Escape with A Rogue (37 page)

Madeline had to tamp down frustration. Catherine had kept all of this hidden and had continued to insist Jack was guilty. Each man had had a motive to kill Sarah. But Philip had insisted none of them could have shot at her when she was on horseback. Would the murderer have risked paying someone to do it for him? If not, it meant all her suspects had alibis.

The library was blazingly hot—a fire was lit in the large grate. Madeline’s head pounded. Outside, rain lashed the windows in a torrent. Was Jack out there with no refuge? Her heart quivered at the thought of him soaked to the skin and chilled to the bone. She had no idea where he’d gone. But she knew him. Even with Oberon’s men watching the house, he would have stayed close to protect her.

“You look pale,” Catherine said, rising to her feet. “We must have brandy.”

Madeline stood. “I can’t. I must go—I would like to talk to Sarah’s maid. Perhaps Sarah confided in her.”

Catherine firmly grasped her shoulders and propelled her toward a Queen Anne chaise. “I have no idea what happened to the maid. I believe she vanished without giving any notice, shortly after Sarah’s death.” Madeline found herself pushed down to the silk-cushioned seat. “You had a near miss yesterday. You should not be riding here and there, investigating. We do not want anything terrible to happen to you.”

* * *

It was late afternoon when Madeline pushed open the white garden gate in front of a small manor house—the place where Sarah’s maid now worked. Despite Catherine’s pleas that she stay, she had left Lindale Park. But before she’d gone, she’d bribed one of the upstairs maids for information. The girl had known Sarah’s maid, Lucy. “She went off the night after poor Lady Sarah died,” the girl had said. “Didn’t say a word, didn’t give any notice, but she told me where she was going. She told me she was supposed to say she had followed a regiment of soldiers up north, but the truth was, she was going to another house. Her mother is the cook at Rose Cottage, and she found Lucy a position there.”

Rose Cottage was in the small village of Cragstoke Marsh, ten miles away.

Why was Lucy to give a false story about why she had left? Who had told her to do so?

At the back of the house, Madeline found a slim, dark-haired woman taking down the washing. She proved to be Lucy. A gold sovereign prompted the young woman to go inside to talk. They sat in the small servants’ parlor, in the back of the house, near the kitchens.

“Why did you leave Lord Lindale without giving notice?” Madeline asked. “That meant you would not get a reference. Were you paid to go?”

Lucy’s gaze went swiftly toward the window. “The lady took care of me. She ensured I got my letter. She gave me my wages and even some extra money. She was very generous.”

“By the lady, I presume you mean Mrs. Catherine Worthington—that was her name before she became Lady Lindale.” Lindale and Catherine’s marriage had taken place several months after Lucy’s departure.

“Yes, my lady. Mrs. Worthington, the widow, who is Lady Lindale now.”

Catherine was her friend, but she was usually harsh with servants. It was out of character for her to give a maid extra money. “What did Lady Lindale ask you to do in return for her generosity?”

“I was just to leave quickly.” Lucy twisted her hands in her lap. “Is that all, my lady?”

“Did you ever see Sarah’s diary, Lucy?”

The maid blushed. “I did peek, but only because Lady Sarah was doing things she had no right to. She would listen at doors and read other people’s letters. She was so desperate to find out secrets.”

“Was Mr. Rhodes, the musician, mentioned in Sarah’s diary?”

 “Ooh, aye! Lady Sarah was in love with him. They were planning to marry secretly.”

Madeline asked Lucy about the gentlemen. What Lucy remembered agreed with the facts she had already learned from Catherine. Out of curiosity she asked, “What did Sarah say about Lady Lindale?” She wondered what had driven Catherine to burn the diary.

“Terrible things. Lady Sarah said Mrs. Worthington had no right to marry her father.”

“Why, Lucy?” Madeline asked. “Was it because she did not like the woman?”

“No, it were because it would be bi—bigamy. That was what Lady Sarah said. But I don’t see how that could be, since, if the lady was a widow, her husband must have been dead.”

* * *

There were two sure places to find a poacher—at night on the estate grounds or in the early evening at the local public house. It was late afternoon on the day he’d left Eversleigh. Jack ducked his head under the low doorway at the Master and Hound, the public house in the village of Miltonbury, four miles from Madeline’s home. Two years ago, when he worked at Eversleigh and rode the grounds, he’d met two cagey old poachers who kept outwitting Lord Evershire’s land steward.

