Sheri Cobb South (19 page)

* * * *

When Lady Helen awoke the next morning to find herself alone in the bed, she could only assume that Sir Aubrey had not yet run his quarry to earth. Distressing as the thought was, it was more comforting than the ominous possibility that he had overturned his phaeton, and that her husband was at that moment lying dead in a ditch somewhere along the Great North Road.

Remembering Sir Aubrey’s parting instructions to his mother, Lady Helen resolved to assist Lady Tabor in preparing for her departure, even though she was not feeling at all well—the result, no doubt, of a troubled night spent listening for the sound of her husband’s footsteps in the hall below. Slipping a frilled wrapper over her nightrail, she descended the stairs to the breakfast room, where a number of silver chafing dishes were lined up on the buffet. But Lady Helen had little appetite, and so she spurned heartier fare in favor of a cup of coffee and two slices of toast.

“Good morning, Lady Helen,” said the dowager, already dressed in a blue kerseymere travelling ensemble. “I gather the travellers have not yet returned.”

“I fear you are right, my lady. I only hope Sir Aubrey has not landed them in the ditch.”

“You may rest easy on that head,” replied Lady Tabor, filling a plate from the silver chafing dishes to fortify herself for the journey ahead. “My son may be utterly useless in every other way, but he can drive, as they say, to an inch. I suppose he means to have that girl,” she concluded with a sigh.

“I can assure you, Lady Tabor, the match would not be as unequal as you might think. Mr. Brundy believes her to be a Hanover, on the wrong side of the blanket, of course, and after seeing a certain painting last night at the Pavilion, I am inclined to agree with him.”

“Much as it galls me to agree with your husband, I fear I must. I wonder which one is the father? Clarence, I daresay; he’s proven himself quite proficient at that sort of thing.”

Lady Helen was startled into spilling her coffee. “You knew?”

“I thought she looked familiar the first time I saw her. It was not difficult to deduce the rest.”

“But—why didn’t you say so?”

“My dear Lady Helen, one must never comment on a likeness,” replied Lady Tabor, crossing the breakfast room to place her laden plate on the table. “The results can be most embarrassing.”

As the dowager took her place at the table, the aroma of buttered eggs and fried bacon assailed Lady Helen’s nostrils. Her green eyes grew wide with alarm and, clapping one hand over her mouth, she leaped up from the table and ran from the room.

Lady Tabor, fearing the worst, followed quickly in her wake and found her hostess in her bedchamber, somewhat violently emptying the contents of her stomach into a white porcelain washbowl. Without further ado, she led the weak and trembling Lady Helen to sit down at the dressing table.

“I do apologize,” gasped Lady Helen when she had finished retching. “I can’t imagine what came over me.”

“Can you not?” asked Lady Tabor with interest as she bathed the sufferer’s brow with a damp cloth. “I had my suspicions the night you fainted at Lady Belmont’s rout. Tell me, Lady Helen, have you considered that you might be with child?”

It was quite obvious from Lady Helen’s awed expression that she had not considered such a possibility. “Oh, my lady! Do you truly think so?”

“Of course I cannot be certain—you will want to see an
accoucheur
for that—but having borne five children of my own, I would own myself much shocked if I could not recognize that condition when I see it in another woman.”

A baby, marveled Lady Helen. A boy, perhaps, with his father’s brown eyes and soft black curls. She could almost see him in her mind’s eye when Lady Tabor’s voice shattered this picture.

“—remove to Reddington Hall for Christmas and remain there for the birth, as the duke will no doubt wish for his first grandchild to be born there—”

“No, the baby will be born at my husband’s house in Lancashire,” Lady Helen said decisively.

“Lady Helen!” cried the dowager, appalled. “You cannot wish your child to be born practically in the shadow of a cotton mill!”

“As the child will someday own the cotton mill, I think it highly appropriate,” replied Lady Helen placidly.

It was evident that Lady Tabor had not spared a thought for the child’s paternity. “Another weaver!” she said, suppressing a shudder. “Good heavens!”

While a maid saw to the packing of her belongings, Lady Tabor unburdened herself of a great deal of maternal advice which Lady Helen, having no mother to turn to for this sort of information, greedily absorbed. In fact, both ladies were equally disappointed when the marquess arrived to fetch his cousin long before she reached the bottom of her store of wisdom.

