Vixen (19 page)

There also seemed little point in having a new habit and a tricorn hat with a silver plume if one was denied the opportunity to wear them.

She ran down to the kitchen and let Dante out into the kitchen garden, taking an apple from the basket and following him into the orchard. She perched on the low wall encircling the orchard and looked across Shipton valley, where an early mist curled, promising another hot day.

She’d already decided to make her escape by climbing over the wall and skirting the orchard to come out halfway down the driveway. There was much less chance of discovery than using the courtyard exit.

She ate her apple while Dante chased up hares in the dew-wet grass, then returned to the kitchen. She couldn’t go adventuring without leaving a note of explanation. They’d be angry enough as it was without scaring
them both out of their wits, wondering what had happened to her.

The kitchen dresser yielded paper and a lead pencil. She took them up to her room to compose a suitable missive.

At seven o’clock Chloe heard Samuel’s heavy tread on the stair. He’d put the kettle on the range and go to the hen house to collect the eggs. Then he’d make tea and porridge for himself and Billy. When they’d breakfasted, they’d go to the stables to see to the dogs and horses.

She dressed swiftly and read through her note. It was hardly poetry, but it was clear and said she’d be back in the afternoon. In afterthought she scrawled an addendum. Dante would have to be shut up while she left, since Crispin’s plans might go awry if a dog joined them. Samuel would have to release him once she’d gone.

That done, she left her bedroom, tiptoed to the end of the corridor, looked in on the sleepy Plato, in the still-room, who blinked at the crack of light but seemed peaceful and so far hadn’t disturbed the splint.

The kitchen was empty, as she’d expected, the back door standing open. She propped the note against the coffeepot on the table and darted outside. Across the kitchen garden, through the orchard, over the wall, and she was home free.

Crispin was waiting in the lane at the bottom of the drive. He held Maid Marion on a leading rein and had a wicker hamper strapped to his saddle.

“Good morning,” Chloe called as she ran through the gate. “Isn’t it a lovely morning?”

Crispin dismounted. “Beautiful. No one knows you’re here?”

“Not a soul,” she said cheerfully, rubbing Maid Marion’s nose. “But I left them a note so they won’t worry.”

Crispin paled. “You left them a note?”

“Yes, of course…. Will you help me mount? Without a mounting block, I find it difficult.”

Crispin took her booted foot in his palm and tossed her up. She landed gracefully in the sidesaddle, hitched her right knee over the pommel, and adjusted her skirts, offering her companion a brilliant smile. “Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise.” Crispin mounted his own horse. “What did you say in your note?”

“Oh, just that I was going for a ride with you and we would be back sometime this afternoon.” She looked at him askance. “Is something troubling you?”

“No, why should there be?” But his mouth was tight and his eyes hard. “How soon before they find your note?”

“Oh, half an hour, I should think,” Chloe said. “Why?”

Crispin shrugged and touched his spur to his mount’s flanks. The horse broke into a canter and then into a gallop. Chloe, taken by surprise, followed suit, the roan’s stride lengthening as she established her pace.

It was fifteen minutes before Crispin slowed, and by then Chloe was enjoying the ride so much, she thought no more about that sudden burst of speed. Crispin still refused to say where they were going, so she just relaxed into the pleasure of the bright morning and the feel of a powerful mount beneath her and the heady sense of a whole day of freedom ahead.

S
amuel saw the note as soon as he returned to the kitchen from the stables. He unfolded the sheet of paper and puzzled at the scrawled letters. His reading was severely limited and his writing nonexistent, but he could make out the signature and it filled him with foreboding. Further mental contortions yielded the fact that she’d gone somewhere.

On occasion Samuel could produce a siring of profanity to impress His Majesty’s entire navy. This was one of those occasions. Clearly, he had no choice but to wake Sir Hugo from the first decent sleep he’d had since God knew when.

Women were pesky creatures … never anything but trouble. He stomped upstairs and knocked at Hugo’s door. There was no immediate response, and he lifted the latch.

“Beggin’ your pardon, Sir Ugo—”

“What is it, Samuel?” Hugo was immediately wide awake although for a second disoriented, believing that he was back commanding a ship and Samuel was waking him in the night watch with urgent news.

