The Captain's Mysterious Lady (16 page)

‘All being well,' she murmured. ‘You mean so long as we are not held up by high way men.'

‘Mercy me!' Susan gasped. ‘I pray we are not.'

‘Sam is up beside the driver with a blunderbuss,' he told her. ‘Have no fear.'

But Susan's fear was soon superseded by sickness. However good the horses and however comfortable the coach, nothing could make up for the state of the roads. Before long they were obliged to stop for Susan to get out and be sick. Amy stood by her, rubbing her back. ‘Shall we take you back home?' she asked. ‘I would not have you ill on my account for anything.'

‘No, Miss Amy, I am charged with your care and I am not one to neglect my duty, however uncomfortable it might be. I shall do very well now I have got rid of my break fast.' She looked pale as a ghost but would not hear of them abandoning the trip to take her back, so Amy guided her back to the coach with her arm about her shoulders.

James was standing at the door, waiting for them. ‘Would you feel better in the air?' he asked Susan. ‘You could squeeze in between Sam and the coachman.' He looked up at Sam. ‘You would not mind that, would you, Sam?'

Sam grinned. ‘I'd not mind at all, Cap'n, if Miss Bedson have a mind to travel up here.'

Amy looked doubtful, but Susan brightened at the prospect. ‘I think I should like to try it,' she said.

Sam jumped down and helped her up, then climbed back himself, so that the maid was securely seated between the two men. Sam handed Susan a small flask he had taken from his pocket. ‘There, take a swig of that, my lovely, I'll wager it will put the roses back into your cheeks.'

‘You must tell us at once if you want to come back inside,' Amy said, watching a little colour come back into her maid's cheeks, though she suspected that might have been caused by Sam's familiarity.

She resumed her seat in the coach. James got in beside her, shut the door and bade the coachman to proceed.

‘Will she really be better up there?' Amy asked as they moved off.

He smiled knowingly. ‘I am persuaded Sam's company will effect a cure, even if the fresh air and the cognac does not.'

‘We are half an hour behind now. Will we be able to make up the time?'

‘Oh, I think so.' Now he had Amy to himself, he set about allaying any fears she might have by cheerful conversation. He talked of the weather, which was warm and sunny, the state of the roads and where the post horses would be waiting and where they might take refreshments, and the time they might expect to arrive in the capital, to all of which she responded, which he took to mean he had been forgiven.

Even so, he would be in trouble again as soon as she found out he knew about the death of her husband and had not told her. He must find a way of breaking the news to her. Whether that would be enough to bring back her memory he did not know, but what he really wanted was for her to remember everything of her own accord. ‘I can understand you are impatient to go home,' he said, ‘but it will be very late when we arrive and perhaps we should postpone going to Henrietta Street until the morning when you have had a rest.'

‘But where am I to stay?' she asked in alarm.

‘At Colbridge House. My parents will make you wel
come, I am sure, and tomorrow we will go together to your home.'

‘You would come with me?'

‘Most decidedly. We cannot know what we will find. You may have need of me.'

‘I have needed you a great deal lately, Captain, and I wonder you put up with me,' she said gratefully.

‘There is no question of putting up with you,' he said. ‘Your company has been an abiding pleasure that I would not have forgone for anything.' He was, he decided, becoming a veritable gallant, but was nevertheless sincere; to say he enjoyed her company was an understatement—he revelled in it.

‘But you know nothing of me, except what the aunts have told you on the one hand and what Mr Gotobed has said on the other. The two sides do not marry up, do they? Am I as good as the aunts say or as wicked as Mr Gotobed implied?' she asked.

‘I have the evidence of my own eyes and ears,' he said. ‘And if it were not important to you to know the answers to that, I would not care if you never regained your memory. You are Amy, my home maker.'

She laughed. ‘Thank you, Captain.'

‘Do you not think you could call me James? After all, I have been addressing you as Amy for some time now.'

‘So I have noticed.' She smiled. ‘I should perhaps have corrected you, but I did not want to stand on my dignity. After all, I do not think I have a right to expect that formality.'

