Chapter 2
T
he moment his hand closed around that slender wrist, Barnaby had a sensation of wrongness, but that feeling vanished in a flash, and he was left looking at the boy’s tense features. A very pretty boy, he thought frowning.
They stared at each other for a long moment, Barnaby’s black eyes boring into the boy’s gray ones. Neither was giving an inch and, reading the cool determination in the boy’s gaze, Barnaby decided, considering his dip in the Channel, that he might be wise not to find out precisely how handy the boy was with the knife.
Slowly letting go of the boy, he muttered, “Forgive me. I fear that I am not at my best at the moment.”
Her breathing ragged, Emily prudently put several feet between them. Keeping her knife handy, she said levelly, “Indeed, I would agree—especially if that is the way you greet someone who is trying to help you.”
The boy was insolent and Barnaby liked his pluck, but staring hard at the boy, he was nagged by the sensation that he was missing something, and that feeling of wrongness swept over him again. Unable to determine its cause but assuming it was a leftover effect from his ordeal, Barnaby glanced around the room and asked again, “Where am I?”
“In the best room at The Crown.”
He shot the boy an impatient look. “And where is The Crown located?”
“In Broadhaven.” His gaze narrowed and Emily added quickly, “It is a small village not far from Alfriston in Sussex. We are only a few miles inland from the coast.”
Barnaby recognized the name and relaxed slightly. The events of the night were hazy, but he remembered that he’d been told that Windmere, the Joslyn country estate, was situated near the village of Broadhaven. His memory wasn’t clear, but he rather thought that he’d been on his way to Windmere when he’d ended up in the Channel. “And someone named ‘Jeb’ pulled me from the Channel?”
Emily nodded. His speech was not that of an Englishman, but had a soft cadence that she found attractive. She frowned, trying to place it. It wasn’t French or Spanish. . . . A bit of gossip she’d heard recently flitted through her mind and she gasped, “You’re the American.”
The sound of raised, angry voices and a sudden crash below distracted them, preventing Barnaby from answering. The boy’s gray eyes widened and the already fair skin paled as the boy swung to face the door, the slender body braced.
Not liking the boy’s reaction or the noise of a violent altercation filtering up through the floorboards, Barnaby struggled to sit up. A sharp burst of pain lanced across the back of his head and he groaned, falling back against the pillows. Dizzy and afraid he was about to cast up his accounts, Barnaby fought to gain control over his body.
Footsteps pounded up the stairs and a second later, the door burst open. It was Flora, the middle daughter, her cheeks flushed and her expression grim and frightened at the same time.
“He’s here!” Flora exclaimed, hurtling into the room. She slammed and locked the heavy oak door behind her before turning to look at Emily. “My sisters and Sam can only hold him for a few minutes. You have to leave.
Now
.”
Emily hurriedly stuck her knife in her boot and started toward the lone window on the far side of the room. It was a two-story drop, but it was her only way out.
Flora grabbed her arm and cried, “Not that way. Here. Open the wardrobe. There’s a hidden door at the back—you’ll be able to escape out the secret passageway. Hurry!”
Hearing the shrieks from Flora’s sisters and the sounds of furniture crashing below her, Emily flung open the door to the massive wardrobe on the wall opposite the bed and dived inside. Hovering behind her, as Emily pawed her way through some quilts and odds and ends hanging inside the ancient oak wardrobe, Flora said, “Reach up to the top at the back. There’s a small lever. Pull it and the door opens away from you. Be careful you don’t fall down the stairs.”
With shaking fingers, Emily found the lever and, despite Flora’s warning, nearly tumbled down the narrow stairs that appeared at her feet when the concealed door at the back of the wardrobe suddenly gave way.
Both women stiffened as the sound of a desperate struggle came nearer. From the curses and noise, it was clear the fight had moved to the bottom of the stairs. They had only seconds.
Flora fairly shoved Emily down the hidden staircase. “Go.
