Lord Devere's Ward (18 page)

She burst out from beneath the coach and ran.

Muddy and bedraggled, she crashed full tilt into an older fellow dressed in rough clothing. Though he was a scarred, rascally-looking chap, Kate was not inclined to be choosy at this time. She grabbed his sleeve. “Get me to London. My guardian will pay you well!”

He looked at her dispassionately, gripping her by the back of the neck of her gown. “I say, milord, I believe you’ve misplaced a certain baggage.” Before she could run, he’d grabbed her arm to pitch her back into the coach.

“We’ll have to tie her up.” Osborn used a grubby kerchief to wipe mud from his face.

Kate didn’t like the gleam in his eye. “Touch me and I’ll kill you, you misbegotten, poxed whoreson!” He laughed. “I’ll enjoy taming you, darling Kate.”

“I’m not your darling, and you can call me Lady Scoville.”

“When we’re married I’ll teach you to keep a civil tongue in your head. I’ll put the crop to your back if I must.”

“How dare you? You’ll be dead first.” Kate had no doubt that her guardian would find her. Her Quinn was more than a match for ten Herberts and twenty Osborns.

“I’ll be master over my wife, I will!”

“You’ll be master of nothing!”

Herbert intervened. “Tie her up and gag her, son.

We’ll be traveling through a few villages yet, and we can’t have her crying out for help.”

Thrusting the same muddy cloth he’d used to wipe his face into Kate’s mouth, Osborn used his cravat to tie it around her head as Herbert and the hired tough tried to hold her down. Kate landed a solid kick in her uncle’s substantial breadbasket. He fell back with an
oof
, but her kicking and her scratching were to no avail. In just a few moments, Kate, trussed like a bird destined for the oven, lay helpless in the hired coach.

* * *

Devere arrived on Anna’s doorstep long after midnight, tortured by a devil’s brew of guilt and fear.

Where was his Kate? How could he have let her slip through his protective net?

The Penroses’ house, brightly lit, shone like a beacon to draw him down Bruton Street at this late hour. Devere rapped at the door, which was answered not by the butler, but by Louisa, who flung herself into his arms. He hugged her tightly and kissed her on the top of her head.

“Come.” She pulled him into the house. “We’re all in the drawing room.”

“Ah,” said Pen, as Devere entered. “We wondered when you would appear. Tea?”

“Brandy.” Quinn strolled to the sideboard. He couldn’t stop a slight tremor from disturbing his hand as he poured. “Anyone join me?”

He looked ’round the room as he dabbed at his face with a handkerchief. Pauline huddled beneath a large shawl at one corner of a sofa. Anna sat nearby.

Louisa and Hawkes decorously occupied wing chairs near the piano.

Quinn wedged himself between Anna and

Pauline.

“I imagine that you’ve been sitting here, wallowing in guilt,” he said to Pauline.

“‘Twas I who let her hand go,” she whispered.

Quinn sighed. “This mull isn’t your fault.”

“What mull?” asked Pauline. “Everyone’s been mysterious all night. ’Tis very rude.” Quinn wrapped his arm around his niece.

“Pauline, I have a confession to make.” Pauline stared.

“Pauline, Kay isn’t your cousin. She’s my ward, Lady Katherine Scoville. She lived with you as our cousin at my behest, with your parents’ full knowledge. I believe that tonight she was abducted at the order of her uncle, Lord Herbert Scoville, Earl of Badham.”

“Dear heavens, Quinn.” Anna’s eyes filled anew.

The males sat, unmoved. Apparently this possibility had already occurred to Pen and Hawkes, Quinn decided, for neither looked surprised by his statement.

Louisa, however, looked puzzled. “But I still don’t quite understand. All right, I knew something was smoky as soon as cousin Kay turned up in Kent, but why the abduction? Why the charade?”

“Well, it was the money, of course.” Quinn sipped his brandy. “Their part of the family spent all theirs, and they wanted Lady Kate’s. They wanted to get it by marrying her to her appalling cousin. Her uncle imprisoned her, hoping I’d agree to the marriage. When she escaped, I hid her with us.” Louisa nodded with understanding, but Pauline had been glowering at her sister. “You knew? And you didn’t tell me?”

“There was nothing to tell. I just suspected a hum, that’s all,” said Louisa. “You know how Uncle Quinn is with his jokes, and how often does he happen by with pretty girls on his arm?”

