The Random Gentleman (17 page)
“Lara, herself, I should think—but where she got it, if not fabricated from sheer spite or an overactive imagination, I have no idea! You have been riding with them for days, have you not—masquerading, playing least-in-sight—I suppose a Customs Riding officer might have done something like that, to trap them at their smuggling. Why
did
you do it?”
“I enjoyed the freedom from responsibility,” admitted the Duke. “Also I had to give myself some excuse for seeking out a maddening, autocratic, hot-tempered little wretch who has a habit of fleeing before a frontal approach—”
“You came down to Devon just to see me,” breathed the girl.
By this time the Duke had freed her from the rope and was assisting her to her feet. From some cause, either that her muscles had cramped from the long confinement, or that she suffered a sudden weakness of the nerves, Belinda found it expedient to lean against the broad firm chest of her rescuer. At once two big arms took her in a comforting grasp. This position suited Belinda more than she would have believed possible. She discovered a strong reluctance to detach herself from His Grace’s firm grip. Fortunately, the Duke also displayed no eagerness to let go of his fragrant burden, and they stood closely clasped for some minutes. A belated sense of propriety moved the Duke to release Belinda and move a little away from her.
“Darling!” said the Duke, a trifle thickly.
“Darling!” answered Belinda, with a shocking lack of originality.
Where this pedestrian dialogue might have led can never be known, for at this moment there was a flurry of footsteps to the doorway and the voice of The Whip sounded in their ears.
“So we’ve caught you, have we? And with your doxy, by God!”
The Duke whirled, placing Belinda behind him, to find the doorway crowded with gypsies whose fiercely intent eyes held an utter absence of cordiality. “I am here with a member of the Earl’s family—”
“Aye, we’ve heard that one,” jeered the Whip crudely. “Now maybe you’ll tell us what such a fine lady would be doing huddling with a bloody exciseman?”
Belinda chose this moment to come out from behind the protection of the Duke’s big body. There was a visible widening of dark eyes at the sight of her, even in the uncertain illumination of the lantern. Her hair glowed like guinea gold, but it was the expensive elegance of her velvet riding habit which opened the gypsies’ eyes.
“I am the Earl’s granddaughter,” Belinda announced, for she had realized that her punctilious lover would never be willing to bandy her name and proper station about in a smugglers’ den. The Whip gave a scornful laugh, but his men muttered and shuffled uneasily.
“You expect us to believe that?” jeered Anton, but there was doubt in his voice, and the beginnings of angry frustration. “Then my question stands, what is such a one as you claim to be doing
in secret
with a Preventive? Or shall I tell you?”
Dane growled deep in his throat, but the girl continued quietly, facing the silent gypsies rather than The Whip, “I assure you, men of Quebracho’s tribe, that I am in truth Miss Belinda Sayre, granddaughter of the Right Honorable James Henry Darell ffoulkes Sayre, seventh Earl of Sayre and Wendover, your host in these woods for fifty years.”
The Whip had hardly taken his eyes from the Duke, but he addressed Belinda with a sneer. “Do you tell me your noble grandfather condones your secret meetings with such raff and scaff as this exciseman who is hiding behind your skirts?”
The Duke stretched out one long arm and moved Belinda away from him. “Do not trouble to bandy words with this scum, Belinda. Mount my horse and ride home at once.”
The Whip’s laugh grated loudly. “Are you fool enough to think I’d let her run off and bring you reinforcements?”
“Do you intend harm to Miss Sayre?” snapped the Duke.
“No. When I’ve dealt with you, Preventive, we’ll escort the lady safely home to her grandfather.”
“And how do you intend to secure my silence?” challenged the girl. “I’ll see you all in prison—”
“Belinda!” roared the Duke, giving her such a glare as made her catch her breath.