‘It is not for want of respect,' he said. ‘On the contrary, I respect and admire you for your courage and compassion and the love you bear your aunts, but I have come to know you so well over these last weeks and been privileged to
offer you comfort and protection, that the formal address seemed unnatural. To me you will always be Amy.'

‘Thank you for that. But if I should turn out to be steeped in wickedness, will you still feel the same?' she asked curiously.

‘You are not steeped in wickedness. If there is wickedness it is not of your making, I will stake my oath on it.'

‘You mean you are not taking me back in your role as thief taker?'

‘Heaven forbid! Nothing is further from my mind.'

‘Captain…'

‘James.'

‘James, then. How did a man of your rank in society come to be called a thief taker? Mr Gotobed was scornful when he told me that, as if it were something not quite respectable.'

‘The name was not of my seeking,' he told her. ‘It happened quite by chance that I came upon criminals and ne'er-do-wells in my travels and was instrumental in handing them over to justice. It is not the same as being a thief taker. They make a living by arresting people for the reward put out for them and for that reason are sometimes not as scrupulous as they should be about taking up only those who are guilty.'

‘Yes, that is what Mr Gotobed said. He talked of you manufacturing false evidence…'

‘You do not believe I would stoop to that, do you?' he asked.

‘No, I am sure you would not. But tell me, how did it all start? And how did you come to take on my problems?'

He smiled. ‘I was asked by Lord Trentham, who had been approached by your mama who was worried about you.'

‘Yes, but you could have refused.'

‘I might have done, but I remembered we had already met on the stage coach going to Highbeck. I had often wondered what had happened to you after I left, so I agreed.'

‘I see. And glad I am of it. But why were you on that coach? Highbeck is a remote spot…'

‘I was going to Downham from whence I meant to proceed to Peterborough,' he told her. ‘The coach being held up and then overturning delayed me and my journey was in vain.'

‘I am very sorry for it.'

‘I have had many such abortive journeys. I am become used to it.'

‘You said you were searching for something. Widow Twitch said it was peace of mind and you would find it when you stopped looking for it,' she reminded him.

‘So she did. And maybe she was right, I cannot tell. My peace of mind and the dealing out of justice to two murdering thieves have been inextricably entwined. I was, am, determined to see them hanged—' He stopped speaking, putting a hand to the pin in his neck cloth, struggling with barely re pressed emotions. ‘You see, they killed my wife…'

‘Oh, James, I am so very, very sorry.' She put a hand on his arm. ‘I should not have quizzed you. It was unkind of me.'

‘No. I needed to tell you.'

‘And did you find them?'

‘No, they had gone to ground as they have done time and time again in the last two years. I was obliged to return to London empty-handed. It was then I met Lord Trentham.'

‘Do you mean you gave up the search to help me?' she asked in astonishment.

‘I can return to it later,' he said, grimly.

‘If it is not too painful, would you like to tell me about your wife?' she asked. That he had obviously loved his wife was giving her more than a little heart ache, but her concern for his unhappiness overrode that to some extent and perhaps talking about what had happened might help to ease his mind.

He had never spoken of how he had felt when he learned what had happened to Caroline, though his family and Sam had seen his violent reaction and no doubt guessed. Now he found that unburdening himself to Amy was like balm to his soul. ‘I meant to leave the navy and take up an occupation that kept me at home,' he told her at the finish. ‘If only I had done it sooner, she would still be alive.'

‘You cannot blame yourself,' she told him, so wrapped up in his story, she forgot her own troubles. ‘And when you think about it, it could have happened when you were at home. Your wife needed only to be out shopping when you were busy else where and you would no more have been able to prevent it.'

He smiled, realising quite suddenly that it was guilt which had been driving him the last two years, but, because of Amy, the guilt was finally fading. ‘Bless you,' he said, putting his hand over hers in her lap. ‘You have made me feel easier with myself.'

‘But you are still bent on vengeance?'

‘Vengeance,' he repeated sharply. ‘Is it vengeance to want to see my wife's murderers hang?'

‘Perhaps not, but have you never wondered what she would have thought about it? Would she have wanted you to spend your life chasing after her killers? Would she not have wished you to be happy?' she said gently.

‘I shall be happy when I see them hang,' he growled.

