CHAPTER 17

Lord Wrotham left his cousin's lodgings in good spirits. He had realized, very early in Myron's recitation of Mr. Flinder's abduction plans, that Deirdre was likely to be in no danger whatsoever.

This being the case, it had occurred to him that it would be most effective if he were to wait until Flinder had actually kidnapped her and to overtake them on the road, playing the role of her knight in shining armour. What more romantic setting for a proposal of marriage? The only risk he foresaw was that she might contrive to escape on her own before his daring rescue; therefore, he did not wish to wait too long.

The abduction was scheduled for later that afternoon, so Wrotham ate a leisurely nuncheon with Lord Ellerby before returning home to change into an appropriate riding costume. He rarely wore capes, but on this occasion he decided to don for effect the one caped riding cloak he possessed. He also brought along a brace of pistols against the unlikely chance that it would be necessary to persuade Mr. Flinder to release his captive. If the enterprising Jonas resembled his crony Myron in courage, it was more probable that the mere sight of a pistol would cause him to faint dead away.

Regarding himself in the mirror, Wrotham decided that he looked quite the swashbuckler. Any lady who wrote poetry as assiduously as did Deirdre could not help but appreciate the romantic image he evinced. Arching a dark eyebrow at his reflection, he swept out of the room with a flourish, fully aware that he was behaving foolishly. The logical thing to have done, of course, would have been to warn Miss Wheaton so that the abduction could never take place at all. But playing the hero was something he had never had opportunity to do and could not quite resist on this occasion.

Bigby regarded the Marquis in some surprise when he descended in his unusual attire and requested his horse be brought round. It was as well the pistols were hidden under his coat, reflected Wrotham. Mounting a moment later, he directed his horse towards the Great North Road at a brisk trot. They should be less than a mile ahead of him, he thought, which should allow him to overtake Flinder's coach within the hour.

He was surprised, therefore, when nearly two hours passed without a sign of the bright red travelling coach Myron had described. How on earth could they have got so far ahead? Only if he feared pursuit would Flinder travel at such a pace; if Myron had betrayed his plan, he would lose far more than the twenty pounds promised him!

The afternoon was deepening to dusk when Wrotham spotted a coach on the side of the road up ahead, just at the near side of Finchley Common; as he drew closer, he saw that its two far wheels were in the ditch, causing it to lean at a precarious angle. It was red.

Alarmed, he put his horse into a canter and quickly drew even with the coach. The rear axle appeared to be broken. As lie reined in, a liveried servant, obviously the coachman, came round from the other side.

"What has happened here?" rapped out Wrotham sharply. "Is anyone hurt? Where is Miss Wheaton?" At his words, a white face showed at the coach window. "Who... who is that?" asked a quavering voice. "Lord Wrotham? Is that you? Thank God!" Jonas Flinder pushed open the door and struggled shakily out of the coach, crushed lilies trailing from his clothing.

Wrotham barely spared him a glance, but looked past him into the dark interior of the coach. "Miss Wheaton? Are you all right?" he called anxiously.

Flinder was shaking his head. "She's not here. The rogue took her with him!" He appeared on the verge of collapse.

"Who took her? Took her where?" demanded Wrotham. His alarm was increasing.

"The highwayman. We were held up," stammered Flinder. Wrotham feared the man would faint before getting his story out, so he helped him to sit on the coach steps, which were down. After a few deep breaths, Flinder went on. "I hadn't much money, nor any valuables, so he took Didi! Said something about a ransom to pay for his trouble."

"And you simply let him take her?" asked Wrotham incredulously. "What manner of man are you?"

"Dash it all, he had a pistol. He fired over us twice." Jonas began to tremble again at the memory.

"Twice?" echoed Wrotham. "You fool! He had discharged two pistols then. It is unlikely he had a third, or time to reload. You allowed him to take Miss Wheaton at the point of an empty pistol!" He was tempted to fire on Flinder himself for such ignorant cowardice.

