Behind The Horseman (The Underwood Mysteries Book 3) (20 page)

“I stand corrected,” he laughed affably, not unimpressed by her courage, “However, it is easy to speak lightly of such matters when that is all one is doing – speaking.  When the whole world knows of your son’s affairs, you may find yourself not quite so resilient.”

Lady Cara could bear no more.  She leapt to her feet and did what every man in the room wished to do – with the possible exception of Wyndham-Rogers, who was a coward as well as a miser – she raised her hand and dealt the abominable Conrad a resounding slap.  Underwood – and several others – winced.  By God, that must have hurt.  The lady was no frail little pocket-Venus; she had held her father’s largest and fiercest stallions under iron control and when in the country had frequently driven a four-in-hand.  There was a force behind the blow which Conrad had obviously not been expecting, for his bunched, half-raised fist showed that he had so far forgotten himself to be minded to return the blow.  When all the men in the room rose as a body, he was reminded that not only was she a woman, she was also the daughter of an Earl.  The fist unlocked, but the vicious threat he voiced held nothing back, “You will be sorry for that, Miss.”

“Oh, will I?”  She raised her hand again and was only prevented from inflicting further violence upon him by the intervention of Underwood, who grasped her firmly by the wrist, then spoke to the livid Conrad, “If you have any sense at all, Conrad, you will take yourself off, and prepare for battle.  Everyone in this room, and a good many others besides, will see you in Hades before you will get a penny-piece from Mrs. Rogers.”

“We will see about that,” muttered the irate bully, but he went, somewhat deflated to have been bested by a woman, albeit briefly.

As the door closed upon him, the tension was broken by the slightly hysterical laughter which issued from Mrs. Rogers, “Oh, my dearest Cara, whatever will you do next?  Your poor mama!”

Cara suddenly realized Underwood still held her arm and blushed vividly; he thought she had grown sensible of her bad behaviour and felt it safe to release her.

“Well done, Cara – but pray do not attempt to annoy that man again.  He is more than capable of causing mischief for you,” he said kindly, his admiration of her spirit tempered by the awareness of Conrad’s vicious streak, and her own inability to deal with something she could never begin to understand.

She lifted her chin defiantly, “What care I for him?  Let him do his worst!  There is no harm he can do me.”

“I would not be too sure of that.  But enough of Conrad.  My friends and I must take our leave.  Gil has need of us now.”

She was at once subdued, recalling guiltily what day this was, “Please give him my fondest regards, and tell him that I will remember him in my prayers.”

“I shall certainly do so.”

*

His first action upon reaching the vicarage was to tell Rev. Blackwell of the change of plan, to which the gentleman readily acceded.  He was exceptionally fond of Gil, but knew of his almost fanatical adherence to what he perceived as his duty.  There were times when Rev. Underwood really did need to be saved from himself.

Next Underwood took his brother into the study alone, partly to explain the new arrangements for the service, but with the foremost intention of presenting him with Verity’s gift.

Gil was inclined to balk at the notion of Rev. Blackwell performing the service for his wife, but upon being shown the painting of Catherine, which Verity had produced lovingly from memory, he broke down and admitted that he was not in any fit state to conduct the funeral.  Underwood bestowed a swift, self-conscious, but nevertheless comforting, hug and led his brother into the church.

They sat together in the front pew with little Alistair, his hand firmly in the grip of his step-father, who was looking strangely out of place in the body of the church and not on the altar, and Underwood was pleased to notice that the place was packed with friends and acquaintances.  No one intended that their vicar should go through this alone.  Even the ‘Wablers’ had risked divine retribution by entering the hallowed portals.

Rev. Blackwell sent Catherine to her eternal rest with an affection which brought the tears flowing from his congregation, for many women had defied convention to attend.  Catherine had been well liked, but Gil was frankly adored.

As requested, Underwood took Alistair’s hand, and when the moment of interment arrived he led the boy back to the vicarage.  He was not unobserved, however, for the child’s paternal grandparents stood outside the lychgate, refusing to enter either the church or the churchyard, but determined to see the man they felt had taken away their only son’s child.

They both stepped forward as Underwood and Alistair approached, but a scornful glance from the man and the miserable oblivion of the boy held them back.  After all, their quarrel was with the vicar.

Underwood took the child inside the vicarage and together they sat in the parlour.

“Can I fetch anything for you?” asked Underwood quietly, “A drink, or something to eat?”

