The Notorious Bridegroom (12 page)

With catlike grace, Bryce changed direction toward the cottage, approaching warily and looking for signs of a trap. Kilkennen followed him down a winding path, which suddenly veered to the right, and a few steps farther they found a shelter with a half-thatched roof, its broken wooden fence aproned to a tiny clearing. Bryce motioned to his companion that he was going inside and to keep watch. Kilkennen nodded curtly, already reconnoitering the snow-draped trees.

In the frigid November winter, Bryce began to sweat. His right hand swept his waist to check the cold steel in his belt before he lifted and pushed away the rotted door. Unconsciously, his right hand returned to his pistol, and he stepped inside.

Jaw tightened, his heart slowed to a crawl. His keen eyes quickly adjusted to the little light drifting in from the jagged hole in the roof. It was not until he turned to go that he saw him.

Edward. He lay on the damp floor, clutching at the dark stain on the left side of his chest.

Bryce knelt down by his slain brother’s side, daring to believe he had made it in time. “Edward, I’m here,” his voice hoarse.

Edward’s eyes blinked open, glazed from pain and his approaching fate. He struggled to breathe and whispered, “Knew you’d come for me, big brother.”

Quickly, Bryce tore off his neckcloth and pressed it to his brother’s wound. He replied grimly, “I have come to take you home.” His heart denied what his mind understood: he could not save his brother. The smell of death was too close. Eyes damp, Bryce carefully raised Edward’s head onto his
leg, praying all sorts of forgotten prayers—vengefulness, grief, and loss warring inside of him.

Edward smiled and a spittle of blood slipped from his mouth. “She was…beautiful. They called her the ‘Dark Angel.’” His pale face looked serene at the remembrance.

Bryce froze at the mention of her name, the very infamous Frenchwoman spy who inspired fear in even the most stalwart of English soldiers. She, with her long mane of black hair and light eyes, claimed many successes at seduction and sometimes murder to get her information. Once she had decided on a target, hope for the hunted was almost futile.

Bryce knew with certainty. He himself had been her next mark.

Time was no longer theirs. Bryce had to know. Anger blazing he exclaimed, “Did
she
do this? I will find her!
”

His brother raised his hand with what little strength he had left. His breathing became more difficult. “She was looking for Londringham. Said…said it was important to our country’s security. I did not know.” A shudder went through him. “I am sorry, my brother.”

Bryce nearly wept at his words. “It is I who is sorry, Edward. She wanted me.” His words were strained, punctured by knives of grief. “I will not rest until I find the woman responsible, no matter what it takes.” His fiercely spoken vow haunted the little hovel.

With a slight shake of his head, Edward managed, “A mistake. She told her friend…it was a mistake.”

Bryce hugged his brother’s cold, snow-shrouded body closer. “Who? Who was this other person?” But his brother could no longer hear him.

“She was so beautiful,” remained on his lips with a last sigh.

For once, Bryce had no words, no answers. He was beyond thinking. It hurt so much that he could not believe
one could feel such savage pain and yet live. He whispered to his still brother, “Do not go, please Edward, do not go,” reminding him of a similar plea he had made to his mother several years ago, when he was a child.

She had never returned. Would only it had been him on this frozen foreign land and not his innocent brother. A part of Bryce died with his brother, the joy and the love that they had shared. Guilt and grief lashed at him, until he was sure the scars would never fade.

Kilkennen broke Bryce’s mourning as he peered into the doorway. He murmured urgently, “What is taking so long?” Seeing Bryce and Edward on the floor, he understood. “We…we have to go.”

Bryce swallowed hard and harnessed the emotions threatening to engulf him. The spy’s survival instincts took over. He had to get Edward home. He gathered his dead brother’s body in his arms and walked out into the bitter cold.

“Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Heavy-hearted, Bryce followed Kilkennen back to the shore where they had secured their small boat. Overhead a lonely nightingale echoed the sad song in Bryce’s heart. He hoped their luck would hold. He had to make it home to Paddock Green, England’s greenest fields, with Edward. He had to take care of him. One last time.

The night began to hum with heightened activity. Every crack, every snap, meant the French soldiers guarding the shore could be nearby. Waiting and watching.

