Too Dangerous For a Lady (8 page)

“T
hank you for this,” Mark said, spooning up the last of the mock turtle soup. “It's surprisingly good food.”

“For a small and simple place? Mrs. Upshaw worked for my family before she married.”

“You come from this area?”

“Not exactly. I've been visiting my grandmother and aunt near Lancaster. Delightfully eccentric, both of them.”

Mark just managed not to express surprise. Braydon was one of those self-contained men whom it was hard to imagine in the bosom of any family.

“Where do your mother's family live?” Braydon asked.

“They don't,” Mark said.

“Ah, my dear fellow, my apologies. It slipped my mind. They went to the guillotine.”

“Not quite. My grandfather did, and others of the family, but my grandmother escaped to England with my mother after they were embroiled in violence. Even so, the shock of their experiences killed my grandmother within two years, and my mother eventually.”

“Odd business, France,” Braydon said, ringing the bell for the next course. “First they fall into revolution and Terror, horrifying us and sending émigrés fleeing into Britain, and then they embrace Napoleon, terrifying us and sending our armies out to defeat him in all parts. Now they have a
king again and the beau monde flocks to Paris to see the latest fashions.”

“Not me,” Mark said as sliced roast beef and vegetables were laid out, steaming hot and aromatic.

“No tug to your mother's land?” Braydon asked as they served themselves.

“None.”

“Weren't you in Paris in 'fourteen?”

“Ordered there because I speak French so well. I'd look at older people in the streets and wonder if any of them had cheered my family's deaths.”
Or dipped their fingers in their blood
, but he'd not had that image in his mind then.

Braydon nodded. “As I said, odd. We've been at war with France more often than not since the Conquest and yet we can't help but admire their style. Though I prefer plain cooking such as this.”

“And prefer both to the Spanish,” Mark said.

Braydon laughed. “Be fair. We rarely experienced the heights of Spanish cuisine.”

That led safely into army nostalgia, but when the table had been cleared and they sipped the last of the wine, Braydon said, “I believe you said you joined the army in order to restore the monarchy to France. Any second thoughts?”

“Because Fat Louis lacks noble qualities? No. Any ship of state needs a stable anchor.”

“At least he's a substantial one,” Braydon murmured, refilling their glasses. “So what noble cause absorbs you now?”

“I thought you disclaimed curiosity.”

“Only that I could do so. In truth, I'm hoping you're entangled in something where I could play a part.”

“Bored?”

“You always were astute. A few years ago I'd have paid a fortune for a meal like this and a peaceful bed at night. Now . . . A man needs a purpose, don't you think?”

“No estate coming to you? Ah, no. Your father was in government, yes? Son of a younger son of an earl?”

“A mere viscount, but yes, I have no estate. You, however, do. Berkshire, isn't it?”

“Do you remember the details of everyone you've met?”

“Many of them,” Braydon said with a shrug. “It was useful at times.”

“True enough,” Mark said, toasting him, for Beau Braydon's retentive memory had turned a trick or two on the Peninsula. “The place is Faringay Hall, near Abingdon. I thought you'd joined the army with a career in mind.”

“I did, but I found I didn't fancy any of the likely peacetime duties and sold out. Then a childless uncle left his all to me. No estate, but a decent amount of money well invested. So here I am, comfortably situated for life.”

“Too comfortably?”

Braydon smiled. “Quite. Do say you've some discomfort for me.”

Mark smiled back but shook his head. “It's mostly very dull work and you'd never fit in.”

“If your appearance is de rigueur, then you're certainly correct. Excuse my curiosity, but can you say how you come to be in Warrington, of all places?”

“That I can do. I was traveling from Manchester to London, but the road threatened to be in chaos because of a thousand or so Spenceans planning to march south to present petitions to the Regent. I took a coach here in order to connect with the Carlisle-to-London road.”

“So that explains the crush in town.” Braydon took his coffee cup and rose to lean against the window frame looking out at the crowded street. “It's normally brisk in Warrington, but not such bedlam. Look at that coach coming in, packed tight inside and on top, and with baggage hanging off the edges.”

Mark joined him. The coach was very like the one
Solange had been traveling on, giving her a damnably good view of the street.

“Good thing I'm driving myself,” Braydon said.

“Coach?” Mark asked with surprise.

“Curricle.”

“That was your rig I saw behind the inn? You drove from London in such a vehicle?”

“I've discovered I enjoy it now the toll roads are good. Didn't have much cause for fancy carriage driving during the war, did we, but I've rather taken to it. Not racing, but simply traveling. Use my own horses all the way and stop if the weather turns foul.”

