone, the devil take you! Where’s Joshua?”
“In your room, sir. Tidying up after the dogs, I believe.” His frosty tone and half-closed eyes left no doubt about his opinion of men who kept packs of dogs in their chambers.
“Where are Mr. Archer’s dueling pistols?”
“Dueling pistols, sir?”
“Yes. Dueling pistols.” He ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He stumbled twice, cursing his leg and Brown’s obtuseness. At least his son, Joshua, was clever.
“Joshua!” he called, from the top of the stairs.
Joshua’s blond head poked through the door. Below it, at knee level, Chilton saw Josephine’s black nose. She sniffed and pushed her way out, wagging her tail. The three puppies followed, tumbling over their feet and whimpering at as they blindly tumbled about, their eyes still closed, attempting to stay with their mother.
He smiled and paused to collect the three animals before loping into his room and tucking them into the folds of his old linen shirt.
“Where does Mr. Archer keep his pistols?”
“In the chest at the foot of his bed,” Joshua answered without hesitation. “Do you want ‘em?”
“Can you get them without disturbing Mr. Archer?”
Joshua grinned, his blue eyes gleaming. “Aye, sir. He’ll never know they’re missing.”
He slipped out and was back less than five minutes later. “I’ll check ‘em and load ‘em, sir.”
“I’ll do it. Do you have a good horse? Fast?”
Joshua’s grin faded. “Sorry, sir. Only Buttercup. Iffin’ you don’t need it immediate-like, there’s a stallion over in the far pasture I can catch. Easy as a dream.”
“No.” He gripped Joshua’s shoulder. “Thanks, but Buttercup will have to do. She’s still hitched up to the gig. I’ll just have to hope I’m panicking over nothing.”
“What’s wrong? Mayhap I can follow if I catch the stallion—”
“Yes, good thinking! It’s Miss Archer and her sister—they left with that whelp Eric Winkle, and they had the necklace with them.”
Joshua needed no other explanation. He had apparently lived long enough with the Archers to be quick witted and fast on his feet. Following him out of his room, he carried the box while Chilton inspected and loaded the weapons.
“Did me da’ say where they were headed?” Joshua asked.
“The village.” He stumbled down the stairs as quickly as he could.
“Aye, but if you’re right, they’ll not get there,” Joshua called after him.
Brown opened the door the moment Chilton’s foot touched the floor.
“Look for a lane on your right, sir, two miles from the Vicar’s,” Joshua continued. “Just this side of the village. I’ve seen Mr. Winkle drive that way a time or two. It’s private and quiet.” His voice fell into a low angry mumble. “Tried to take Alice there once, the bastard—”
Chilton stared at him, infuriated. “I hope not. I hope to heaven the Vicar’s having a bloody picnic down that quiet lane.”
Joshua threw the box into the gig and lent an arm to him to climb inside.
Flicking the whip above Buttercup’s head, Chilton eased her around and then snapped the reins sharply. Startled, her ears drew back before she clamped her worn teeth around the bit and tried a gentle trot. He flicked the whip again, snapping it in the air. Unsure, she lengthened her stride into a canter. When she didn’t feel him draw back on the reins to curb her, she stretched her legs out and ran full out for the first time in weeks, snorting in the brisk air.
He leaned forward. The wind whistled, stinging in his ears. It tore through his hair, cold and harsh as the light grew dim around him. He couldn’t hear anything but the sounds of the wind and intertwined tree limbs rubbing above him. And the colors and sharp edges of the road ahead were already softening to gray.
More than anything, he wished for the sun, for the bright light and warmth of clear morning so he could see clearly.
Then he saw the opening to the lane. A deep shadow curved to his right, disappearing between the thick trees. He pulled the reins, yanking Buttercup’s head to the right. She resisted the sudden turn, but at the last moment she gave in and rushed around the bend into the darkness beneath the oaks. The wheels squealed in protest when they didn’t slow down. The gig nearly turned over, but they made it around the corner with a rumbling bounce.
He blinked, trying to hurry his night eyes to see through the thickening greenish gloom.
