Andrews Brothers 02 - The Rescue (2 page)

“But—”

“Instead you will remain here and marry Clovis Flannigan, Earl of Norhaven.”

Farrah dropped her jaw. She couldn’t breathe. Had all the air suddenly been sucked from the room? Gathering her remaining courage, she stuttered, “You c-can’t be serious! He’s older than Methuselah.”

“I’m glad to know you’ve been reading your Bible. And while you’re right that Clovis is old, you forget he is also as wealthy as King Midas.”

Farrah chewed her lip. She needed a plausible argument for why marrying Clovis was a bad idea. She blurted, “But father, you can’t make me marry him. The practice of arranged marriages is archaic and ended last century. And besides,” she twisted her neck and her loose hair floated over her shoulder, “I love Angus.”

He slapped the desk and shook his head. “Pshaw. You’re too young to know of love. When a few babes have filled your belly and you’re wrapping them in silken coverlets, you’ll forget all about Angus.”

Farrah couldn’t believe what he was saying. She stalked toward the exit, grateful he didn’t try to stop her. Plans of running to a Spanish nunnery raced through her mind.

His voice raised behind her. “Don’t even think of running away. I’ve charged Garrett with watching you.”

Her hopes plummeted. The lead footman acted like the Capitan of a detachment of soldiers and took his orders seriously. If she knew Garrett like she thought then she wouldn’t be allowed one second of freedom to denounce her intent of marrying before the wedding ceremony took place.

Farrah faced her father. He ignored her pleading look as he settled behind his cluttered desk. He shifted papers about the glossy surface as if nothing had happened, as if her life hadn’t just changed forever. A single tear slipped down her cheek and she swiped it angrily away. Garrett hid in the corner, his chin touching his chest. Shoulders slumped, Farrah quit the room.

Devlin tugged on the hem of the infernal garment. The maroon wool coat scratched his neck like a swarm of fleas on a hound dog. Sweat gathered across his forehead, beaded, and ran the length of his well-defined face only to pool at his collar.

The position as third footman for Clovis Flannigan had been easily acquired. The grotesquely obese, personally obsessed Earl of Norhaven, enjoyed having more servants than necessary to run his meager household. Sentries guarded the yard, which consisted of little more than a rounded drive. Footmen, from first to tenth, dressed the table, served the food, cleaned the windows, fed the fire, and a smattering of other menial duties. Two cooks and five scullery maids had the run of the kitchen.

There were also several housemaids, three gardeners, multiple stable hands, and the list continued.

Devlin raised his eyes skyward. The house was minuscule and could have been managed by two or three footmen. Ten was preposterous.

Devlin’s
overseer
had insisted Clovis was an easy swindle because of his penchant for overdoing. “
If he overdoes in one thing, he’ll overdo in another. I guarantee the man won’t hesitate to offer his lands in a gamble
.
You just have to find the right opportunity
.”

Having grown up listening to stories about the great fleecings pulled off before his time, Devlin thrilled at the prospect of swindling Clovis. Besides, was Clovis not the greatest extortionist of all? Legends were handed down about the fellow.

At the tender age of twenty-five, Clovis had left his village and absconded to another, Rochdale to be exact. Rumor held that the young gent had scoured neighboring estates in search of the perfect companion. He found the elderly, recently widowed Holly Flannigan, First Countess of Norhaven. She had invited him into her home and they were married within the week. Overnight, he had become a lord with land and funds. Fortuitously for Clovis the countess was one of the rare females who had retained her entitlements after her husband’s demise. The elderly Earl had regretted deeply their inability to have children and it had been his consolation to her.

Devlin sighed. Any family in Clovis’ past life was left behind as if they had never existed. He had even taken the last name of his wife! No doubt to assist with his hiding. In Devlin’s humble opinion Clovis’ comeuppance had waited too long.

A horse neighed in the distance, drawing his attention. Devlin shielded his eyes. A rider, dressed in liveried finery of blacks and yellows, skidded to a halt. Devlin stepped forward and accepted the reins. The footman from another estate straightened his shoulders, pointed his chin high, and thrust his chest outward as he ascended the three stairs leading into the Flannigan house.