He heard Kilkennen’s sigh of relief at hearing water lapping against the sand. They trudged a few steps farther before they heard it. The sharp explosion of a pistol.

A shout and footsteps thudded behind them, a half mile of sand stretched before them, their small craft, the only avenue of escape. Capture or death made them fleet of foot as the two men pounded down the beach.

Kilkennen reached the boat first and hastily untied the line to push the vessel out to sea. Not too far behind, Bryce heard another shot whine over his head. He hurried across the dark sands, his burden clasped tightly to him. As soon as he could, he laid his brother’s body inside the boat, and, thigh-high in the Channel’s cold waters, whipped out his pistol to fire at the line of French soldiers running down the beach like eerie, ghostly shadows.

Shots exploded close by and splintered the bobbing craft’s side, propelling fountains of water to douse the Englishmen.

The noisy pop within earshot alerted Bryce too late.

He felt the stinging burn to his thigh, then the warmth of his blood as it seeped down his leg. It was the second shot which grazed his temple and knocked him down into the frigid black waters.

The pain in his head taunted him with unconsciousness, but he fought for air with all his ebbing strength. When he was able to break the water’s surface, welcome rushes of hard-won air filled his lungs.

He ignored the throbbing in his thigh which crippled his movement and swam over to the boat’s side. With Kilkennen’s help, he finally managed to throw himself into the craft. Wasting no time and dripping blood from both wounds, Bryce took up the oars, and together they cleaved through the waters, soon outdistancing the longest French aim.

Drenched and coughing up water, Bryce’s heart pumped pain with every beat, but he would not succumb to the blackness which hovered within his vision. Not until they were safely aboard the
Gauntlet.

When he looked up from Edward’s body, he saw her on the shore. She was smiling and holding out her hand to him as if to help him. He would have recognized her countenance even on a moonless night. Patience.

The following morning, in another part of the house, Alain Sansouche lay stretched comfortably across Isabella’s settee. He watched her through half-closed eyes as she finished her toilette. “They are laughing at you,
ma chérie,
” he told her in French.

Isabella spun around on her chair and spit, “No one laughs at me. Who has cast me as an object of ridicule? How dare you suggest such a thing?” Her long fingernails curled around the arm of the chair.

Sansouche laughed without humor. “Why, my dear, it is obvious you and Londringham have spent very little time together lately. He hardly notices you. Last night while you entertained in the salon, Londringham enjoyed a game of cards before retiring early. Much earlier than you. I must remind you that your intimate friends below are like eager vultures awaiting word that your liaison is dead in order that they may be the first to carry the sweet bits back to Town for the digesting. Perhaps you could return with me and regale your associates with your version of the truth. I would prefer you and Colette to travel with me.” He waited for his cousin’s response.

Her blue eyes burned a dangerous light as she nodded, her face pale beneath the bright rouge. “I shall return to London with you as you have suggested. But I swear the earl will not live without comeuppance for the trouble he has caused me. I am not through with him yet.” She sighed. “Besides, the country life has bred ennui in me. Have you completed your business here?”

Her question brought Sansouche quickly to his feet, but he answered in a cool voice, “I think it better if we all play our parts more discreetly than some of us have played heretofore. We have decided to meet in Town for the remainder of the time left. But we shall return.” At the door, he turned with a sly smile to Isabella and asked, “Who knows? Perhaps it will be with Londringham’s head on a pike?”

When her cousin had left the room, Isabella continued to comb, tuck, and touch her appearance into presentability. No one plays her for a fool, she thought to herself. “Colette? Oh, where is the girl? She is more absent than I should allow.”

As Sansouche sauntered down the stairs to look for im-bibement to start the day, he caught sight of Patience in the study. He watched her from the shadows, a thoughtful expression on his face. She was a bold one. His little maid had failed to appear at the requested time. And he was quite sure he had seen her in the garden last night. But when he had reached the terrace, she was nowhere to be seen.

The necklace in his pocket jingled as he headed down the stairs. It was hers. The engraving distinct in the smooth metal.
All in good time. I wonder if they have found her brother yet. Rupert Mandeley had to be here somewhere.
His men would find him soon enough. And yet another of his crimes would go unpunished. In fact, Sansouche could not fathom why it had taken this long to find the missing Mandeley.