It was apparent that Jonas had not thought of that. "An empty... damnation! You may be right. But not necessarily," he added defensively. "It is possible—"

Wrotham waited to hear no excuses. Not now. "Which way did they go?" he broke in.

"North. Same direction we were travelling. Say, how do you come to be here at all?" asked Jonas as the reality of the situation penetrated. "Were you pursuing us?"

"I was," he replied shortly, cursing himself for his blasted heroics. If he had followed the logical course, Deirdre would be safe at home now.

"But how—"

"There's no time for that. Describe to me exactly how Miss Wheaton and the highwayman were dressed, the colour of his horse, everything. I must try to catch them up." It looked as though he would have to play the hero in earnest, after all.

* * *

Deirdre tried to keep her wits as she was bounced, head down, on the highwayman's horse. Surely he did not mean to take her far in this manner! She had always understood that gentlemen of the high-toby generally kept hide-outs near the scenes of their crimes. She certainly hoped it was true.

Sure enough, after only a few minutes the highwayman turned his horse off the road onto a smaller track and slowed it to a brisk walk. Jogging along in her awkward position, Deirdre was amazed to find a poem, in the form of an heroic epic, forming in her mind. She gave herself over to it, deciding that she would be better off composing than concentrating on the discomforts of her journey.

She had progressed a fair way into the epic poem when they stopped abruptly in front of a tumbledown structure which looked as if it might once have been an inn. The highwayman dismounted and dragged her roughly from the horse, pushing her before him through the dark, doorless front entrance of the building. An ancient sign, its wording long ago obliterated by the elements, swung above it. Though Deirdre was not yet bound or gagged, escape seemed unlikely at the moment. She decided therefore to attempt reasoning with her captor. Perhaps she could persuade him to let her go.

"You would no doubt be better employed in holding up another coach," she told him without preamble. "I cannot think that you will receive much in the way of ransom for me."

"Eh?" He turned to her in evident surprise that she should speak at all rather than simply swoon at her plight. "Why's that?"

"The man you kidnapped me from just now," she explained calmly, "was taking me to Gretna Green."

The burly rogue squinted at her. "Never say a sweet piece like yerself was thinkin' to marry sech a gutless cove!" He snorted in derision.

"It was not precisely my idea, no," she admitted. "Nevertheless, my reputation is doubtless ruined now and neither my mother nor anyone else is likely to think me worth redeeming." As she said the words, the truth of them struck home and she felt tears welling up. Lord Wrotham would certainly want nothing to do with her now! His face came clear before her mind's eye and she bade it a sorrowful farewell.

The brute before her appeared deep in thought, his mouth half-open with the effort. "That's as may be," he said after a moment. "Still, a wench like you should be worth a pretty penny, even if your gentry folk won't pay. I know other sorts as would be willing to pay real handsome to sample the wares of a leddy like yerself." He laughed coarsely.

Deirdre felt a chill pervade her as his meaning penetrated. She measured the distance to the door with her eyes, but the highwayman seemed to read her thoughts.

"No, no, me leddy, can't have ye runnin' out on me!" He grasped her arms and pulled them behind her, tying her wrists together with a cord he produced from somewhere on his person. "I'd try ye out meself, but it'd lower yer value. Besides, Polly will be here any minute, and she'd have somethin' to say to that!" He chuckled to himself.

Deirdre tried to take some comfort from the fact that another female would be with her shortly, but escape had now become paramount in her thoughts. Would Jonas come after her once he'd recovered from his fright? It seemed unlikely in the extreme. She had thought anything would be better than being forced to marry him, but now she was forced to reconsider.

Her thoughts went again to Lord Wrotham, and again she fought against the tears pricking behind her eyes. If only... But her captor was pushing her ahead of him again, towards a flight of rickety steps at the rear of the building. She guessed that he must have his quarters somewhere at the back, where no light would be visible from outside. She stumbled over the first step and the ruffian grasped her round the waist to set her back on her feet. His arm remained about her, and his hand began to travel along her body.

Deirdre pulled away from him sharply, suddenly more afraid than she had yet been. This was such a lonely place! When would that Polly arrive? Chuckling, the highwayman grasped her again.