Devlin cocked a brow, and pursed his lips. Why would a footman from Burrow Wood be visiting today? They were no special events planned in the neighboring town of Rochdale. The countryside seemed asleep with the sun hanging midway in the sky, and a haze hovering above the cool ground.

If he didn’t fear discovery, he would have peeked through the first floor windows. Instead, he led the horse to the stable only to find the groomsmen decidedly absent. Blowing out a breath, Devlin escorted his burden into a stall and stroked the animal’s shiny coat.

How long must he degrade himself with these tedious tasks? The title he’d stolen afforded him the right to live like the peerage, not like a common servant!

Devlin stroked the beast in a forceful, annoyed manner. Just a little while longer he would suffer these indignities then he would take his rightful place. He would own Lord Norhaven’s, lands and be lord not in name only, but in true fashion as he was born to be.

****

Andrew shivered beneath the ratty gaol-provided blanket. Lucidity came in painful spurts brought about by unexpected noises.

Keys rattled, and a wooden door creaked. “Here’s the prisoner.”

“What’s he accused of?” The questioning voice held a melodic quality and he batted his crusted lashes hoping to get a better look at the individual who spoke.

“My lady, I don’t know—”

A woman, no more than five feet tall with graying hair and pale blue eyes, struck her cane against the floor. “You will answer me this instant!”

The gaoler shuffled his feet against the stone pavers and piddled with his hands like a child caught in mischief. “Well, my lady, the truth is he has been accused of stealing a carriage. If there’s more, then the offended party failed to file charges.”

“Balderdash! Why would my son need to do such a thing?”

The harsh reply and the statement of ownership shocked Andrew.

“My lady?” said the gaoler.

“You will release my son, Andrew, into my custody at once.”

“But—”

“At once!” The repeated words were followed by a slamming door.

The gaoler’s shoulders slumped and he whispered, “Yes, my lady.”

The door opened and closed again, but much gentler. Andrew wanted to wipe sleep from his eyes, but his hands failed to cooperate. Every time they passed through his line of vision they fell short of the mark. He slapped his cheek, his shoulder, and his chin but never quite made it to his planned destination.

Giving up, he rolled onto his side and focused on moss attached to the stone wall. Chilled, he pulled the thin, hole-filled blanket to his chin. Shivers wracked his body and he bit his lip until he tasted copper. This time his body cooperated and he found his mouth and touched a sticky dollop of blood.

What had happened? What was he doing in gaol? Why had it taken so long for his mother to find him?

The questions continued as he drifted back to sleep. The feeling of weightlessness woke him. Someone spoke above him.

“That lady’s crazy.”

“Maybe, but if she wants to take this man off our hands…”

“But she doesn’t have a son!”

“Guess that ain’t our problem.”

Andrew tried to pry his eyelids open farther, but the throbbing in his skull escalated and he moaned and clamped them shut again.

“Shh! Do you want us to lose our heads? We’re being as gentle with you as we can.”

“I wouldn’t want to be this fellow.”

“So you’d rather stay in your current position as a two bit gaoler than to be claimed as a son to a rich widow?”

“Maybe I ought to reconsider that.”

“Maybe you should.”

Cool afternoon air circled under his sagging frame and sunlight burned his eye sockets. The handlers deposited him in a carriage and draped a thick wool cover across him. He lay on his side. A pillow was thrust beneath his head.

Instant warmth assailed him and he snuggled deeper underneath the itchy blanket. The carriage lurched and bile rose in his throat. He squeezed his lids tight and prayed the vehicle would soon level.

When the ride smoothed, Andrew cracked his eyelid and lifted his hand. He studied it warily. Not even the appendage appeared familiar. He drew in a deep breath. The only memory he’d maintained was the word Andrew. The gaoler had used the name harshly when they referenced him. The elderly woman, claiming to be his mother, had used it lovingly when calling him her son.

If his mother had retrieved him then everything must be all right, even if the gaoler thought her unstable. She would no doubt chastise him for his erroneous behavior, but he would apologize and all would be made well. Parents loved their children no matter what their faults. Right?

Weary from the morning’s events, Andrew allowed sleep to overtake him once more.

