Evelyn Richardson (30 page)

The day dragged on. Noontime came and went. Cook reluctantly served luncheon, but there was still no Lady Frances. By this time the twins were beginning to worry. It was so unlike their elder sister to be gone so long on an errand that should not have taken outside of an hour or two. “Perhaps she stopped in the village,” Cassie suggested. “I heard her say that Mrs. Stubbs's youngest had the mumps.'' The only response she got from her brother was a look of pure scorn.

By teatime they were seriously alarmed, but they allowed Higgins to serve it as usual, just in case Frances should arrive tired and thirsty, looking forward to it. But both of them felt they couldn't eat a bite. Just as Higgins was setting down the bread and butter, there was a scratch at the door and in bounded Wellington and Nelson, both rather the worse for wear, but ecstatic to be home again.

“Wellington, you scamp,” cried Cassie, hugging the bedraggled body close and surreptitiously feeding him a thickly buttered scone. “Whatever have they done to you? Freddie, look. The rope has rubbed his neck raw, and look at this cut over his eye. You look dreadful, Wellington, you really do.”

The little dog was disappointed to hear her say so. He'd evaded no fewer than two Gypsy mongrels, nasty snapping beasts with gaping jaws and sharp teeth. He thought the cut gave him quite a rakish appearance. It lent a definite air of distinction. Nelson's game eye was also slightly puffy. He'd been dealt a swipe by one of the dogs in the fray. His already tattered ears looked to be even more so, but he seemed to be quite cheerful, and ever so proud of having discharged his old debt in rescuing his friend. It had been his perseverance and sharp teeth that had finally severed the rope and freed his companion.

The animals allowed themselves to be welcomed and fussed over for a little while, but it soon became plain that theirs was unfinished business. Wolfing down a final scone, Wellington headed for the door and barked peremptorily. “Freddie, he knows where Frances is. He's going to show us,” whispered Cassie excitedly.

“Of course he does. Just a minute, Wellington. I must get a gun.”

“Freddie Cresswell! When did you ever learn to handle a gun?” his sister demanded suspiciously.

“Well, I don't say I've ever killed anything, but I can hit a target most of the time,” came the defensive reply.

“Stuff! Those Gypsies can throw their knives farther and faster than you can hit anything with that. I tell you what. I think we want a grown-up.”

Her brother protested. “Cass, they'll just rant and rave about how children don't know what's to do and that their place is in the schoolroom, and then we'll never get to Frances before the Gypsies. Besides, we'll miss all the excitement because they'd never let us join them in looking for her.”

“We don't want just any adult. We want...” Cassie thought for a moment. “We want Lord Mainwaring!” she exclaimed triumphantly. Much as it cost him to admit, Freddie grudgingly agreed that Mainwaring was the perfect solution, and the two, having scrawled a brief note intended to reassure Aunt Harriet and the staff, headed off toward Camberly with Wellington and Nelson in tow.

The marquess had just stepped into the library to go over some household accounts when the butler Chamberlain announced, “Master Frederick Cresswell, Miss Cassandra Cresswell to see you, sir.” He hid his surprise quite creditably as he ushered them to chairs and asked the butler to bring some tea. “What? You've had yours, have you? Never mind, then, Chamberlain. Oh, yes, hello, Wellington . . . hello, Nelson. Of course I'm delighted to see you all, but if I'm correct, this looks like a deputation with a mission. How did you know I was here?”

Freddie explained their having seen his curricle a few days before and then began hesitantly, “It's about Fan, sir.”

The marquess raised one mobile eyebrow, a gesture that seemed more indicative of surprise than interest.

“Well, it's like this, sir. We think the Gypsies have kidnapped her.”

Both brows went up. There was no doubt as to the expression now. It was one of patent disbelief.

“I know it sounds like nonsense, sir, but Wellington disappeared and, having heard that Gypsies were in the area. Fan thought, we all thought, they might have stolen him. So she went to look for him. And they must have—stolen him, I mean—and done something to Fan, because here he is and Fan hasn't shown up for luncheon or tea and her note said she left very early this morning to look for him. So you see, I think Wellington escaped but she's a prisoner somewhere because just look at the rope around Wellington's neck. Both he and Nelson appear to have been in a scuffle, and now they keep trying to get us to follow them.”

