Barbara Metzger (3 page)

The gabblemongers always had a picnic when Leigh Claibourne, as he was now called, so much as danced with a debutante. That he held a title supported by ancient tradition instead of wealth was no novelty among the
ton,
and no cause to strike his name from the invitation lists to come-out balls, even if the female’s family was too hard pressed to consider an impecunious suitor. No, what kept him from being wholeheartedly welcome in these circles was a family closet so full of skeletons it was surprising the Claibourne crest still fit in.

What father of a wealthy girl—Claibourne’s solicitor had just spent an hour impressing the earl that no other type of female would do—would give her hand, and dowry, in exchange for a name tainted with dishonourable duels, divorce, and the filthy blot of slave trading? Gads, they had it all, even near imbecility, in his cousin Percival. The scandals had been well aired ages ago, in Claibourne’s childhood, and only the highest sticklers held his Uncle Fenton and Percy against him. Still, all of Society read the Claibourne wildness in his own richly deserved reputation as a rake. As Leigh had ruefully commented to his solicitor, if he could afford a wife or mistress of his own, perhaps other men’s wouldn’t have so much appeal.

Mr. Pettigrew’s next suggestion for refilling the Claibourne coffers, if not reroofing Claibourne Abbey, was a marriage of convenience—dashed inconvenient, according to every tender feeling the earl still harboured—and to a cit, besides. Wealthy merchants were willing to overlook a lot in a son-in-law, Pettigrew explained, in order to see their daughters’ names in Debrett’s Peerage. Damme, that was how the family got landed with Fenton!

They were in Dun Territory even before Leigh’s father Jonathan ran through most of his inheritance and then married a French noblewoman. The lady’s family lost their lives and fortunes, including her
dot
, in the Terror. Jonathan rashly agreed to an arranged marriage between his sister Sydelle and Josiah Fenton, a man with no title but with considerable wealth and ambition. It was perfectly acceptable for a gentleman to make investments on ’Change or abroad, even gamble on trading ventures, as long as the gentleman refrained from soiling his own hands. Slave trade, however, soiled everyone connected with it. Fenton was no gentleman. The knowledge became public and Fenton was no longer accepted into tonish circles—or into Sydelle’s bed. When he grew abusive, possibly due to another unsavoury product of his merchant trade, the opium pipe, Sydelle moved home. Furious, Fenton pressed for a divorce, claiming her unborn child was not his. Vowing he’d see Sydelle a widow before he’d let Fenton call her wanton, Leigh’s father withdrew all of her marriage settlement from Claibourne holdings, mortgaging the property to establish a fund for her coming child. Then he challenged his brother-in-law to a duel. Duels were not outlawed yet, just discouraged.

Fenton shot early, making Leigh, at age five, the sixth Earl of Claibourne, with a French-speaking mother and an impoverished estate. Jonathan got off his own shot before he died, leaving Fenton crippled for life, although some said Fenton used the injury as an excuse for staying in his house instead of facing society’s cuts and ridicule. Sydelle was forced to return to her despised husband, where she died shortly, and perhaps gladly, after bringing forth Percival, Leigh’s cousin and heir.

If it weren’t for that drunken fool Percy and his blackguard of a father, Leigh would have emigrated to America or journeyed to India to seek his fortune. He could even remain a carefree bachelor. But leave Claibourne Abbey to those two? Not on his life—or death!

Blast, if he stayed lost in his dreary thoughts, he’d soon be lost in Cambridgeshire. Where was that third Ryefield marker?

* * *

A light bobbed up ahead. The earl reined Baron in while still a way off, loosening the pistol from his saddle pack. Another gun rested in his greatcoat’s inner pocket, and a very thin, very sharp pearl-handled stiletto reposed in a sheath carefully sewn into the seam of Claibourne’s right high-top riding boot. He’d been a soldier too long and too recently to be easy game.

Baron took exception to the delay and the flickering light, sideskipping and snorting until Claibourne clucked him forward again. Soon the source of the light was discernible: a small man, no, a boy, from his high voice, dressed in rough, rustic garb and waving a lantern.

“Mister, hey mister,” the boy was calling. “Please stop, sir. Please, sir, m’granfer’s hurt somethin’ awful, ’n needs help. Please, mister, wontcha help me?”

“Aye, lad,” the earl answered, “give me directions, and I’ll ride for the doctor.”