The boy shook his head, the dangling feet swaying slightly, as though stirred by a faint breeze; “Do you think she has gone to heaven, Mr. Underwood?”

This was too much for Underwood.  He was already feeling horribly low, but in this simple question he was faced with three problems.  He wanted the boy to feel comfortable, so ‘Mr. Underwood’ was too formal a title; however, he did not much relish the idea of being ‘Uncle Cadmus’ – a name he wholeheartedly detested.  The second problem lay in the fact that his own beliefs did not allow for an afterlife, a God, or the notion of Heaven, but he could hardly say so to a gullible child.  Gil had given an undertaking that he would raise the boy a Catholic, like his mother, but Underwood had no very clear idea what the Catholic Creed demanded to ensure entry to Heaven.  He decided to start with the simplest answer first.  He cleared his throat nervously before he began, “You know Gil always calls me Chuffy, and I am your uncle now…”

Alistair managed a shy smile, “Uncle Chuffy.  I like that.  It’s funny.”

“Thank you,” responded Underwood sardonically, “Tell me, do you think your mama is in heaven?”

“She was very, very good, so I think she ought to be, but I worry a little sometimes.  My grandpapa said she should not have married Papa Gil.”

“Well, you know grown-ups are not always right about everything.  Papa Gil loved your mama very much, and he made her happy.  She loved him too, almost as much as she loved you, and I think love counts a great deal in heaven.”

Alistair looked happily down at his swinging feet, “I think so, too.  Thank you, Uncle Chuffy.”

Uncle Chuffy glanced up to find Gil standing in the doorway, having heard a greater part of the conversation.  The expression on his brother’s face was one which was to comfort Underwood on many occasions in the future.

*

CHAPTER TWENTY

(“A Fronte Praecipitium A Tergo Lupi” – A precipice in front, wolves behind – between the devil and the deep blue sea!)

The long day finally over, Underwood went wearily home, fully intending to shut himself into the spare bedroom with a hot toddy and a good book.

It was not to be.

An urgent missive from Mrs. Rogers summoned him hence, and though his first instinct was to ignore it, there was something about the purposely prudent wording which warned him she was deliberately hiding the full importance of the situation.  Did she imagine some third party was going to intercept and read her note?  Underwood was only too aware that though he had suspected Rogers of all the mishaps which had befallen them, there was no real proof that Verity’s attacker was not still at large.  It was for this reason alone that he dragged his boots back onto his aching, stone cold feet and set off into the dusk, deeply regretting his failure to provide himself with a hip flask full of good (though probably illegal) brandy, which had been a housewarming gift from Jeremy James.

She was waiting for him, pacing the drawing room in her agitation and frustration at the delay, and she literally threw herself upon him when he appeared in the doorway, sobbing with relief, “Thank God you have come!  I could not write the truth, and I was so afraid you would not understand the urgency.”

“I understood it,” he said, as calmly as he was able, though her evident, and most uncharacteristic, hysteria was beginning to erode his confidence, “For pity’s sake, put me out of my misery and tell me what has happened.”

“Cara has disappeared!”

His relief was tangible, “Good God, is that all?  The silly girl has merely gone back to Hanbury and selfishly neglected to tell you…”

“No, she has not.  Read this.  She handed him a crumpled fragment of torn paper, which he took and perused, his face growing ever sterner as he did so.

“Tell Underwood I have his girl.  If he does not come to collect her, I’ll send her back to him piece by piece, starting with her fingers – but not before I have had my fun with her.  He must be at the Hanbury Northcliff crossroads at midnight tonight, alone.  If he dares to try any tricks, she is a dead woman!”

He needed to believe that it was the work of a not-very-amusing prankster so his voice was hard when he eventually spoke, “This is nonsense, you must see that.  Cara is not ‘my girl’ as he puts it.  Why should anyone think I would care what the devil happens to her?”

Mrs. Rogers turned her ravaged face to him, “I think it is from Conrad.  He hates her for humiliating him.  He has disguised his handwriting, made the note look like the work of an illiterate on purpose.  He thinks you will not go to her rescue, and he will have his excuse to kill her.  How could we ever prove it was he?”

Underwood remained unconvinced, but as he scanned the note again, he began to feel slightly sick.  The threat to mutilate the girl was probably spurious, but curiously chilling – he might just be in deadly earnest.  How would Underwood ever forgive himself if one hair on Cara’s head were harmed?

