Authors: Rhonda Woodward
The tall man's piercing gray eyes went to the proprietor, the common room's only other occupant. As if he had been waiting for some sign from his guest, the rotund little man hurried over, hastily wiping his hands on the grimy apron wrapped around his waist.
“Yes, guv'nor? What else can I be doing for ye?” the innkeeper asked in his most solicitous tone. And it was no wonder, for he was still reeling from the coin he'd already received from the imposing man.
“Yes, good man, locate my groom and send him to me.”
Bobbing his head, the innkeeper turned to do his guest's bidding just as the thick wooden door opened and a slim young man entered, rain dripping from his tricornered hat.
“Ah, there you are, Johnny,” said the man, rising to his full height as his drenched young groom approached. “I trust the horses are ready. We must be off.” His tone brooked no tolerance for any more delays.
With impressive agility for one so round, the inn's proprietor darted to the coatrack and quickly brought over the imposing man's belongings. Without acknowledging the others in his presence, the man pulled on his black beaver hat, split-tail coat, and calfskin gloves with spare, graceful movements.
“Yes, your grace. I'm sorry for the delay,” the young groom said quickly, wiping his wet face with a red handkerchief. “Zeus was none too pleased to be reshod. This weather has him a bit spooked.”
Nodding his response, the impatient traveler quickly strode past the two others, tossing a gold coin on the counter with one fluid motion before exiting the posting house with long strides.
He stopped a moment on the stoop to allow his eyes to adjust to the darkness that suddenly engulfed him. He was keenly aware of a growing sense of anxiousness to reach his destination.
The innkeeper, his eyes bulging at the weight of the gold coin in his hand, turned to the tall man's groom. “Who be your master, boy?”
Heading toward the door, Johnny turned and looked over his shoulder. With a grin and an obvious note of pride in his voice, he said, “His grace, Alexander Arthur Henry George, Duke of Westlake.” Johnny shut the door behind him, leaving the proprietor with his mouth agape.
Johnny followed his master into the courtyard and trotted over to where the horses stood tethered to the hitching post. “At least the rain has slowed a bit, your grace,” Johnny said, squinting up at the night sky. He hoped he did not sound as if he were complaining, for indeed, he felt it was a great honor and privilege to accompany his master anywhere.
“Yes, the rain has almost stopped and the full moon is out. We shall now be able to find our way with more ease,” the duke said with satisfaction as he walked over to his horse.
Johnny saw the quick flash of the duke's smile as he helped his master mount the large black stallion.
Once Johnny was on his horse, the two men left The Blue Boar's courtyard and led their horses through the darkness onto the High Road, which went north.
“We are less than two hours from Tilbourne, possibly closer to an hour now that the weather has cleared and the horses are rested,” the duke said to Johnny as the younger man's horse trotted next to Zeus.
“You are brave to come with me on such a night.” The duke's tone held obvious praise for his young groom.
Johnny shifted shyly in his saddle. “We would not want your grace to travel such a long way alone.”
The duke spurred Zeus into a light canter and allowed a gently amused smile to touch his lips at Johnny's use of the royal
we.
Soon the smile faded as they trotted along the deserted country road, with only the sound of the horses' hooves clopping on the road in the moon-drenched darkness. The duke thanked providence, something he rarely did, for the meager brightness of the moon. Without it they would be completely unable to avoid the ruts and puddles that riddled the road. As things stood, he assessed that they should be able to make up some lost time.
Westlake allowed his thoughts to return to earlier that day, and the events that had brought him to this lonely road.
The party taking place at Autley had been merry, despite the harshness of the late-February weather. His guests were an assemblage of society's most toplofty members. They included his mother, the Dowager Duchess of Westlake, and his two younger sisters, Alice, Lady Edgeton, and Louisa, who was engaged to the young Duke of Malverton. There were also various other family friends and a number of what the
ton
called the “Westlake Set.”