While a footman loaded her bags onto the marquess’s crested carriage. Lady Tabor embraced her hostess warmly and bade her a fond farewell. “Though I am convinced that Aubrey would not go so far as to shoot young Sutcliffe, I shall write and tell you the outcome. In the meantime, do take care of yourself, my dear. Pray offer my congratulations to your husband, and give him my thanks for his hospitality, grudging though it was. I suppose you are in love with him—a pity, but I suppose it can’t be helped. If I were thirty years younger, I daresay I should be more than a little in love with him myself.”

Having delivered herself of this astonishing speech. Lady Tabor marched as far as the door, then turned back to fix her hostess with a gimlet stare. “And if you ever intimate to your husband that I said such a thing, I shall deny it with my dying breath!”

* * * *

Darkness fell as Sir Aubrey drew his phaeton to a stop in the yard of the Rose and Crown, a bustling posting-house just outside Harrowgate. They had been on the road for two days, travelled almost two hundred and fifty miles, and although Sir Aubrey made inquiries at every stop, they had yet to apprehend the runaways. Twice they had been told that a young couple fitting their quarry’s description had stopped to change horses, but when pressed, the ostlers could not say with any certainty what time this transaction had taken place. Mr. Brundy’s eminently reasonable suggestion that Sir Aubrey might find his sources more forthcoming if he would restrain himself from seizing them by the throats while making his interrogations fell on deaf ears.

While the ostler harnessed a fresh team to the phaeton, Sir Aubrey and Mr. Brundy went inside in search of refreshment. They had not slept in two days, and Mr. Brundy longed for his bed, but as Sir Aubrey was more than a little crazed by any suggestion that Polly and Sutcliffe might have broken their journey for the night, he wisely held his tongue.

After requesting a repast of bread and cheese (which might be easily consumed on the road), Sir Aubrey got to the business at hand. “Do you recall having seen a young lady and gentleman, oh, about twenty years of age, stop here? The gentleman is dark, the young lady fair-haired and quite pretty?”

“Why, funny you should ask, sir,” remarked the innkeeper, setting down two foaming tankards of ale. “We have such a couple upstairs at this very minute. Wanted a room right hasty. Give me two guineas, they did and no questions asked,” he added, winking broadly at his guests.

Sir Aubrey did not wait to hear more. “What room?” he demanded, on this occasion reserving his more violent questioning techniques for the hapless Sutcliffe.

“Upstairs, fourth room on the right,” volunteered the innkeeper.

Knocking over his chair in his haste, Sir Aubrey quit the taproom and took the stairs two at a time. He counted off the doors until he came to the fourth, then pounded on it with his fist.

“Open up, Sutcliffe! I know you’re in there!”

No one answered, but the sounds of scurrying movements betrayed the presence of more than one occupant.

“If you don’t open up, I’m coming in after her!”

Still no response. Sir Aubrey put his booted foot to the door and kicked it off the hinges. A wide-eyed young lady sat upright in the middle of the bed clutching the sheet to her chin, while her devoted swain waved his fists menacingly at the intruder. Sir Aubrey had never seen either one of them before in his life.

“Oh!” he exclaimed inadequately. “I seem to have made a mistake—I beg your pardon! Do, er, carry on,” he said, and closed the door as best he could.

He turned to discover that he had attracted a small crowd, the primary members of which were Mr. Brundy and the innkeeper.

“You broke my door down!” accused the latter. “You’ll pay me for the damage to my property, if you don’t mind!”

Sir Aubrey made no attempt to refute this charge, but obligingly dug his hands into his pockets. Alas, while these had been plump enough when he had left Brighton two days earlier, the frequent changes of cattle had put a considerable drain on his purse.

“Ethan, if you would be so good as to pay the man for his door, I’ll repay you as soon as we get back.”

Mr. Brundy delved into his own pockets and produced only half a dozen crown pieces and a few pence. “Sorry, Aubrey, but I ‘aven’t got it on me.”

This answer found no favor with Sir Aubrey. “Do you mean to tell me that one of the richest men in England goes about with less than two pounds in his pockets?”

“If I’d known that you intended to drag me up and down the length of England, demolishing posting-’ouses along the way, I’d’ve paid a visit to me banker first,” replied Mr. Brundy, his voice heavy with irony.

