Candlelight Wish (21 page)

She greeted him gaily, extending her hand. “How charming of you to be punctual,” she said in a voice calculated to reach the footman who had followed her from the house carrying a satchel. An oddly familiar satchel. His own in fact. “It is so very kind of you to take me to my godmother. James,” she added, turning to the footman, “I forgot to tell Cook we shall not be in for dinner. And if Lady Xanthe is tired we might remain the night.” She gave the man a dazzling smile then accepted Miles’ aid in climbing into the carriage.

Miles stowed her various parcels, sent his groom off with Cuthbert to convey a message to his aunt and Lady Xanthe then gave the bays the office and started for the Great North Road.

“I had your man pack a few things for you,” she said as they turned the corner. “I hope you do not mind.”

“On the contrary. You seem to have shown amazing foresight. Had I been thinking clearly I should have done so myself and suggested you do the same. I am in your debt. How, by the way, did you fob off poor Vines?”

Her lips twitched. “I had only to tell him that you were taking me to Miss Lucy and he could not have been more helpful.”

Miles gave a short nod. “Did he suspect the truth?”

“I tried to come up with a convincing story of your aunt taking ill.” She sighed. “I fear I have been telling a great many lies.”

He spared her a quick glance. “You do not sound penitent.”

“No. Quite shocking, is it not? What did you discover?”

He told her and she listened, not interrupting with unnecessary questions. “And what the deuce I’m to do with her now—” He broke off and forced his fingers to unclench from the reins.

“There is no harm in her,” Phoebe said with surprising gentleness. “She is simply strong-willed and trying to find her feet.”

“No easy task, I suppose, when she is under the guardianship of someone else who is not only strong-willed but far too accustomed to having his own way.” When she made no response to this gambit he cast her a sideways glance. “What, showing restraint? This is a new comeout for you.”

She shook her head, smiling. “The urge was almost irresistible too. But now isn’t the time for us to argue.”

“True,” he agreed. “There will be plenty of time for that once we have Lucy safe again.” He felt her hand on his arm, a fleeting touch of comfort and encouragement. It warmed him.

“We will have her safe,” she said and it came out as a promise. “I cannot believe Xanthe would have left town if anything of a serious nature were to happen.”

He wished he could share her confidence, then the oddness of that last struck him. He pondered her meaning until they reached the outskirts of town at which point his reflections returned once more to finding Lucy and dealing with that scoundrel Harwich. Phoebe sat in silence at his side, not interrupting his murderous thoughts. As they escaped the heavier traffic and he sprang his horses, urging them to show their speed, her only response was to put one hand up to hold her bonnet.

As the miles slipped past he began to consider the road ahead. Harwich’s equipage was scheduled to make its first change at the White Hart, just outside St. Albans. He had best do the same. He had pressed his bays sadly to gain what time he could. He could only hope the post boys at the White Hart would have an accustomed stopping place for the end of their stage. Knowing the expected destinations would make tracing the couple that much easier.

He drove on, his thoughts focused on the enquiries he must make at the inn, the chances of finding suitable cattle capable of carrying him with the necessary speed for the next step of this wild journey. He must have gained time on them. How much though he had no idea. Probably not enough.

The sun had advanced far in the western sky when they at last reached the town, swept through it and continued along the road until the posting inn came into sight. This proved to be a medium-sized establishment of a design that dated no farther back than the reign of the first King George. The yard, though not spacious according to the standards of most posting houses, boasted sufficient stabling to supply more horses than seemed likely would be needed at one of the less-frequented stops. Miles looped his rein, turned smartly through the gate then drew in his bays at sight of the post chaise and pair that stood waiting in the care of two post boys and an ostler. A small hand grasped his forearm. He glanced down to see Phoebe sitting erect, her bright eyes wide.

“It couldn’t possibly be them, could it?” she breathed.