Cards, conversation, and reading had been the preferred pursuits during the last few days. The duke rather enjoyed
playing host, especially since his friends, the Duke and Duchess of Severly and Major Rotham and his wife, the Duchess of Harbrooke, had accepted his invitation.
But this particular evening a few of the ladies, led by the high-spirited Louisa, had decided that nothing would do but dancing.
So after charging the servants to roll up the carpets in the main salon, the dowager and Alice had been cajoled into playing the piano. There was much laughter and teasing amongst the group as Louisa tried to teach them all the steps of a new country reel.
While the younger people danced, Westlake had been standing in front of the massive fireplace with a few of his friends, wagering on which of the royal dukes would be the first to beget an heir to the throne. Since the sudden death of Princess Charlotte some months ago, and since the regent would not, in all likelihood, father another child, it was left to the regent's brothers to provide an heir.
“I think it is dashed ironic that among the Dukes of Kent, Clarence, and Cambridge there are likely two dozen by-blows and not one of them a legitimate candidate for the throne,” Sir Edward Field had laughingly stated to the other gentlemen, who agreed with him.
After catching a significant look from his mother, Westlake recalled his duties and excused himself from his friends to circulate among his other guests.
He made his way over to where Lady Caroline Netherby stood with the Duke and Duchess of Cragmoore.
“Oh, Westlake, I believe you are clairvoyant,” Lady Caroline said to him with an impish smile that had made her the rage of the Season for several years running.
“How so?” he asked, giving his former mistress a rare smile.
He could not help noticing that Lady Caroline was in great looks tonight. She had been the wealthy widow of a lord when their very discreet affair had started. It had ended amiably some months later when she had informed Westlake of her plans to marry Lord Netherby. That had been more than a year ago.
“I was just thinking how, of all things, I love to dance, and suddenly you were at my elbow.”
The duke and duchess laughed at the boldness of her hint as Westlake gave a graceful bow and led her to the converted dance floor.
“Alex, the feeling between us is still strong,” the lady had said to him with an intimate whisper after a few moments of dancing. “You know Cecil retires early. I would find it delightful to meet you in your charming atrium later this evening.”
It was more like Cecil would pass out early, Westlake had thought cynically, knowing why Cecil retired so soon after dinner. The duke had contempt for any man who could not hold his liquor.
As he continued to lead the duchess around the impromptu dance floor, Westlake struggled to find a gentlemanly way of declining her offer. For in the pocket of his waistcoat were notes from Lady Helen Bingley, his latest conquest, and Lady Bolton, who had been making it quite plain that she was eager to replace Lady Helen in his affections. Each was beseeching him, one unbeknownst to the other, to meet her in the atrium at about the same time Lady Caroline was planning to sneak out of her bedchamber.
As if Hollings, his very astute butler, had surmised the duke's need of a diversion, the solemn servant suddenly approached his master bearing a letter upon a salver.
At first Westlake had wondered, somewhat wryly, if it were yet another female trying to arrange a tryst with him.
Instead, to his dismay, it was a letter from the vicar of Tilbourne informing him that a serious accident had befallen Henry, his nephew and heir.
Westlake had read the cryptic and disturbing missive quickly, with growing concern. He had then excused himself from the party, had a private word with his sister, Alice, to play hostess in his absence, and reread the note as he took the great staircase two steps at a time, calling for his valet on the way to his bedchamber.
He barked orders at his servants, not taking the time to change fully out of his evening clothes, but deciding to discard just his evening coat and knee breeches for buckskin trousers, Hessian boots, and a heavy woolen overcoat.
Moments later Westlake descended the great staircase,
giving last-minute orders for a carriage with supplies and extra clothing to follow him to Tilbourne in the morning. His mother had followed him to the door, concern etched deeply into her beautiful aristocratic features.
“Alex, does the letter give any indication of how bad Henry is?” she questioned, placing her hand on his arm to stay his progress for a moment.