“It’s Miss,” Samuel said, stepping up to the bed. “Left this on the kitchen table.” He held out the paper.

Hugo snatched it from him. He took in the contents and closed his eyes briefly. “Why the
hell
would she go anywhere with Crispin? She said she couldn’t stand him.”

“That relative of ’ers?” Samuel asked with an uneasy frown. “The one what’s been ’anging around the last few days?”

“What!”

“Well, she was down, like, Sir ’Ugo, and he seemed to cheer ’er up. They never went out of the courtyard, I swear it. An’ I was watchin’ all the time. Brought ’er the owl, I’ll lay odds.” A ruddy flush stained Samuel’s weather-beaten cheeks as he gazed anxiously at his employer. “Did I do wrong?”

“It wasn’t your responsibility, Samuel, it was mine.” Hugo’s lip curled in disgust. “I thought it could wait until I’d pulled myself together. Jasper said he was more than a match for a drunken sot … and by God he knew what he was talking about.” He pushed aside the
sheet and stood up. “How long could she have been gone?”

“ ’Alf an hour, p’raps.”

“Could be worse.” He pulled his shirt over his head and stepped into his britches. Tm damn sure I told her she wasn’t to leave the estate without permission … or is that another fond hope born out of my drunken imagination?”

“No, Sir ’Ugo, I was there when you telled ’er,” Samuel said stolidly, handing him his boots.

“Ahh. In that case, Miss Gresham had better be prepared for some serious trouble when I get my hands on her.” He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on his boots. “Tell Billy to saddle the horses. There’s only one road and they could only have gone one of two ways. I’ll take the Manchester road to Shipton and you go toward Edgecombe. Someone along the road will have seen them and can put us right.”

He stood up again and buckled on his belt. “I want my knife, Samuel, and my pistol.”

Samuel handed them to him and hurried downstairs to give Billy his orders.

Hugo ran a finger down the blade of the knife before thrusting it into the sheath in his belt. He primed the pistol before dropping it into the deep pocket of his coat.

He hadn’t confided his suspicions about the Greshams to Chloe, so perhaps she couldn’t be held entirely to blame for accepting Crispin’s company. He was a part of her childhood, and she had no reason to suspect him of perfidy. However, she
had
been told to stay close to the house, and by ignoring that instruction had walked straight into the lion’s den and was causing him a great deal of trouble … not to mention waking him prematurely from the almost-unremembered luxury of a deep sleep and driving him out of the house, unshaven
and breakfastless. If he’d summoned the energy to rid himself of a week’s beard before he’d gone to bed; he’d look less of a vagabond.

Hugo was in no charitable frame of mind as he strode downstairs. But neither was he in the least anxious about retrieving her. He never fretted about the outcome of a venture when in the midst of it.

Would they have taken her to Shipton? Or somewhere farther afield? He’d start at Shipton anyway. If Jasper wasn’t there, the chances were fairly high that someone could be induced to impart some information. A knife and a pistol in the hands of a man unafraid to use them were potent persuaders.

He emerged into the sunny courtyard, drawing on his gloves. “If someone saw them pass on your section of the road, Samuel, stay on their tracks. If you draw a blank, then follow me as fast as you can. I’ll do the same.” He swung onto his horse.

“Right you are.” Samuel mounted and followed him down the drive to the road, where they went their separate ways.

C
rispin pressed his horse onward over the dry, rutted surface of the Manchester road. They were nearing the city now and the post-chaise would be waiting at the crossroads. He glanced impatiently behind him. Chloe was now dawdling, examining the hedgerows, stopping to look at a hovering hawk, and he didn’t know how to hurry her up. If they only had half an hour’s start, he had to get her into the chaise and across the city without delay.

Fuming, he reined in his horse and waited for her to come up with him. “You’re so slow, Chloe.”

She looked surprised. “But we aren’t in a hurry. We
have all morning…. Don’t you think there are a lot of people on the road?”

It was true. The Manchester road was getting busier by the moment, with carts and horsemen and pedestrians, whole families of them in some cases, straggling along the grassy verge, children darting and squealing in and out of the throng. There was an air of excitement but also a holiday atmosphere, as if they were going to a fete on this sultry Monday morning.