The Frenchman could not linger in the country much longer, though he would like to stay—if only for the great pleasure of watching Patience himself to see if she met with her brother. Sansouche rubbed his hands together. It was simply a matter of time. Time that was surely on his side.

Bryce paced restlessly in the parlor, the day’s events on his mind. The exercise helped his knee, still stiff from last night. He was elegantly attired for the hunt in his tan breeches and tall, black top boots. A white shirt and cravat under his black riding coat completed his attire.

So much to do, and with no new information, he was frustrated in being forced to find an alternative plan. The constable had sent word that they had yet not located Carstairs’s cousin Rupert. Bryce believed the young man might know the identity of the murderer. However, not only was Mandeley hiding from the law, but the young man might also have sensed a threat from the real killer. He must be found before Carstairs’s murderer located him first.

As for the French spies in their midst, unfortunately none of his local sources had turned up any new information. Red reported that no unusual operations on the shore, in the churchyard, or near the bonfires had occurred since that night on the cliffs. No reason for this inactivity made sense. But Bryce knew they were still out there, planning the downfall of England.

With Red following Sansouche to London and Kilkennen on a trip to France, Bryce reasoned he himself would have to travel among his land tenants to try to uncover information. There were so few people he could trust.

Patience. Could he trust her? He remembered their first night at the fair. Was she a Madonna or did she owe loyalty to England’s enemy? By God, he wanted to believe her. Last night on the balcony he had. She knew how to haunt his dreams and light his desire, but who was she? What was she really doing here?

He had never known a woman he could have faith in. The women in his life had taught him not to trust anything in skirts.

But what dormant dreams the young woman had stirred in him last night. He smiled when he thought of the artless passion reflected in her lovely hazel eyes. How much would she make him pay, and with what? Currency? Or something less familiar…his heart?

Staring into the cold ashes brought him back to the night in the French cottage, holding Edward dead in his arms. A woman had led Edward to his death. Surely his brother’s death must have taught him something. What kind of world did they live in, that murderers and spies walked freely among polite society and that trust must be won, not instantly granted?

Kilkennen found him in the front parlor and walked with him out to the stables for the morning hunt.

The weekend finally over, the countess’s guests took their leave of Paddock Green. Patience had managed to avoid Sansouche and the others throughout the last day and breathed a sigh of relief when they all prepared to depart.

She rose wearily from her cramped position on the floor having spent several hours organizing Lord Londringham’s books and much more work still lay ahead. Although the sun shone yet brightly, a hungry stomach growl and a dusty dryness in her mouth reminded her of a need for tea. She had seen his lordship only at midday, when he was bidding his guests a safe return to Town.

Out the window, she watched with great interest when the countess and her cousin climbed into a hired carriage. Before they left, Bryce walked down the steps and handed a long jewel case into the carriage window to the countess. Patience could almost hear the countess’s squeal of delight.

The bell clanging frantically disturbed Patience’s sleep. She awakened immediately, her heart thumping, and leapt out of bed. After pulling on her gray dress and cap, she flew down the stairs behind the other panicked servants, plaiting her hair as she ran. In the atrium the rest of the servants had gathered, their frightened voices raised in a chorus of noise. Word drifted back to Patience in the back of the hall.

Napoleon had landed. His troops were on British soil.

She grasped her arms tightly, trying to control her shaking. The French were in England! Swallowing her fear, she headed off to find Bryce, working her way into the atrium, where she discovered him talking in hushed tones to the butler. He looked as if he had not been to bed.

Bryce glanced over to her, and their gazes met briefly, his conveying courage. He nodded to her and vanished through the front door.

The butler Marlow commanded everyone’s attention by standing on a nearby bench and clapping his hands. He spoke urgently. “We all know what we must do. Lucky has two wagons hitched and waiting outside. Keep calm, this could be a false alarm. I want everyone to get into the wagons immediately. Take as few belongings as possible, there is not much room. We shall take the old Tyler road to Winchelsea where his lordship has instructed he will meet us with further directions. He will have news for us then. And keep quiet, we must exercise the greatest silence.”

Before the butler could finish his speech, the anxious servants had already bustled out the door, a few carrying brooms for weapons and most in either working clothes or their bedroom dress, propelled more by fear of the French than by propriety.

