2

 

Madeline peered at the earl through her dark lashes. Confession bubbled on her tongue until he spewed the awful sentiment. “Trust? It’s the most misused verb in the king’s language. People treat it as witchcraft, to force others to do what they want.”

Lord Devonshire seemed to wince at the acrid statement, but then nodded. “You’re too young to be disillusioned. Typically this comes later in life. Are you one and twenty?”

“Almost twenty.”

He slouched and scratched the small scar on his chin as if rethinking his course of action.

What did the earl want? She tapped her nose. Father would find a way to test this man. She clutched the book to her bodice and whisked the sagging feather of her bonnet to the side.

“Tell me, lass, what has you engrossed? Poetry or a romantic tale?” The phrase slipped his full lips.

She loosened her tight grip on the pages. “A spy’s tale.”

Lord Devonshire straightened, returning to his statuesque pose. “Humph. A spy’s tale? Are King and country safe?”

“Yes, because of a harlot’s…a woman’s bravery.” She covered her mouth.

His countenance glowed with laughter. “Reading of harlots? I suppose fairytales are out of fashion.” He leaned forward and adjusted her bonnet, tugging the ostrich’s plume from her face. “There, now you may peruse your prostitution in peace.”

Madeline heard a murmured “ma cherie.” Had she given him license to be familiar? The sandalwood lacked enough zest to calm her. She bit her lip and slid out of the jacket. “My lord, I hope I haven’t creased it.”

With his long limbs, Lord Devonshire reached across the carriage, took his tailcoat, and imprisoned her hand. The heat of his calloused palm thawed her chilled fingers.

“Sir, release me.”

He lifted their union to his jaw but stopped short of kissing her fist. “You are injured. May I?”

It wasn’t a question for he gave no time for response. Instead, she became captive to a feather-light massage. Each stroke brought more comfort than the last.

“Tilford was unsettling, but you’re free, and you’ve found your champion.” The words kissed her skin as the cold band of his ring skidded along the lifeline of her mitt. The sensation jolted as it cajoled.

Brazen ma cherie. Madeline should jerk free, but somehow, the kneading circles drained the tension from her strained muscles. She stopped resisting and let the artisan sculpt.

Now, his motion tickled, and she suppressed a giggle. Thank goodness, her long sleeves hid Kent’s bruises. If Lord Devonshire saw the markings, no telling what he’d do.

The earl dimpled then connected her freckles as if jotting with an imagined quill. “Trust I can take the pain away. That I can ease your conscience.”

He must have knowledge of Mr. Kent, but how? “Are you here to protect me?”

“Yes.” The earl blew steamy air along the valleys of her knuckles. Unlike her father, Lord Devonshire didn’t need to yell to have his way.

“Miss St. James.” He stroked the silver threads of her cuff. “Tell me who sent you.”

“My fa—” The consonants caught in her windpipe as his thumb slid beneath the silk. He’d see the raw marks. “My father.” She tried to push back upon her seat.

As if sensing her anxiety, Lord Devonshire retreated but maintained an easy grip. She could withdraw.

“Such a gallant lass to brave all to find me. Was it too dangerous for your father to come?”

“I couldn’t have him with me. I asked to leave.” Not for a come-out, a lavish season given by Lady Glaston. Father and her aunt rarely spoke since Mama passed. “What does—”

“Let me be plain.” He swept her palm flat upon his chest, hiding it deep within the folds of his cravat. “I’ll safeguard you and your family, if you admit all now.”

Madeline’s pinkie lay against the soft linen. The earl must be in league with her father, one of his many agents. She choked back a sob. Father used his connections to force someone to watch over her. Judging from today’s progression, she needed the help, but she’d rather be sick than mention out loud Mr. Kent laid hands on her.

The carriage hit a bump, and the earl steadied her. The handle of a gun peeked from his velvet waistcoat. He drew her attention away and tucked a wispy tendril of her hair behind her ear. “I’ll make things right.”