If Chloe resisted entering the chaise, it would create the devil of a scene on this public highway. Nothing was going right, and Crispin wished his stepfather hadn’t put the success of this venture squarely on his shoulders. Control seemed to be slipping through his fingers, and he didn’t know how to adapt the plan to changed circumstance.

“Come on,” he said, looking around impatiently.

“I’m hungry,” Chloe stated. “I only had an apple for breakfast. Why don’t we turn off the road into the field and have some of our picnic? You did say we were going to have a picnic?”

“Yes, but not here.”

“Well, what have you got in the basket? There must be something I could nibble while we ride.”

Crispin had a sudden memory of his companion as an infuriatingly persistent little girl of seven, demanding to know the meaning of a word she’d heard in the stable yard at Gresham Hall. He’d hadn’t known himself, beyond the fact that it was grossly improper, but having pretended he knew, he’d been stuck. Chloe had persisted, although she’d guessed he didn’t know, nagging at him until he’d slapped her. The urge to do the same now was becoming overpowering.

“Wait a few more minutes,” he said tightly. The crossroads was around the next corner, and he gazed anxiously ahead, as if he could make it materialize sooner.
Chloe frowned, both puzzled and annoyed. The attentive, generous Crispin of the past few days seemed to have disappeared. Her present companion was much more like the peevish, self-centered boy she remembered from their childhood.

They rounded a corner in the road and she felt Crispin stiffen in his saddle. Curiously, she glanced at him. He had an air of nervous expectancy. He edged his horse closer to hers until their flanks were almost touching. The mare, uncomfortable, whinnied and tried to sidestep. Crispin leaned forward and took hold of Chloe’s rein.

“It’s all right,” she said. “I can manage her perfectly well. Your horse is crowding her.”

When Crispin’s hand remained on her bridle, she felt a flash of unease. She looked ahead.

A post-chaise stood at the crossroads, three men on the ground beside it. They were looking down the road toward the approaching riders. Chloe suddenly knew that something was wrong and that she was in danger. She held herself very still for a second, gathering herself together, like a gazelle scenting the lion.

Then her whip hand lifted and flashed down, catching Crispin across the back of the hand holding her rein, biting through the soft leather glove. He gave a cry of pain, snatching back his hand, and in the same instant, Chloe touched Maid Marion’s flanks and the mare plunged down the road. As they passed the chaise, one of the waiting men gave a shout and leapt into the road after them. Chloe leaned low over the roan’s neck and whispered encouragement, urging her on. The shouts continued behind her, and she could hear the pounding of Crispin’s hooves in pursuit. The stallion was faster than the mare—longer-legged and with a more powerful chest—and she knew she wouldn’t be able to hold her lead.

A crowd of banner-waving men and women ahead straggled across the road, and desperately Chloe rode straight into the middle of them. They closed around her like two halves of an oyster around the pearl, and she reined in the mare, afraid she’d trample one of her unwitting escort. Crispin would never be able to get through. And even if he did, it was hard to imagine what he could do in the midst of such a multitude.

The crowd swelled and bore her onward toward the city. She couldn’t escape the throng even if she wanted to, so she allowed herself to be carried forward even while she wondered what they were doing and where they were going.

H
ugo was informed by a hedge-cutter that a young man and woman had ridden by on the Manchester road about an hour previously. Satisfied that he was on the right track, he pressed his horse into a gallop. The question was: Had they turned off toward Shipton or continued toward the city? Luck was on his side, however, and at the turning a small boy fishing in the ditch with a worm on a bent pin volunteered the information that a geezer on a black horse and a lady on a roan had gone by toward Manchester. He remembered them because the lady had slowed her horse and asked if he’d managed to catch anything yet.

It sounded like Chloe. But what the devil had they in mind? Were they going to hide her in the city? It would be easy enough to do.

Hugo hesitated for a moment, wondering if he’d do better to go to Shipton anyway and pry what information he could out of its inhabitants. But there was still the faint chance that he could catch up with them before they reached the city. Something could have happened to delay them. Hoping fervently that Chloe would continue
to dawdle by the roadside, exchanging greetings with avid young fishermen, he rode on.