A Belated Bride (38 page)

across the moors. A chill wind tugged at the edges of her cloak and seeped through the thin dress, but Arabella didn’t feel the cold. Warmed by the slow burn of anger, she trotted on.

It was infuriating to think of how she’d been played for a fool yet again. “All those good reasons for getting mar- ried—ha!” Arabella muttered.

Sebastian shied at a rabbit hole and Arabella steadied him, turning him onto a narrow path that cut across the moors toward Whitby. “What did that idiot think? That I would never discover his duplicity?”

She could still hear Edmund’s voice explaining how Lucien had conspired with Aunt Jane. Once again, she had trusted Lucien and he had let her down. “Once a fool, always a fool,” she muttered fiercely.

She’d search every tavern on the coast if she had to, but she would find her brainless husband and demand an accounting. By God, she would make sure this marriage of convenience was neither a marriage nor a convenience. She wondered if Aunt Emma knew of Lucien’s perfidy, then decided that of course she did.
I wonder who doesn’t

know about it besides me and Liza?

Arabella scowled. First Lucien turned Aunt Jane and then her own brother against her. It was a good thing she’d found out what a scoundrel he was before her heart became engaged.

Though that wasn’t strictly true. Despite her desire oth- erwise, she cared—far more than she should.

How dare he treat her so? To lie to her—and to marry her under such patently false pretensions! That was the most painful part of all. She had finally begun to hope about life with Lucien by her side. It hurt to watch that small, delicate blossom die, trampled beneath the arrogant

boots of the one man she should have stayed far away from.

Sebastian dropped into a grinding walk as the path entered a small grove of trees. Arabella couldn’t help but remember their night in the cottage—the whisper of skin over skin, of seeking lips and hot, drugging kisses. If she closed her eyes, she could see Lucien bent over her, his eyes dark with passion, his jaw tense with tightly con- trolled need.

She forced the images away, lifting her heated face to the cool air. Damn Lucien Devereaux. He had seduced her with passion and overwhelmed her with logical reasoning. Sebastian jerked his head up and stumbled a little on the path. Arabella absently soothed him, a crease between

her brows.

Why would Lucien have done such a thing? What could he have hoped to gain? Rosemont?

No, as much as she loved Rosemont, she knew it paled beside his other residences. So why had he gone to such elaborate lengths? What was the reason for his ruse? She frowned, absorbed in thought.

“What are ye doin’ here, missus?”

Arabella turned to see Ned ambling up on a broken- backed nag. He was still dressed in his Sunday finest, a black wool coat that he’d worn to her wedding just this morning. His bony wrists stuck out from each sleeve a good two inches and made him look even lankier.

“I was on my way to meet His Grace. He is visiting someone in Whitby.” She supposed she should call Lucien something less formal than “His Grace,” but to do so would imply a closeness she was far from feeling.

“He’s left the party already, has he?” Ned asked, sur- prise evident. “I jus’ came from my sister’s house and I

saw nary a soul on the road. Mayhap he went that way.” He gestured toward a narrow path that led off the main road and into the woods. “ ’Tis a shortcut of sorts, if ye know where to turn.”

Arabella nodded and nudged Sebastian down the path, calling her thanks to Ned. Her mind was filled with uncer- tainty, her imagination rampant as she thought of Lucien’s machinations.

Lost in thought, she rode on. Sebastian rounded a wide turn and pulled to a dead stop. Arabella blinked. There, standing beside a narrow stand of brush stood Mr. Fran- cot, his back to her. But it wasn’t the sight of the solicitor that surprised her. It was his companion. Standing beside Mr. Francot, holding on to a small sack, stood Bolder.

Sebastian whickered a greeting to Mr. Francot’s mare, and the solicitor whirled around. Arabella captured a glimpse of his pale face as Bolder yelled a violent curse and ran for his horse.

“Get her!” yelled Francot, leaping on his mare.

Her heart pounding in her ears, Arabella whirled Sebastian and urged him to a hard gallop. Though the old horse was winded, he responded gallantly. Hooves thun- dered behind her and Arabella leaned closer, whispering words of encouragement.
Please, God, just this once, let Sebastian fly
.

nm

Chapter 27

L

ucien checked his pocket watch for the fourth time.

The minutes slowly ticked by and still there was no sign of Mumferd.
Bloody hell, where is that weasel?
Sti- fling a sigh, Lucien crossed to the inn window and lifted the edge of the curtain.

