Behind The Horseman (The Underwood Mysteries Book 3) (24 page)

*

It had just begun to snow when Underwood and Cara staggered through the door of Windward House, their shoulders and hair liberally sprinkled with a dusting of snow which melted at once in the warmth.

She simply sank into the nearest available chair and closed her eyes, the feelings of relief and weariness fought for expression and caused a faintness to attack her.  Underwood stood in the hall, frowning slightly against the brightness of the light indoors compared to the rapidly gathering dusk outside.  Where was everyone?  Why was the house so quiet?  Dear God, please don’t let anything have happened to Verity!

He heard a footfall upstairs and automatically lifted his head.  He saw Dr. Herbert begin to descend, his shirt sleeves rolled up and holding a towel on which he was wiping his hands.  When he saw his friend’s strained white face raised to his own, he grinned, “Your timing, as always Underwood, is impeccable.  Congratulations, you have a daughter.”

Mr. Underwood said nothing, but continued to stare at the doctor as though petrified.  Francis reached his side and punched him good-naturedly on the arm.

“Don’t you want to see your family?” he asked.

“May I?”  Underwood seemed to wake from his reverie.

“Of course!  Get yourself upstairs man.  Your wife has worked hard to present you with a little girl.  The least you can do is go and thank her.”

Two minutes before Underwood felt he could not possibly put one foot in front of another; it had been sheer will power which had forced him on, half-carrying the exhausted Cara up to the house, but now he cast his weariness aside along with his sodden greatcoat.  He took the stairs two at a time and burst into the bedroom, startling Verity and almost sending his mother into a fit of the vapours.  Appallingly, he did not even notice her leave the room, for his eyes were firmly fixed upon his wife and the tiny, shawl-wrapped bundle in her arms.  She was propped against the piled pillows, her face tired but inexpressibly happy.  Her hair clung in dark tendrils to her still damp forehead, but her soft smile was warm and her eyes were bright with a strange excitement, “Dearest one, are you feeling better?”

“Sweetheart …” he could not say anything more, but approached the bed almost apprehensively.  Verity offered the child to him and he, after the slightest hesitation, took his little girl into his arms and looked down at her.  Too perfect to be described, she waved a plump little hand in protest at being disturbed and yawned broadly.

Verity observed him with loving eyes, “My dear Cadmus, you really have been unwell.  You have not shaved for two days at least.”

He never raised his eyes from his daughter’s face, “You cannot begin to comprehend how unwell,” he replied.

*

Cara had watched him run from her to the arms of his waiting wife with a pain she never thought to experience.  She felt Dr. Herbert’s eyes upon her, speculative and curiously understanding, and she managed to force a semblance of a smile to her lips, “Dr. Herbert?  I am Cara Lovell, perhaps you remember me?”

“Remember you!  My dear girl, half of Hanbury had been combing the countryside in search of you.  I trust you are unhurt?”

“Not entirely,” she held out her injured hand to show him and he at once became businesslike.  He led her into the parlour, calling down the hallway for Mrs. Trent to fetch hot water, tea, brandy, bandages, and anything else she thought he might require.  She bustled from the kitchen to grumble in person, “I have the baby to bath, and the mistress to see to – and where do you think I am going to find bandages in this house?”  She stopped stock still and stared aghast when she realized who his companion was, “Dear Lord preserve us!  Never tell me Mr. Underwood is back.”

“He is – and judging from the view I had of the back of his head as he went up the stairs, he is going to have need of my ministrations too.”

She shuffled off to do his bidding, her instructions to Toby clearly audible to the two in the front of the house, “Toby, stir yourself!  We have Lady Cara Lovell in the house and she’ll be wanting a bath and so will the master.  Stir up the fire and set the biggest water boiler we have upon it.”

“Mr. Underwood is back!” yelled the joyful Toby, “Where is he?”

“Never you mind.  Get the fire going first.  There’ll be time aplenty for you to exchange gossip with Mr. Underwood.”

They exchanged a smile as he showed her to a chair by the fire, then began to remove Underwood’s makeshift bindings, “Underwood will never make a doctor,” he observed, “but he has saved you the pain of having the bone reset.”

“Thank heavens for that!”

A short silence ensued and then Francis ventured delicately, “I trust nothing else untoward occurred?”  She was rather shocked, for she had completely misunderstood the implication of his words, “I’ll have you know Mr. Underwood behaved with perfect propriety.  I find it utterly offensive to both him and myself that you should suggest otherwise!”

