The scoundrels deadly de.., p.17
The Scoundrel’s Deadly Deed, page 17
Rafe and Captain Huntley joined him in the stable, leaving Fletcher to mind the grave and guard the innocents in the house.
“The lane to Stratford curves around hills and floods in low spots,” Damien told the others once they’d mounted and he led them into the back field. “Through the pasture is shorter and more solid.” Or used to be, fifteen years ago.
The fields may have changed, but this was Gravesyde. Change didn’t happen often. “A carriage will have to take the lane slowly. I don’t recommend jumping stiles in this mud, but even stopping to open gates, we can cut them off before they reach the main highway.” Where they might turn toward London or the north and never be seen again.
Fear forced his rage back to a simmer. Temper only exacerbated his aching head, and he needed to think. He’d never been a soldier, but these men beside him had. They had nerves of steel and could plan in times of action. Damien lacked that experience.
He’d chosen a profession in which violence was unnecessary. He might be fearless talking in a business meeting and the halls of Parliament. He’d pulled his sword on occasion in self-defense but never wielded the pistol he carried. He had no idea whatsoever how to stop a carriage without causing harm.
He had to do it or never live with himself.
Brydie depended on him. And poor Kate. . . the sister he’d never had. And the boy he wanted to call brother. . . He’d lost everyone. He couldn’t bear to lose them too.
He’d think about that astounding revelation later.
He concentrated on leading his small band across muddy sheep pastures and overflowing brooks in the blinding downpour. The sun hadn’t set, but the gloom was dark enough for evening. And the icy rain was turning to sleet.
Brydie was out there, riding in this misery, inexperienced and on an unfamiliar mount. She’d never had more than an old farm nag to ride. What did she think she would do when she caught a carriage?
Brydie was incapable of doing nothing. He knew that. He pushed his gelding harder.
In the gray dimness of rain and winter twilight, he located the curve the carriage had to traverse to reach the highway. Damien whistled to draw the attention of his companions and pointed at a nearly hidden gate. “I’ll go out here and hope to follow behind him. There’s another gate in the next field. If we’re fortunate, you’ll be in front to cut them off. Whistle when you’re there, and I’ll find a way to distract the driver.”
They all knew they could be riding into gunfire, but for Lynly—they had little choice. It was now or never. Damien unsheathed his sword, opened the gate, and checked the narrow, hedge-lined lane. All clear. He waved the others on.
He wished he knew for certain where the carriage was. It could have lost a wheel, turned over in a flooded stream. . . If they met in the middle with no sign of the vehicle, they’d have to turn back and look—while Terwilliger made his escape if he was ahead of them.
Damien fought his red rage. Think. People did endlessly stupid things. He couldn’t afford to lose his temper and become one of them. Cutting off heads would be satisfying but not beneficial. How did he stop a carriage and kidnapper?
To his relief and horror, as he raced toward the London highway, he caught sight of Brydie ahead, nearly sliding off a galloping, unsaddled horse. That meant he’d judged the distance right and the carriage was ahead. She’d once rode the fields with him, but in a sidesaddle on an old nag with proper stirrups, on sunny days. Not in icy muck with a strange horse and almost no equipment. She was mad.
Of course, she was. She had every right to be. Since her father’s death, she had probably tackled everything herself, which was why she worked at an inn. Damien hadn’t been there to help, as a good friend and neighbor should. He hadn’t been there for anyone, ever.
A man had to start sometime.
He rode up beside her, catching her as she tilted. Her bare fingers looked blue and barely clung to the reins. She had no scarf and her cloak hood scarcely covered her wild hair, which had fallen to curl and frizz on her shoulders.
“How far ahead?” he asked curtly, terrified of keeping her safe while chasing down. . . what, a wizened old financier? Or did the financier have a killer with him? Why the devil had they taken the child?
“Not far, thank heavens,” she muttered through chattering teeth. “Go. I’ll keep up.”
He doubted that, but he wouldn’t argue. “Rafe and Hunt are headed toward us. We need to distract the driver in case he’s armed. Let me slow him down, then you can ride up on his other side, confuse him.”