“How the devil did the madman get hold of her?  Surely to God she was not out, unaccompanied?”

“It is my fault!  I have been too lax with her.  She was so furious this morning, after her run-in with Conrad, that she insisted on going for a ride, to cool her cheeks, she said.  I begged her not to go alone, but she is so headstrong.  She would not even take her groom, and I have no real jurisdiction over her.  Her mount came back, covered in mud, lame and alone.  Richard seems to think that the horse might have been brought down by a rope strung across its path, there were grazes on its forelegs.”

“But how could anyone know where she would ride – or indeed that she intended to ride at all?”

“Perhaps he had set someone to watch the house.  She does usually ride each day – and often unchaperoned.  Once in the woods, she could have no choice but to follow the path – the trees are too close set to allow any detour…”

He was thoughtful for a moment, then said, with great determination, “I suggest you send for Mr. Gratten.  This really has nothing to do with me.”

She was distraught at the very suggestion, “Underwood!  How can you wash your hands of her?  How can Gratten possibly hope to find her in time?  Even if he and his men ambush the abductor, all he needs to do is stay silent and she will die where he has hidden her, in agony and despair, wondering why we do not come to her aid.”

“Dear God!” said the driven Underwood, “Do you not realize I have a wife at home, who is about to give birth to my child?  I cannot go gallivanting about the countryside on what is probably a wild goose chase.”

“What if it is not?” asked the older woman quietly.

Underwood closed his eyes wearily.  He knew when he was beaten, “Very well.  I will go and meet this maniac – but I give you fair warning, if this turns out to be one of her imbecilic suitors, trying to impress her, I’ll tear the pair of them limb from limb.”

“Thank you!” she whispered fervently, “I know I should not ask you to do this, but she was in my care, and if anything should happen to her...”

“Yes, yes,” he interrupted testily, “Now, will you send a message to Toby and explain to him what has happened – and for God’s sake, don’t let him breathe a word of his insanity to Verity.”

*

As he paced the muddy highroad, every sense alert, Underwood silently cursed himself for a fool.  It was freezing, dark and unnerving.  His feet were like ice in his boots, and his caped greatcoat might as well be made of flimsy lace for all the warmth it imparted.  Cara was probably back in the safety of Hanbury Manor, toasting her dainty toes before a roaring fire, having spent the afternoon laughing with one of her lovers at the hoax into which he had so gullibly fallen.

He hunched himself against the bitter wind and sank onto a convenient tree stump.  He did not like the choice of venue one little bit.  True it was a crossroads, but not a nice open one; thickly hedged and at the bottom of a valley, it stood in almost permanent shadow even during daylight.  Now it was black, gloomy and isolated.  He would give this madness five more minutes, then he was going home.  Let Cara take care of herself.  If she was indeed in trouble, then it was her own fault for refusing the protection of a groom.  No young lady should be unaccompanied at any time.  Her parents must be rare buffoons if they allowed her to so rule the roost that she felt herself to be above the restrictions of convention which curbed other girls.  These thoughts from a man from a man who fought constantly to be free of a restrictive society were hypocritical, to say the least, but he was not about to examine his conscience.  Naturally he felt his own circumstances to be quite different.

A rustle in the frosty undergrowth behind him jerked every muscle into sudden life.  He turned and peered into the darkness, but to no avail.  He could barely discern the line of the hedge.

Too late he heard the footsteps, but by the time he had begun to turn back a blow struck the back of his head.  He was only aware of the sickening crack as the weapon came into contact with his skull, and the stunning pain of the impact, before he sank to his knees, then down to the ground, blackness spinning before his eyes.

*

His bed was remarkably uncomfortable.  It was cold and dark, the fire must have gone out during the night – and why was Verity cradling his head in her lap?  He could see nothing, but he could feel her gentle hands against his cheek.  His cold must be worse than he thought, judging from the slight edge of panic he detected in her voice as she spoke his name.  He fought his way through confusion and pain.  God, he had a brutal headache!  He lifted his hand to the tender spot and was appalled to feel the slight stickiness of half-dried blood.  Had he fallen and cracked his skull?

“Verity?”  he murmured.

The voice above him spoke sharply, “Verity?  Who is Verity?”

He forced his eyes to focus and after a little wobbling and swaying the face which hovered over him became clear.  Not Verity.  And not his bedroom.