Rather too emphatic a denial, thought Francis with a hidden smile, it looked as though the charming Mr. Underwood had claimed another victim.  What silly remark had his wife once made about Underwood?  Ah, yes – ‘his smile simply melts one’s bones.’  God only knew what these women saw in him.

“I never intended to suggest anything of the kind, my lady. I know my friend to be a gentleman.  I was referring to the behaviour of your captor, not Underwood.”

She blushed scarlet, painfully aware that she had probably just given herself away, “Oh…I beg your pardon!  Naturally, I assumed…”

“Naturally,” he agreed gravely, “It was a simple error to make.”

“I suppose so – we were…we were thrust into an intimate situation, and not many men would fail to take advantage of that.”

“Of course.  Now, is there anything you need to tell me?”

“Are you asking if I was …raped?”  Her voice sank to a whisper.

“I’m afraid I am.  I do apologise, but I am a doctor and these things do have a bearing.”

“Then I can assure you I was not.”

“Good.  Your father will be relieved to have you restored to him, but I don’t think it will be possible for you to travel tonight.  His raptures must wait until tomorrow.”

Her face was a picture of astonishment, “My father?  My father is in Hanbury?”

“He is – bearing a gun with which he intended to frighten Underwood down the aisle with you, or failing that, shoot him like a dog!”

“Oh, dear God!  What idiocy is this?”

“Merely an adoring parent.  There is no greater idiocy in the world than that of a man protecting his daughter.  Underwood is about to learn that very lesson.”

“I am undone!  Who else knows of my disappearance?”

“The whole town, I’m afraid.”

“Could not Mrs. Rogers have kept silent?  How could she be foolish enough to spread this story about?”

“My dear girl, you are the daughter of an Earl – do you really imagine your every move is not noted by society?”

She buried her face in her hands and began to weep, the strain of the past few days finding an outlet at last.  Francis laid a comforting hand on the bowed head, then went in search of brandy.

*

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

(“Oleum Addere Camino” – To make bad things worse – Literally to pour fuel on the stove)

It seemed that half the inhabitants of Hanbury braved the weather the following morning to fight their way through the door of Windward House, which was proving itself to be aptly named.

Toby and Mrs. Trent made refreshments whilst Underwood battled to remove three days’ growth of beard, resolutely refusing to appear before his guests in anything less than perfect condition.

He had bathed the evening before, despite bone-weariness, a still present chest cold and aching head, but he had been defeated by his beard.  Francis had examined his skull and had decided that too much time had passed to make any attempt at stitching the wound.  Mother Nature had sealed the cut more cleanly than he could ever have done, and any scar would be hidden by his hair – “Unless you go bald!” he had added, much to Underwood’s chagrin.  He washed his hair rather gingerly, just the same, and was immensely relieved when contact with hot water did not re-open the gash.  The thought of letting Francis near him with his range of lethal-looking instruments was more terrifying than the original thwack on the head.

Cara slept very late.  She too had bathed, but far from relaxing her, the hot water had invigorated her to such an extent that she had lain, unsleeping, for the majority of the night.  The strange surroundings, the tiny uncomfortable bed and most of all the sound of the tiny baby wailing in the early hours had all conspired to leave her utterly drained.  She fell asleep just as dawn was beginning to creep over the edge of her windowsill.  Mrs. Trent looked in, smiled, and crept away again.

When he was satisfied with his appearance, Underwood donned his paisley dressing gown and wandered downstairs into the parlour, astounded to be confronted by so many familiar faces.  He accepted the good wishes of his guests, both for the safe arrival of his daughter and his own deliverance from peril, but was then swamped beneath a deluge of questions and news.

Dr. Herbert, who had spent an uncomfortable night on the settle in the kitchen, thinking longingly of his crisp white sheets, attempted to help him answer all the enquiries regarding the abduction, secretly hoping that by doing so, he might rid the house of at least a few of the visitors.

Mr. Gratten, Dr. Russell, Mrs. Rogers and Jeremy James all wanted to know who had committed the outrage.  Underwood shifted uncomfortably in his seat and threw a glance towards the doctor.  Francis lifted a quizzical brow.  He had been told the evening before and was still trying to come to terms with the knowledge.  Underwood had no choice but to tell the truth, “I fear I was quite wrong to blame Rogers for any of the incidents which so distressed Verity.  There was only one man behind them all – though I doubt he killed Rogers.”

“Or Conrad?” intercepted Mr. Gratten.  Francis had failed to provide this piece of information and so it was a stunned Underwood who asked, “Conrad is dead?”

“The same way as Rogers,” supplied Francis brusquely, cursing his folly in forgetting to provide his companion with warning of this particular shock.

