A Particular Circumstance (19 page)

Sir Benjamin’s face was impassive. It was difficult to tell whether these latest revelations had any effect on him or not. Neither of them said any more because at that moment, Alfred Westbury walked into the room, smiling as though well pleased with himself, and Sir Benjamin signalled to the footman that he wished to return to his room and after the briefest exchange of civilities with his cousin, Hugo did the same.

In spite of his great-uncle’s obvious unease about Bunfield’s findings, Hugo was unaffected by it and still retained his earlier mood of cheerful optimism as he ordered the groom to bring round Gypsy ready for his journey to church and a hoped-for meeting with Charlotte Grayson.

Charlotte’s day had begun innocuously enough. Although it was rather cold, the walk to the church was a pleasant one and she had been able to persuade Phoebe that as there were so few blooms, Mama might need some help with collecting suitable foliage for the flower arrangements in the church. She was thus able to travel to morning service alone and set off eagerly. She was full of hope and anticipation at the
pleasure
of meeting Hugo and perhaps an enjoyable outing with dear little Lucy. Her spirits were high as she stepped blithely along the path to the church, lost in a dream of love and romance with the handsome Hugo Westbury. What did it matter if her hopes were unrealistic? She smiled to herself as she thought of him and was full of the confidence and
optimism
of youth. At that moment, she felt that anything was possible. Remembering the way he had looked into her eyes at Aurelia’s party, she was certain that he returned her regard. They would walk the bridle path to the boundary with Wycliffe Manor and would have some chance to talk.

The attack came suddenly and with no warning. A figure appeared from nowhere and a dark blanket was thrown over her head. Immensely strong arms held her fast and although she struggled, it was quite futile. Charlotte lifted her skirts above her ankles and attempted to break away and run along the path towards the church.

It was to no avail. She was immediately caught up and
swung off her feet. She attempted to scream, but a large, rough hand was instantly clapped over her mouth. There was no escape. She could feel the animal strength of his long arms, smell the vile stench of him and taste the filthy blanket next to her lips. The next moment, she felt herself being thrown unceremoniously into a closed carriage. The door slammed and she heard the ruffian leap into the driver’s seat and away they went. As they drove off at a cracking speed, the carriage rocked and Charlotte tore off the dark blanket which covered her head. She managed to look through the window and
realized
that they were just passing the large, imposing gates of Westbury Hall. She made one last desperate bid for freedom by flinging the door open, determined to jump out, but at that moment, the carriage stopped. There in front of her was a familiar face. Thank God, someone who could rescue her, be her salvation.

She gathered up her skirts and prepared to jump, but before she could escape, just like the ruffian who had captured her, he grabbed her roughly and threw her back into the farthest corner of the carriage. Then he jumped in himself and sat beside her.

‘Drive on, Butler,’ he shouted and then he said softly, ‘Miss Grayson, please behave yourself or it will be the worse for you.’

Charlotte was stunned. It was none other than Alfred Westbury – a man she would have expected to be her saviour, to rescue her from the likes of her attacker, not someone who would do her further injury.

No! No! she screamed inside her head. No! Why should Alfred Westbury wish to harm her? Where was Hugo? And how would he be able to help her now?

She forced herself to remain calm and looked out of the side window of the carriage to see where they were going, but immediately Alfred Westbury leaned over her and pulled down the blind.

‘Leave it alone,’ he growled menacingly, ‘or it will be the worse for you.’

As pleasantly as she could, she asked, ‘But … but where are we going?’

‘That is something that you do not need to know, Miss Grayson,’ he answered suavely. ‘Suffice it to say, you are the proverbial sprat to catch a mackerel and, when I get to your sweetheart, my dear cousin Hugo, you will be disposed of, dear lady.’

‘He is not my sweetheart,’ she said indignantly.

‘Be quiet, or I shall have to silence you.’

The threatening glare that accompanied his words
frightened
Charlotte so much that she shrank into the corner of the carriage, her mind racing. It was pointless to defy him. He was not only stronger but it was obvious he was a ruthless, nay desperate, character. She tried to think coolly. Which direction was the carriage coming from? In which direction had it been pointing? Was there anyone else involved, except Alfred Westbury and the thuggish Jim Butler, who had bundled her into the coach in the first place? Most
importantly
, where were they going? Where was Hugo? If she were unable to meet him at the church, would he know there was something wrong and try and find her? How on earth would she be able to escape from this situation?