Hastings sat slumped on a bench in front of the stables, dressed in the shapeless coat of a common laborer. Hat pulled low, he braided a length of rope with the ease of long practice.

Other than glancing up whenever a horse arrived in the posting yard, he seemed immersed in his task. Impatient, Lucien dropped a coin beside his mug and went to join Hastings.

The valet remained seated, his hands never slowing as he patiently braided the rope. “This doesn’t seem right.”

“Yes, something has gone wrong. We’ll wait five more minutes. I am anxious to return to Rosemont.”
Anxious
didn’t begin to describe it. Lucien couldn’t stop thinking

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about the doubt that had clouded Arabella’s eyes as he left.

He sighed and raked a hand through his hair, wonder- ing if he dared to tell her the truth about the night in the cottage. Their relationship was still uncertain. Perhaps he should wait until . . . until what?

Hastings nodded toward the road. “There he comes now.”

Lucien turned as a horse loped into view. Mumferd sat astride a large roan horse, his dark greasy coat flapping open to reveal a pistol strapped to his saddle.

Eyes narrowed, Lucien crossed the yard, a prickle of warning creeping between his shoulder blades. “Where have you been?”

“There was a bit of a turn-up.” At Lucien’s raised brows, Mumferd gave a placating shrug and placed his hand on his pistol in a meaningful gesture. “But all’s well now. We’ve as much at stake as ye do.”

Lucien regarded him narrowly, wondering what kind of a “turn-up” would make them willing to risk losing his participation in the auction. If there even was an auction. The thought tightened his throat.

“Mount up, guv’nor. I’m to take ye meself.”

There was something forced about Mumferd’s behav- ior. He moved jerkily, his eyes darting here and there.

Lucien turned and tossed a coin at Hastings. “Bring my mount, and be quick about it.”

Hastings bit the coin before stuffing it into his pocket. Rising with insolent slowness, he shambled toward the stables.

Lucien shot a hard stare at Mumferd. “I hope this trip is not a waste of time.”

Unease flickered in the man’s murky eyes. “I don’t

think ye’ll be disappointed.” His smile was as strained as his expression.

Tamping down his growing impatience, Lucien ac- cepted Satan’s reins from Hastings and swung into the saddle. With a swift glance at his valet, Lucien followed Mumferd.

Once on the road, the horses picked up a brisk canter, their hooves thudding heavily on the packed ground. They traveled for ten minutes in silence, Lucien’s mind filled with foreboding.

Finally he pulled up alongside Mumferd and said, “Tell me about the sale. How many men will be bidding against me?”

Mumferd’s gaze flickered. “Four. Maybe five.”

Or maybe none
. “I must admit, I am somewhat con- cerned why you were delayed.”

“Oh, ’twas nofin’. Someone put their nose where it didn’t belong. We put an end to her right enuff.”

Lucien pulled Satan to a stop, ice clenching his heart. “Why are ye stoppin’? We’ll be late if we don’t hurry

along.”

“You said
her.
”

Mumferd glanced nervously at a stand of woods just down the road. “Did I? Then ye didn’t hear me right, guv’nor.”

Lucien reached out and grabbed the bridle of Mum- ferd’s horse. “
Who
did you put an end to? Tell me now.”

Without warning, the man’s hand jerked toward his pistol. Lucien knocked the gun away with a swipe of his hand. It went flying through the air as Lucien grabbed Mumferd by his muffler and lifted him from his horse, the informant’s feet dangling, his hands clawing for release.

Mumferd’s face turned red as he gasped for breath.

Lucien tightened his hold and pulled his face even with his own. “I will give you one chance to live.”

Choking violently, Mumferd’s teary eyes pleaded for release. Lucien threw him to the ground and quickly dis- mounted. The informant sprawled in the dirt, gasping for air, his hands pulling at his tight muffler.

Lucien yanked his gun free and cocked it, leveling it at Mumferd’s head.
“Talk.”

Mumferd’s gaze locked on the gun. He rasped out, “Nofin’ happened to get ye into such a takin’! Someone stumbled on the boss as he was makin’ a payment fer his shipment. B-but don’t ye worry none. He’s a soft spot fer women, he does.”

“Bolder?” asked Lucien incredulously. Nothing he’d heard of the man had indicated a softness of any sort.