"There's some fun I can have wi' ye that won't spoil ye for ransom nor market, me leddy. Relax and ye might find ye like old Ned better than ye think!"

Deirdre was gathering her breath to scream, though she knew not who could possibly hear her, when another voice snapped across the darkened room like a whip.

"You will release the lady at once if you do not want a pistol ball in your puny brain," came the crisp command. It was Lord Wrotham.

* * *

After getting as much information as possible from Jonas Flinder (which wasn't much, as he had been too frightened to observe anything clearly), Wrotham had spurred his horse into a gallop along the Great North Road. The thought of what might happen to Deirdre as a result of his intentional delay goaded him like a white-hot brand. His desire to appear heroic in her eyes, his ridiculous, uncharacteristic wish for romance, had brought this pass about. If she were harmed as a result, he would never forgive himself.

After a few moments he slowed his horse to a brisk trot. It was unlikely, he realized, that a highwayman would remain on the main road for long after abducting a lady of quality. He would no doubt seek shelter from prying eyes as quickly as possible. Wrotham began to search for any path or track, any sign that a horse might have turned aside into the underbrush.

Several times he stopped to examine a break in the trees, but each time it turned out to be a false path, leading nowhere. He was about to despair when he saw, faint but unmistakable even in the fading light, a narrow rutted trail leading off to the left. Following it, he found that it continued on, and he dismounted to examine the ground more closely. There were several imprints of hooves, apparently of fairly recent origin, although he could not be certain of that. It was enough to merit further investigation, however. Praying that Deirdre's captor had stayed on the track, Wrotham remounted and urged his horse to a brisk pace.

Night had nearly fallen when he noticed the looming shape of an apparently deserted building off to one side of the path as it curved back towards the north. He almost passed it by, but his attention was caught by a shadow moving under the trees that grew hard against the walls of the house. Looking more closely, he saw that it was a horse, tethered to a low branch. Quickly, he dismounted and put one hand to his own mount's nose to discourage it from whinnying to the other animal, which mercifully remained silent.

Tying his horse next to the roan which Jonas had described, Wrotham stealthily made his way to the front entrance of the derelict inn. Pulling a pistol from beneath his cloak, he approached from the side, out of sight from the broken windows. As he reached the yawning doorway, he heard a voice speaking inside. Peering cautiously round the corner, he saw Deirdre, his beloved Deirdre, in the grasp of a great, uncouth brute who was apparently attempting to thrust his vile attentions upon her.

Forcing himself to remain calm, Wrotham took careful aim with his pistol before speaking. When the highwayman looked up at his words, it was to see the gleaming black barrel pointed squarely between his eyes.

"At once," Wrotham added as the man froze in shock. The gun did not waver.

With a curse, Ned thrust Deirdre away from him, before turning to dart through the doorway of a back room with an agility surprising in so large a man. Deirdre, not surprisingly, collapsed on the floor. Wrotham hurried forward to kneel at her side. Lifting her head, he searched her face concernedly.

"Deirdre, are you all right?" he asked anxiously. "If that monster harmed you..."

Though she appeared about to swoon, at his words she managed to rally. "I—I'm fine," she answered with a wan smile. "How did you find me?"

Guilt smote Wrotham again as he remembered how she came to be in this predicament. "Flinder told me which way you'd gone," he said. How could he tell her that it had been in his power to prevent all of this, had he wished?

"Had you not better go after that villain?" Deirdre interrupted his thoughts. "He spoke of a woman coming here soon, and he may well have other cohorts, for aught we know."

Reluctantly, Wrotham left her to look into the room where the highwayman had disappeared. It was empty, and a back door leading outside was standing open. He returned quickly to Deirdre's side.

"It appears that our host has abandoned us," he said as lightly as he could. "As I have no intention of leaving you here while I pursue him, I recommend that we leave this charming spot before he returns with reinforcements. Can you walk?"