She clenched her hands in an agony of anxiety and terror, trying to compose her thoughts and failing miserably. She must try to think coherently. Knowing Alfred Westbury and his coarse overtures, she wondered if he’d decided to abduct her with a view to ruining her reputation sufficiently to force her to marry him. But what would happen now?

The last question was answered almost immediately. She heard a muffled curse from the driver and immediately the loud crack of splintering wood as the coach came to a
shuddering
halt amid loud cries of distress from the horses. The vehicle was struck with such force that it left the narrow country road completely and mounted the bank before it was turned on to its side. Both Charlotte and her abductor were thrown on to the floor with the force of the impact. She heard
the scream of one of the injured horses and then there followed a moment’s eerie silence. She felt a searing pain in her shoulder; smelled the faintly sickly smell of Alfred Westbury’s cologne. The blinds still covered the windows and she could see nothing. The silence was broken only by the faint jingling of a horse’s harness. The gentle snorting of a horse still on his feet; the continued harrowing scream of the horse who was mortally injured.

Slowly and painfully, she got herself back on to her feet, gasping at the pain in her head, which had received a terrific bump. She could hardly stand, her legs were like jelly. Her whole body felt bruised and weak with shock. As for Alfred Westbury, she noticed in the dim light of the carriage that he appeared to be completely stunned. He lay on the floor of the coach, very still and with a gash on his head which was slowly oozing with thick red blood. Slowly and stiffly, she managed to raise one of the blinds, starting back in shocked surprise as a familiar face materialized on the other side of the glass.

It was Squire Perkins, his homely red face ludicrously dismayed and contrite, gazing anxiously at the scene within. He was on his way to church in his substantial old country trap, pulled by a horse which was too spirited to be controlled by the fat old gentleman. Squire Perkins was still affected by his prodigious consumption of the brandy he’d taken to ward off the morning chill, and he’d been unable to prevent his ancient vehicle from charging into the side of Alfred Westbury’s carriage.

‘Anyone hurt in there?’ he shouted.

‘Yes, Mr Perkins. I am afraid Mr Westbury is injured,’ Charlotte replied with exemplary calmness.

This was her opportunity to escape. Alfred Westbury was in need of help. It was clearly her Christian duty to aid a fellow human being who was badly injured, but with a silent prayer to her guardian angel, Charlotte decided to ignore her Christian duty. She was quite determined to run away. This
was her chance.

Aloud, she said, ‘If you can help me, Mr Perkins, I think I can get out of the coach and go for help.’

‘Surely, Miss Grayson, ma’am.’

The door was jammed, but the sudden shock of the
accident
seemed to have sobered up the old gentleman farmer and he set about the door with his big hands and then used his stout feet to kick it open at last. Even this noise did not waken Alfred Westbury and Charlotte, relieved, allowed herself to be lifted from the carriage and set down gently by the stalwart Squire Perkins. The old gentleman seemed too stunned by what had happened to express surprise at Charlotte riding unchaperoned with Mr Westbury, and said shakily, ‘Here’s a sad coil, Miss Grayson. I trust you aren’t too badly hurt, ma’am.’

‘Thank you, I am only shaken,’ she said, her voice
trembling
a little. She looked about her. As it happened, she was at Felbrook spinney and quite near to her home. The villainous driver, Butler, was lying on the ground a little way from the carriage and groaning horribly, but at least he seemed
incapable
of any further attacks on her. Alfred Westbury was still unconscious and the anxious Perkins, in spite of his own shock and distress, was intent on helping him out of the carriage. She was determined to slip away from the scene and escape to safety.

‘I shall go to get help for you, Mr Perkins,’ she promised, and before he could ask any questions, she sped off along the path which led to Felbrook Manor. She hoped she was not too dishevelled after her ordeal, and automatically put her hands up to her head and smoothed a few strands of hair under her prim Sunday bonnet as she ran.