Pauline considered, her elfin face grim. “Never,” she finally said. She looked around the room, surveying the faces of the adults, none of whom met her eye. “Do you mean to say I’m the only one who didn’t know?” Her voice rose with outrage as she jerked away from Quinn and stood up.

Quinn spoke nervously. “Pauline, believe me, it isn’t as though I didn’t trust you, but I wanted to keep it as quiet as possible—”

Pauline continued as though Quinn had never spoken. “Well, that’s just devilish fine!” She burst into tears and ran from the room.

Quinn rubbed his forehead. He’d rather shoot himself than hurt Pauline. “What a bloody awful mess.”

Anna rose. “Quinn, there’s no use crying over spilt milk. What’s done is done. It is clear you will be travelling on the morrow, so go home to bed.”

“On the morrow? Absolutely not. I ride tonight.

Hawkes, are you with me?” Quinn cocked his head at his friend.

“Certainly. But where will they have gone?”

“There are three possible destinations. Either they will take her to Gretna, to make a hasty marriage. Or they may take her to Wiltshire to find an unscrupulous cleric, possibly the one who owes his position to Badham at the Abbey. The third possibility is that they will try to spirit Kate to France.”

Hawkes stood. “I’ll ride south. It’s likely they’ll try to get her out of the country, away from English law, at the earliest possible time.”

“I’ll ride north. I shall have to kill Badham, of course,” said Quinn, in the same tone of voice he might use to discuss the weather. “I’ll shoot the cub also, if I can find him. Pen, Hawkes, will you second me?”

“Of course.” Hawkes said promptly.

Quinn tossed off the rest of his brandy. “Pen, will you send a footman round to Brian St. Wills’ lodging?

I am sure he will wish to ride to Badham Abbey to find Katherine, if Badham attempts to take her there.”

“I should go,” Pen said.

“Not at all. Please stay in London and inform Bow Street of these events. Badham and his spawn bed at Limmer’s. There is the chance that they remain here to obtain a special license so that cub can wed my Kate. It is improbable, but we cannot overlook any possibility.”

* * *

The night, cool and clear, was perfect riding weather. Perfect driving weather, also, blast it, thought Quinn. He couldn’t drag his mind away from a vision of his Katherine, hurt or raped by that pimply Captain Queernabs of a cousin. Rage coiled like a poisonous snake in his belly. An unaccustomed feeling, but Quinn found that it stiffened his resolve.

He urged his horse onwards, winding it, then replaced his mount at Barnet.

With luck he’d catch up with them at some time the next day. He assumed that Herbert, with his pockets to-let, couldn’t afford the finest coach or horses. Badham therefore couldn’t travel faster more than five or six miles hourly. Quinn, with an abundance of ready cash, bespoke the fastest horse in every village through which he passed, changing mounts often.

The next day dawned warm and sultry. Quinn rode coatless, with his cravat undone; fashion be damned in his quest for Kate.

Beyond the environs of London, the country cleared and flattened into gently rolling fields, covered with grass and wildflowers. Sniffing the late morning air, Quinn cocked an eye at the sky. They were in for a storm. He hoped his horse, a chesty gray he’d rented in Huntingdon, wouldn’t toss him off when the storm broke.

The first crack of lightning split the sky with a stunning white pitchfork. Rain began to fall in torrents. The skittish mount shied at the lightning and thunder, rearing. Clenching his thighs against the horse’s heaving sides, Devere controlled its temper, then whacked the crop on its flank. The gray settled down into a steady, swift canter.

* * *

Kate realized that the close, humid weather gave her one great advantage: both Herbert and Osborn preferred travel outside the coach, leaving Kate alone.

After she’d head-butted Osborn that morning when he’d tried to kiss her, they’d left her in peace. The sight of blood streaming down his face from his nose more than compensated for the lack of breakfast.

Hungry, but happy with the morning’s work, Kate struggled to loosen the knotted rope confining her hands. Tied in haste, the knots would surely come loose. She hadn’t dared to try last night, when Herbert and Osborn also occupied the coach, but she’d chased them away and had the day to free herself.

It was midmorning when one wrist tugged out of its bonds. Releasing the other, she tied the rope into two loose loops, sliding them back over her hands.

Until certain of her escape, she daren’t let her captors know she was free. She bent to untie her ankles as she heard the boom of summer thunder. The flash of lightning illuminated the interior of the coach through its spotted panes.