“No, no sir,” came the desperate reply, hastily amended to “m’lord” when Leigh was close enough for the boy to see the obvious quality of the large grey horse, if not the elegance of the rider’s clothing. “It’d be too late. He’s took real bad, and…and I ain’t knowin’ what to do. Can’t you follow me, please?” the youngster pleaded, wringing every drop of melodrama from the scene. Jacelyn was having a marvelous time.

Claibourne heard the near-tears tremour in the voice and instantly responded with an offer to take the boy up behind him, to make faster time. Jacelyn knew her disguise would never pass that kind of close, tactile inspection, not when Lem’s outgrown jacket already barely concealed her very feminine charms. She mumbled, “Faster’f I lead the way. Hurry,” and took off down a side path before her quarry could change his mind.

As they turned off the main road, the taller trees blocked what moonlight fell, so Leigh was forced to slow Baron’s pace, carefully picking his way on the turnings, the wavering light staying too far ahead for him to ask any more questions, like how much farther did they have to go, what would the lad have done if horse and rider had not chanced along, and what was the nature of the grandfather’s illness? The earl hadn’t seen any lights indicating habitation for ages, so why would the boy come
this
way, instead of ahead, which had to be getting closer to Ponsonby’s uncle’s place, or set off himself for the doctor? It occurred to Leigh that the old man might have been shot while out poaching, on Bottwick’s land, perhaps, eliminating the Manor as a source of aid, as well as the doctor, since he would be bound to report a bullet wound. That would account for the boy’s nervousness and reticence. He’d also said “hurt,” not sick or ailing. Ah, well, Claibourne had seen enough of gunshots to know what to do as well as any surgeon, if it wasn’t already too late. He hoped not, for the boy’s sake.

After so many twistings that the earl knew he’d never find his way back to the main road by himself—at least not till morning—the lantern finally came to a standstill outside a small stone cottage. There was a fire’s glow in the one facing window but the door was shut.

“Please, yer lordship, g’wan. I’ll tie yer horse,” the boy offered, stepping from the darkness of the clearing beyond the circle of light from the lantern, which he had hung by the door. He touched the floppy brim of his hat as an afterthought.

“There’s no need, Baron will wait here. What’s your name, lad?” the earl asked, quickly dismounting and looping the grey’s reins back over the saddle so the horse couldn’t trip on them. With a “Stay, Baron,” Leigh followed the boy toward the door.

“Jace—Jason, m’lord,” the youngster answered, scurrying on. At the doorway he stopped, as though adjusting the lantern, but urged the other in. “G’wan, sir. It be unlatched.”

A soldier is used to gathering impressions quickly; his life so often depends on assessing a situation in mere seconds. Ex-Major Merrill had the time between heartbeats to note a warm, tidy cottage scented with herbs hanging to dry; a cot, a table, a few log-hewn chairs and benches, some rough-fashioned shelves; a skinny old man with weathered skin crouched at the table, pointing a gun at him—and no back door. The next heartbeat added still another relevant impression: the unmistakable sensation of a gun being pressed into his back.

Lord Claibourne raised his hands slowly, not making any sudden moves which might jar unsteady fingers. The greybeard peered at him closely, as though he had difficulty seeing even the short distance, a fact the earl mentally filed, as well as the distance to either window.

“Please have a seat, m’lord,” the boy said, coming around from behind. The hat still shielded most of the lad’s face so Leigh could not read the intentions in his eyes, but the gun stayed firm. Leigh sat. He took the seat facing the old man, careful to place his hands in plain sight on the table. The grandfather nodded and, picking up some rags, started to clean the gun, his eyes still on the captive’s. Any fool knows not to clean a loaded gun, Claibourne noted. What was going on here? The fine pair of bridle culls hadn’t even searched him. Claibourne raised one eyebrow but the ancient only grunted, shrugged his boney shoulders and bent to his task. The earl relaxed, biding his time. Whatever huggery-muggery this was, it didn’t seem to require drastic measures, like gunning down a smooth-faced youth or overpowering a wizened septuagenarian. The situation was beginning to appeal to his lordship’s sense of humour, far more than dinner at the squire’s would have. And here he’d thought civilian life was going to be dull!

