Seducing Mr. Heywood (17 page)

“Stand and deliver!”

The chilling words rang out over the quiet country road as two masked highwaymen, pistols in hand, drove the crested carriage over the far shoulder. The Rowley heirs had been scarcely two days on the road, headed in the general direction of Kendal and from there to Lake Windermere, when they were accosted.

John was seated on the box between Horatio and the coachman. William was sleeping in the carriage, and Fred was on horseback alongside. Horatio feinted right, to shield John, as the coachman swerved to keep from overturning; Fred moved his horse forward quickly and took out his pistol, surprising the smaller of the attackers, who dropped his own gun to the ground.

The larger of the two highwaymen turned and raised his weapon toward Fred just as Horatio fired, blowing the pistol from his hand. Meanwhile, the other man leaped from his horse and moved to recover his gun. Fred, confused by the rapid progression of events, was uncertainly turning his pistol toward first one of the highwaymen and then the other.

Pulling himself together, the bigger man swore, groping for another loaded pistol from the wide leather belt about his waist. He fired with his left hand, and Fred fell from the horse. William, from inside the carriage, now began to shout.

“John! What is happening?” he screamed, his small face pale at the window of the coach.

John leaped recklessly from the box toward the bigger of the two highwaymen. He knocked him down, causing his mount to rear. The ruffian swore, cuffing the boy hard on the side of his head. John whimpered, then lay very still on the rocky ground. William continued to scream as the coachman struggled to contain the frightened horses. Horatio was still attempting to reload his pistol as the smaller highwayman fired, grazing his upper arm. The footman dropped his gun.

Flinging open the carriage door, one of the villains grabbed William by the nape of his neck, ignoring the
boy’s violent kicking. The other man picked up John with one hand and the reins of Fred’s horse with the other. He flung the boy across the horse’s back and sped off, heading back toward Yorkshire, closely followed by his companion. The other man was struggling with the burden of the kicking and cursing William.

Fred and Horatio, both bleeding from their wounds, stared after them helplessly as, despite the driver’s efforts, the coach wavered, then overturned, wheels spinning in a mangle of screaming horses, hooves and limbs flailing the air.

High overhead, the shrill cry of a skylark pierced the early morning air, cutting the abrupt silence.

Chloe would not die, not if Sophia could possibly prevent it.
Such a sweet, pretty child
, she thought. Chloe’s harsh breathing was the only sound in the modest bedroom of the farm cottage. Sophia mopped the fevered little brow, tenderly smoothing the wet curls of dark hair.

“Chloe, my dearest,” she crooned, “Chloe—”

The door opened quietly and Lizzie peered into the dwindling twilight. “My lady, how is she?” she inquired.

Sophia looked up, and Lizzie seemed taken aback at the sight of her mistress. After two sleepless nights, Lady Sophia was pale and haggard. “Shall I sit with her now, my lady? You need some rest—”

“No!” Sophia whispered, her voice low but fierce. She would not leave the child’s side. After all her hours of nursing, Sophia would not leave her.

Lizzie persisted. “My lady, the doctor is here. He says you will become ill yourself if you do not rest—”

“Time enough for rest when this child’s fever breaks. Do you have the herbal tea your mother prepared?” Sophia would not be moved.

Lizzie nodded. “She brewed it with feverfew and rosehips. Can you get the wee one to take it?” She looked down at the still child. “Her lips be so dry—”

“Sponge her face and chest, and I will try to spoon tea down her throat.” Sophia reached up for the cup of hot liquid.

Heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs. Sophia winced. The doctor was a big man; his heavy feet announced his approach. “Tell that idiot not to make so much noise!” she ordered her servant.

Lizzie gulped. “Me, my lady?”

Sophia sighed in exasperation. “Just wring out that cloth with cold water and wipe the child’s body.” Sophia rose and went to the door.

“Mr. Alcott!” She spoke in a loud whisper. “Do be quiet!”

Lewis stood at the head of the stairs. He looked worn out, his broad face stubbled with two days’ growth of beard. “Lady Rowley, why are you still here? I sent Lizzie to relieve you. You must sleep! The Browns are convalescing and should be up and about in a day or two, but you—”

“I am not at all tired, sir,” Sophia lied, her ravaged face telling the truth her words would not.