Lord Devonshire glided closer, his mouth inches from hers. “Tell me, Miss St. James. Where do I find the fiend?

“Will you have him make amends quietly, without tarnishing my reputation?”

“Why are you protecting him? He’s hurt you, your family…?” The word ‘too’ seemed to fall silent on his lips.

With bullets or his bare strength, the earl could avenge her shame, but she wanted peace. She cast her gaze to the floorboards.

Lord Devonshire lifted her chin. His touch felt as if he’d taken the ostrich plume from her hat and stroked her face. “I understand and shall protect you. Say where the killer hides.”

Those murderous threats Kent spat upon her neck were true. “What can be done?”

“Lead me to find Barrow, and I’ll do anything you want.”

“Barrow?” She shook her head. Lord Devonshire hunted his own fiend. “Who is he?”

The earl squinted, and his pupils narrowed to dots. “You don’t know him, his location?” The strain in his voice was palpable. He craned his neck toward the ceiling. “Then why were you at Tilford, bandying a red cloth?”

She tried to shake free, but he clamped her hand. “Our driver stopped there and disappeared trying to fix a broken wheel. Please don’t be angry. Barrow, I know him not.”

The grimace on his countenance cleared. “You, you speak the truth.”

With a small peck to her palm, Lord Devonshire released her then threw his jacket about his potent shoulders and stretched out on his seat.

Mrs. Wilkins moaned and stole closer to her corner. She might as well sleep to Cheshire.

His voice melted, returning to smooth baritone notes. “What draws you north?”

The mercurial change from hero, to lover, to stone made Madeline dizzy. This was a game to Lord Devonshire, and she’d almost swooned. How could she continue to be so gullible to men? It was time to stop this and announce checkmate. “My father the Duke of Hampshire will reward you for your good deeds. And so will my aunt. She’s Lady Cecil Glaston, wed to the second son of the Duke of Cheshire.”

His brow rose, then he leaned further in repose. His large Adam’s apple bulged above his snowy cravat. “Why would the duke allow his daughter to journey unprotected?”

“Arrangements were made in haste, and my step-mother thought one attendant sufficient.”

“And your father, the duke, would allow you to be transported in this manner? I’m astounded, Lady Madeline.”

She balled her fist beneath her book. “My lord, I am the duke’s daughter. Should I ask for proof of your peerage?”

“I never seek for anyone to prove themselves. I wait for their character to be revealed.” Lord Devonshire shrugged. “It seems odd to allow a cherished daughter to travel far from home with little regard.”

With a snap of a page, she fingered the lines of ink. She never questioned her father’s love, but his heavy-handed judgments and bitterness filled her with anguish. She flipped to her bookmark and waited for the peace of the verses to quiet her soul.

 

****

 

Another empty chase. His driver was right.

Justain Delveaux, the newly ascended Lord Devonshire, used every ounce of his composure and his practiced commerce face to keep his disappointment contained. It wasn’t the skittish lamb’s fault. What were the odds the young lady’s red-haired servant would carry a red scarf, the agreed upon signal, the day he was to meet the informant?

The weather or Barrow subverted the person with the knowledge he sought. Blast it. No justice for Richard. He’d failed his brother again. Justain peered through his casement. Rain slapped the glass. “My Mason will drown if this continues.”

The slight reflection of the lass’s frown tinted the pane. His driver’s plight concerned the girl. Good character. Miss St. James was no servant, not used to hard labour. Her skin felt too soft and her nails too clean even for a governess. But a duke’s daughter? “When I deposit you and Mrs. Wilkins to Lady Glaston, retell our story with kindness. Wouldn’t want her upset with me. Are you upset?”

“No, it’s a common practice to be questioned about murderers.” Her jade eyes clouded, perhaps with disappointment.

Most women seemed to enjoy his attention. Since he returned from the war, no one was impervious to his charms. Even his childhood love, Miss Caroline Lavis, now sought him out at parties.

