Along Came a Duke (34 page)

“And while you endeavor to do that, I shall do what I do best,” Preston said, taking up the ribbons and wrapping them around his hands.

“Ruin young ladies?” the earl quipped.

Preston laughed. “No! Drive like the devil and beat Barkworth to his bride.”

“W
here are you sending me?” Tabitha demanded, facing her irate uncles, Mr. Muggins at her side. Her aunts hovered in the background. They were all crowded into her attic room at the vicarage in Kempton.

Aunt Allegra and Lady Timmons appeared to be dressed for the evening—most likely planning on going to the Midsummer's Eve Ball.

That boded well for what she had planned—two less pairs of ears to spy on her. She'd tried for three nights now to slip away, but they had kept a vigilant watch over her. Tabitha had to imagine tonight may well be her and Mr. Muggins's last chance for escape.

“You heard me—it is none of your concern,” Sir Mauris told her, glancing around the attic with an air of disdain. “You are being moved for your own good. Now pack your things.”

“Yes, for your own good, Tabitha,” Lady Timmons repeated, peeking around her husband's shoulder. “You have proven far too susceptible to the deceptions of unsavory gentlemen.”

Preston wasn't unsavory! He was her hero. Her knight in shining armor. How she would like to inform her aunts and uncles that when Preston kissed her, she felt as if she were being carried to heaven.

Then again, she suspected that wouldn't do her current cause any favors.

“Yes, this is for your own good,” Aunt Allegra added—then again, she always had to make her opinion known. Though she needn't sound so pleased about the situation. “We must safeguard you from the villains and knaves who will only seek to steal your fortune.”

Mr. Muggins growled at her, as if he, like Tabitha, knew they were standing in front of four such villains.

Oh, they thought Tabitha didn't know what they had planned—for her and Mr. Muggins—but she knew the vicarage inside out, including all the spots from which to listen from. No, she wasn't proud that she'd spent the last few days doing her best to spy on her relatives' conversations—without getting caught by Mrs. Oaks—but since no one would tell her what they had planned, she'd had little choice.

Not that she'd liked what she'd heard. How they intended to take over her fortune and use it to their benefit. With Uncle Bernard and Sir Mauris as the trustees, they could do as they pleased with her money. But only once she reached her majority.

Which would happen at the stroke of midnight. She'd be five and twenty. Which she knew had everything to do with their haste.

If only Preston would come along in the nick of time.

“I will not pack until I know where you are taking me,” she repeated stubbornly.

“Do not take that tone with your betters, miss!” Uncle Bernard scolded in his most pious tones. At least he hadn't reminded her of how “unworthy” she was—which he did at every chance he could.

“I will take this tone when I am being forced against my will to leave my home. This is a kidnapping,” she said, shaking a finger at all of them, a reminder she hoped might send a twinge of guilt through one of them.

“Not if you are unworthy of such considerations,” Uncle Bernard said, looking quite pleased at being able to work his condemnation into the conversation—finally. “You are a wicked girl, unbalanced by your predilections to sin.”

There were nods all around, as if that was the agreed-upon story.

And then she saw it. At least how they were going to spin this lie of theirs.
Poor Tabitha. Gone mad by her perilous affair with a London rake.

She also knew where they meant to take her. Or rather, to have her locked up. To a madhouse, far from anyone who might be able to help her. She swayed slightly as she realized just how perilous her situation had become, and she reached for the steady assurance of Mr. Muggins beside her.

No, this couldn't be happening. She wasn't the one who was mad—they were, with greed for Uncle Winston's fortune.

Worse yet, what they had planned for Mr. Muggins was unthinkable. Her fingers twined in the rough hair around the dog's head as she silently vowed they wouldn't harm a single one. Not as long as she had breath left.

“Preston will not allow this—nor will my friends here in Kempton.” Tabitha straightened and glared at them, every bit the marchioness she might have been.

“If the man is so in love with you,” Lady Timmons posed, “don't you think he would have followed you? Been here by now?” She glanced toward the window, then the door. “Where is he?”