He was not yet ready to listen and she did not press her point home, leaving him to muse upon what she'd already
said. A few minutes later they pulled into an inn to change the horses and they left the coach to take refreshments. Afterwards Amy asked Susan if she wanted to resume her seat in the coach, but she declined, blushing furiously as she did so. ‘I like it up top,' she said. ‘You can see so much more of the countryside and, to be sure, the freshness of the air is helpful for my malady.'

Sam winked at James as he helped her climb back up to her seat, making him smile. He and Amy resumed their seats and their conversation became more general. She was glad he had told her about himself; it made him seem less severe and helped her understand what drove him to do what he did. He was a man who could love deeply and feel pain and anger and she could sympathise with him in that, but her story had yet to be told.

‘W
ake up, Amy.' James gently lifted her head from his shoulder. After gallantly trying to keep awake, she had begun to nod off after the last change of horses and he had slipped his arm behind her to make her more comfortable. He had sat very still, cushioning her against the jolting, careful not to disturb her, but it had given him time to think, to look back over the last few weeks and wonder how much his life had changed. And it was all down to the young woman who slept in his arms. She trusted him and he must not fail her as he had failed Carrie. Amy was right in a way; his being away at sea had no bearing on Carrie's murder. But Amy should not have told him he had allowed his pursuit of vengeance to take over his life; it was too close to the truth to be comfortable. But was she right? Would Carrie have wanted that? Very likely not, he acknowledged, but he could not give up—justice ought still to be done. Those two should not be allowed to go free to kill again.

He eased his arm out from behind her as she stirred into wakefulness. ‘We have arrived.'

She wondered for a moment where she was. The movement of the carriage had stopped and there were lights outside. ‘I was asleep,' she said, surprised at herself. Of late she had been almost afraid to go to sleep for fear of the dreadful night mares, but this time there had been no dreams.

‘Yes.'

‘What time is it?' she asked.

‘Nine o'clock.' The coachman was opening the door and letting down the step. James got out and turned to hand Amy down. ‘Come, let us go inside, you must be tired and hungry.'

The Earl and Countess were away visiting friends in the country, they were told by the footman who admitted them, but James soon had the house hold running round to prepare a light meal and rooms for Amy and Susan, which they went off to do willingly. Amy, still a little dazed, felt sure they were whispering among them selves about who she might be, but as they had taken Susan with them, she supposed they would aim their questions at her. Susan could be relied upon to be discreet.

While that was being done, James took her into the drawing room. ‘Sit down, Amy. Supper will not be long and then you may go to bed. I am sure you are much fatigued.'

‘I am not at all sure this is proper,' she said nervously, looking round at the opulence of the furnishings, the collection of pictures and ornaments. Blackfen Manor had some rare and valuable items, but nothing like this. This was on a grand scale. ‘I do not think I should be here.'

‘Nonsense, where else would you be?'

‘But your parents are from home.'

‘While I am in London it is also my home. And I am sure they would not mind.' In a way he was glad his parents
were away, they would only lecture him about giving up his pursuit of Carrie's killers and marrying again. And they would certainly quiz Amy.

‘I ought to go to my own house. My husband…'

He was about to tell her she had no husband, but realised she was too exhausted to take it in. Tomorrow, when they went to Henrietta Street, she might remember what had happened and he might discover she knew it already. If not, he would break the news to her then. ‘Amy, you are too tired to face that now.'

That was certainly true. She would have asked if she might go straight to bed, but at that moment the butler came into the room.

‘Supper is laid out in the small dining room, sir,' he said, somewhat pompously. Visitors who turned up at this time of night and expected supper without changing out of the clothes they had travelled in were obviously beyond the pale! ‘And Mrs Macdonald's maid is having supper in the kitchen and will go immediately afterwards to the lady's room to await her mistress.'

‘Thank you,' Amy said quietly as James rose to take her hand and tuck it under his arm to go into the dining room where a lavish meal was laid for two. She was too tired and apprehensive to swallow more than a few mouthfuls.

‘Poor dear, you are worn out,' he said, abandoning his own meal and standing up to offer her his hand. ‘Let me show you to your room. Tomorrow we will go to Henrietta Street and then call on your mama, but for now you need to sleep.'

