A Passionate Endeavor (29 page)

“Mr. Roberts, the fever has broken, finally.
Your wife, I hope, with good care will recover. You will have to be
patient, as she will be quite weak after such a long illness,”
Charlotte said, and removed the compress from the woman’s
forehead.

It was very late, or rather, early, almost
dawn. The distraught man had brought his wife to Charlotte’s old
cottage yesterday evening in the back of a crude wagon.

“I shouldn’t have brought her in the wagon.
It was too hard a ride for her. But I couldn’t just stand by and
watch her get worse,” he said.

“No, Mr. Roberts. Don’t blame yourself. I am
sorry your note wasn’t brought down from the abbey. You are lucky
you found me here at all. I was packing a few last things before my
journey.” She looked down at the patient, who was sleeping
peacefully for the first time in a fortnight. “I will send for
Wyndhurst’s finest carriage to transport her back to your home. And
I will send Doro to nurse her. She will also be able to help you
with your children and your meals. This will be a gift from me to
you. Please don’t say no.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Owen Roberts said,
bowing awkwardly. “There’s not many from the abbey who would lower
themselves to care for my Sally. And I have naught to give you for
me thanks,” Mr. Robertses concluded.

“I am pleased to be at your service. Let’s
allow her to rest awhile. She is very comfortable here.”

“If it be all right with you, Lady Charlotte,
I would like to stay with my Sally until the carriage comes.”

“Of course, Mr. Roberts,” she said, rising to
leave.

Doro was taking too long, Charlotte thought
an hour later, while pacing the front room. It was almost full
light and she had sent the maid to Wyndhurst’s stables to make
arrangements with the stable master. He was to bring to the cottage
the carriage for the Robertses. The gig she had ordered for her own
use was to be brought to the cottage as well, instead of to the
abbey as she had arranged yesterday. Charlotte looked at the letter
she had propped on the bookshelf for Nicholas.

When she had left for the cottage last night,
the abbey had been at sixes and sevens with the disappearance of
Lady Susan and Alexandre. She had tried to calm them, explaining
that her cousin had quit Wiltshire
alone
on an errand for
her of the utmost importance. But that only served to make Susan’s
grandmother more hysterical. The old lady left in her carriage,
wailing and bemoaning her worries and calling Alexandre every vile
name she could concoct. Only the dowager duchess had remained calm,
assuring the Dowager Countess of Elltrope that the family would
employ every effort to find Lady Susan and help repair any damage
to the young lady’s reputation. Nicholas had been locked up in the
library, blissfully unaware of the events.

The first letter Charlotte had written to
Nicholas had been hurt and angry. The second, less so. The third
was devoid of any emotion. It gave the address of her father’s old
solicitor in London and an assurance that she had made arrangements
in town for a comfortable apartment and that he was not to worry
about her furthermore. She expressed her sadness over his father’s
impending demise, and wished him a happy future in Paris. It was
everything proper. There was only the smallest part of her that
dared hope that he would fly to the solicitor in London and demand
to see her. She squashed the thought each time it raised its
relentless head.

Her thoughts fled at the appearance of the
gig in the yard. With a sigh, she went to the front entrance, where
her trunk lay waiting, and opened the door to her future.

“Mr. Coburn! What are you doing here? Where
is the driver I requested?”

“Lady Charlotte, I am at your service.” Mr.
Coburn removed his hat and bowed down before her. “The duchess
required Mr. Harper for some pressing errands this morning. I was
planning a day trip to London this week or next, as the duke has
asked me to attend to several things in town. I volunteered to
drive you to kill two birds with one stone, so to speak.”

She didn’t trust the man, never had. But he
returned her gaze with a pleasant, open expression. She could
hardly refuse. It was a few short hours to London. She would take
Doro, and arrange for another maid from the abbey to help Owen’s
wife. Mr. Coburn got down from the gig and began loading her trunk
in the back.

“Well, then, Lady Charlotte, let me help you
up.”

There was something wrong. She could feel it
in the pit of her stomach. She wouldn’t go with this man.

“And where is the carriage for Mr. and Mrs.
Roberts?”

“The other driver will be along any moment
for them.”

He urged her by the elbow before she halted.
Why couldn’t the other driver take her to London? “I am sorry to
force a delay, sir. However, I must wait for Doro.”

“There’s no room for her, my dear Lady
Charlotte. Her large bulk would never fit. Come, come let us be off
now. If we wait much longer it will be full dark before we
arrive.”

In her distress, Charlotte did not notice a
lone rider coming over the small hill in front of the cottage.

“You there, wait,” Nicholas called out on his
approach.

A moment later he verified it was indeed
Charlotte near the gig with Mr. Coburn. What the devil? Something
was very wrong.

Nicholas’s horse slid to a halt in front of
them. He remained on the animal, the pistol he always carried in
the saddle near his hand.

“What the devil is going on here,
Coburn?”

“Why, nothing out of the ordinary, my lord,”
replied Coburn, with an easy smile. “I am escorting your wife to
London, per her request.”

“Escorting my wife to London? Per her
request? I think not. Charlotte?” Nicholas asked, looking at his
wife.

“That is partially correct. I had made plans
to depart. But not with Mr. Coburn. I’ve left you a letter in the
cottage.” She avoided his gaze. “I believe I will wait for the
driver to arrive with the other carriage, Mr. Coburn, if you don’t
mind. I would prefer to go with him and I will wait for Doro
too.”