Indeed, her threat had put a different kind of tension into the group. The girl ignored it as well as the Duke’s warning. “Quebracho knows I am here; Lara knows, for she led me to this place and locked me in. My servants know also—”
“Still,” mocked The Whip, “I think few of them would wish to spread the story of your presence here with this exciseman. They will wish to keep such a shameful escapade quiet, will they not?”
“This gentleman is not a Custom’s Riding officer,” the girl said quietly. “He is the Duke of Romsdale, and my affianced husband—as we told you when we visited your camp.”
Most of the gypsies had by now melted back from the doorway. They had not survived in foreign countries—and all countries were foreign to the Wandering People—by stirring up trouble with the ruling classes. Whatever the rights of this odd situation, it seemed to them that, first, this one man and girl if released, were hardly likely to constitute an official threat to gypsy freedom or the run brandy, the couple’s activities when first observed being of a totally different nature—and one they would be loath to flaunt. Second, they were both of that order which brooks no interference from less privileged persons. So with the wisdom of survival, they faded away from the danger and slipped through the woods to begin breaking camp. Anton would find a way to recoup their losses—it was the chief’s duty.
The Whip was not willing to abandon either his brandy or his chance to punish the insolent Gorgio who had given him so much trouble. A duke? Even a babe at the breast would see the absurdity of such a claim! What would a nobleman be doing riding the roads with gypsies, or poking his nose into a smuggler’s storehouse? He would choose a more comfortable place to bed his woman. The Whip, prey to strong and bitter emotions, was not in any case to think clearly. Lara had done her work too well. As had the Duke.
“There will be no crawling away this time for you, Gorgio. You will stay and take the punishment you’ve asked for. The woman may go or she may stay—to comfort the victor when I am finished with you—” he grinned the insult.
“She will leave at once. I shall see her mounted and safely on her way before I thrash you as you deserve,” said the Duke, icily.
This moment of high drama was a little marred by a duet of voices as two bodies strove to enter the doorway at one time. The tangle resolved itself into the persons of Lara and Bracho. Both were shouting at once.
The old man got in first. “Anton, this is not Miss Oliphant—”
He was interrupted by Lara, shouting, “—this is a Preventive, Anton, don’t let him trick you, he’s—”
“—the Earl’s grandchild. She plans to—”
“—arrest you for free trading—”
“—had a quarrel in London—”
“—that’s why he came spying and joined the caravan—”
“—he intends to marry—”
“—me,” finished Lara, having caught the gist of Bracho’s last comment and using it deftly, “and be the new chieftain!”
“Shut up!” roared The Whip.
The Duke had not lost his poise, although rage glittered deep in the cold, gray eyes. “That was a little confusing,” he agreed. “You should train your staff to make clearer reports. However, now that Quebracho is here, he can escort Miss Sayre back to the Court, while you and I finish our business.”
This sensible suggestion found favor with no one but The Whip. He advanced further into the hut, his black eyes fixed on the Duke’s face. Quebracho wore an expression of alarm, while Lara pouted with annoyance at the thought of being excluded from the scene of battle. Belinda, looking from The Whip’s avid grin to the Duke’s calm, unsmiling arrogance, tightened her lips. She was aware that the Duke was not best pleased with her interference thus far, and would probably have some pretty cutting things to say to her later, but surely it was too much to expect her to permit her newly acquired fiancé to be injured just to satisfy an incomprehensible and idiotic male ritual?
Quickly she glanced around the hut. There was no weapon at hand except the whip curled at the gypsy’s belt. Silently she took two unobtrusive steps toward the keg upon which the Duke had placed the lantern. Then, noting carefully the position of The Whip, she stooped, picked up the lantern, and brought it down in a sweeping arc on the The Whip’s head.
Instantly the interior of the hut was plunged into darkness. The Whip roared with pain and anger. The Duke called Belinda’s name in a voice resounding with equal anger. Lara screamed. Belinda cried out because the handle of the lantern had been very hot indeed. Quebracho shouted to them to get out of the hut before it went up in flames.