He drew his horses to a halt then fleetingly covered her fingers with his own. “It doesn’t seem likely.” Yet he could not quell the surge of hope that rushed through him.

A second ostler emerged from the stables and ran to the bays’ heads, looking up expectantly for instructions. Miles swung down, patted a sweat-streaked flank on the near horse and addressed the wiry little man who faced him. “Whose carriage is that?”

A frown of concentration creased the man’s brow. “Military gent, sir,” he said after a moment.

“Is it indeed.” A slow satisfied smile tugged at the corners of Miles’ mouth. He turned back to the curricle and reached up to help Phoebe to alight. “It seems it is possible,” he informed her.

She clasped his hand that held hers. “Do you wish me to wait out here?”

“Do you trust me not to terrify Lucilla?” came his prompt response. He felt oddly elated, as if a great weight of worry had lifted from him. He helped Phoebe down then tucked her hand through his arm and led the way toward the stately front of the inn.

They stepped into darkness from the late afternoon light and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. They stood in an entry hall that smelled of vinegar and lemon oil. From somewhere down the narrow hall stretching before them came the distinct odor of frying onions. To the left an open doorway led into a common room and by the waning sunlight that drifted through the windows he could make out the shapes of three patrons seated at one of the trestle tables at the far side of the room. To the right lay a closed door and a narrow staircase of pale oak leading upward to where the murmur of angry voices could be heard.

Miles put his hand on the banister but before he could mount more than three steps a middle-aged woman of comfortable proportions, garbed in a gray stuff gown, apron and mobcap, hurried down the hall to greet them. She bore all the appearance of one who had not had an easy day.

“Would you be liking a glass of wine or a mug of ale, sir? Ma’am?” She looked from Miles to Phoebe then back again. “I’m very much afraid the private parlor’s bespoke but the taproom is near empty and the young lady and her brother should be off at any moment.” She cast an uneasy glance up the stairs.

“A young lady and her brother, is it?” Miles smiled at her. “And her brother is a military gentleman?”

The woman blinked at him. “Why however did you know, sir?”

“I am somewhat acquainted with them. They will have no objection to our sharing their parlor.”

“Well now.” The woman smiled in patent relief. “That is a good thing then. I didn’t quite like showing your good lady into a common room, that I didn’t. But you’ll be quite comfortable in our parlor and the young lady doesn’t seem to be coming down yet.”

At that moment a young female voice rose on a wail. “I won’t come out and there is nothing you can do to make me! You are not my brother and I don’t know how they can believe such odious lies!”

Miles’ eyebrows rose. “There seems to be an altercation.”

The woman lowered her voice even though there was no chance it would carry to the combatants above stairs. “Miss does not want to return to her guardian’s home, poor dear.”

The sympathy, to Miles’ ear, sounded spurious. He stiffened. “That, I take it, is what the gentleman says. And what does the young lady say?”

The woman cast a worried glance up the steps. “Well as to that, she came out with some farfetched story of being an heiress and the gentleman abducting her and she has bolted herself into our best front bedchamber and refuses to come out.”

“Has she, by God.” He glanced down at Phoebe and read the mixture of relief and amusement on her face.

“She always was resourceful,” Phoebe murmured.

He nodded. “And as for Harwich—” He mounted the stairs.

The innkeeper, a chambermaid and a soldier in scarlet regimentals stood in the hall outside a closed door. The soldier leaned low, addressing the keyhole in cajoling tones, while the other two stood just behind him, the maid watching with avid interest, the innkeeper with a harassed frown. Miles strolled forward, coming to a stop about a yard away. He watched for a moment then said in a carefully casual voice, “Having a problem, Harwich?”

The effect on the lieutenant was all Miles could have hoped for. First the man went rigid then he straightened slowly and turned to face Miles, the color draining from his face.

“Just so,” said Miles.

“I—” Harwich broke off and a ghastly smile spread across his face. “This is not…”

“I know perfectly well what this is,” said Miles and gave vent to his pent-up sentiments by planting him a facer that leveled him.