“But, my dear Lady Char—” began Mr. Coburn.
“Charlotte, get away,” Nicholas shouted as he fired his pistol
before the steward’s weapon was cocked and visible.

The man yelped, and made an attempt to grab
her, his hand bleeding. She evaded his grasp and fled to the safety
of the cottage.

Nicholas leapt off his horse, grabbed the
pistol that Coburn had dropped on the ground, and pointed it at the
man.

“Mr. Coburn… How
kind
of you to offer
to
help
my wife.”

“If you’re going to kill me, get it over
with,” said the man.

“If I had wanted to kill you, you would be
dead,
my friend
. As it is, you are lucky I didn’t maim you
in a more satisfying part of your anatomy,” Nicholas said, looking
at the man’s crotch.

“I guess I should be thankful, my lord.”

“You will refer to me as ‘Your Grace’
henceforth, Coburn. As of a few hours ago, my title changed, as
will yours. Now, I will give you precisely one minute to tell me
what you were planning to do with my wife and about the
embezzlement of funds from the Cavendish holdings,” he said. “And
remember, please, that the penalties for lying to a duke will not
improve your lot.”

The steward kept his gaze riveted to the
ground.

“All right, Mr. Coburn. What have you to
say?” Nicholas said, pulling his pocket watch from his pocket.

“Nothing, my… sir.”

“I shall help you along then. According to
Wyndhurst’s ledgers, you have become rich, in my estimates,
siphoning off thousands of pounds annually from the abbey alone.
Actually I am amazed you still dare to be in Wiltshire. I was
certain you had hightailed it out of here once you learned I was
locked in the library. But then, perhaps I have caught you just as
you were leaving? Planning to take my wife too for extra insurance,
were you?”

“Your brother, he is the guilty party, not
me.” This was going to be easier than he thought.
Self-incrimination was a beautiful thing.

“Perhaps you are correct, Mr. Coburn.
However, he is not here. And he was not the one who was about to
put a pistol to my wife.”

Nicholas heard a sound from the doorway and
did a double take upon sighting the form of Owen Roberts. “I won’t
even ask what you are doing here, Owen. Your timing is
impeccable.”

“Glad to be of service. I heard your question
to Coburn, here, and thought you might want to know that there’s
been some gossip in the village, there has. Seems someone heard
that Coburn bought a prettyish sort of estate for his, er, his
mammy in the next county. Mr. Coburn is a kindhearted soul to be
providin’ for his mammy, don’t you think?”

Charlotte was peeking from behind the large
man.

“That’s an out and out lie—” said Coburn.

“Not another word,” said Nicholas. “Owen,
find some rope to bind Coburn’s hands, will you?”

“I tell you, it is your brother who is
guilty. This was his idea,” Coburn whined. “But perhaps we can work
something out, Your Grace. Surely you would not want to implicate
your own brother. I would be willing—”

“I am sure you would be, Coburn,” interrupted
Nicholas. “However, I shall leave it to the magistrate to decide.
Until then, you shall spend a night in The Quill & Dove’s
strong room.”

Owen was tasked with securing Coburn’s hands
with a bit of rope. Charlotte disappeared for a moment and returned
to wrap a small piece of cloth with ointment on Coburn’s hand.

“It is just a flesh wound, Mr. Coburn. You
are lucky. It should heal in a fortnight,” she said.

“All right, enough lollygagging, Coburn. Into
the gig, now. That’s a good man,” Nicholas said, then turned to
Owen. “Will you take him, then?”

Charlotte spoke up. “I see Doro coming, Mr.
Roberts. I will have her stay with Mrs. Roberts until your
return.”

“All right,” Owen replied.

“After he’s secured, may I count on you to
find the magistrate and tell him what happened? I will call on him
tomorrow morning after I arrange for my father’s burial.”

Owen clapped him on the shoulder. “I’m sorry,
that I am. There’s been no’ a moment to say it.”

Nicholas accepted Owen’s firm handshake and
avoided the man’s gaze. “Thank you.”

Owen urged the horse forward, and Nicholas
turned in time to overhear his wife’s explanations to her maid.
Doro shook her head and clucked as she entered the cottage,
murmuring her horror at the morning’s events and promising to watch
over Sally Roberts.

Nicholas strode over to Charlotte, who stood
with her back to him. He resisted the urge to place his hands on
her shoulders.

“Did I understand correctly, Nicholas? When
did your father die?”

“Very early this morning.”

Her shoulders began to shake, and he turned
her and pulled her into his arms. She cried and then shook her
head, pulling away from his embrace. “I should be comforting you.”
She wiped her hands across her tear-stained face.

“You’ve earned the right to a good cry, after
what Coburn did.” Nicholas fingered his breast pocket. “I’m sorry
Charlotte, I dressed in haste, and have no handkerchief to give
you. Damn Coburn’s hide. I lost ten years of my life when I saw him
reach for his pistol.”

“I guess that will be the last time he draws
on a Rifleman,” she said, smiling through her tears. He made a
motion for the cottage door. “Let me retrieve a handkerchief from
your maid.”

“I have one in my pocket.” She drew forth a
large handkerchief. The white-on-white embroidered initials on it
surprised him. “Why, this is one of my own,” he said. “How
fortunate.”

“I could not bear to return it to you. You
lent it to me long ago.”