She was thankful that he was not going to press her to eat more, or even talk, and she took his hand and allowed him to conduct her up a fine marble stair case to the first floor, which housed the main reception rooms. ‘You will see those tomorrow,' he said, as they passed on and up
another flight of stairs to the next floor where he stopped outside one of the many doors and opened it. ‘Here you are. I hope you will be comfortable.'

‘I am sure I shall. Goodnight, Captain.'

‘James,' he reminded her.

‘James it was when we were travelling, but we are here in London and must now follow the rules of proper etiquette.'

‘Very well, Mrs Macdonald,' he agreed, smiling. ‘Goodnight.' He lifted her hand to his lips, kissing the back of it and then turning it over to kiss the inside of her wrist. The sensations that coursed through her as he did that did nothing to calm her and everything to set her in a complete quake. In the last twelve hours, coming as they did on top of the weeks of enjoying his company at Highbeck, she had come to know and understand him a little and that confirmed her conviction that her feelings for him were deeper than she ought to entertain, considering she was married to someone else. Without speaking, she pulled her hand away, stepped into the room and shut the door on him, leaning against it breathing heavily. It was only when Susan appeared from an adjoining room that she pulled herself together and tried to act normally.

James stood outside the closed door for a minute, more than a little confused himself. It was becoming harder and harder to stand back from her, to remember his errand and not let his feelings get the better of him. Tomorrow, she would know her husband was dead; tomorrow she might remember everything and when that happened his mission would be accomplished and Amy would go from his life. Instead of making him feel satisfied with a job well done, it made him feel unaccountably low in spirits. He turned abruptly and went back to finish his supper and then went to bed himself.

 

Amy woke early and lay in bed, staring at the luxurious hangings of her bed. She should not be here, staying with a gentleman when his parents were from home. It was scandalous behaviour for any woman, but especially a married one. Today, she might find out the truth about Duncan; today, everything might be revealed and she would have to say goodbye to James Drymore, for his mission would have been accomplished. But supposing what she discovered was something she did not want him to know, something bad about herself? Suddenly, it was important to go alone.

She left her bed and went into the adjoining room to wake Susan and commanded her to pack. ‘We are leaving, now, at once,' she told her.

‘Why, whatever has happened?' the maid asked.

‘Nothing, but I cannot stay here when the answer to the riddle is so close. Make haste, I would be gone before Captain Drymore realises I am out of bed.'

A few minutes later they were standing in the street outside the house, each carrying a portmanteau. ‘Where do we go from here, Miss Amy?' Susan asked. She spoke sharply, being annoyed with Amy for leaving the comfort of a grand house where she could be cosseted and spoiled and thrusting them on to the street with no idea of where they were.

‘Home,' Amy said. ‘Henrietta Street.'

‘And do you know the direction?'

‘No, but we shall go to the end of the road and hire chairs to take us.' Amy was very glad Aunt Harriet had given her a small purse of money before she left.

‘Pin money,' she had said. ‘You cannot expect the Captain to pay for everything, though he is generosity itself.'

 

Twenty minutes later they were standing outside the house she and Duncan had shared and she did not
remember it. It was a vast disappointment. Not because it was so small and squashed between two larger properties, but because she had hoped the sight of the street and the house would make her memory come flooding back. ‘Come on,' she said, steeling herself. ‘Let us discover the worst.'

But the door was locked and no one came when she knocked. They found a passage at the side that led to round to another door at the back, but that, too, was locked.

‘Where are the servants?' Susan asked.

‘With no one here to look after and no one to pay their wages, I have no doubt they left. We shall have to break in.' She picked up a rock and hurled it at a window. The noise it made as the glass shattered had her looking round fearfully. No one came, no irate husband, no curious neighbour.

Using her gloved hand, Amy broke more glass until she had made a sizeable hole.

‘Miss Amy, you are never going to climb in there, are you?' Susan asked.

‘Yes. There is no other way to gain entrance.'

‘I wish we'd waited for the Captain. I don't feel good about this at all.'