“You know how Margaret is prone to exaggeration, Mama,” he said. “I will send word back to you tomorrow.” He did not want his mother to worry unduly, for he knew she had never gotten over the death of her youngest son, James, Henry's father. Kissing her cheek again quickly, he left her standing in the foyer as he quit the warmth of his home and entered the brewing storm.
Now he could easily recall the words of the note informing him of the terrible accident that had befallen his ten-year-old nephew, Henry. The note had gone on to say that a doctor had already been sent for, but that the boy hung close to death. Margaret, Henry's mother and the widow of the duke's only brother, was hysterical and requested the duke's presence as quickly as he was able to reach Tilbourne.
How like Margaret to become hysterical when she was needed most, he thought disdainfully, for he had never understood his younger brother's attraction to the bird-witted young woman.
It usually took three and a half hours to reach Tilbourne, but the journey had been plagued by setbacks almost from the moment they left the beautiful gates of Autley.
Within an hour a torrential rainstorm had forced them to take shelter at a farm on the outskirts of his estate. The farmer's shy wife had offered the duke and his groom fresh warm bread and cider. The duke's dashing smile had caused the farmer's wife to almost drop the mugs, she later told her husband. What a true gentleman his grace was, she had continued, for he had not even blinked at her clumsiness and had told her she must be the best baker in the county.
They had been on the road again for no more than three-quarters of an hour, covering very few miles, when Zeus had thrown a shoe, the duke recalled, hoping his string of bad luck was now over.
The duke had dismounted the beast, walking the rest of
the way to The Blue Boar as the storm whipped around them. It had taken the innkeeper an inordinate amount of time, and a large sum of the duke's blunt, to find a smith to attend to the temperamental steed in the middle of the night.
But now that they were finally on their way again, the duke breathed in the cold night air with relief. He had never been good at waiting, and with Henry's life so gravely in danger, he was even less patient now.
The rain had now completely stopped, but had left the road an inch deep in mud. The air was clear and cold; every night sound was carrying to the horses' sensitive ears.
Bending forward in his saddle, the duke spoke softly to Zeus and patted his neck reassuringly, trying to calm the animal's growing restiveness.
Suddenly, with the sound of rustling branches and the flapping of large wings, an owl swooped down in front of Zeus, causing the startled animal to rear up, almost throwing his rider.
Johnny watched in silent shock as the duke struggled to keep control of the large horse.
With a half-smothered curse, the split tail of his riding coat flying behind him like giant raven's wings, the duke kept his seat as the horse reared again, his hooves flailing the air.
Tightening his grip on the reins, the duke gritted his teeth with his efforts to manage Zeus. To his left he saw Johnny's horse prancing and snorting, upset by the stallion's behavior.
“Keep her back!” he shouted, fearful that Zeus would hoof the filly if Johnny allowed her to sidle too close.
An odd sound reached the duke's ears amidst this sudden noise and confusion. Glancing swiftly in the direction from which the owl had flown from its perch, the duke caught sight of two shadowy figures emerging from the dense, dark foliage.
For a split second the duke was only peripherally aware that these figures were approaching; his attention was still focused on trying to calm his bolting animal.
Abruptly Zeus reared again, steam coming from his flaring nostrils.
A second later a sharp report rang out in the dead night air, and a searing pain burned through the duke's left shoulder.
“Highwaymen!”
The duke heard Johnny's breathless shout. Somehow, from pure instinct, Westlake did not release the reins, but whipped his head around to see where the shot had come from.
On the dark country road, not forty strides from them, were two men on horseback, dressed in dark clothes with dark kerchiefs covering their faces. The one nearest the duke held a pistol; the smoke coming from the barrel wafted blue in the milky moonlight. Westlake could smell gunpowder in the cold night air.
The other man was raising his pistol toward Johnny.
With a mighty effort the duke pulled Zeus down and around, blocking the filly as best he could. It seemed to him as if all the movements taking place had slowed down, so that he could anticipate several moves ahead.
The duke cast a swift look toward Johnny. The young man appeared ghostlike with his mouth wide open in a silent scream. His filly rose on her hind legs and whinnied her distress.