“Who is this Barrow? Why do you seek him?” Miss St. James’s pouty lips were worthy of worship.

“We shall speak no more of this.” No need to heap more salt upon his wounds.

“Very well.” She frowned and returned to her book.

Curiosity was a woman’s undoing, but no matter how beautiful she was—slim build, raven hair, pert nose—an alleged duke’s daughter was off limits. Well, his brother, Richard would make an exception. As if the man knew his life would be short, Richard courted mistresses and scandals across England.

Miss St. James dropped her puce bookmark.

He retrieved the ribbon and extended it to her as if she’d dropped a handkerchief.

“Thank you.” The words sounded begrudged, and she avoided the touch of his fingers.

He dug into his leather satchel, his overstuffed correspondence pouch from the war, and retrieved the crop rotation plans for Trenchard Park and thumbed some pages.

Perhaps he should go to Lancashire and propose to Miss Lavis? The family ring, another trinket of Delveaux tradition, travelled in his saddlebag. Miss Lavis would attend him in the parlour. The lavender adorning her wrists would swirl about him, conjuring up every one of his inadequacies. Had he done enough to win her hand?

He still had four months before his twenty-eighth birthday. Why would his great-grandfather perpetrate a crime upon the males of their lineage and tie inheritance to marriage? Justain adjusted his cravat. He’d wallow in pity tomorrow. A distraction for his ego sat too near.

“Madeline St. James, or better Lady Madeline, you seem enthralled with the agony of the harlot.”

She put down her book. Those kissable lips parted. “Enthralled? I do like reading.”

“Odd, I’ve found most young ladies prefer other entertainments, crafts, and music, not the lyrics of the demimonde.”

Her pupils grew wide at the comparison. “Is there no better way to pass the time?”

“We could hold hands.” He smothered a chuckle. “And please remove the headpiece. I’d be able to listen more intently without a feather covering your eye every other second.”

The girl stared at him, maybe searching his face, hunting for something. She unpinned her bonnet and placed it across the curve of her knees. “You have more puzzling questions? You’ll find I’m not like your other ladies, these acquaintances that prefer music or crafts.”

A gut-wrenching laugh broke free, in spite of his need to maintain control. “No, you’re too honest. Refreshing.”

She brushed aside the ebony tendril escaping the austere knot topping her head. This raven beauty would look well in broad skirts with the winds of his moors tousling her curls.

“My father has taught me to hate hypocrisy. He’ll flay a man over it.”

“It’s his pre-prerogative.” Justain exercised his jaw. His stutter often got the better of him. He still hadn’t learned how to reflect upon his father, the old man, without a wave of sadness lapping at his spirit. He folded his arms and fingered the old scars on his side. “I’ll keep that in mind. Have you gathered any tips from your reading?”

She coddled a page and flipped it. “From the courtesan, the strumpet?”

A sweet vision of the lass wrapped in bright satins filtered into his brain box. “Such words on your tongue. Perhaps you should read to me over dinner?”

The lass waved her arm, stopping him from signalling his driver. “I’m reading of Rahab, the harlot of the Old Testament who was redeemed by her faith.” She rubbed her elbow and giggled. “Sorry to go on about it, but it’s been awhile since I’ve laughed.”

The black book wasn’t Byron’s latest Turkish tale, but a Bible. He envisioned her sitting in the pew of his cousin’s church, singing hymns, readying for a missionary tour. Was it wise to flirt with a religious miss, an alleged missionary duke’s daughter? The girl’s drenched skirts outlined the longest legs he’d seen since Spain. No, it wasn’t wise.

“I hope my attention, Lady Madeline, hasn’t caused you discomfort.”

She tilted her heart-shaped face to the side. Her expression softened to a smile. “Have you, in some odd way, tried to make me comfortable?” She could beguile with her large jade eyes.

He slumped onto his bench away from temptation. “Miss St. James, I—”

The wild sound of hooves rattled the walls. Guttural commands flew outside.

The shouts became clear. “Stop the carriage!”