“Indeed?”

Gratten was furious with the doctor for stemming the flow of information, for he could see that Underwood’s mind was now on an entirely different track, “Yes, yes!  But that can be dealt with later.  Go on with your story, Underwood.  Who is this fellow?  And are you sure he could not be our murderer?”

The slightest frown drew Underwood’s brow together; “I cannot imagine so.  What possible reason could he have?”  He spoke almost musingly, as though turning over the possibilities in his mind, and Gratten grew increasingly irritated, “How in Hades can we know, if you will not tell us who it is?”

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Underwood could not suppress a smile.  Gratten was in incorrigibly impatient.

“I beg your pardon, sir.  But even when I tell you the name, it will mean nothing to you.  The boy – young man, I should say, is called Harry Wynter.  Though, more properly he ought to be calling himself Hazelhurst.”

Only Francis knew who he was.  Gratten, Dr. Russell, Mrs. Rogers and Jeremy all looked suitably mystified; “Who the devil is he?”

Underwood swiftly explained how he had solved the sad case of a murder in the small Pennine village of Bracken Tor two years before.  It had been where he had met Verity, but not before he had been briefly engaged to Harry’s sister Charlotte.  The revelations of Underwood’s investigation had caused Harry’s father to blow his brains out with his own gun, his elder sister had died in a lunatic asylum and Charlotte had married the new heir, who had replaced the disinherited Harry, merely to keep a roof over her head.

“No wonder he hates you,” muttered the eternally unhelpful Gratten.  He could not have hurt Underwood more had he taken a knife and slashed open his heart.  He had been immensely fond of Charlotte and grateful to her for teaching him how to love again after years of seclusion.  Francis could gladly have punched him in his unbridled mouth.

Dr. Russell looked astounded, “But you were so sure it was Godfrey, Underwood.  How could you be so utterly wrong?”

One glance at Underwood’s devastated expression told Francis that this conversation had gone far enough, “Be reasonable, gentlemen.  Underwood is not a seer.  And he accused no one, merely speculated.  After two years of silence, how could he possibly know Harry Wynter would decide to wreak his revenge?  Now, I suggest we all have other things to do.  Gratten, you have Harry to find and arrest, Dr. Russell, you may take Mrs. Rogers home.  She has good news to carry to her guest, the earl.”

Mrs. Rogers looked stricken with guilt, “Oh, good heavens!  Dr. Russell and I were so eager to get here that I quite forgot him.  I left him sleeping.  How could I have been so thoughtless?  He was frantic with worry over Cara and I have left him in ignorance of her safe return.”

With that she was gone, entirely forgetting that she had intended to visit Verity and the baby.

Jeremy James quickly realized that these departures would mean that the discussion would swiftly turn to thoughts of murder, and since he had experienced more death and gore in his army days than he cared to recall, he wheeled his chair to the door and roared for Toby.

“Be a good fellow and help me up the stairs,” he said, when the big black man made his appearance, “Mrs. Underwood must be pining for the sight of me.”  Toby grinned good-naturedly and hoisted the ex-soldier into his arms, “You’ll brighten her up, sir, no doubt of that, but if you wake the baby, you’ll be sorry.”

Left with Dr. Herbert and Gratten, Underwood recovered himself sufficiently to ask a few questions of his own, “You seem to think Conrad was killed by the same hand as Rogers, Francis.  May I ask why?”

“The entry wound was almost exactly the same.  God knows what the weapon was.  Long and thin, like a stiletto, but who the devil carries around a dagger or knife like that?  It would not be the easiest thing to conceal.”

“No other clues?”

“Not a thing – except the similarities of the places where the deed was done.  A quiet back lane, not far from the high road, but far enough to make observers unlikely.”

“No messages, letters in his pockets, to indicate he had gone to meet someone?”

“Nothing.”

“Has anyone made enquiries at his lodgings to ascertain whether he had a visitor with whom he might have arranged a meeting?”

“My assistant Turner is questioning all who knew Conrad even as we speak.  I should have more news for you later in the day.”

“And I have another post mortem to perform, so I should also have information for you later,” added Dr. Herbert.

“Then I suggest we meet this afternoon at Gratten’s,” said Underwood decisively.  His head was beginning to ache again.

Upstairs they heard the baby set up an anguished wail and Verity’s voice rose above the clamour, “Toby, take this rapscallion away!  I knew he would wake her.”

Toby passed them in the hall, grinning, “I trust there is room in your carriage for Major Thornycroft and his chair as well as Dr. Herbert, Mr. Gratten, sir.  He sent his hired hack away in the hopes of being invited to stay for dinner.”