“But it's losing its appeal?”

“Not so much that as what to do in between journeys, or when the weather turns foul.”

Mark considered and then said, “You could contact Hawkinville. There's interesting work to be done out of uniform.”

Major George Hawkinville had been a key member of Wellington's tactical and security section in the Quartermaster's Division, and both Mark and Braydon had worked under him at times.

Braydon studied him from heavy-lidded eyes. “There's little cause for spying nowadays.”

“There's always cause for spying. The enemies are just different.”

“Ah. I think not.”

“No?” Mark asked, surprised by the chill in the other man's voice.

“The universal enemy at the moment seems to be the distressed poor. One reason I left the army was that I had no intention of having to order men to saber charge English people who ignored the Riot Act.”

“Rebellion can't be allowed.”

“Nor should starvation, or men, women, and even children working every possible hour for a pittance.”

“Zeus! Are you a radical?”

“No, but I would favor more kindness and less greed.”

“You should go into Parliament.”

Braydon returned his gaze to the street. “I've thought of it, but reform will be a long struggle and I doubt I have the patience. And yes,” he added drily, “if I were a true believer, I'd give my all to the poor and toil alongside them.”

“An empty gesture, but you could provide employment.”

“I do, but even a luxurious set of rooms in London doesn't need many servants and the truly poor don't seem to be employed providing fine clothes and horses.”

“You need an estate. You could purchase one.”

“I wasn't trained to it. At school I had a touch for oratory. Perhaps I should inspire the enmassed poor to more effective action.”

“No.”

Braydon studied him. “Still the fear of revolution?”

“Yes, but I'm thinking of the poor as well, and the saber-wielding military. At Spa Fields last year the enmassed poor almost got massacred.”

“There should be means of effective protest that don't break any laws.”

“Then someone would make a law against it.” But Mark was staring out at the street. “Damnation.”

“What?”

“That man, riding past on the bobtailed black.”

“What's up with him other than his seat?”

“He's riding west when he should be on a coach south. Apologies for a hasty exit, but I need to hire a horse.”

Braydon caught his arm. “I have horses. Whom do we pursue, and why?”

“The hunting dog, now after another target.”

Heaven alone knew how Nathan Boothroyd had learned about Lady Hermione Merryhew and her direction of travel, but pursuit of her was the only explanation Mark
could imagine for the man being separated from Solange and riding west. She was in danger and it was his fault.

Braydon called for his bill and paid it, ordering his carriage to be made ready.

By the time they arrived at Braydon's curricle, an ostler was leading out a pair of magnificent matched chestnuts, accompanied by the liveried groom, whose coat was brown trimmed with red and shiny brass buttons. His tall beaver hat was detailed in the same way.

“I need your man's coat and hat,” Mark said.

Braydon didn't question it. “Baker, your jacket and hat for my friend, if you please. As he'll be traveling in your stead, he might as well look the part.”

The groom scowled, but he surrendered his garments. Mark passed over his coat in return. “A poor exchange, I know, but if you could keep it for me, I'd be grateful. We should be back soon.”

Fortunately the groom was tall, but he was lanky and the jacket barely fit. All the same, it and the hat would be some sort of disguise.

Braydon took the reins and skillfully steered the lightweight, two-wheeled vehicle along the back lane and out into the busy high street. The groom might be taking some solace from Mark's having to squeeze into his small seat at the back rather than alongside Braydon. It wasn't comfortable, but Mark would ride on nails if they could travel faster.

He'd put a lady in peril. A special lady.

Braydon tossed back a slim book. “Maps.”

Mark found the right page as Braydon steered through traffic out of town. The horses were high-spirited, but Braydon kept them in hand and they were soon in the quieter outskirts. All the same, Boothroyd would have made more speed and might be able to gallop once free of the town.

“I have the page for the Chester road,” Mark said. “Damnation. For Tranmere the main route is to go into
Chester and turn back north, but there are arrows indicating other options. We don't know which way. We need to keep Boothroyd in sight.”

Once they'd passed the toll, Braydon gave his horses their head. Mark clutched onto the sides of his flimsy seat. Once he got the balance of the ride, he was able to let go and ask, “Pistols?”

“Box in a section in front of you. Catch!”

Braydon tossed back a key and Mark caught it. “What if I'd missed it?”

“We'd have had to stop.”

The key unlocked a panel and behind sat a fine wooden box with brass mountings. Mark opened it to find one pistol nestled in its spot and all the necessaries.

“Slow down a bit,” he called, and set to loading it. “You have the other?”

“Of course. What's the mission?”