The chambermaid screamed. The innkeeper started forward only to stop again almost at once. Miles stood over his victim, rubbing the knuckles of his right hand, feeling for once completely satisfied.

Harwich struggled up to one elbow then remained there, shaking his head slowly, his fingers probing his bloodied nose.

Miles stepped over him, taking his place at the door. “Lucy?” he called. “You can come out now.”

A moment’s silence followed. Then, “Miles?” Her tone wavered on a note of hysteria. “Miles?” she repeated and there came a sound of scraping, as of some heavy piece of furniture being dragged across the floorboards.

“Efficient,” commented Phoebe.

Miles glanced over his shoulder to where she stood, eyeing the scene with obvious enjoyment. He raised his eyebrows. “You approve?”

“Far better than pistols at dawn. That would undoubtedly create exactly the sort of scandal you most want to avoid.”

“Sir?” The innkeeper pushed forward, his expression one of consternation. “The gentleman—”

“The gentleman,” said Miles, turning the word into a sneer, “has abducted the lady, just as she tried to tell you.”

“But—” The man paled.

A final scraping screech sounded from within then a bolt rattled and Lucy dragged open the door, stumbled forward and flung herself into Miles’ arms. He held her a moment then set her aside. “Really, my dear. Have a care for my coat.”

“Oh, Miles!” Lucy started to laugh but it broke on a sob. Then her brimming eyes widened. “Miss Caldicot!” she wailed and flung herself upon her new victim. “Oh Miss Caldicot, it has been dreadful! He-he abducted me.”

“Yes, to be sure,” said Phoebe. She looked up. “Wine to your private parlor, I believe,” she said to the innkeeper. “Sir Miles, will you help me take her down?”

Miles came to Lucy’s side and in spite of the brave tilt to her head he found he had to support her trembling steps as they descended to the privacy of the room on the ground floor. Once inside he half carried her to a settle before the hearth and she sank onto it, shuddering. For several minutes she sat in silence with Phoebe beside her, holding her hand, until the door opened to admit not the innkeeper but his wife bearing a bottle of wine and three glasses. She cast an uneasy glance over the group, laid down her burden and left the room.

Miles poured the wine—canary, he saw with approval—and pressed a glass into his sister’s hand. “How came this about, Lucy?”

She sniffed. “I never went with him on purpose!” she declared.

“No,” he soothed. “Of course you did not.”

“You don’t believe me! But Miles, truly, I told him this morning I could not consent to an elopement even though he made it sound like the most romantic of adventures but truly, I-I had begun to suspect I might not like to have him as a husband after all.”

“And how did he take that?” Though Miles thought he could guess.

She took another sip of her wine. “He said he should not press me, that he should never wish to cause me distress and that he should always stand my friend.” Her eyes gleamed and she gave a short shaky laugh. “And I was fool enough to believe him. I did not see him again until just before noon when he came to the house and told me Wicken—my maid, you know,” she explained to Phoebe. “I thought she had gone to deliver a message to her sister, but he told me he had bribed her to-to pack some things for me then absent herself for the afternoon. Miles, I-I want that wretched creature turned off without a character.”

His jaw tightened. “You may be sure of it. But what did he tell you about her?”

She drew a shaky breath. “That she had had hurt her ankle and would I come and help him bring her home. And-and I did, only we went to this horrid inn and before I knew what he was about, he pushed me into a post chaise and jumped in after me and he-he threatened to gag me if I tried to scream.” Her eyes kindled. “I did anyway and he clamped his hand over my mouth, so I bit him.”

“Brava,” Miles murmured.

She sniffed. “Yes but then he cursed at me and stuffed a handkerchief in my mouth and tied another about my head and said he should keep it there until I promised not to make a fuss and that it would be a very long and uncomfortable trip to Scotland if I did not behave exactly as he said I must.”