Then he saw it, the soft gleam of polished wood ahead, curving over high, thin wheels. The vehicle rose palely in the darkness, with the vibrant color bleached until it was almost a non-existent shade of gray. But he recognized the shape. It was the curricle.
Pulling back on the reins, he fought Buttercup to slow down. She took the bit in her teeth and jerked in the traces, her hooves gouging deeply into the dirt. Finally, she managed to stop just short of plowing into the curricle.
Next to him, the silhouettes of three people sat writhing in the seat. A woman with pale hair—Helen—scrambled for the reins of the curricle, trying to keep the horse and vehicle under control. Next to her, he recognized the shorter form of Oriana. She pushed and pounded desperately at Eric Winkle with tight fists.
Winkle grabbed at the reticule at her wrist and missed. Then he reached up to twist her hair viciously with one hand while the other fumbled again in her lap.
“Stop!” Chilton yelled, urging Buttercup closer.
Oriana yelped. “Let me go!”
“Leave my sister alone!” Helen demanded. Her voice was low, and she continued to wrestle with the increasingly panicked horse.
“Give it to me!” Winkle said.
One hand trying to pry his fingers from her hair, Oriana twisted sideways and thrust Winkle from the seat. He fell, wind-milling his long legs and dragging her down with him. She fell on top of him with a heavy thud.
“Ow!” The wind carried the sound of her gasp to Chilton. He stood up in the gig and threw the reins down. Then he leapt out.
Before he could reach them, she staggered to her feet. Winkle grappled with her as he cursed roundly.
“Leave her alone!” He ran toward the struggling pair.
He drew back and hit Winkle hard in the center of his chest with his shoulder. The impact sent them both sprawling nearly under the chestnut’s hooves.
Winkle rolled over on top of him, but he gripped Winkle’s high, starched collar in his fist. The horse danced beside them. One heavy, iron-shod foot slammed into the dust next to Chilton’s ear.
He jerked his head away, his view filled with horse legs stamping the ground.
“The horse, Helen,” Oriana screamed. “It’ll kill them! Move it away!”
Hooves pounded the ground before the wheels of the curricle flashed by. Winkle froze, eyes fixed on his vehicle as it rattled away.
Recovering first, Chilton tightened his grip and threw Winkle onto the ground next to him. Then he got to his feet, stumbling on his weak leg. He dragged Winkle up by his dandified cravat, using his weight to counterbalance his bad leg. Releasing the exaggerated collar, he landed a facer that sent Winkle flying.
The young man’s back slammed against a tree. Winkle shook his head, dazed.
Chilton staggered over and grabbed Oriana’s arm, his eyes searching her face for signs of injury. She clutched him, throwing her arms around his waist when his injured leg trembled.
“Are you all right,” he asked, breathless. Her soft curls tickled his chin. He smiled and pulled her tighter, pushing her head into the hollow of his neck. Her lips moved against his skin, leaving traces of warmth in their wake. “What?”
“I’m fine.” Her voice shook. He felt her shiver. “And you?”
He cursed the darkness when he tilted her head up within the confines of his embrace. He could barely make out her lovely face.
“Never better.” Relief flooded through him.
Unable to see the expression in her beautiful brown eyes, he found her mouth nonetheless. The soft, plump lips parted beneath his, and he tasted the warmth, trying to restrain himself but unable to do so.
“Oriana, are you all right?” Helen called. The jingle of curricle sounded closer. “Oh, watch Mr. Winkle!”
Chilton turned, pushing her behind him, only to throw up his arm when a huge black horse brushed past him from behind.
“Whoa, Dancer!” Joshua yelled. The stallion reared up and pranced between the vehicles. “Sorry, Mr. Dacy—”
“Get Winkle!” Chilton shouted, hitting the horse on the rump.
The stallion surged forward. With a bold yell, Joshua jumped off, tackling Winkle as he tried to escape between the trees. In a few minutes, Joshua returned, shoving Eric Winkle ahead of him.
The moon hadn’t yet risen and the darkness beneath the trees was complete, but Chilton couldn’t leave the matter alone. His curiosity got the better of him, and apparently so did Oriana’s. She turned her head away from his chest and peeped out.