They were seated on benches at a long table, nursing the last-half inch of their drinks. The tall one—six-foot-six and heavy with muscle—was Old Bill. Across from him sat a fellow named Fox, who was a wizened little gnome with snow-white hair.

Out of his gambling winnings, Jack ordered them each a pint. Then he joined them with a half of the local bitter in his hand. It took him two pints to bring them around to the subject of rifle shots fired in the woods. Neither man had heard about the gunshot that had precipitated Madeline’s accident, but they knew of the one that had narrowly missed her.

“That would’ve been a tragedy if she’d been hit,” Old Bill said, shaking his head. “She’s a grand lass, is Lady Madeline.”

“It wasn’t either of you two—”

Both men erupted in outrage at the suggestion they’d be so careless.

“We only go on the estate at night,” Fox insisted.

Jack gave descriptions of Mayberry, Braxton, and Deverell. “Did you see a man who looked like any of them in the woods? Or in the village on the day of that accident?”

The two men shook their heads.

“Saw Lady Lindale walking through the woods that day, though,” Fox said. He took a long swallow of his ale. “Damned unusual. Never seen her do it before. She never goes anywhere except in that fancy carriage of hers.”

“That step-daughter of hers used to go in the woods.” Old Bill shifted on the bench. “Used to meet a gentleman there. It was such a tragedy that she was killed.” Bill looked levelly at him. “Said you did it. But that weren’t true.”

“No, it wasn’t true.” The man Sarah met must have been Peregrine Rhodes, but he wanted to make certain. “What did the man look like?”

“He was a handsome one with brown hair. Looked like he was used to getting his own way with women. Lady Sarah would run to meet him, all breathless and with her cheeks shining.”

Brown hair. That would describe Peregrine Rhodes, but also Braxton. Mayberry was fair. Deverell had coal-black hair. “Definitely brown?”

“Brown it was. The color of my nag’s arse.” Old Bill laughed uproariously.

Jack gave a description of Peregrine Rhodes. At Old Bill’s nod, and his gruff acknowledgement that “He could have been the man,” Jack tossed him two shillings.

Fox perked up. “I saw ’im, too. Didn’t approve of the bloke ’aving ’is way with young Lady Sarah, but there’s some girls that are fools.” He set his empty glass on the table. “I’d tell you a bit more, but me throat’s getting dry.”

Jack recognized extortion but was willing to play along. He bought more ale, and gave Fox his two shillings with the promise of more.

After a sip, Fox sighed. “I saw Rhodes in the woods with another woman. They were fighting. She slapped his face and shouted at him. Scared away any game, so I ’ad to sit and watch and wait for ’em to be done with their yelling.”

Jack took out a sovereign, tossed it up in the air and caught it.

“The man called her his wife and tried to clasp her hand,” Fox said. “Stupid sod, I thought, she’ll belt you again. Sure enough, she did. She was screeching at him in a rage. Then she calmed a bit and snootily claimed that their marriage didn’t count in England. If I’d been the bloke, I’d ’ave counted myself lucky not to be wed to ’er.”

“Aye,” agreed Old Bill. He pulled out a pipe and began to pack fragrant tobacco into it.

Madeline’s sister had said Sarah had asked about Catholic marriages. Had Rhodes already been married?

 “I’ve seen angry women in my life,” Fox went on, “but not one that would grasp a man around the throat and almost choke the life out of him. She did that to this poor fool. Said she had the chance to marry well and no unfaithful cad was going to ruin her chances.”

“Who was the woman?” Jack asked.

“It were too dark to see ’er. And she wore a cloak with a ’ood. When she wasn’t screaming, she had a posh, sultry sort of voice.”

“It definitely was not Lady Sarah?”

“Didn’t sound like ’er. Sounded like an older woman.”

Jack sat back on the bench, while laughter and conversation roared around him and the heavy smells of the fire, various pipes, and unwashed men filled his lungs. A posh, sultry sort of voice. A woman who believed she could make a good marriage, except she was already wed.

He frowned, because he could almost hear the right sort of voice in his head. It had rippled over him once, when he’d been at Eversleigh—

Lurching to his feet, Jack saw the poachers look up at him in surprise.

He knew who the woman was. He knew why Sarah had been killed.

Madeline was in danger. She didn’t suspect a woman, and she would not suspect this one.