She nodded. Wrotham helped Deirdre to her feet and slowly led her out to where his horse was tethered. The highwayman's beast was gone, and Wrotham gave silent thanks that the man had not stolen his own mount as well. Carefully, as though she were made of glass, he lifted Deirdre onto its back before mounting behind her. He kept one arm tightly about her waist as he set the horse into a walk back towards the Great North Road.

"How did you know to come after Jonas?" Deirdre asked presently, once the old inn had been left behind.

Wrotham cleared his throat uncomfortably before answering. "I... ah, I had word of his plan from my cousin, Myron Gates. It seems they were somehow in this together."

"Mr. Gates? I remember him from the Park. He and Jonas know each other?"

"So it would seem." Lord Wrotham reached up to loosen his neckcloth, which suddenly felt unaccountably tight. "Miss Wheaton, I fear I have a confession to make," he said.

"You called me Deirdre before, my lord," she reminded him. "You . . . you may continue to do so if you wish." Then, after a pause, "I have a confession of my own, you know, though it comes a bit late, I fear."

Wrotham nodded. "Ah, yes, your poetry. I wish you had told me, but I doubt not you had good cause to keep it to yourself. However, I fear that my crime is a shade more serious."

Deirdre looked up at him curiously, craning her neck to do so. "Crime, my lord?" she queried doubtfully.

"If you are to be Deirdre, you may call me by my Christian name as well," he said irrelevantly, delaying the inevitable. "It is Edison, Ed to my friends." Deliberately avoiding her eye, he bent more attention than was strictly necessary on the path ahead.

"Crime, perhaps, is too strong a word," he admitted when she continued to regard him in silence. "But not by far. Miss Wheaton... Deirdre... I discovered Mr. Flinder's plot to abduct you quite early today, and had ample time to prevent it. I did not do so, but chose to play the hero instead, coming after you once the abduction had occurred. So you see, it is completely my fault that you were subjected to this disagreeable experience." He said it tonelessly, refusing to coerce her forgiveness by so much as a look. He did not deserve it.

"Play the hero?" Deirdre echoed. The lightness of her tone startled Wrotham into looking at her. She was smiling. "Do you mean to say you did this to impress me?"

Wrotham swallowed convulsively, suddenly feeling foolish. "I... I suppose so," he admitted. "I deduced from your poetry that you shared the feminine penchant for romance and thought—"

"And thought, what could be more romantic than rescuing the fair maiden from her abductor?" Deirdre finished for him with a chuckle. "Somehow, I cannot find it in my heart to condemn you for that."

The horse came to an abrupt halt. "Then you will forgive me?" Lord Wrotham looked full into her eyes.

Deirdre felt her heart in her throat, beating more forcefully than it had during any of her recent alarming experiences. "How can I not?" she asked shakily. "What lady would not forgive her knight errant?"

Wrotham crushed her to him, heedless of the sidling horse beneath them. His lips sought hers and they met in a timeless kiss that swept away all need for explanations. At length, becoming aware again of their surroundings, they parted reluctantly.

"This is not precisely the setting I had in mind for this question, Deirdre, but will you do me the very great honour of becoming my wife?"

Deirdre thought her heart would overflow with happiness. "Yes, Ed, I will."

Wrotham tightened his grasp and would have kissed her again, but at that moment the horse shied at some small animal in the underbrush and nearly pitched both of them to the ground. The embrace changed from loving to frantic until they had regained their balance.

Laughing, Wrotham said, "I suppose any further physical evidence of my affection will have to wait until we reach Town. Which reminds me," he added, pulling out his pocket-watch and scrutinizing it in the near darkness. "You have a ball to attend, do you not? And if I am not mistaken, I have been invited as well."

Deirdre's chuckle ended in a sudden gasp. "Oh! Mother and Celeste must be nigh frantic with worry by now! I had not even thought of it till now! You are right, my... Ed," she amended with a shy smile. "We must return at once."

"Hold tight, then," advised Wrotham, gripping her firmly with one hand while controlling the reins with the other. He kicked the horse into a brisk trot.

"I wonder what Mama is doing about my disappearance," Deirdre wondered aloud as they reached the highway and turned southward.

* * *