“What on earth were you trying to do, Mr. Winkle?”
“I needed that necklace!” he blurted out. “I’ve got to have it for my passage.”
“What passage?” Oriana asked. “Why don’t you ask your father?”
A brief, bitter laugh interrupted her. “Not likely.”
“Not when he finds out you shot Mr. Lyndel? Is that it?” Chilton asked.
Mr. Winkle shook his head. “I never meant to. Father sent me to return Miss Archer’s pistol. I was coming around the bend when I saw Mr. Lyndel standing over Mr. Archer. Mr. Archer was lying at his feet, all bloody. I stopped to help, but Mr. Lyndel just laughed, indicating I could expect the same unless I did as he said. Then he hit me—me! I thought he’d kill me!
“But the pistol was on the floor of the curricle, so I just picked it up. I didn’t mean to shoot him. When he tried to slap the pistol out of my hand, it went off. I didn’t know what to do—I threw the gun down, turned the curricle around and went home. Then Mr. Allen came to speak with father about the murder, I knew I’d be hanged unless I got away. I don’t have any money of my own—I needed the money! Besides, what were the Archers going to do with that necklace? Pawn it like everything else?”
When Chilton took a menacing step forward, Winkle backed into Joshua, who shook him by the collar of his jacket.
“Why didn’t you tell your father?” Oriana asked at last. “If it was an accident—”
“How could I prove it?”
“Surely, after seeing the condition of my uncle, Mr. Allen would have understood how frightened you were.”
“Oh, sure. A big fellow like Mr. Allen? I’m certain he’d understand how a rattle-pate like me would be afraid.”
“Don’t be childish,” she retorted. “In any event, it is too late now. You’ll have to add attempted theft to murder.”
“And unfortunately, treason,” Chilton added. He hugged her to him when she gasped in shock. “That’s what Mr. Lyndel had you doing for him, wasn’t it? Taking information to France in exchange for your gambling debts.”
“I never—”
“It’s too late to lie about it,” Chilton said, his voice harsh and unforgiving. “You were the one taking the risk of crossing the English Channel—not Lyndel. And you were tired of it. I think that, more than Mr. Archer’s condition, was why you shot Lyndel.”
“He had no right to make me take chances for him—no right!”
“Maybe not. But you did, and it’s treason.”
Winkle broke down into some of the foulest curses Chilton had ever heard.
Wanting to shield her, he pulled Oriana away and guided her toward the gig.
“I’ll drive you and Helen back to The Orchards.” He turned to Joshua. The lad was only visible in the darkness due to his shock of pale blond hair, glimmering in the few shafts of moonlight penetrating the oaks around them. “Tie the horse to the back of the curricle and drive Winkle to Mr. Allen’s house, will you?”
“Can’t,” Joshua replied in a jaunty tone. “No bridle.”
Chilton ran his hand over the back of the huge horse. There was no saddle either. He had to admit a certain feeling of envious admiration for the lad. He wasn’t sure he would want to jump up on that particular horse without a bridle or saddle.
With an enormous sense of relief, he yanked off his neckcloth. “Use this as a halter.”
“Sir!” Joshua replied in a shocked voice. “I can’t use that!”
As if annoyed by the discussion, the black horse whinnied and took off. The men stared after it until it disappeared into the gloom.
“Well,” Chilton said, recovering. “Then I’ll fetch you from Allen’s after I take the ladies home, Joshua. Just wait there.”
The lad shrugged after thrusting Winkle toward the curricle. “I can walk.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s dark as pitch. I’ll fetch you in the gig.” He climbed in next to Oriana and grabbed the reins away from Helen who had picked them up.
She made a small huffing noise and crossed her arms over her chest.
“No, sir,” Joshua said. “Not necessary. I’ll drop off Winkle and make my way to the Pig’s Toes. A pint of their ale would suit me down to my heels.”
Oriana prodded Chilton in the ribs with her elbow. “For heaven’s sake, let him go. Alice has driven us to distraction with notes asking where he‘s been of late.”