As he crossed the bar, he tried to tamp down panic. He spilled some coins on the counter in front of the innkeeper. “Do you have a horse I could use?”

The bald man licked his lips as he saw the blunt. “I’ve a pony and cart.”

“It’ll do. That’s for the use of it tonight.” Without waiting for the man’s agreement, Jack wrenched open the door. He rushed out into the deluge, using his arm as a shield for his face against driving rain. It took him only minutes to hitch the pony to the cart, then swing up, flick the whip and rumble off.

Rivulets of water ran down the road, turning the surface into thick mud. The wheels sank deep and the pony strained to pull the cart. Jack didn’t have the heart to whip the small horse or terrify it into trying to carry a load when it couldn’t.

He jumped off and released the cart, which he pushed to the side of the road. Rain ran into his eyes, and he brushed it away with his sodden sleeve. The pony’s back was slick and bony, and he doubted he’d make any better time on the animal than he could in running the distance to the house.

Hades.
He led the pony to the shelter of some trees, whispered a command in the animal’s ear for it to stay put, and took off across the fields. One thing about being wet—he didn’t give a damn if he got wetter. He kept on a straight path to Eversleigh. He plunged into a stream, waded waist-deep through dark water. At the next one, he dove in and swam across, pulling hard against the current.

As fast as he moved, as fiercely as he pushed his body, it wasn’t enough.

He ran over slick rock and slogged along muddy tracks. On a dry, clear day, he likely could have run back to the estate in under an hour. Tonight, it felt like he was trapped in a nightmare where he was racing as fast as he could and getting nowhere.

His lungs were heaving and burning, his muscles screaming with exertion. He darted through a sea of endless tree trunks. Rocks rose up to his right, which must be the base of the ridge that ran behind Madeline’s home. He stumbled onto a wide path—this had to be the one that led from Lindale’s estate to Eversleigh. He drove himself harder . . .

Flashes of gold glinted between the trees ahead of him. The winking diamonds of light must be the windows of Madeline’s house. He reached the edge of the woods. Sheets of rain slammed into the lawns ahead of him. The lights drew him forward, and he ran out of the woods and onto the dark expanse of grass. She had to be in the house. Safe. She had to be safe . . .

“Stop there.”

Jack froze. Bloody hell. He would have to combat Oberon’s man.

“Put your hands up and turn around. Slowly.”

He recognized the hoarse, deep voice at once.
Blenchley.
And he obeyed. “I was coming back from the village. I work in the stables—” He broke off. The muzzle of the soldier’s pistol was aimed at his head.

Blenchley flashed a victorious smile. “You’re mine now, Travers.”

 “Not yet,” he muttered and he dove to the side.

The shot exploded. Jack heard the roar the instant the ball ripped along his shoulder. He fell and slid in the wet grass. His shoulder felt like ice, even as pain screamed through him, but he scrambled up and ran for the cover of the woods.

He was running again, and this time he couldn’t get caught.

He dove under a mass of shrubbery, and crouched in silence beneath the canopy of leaves. Tentatively, he touched his shoulder and winced. The shot had grazed the outside, along the ridge of the bone. With rain pouring off him, he couldn’t tell how much blood he was losing. His coat was ripped open along the wound, which meant dirty fibers could have been driven into the gash.

He waited. How was he going to get past Blenchley to get to the house? The soldier was staying as quiet as Jack was.

He felt like all his blood was in the rainwater, running down his body to puddle in the grass. Christ, he was getting lightheaded.

It was like the night his mother had died. The viscount who’d fought him had cut him badly with his blade. His blood had been leaking out of him from a half dozen wounds.

He’d survived that night. He had survived a fight with a man almost twice his size while he’d been badly wounded. He would survive this. His mother had needed him and he’d failed her.

He would not fail Madeline.

Taking a chance, he shifted forward. A twig gave a soft, muted snap.

Footsteps rushed toward his hiding place, and Blenchley’s voice roared above him. “I’ve got a second pistol. This time I’ll blow your bloody brains out, Travers.”

* * *

Madeline raced back to Eversleigh as quickly as she dared. Rain poured down and her curricle was uncovered—she’d chosen it for speed. It was early evening, but the downpour made it gloomy and dark. The wheels hit ruts and slid through puddles, yet she flicked the reins furiously. At the back of her vehicle, her poor, drenched footman hung on for dear life.