Mumferd’s mouth tightened. “I’d not answer to the likes o’ him fer a thousand quid! Bolder answers to me, he does, and a more shifty, no-account weaklin’ I’ve never seen.”

Then who was in charge of the smuggling operation? Lucien pulled the man back up to his feet and rested his gun barrel between Mumferd’s eyes. “Where is Ara- bella?”

Mumferd took one look at Lucien’s face and started sputtering, “She’s in the cave. They were goin’ to kill ye there, too. The boss, he got the idea that ye weren’t on the up and up.” He managed a shaky, pleading smile. “Please, guv’nor, you has to understand! I jus’ follow orders. I don’t make ’em.”

Hooves thudded on the ground and Hastings appeared on the road, a braided rope looped in his hand.

Lucien lowered the pistol and Mumferd slumped with relief.

“Take him,” Lucien growled as Hastings came abreast. “They have Arabella and I must reach her quickly.”

The valet slipped from his horse. “I shall tie him up at once, Your Grace. Shall I give him to the local authorities?” “Yes. Constable Robbins will be pleased to have a real smuggler resting in his cell. In the meantime, I will need

this cretin’s coat and hat.”

Hastings nodded and gestured with his pistol. Com- plaining loudly, Mumferd complied.

“There, Your Grace.” Hastings rolled the clothes into a ball and handed them to Lucien. “Be quick.”

Nodding once, Lucien wheeled Satan and galloped away. He only prayed he would not be too late.

Arabella awoke slowly, pain flickering behind her eyes like steel pins. She moaned and lifted her head, aware that she sat bound to a pole, her legs curled to her side on a solid cold slab. Clenching her teeth, she opened her eyes to complete and utter darkness.

She immediately recognized the impenetrable black of an underground cavern. Waves slapped the stone slab and she could sense the tide surging against it. Perhaps she was in her own cave. She leaned against the ropes that held her and gasped in pain.

Her arms, bound tightly behind her, were completely numb. She tried to wiggle her fingers but could not. Who- ever had tied her had wanted to be certain she would not escape. Forcing herself to ignore the agony, she twisted at the bonds, tears running down her cheeks.

Time crawled by, and she felt she must have been in the dark for hours before she heard the unmistakable sound of a boat. She almost sobbed in relief, straining her eyes against the darkness.
Please, God, let it be Lucien.

Suddenly a lantern swung on the bow, the light blind- ing her. She squinted against it, her body trembling with cold and fear. A man climbed out of the boat as it reached the ledge, and with a swell of despair, Arabella recognized her captor.

Mr. Francot tied off the boat, then picked up the lantern and came forward. He bent his face to hers and brushed a strand of hair from her cheek with a surprisingly gentle touch. “Are you feeling better?”

“No,” she managed to whisper through parched lips. “My head hurts.”

He frowned and his fingers traced the bruise on her brow. “Bolder got a little carried away.” The pale blue eyes met hers. “Never fear. I punished him for you.”

Arabella shivered at the calmness of the statement and she felt an instant sympathy for Bolder.

“Are you cold?” Francot immediately shrugged out of his coat and draped it over her shoulders.

“Mr. Francot—”

“Please. Call me Steven. I have always wanted to hear you say my name.”

She swallowed. “Steven.” The name stuck in her throat like congealed porridge, but she managed a weak smile. “Why am I here?”

“Because you saw what you should not.”

“All I saw was you talking to Bolder.” She leaned as far forward as her bonds would allow. “Mr. Fran—Steven, I would never tell. I swear it!”

“Unfortunately, I cannot take that chance. How do you think I’ve been so successful? I am very cautious and I trust no one.” He lifted a finger and ran it down her cheek. “Not even you.”

“But I’ve been smuggling, too. It wouldn’t make sense

for me to turn in someone who could identify me. And Bolder could do that.”

“I know all about the smuggling at Rosemont. Who do you think supplied you with all that wonderful cognac your aunt loves?”

“You’ve . . . you’ve been helping?”

“As much as you would allow. Of course, I had to keep a close eye.” He frowned. “People are apt to cheat an innocent female.”

He set the lantern on a nearby barrel. Now that Ara- bella was no longer alone in the pitch-black cave, her spirit strengthened. She leveled a stare at Francot. “While I thank you for your seeming generosity, I did not need your interference.”

“So Bolder told me, after that unfortunate incident when you relieved him of a very important cask.” Fran- cot’s eyes glittered. “I was not happy to discover that you were involved so directly.”