Elizabeth Thornton (13 page)

If Jerry had lived, things might have turned out differently. But Jerry was killed while on patrol and Estelle had no one to turn to. He’d done his best, but most of the time, he was on assignment, and when he did come home, it was hell on earth.

It was the scenes that got to him, and the constant quarrels that always ended in bouts of weeping. He was a failure as a husband, Estelle never tired of pointing out. Estelle wanted a man who would dote on her, and he was too involved in his job.

She’d found consolation in the arms of someone else, someone who showered her with attention and knew all the pretty words that women liked to hear. It all came to light when Estelle’s lover, a Spanish diplomat, was unmasked as a traitor. Estelle, it turned out, had been his willing accomplice, passing information she’d gleaned from her husband’s private correspondence.

Hugh clenched his hand as the memory of that awful scene in Colonel Langley’s office came back to him: Estelle, screaming at him that it was all his fault, that if he’d been any kind of husband, she would never have strayed.

A failure as a husband was one thing, but he’d also failed as an agent, and that was unforgivable. There was no doubt that innocent people had died because of his
carelessness. He’d wanted to resign there and then, but Colonel Langley wouldn’t hear of it. Everyone made mistakes, he’d said, and if a man couldn’t trust his own wife, who could he trust?

Estelle had been incarcerated in a convent in Ireland on the clear understanding that if she ever left it, she would be facing a charge of treason. She didn’t care. Her lover had been executed and her reason for living had been taken away. When she died not long after, they said it was from a broken heart.

He wasn’t to blame, said Langley. Estelle had brought it on herself. But that’s not how Hugh felt about it. He never should have married her. He wasn’t husband material. He didn’t know how to make a woman happy. He became preoccupied, involved in whatever job he’d taken on.

After that, he’d steered clear of women who had marriage on their minds. Women had a place in his life, but it wasn’t an important place. And if he’d used them, they’d certainly used him. He was openhanded, he was easy to please, but at the first mention of marriage, he immediately severed the relationship.

The coach lurched, dislodging Abbie from her comfortable position. Her lashes fluttered, and she involuntarily stretched her cramped muscles, but she did not waken. Now that he could see her more clearly, he studied her at leisure.

She looked so helpless and trusting, curled into him like a sleeping kitten. But she didn’t look relaxed. Her brow was furrowed, and every once in a while, he could hear her breath catch.

He was still angry and confused about last night. He didn’t see why she had taken offense. She’d offered herself to him. He wanted more. He thought she’d be pleased.

The truth was, he didn’t understand women at all.

He couldn’t deny that Abbie appealed to him more than any woman he’d ever known, but the thought of marriage appalled him. Not even for her sake would he go through that again. Now that he knew where she stood, he’d make damn sure he kept his distance.

Only he couldn’t keep his distance. Not until he’d got to the bottom of this.

Abbie snuggled closer. Hugh sighed and adjusted his position to make her more comfortable.

They stopped at the Black Boar near Hungerford to water the horses and get a bite to eat. The inn’s dining room was everything Abbie had hoped for. It was small by the Castle’s standards, but that suited her just fine. A cheery coal fire burned at each end of the room, making it seem warm and cozy. Her coat was folded over a chair, with her bonnet on top, and on the floor by her feet were her muff and reticule. It was really pleasant, and she was sorry that soon they would be on the road again.

The cuisine appealed to her as much as the cozy interior. It was unashamedly English—beefsteak and Yorkshire pudding, or beefsteak and kidney pudding, or plain beefsteak, followed by rhubarb jam pudding or apple tart. She ordered a little of everything, not because she wanted to eat it all, but because when she was chewing, she could ignore Hugh. She loathed him; she really loathed him. She should have listened to her mother. Mama always said that the quiet ones were the ones to watch, and how right she was!

Hugh wasn’t the least bit embarrassed by their odd situation. He chatted as though they were the best of friends, ignoring her long silences. He’d mentioned making a short detour to a place nearby called Endicote, to
visit Mrs. Deane, his late tutor’s widow, but Abbie had scotched that idea. If they left the main road, George’s abductors, supposing they were watching her, might get the wrong idea, and that was the last thing she wanted.