Tabitha's resolve began to waver. She'd spent the last five days looking over her shoulder, peering out her window, praying for any sign of Preston coming to save her. Where the devil was he? He had the most indomitable knack of arriving when he wasn't needed, but right now would be a good time for him to go against his nature.

She'd even had a rare moment yesterday when she would have been willing to be cheered by the sight of Mr. Reginald Barkworth. But not even that fortune-hunting fool had managed to show up.

“Where is he, you foolish girl?” Aunt Allegra asked. She looked over at Lady Timmons. “Still in London enjoying the favors of another young innocent, if I were to guess.”

Lady Timmons laughed, as did Aunt Allegra, while her uncles nodded in agreement.

Tabitha shook her head. “Preston will come for me.”

But he did need to hurry up.

Uncle Bernard wagged a finger at her. “Best you reconcile yourself that he is not coming for you. No one is.”

She would beg to differ, for she knew that Sir Mauris's carriage, which had brought them here to Kempton, had suddenly broken down; the brake lever was mysteriously missing, and there was a crack in one of the spokes. The Fates hadn't stopped there—the harnesses for Uncle Bernard's modest coach were now missing. Further, not a single resident of Kempton would loan the pair another conveyance, no matter how much Sir Mauris blustered and bribed.

Personally, she suspected Harriet of these crimes, and it buoyed her spirits to know she hadn't been entirely forgotten. Further, Lady Essex had called daily, demanding to see Tabitha, if only to check on her welfare.

How Sir Mauris and Uncle Bernard had managed to turn the determined spinster away was a testament to their resolve to steal her fortune.

“Pack your bags, miss, or I will take you in the morning with nothing save the clothes on your back,” Sir Mauris ordered as he turned to leave. “Bernard, what did that blacksmith say about my carriage?”

“That it would be ready by dawn.” Uncle Bernard shuffled his feet and coughed. “Country ways, brother. This village is utterly backwards. I cannot wait to leave.”

Sir Mauris huffed. “In London they would have had the task done in half the time. But if we must leave at dawn, so be it.” They departed, but Tabitha could still hear her uncle's imperious voice as they descended the stairs. “Pennyman is to meet us at the posting station so we can sign the necessary papers. Then we can be well rid of her.”

Her aunts followed their husbands, though Aunt Allegra was the last to leave.

Tabitha got to her feet. “You still haven't told me where you are taking me.”

“You will find out when you get there.” And with that, the door to the attic was slammed shut and locked.

P
reston walked around the vicarage for the third time, trying to gauge the best way to gain entrance and steal Tabby away.

He'd arrived to find that the entire village of Kempton was empty—even the John Stakes public house was shuttered and closed—not that he needed directions to find the vicarage.

The steeple of St. Edward's Church rose like a beacon over its smaller, tidy neighbors, leading Preston directly to its hallowed ground and, indirectly, to the vicarage.

Since he'd watched the ladies leave—one of whom he recognized as Lady Timmons—he suspected that Tabitha's uncles had remained behind to keep their niece from escaping.

Especially since their prize—her majority and her fortune—were just hours away from the taking.

One advantage of being a notorious rake was that Preston rather excelled at slipping in and out of unfamiliar houses. And the vicarage was no exception. He'd managed to locate the kitchen door, the study window, and he guessed that Tabitha was up in the attic, for one of the windows there glowed from the light of a candle, the thin curtains drawn tight.

However, the kitchen was manned by a terrifying-looking housekeeper—the woman looked capable of tearing an ox limb from limb. A theory he did not want to test.

Encamped in the study were Sir Mauris and a man who looked to be his brother. The pair were sharing a bottle of port, while the baronet espoused one thing after another. It appeared his hapless younger brother was left with the task of simply agreeing with the man, which he did with anxious nods and earnest smiles.

Preston had come to the conclusion that while he might be able to just slip in via the front door, eventually it would be a choice of facing Sir Mauris and his brother or the stevedore masquerading as a housekeeper.

“Ho there,” someone whispered behind his back.

Preston nearly leapt out of his skin. “Good God!” he exclaimed, then clapped his hand over his own mouth as he found himself facing Roxley.

“Yes, well, now that we've gotten that over with,” Roxley said, grinning, “what have we here?”