“No, you’d have had me committed to Bedlam, and rightfully so,” acknowledged Sir Aubrey with a shaky laugh. “I suppose I shall have to leave the man my watch.”

At first the innkeeper proved resistant, arguing that he ran a posting-house, not a pawnshop. But upon seeing Sir Aubrey’s handsome gold timepiece, he was moved to reconsider. Surely only a man of considerable means would own such a piece, and even if they never returned to redeem it, he should be able to sell it for far more than it would cost to repair his door. Pocketing his treasure, he smiled benignly upon his guests, assured them that all was forgiven, and bowed them from the premises.

Alas, Sir Aubrey’s difficulties were only beginning. The next change of horses relieved Mr. Brundy of the rest of his purse, forcing Sir Aubrey to pawn first his cravat-pin, then his fob, and lastly his signet ring in order to finance the journey. There was no longer any question of stopping for the night, as they had no way to pay for such a luxury, and so they continued to press northward with Mr. Brundy taking a turn at the reins, staving off the slumber that threatened to overtake him by whistling under his breath.

Sir Aubrey, having not been present at the Royal Pavilion, had not been privy to La Dulcianni’s performance, but the tune which Mr. Brundy whistled was well-known.   Sir Aubrey identified it at once, and rounded on his friend.

“Will you stop whistling that damned song?”

As Mr. Brundy had merely chosen the last song to reach his ears, he was somewhat taken aback by this response, but upon recollecting that the popular ditty involved a Gretna marriage, he wisely conceded to his friend’s reasonable, if somewhat vociferously stated, request.

They crossed the bridge over the River Sark and into Scotland as dawn broke, more than thirty-six hours after departing Brighton. From there it was less than a mile to Gretna Hall, an unremarkable edifice save for the unmarked closed carriage drawn up before the door. Sir Aubrey reined in his grays and paused only long enough to remove one of his duelling pistols from its ease before disembarking and striding purposefully toward the door.

“Look ‘ere, Aubrey,” began Mr. Brundy, following hard on his heels, “I don’t pretend to be an expert on
ton
ways, but I’m sure ‘elen would say it’s not all the thing for you to go shooting at your cousin.”

“Stand clear, Ethan,” advised Sir Aubrey. “I shouldn’t want you to get hurt.”

Flinging the door open, he demanded of the landlord the location of the marriage room.  That worthy, who made a handsome living on clandestine marriages, opened his mouth to express his regrets that the marriage room was at that moment occupied, then saw the gun in Sir Aubrey’s hand and thought better of it.

“Y-You’ll f-find it upstairs, sir,” he stammered.

Sir Aubrey dashed up the narrow flight of stairs and paused before a closed door behind which muffled voices could be heard. He flung it open and beheld a young couple standing before a rotund priest. The bridegroom appeared stiff and nervous, and his clothing, though well-tailored, was travel-stained.  The bride, whom he held by the right hand, was dressed in a rumpled gown of dark gray stuff, her riotous red-gold curls determinedly escaping from a prim knot. Sir Aubrey’s throat tightened. How had he ever set foot into that accursed bookstore without noticing her at once? Even in frumpy gray stuff, she was still the most beautiful, the most desirable woman he had ever seen—and she was marrying another man.

“Do you take this woman you hold by the right hand to be your lawful wedded wife?” asked the priest in a rather bored voice, as if he had performed the ceremony so many times that it no longer held any particular interest for him.

Sir Aubrey trained his weapon on his cousin’s head. “Say ‘I do,’ Sutcliffe, and those will be the last words ever to pass your lips.”

Chapter 16

We that are true lovers run into strange capers.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE,
As You Like It

“Sir Aubrey!” gasped Polly, whirling about to see the baronet framed in the doorway. His clothing was rumpled and he needed a shave, but the cold light in his gray eyes was every bit as menacing as the weapon in his hand. Polly’s whole body began to tremble violently, not from fear but from some other emotion she dared not examine too closely. Nevertheless, she held her chin at a defiant angle, and when she spoke, her voice never wavered.

“Is my mongrel blood so objectionable, then, that you would spill your cousin’s before allowing it to be so tainted?”

The lethal light in Sir Aubrey’s eyes was extinguished, and he blinked at Polly. “Good God, woman, is that why you think I am here?”