“Keeping it short, I had some papers that needed to go to London. I'd packaged them as a letter. Being pressed, I gave it to a lady of my acquaintance and asked her to put it in the post. A snap judgment that I very much regret.”

“The hound is after the lady?”

“I fear so. There's no other reason for him to travel west. We're clear for speed.”

“He's your villain?” Braydon asked as he steered around a large wagon and then set his horses to the gallop again.

“A minion.”

“If I'm to kill someone, I need to know why. And a rabid hunting beast needs to be shot.”

“He's not rabid, only under orders, but you're right. A Boothroyd on the hunt won't be stopped short of violence.”

H
ermione and her party had turned off the busy Chester toll road onto a road that led more directly to Tranmere. She soon had doubts about the wisdom, for it was much less well maintained and the coach rocked and bumped, even at a slow pace.

William had probably chosen this route because there'd be no tolls to pay. Penny-pinching again, and perhaps with poor results. The Chester road might have been faster, even though it was ten miles longer. They'd hoped to reach Tranmere today but could end up spending another night at an inn.

She didn't say anything. The atmosphere in the coach was tense because of Polly's tight anxiety and William's stretched patience with her. At least Henrietta was asleep for now and the boys slumped in passive boredom.

Then the coach swayed to a halt.

William let down the window to call a question.

“Breeching's coming loose, sir,” the coachman called back. “We'll need to stop and fix it.”

“No,” Polly moaned, quite pointlessly. Hermione wanted to shake her, but that only showed that her own nerves were frayed to shreds. William climbed out to consult with the coachman.

Hermione said, “I want to stretch my legs. Do you want to get down?” she asked the boys.

They came to life like switched-on automatons and she had to hurry to help Roger or he'd have tumbled down the steps. As the road was quiet, she didn't try to control their wild running around.

Polly joined her. “Henrietta's sleeping, so I've left her. It does feel better to move around in fresh air. Warrington was so crowded. But the delay!”

“It's only some leather. It shouldn't take long. Fretting won't speed anything. Do try not to.”

“All very well for you. You don't have children to provide for. Yes, yes, I know you hope for a handsome dowry, but it's not the same. Disaster doesn't loom over you!”

It was so tempting to tell Polly about Porteous, but it wouldn't smooth this moment, and if there was no money from Great-uncle Peake, the issue would then be in the open. Hermione knew Polly would never try to force her into an unwelcome marriage, but whenever the lack of money pinched, especially with regard to the children's futures, the knowledge would be there, like grit. In fact, if this journey was for nothing, she'd have to marry Porteous. She couldn't live with herself if she didn't.

“Many families do well on an income like William's,” Hermione argued. “It's not much less than Father's was.”

“My children deserve better.
We
deserved better.”

“Because of high rank. Why?”

Polly stared at her. “
Why?
Oh, I don't understand you. Billy, keep an eye on Roger. He's heading for the ditch!”

She ran off after her children and Hermione grimaced. Would family harmony survive this journey?

Billy ran back to the coach to join his father and see what was going on. Polly was trailing Roger, who was engaged in a thorough exploration of the verge. As it provided a variety of plants and insects, he was entranced. Hermione walked up and down near the coach, keeping away from both groups.

A farmer in a cart carrying piglets stopped to offer help,
but William assured him the job was in hand, so he went on his way. A while later a larger cart rolled by with what looked like a plow on the back, perhaps being taken for mending. Again the driver offered help and was thanked, but sent on his way.

A solitary rider was coming. He, too, would offer help. People were generally kind and she found it impossible to imagine that the farmer, the carter, or the rider might join a ravening mob. It wasn't in the English nature.

*   *   *

Mark and Braydon had caught sight of the Boothroyd and dropped speed to stay far behind him on the busy road, but about four miles out of Warrington, some piglets had escaped onto the Chester road, causing chaos for carriages, including the curricle. Braydon's high-spirited horses objected violently to the squealing little beasts beneath their hooves.

Mark leapt down to go to their heads and Braydon settled them without damage. But Mark had to lead the horses out of the tangle of vehicles before he could retake his seat and they could race on. Horse riders had been able to navigate better and the Boothroyd was again out of sight.

They'd have hurtled on toward Chester, but Mark shouted, “Stop!” A road was going off to the right, signposted PICTON
,
HOOTON
,
AND
BIRKENHEAD. “Which way?” he asked the universe. “Dammit, which way?”

“It looks a chancy route.”

“But more direct. And cheaper. Turn.”

“A certainty or a gamble?” Braydon asked as he skillfully turned his team.