The surgeon rolled his eyes heavenward. “Where in Hades is that bloody vicar when he is needed?” he wondered aloud.

“What has Mr. Heywood to do with this?” Sophia bristled, annoyed at the profanities.

“He seems to be able to speak some sense to you occasionally,” Lewis retorted, annoyed.

“You need not shout, sir,” Sophia glared at him.

Lewis adjusted his spectacles, pushed the hair back from his face, and reached for Lady Sophia.

“How dare you!” she whispered harshly, ineffectually beating her fists against him as he forcefully dragged her downstairs.

It was the worst week Charles had experienced since the death of Baron Rowley.

Three people in the village and its environs had died swiftly from the contagion. One was an elderly man in his ninth decade of life, another the child of wealthy landowners, the last a young farmer’s wife. At times like these, his own comforting platitudes made no sense to him, sounding hollow and false. He prayed for the souls
of the departed and hoped there would be no more deaths.

Lewis was a tower of strength, marshalling help from all around, exhorting neighbor to help neighbor. Servants from Rowley Hall had taken the lead, following the example of their mistress. Mrs. Mathew and Mrs. Chipcheese had kept everyone—invalids and caregivers—fortified with calf’s foot jelly, broths of chicken and beef, and other strengthening foods, the nourishing fare delivered by maidservants in baskets and footmen on horseback throughout each day.

Charles intended to check on the Browns, who’d been among the first to fall ill. He was worried about their child, Chloe. He wondered where Sophia was; all he knew was that she had left with Lewis. He prayed that she was all right; putrid sore throat was deadly.

As he drew up to the Browns’ farmhouse, he heard voices raised in anger. Puzzled, he tied his horse’s reins to a post and went inside, where he found Lady Sophia pointing her finger at the embattled surgeon, her wrath terrible to behold. Both looked exhausted and unkempt: clothes rumpled, hair tangled, faces drawn.

“My lady!” Charles called out. “What is amiss?”

Sophia turned toward the vicar. He thought she had never looked more beautiful. His breath caught in his throat.

“Tell your friend,” she said through clenched teeth, “that I am going back upstairs to be with that child! He has no right to order me from her bedside.”

Lewis seemed beaten-down. He threw up his hands in disgust. “You deal with her, Charles. I have had enough!” He turned and again ascended the staircase to the sickroom.

Charles caught Sophia’s flailing hands. She was beside herself. “Charles, oh, Charles.”

“Easy now, my lady. Let Lewis see to the child,” he soothed her, his voice low and gentle.

“Charles, you look dreadful.” Sophia brushed his cheek, feeling the rough stubble.

“I am fine.” He caught her hand and kissed it on the palm. She closed her eyes and shivered.

“Sophia? Are you unwell?” Charles was suddenly concerned. Her body swayed against his.

Bloodshot eyes blinked open. “I am just tired—” she began to explain.

“We all are, my dear. You must try to sleep a little.” He led her to a low bench by the unlit fireplace.

“But…Chloe…I must see to her,” she protested.

“Lie down, love, I will go upstairs and see how she fares, I promise. Now rest, please.”

Lewis Alcott raced down the stairs, taking them two and three at a time and looking fair to break his neck.
“The child!”
he shouted.

Sophia roused quickly.
“No!”
she screamed, running to the surgeon in terror.

“Nay, my lady, do not despair! The child’s fever is broken, thanks be to God. She will recover. Lizzie is with her and will not leave her bedside. It is you yourself who must rest now.” He looked meaningfully at the vicar. “Charles, will you not take Lady Rowley home?

“I don’t want to leave,” Sophia stated flatly. From behind her, Charles shrugged his shoulders.

“My lady, as your physician, I would prescribe bed rest for several hours at least.” He winked at Charles, out of her sight. “Can you see to my lady’s bed rest, Vicar?” he asked.

If it were not such a joyful moment, due to the miraculous recovery of the young girl, Charles would have planted a facer on the grinning face of Lewis Alcott. The man went too far! But he decided to ignore the surgeon’s insulting double entendre and took Sophia’s arm.

“Come, my lady, I will stay here with you while you rest.” He indicated the comfortable-looking bench, padded with blankets and pillow. Exhausted, but now relieved of worry for the child, Sophia nodded and allowed herself to be led to the resting place.