“Cara?  What the devil is going on?”

He struggled to sit up and she quickly released her hold on him, though she cautioned him not to try and stand, “You’ve had a nasty crack on the head.”

That remark brought everything flooding back to him, and he held his head in his hands for a moment, partly to ease the pain, but mostly in despair at his stupidity.  He allowed himself the indulgence of a few more moments of mental lashing, and then he opened his eyes and looked about him.  His first thoughts were of escape, but they were dashed almost before they were conceived.  The light of a single guttering candle and two small horn lanterns revealed their place of incarceration and Underwood felt no hope.

The limestone caves above Hanbury were vast and mostly uncharted. To even contemplate the notion of wandering about without a guide would be an act of madness.  Here they must remain, at least for the present.

He glanced about and was comforted to see that they had thankfully been left with light, food, blankets and fuel.  Their captor, whoever he might be, was not entirely without mercy then!

Cara watched him silently as he took note of their surroundings; her joy at finding herself no longer alone tempered by that chilling first word he had spoken.

“Mr. Underwood?”

He recalled her presence and dragged his still foggy thoughts back to the present, “Cara, I trust you are unhurt?”

“I jarred my wrist when I fell from my horse, but otherwise I am unharmed – except my dignity, which suffered a severe blow.  The unprincipled rogue tossed a blanket over my head, threw me unceremoniously over his shoulder and carried me for what seemed like hours, threatening to slit my throat if I screamed.  I am intensely ashamed to have to admit that I allowed him to intimidate me!  How callow I was.  I dare say a good hearty shriek would have been the cause of my deliverance.”

Underwood managed a grin, pleased to hear the tone of fury in her voice.  If she was angry, then she wasn’t afraid, “I can only say, my lady, that I am delighted you took no such risk.  It would appear the man knows the area so well that you would never have been near enough to any habitation to be heard – and if he is mad enough to abduct us both, and to nearly kill me with a hefty blow, then I fear he is quite capable of carrying out any threat he makes.”

He perused her face as he spoke, seeing in her eyes that her brave words were merely a cover for the true terror she was feeling.  She was pale, and there was a streak of mud or blood across her cheek – it was hard to distinguish which in the guttering candlelight.  She had cast her hat aside and her hair had long since escaped from its pins.  It hung in shining tendrils about her face and neck, making her look impossibly young.  She nursed her injured wrist against her breast with her other hand, now that she no longer cradled his head.  He noticed the protective gesture and gently took her arm in order to examine the damage.  She winced as he flexed her fingers and he looked grave, “I think you have broken it.”

“I think so too,” she admitted ruefully.

He looked about him, searching for something with which to bind the injury and quickly found a couple of stout sticks.  The blankets were rejected as being too stiff and coarse to use as a bandage; “Do you have a petticoat?”

“I have several,” she answered, somewhat testily, he thought.

“Then kindly remove one.  You need a bandage.”

“Turn your back.”  He obliged and listened with some amusement to the mysterious
frou-frou
of silk and satin underwear, and her laboured breathing as she struggled with an unfamiliar task, one-handed.

“Need any help?” he asked wickedly.

“No, thank you,” she replied, then dropped an exquisitely embroidered slip into his lap, which he proceeded to tear into strips.  Her wince this time was not caused by the pain in her wrist.

His clumsy ministrations almost made her faint, but when the task was accomplished, she had to admit that the dull ache settled a little once the required support was in place.  He scrabbled about in the pile of provisions and was delighted to find a bottle of brandy.  He poured them each a tot into saucerless cups and she drank it with enthusiasm.

“Could you light a fire, Mr. Underwood?” she asked presently, “I am sorry to have to admit that even without a broken wrist, I had not the first idea how to do so.”

He looked up, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully, “I think the roof is of sufficient height to allow for the smoke, but you may find it is not.  Are you prepared to risk choking?”

“I will have to, I am perished with cold.”

He did not bother to mention that he was almost as unpractised in the art of fire lighting, as she was herself.  His male pride ensured that he made quite a professional job of it and any slight errors could easily be explained away by the excuse of his battered skull.  She noticed him raising a pained hand and gingerly touching the gash, whereupon she asked, with solicitude, “Is there anything I can use to bathe your wound?”

“I imagine it would be best left alone, thank you.  The bleeding has stopped, that is the most important thing.”