She wrapped the reins around her wrists so they didn’t slip and nodded. A Brydie who didn’t talk or order him about was a terrifying experience. He’d commandeer the damnable carriage and dump Terwilliger on the road if necessary to get Brydie and the little girl back to the inn.
A fire and a whiskey sounded good. Tempering his rage with concentration, Damien took the lane quietly, using the spongy verge until he spotted the ancient barouche ahead, around a curve. The rear half-hood, raised against the storm, swayed and bounced as the driver drove his horses far too fast for the road conditions. That wouldn’t do. He needed that carriage in one piece.
He slowed his mount and rode up by the rear wheel. The driver couldn’t see him behind the hood. He heard no voices, had no idea how many passengers. Glancing behind him, he saw Brydie approaching, looking pale as death. Rage demanded he slice reins, flatten the driver, smack Terwilliger over his boney head. . . He was furious enough to punch Satan. But for Brydie. . . He swallowed hard and impatiently waited for his meager army.
A sharp whistle indicated Rafe and Huntley approached and saw the carriage. Now he could unleash the fury demons.
Damien galloped beside the carriage, startled the horses, and yanked a rein loose with his sword before the driver could gather his wits. In panic at losing control, the driver screamed, but no one shot at Damien. He hauled on the leather, slowing the horses.
Roaring like furies, Hunt and Rafe rounded the bend, grabbing reins, leaping from their mounts, and shoving the driver aside. In seconds, they’d halted the barouche and subdued the only occupant. . . Terwilliger.
His rage slaked and fully focused, Damien leaped into the carriage. Where was Lynly? His mother’s ancient, empty trunk had shifted from under the cover of the hood, into the downpour, but appeared to be intact.
Before he could open the lid, Brydie practically fell into the carriage with him. She collapsed in his arms, then struggled to reach the trunk, tearing at the lid.
By then, Rafe had Terwilliger on the road, arms behind his back, and Hunt was trussing him up. The skinny financier shouted protests, but when the lid came off the trunk, he shut up. Lynly did not pop out.
Brydie gently lifted her frail niece, hugging her, then turning big, pleading eyes to Damien. “She’s unconscious.”
She didn’t have to say more. Rafe shoved a handkerchief into Terwilliger’s mouth and flung his trussed carcass on the floor, next to the trunk, leaving the covered seat for Brydie and her niece. Damien emptied the quilts on top of them. Brydie protested something about papers getting wet, but he didn’t listen. She was practically blue with cold. He added his cloak on top of the quilts and ordered her to bundle up.
Swinging into the driver’s seat, he gathered the reins and gestured for the others to take up his and Brydie’s horses. Wheels were slow in this muck, but Brydie and her niece needed to be out of the worst of the weather. He turned the barouche around at the gate and began the slow progress back to the manor, where a physician waited.
The living were more important than skeletons or filthy old men. He scarcely heard Terwilliger’s muffled protests over Brydie’s weeping.
Fear replaced Damien’s rage, fear that he’d failed, fear that she’d blame him, fear. . . that his world would never have sunshine again.
Twenty-eight
Brydie
Ensconced within the manor’s warm walls Friday evening, Dr. Meera Walker examined Brydie’s no-longer numb fingers. “Mr. Sutter is pacing the hall.”
When the small physician pressed Brydie’s hand between her warm, plump palms, pain shot from Brydie’s blue fingertips, and she bit back a moan.
“We need to restore your circulation. I can have Mr. Sutter hold your hands while I look after Lynly,” Dr. Walker continued. “Are you ready for your boots to be removed? He can do that better than I.”
And see her breeches? Brydie shivered beneath the lovely fleece blanket the physician had wrapped around her. The warmer she became, the more her feet felt as if they were on fire. “Will she be all right?” she whispered rather than agree.
“I suspect a congenital heart condition,” the lady said frankly, handing her a warm, not hot, cup of tea and wrapping Brydie’s fingers around it. “She woke, but she was agitated, and I gave her something to make her sleep so her heart has time to calm down. Your sister is with her. She’s fine. You need to concentrate on warming your extremities before they ulcerate.”