“Life's a gamble. The Merryhews are poor, so they might avoid the tolls. In addition, the main route's too busy. The best Boothroyd can do is follow, so they're not in great danger there.”

They were on the side road and even at cautious speed the light carriage felt like matchwood.

“Thank you for risking your rig.”

“I hope not to injure the horses,” Braydon said, “but the carriage is easily replaced. At least the road's wide enough not to threaten the paintwork.”

“But not straight enough to spot him at a distance.”

“We could come up with him without warning. He doesn't know me from Hades, but you keep your collar up and your hat down.”

“Yes, sir.”

*   *   *

Hermione spotted some blackberries in the hedgerow and was considering whether she could cross the ditch to get to them, when she heard rapid hoofbeats. The solitary rider had suddenly sped up. Perhaps he'd realized he was late.

She turned back to blackberries, but Polly cried something. Hermione turned back to see the rider galloping directly at her. He wore a scarf of some sort around his mouth and a tall hat. . . .

She saw his eyes.

She turned to run, but it was too late. A hand grabbed the back of her gown and hauled her in front of the saddle with appalling strength. And then they raced on with the saddle bruising her ribs and knocking the breath out of her.

She struggled, kicking to be free, but then she gripped instead—at a coat, at a stirrup leather, at anything—for she was in danger of falling off onto her head!

*   *   *

The curricle was traveling faster than was safe, and Mark was jarred around in the small seat, but he wanted to shout, “Faster! Faster!”

Had he made the wrong choice? Were they on the wrong road? Was Hermione even now in Nathan Boothroyd's claws?

Then they came around a bend and saw a carriage ahead. That old carriage he'd seen at the Lamb, with the lady who resembled Hermione.

“That's them!” he called to Braydon. But something was amiss. Only the coachman and a gentleman were outside the coach. A woman and children looked out from inside.

“Sirs!” the man shouted. “Your assistance, for God's mercy!”

“What's happened?” Braydon asked.

“A madman. A lady . . .” The long-faced man was incoherent, but he collected himself. “A madman snatched a lady of my party, not moments ago! I couldn't pursue. My family . . . The horses are in harness. . . .”

“We'll take care of it,” Braydon said, and cracked his whip, sending his horses hurtling forward without consideration of road or comfort. Mark held on for dear life, but he kept a grip on his loaded pistol as well. Hermione in a Boothroyd's clutches. If she fought him, Nathan would cut her throat for convenience.

The damn road twisted and turned, but then . . .

A riderless horse stood ahead with two people beside it.

Two live people.

*   *   *

They'd pounded along until Hermione was reduced to wailing hopelessly for help.

Then the horse jerked to a halt and she was tossed off to jar on her back onto the hard ground. Before she could recover, the man was off the horse and pulling her to her feet by the front of her bodice.

“The letter. Where is it?” The muffler had slipped down and he was snarling. His dogteeth were pointed!

She would have told him anything, but pure animal terror held her mute like a rabbit facing a fox. Her mouth opened and shut, but no sound came out.

He shook her, rattling her teeth.
“Where's the bloody letter?”
When she couldn't reply, he laughed. “Here?” He probed her breasts.

She flailed at him, but had no strength in her hands. He
laughed again and patted down her sides, stopping at the shape in her right pocket.

“Take the papers, break your neck,” he said, showing those pointed teeth. He repeated it as he slid his hand into the pocket. “Take the papers, break your neck. But not until I've had some fun with you, my pretty.”

“Release her!” someone bellowed.

Her captor whirled her so she was in front of him, shielding him. “Bugger off. None of your business.”

They were facing an absurdly elegant curricle. What was
that
doing in the middle of nowhere? Perhaps she'd lost consciousness and was dreaming. The driver was a pink of the ton and he had a liveried groom up behind him. The driver had his whip in hand, but the groom was pointing a pistol.

“Very much our business,” said the driver. “Release her now.”

She felt the brute chuckle. “Going to shoot me through her? Bugger off or I'll break her pretty neck.” He put his big hand half around her neck.

Everything seemed to freeze, even her breathing, because he meant it, and could do it. She managed to swallow and suck in a breath, but her heart was racing too fast for life, which was probably why her head was buzzing and darkness gathering. The brute was saying something about his letter, only wanting his letter. She'd stolen it. A low thief.

Take the letter.

Let him take the letter and leave.

Please!

She tried to speak, but only throaty sounds came out.

Something whistled through the air, over her head like a low-flying bird. She flinched away, but the brute yelled. With anger, she thought. Then the loud crack of a pistol. The brute fell, taking her with him onto the hard ground.

The last thing she saw was the smoke still drifting from the groom's pistol.