Rain thrummed, heavy and hard, on the roof as she tugged at the rope restraining her feet. The carriage lurched alarmingly, and its speed began to pick up. Good God! Had the coachman lost control of the horses? She had traveled enough to know the difference between a well-trained coach-and-four and a team which had kicked over their traces and were now bound hell-for-leather toward whatever fate might await them.

Kate clung to a strap inside the coach, praying.

For one dizzy, nauseating moment the coach trembled, as if swaying on the edge of an abyss, then tipped and fell, flooding with mud and rainwater.

She cried out in fear, remembering her parents’

demise.
Is this how it all ends, then?
Frantic, she tore at the rope binding her ankles, desperate to escape.

The cries of the tough who’d captured her could be heard from outside the vehicle, along with shouts and whines from Herbert and Osborn. Each seemed to be engaged in blaming the other for the accident.

She had to get out. This chance might be the only one. The rope around her feet came loose. Kate leaped for the door of the coach, then stopped. An inner voice counseled caution, so she peeked out of a window to make sure of an escape route.

Aha. They were, indeed, arguing amongst themselves. Even better, Kate could see the hireling on the ground, clutching his ankle as though he’d been hurt. The coach had fallen into a ditch, which accounted for the mass of mud and rainwater which drenched the floor of the coach. Kilting up her long, dirty skirts, she climbed out of the coach by way of the door, which now tilted toward the dark, wild sky.

She crawled over the top and ’round the other side, away from the quarreling trio.

But which way? Keeping the coach between herself and her kidnappers, she set back down the road. She hoped that the direction they’d come was the way she wished to go: back to London and safety.

A gray horse, shining with rain and exertion, came into view from ’round a curve with a rider on its back. Waving her arms and shouting, she began to run. She didn’t know who the unknown rider might be but she felt certain that someone, anyone, would be better than the company of Badham and his equally bad offspring.

She heard shouts behind her.

“Hi! Where are you going, you witch’s brat!” Herbert screamed. “Osborn! Where’s your pistol?”

“I’ll beat you ’til you bleed!” Osborn cursed.

Kate ran faster, seeking to put the overturned coach between herself and Osborn’s pistol. The chap on the gray pulled up his horse. Snorting, the beast flung clumps of foam from its mouth. Clearly it had been overridden, she thought critically. The poor creature was completely blown. She hoped that its rider didn’t expect to go much farther that afternoon.

The outlines of the rider’s whipcord body were exposed, the rain and wind flattening the linen to his muscular torso. As he controlled his mount, he reached into a saddlebag. Withdrawing a pistol, he flourished it at the sky.

Dear Lord! A highwayman! She dashed to the side of the road. Perhaps she could hide in the bushes.

With luck, he’d be after Herbert, and leave her alone.

But no luck. “I’ll fetch you later,” the highwayman called to Kate before he rode toward the coach. “Badham, you bastard, name your seconds!” She knew that voice. For a dazed moment, Kate’s brain froze, then connected all the dots. Quinn. It was Quinn! His red hair, dark from the rain, clung to his skull. He controlled his restive steed with one hand while he threatened her captors with the pistol, looking more like a champion of old than the amiable dandy she knew. Hatless and coatless, he bore no resemblance to the careless rake who’d haunted her dreams for these last months, but Kate had no doubt that her guardian had come to rescue her.

Osborn’s pistol banged, startling Kate, who shrieked in fear and surprise. The gray reared, screaming, and dumped Quinn into the mud.

Quinn twisted, lifted his pistol and shot Osborn, winging him through the shoulder. Her cousin’s body jerked from the impact of the shot, then fell to the muddy road. Her uncle flung himself over to his son, attempting to support him as Osborn’s shoulder bled, a bright patch of red in an otherwise somber, stormy scene.

His horse ran wild down the road as Quinn picked himself up and approached Kate. He tenderly flicked a strand of wet hair off her cheek. “Are you all right, sweetling?”

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak or move without bursting into tears from sheer fear and excitement and tension and love. Grim-faced, he turned away from her and strode to Herbert and Osborn, tugging off a glove as his boots squished in the mud.

“‘Pon my word, Herbert Scoville,” drawled Quinn. “Fancy seeing you. Taken to kidnapping helpless chits, have we?” He backhanded Herbert on the mouth. “Four days hence at dawn, Parliament Hill, Hampstead Heath. Name your seconds to Hawkes and Penrose.”