“Did you take care of Barkworth?”

“Oh, yes. Advised him of your plans to come and steal his heiress, and he's doubled his pace.”

Preston slanted a glance at his friend. “The plan was to deter the man, not give him an advantage.”

“I did give him an advantage,” Roxley gloated. “Of a shortcut past the large oak. Told him to drive like the devil. If he takes that corner as I advised him to—”

“Roxley, you are a genius,” Preston told him, slapping his friend hard on the back.

“About time you noticed,” Roxley replied, straightening his coat and glancing toward the front door. “Plan on just going in and taking her out?”

“Yes.”

“Simple and straightforward.” Roxley nodded in agreement. “Rather like a pair of rushers.”

“Exactly,” Preston said, pulling out a pistol.

“Always wanted to be a housebreaker when I was growing up,” he said.

“Why am I not surprised?” the duke muttered as they stole toward the front door.

It was not locked. This was a vicarage, after all.

They made their way down the front hall and were about to mount the stairs that would hopefully get them up to Tabitha's attic prison when from behind rose the wrenching clatter of a tray being dropped.

Again Preston nearly leapt out of his skin, and he whirled around to find the sound of breaking crockery replaced by an unholy screeching.

“Help! Thieves! Fiends!” screeched a woman. “We are all to be murdered!” The housekeeper came rushing forward, one meaty fist balled up, the other having retrieved the now empty tray.

Roxley moved so quickly that the woman didn't have time to change course. He yanked open a door to his right, and she ran right into it. Roxley moved around the door and, seeing it was a closet, pushed her, in her befuddled state, inside. Then he closed the door and leaned against it. “Fetch that chair,” he said to Preston, pointing at a narrow chair that sat near the base of the stairs.

With it tucked up under the latch, the woman was trapped.

But she'd done her work all too well, for stumbling out yet another door, the one to the study, came Sir Mauris and his brother.

The brother brandished a pistol. “Ho, there! This is a vicarage! What sort of villainy is this?”

Preston strode forward, putting Roxley behind him. He raised his own pistol. “Drop it, sir, or I shall shoot you where you stand.”

Luckily for Preston, Sir Mauris's brother had been perfectly chosen for his calling—he certainly hadn't the nerve for a career in the military—for his resolve folded as quickly as it had been summoned.

“Now, see here,” the man said, shakily setting the pistol down on the floor and taking a step back. Notably behind his brother and out of harm's way.

Roxley came up, grinning, and retrieved the vicar's pistol.

“Where is she? Where's Tabitha?” Preston demanded, pointing his gun at the baronet.

Sir Mauris blustered and steamed. “You blackguard. I'd rather die than hand her over to you!”

Preston shrugged and pointed the gun at the vicar, who was still trying to hide behind his brother. “Do you agree, sir? That you would rather die than surrender Miss Timmons?”

The man grew wide-eyed and pointed toward the stairs. “She's locked in the attic.”

The baronet turned around and cuffed him. “You stupid, blundering fool. He would never have shot us!”

“For kidnapping the woman I love?” Preston edged closer until the pistol's muzzle rested against the man's forehead. “Stealing her rightful fortune? Do not test me, Sir Mauris.”

The baronet blinked and turned even redder, but he said nothing more to provoke the duke.

Preston waved them both down the hall. “Take me to her.”

And the Timmons brothers did, mounting the stairs at a slow pace, arguing the entire time as to who was at fault.

They got to the attic door, and when Sir Mauris declared he knew not where the key was—nor did the vicar seem to know how to find it—Preston saved them both the trouble and kicked it in.

Surging into the room, Preston held his breath for the sight of his future bride. His Tabby.

But the room was empty.

Miss Tabitha Timmons hadn't waited for the duke to come along and save her.

Not this time.

T
abitha felt rather proud of herself as she and Mr. Muggins slipped from the vicarage unseen. Fortunately for her, Uncle Bernard and Aunt Allegra had never taken much pride or interest in their residence or they would have discovered, as Tabitha had with a lifetime of exploring the ins and outs of the ancient house, that it held any number of secrets.