As he settled her, Charles glared at his friend, muttering sotto voce, “When this is all over, Lewis, I swear to you that we shall have it out!”

“I look forward to dancing at your wedding,” Lewis grinned, as Charles snorted. “And now, forgive me, but I still have patients to attend.” He fetched his bag and took his leave, whistling a jaunty tune.

Dancing at his wedding, indeed! Lewis Alcott never ceased to tease, even during these perilous times. Perhaps it was the only defense the man had in the face of death and disease. Perhaps Charles should cultivate more understanding and not be so quick to judge, though the surgeon’s comments were often unwelcome.

He looked down at Sophia, now asleep, the lines of worry erased from her brow. Charles smoothed the lank tendrils from Sophia’s face and sighed wearily. His heart ached with love for her, a love that was perhaps also unwelcome, if not thoroughly ill advised.

The dilapidated, unused barn was in a desolate area not far from Roslyn Town. The highwaymen had ridden hard and arrived before nightfall, carrying the two boys. John was still comatose from the hard blow to the side of his head, and William had grown weary of struggling. Trussed with rope, they were tossed onto a pile of rotting hay and left alone while the two men went to eat and drink at the Cock and Bull and await the nobleman who’d engaged their services.

Arthur Coats, the younger and smaller of the men, addressed his companion in crime. “Bert, be we holdin’ the lads fer ransom, then?” he asked.

Bert Coats, his cousin, guffawed. “Ransom! Be ye out o’ yer mind?”

Arthur’s worst fear surfaced. “Ye would not
kill
’em?”

Bert turned to him in disgust. “Yer too soft. That was what I agreed with the toff.”

“Bert! Did ye not see the crest on that carriage? They be Baron Rowley’s lads!”

“So?” Bert was not impressed.

Arthur was beside himself. “The baron was good to us, Bert. Have ye forgotten, man? He was good to all his folk.”

“The baron’s gone to God, as we all will, as his sons will, shortly,” Bert responded, laughing in appreciation of his cruel remark.

No
, Arthur thought,
no.
He would not be a part of this. He took the heavy pistol from his belt and clipped his older, stronger cousin on the back of the head. With a strangled oath, Bert fell to the ground. Arthur dismounted and hit him again, then tied Bert’s hands behind his back. After relieving him of his pistols, boots and horse, Arthur Coats rode back to the rundown barn.

The earl sensed that something was very wrong. The highwaymen had not returned to the tavern with proof that the boys were dead, as planned. No one seemed to know where they were, and the innkeeper averted his gaze when questioned. Frustrated, Dunhaven left the premises, swearing to have the villains’ gizzards on a spit. What was he to do now? It was entirely possible that the gallows rats had taken his blunt and fled the county. His threat to them was idle; he had no idea where they were. How could he run them to ground? Or perhaps the plan had gone awry. That younger man had seemed unwilling.

Maybe it was time to switch to his alternative plan. He had a bad feeling about the situation and he had learned over the years to trust his instincts. Perhaps he should flee, but he vowed not to leave empty-handed. If the truth were revealed, ’twas a dead surety Rowley’s penny-pinching lawyer would turn off his annual allowance. He needed to replace it somehow.…

Lord Brent was inexpertly milking cows at the Harlow farm, much to the amusement of Joan. She admitted, though, that he was trying hard to accomplish the task. The cows were cooperating; they even seemed to enjoy it. Well, she thought, they were female, after all, and Brent was a handsome fellow! She noted, too, that the hens never pecked him when he collected their eggs. Neither would she, if she were a hen, that was!

Charles had persuaded Sophia to return to Rowley Hall for a bath and a change of clothing. She acquiesced only after seeing with her own eyes that little Chloe was
improving. She sat by the child’s bed and spoke to her softly, assuring her that she would return to tell stories of princesses and fairy gold.

She insisted on entering through the servants’ entrance, so she could ascertain the well-being of her staff. “I am concerned that they are driving themselves too hard.”

Charles countered, “No harder than you have worked yourself, my lady.”

Sophia raised tired eyes to meet his. “How can I ask them to do what I will not do myself?”

For a moment, it seemed that he heard the voice of the late baron. It was something that man would have said himself! Recovering his aplomb, he agreed, “Of course, my lady, you are right.”