“Arf!” Wellington confirmed the veracity of Freddie's suspicions.

During the discussion. Lord Mainwaring had gone from being slightly incredulous at such a wild tale to thoughtful, and now he looked distinctly forbidding. “I think, wildly improbable as this seems, you may be right. Now, and don't argue with me, I shall take Wellington and Nelson with me. You and Cassie must return to Cresswell on the off chance that Frances returns. No! I know you feel you should come with me, and in any other instance I would be glad to have two such plucky companions, but I think it's best if I go alone. It's much easier for a single person to surprise the enemy and rescue someone than it is for a crowd.”

The twins, object though they would, were forced to bow to superior knowledge and experience and admit the sense of this plan. After wishing the marquess luck, they allowed themselves to be persuaded to return to Cresswell. The unadventurousness of this course of action was palliated somewhat by their being driven in his lordship's curricle behind his famous grays.

In the meantime, Mainwaring, Wellington, and Nelson repaired to the stable, where his lordship's powerful hunter was quickly saddled. He would have preferred to take a carriage, as Lady Frances might be in no shape to ride, but after nearly a day's delay there was no time to be wasted. It had taken a bit of doing to convince Wellington and Nelson that the twins were putting the responsibility for the search for Frances into the marquess's capable hands, but at last they understood and were soon bounding along a few feet in front of him and Brutus, feeling extremely important.

The early evening was as lovely as the morning had been when Lady Frances set out. Soft light was slanting across ripening fields, bathing them in gold, and a light breeze was stirring the leaves. The marquess, his eyes fixed on the small figures leading him, barely noticed his surroundings. The grim set of his jaw and worried line of his dark brows revealed the unpleasant turn of his thoughts. If only she had gone to the squire or one of the local farmers instead of charging off completely on her own. How foolish and how very like her, in the interests of efficiency and speed, to take the entire problem immediately on herself without stopping to consult anyone. Though he cursed her for having put herself in such danger, Julian admired the spirit that had prompted it. His face softened as he thought of the self-reliance and the willingness to tackle and solve whatever unpleasantness came her way. And once again he, who could do so much to help her, had been unable to spare her. At least this time he could still do something. But what state was she in? Had the Gypsies, fearing the law, decamped already and taken her with them? How had they kept her from escaping? A lady as resourceful as Lady Frances would be difficult to detain without resorting to some sort of violence or drugs or both. He could not bear the thought of any of it.

After what seemed miles and hours of agonizing over Frances' possible state, he and Brutus nearly stumbled over Wellington and Nelson, who had stopped to reconnoiter before advancing cautiously on a tumbledown shack that at one time must have held laborer's tools. The four approached carefully, but there was no sound or sight of any guard. There was no sound of Frances either. Most likely, the marquess thought bitterly, the Gypsies, panicked by what they had done, had gone off as quickly and inconspicuously as possible, leaving her to her fate. From Wellington's eager look it appeared as though she were still in there. Mainwaring dismounted, tied Brutus to a tree, ordered Wellington and Nelson to remain out of the way, and advanced warily on the hut.

There was a rusty lock hooked through an equally rusty hasp on the door, but these were easily broken with one well-placed kick. The door burst open and the marquess stood aside, fists raised. His powerful shoulders and businesslike stance proclaimed him more than a match for any Gypsy guard. None appeared, so he stepped in. As his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he saw Frances in the far corner. Her hands and feet were bound, and a dirty handkerchief gagged her, but at the sound of an intruder she struggled into as combative a position as possible, her eyes blazing defiance.

“My poor girl,” he exclaimed. With one stride Mainwaring crossed the hut and knelt beside her to untie the gag that was painfully tight around her head.

She gasped for air and then in her coolest drawing-room voice inquired, “Whatever are you doing here, my lord?”

“I thought I was rescuing you,” he replied, busy with the cords at her hands and feet.

It took all her willpower not to collapse when they were loosened, but she was damned if she were going to reveal the slightest weakness to her rescuer. In the past few minutes Frances' emotions had run the full gamut, from fear, to relief, to something else that she refused to recognize.