Jacelyn was undergoing a few surprises herself. She’d never expected pudgy Arthur to turn out so…masculine, for one thing. Of course she’d not seen him for ten years, since he was just fifteen, and after all, what did she know about how boys developed into men? Still, he looked much older than his years—maybe that’s what wars did, and living in tents—and so much more formidable than she could have dreamt of Arthur becoming. The boy she remembered was pudding-faced, sulky at being sent to visit relatives in the country when he’d rather have stayed in London with his own chums. He was a soft city child, singularly inept at the simple country pursuits which were the only available entertainment, and he had snidely refused to take advice from a mere moppet. The grown-up Arthur, however, looked to be all muscle, and all in command, all polite good humour as he sat there in captivity. She’d feared Arthur would throw a fit, just as he’d thrown rocks, fishing poles, and tantrums when frustrated. This man looked as though he could give a setdown with one golden eyebrow, never needing to raise his voice at all. If this was what the army did for young men’s characters, Jacelyn heartily approved. As for his appearance, well, his hair was a lighter blond than she recalled—from the same sun that gave him such a bronzed look, she supposed—but neither the sun nor military discipline could explain the glow she felt just looking at him. Arthur was beautiful! With his wide brow, square chin, and strong, straight nose, he was positively the most attractive man she’d ever seen, and he didn’t even recognize the know-it-all tomboy who’d followed him around, laughing at his mistakes. Goodness, she had to stop staring and get on with this.

“My lord, I am dreadfully sorry for any inconvenience you may have suffered,” she began, too absorbed still in his lordship’s features to remember her rustic accent. “It is just a small matter, really.”

Shoop cleared his throat. “Methinks we’d best reconsider, Miss—”

“Missed his dinner?” Jacelyn broke in hastily. “Of course he did. I brought some wine and cheese, remember? We have to take care of business first, though.” She dropped the pistol on the table when she jumped up to fetch something, to Shoop’s grumbled “Aargh.”

His lordship’s lips quivered as the old man disgustedly reached over and switched guns, starting to dismantle the lad’s for cleaning while the youngster set a bottle of ink and some paper on the table. The delicate white hand that offered the earl a pen certainly didn’t match the oldster’s workgnarled, knobby mitts, no more than that cultured accent matched this rough dwelling. The earl wished he could see the lad’s face, but the hat’s low brim still obscured all but a pointed chin and a full mouth which seemed on the verge of laughter.

The boy picked up the pistol, quite obviously unloaded, and determinedly pointed it at the prisoner. “Will you do as I request, write what I say?”

“You see me trembling with fear, ready to obey your every command,” the earl drawled, which earned him a “Bah,” from Shoop and a chuckle from Jacelyn.

“You’re really being a good sport, Arthur. I should say Lord Ponsonby, shouldn’t I?”

She began to pace, planning the words to use, so she missed his lordship’s start of surprise. What would staid Arthur have to do with such a havey-cavey pair? Unless…no, the boy was too old to be a by-blow. Perhaps a young cousin, then. This was getting more and more amusing.

“‘Dear Squire,’” the boy dictated. “No, ‘Dear Uncle.’ No, ‘My Dearest Uncle.’ That’s it.”

That did sound more like Arthur, Claibourne acknowledged, writing, but how could the boy know Arthur’s style and not recognise—

“‘I am being held hostage, my life is in dire peril, and I require your immediate assistance.’ The earl had to laugh out loud at this. Not just at the threats as empty as the guns, but at the thought of his own uncle’s reception of such a message. Fenton would be in such high gig he’d dance, crippled legs or no. And if, as Claibourne suspected, this missive was to be a ransom note, why, Fenton would rather see his nephew rot in hell than spend a brass farthing in his behalf.

“Please, my lord, this is serious. Continue: ‘I will be freed as soon as you release the prisoner you now hold in…in durance vile. Your instant compliance is urgently requested!’ Sign it, ‘Your affectionate nephew, Arthur.’

“There,” Jacelyn said triumphantly, sealing the note with a flourish and handing it to Shoop. “Remember to hand it to one of the grooms, as we discussed. Say some stranger gave it to you, a big, nasty looking brute with a scar down his face. Then you’d better play least-in-sight for a bit, in case Squire has questions.”

Shoop made a last try at dissent, but gave it up when Jacelyn handed him a shilling for the local pub and herded him out the door. He shook his head resignedly and left, muttering about, “’Adn’t oughta be ’ere atall, divil a bit alone. Niver could talk reason…

Jacelyn called after, by way of reassuring her friend, “Don’t worry, it’s only Arthur.” Then she busied herself emptying a hamper onto the table. Bread, wine, cheese, mugs appeared, no utensils. Her “oh dear” changed to an “oh” of admiration as the gentleman withdrew a knife from his boot top. Wasn’t Arthur complete to a shade?