Lem. Patience scanned the small area of scurrying servants around her. She could not find him. She saw Myrtle and Melenroy head down the porch but no sign of the little footboy. Patience started for the stables, believing the boy might not have heard the warning bell.

She grabbed Myrtle as she was climbing into the wagon and petitioned her, “Please, do not let them leave without us. I must find Lem. We shall return shortly.” Patience did not wait to see if Myrtle did as she bid.

Lem was indeed in the stables, looking for Gulliver. Together they called his name, and finally located the dog by the chicken coop. The little boy grabbed his collar, and they hurried back to the front of the house. Too late. They watched as both wagons rattled and shook down the lane.

Wide-eyed, mouth agape, Lem said, “They left us be’ind. The Frenchies will get us! What will we do?”

Patience took his little hand in hers. “Lem, you must be a brave soldier. We will not let those awful Frenchmen capture us! There are still horses left. We can, umm…I know, the gig! We shall harness one of the horses to the gig and follow them.”

Anxious to catch up to their companions, they worked feverishly, hampered by the light drizzle of rain that had begun. Lem was quite proficient at hitching Calliope, a calm sorrel, to the little gig, and they were soon pushing Gulliver into the carriage and climbing in after him.

Patience flicked the reins, and off they went in a whirl down the wet lane. She brushed a wet strand of hair from her eyes, her mouth dry from fear. Any moment she expected French soldiers to spring from their forest hiding place and shoot. She had to get them both to safety. Lem looked to her for courage, which she knew she lacked in great supply. She concentrated on reaching Winchelsea and sent a prayer to Heaven for Rupert’s care as well as for the safety of her family in Storrington.

The rain began pouring from the night, making it difficult to see the road or to find the retreating wagons. Gulliver whimpered from his position on the floor as the carriage rolled and rocked in their hurried flight.

Patience shouted to Lem, “Do you know where the old Tyler road is?”

Lem jumped in his seat. “I almost think so.”

Farther down the road, Lem bounced up and down. He tugged on her arm, pointing, “I think that’s it!”

“What?” she cried, trying to avoid the deep ruts.

Calliope was becoming increasingly jittery and difficult to control while rain pelted the carriage roof, making conversation difficult.

“I think there’s the Tyler road!” He yelled urgently.

“But how do you know? Are you sure?”

The little boy’s head bobbed up and down. Hoping he knew of which he spoke, she directed the little dogged horse down the dirt lane.

They turned down Tyler road and a mile along their path, she bit her lip when the carriage hit a large bump. The reins almost flew out of her hands as they jerked in their seats. But they kept going.

Patience shivered from the cold wetness as well as from fear. She had no idea where they were and worried whether the next person they met on the road would be friend or foe.

Hoping they’d reach Town soon, Patience, blind to the moatlike hole on the side, guided the little gig deep into the molasses mud.

After several attempts to escape their trap, she handed over the reins to Lem. “Hie Calliope, I shall get behind and push.”

As she jumped away from the carriage, he called after her, “Be careful, miss.”

She wiped an offending lock of hair from her forehead and felt a streak of mud trail her fingers across her skin. Within minutes the gushing rain soaked her mantle and dress to the skin. Although more than a little tired and scared, she could not give up.

She slipped at the back of the carriage, trying desperately to gain a foothold. After rocking the coach and falling face-forward several times into the black mire, she finally felt the wheels break free from imprisonment and leap down the road.

Filthy and exhausted she watched in dismay, her mouth agape, as the carriage tore down the path, already merging with the night. She hiked her dress and ran after the carriage, realizing fear ignited her with speed she did not know she had.

Not far down the road, she finally caught up with the runaway coach. Lem tried his best to control the little mare, who continually jerked her head up and down impatiently. After a few attempts, Patience pulled herself into the jolting coach.

“Sorry, miss, I couldn’t control ’er. She got away from me!” His earnest expression begged for forgiveness, his white face streaked brown with mud and awash with fright.

Patience took over the reins and smiled wearily, trying to catch her breath, “I know. She is just scared like the rest of us.” When she snapped Calliope into motion again, wishing feverishly this night would end, they were once again stopped in their tracks. But not by mud.

Three masked highwaymen blocked their path, each man on the left and right held menacing pistols.

“Please to give us your valuables,” the man in the center calmly instructed.