The cabin jolted as the horses surged forward.

Miss St. James dropped onto his feet. He hauled her from the floor. “Seems we have more takers for your remaining gold coins. Perhaps mine, too.”

“You think that, that…” The girl shivered within his hold.

Raising her onto the seat, he offered a smile. “We’ll outrun this.”

Gunfire crackled in the air.

Justain pressed to the glass.

“Gut the reins or die!” The demand came from a rider twenty paces behind. The man pointed a flintlock rifle. At least three other bandits chased, gaining on the dirt highway.

“We’re surrounded!” Miss St. James clasped her chaperone’s arm, awakening her.

“Press forward!” The rally slipped through Justain’s teeth.

“Father of Heav’n!” Mrs. Wilkins clutched the seat.

Hard items, probably rocks showered the roof. Men must be in the hills, hiding amongst the lush pines. This was an ambush. Barrow’s doing?

A bullet exploded outside the window.

Elbowing the glass open, he peppered the chamber of his blunderbuss, took aim, and got off one shot.

A villain fell to the ground. His rearing horse kicked up a dust storm.

Justain readied caps for another pass. The carriage hit a rut. His hand slammed against the casement, knocking away his gun. He clamped his lips, buttoning his anger from his passenger’s delicate ears.

His carriage team whinnied. Perhaps pelted by more stones. Let there be no torches. No firestorm like my beloved Trenchard.

“Provid’nce, be with us.” The companion folded her hands in prayer.

Miss St. James rocked back and forth. “Yes, please, Abba Father.”

Justain wanted to stifle their cries. He couldn’t think with the noise, but he was in no position to take away their hope. Without his pistol, they all needed help.

Another gun belched.

A shriek answered overhead. A large object crashed onto the roof and rolled to the ground. A lump wearing a dark flap jacket stretched across the gravel road. Justain turned from the window not wanting to see his man, his friend, trampled. Poor Mason, his loyal servant.

Justain clenched his fist and punched the ceiling. Tomorrow, he’d mourn his friend. Today, this soldier needed to focus on the mission, protecting the women. The carriage swung to the left. Pellets of metal ripped into the cabin. He wrenched his charges onto the floorboards and straddled them, shielding them from the next spray of rocks and bullets.

The girl squealed.

“Skittish miss, please. I’m not taking liberties, but I should suffer the slug first.” Justain splayed his arms to cover them.

She grabbed at his lapels. “S-s-sir.”

He shifted his weight as the carriage rocked, almost tipping.

“Father of Heav’n!” Mrs. Wilkins kept screaming into his ear.

Another weapon discharged in the distance. By some miracle, had they outrun the bandits?

Justain moved closer to the lass. He shut his lids and counted the seconds between rocks hitting the sides.

The acrid smell of gunpowder leached from the seats. A warm palm nuzzled his ear, obscuring his count.

The girl’s lovely mouth lay inches from his. She gritted her teeth. “Please.”

Mrs. Wilkins clapped. “Don’t hear anythin’. We’ll be fine!”

The coach veered. Justain’s gut slammed against his ribs. “I wouldn’t stop praying yet. We’re going too fast.” The wheels banged down an incline.

Miss St. James punched his chest, and released a scream. She fainted.

“What? I’ve not—” Justain pressed his fingers to the limp girl’s throat. A rapid pulse!

“Lady Maddie? Oh, Provid’nce, protect her.” Mrs. Wilkins sniffled. “Save the earl.”

His newly purchased Berlin toppled to its side. A window shattered, showering his back with glass. Justain wedged between the perfectly dyed seats as the carriage pitched and rolled. The faint odour of glue still pervaded the coverings. Papers from his satchel filled the air. The smell of raw earth poured through the seams.

“Where’s the bot-bottom?” Every muscle in his body clenched.

“Father of Heav’n!” Mrs. Wilkins’s tears sprayed his hand.

He held his breath and braced to strike the rock bed of the Severn Gorge.