Hugo had also been on his way to church. After his
conversation
with Sir Benjamin and the distressing revelations of the last few days, he had deliberately turned his thoughts to more pleasant things. The morning was misty, but he knew that it
held the promise of a fine early autumn day, with enough warm sunshine to raise even the lowest spirits. Not that he needed his spirits raising, he reflected, because today he was going to be in the company of two people who were
becoming
increasingly dear to him. He already loved Charlotte Grayson and as for Lucy Baker, in spite of his utter ignorance and total inexperience of small girls, she was the most charming little scrap of humanity he had ever met. Her bright energy and pretty little face were absolutely captivating and her natural intelligence and enthusiasm were equally
appealing
. What a dear little creature, to be sure. With a wife like Charlotte, he dared hope that Sir Benjamin’s desire for him to have a family of his own should surely result in a lovely child such as Lucy Baker….

Lost in thought and smiling to himself rather foolishly in his pleasurable anticipation of meeting Charlotte, he completely forgot about his declared intention of being
vigilant
. He was not even aware of a group of rough types
lurking
in the trees which bordered the road to Felbrook village. This time, he’d had no sixth sense of danger, but as he
afterwards
admitted to himself, that was because his mind had been distracted and he well knew what that distraction was.

‘Right. Get him, lads!’

Hugo’s daydreaming had not prepared him for this surprise and his fury at the threat caused him to react in a way that was foreign to his usual cool confidence in the avoidance of trouble. He dismounted from Gypsy and as the three ruffians approached, proudly met and held the eye of the man who had spoken.

‘Get him, I say!’

The thug was brandishing a particularly evil-looking knife and his words were accompanied by a powerful lunge which carried him away from his tough friends and in close
proximity
to Hugo Westbury.

‘It’s time you was silenced, yer poke nose. You’ll soon see no one wants yer meddlin’ and muck rakin’.’

This verbal assault took Hugo completely unawares. It was so unexpected, he didn’t at first connect it in any way to his enquiries into his grandfather’s death, and those few vital seconds of hesitation might have made a difference. As it was, the gang watched approvingly as their leader swung his
long-bladed
knife like an avenging axe and quick though he was, Hugo’s twisting evading action was too late. The razor-sharp weapon sliced into his left side.

He felt the thump of the blow, but there was no pain and quickly summoning all his strength, he dealt a punch to the man’s chin with his clenched fist. He realized that although there was no immediate pain, he had been badly injured, and this was his one chance to hit back before his wound got the better of him.

Hugo had always been a sportsman, practising boxing regularly and invariably choosing the strongest of sparring partners. The ruffian with the knife went down like a sack of potatoes and his friends didn’t even pause to help him up, let alone ‘get’ Hugo, but fled into the bushes. It was all over so quickly, he could hardly believe it had happened, until he tried to walk towards his horse.

Hugo staggered weakly to Gypsy and stood leaning against the horse’s flanks with his head bowed. He wasn’t even out of breath, but he had to keep an elbow pressed tightly against the cut in his side and so was unable to prevent the man on the ground from gathering himself together and lumbering off after his companions. He wondered fleetingly why the rogue hadn’t paused long enough to finish him off, but no doubt he’d considered him as good as dead, he thought cynically.

Hugo knew that he hadn’t the strength to mount his horse and could only cling on to Gypsy’s reins. He could feel the warm trickle of blood under his clothes and as he stumbled on some uneven ground, the trickle became a sudden hot gush and in spite of the support of his horse, he staggered and nearly fell. The wound was beginning to hurt him now and
the pain increased with every step he took. As he paused for a moment to let his head clear, he thought suddenly that he was nearer to Felbrook Manor than he was to St Paul’s Church. He might be better to try to make his way there and seek assistance.

He turned Gypsy’s head in the direction of the Graysons’ home and although he hadn’t the strength to guide the horse along the footpath, Gypsy seemed to know his intention and walked slowly in the right direction. The pain in Hugo’s side was even more insistent and he bit his lip in an effort not to groan. He closed his eyes as his head began to swim.

‘Mr Westbury?’

He forced himself to open his eyes. She was standing before him, the soft glow of the sunlight making a halo of her
shining
hair. She was so dashed beautiful, she almost dazzled him. He felt suddenly dizzy and needed to lie down. At the same time, he had an insane impulse to keep the knowledge of his injury from her. If she knew about the attack, she’d feel vindicated in her criticism of his foolhardy actions, he thought. Then the swirling blackness which he had fought for the last few minutes overcame him and he clung even more fiercely to Gypsy as his legs buckled and he tried not to swoon.