Frozen through and only starting to unthaw, Brydie’s relief drained her tension and what little energy held her together. She doubted she could move a finger. Despite appearances—Dr. Walker was wearing a shapeless, colorful wrap that didn’t belong in a drawing room—the brown-skinned physician wasn’t a servant and had far more vital tasks than fighting boots.
At the doctor’s invitation, Damien stalked into the manor’s infirmary, and Brydie pulled the blanket over her head and ears. Even covered in mud, he was every inch a citified gentleman. Sitting here in her muddy rags, she couldn’t possibly look at him. Her ears burned with embarrassment as much as her fingers and toes hurt with cold.
Without hesitation, he kneeled at her feet and began gently wiggling her short boots free. Pain shot up her foot, and Brydie bit back a squeal. She knew the boots had to come off. Thankfully, he made no comment about the breeches. When he gripped her legs, she told herself the extra fabric provided good protection from his marauding hands.
“I recognize your hand in this stitching.” He worked the leather over her ankle. “Your boot-making ability has improved.”
She winced. So much for concealing her leather theft. Unless he thought she’d bought it on her own. Unlikely.
When she said nothing, he turned to Dr. Walker, who was busily crushing herbs at her workbench. “Frostbite?”
“Frostbite requires freezing, like water and ice, and it’s not cold enough to snow yet. No, this is chilblains, at the very least, although from the severe discoloration, I’d say there is an underlying condition. How often do your fingers turn blue, Miss Calhoun?” The physician didn’t seem overly concerned.
Brydie shrugged and clung to the warm cup, even though the heat caused such prickling discomfort that she nearly dropped it. “I have chilblains all winter unless I wear gloves. I don’t like being cold. My mother had the same and developed severe arthritis, so I do try to avoid it.”
“Yet you rode out after Lynly without even donning gloves!” Damien angrily yanked the first boot off, then cradled her toes in his warm hands. “Shall I remove the stocking?”
She’d given her gloves to Arthur. She didn’t owe anyone explanations. Brydie yanked her foot away from his invasive fingers. . . and heated touch.
“We don’t know what causes arthritis, but you can get it without chilblains. Go ahead, remove the stocking.” Meera continued mixing. “If your extremities often turn blue, then white, with cold, there is a condition I’ve seen occasionally, usually with young women like ourselves. It’s not chilblains. I have no remedy except to tell you to keep warm. I will mix a cream that might ease your skin and prevent sores, but I need a few ingredients first. Here’s a mild pain killer. I’ll be back shortly.”
After the physician handed Brydie the drink, she scurried off on her mission, leaving Brydie alone with Damien. Lynly and Kate were just on the other side of the curtained wall behind her. Anyone could enter the reception area in front at any time. No one could cry indecency, except Brydie, as Damien slid her stocking off to examine her bare toes. She thought she might shrivel up in humiliation.
“Your toes look better than your fingers. We need to find you some wool socks to go over the stockings.”
She wanted to kick him but lethargy claimed her. She hid behind her warm mug. “Then I’d need new boots to fit over the socks. Just tug off the boot, Damien, and stop molesting me.”
He grunted and yanked his hands away.
“I come bearing hot soup and rolls and Hunt’s request for anyone who can explain who he is locking up and why. And are there more scoundrels he should send men after?” The aristocratic voice emanated from the entrance.
Brydie peeked from her cocoon to see the captain’s lady wife setting a tray on the long counter dividing the anteroom from Dr. Walker’s work area where Brydie sat.
“The captain needs to lock up Terwilliger for kidnapping and possible theft,” Damien said firmly, rising to take the tray. “We have reports that Tom Butler was with Terwilliger at the inn, but he wasn’t in the carriage.”
“I saw him ride toward the camp. I haven’t seen him since I was a child and didn’t recognize him.” Brydie finished Meera’s mixture so Mrs. Huntley could hand over the hot mug of soup to wrap her hands around. All this pampering would make her lazy, but she had nothing more intelligent to contribute.
Mrs. Huntley left the tray sitting on the bench where Brydie could reach it. “They found Butler trapped by the bridge. The river flooded and took out half the stones. He couldn’t go further. Since he was the only man out in this deluge, they hauled him in, but Hunt doesn’t know what to charge him with.”