This piece of advice was seen to be sound, since already there was an acrid, oily smell, and several tiny tongues of flame licked across the wooden floor.
“Get out before the brandy goes off!” yelled Quebracho. The Duke groped for and snatched up Belinda, hitting her head rather sharply with his own as he stooped to pick her up. Eyes watering, he made for the lighter rectangle of the open door with her. Lara had skipped out at the first hint of danger and was hovering several yards away from the now briskly burning hut, shrieking imprecations on everybody.
The Duke stumbled over the sand away from the hut, calling Ben to him. There was a neigh of alarm from the stallion at sight of the flames. Then hooves pounded in the Duke’s direction. The Whip, staggering out of the shelter with a keg under each arm, tried to catch Ben’s reins, dropped the brandy, and tripped over it. The great horse reared and trumpeted, striking out vicious forehooves. The Duke called him again, and Ben leaped toward his master. Tossing Belinda up over the saddle, the Duke threw himself up after her. He grasped the reins and, springing the horse away from the hut to be out of danger, wheeled to check that Quebracho and The Whip had been able to get away also. As he peered toward the flaming hut, the brandy kegs caught and exploded.
In the glare of light, the Duke was able to see that all the others were at least a distance from the flames, and running. Without another word, he wheeled the horse and put him to the path along which he had ridden earlier that night.
After several minutes of extreme discomfort, hanging with her head down on one side of Ben’s back and her legs on the other, Belinda ventured a protest.
“This is very uncomfortable, Perry. Do you not think we might stop and—and—”
The Duke, still silent, halted and pulled her, rather roughly she thought, to a seated position before him.
“Thank you,” offered Belinda meekly.
Still the Duke did not speak. Belinda began to have a fear that her champion might have resented her behavior in so summarily preventing the duel.
“He would not have fought fairly,” she said, low-voiced. “And he had a weapon, while you had none.”
“I shall discuss this with you later, Belinda,” said the Duke sternly. “Now be quiet till I get us out of the woods. I wish to be able to hear if we are being followed.”
Feeling more miserable than she could ever remember, Belinda kept quiet for the next half hour. The bright moonlight was of some help to the Duke in finding his way, as it shone clearly through the trees and lighted the path except in the thickest groves. Finally Ben came out on the highroad. The Duke paused and stared around.
“We are within a mile of Sayre Village,” Belinda said quietly. “To the right.”
Still without speaking, the Duke turned Ben in the proper direction and put him to a canter.
Belinda began to feel very cross indeed. Well enough to enforce silence when they were vulnerable in the darkness of the woods, but here, on the road bright, with moonlight, where any hostile approach would be clearly visible, surely the Duke should be willing to talk and to listen? Did the man not care how she herself had fared in the confusion of the escape from the hut? She might have been wounded! She
had
been, it came to her, feeling the pain of the burn she had received in lifting the handle of the lantern. Wounded in his service, and he not even concerned! She settled herself into her own resentful silence.
Within minutes they were riding past the inn. His Grace did not hesitate, but went on to the gates of Sayre Court. The gatehouse was quiet, and the man did not pause to alert the sleeping guardians. Instead he headed Ben directly toward the Court itself.
In silence the riders arrived at the great entrance. The Duke lifted Belinda down and steadied her.
“Can you get safely in without attracting too much notice?” he said coldly.
“I can,” gritted Belinda.
“Good-night, then. I shall do myself the honor of waiting upon your grandfather tomorrow,” said the Duke, and turning to Ben, rode quietly back toward the highroad.
Within five minutes Belinda was in her own room, having entered by a side door and crept up the servants’ stairs. The bed, revealed in the light of a single candle, looked vastly enticing, but she had first to disrobe and tend to her burned hand. These tasks she accomplished quickly and at length crept into her bed with a sigh. After such a disastrous conclusion to her scheme for a romantic reconciliation, she had expected to lie awake—possibly weeping, for that was the present temper of her feelings—but within two minutes of touching her pillow, she was fast asleep.