*

It was noon before Cara finally made her way downstairs and joined Underwood in the parlour.  He was alone and seemed, to her eyes, curiously despondent for a man who had just become the father to a beautiful baby girl, but she could not bring herself to ask him the reason why this should be so. 

It was foolish, but she suddenly felt shy of him, as though the past few days had been a dream, or something which had happened a long time ago and was barely remembered.  It had vanished entirely, that easy intimacy they had shared; gone when they had walked through the door of windward House and the cry of a new born babe had forced her to acknowledge Verity existence as a living, breathing woman, whom Underwood loved and wanted and had for his own.  Theirs was the intimacy now, their being together the reality and all Cara would ever have of him were the memories of those few precious weeks of careless flirtation and desire, and those hours she had spent, cradling his head in her lap, thinking that when he woke, hers would be the first face he saw and her name the first word he spoke.

No longer was he her fascinating, infuriating Underwood – now he was that terrible, forbidden thing – another woman’s husband!  She could scarcely credit now that she had been so stupid, so arrogant as to imagine he was free and that she need not enquire into his circumstances.

It took all her will-power and her courage to smile charmingly and speak to him as though her heart were not bruised and battered by her long night of anguish and self-recrimination, “Good morning, Mr. Underwood.”

He turned slightly in his chair at the sound of her voice, for he had not heard her enter, so engrossed was he in his own thoughts.  When his eyes met hers she felt her stomach contract with an excitement she could neither suppress nor control.  He smiled that slow, lazy smile, with which, she suddenly realized with a slight shock, he could have bedded her in an instant had he so wanted.

“Good day,” he seemed a little hesitant himself, she was glad to notice.  How much more difficult would this conversation have been had he been his usual, insouciant self.  “I trust you managed some sleep?  Last’s night couch must have been slightly softer than the one we shared.”

“A little,” she agreed, wishing she could think of something witty to say; anything to break down the barrier between them and allow her to hide behind merry laughter, so that he need never know how the inanity of their exchange was stinging her pride and breaking her heart.

“Have you eaten?”

“Yes, thank you.  Mrs. Trent brought me breakfast in bed.”

“Did she indeed?” he grinned, only too aware how great an honour this was, “You may thank your title for that concession.  It has done no end of good for her standing with her cronies that we have a real Lady staying in the house.”

Strangely, instead of being diverted by this sally, as he had intended, she was more inclined to be annoyed, “Oh, how foolish people are!  How can they imagine a title makes any difference to the sort of person I am?  I’m sure I am exactly the same as everyone else.”

She could see he was vastly amused by the emphasis she placed on her words, but there was nothing she could do now to withdraw them, so she subsided into a blushing silence.  His next words made her cheeks burn redder still, “No one would dare to say you were
exactly
the same, my dear, especially in view of your remarkable courage over the past few days.”

Her only excuse for what followed was that she was feeling tired and emotional.  Tears sprang unbidden into her eyes and her voice broke on a small sob as she replied, “Don’t… pray, say anything more…”

He crossed the room and led her solicitously to a chair, the expression of concerned affection on his face causing the tears to flow in good earnest.

“I do apologize, Cara – and not just for being so careless as to remind you of an exceptionally traumatic experience.  I am fully cognisant of my own responsibility in causing you to become involved in this sorry coil at all.  God alone knows why Harry should have chosen you for his victim.  I know I managed to place Verity out of his reach, but why the devil he should then have chosen to abduct you is entirely beyond my comprehension.”

Cara, of course, was fully aware of the reason and could only send heartfelt gratitude to Providence that he, alone of all Hanbury, was too blind to see what she had evidently made painfully apparent to everyone else – that she was in love with him.  She wiped away her tears on a scrap of lawn which was woefully inadequate for the task, “Do you think I might be allowed to meet Verity – I mean Mrs. Underwood – before I return to town.”  It was the last thing she wanted, but there was no choice.  To avoid her would cause even more comment.

“Certainly.  I will go and see if she is free now.”  He was only too eager to make his escape; he abhorred the feeling of helplessness and ineptitude which assailed him whenever he was confronted by a weeping woman.

Walking up the stairs and into the room occupied by her unknown and unwanted hostess was one of the most difficult things Cara had ever been forced to do.  She knew, beyond any shadow of doubt, that had some flighty young thing been after her own husband, she would have seen through any subterfuge in a second!  It was terrifying to think that this woman’s welcoming smile was going to turn, in a moment, into a pitying smugness for her own good fortune and Cara’s loss.