When she had first come to her senses after her capture, Frances had been too weak to do anything. Her head throbbed so much it had been impossible even to think. Gradually, though, she had felt better and had done her best to try to undo the ropes at her hands and feet. All her twisting and wriggling of her extremities had only succeeded in chafing the skin badly and not loosening them the slightest bit. At the outset she had been certain that the Gypsies would eventually recognize her and release her, but as no one came, she concluded they must be writing a ransom note of some son. She had not been too afraid, only uncomfortable and thirsty. The day dragged on. She had kept track of the sun's passage through a hole in the roof, thinking hopefully of the note she had left back at Cresswell. Surely someone there would rouse the neighborhood and come to the camp in search of her. Still no one came. When far away came the sound of horses stamping, dogs barking, and harnesses jingling, she concluded in despair that the Gypsies were leaving to put as much distance between them and Cresswell as possible before her disappearance was noticed. Try as she would to think of some way to escape or to make her presence known, she could come up with nothing. She could only hope that somehow Freddie or Cassie would remember where the Gypsies had been camping and organize a search party. Certainly they would. Frances had settled down to wait with as much fortitude as she could muster, but her spirits, aggravated by hunger and thirst, would sink, and despite her best efforts, despair would creep up on her. It was when she began to feel her courage at its lowest ebb that the door had burst open and a tall, powerful figure strode in.

Frances had done her best to put on a face of defiance for the intruder, but she was quaking inside. Her biggest fear was that the Gypsies had come to take her off with them in order to thwart any search parties. When she recognized the square jaw and fierce blue eyes of Lord Mainwaring, she had nearly burst into tears of relief. Just in time she had recalled their last meeting and was able to summon up, with her last bit of energy, enough anger to restore her calm. In fact, she was quite proud other coolness as she asked him how he had come to find her.

“Freddie and Cassie had seen my curricle at the White Hart in the village before. When they discovered you were missing, they came to Camberly first to find me as it is closer to Cresswell than the White Hart.” Though he couldn't help admiring the indomitable spirit that gave Frances such calm composure after the ordeal, Mainwaring wished rather ruefully that for once she were less spirited. Looking at the white face and dark circles under eyes large with fatigue, he wanted more man anything to take her in his arms and kiss away the strain of the last hours. But one could hardly comfort a perfectly composed lady who was asking in the most rational way about the events leading to her release. For a moment he had felt sure he'd seen her face light up when she had recognized him. For an instant he had been sure the gladness he had seen in her eyes had been for himself and not just any rescuer. But now, agonizingly, he wasn't sure, and a corroding sense of disappointment and sadness washed over him. Could it be that he really was nothing more to her man just another London Corinthian to be danced with and then dismissed with scorn for his frivolous tendencies?

Fortunately for both parties, at this juncture Wellington, who despite Lord Mainwaring's firm command to stay could contain his impatience no longer, burst excitedly into the hut, heading straight for Frances and covering her face with reassuring licks. It was too much. The strain, followed by the relief at being rescued, and now the joy at finding Wellington unharmed, completely overset Frances and she burst into tears. Mainwaring pulled her gently to her feet and gathered her in his arms, murmuring into her hair, “Oh, my poor love. Hush, now. It's all over. My poor dear.”

Frances had had no idea that a solid chest and strong arms could be so comforting. For some minutes she stayed there giving herself up to the soothing effect of his strength and the feel of his hands as he gently smoothed her hair. At first she had been totally incapable of stopping the tears that poured down her cheeks, but gradually, under Mainwaring's comforting influence, she became calmer.

Julian felt the tension slowly drain out of her, but he continued to hold her thus, his cheek resting against her hair, relishing the feeling of her in his arms at last. But then, looking down at the tousled head on his chest, he asked softly, “Why did you run away?” She remained silent, head bent. “Frances?” He forced her to look up at him, tilting her chin with long fingers.

She at last looked up to see him regarding her with a more serious expression in his eyes than she had ever seen before. Unable to sustain the intensity of his gaze, she dropped hers. “I. . . There was something at Cresswell that had to be dealt with right away.” A slight blush crept into her pale cheeks.