Neither did Amy, but she was here and she was not going away until the mystery was solved. She had the upper half of her body through the hole she had made and was wondering how to get the rest of her through without cutting herself on broken glass when someone seized her round the waist. ‘Susan, let go of me,' she commanded. ‘I cannot get in if you pull me back.'

‘Come out, you foolish woman.' The irate voice was certainly not Susan's. She withdrew and turned to face James.

‘Captain, what are you doing here?'

‘Looking for you. Just what do you think you are about?' he demanded.

‘I am trying to get into my own house,' she retorted.

‘Then allow me.' He climbed in and, a few seconds later, opened the door to admit her.

She stepped inside the kitchen to a scene of chaos. The furniture was over turned, crockery smashed and there were what she realised must be blood stains on the floor. She stood like a statue, unable to take in what she saw, hardly able to breathe, though her heart was pumping almost in her throat. ‘I was right,' she whispered. ‘I did this.'

‘Rubbish!' He had seen it before and had known it would shock her, but he had planned to warn her a little before they arrived together, and possibly explain about Duncan's death. He had had no idea she would leave his house without telling him; because he had known how tired she was, he had not been surprised that she had slept late. It was not until one of the footmen told him they had not seen Susan at all that morning, that he had sent one of the chambermaids up to check on them.

His initial annoyance that she had seen fit to leave without saying a word had soon given way to worry. He felt sure she would want to go to her old home, but had she any idea how to get there? Did she have any money? If she tried to walk, she would be at the mercy of any footpad or ne'er-do-well who accosted her. He knew he could run faster than he could be carried in a chair and, grabbing his sword and pistol, came hotfoot after her.

His relief at finding her safe was soon sup planted by concern for how she was feeling. She had turned paper-white and her whole body trembled. He went to take her arm, but she shrugged him off and walked slowly through the house and up the stairs, following a trail of blood. It
ended in the bedroom with blood stained sheets. She stood hanging on to the bed post for support, and suddenly a voice was echoing in her head. ‘Go to Blackfen Manor. I will join you there. Tell no one.'

‘Where is he?' she murmured.

‘Who?' James had followed her, ready to catch her if she swooned, while Susan stood in the doorway, unwilling to venture further into the macabre room.

‘My husband, of course.'

Now he could delay telling her no longer. But how much to say? How much to leave out? ‘Amy, I must tell you something…'

‘About Duncan?' she whispered.

‘Yes. Come down stairs to the drawing room. You cannot stay here.'

She allowed herself to be led away. The drawing room at the front of the house had not seen the carnage of the rest and he settled her on to a sofa, telling Susan, who was almost as white as her mistress, to see if she could find anything in the kitchen to make a drink.

He sat beside Amy. ‘I know a little of what happened,' he told her. ‘But not the whole. I hoped that you might regain your memory sufficiently to tell me the rest.'

‘Do you know where my husband is?'

He swallowed hard and took her hand. ‘Amy, I am afraid Duncan Macdonald is dead.'

‘I knew it. I killed him.' It was said flatly, because she had felt for some time that Duncan was no more. Her frequent night mares seemed to confirm it. She felt nothing. It was as if all her senses had been turned off. Her surroundings were a blur, her brain would not function. All she could do was repeat ‘I did it' in a monotone.

‘I do not think so.' He had to stay calm for her sake, but his own nerves and emotions were in complete disarray.

‘But you are not sure, are you?' But if she had brought about her husband's end, why was his body not found in their house? Had he crawled away to die? She ought to show some signs of sorrow at his loss, but she could not mourn a husband she could not remember and whom she was convinced she had harmed.

How could he answer her honestly? Should he tell her that her husband was a thief and a murderer? Would it make her feel better? Never before had his dealings with criminals given him such soul-searching anguish.

‘Your silence is answer enough,' she said dully. ‘You must do your duty as a thief taker and turn me in.'

‘You have not asked how you came to kill your husband, nor why. Is that because you have remembered it?' he asked.

‘No, I have not remembered. But the evidence is overwhelming. All the blood.' She shivered. ‘And my nightmares.'

‘Let us suppose you were not the doer of the deed,' he said, trying to reason with her. ‘Let us suppose you simply witnessed it. And then let us ask our selves, who else could have done it.'