She occasionally glanced around the crowded dining room, and her eyes kept returning to a swarthy gentleman seated all by himself at a small window table. He’d entered the inn shortly after she and Hugh had arrived. He looked familiar. Like Hugh, he was picking at the food on his plate. She wouldn’t have noticed him except for the fact that although he was seated at a window table, he rarely looked outside. When he wasn’t reading the newspaper he’d brought with him, he looked casually around the dining room.

Hugh looked out the window. “It’s snowing, Abbie,” he said. “And I don’t like the look of it. Why don’t you finish your tea while I settle our bill. Then I’d like to speak to some of the drivers who’ve come from the east, just to satisfy myself that it’s safe to go on. I’ll meet you back at our coach, all right?”

She glanced anxiously out the window. Hugh was right. It was snowing, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t go on. They
had
to go on. Sighing, she topped up her cup and sipped slowly.

Shortly after Hugh left, the gentleman at the window table rose abruptly. As he buttoned his coat, she studied him covertly. He was in his early twenties, of medium height, stocky, with dark hair and complexion. He was wearing a brown coat, but he hadn’t been wearing a brown coat when she saw him last. Green, she remembered, and she’d seen him very recently. Maybe she’d met him at the Castle.

She hadn’t met anyone at the Castle, and the only people she remembered were Mrs. Langley and her
daughter and the guests she’d studied in the hotel lobby when she was waiting for Mr. Norton.

Then it came to her. He’d been one of the gentlemen who had played chess. He and his friend had finished their game almost as soon as she’d taken a seat in the window embrasure.

When he moved past her and left the dining room, she reached for her own coat, then she wandered over to the window. The man in the brown coat was striding across the courtyard, hailing someone who was in conversation with an ostler. The man turned just as the stranger reached him.

Hugh!

Then why hadn’t the man in the brown coat spoken to Hugh in the dining room when he had the chance?

Her heart began to pound. Turning on her heel, she returned to the table, picked up her bonnet and reached for her muff. She was halfway to the door before she remembered her reticule. Turning quickly, she ran back and snatched it from the floor.

When she came out on the porch, she halted. Hugh and the man in the brown coat had vanished.

S
he hesitated on the front porch and looked around the courtyard. There was no sign of Hugh, yet she knew he had to be here somewhere. Only a few minutes had elapsed since she watched him conversing with the man in the brown coat. But there was no sign of the stranger either.

Taking a deep breath, she took her time and studied the courtyard in detail. The stable wings were attached to the main building and with the high brick wall at the far end formed a square. The entrance ran under an arch in the inn itself, and opposite the entrance was the exit, a gateway in the brick wall that gave onto a lane. There were several carriages in the yard, close to the buildings, but only Hugh’s vehicle was ready to roll. The others were horseless, either waiting for ostlers to harness a fresh team, or they were in the process of having their horses unhitched and led away. She saw stableboys with shovels and brooms clearing the snow from the cobblestones, and a few hardy gentlemen who were walking about to stretch their legs. But there was no Hugh and no swarthy gentleman in a brown coat.

When she saw Harper, Hugh’s coachman, her panic ebbed a little. He was stamping up and down the cobblestones, trying to keep warm. She picked up her skirts and dashed across the courtyard just as a carriage came rumbling through the archway and ground to a stop. It was so blustery that she held up her muff to protect her face. Harper had seen her coming and had the door open and was ready to hand her in. She put one foot on the step and looked into the coach. Hugh was not there.

“Where is Mr. Templar?” she asked.

He glanced around the courtyard. “I saw him here a moment ago.”

“So did I. He was speaking to a gentleman in a brown coat. Did you notice him too?”

“No, I didn’t,” replied Harper. “Maybe they went for a walk.”

Her panic returned. “Went for a walk?” she said despairingly. “In this kind of weather? Mr. Templar wouldn’t do that, not willingly.”

As if to add weight to her words, a blast of cold air came tearing through the entrance tunnel, driving snow in a torrent of icy pellets. Abbie held on to her bonnet, Harper held on to the door, and Tom held on to the reins as his team stamped, tossed their heads, and jostled forward only to be brought back as they felt the pressure of their bits.