“Not certain I do either,” Damien admitted. “I’ll tell the captain what I know shortly. The ladies are in no condition to speak.”
And didn’t know enough to speak, Brydie concluded. Butler had been at the inn, but she couldn’t put events together with Mrs. Sutter-Butler’s death or the earl being pushed or Damien being hit over the head or even Lynly’s kidnapping. If no one knew about the quilts. . . Thoughts swirled with no conclusion, but she had seen Terwilliger with the trunk, so she supposed she could contribute that much.
“Definite theft and kidnapping for Terwilliger and possibly for Butler,” Brydie said, surprised to learn she could still think coherently. “Be very careful of those quilts we carried in. They are likely to be Damien’s inheritance, or what remains of it if Butler took any.”
Mrs. Huntley glanced at the reception area floor on the other side of the counter. “If you mean these muddy rags they had wrapped around you, they’re still here. Everyone is at dinner. Should I have someone clean them?” She rightfully sounded dubious of their value.
“No, please, don’t. I hope the filler hasn’t been destroyed by the rain. Damien, go, do, take your quilts and talk to the captain. I will remove my own boot.” Somehow. Her fingers were too stiff to bend, although the soup was spreading a slow warmth through her midsection.
“Tell the captain to eat his dinner in peace. I’ll be out when I can.” Damien started wiggling the other boot loose.
“Oh, I do love to tell Hunt to shut up and sit down.” The lady left, laughing.
“Gravesyde has changed,” Damien muttered, yanking off the boot.
Brydie almost managed a smile at that. “The late earl’s family is almost all female. Against all convention, the earl arranged for them to inherit the manor, and they’re enjoying being in charge.”
And then she remembered poor Rob, abandoned at the inn? “Kate, can you hear me?”
Her sister emerged from the infirmary, holding Lynly in her arms. “I can’t bear to let her go. Meera says I’m to keep her warm.”
“Did you leave Rob with Verity?” Brydie turned to Damien. “And Arthur? Where is he?”
Shrugging instead of answering, Kate exchanged knowing looks with Damien. “Brydie likes to run the ship. Can you handle that?”
Damien proceeded to pull off Brydie’s stocking and warm her toes with his hands. “I have it on good authority that strong partners are the best kind.”
What the devil did he mean by that? Unable to summon the energy to argue, Brydie let their foolishness fly over her head and waited for an answer about the boys.
Damien tickled the bottom of Brydie’s foot until she kicked him with her aching toes. He finally replied, “I believe Arthur is with the curate, who is showing him the difference between good wood and bad.”
The curate made coffins. Remembering why Arthur had raced into town, Brydie gulped and quit fighting Damien. He needed the distraction. And perhaps she did too. His hands were warm on her numb foot. Or the painkiller was taking effect. “So, I am to take it Rob is in good hands, also?”
“He’s a little older than the boys in the manor’s schoolroom, but Mr. Birdwhistle can manage them. He thinks Rob might be a good influence. He’s wanting his students to mix with Verity’s once she learns who needs what. We’re hoping the tower stairs will be safe soon so they can open a schoolroom here instead of in the pub.” Kate settled wearily on the bench next to Brydie and rocked her youngest with a wistful expression.
“Birdwhistle?” Damien inquired, glancing up with interest, as if recognizing the name.
“The tutor. Reid boys are eccentric and inclined toward getting themselves killed, so everyone keeps a close eye on the last of them. Rob will be fine in their care. Are you going to look at your inheritance?” Kate asked inquisitively, studying the rags just visible beyond the counter.
Dropping the subject, Damien finally gathered up the quilts, but instead of looking at them, he wrapped them around Brydie’s now-bare feet. She tried to kick him away and show him what the patches contained, but with a grave expression, he turned his attention to Kate.
“We found my father’s grave, Kate. Did Butler do it?”
Why would Kate know anything about a skeleton. . . ? Brydie sank against the wall and pulled the blanket over her head again.
“Not that I know,” Kate whispered. “Your mother. . .”