****

Three weeks had passed since Farrah’s ill fated meeting with her father. She paced her room. Angus’ letter lay unfurled on her desk. The fool had rushed home from their forest meeting, composed a note, and took off for his uncle’s sea vessel without even checking on her. He didn’t even know she was set to marry the crotchety Lord Norhaven!

“Lass, it’s time to leave.”

Farrah ignored her father as she glanced around her childhood room one last time. Creamy paper-hangings embellished with golden scrolls covered the walls. The bed cover, hand-stitched by her mother, contained matching embellishments. Farrah stroked the smooth fabric.

The footman had arrived earlier that morning with copies of the special marriage license. The banns had been read and the paperwork secured. Everything was in place. Nothing would stop her wedding to the ancient lord. Unless she decided to defy her father and refuse to wed. But what would happen then?

She looked through her lashes. Her father tapped his foot in an impatient manner. Did he really believe that she was ruined? Did rumors circulate through Rochdale of her unmarriageable status? What if Angus never returned? Sure her father could will the property to her with special permission, but would he? He seemed determine to have a male family member take control of their lands, even if it meant giving her away to Clovis. Suddenly his having to wait on her didn’t bother her. Why should she care? Her entire life was set to be ruined at his hand. His feelings meant little to her at the moment.

She drew her hand from the bed and glided to the wall. Two bookcases surrounded the portrait of her and her mother. It had been painted when she was ten years old. They had favored. Father said Farrah resembled a miniature version of her mother. If only she were here. Her mother would have ensured none of this occurred.

Her father cleared his throat. Releasing a hefty sigh, she twirled on her toe and drew her shoulders back. Chin held aloft with a regal air, she approached the door. Her father moved from his stiff position against the wall and she made a rash decision. She bolted.

Two steps into the hallway Garrett’s arms wrapped around her middle and he hefted her against his broad chest. She kicked and fidgeted, but too little avail.

Her father’s voice, deep and irritated, came from behind them. “You might as well calm down. If Garrett has to hold a sword to your throat, you will marry Flannigan.”

The clergy would never allow such an action, as her father well knew. So why would he make such a suggestion? Was he in such dire straits? Perhaps more occurred here than she knew.

Resigned, she relaxed. Garrett released her and she strolled downstairs toward the front door as if she faced execution.

Outside, she lifted her face to the harsh sun. Wind lifted the hem of her gown and a cool breeze struck her ankles. Lowering her gaze, a malicious smile tinged her lips. The barouche waited. The four passenger vehicle was better suited for a summer ride, since only two people would be covered and the open top allowed the weather in, but Farrah didn’t care. If she was being forced to her doom then all would be uncomfortable and the devil to her father’s predicament.

Garrett opened the barouche’s door and Farrah clutched his hand and drew him onto the seat beside her. Her father climbed in last, a frown settled upon his aged features as he was forced to sit in the seat exposed to the elements. With false innocence, she clasped her hands in her lap and waited for her father to complain. As soon as he opened his mouth to voice his minor discomforts she planned to share a lengthy list of her own.

Garrett fidgeted beside her and she twisted to face him. “Don’t you think it is a beautiful day for a ride?”

“If you say so, my lady.”

“Oh, I do. The chill wind will strike my cheeks as harshly as wedding Clovis will be to my future.”

Her father shifted, but didn’t respond to her sharp words. He snapped his fingers and a footman stepped forward with several blankets.

Farrah grabbed all that came through the door, flashing an apologetic smile at Garrett. “We wouldn’t want me to catch my death of cold before the wedding.”

Her father guffawed and folded his arms over his chest.

Before the barouche moved, he climbed out. She reached out for him, but he didn’t take her offered hand.

She swallowed and lowered her voice. “Father, is something wrong? Is there a reason I must wed, Lord Norhaven?”

Sadness filled his eyes, but he ignored her question as he leaned in and said to Garrett, “Don’t let her out of your sight.”

Farrah’s mouth gaped and closed like a dying fish as her father stepped back and the barouche lurched from the driveway.

Fortunately for Garrett, he didn’t comment on her failed plot to aggravate her father. The cold ride to Norhaven increased her foul mood and by the time they arrived, the only thing keeping her warm was her anger.