When the gust had spent itself, Harper said, “I’ll take a look around.”

“I’ll come with you,” Abbie said quickly.

“No. you wait here.”

“But—”

“No buts. Get inside the carriage. At once.”

Abbie was shocked into silence. Harper wasn’t exactly
one of those servants who was always touching his forelock, but he’d never spoken to her, or anyone in her hearing, in this rough fashion. She peered into that hard, grim face, and it came to her that Harper was almost as worried as she was.

She nodded and entered the carriage. Harper didn’t leave at once. He said something to Tom, and when he passed her window Abbie saw him thrust a pistol into the waistband of his trousers. Her own pistol was in her portmanteau and stowed with the rest of her baggage where she could not get at it. She had no idea what she would do if she had it, but she was no longer thinking rationally.

She looked around the coach and reached for the pocket in the corner of the banquette. Most private coaches were equipped with pistols in case of an attack by highwaymen, and most pistols were useless because their owners forgot to check them to ensure that they were primed and ready. Hugh wasn’t like most owners. He was meticulous about details.

The pistol was much larger and heavier than she’d anticipated, and she almost dropped it. Clutching it tightly, she frantically searched her mind for the instructions she’d read on the use of firearms.
She could do it. It wasn’t that difficult
. The hardest thing was to keep the pistol steady when she leveled it.

Before her nerve gave way, she thrust the pistol into her muff and reached for the door handle. When she stepped onto the cobblestones and scanned the courtyard, Harper was nowhere to be seen. First Hugh, then the man in the brown coat, and now Harper. Her panic took a gargantuan leap.

“Tom!” she cried out.

He didn’t hear her. His eyes were trained on the exit
into the lane. A young man, a dandy, was entering the courtyard from the lane, and he was furious.

“Snowdrift,” he yelled at the ostler who came forward to assist him. “My gig is stuck in a bloody snowdrift in the lane. Aren’t you people supposed to keep the lane clear? And bring two shovels, man. There’s a carriage behind me that’s stuck as well.”

Abbie’s brain raced ahead of her, making connections, seizing on images that flashed into her mind. If there was a carriage behind the curricle, it must be on the other side of the gateway. It must have been waiting there while Hugh talked to the man in the brown coat. And the only reason it hadn’t taken off was that the back lane had become impassable. She began to run.

She shot into the lane like a runner crossing a finishing line. She saw horses pawing the snow and beyond them three men and a chaise. Two of those men were trying to heave one of the chaise’s wheels clear of the snow whole the third was giving directions. The third man was the swarthy man in the brown coat.

Her sudden appearance startled the horses, and they reared up and lashed out with their hooves. The three men looked up, then the swarthy man cursed and started forward. She glanced around for someone to help her. The driver of the curricle had wandered into the lane and was eyeing her curiously.

“Please, help me,” she cried out, but when she dragged the pistol from her muff, his jaw gaped and he backed away with his hands in the air. Then he turned and ran into the courtyard.

“What do you think you’re doing, Miss Vayle?”

Her head whipped up. The swarthy gentleman was shaking his head. And he knew her name. That proved it. He must be one of them.

Her voice was shaking as badly as her hands as she tried to level the pistol. “You’re going to back away from that carriage, or I’m going to shoot you.”

His two companions put their hands in the air.

The swarthy man said, “She won’t pull the trigger.”

“No, but I will.” Harper’s voice came from high above them. Abbie chanced a quick glance up. He was on the iron gallery that ran the length of the stable block, and his pistol was pointed at the man in the brown coat.

“Harper,” she cried. “Thank God you’re here! I think Mr. Templar is inside the chaise.”

“Then let’s find out. You there, back off, away from the carriage, if you please. Now!” he bellowed when they hesitated.

The three men cleared the coach and retreated with their hands in the air. “Do you know how to use that thing?” asked Harper, looking skeptically at Abbie’s pistol.

“I know how to use it,” she said.

“Then pull back the hammer,” he said dryly. “Gently, now, gently.”