Go!
” Flora hissed. “He must not find you here.” As Emily disappeared, Flora shut the concealed door and dragged the quilts back into place. With a practiced move that told Barnaby she had done this more than once, Flora fastened the outer door to the wardrobe.
Flora’s sisters, with young Sam’s valiant assistance, had done their best, but they were no match for a full-grown, furious male, and Flora had hardly turned around when there was a thunderous banging on the door to the room.
“Emily!” shouted a man’s angry voice. “I know you’re in there. Open up. Open up, I say.”
Flora glanced at Barnaby. She placed a finger to her lips and at his nod she took a deep breath, straightened her muslin cap and walked calmly over to the door.
Confronted by utter blackness, Emily wasn’t certain how she made it down the unfamiliar steps. Leaning against the rough wooden walls on either side of her, she half stumbled, half fell down the narrow, twisting staircase. Reaching the bottom, she stood indecisively for a second, not certain of her next move. As she fumbled around in complete darkness, the best she could tell was that she was in a very small space, hemmed in by three walls with the stairs at her back. Remembering how the door had worked in the wardrobe, she reached up and ran her hand along the top of the wall in front of her, her heart leaping when her fingers found the lever. She gave it a pull and nearly hit herself in the face when the door swung open.
The full force of the storm buffeted her the instant she stepped outside. Rain lashed down on her and the wind screamed around her as she pulled the door shut. There was a click and the door locked behind her, leaving her alone in the dark.
It took her a moment to find her position, but the faint light from the candles burning in the main room of the inn told her that she was at the side of the inn with the stables behind her. Fighting against the wind and the rain, she ran to the stables and a moment later was on one of The Crown’s horses on her way home.
It was difficult going, the storm having turned the road to muddy slush, the darkness, wind and rain adding to the difficulty, but eventually Emily turned the lathered horse down the long, curving drive that led to her home, The Birches. Jumping from the horse, she tied the reins to the saddle and with a slap on the animal’s haunch sent it lumbering back in the direction of The Crown.
Her cousin had replaced many of their old, trusted servants with men who were loyal to him, and upon meeting the new stableman, Kelsey, that he had installed several months ago, Emily immediately took precautions to keep her activities secret. She stopped using her own horses and made arrangements with Mrs. Gilbert for Sam to bring her a mount on the nights they had a run. When their work was done Sam would accompany her this far and take the horse back, but tonight that hadn’t been possible.
She closed her mind to what might be happening at The Crown and concentrated on accomplishing the reason Flora and the others were risking themselves for her. When her cousin returned to The Birches, she
had
to be home and safely in her bed. Her lips twisted. She also needed an innocent excuse to explain why he did not find her there when he had obviously come looking for her tonight.
Her stride lengthened and she broke into a run, oblivious to the rain and the wind shrieking through bare limbs of the birch trees that lined the half-mile driveway. The squire must never learn what they had all been up to because Emily didn’t doubt for a moment, far from being outraged, he would immediately take over the operation and reward himself with the lion’s share of the profits. The villagers, Mrs. Gilbert, her daughters, the blacksmith, Jeb and the others—all those who desperately depended on the money they made from smuggling would suffer.
The torches at either side of the heavy double front doors of the big house gleamed in the darkness and Emily veered around to the back. If she’d gone to the front door, Walker, most likely pacing anxiously, would have whisked her away in an instant, but she didn’t want to involve him any more than he was already. As for Flora and the others . . .
Guilt smote her. Had she done the right thing abandoning them to her cousin’s rage when he discovered his prey had escaped him? Reminding herself that it had been for their protection that she had fled didn’t ease her conscience. Wearily, she admitted that too many people were dependent upon her to bring them to a safe harbor for her to have remained, but oh, how she would have enjoyed confronting Jeffery and telling him precisely what she thought of him—and his friend, Mr. Ainsworth.