He chuckled and finally agreed, relieved to have her safe beside him. Unfortunately, it soon appeared she had an entirely different view of the situation.
“When do you plan to return to London?” she asked after a few minutes of silence.
He shot a glance at her, frustrated that he couldn’t see the expression in her dark eyes. “You know the answer to that.”
“Oh, yes. The vowel.” She straightened in the seat and started fixing her disheveled clothing. Her elbows kept knocking him in the head as she tucked her curls under her bonnet. He got the distinct impression that she wouldn’t mind giving him a black eye or two while she was at it. “I’ll get it from Uncle John and send it to you. Will that satisfy you?”
“What? Not even a thank you?”
“For what, pray tell?”
He nearly choked. “I thought I’d recently been of some assistance to you. In the last five minutes.”
“Oh, that.” She paused. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Is tomorrow soon enough for me to leave? Or would you like me to spend the night in the village?”
“While it might be more convenient for Joshua if you went to the Pig’s Toes, you can wait until tomorrow morning. It’ll give you a chance to speak to my uncle first. If he’s awake.”
He didn’t know which thought depressed him more. Leaving Oriana tomorrow morning, or telling Archer that he had only pretended to be his friend in order to get the vowel.
With deep sadness, he realized again how much he would miss the Archers’ friendship. Then he froze in near despair. If he went back to London, his father would probably press the matter of marriage, even if he did bring back the vowel.
He would wind up with Miss Burlington. He faced a bleak future without Oriana’s warmth and calm compassion.
In the end, perhaps Eric Winkle had the right of it after all.
Leaving the country was the only sane course to pursue.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Draw Dead - To try to make a hand that, even if made, will not win the pot.
When they got back to the Orchards, Oriana wanted nothing more than to sit and weep. A miserable, cold stone stuck in her chest, lodged next to her heart. The hard core of sensibility prevented her from forgiving Chilton, even if she wanted to. Because the sensible side knew he was just another dishonest gamester who thought nothing of making people love him and then betraying them.
And she did love him.
“Why did you insist Mr. Dacy leave, Oriana?” Helen asked after they gave their wraps
to Rose and watched Chilton limp toward the stairway.
“Hush, he’ll hear you,” Oriana said.
“How can he? He’s already nearly upstairs.”
Whether by odd coincidence or not, he shot a glance at them as he turned left at the top of the stairs. Then he moved awkwardly toward the gentleman’s wing. The sight redoubled the ache in her heart, but the stone remained unforgiving.
“See, he heard you,” she remarked, pulling off her gloves. She fingered her reticule uneasily and tried to avoid thinking about him.
“Where are you going, Oriana?”
“To bed.”
“But it is only nine! Why don’t we ask Cook for a pot of hot chocolate and some biscuits? We can sit by the fire in your room and play a game, just like we used to do.”
Oriana tried to give her sister a firmly discouraging glance, but her heart wasn’t in it. In fact, her heart was breaking, and she didn’t want to be alone to hear it shatter into bits.
“Oh, all right,” she agreed, talking to the back of Helen’s head as her sister dashed toward the kitchen.
Making her way upstairs made her feel as old and bruised as her uncle. She hesitated at the top and thought about him. Then she sighed and turned obediently to the left. Outside his room, she found his door open.
Chilton, sitting next to her uncle’s bed, greeted her.
“Is he awake?” she asked quietly from the doorway.
He looked up, his gray eyes shadowed and tired. “No. I thought I would wait a few minutes. I heard him moving around in bed and thought he might awaken.”
She nodded, not wanting to talk to him. Any conversation would only weaken her resolve to bid him farewell on the morrow. He was a dishonest rake. Just because he had rushed to save them from Eric didn’t change matters.
What hurt most was that he had fooled her uncle and tried to steal something that wasn’t his. John Archer had enough troubles. He didn’t need the additional disappointment of finding out the man he thought was his friend, wasn’t. Chilton Dacy was only after a silly vowel, and she could neither forget nor forgive that.
Turning on her heel, she shut the door quietly. She went back to her room in a depressed fog.