Thoroughly soaked, her teeth chattering, her breath coming in great gulps, Emily finally reached the trellis fastened to the wall at the rear of the house. Avoiding the thorns of the climbing rose that would be covered in fragrant pink blooms in a few months, she dragged herself up the trellis to the window from which she had exited hours ago.
Pulling open the unlocked window, she slowly, gratefully climbed inside. As the warmth from the fire burning on the hearth hit her, she spared another thought for her companions she’d had to leave behind at The Crown, hoping her wretched cousin had not done them any harm. As she stripped out of her wet clothing, her jaw clenched. By God, if he’d hurt one of them she
would
run him through!
Squire Townsend had not inflicted any damage upon the Gilbert daughters and young Sam, but the opposite was true for the determined defenders at The Crown. Faith had broken a pitcher of ale over Townsend’s head, cutting him above his right eye, and Molly, next to her in age, had been able to use the broom with great effect. The squire was going to walk with a limp for several days from the fall Molly had caused when she had stuck the broom handle between his legs, and Sam had added insult to injury by biting his calf and drawing blood. Harriet and Mary had pelted him with several, heavy pewter tankards, and by the time Townsend had staggered through their gauntlet and started up the stairs, in addition to his other wounds, he was sporting the beginnings of an impressive bruise on one cheek and his chin was bleeding.
It was a thoroughly enraged and disheveled gentleman that charged into the room only seconds after Emily had disappeared into the wardrobe. His once-immaculate cravat was askew, his dark blue coat and formerly pristine cream-colored waistcoat were splattered with ale and blood and his chestnut curls were in disarray.
Limping into the room, once Flora had unlocked the door, Townsend looked around wild-eyed, and seeing only Flora standing there and the dark-skinned stranger in the bed, he demanded, “Where is she? I know she is here. Emily, show yourself at once!”
Faith and Molly were right behind Townsend and hands on her hips, Faith said, “How dare you force your way into the room of a gentleman who has just escaped death. Wait until the constable hears of this!”
Townsend turned on his tormentors and snapped, “I think it is you, Faith, who should fear the constable.” His voice rising in outrage, he said, “You and Molly and the others attacked me! I shall bring charges against the whole parcel of you and we’ll see how you like that.”
“I’m sure that there is some misunderstanding,” Flora said calmly. “And if my sisters ‘attacked’ you—a great exaggeration I’m sure—there was probably a good reason for it.”
Townsend’s face purpled. “You doubt my word! May I remind you, Flora, that I
am
the squire and you would be wise to show me proper respect!”
Barnaby, who had watched the scene with great appreciation, felt it was time to make his entrance and said idly, “Perhaps if you acted more like a squire instead of a brawling bully, you might garner some, ah, proper respect.”
Townsend’s fulminating gaze swung to this new foe. “Who the hell are you?”
With an American’s innate scorn of titles and trappings of aristocracy, Barnaby’s title hadn’t impressed him much, but he perceived in this situation a title might actually be useful. Ignoring the dizziness movement caused, he sat up in the bed and said coolly, “I am Joslyn, the, ah, Eighth Viscount Joslyn. And you are . . . ?”
Townsend gasped and took a backward step. “Never say so!”
Out of the corner of his eye Barnaby caught Flora’s astonished expression and his lips twitched. Behind Townsend, Faith and Molly stared at him slack-j awed and Barnaby didn’t know whether to be amused or annoyed at everyone’s reaction to a mere title. Deciding the entire situation was something out of a farce, he chose to be amused, but not with Townsend. . . .
Mimicking Mathew’s reaction when offended (which occurred frequently in Barnaby’s company), Barnaby’s brow lifted arrogantly, and looking as if he smelled rotten fish, he said, “I would indeed say so. Who the devil are you that you dare question my identity?”
Recovering from her shock, her eyes alight with wicked enjoyment, Flora murmured with relish, “My lord, allow me to introduce Squire Townsend to you. He lives nearby at The Birches—not far from Windmere.”