| |
Amelia and the rest of the family arrived at Applewood by mid-afternoon, and after helping Tessa set the household to rights, she excused herself. In her bedchamber, she occupied her mind with the menial tasks of unpacking her belongings. But alone, with the wind occasionally gusting outside her window, she came undone.
She didn’t sob; she wept quietly while, after all these years, her heart finished breaking. She had turned down James’s awful proposal. Had rebuffed his decidedly unromantic declaration of love. How long had she waited to hear those three words? Her father had never said them. Stephen hadn’t either. With the way James said them, she wished the words had never left his mouth.
How could he think she didn’t respect who he was? She’d fallen for him because he was honorable. He was the one who had turned his back on what they had. Repeatedly.
James’s leaving her in the middle of the night to attend to his duties was not at all the same as when he’d left her, rejected her, three years ago. She knew that. Still, she would not become that sort of wife, always waiting despondently for her husband. Any rational woman would refuse such a life. So, for once in her life, she’d done the sensible thing.
She dried her eyes with a worn handkerchief. No, there was nothing to regret. Not even the fact she’d made herself unsuitable for another. She wanted no man; there was nothing wrong with becoming a practical spinster.
I made a life without James Danforth once before. I can do so again.
She would go for a ride before dinner. That would clear her head and restore her spirits so she could at least give the appearance of contentedness when facing the family.
She donned an older, warmer riding habit and even pulled on an extra flannel petticoat because the weather had turned chilly over the last two days. Peyton, encountering her in the corridor, offered to accompany her, but she refused him, and under grey skies that looked unfriendly but held no promise of imminent rain, she and a groom set out. At first, she wandered the orchard, pleased for Peyton’s sake to see the trees blooming. Applewood and its tenants depended on the success of its crops. After a while she let the mare loose and they raced down the lane and through the woods.
The cold slapped at Amelia’s face, but she pushed on, grateful to feel something besides appalling melancholy.
She had certainly made a mess of her life the last few months—first agreeing to marry Kensworth and then becoming entangled with James again. Too entangled. How could she have climbed into bed with him?
Very easily—she had let her emotions guide her instead of the practicality she’d been grooming while he was gone. Being with James had been one of her grandest romantic fantasies, as had hearing him declare his love for her. But was that all she wanted—fantasies? Pretty flowers and furbelows instead of the harsh, sometimes ugly, act of loving another?
Her heart couldn’t withstand the latter.
Amelia allowed her mare to ease into a trot and looked behind her to see if the groom, on his slower mount, had caught up. He hadn’t, but she was within his sight. Looking around, she realized she had wandered onto Stephen’s land, albeit a part she had not explored. Another wooded section lay ahead, and she thought she glimpsed the outline of a building deep within.
Interesting. She didn’t think any of Wakebourne’s tenant cottages lay this far out.
She let the mare settle into a walk and headed toward the building. As she got closer, she realized it was an old hunting box. Stephen had never mentioned its existence, although by the look of it the place was uninhabitable.
A movement caught her eye. Not inhabitable, and yet someone was there. Three people, bustling between the back of the building and a wagon.
She halted her mare as her heart began to race. James had not yet completed his mission. She had cleared Stretton, so did that mean only Stephen was left on James’s list? He was in residence here, and her breath caught at the thought of him mixed up in whatever dastardly plot James was investigating. But, James could not be right. Stephen—Kensworth, she should probably think now—could not be involved.
She turned and signaled the groom to stop. Jack was an obedient boy sadly in want of a curious nature; he would wait as long as she wanted. Then, with the utmost care, she slipped off her mare and looped the reins over a tree branch.
She crept closer to the hunting box under cover of the thick plants growing in this part of the wood and nearer the clearing, she stopped and observed.
Three men, in their shirtsleeves, were loading a wagon with wooden boxes. Seeing as much, she wanted to laugh at herself. Undoubtedly Stephen—Kensworth—had set them to clearing up the area.
Bigger by far than the other two, one of the men turned and Amelia recognized David. Now she felt like a goose, hiding in the bushes. She opened her mouth to call out a greeting, but the thin man closest to the wagon addressed David first.
“Why can’t we all travel together?”
“I told you. It will look suspicious.”
David sounded as if he were losing patience.
Amelia thought it might be best to slip away, but the word “suspicious” kept her rooted to the ground. Why would David and his friends look suspicious?
“But—”
“Very well!” David slashed his hand through the air. “Stickney may ride in the wagon with you. Stop being such a ninny, Bates! You have plenty of time to get to Covent Garden. Just go slowly and steadily, mindful of your cargo.”
Peeking between two leaves, Amelia stared at the wagon. What were they transporting? Small trunks, but what was inside them?
The men returned to the building, disappearing down into what must be a cellar. Amelia puzzled over what they had said. Covent Garden? The Theatre Royal was there. But David didn’t even like the theatre. Tonight...was the performance of As You Like It. James had talked about taking her.
James.
Pushing all thought of him aside, she kept thinking. The newspaper had said the prime minister was scheduled to attend....
The other two men came up from the cellar carrying more little trunks, and the stocky one—Stickney was it?—shook his head as he tossed his on the wagon. “Thinks he’s Guy Fawkes, he does. Better hope he don’t meet the same end.”
Amelia gasped, but the sound was lost in the wind.
Bates didn’t seem to like the reference either. “Shut your mouth! If he goes down, we go with him.”
Guy Fawkes had plotted to kill King James I by blowing up Parliament using gunpowder. Amelia’s stomach turned at the thought that those trunks might hold gunpowder. The king was old, and the Prince Regent...
She turned back toward her mare, disgusted with her thoughts. Those men had probably had too much ale. They were going to Covent Garden to amuse themselves and—
The prime minister would be at Covent Garden.
Which meant this must be James’s mission, to stop this madness. To stop someone—David—from assassinating the prime minister.
Even if it wasn’t, James would know what to do. He could prevent David from making a monstrous mistake. What had David got himself into? Was he really leading this scheming band of young men?
Amelia peeked through the leaves once more, glad the men had their backs to her, relieved she was too far away for them to hear any sound she made.
Stickney had moved back toward the hunting box. Bates had climbed up onto the wagon seat and gathered up the reins, and David slapped him on the back.
“Lord Liverpool awaits us. I’ll follow you to the lane to make sure the wagon doesn’t tip. It’s rough going back here.”
Bates nodded, and Stickney brought David’s stallion around the corner.
David mounted, and Stickney climbed onto the wagon next to Bates. The horse and wagon then set off in the opposite direction.
Amelia’s mind raced. Confronting David was pointless. She’d never held any influence over him, even when she hadn’t jilted his brother, and any man who would plan an assassination frightened her.
She had to get word to James as quickly as possible. Maybe there was evidence inside.
Turning and telling Jack to remain where he was, and after checking to make certain the other men had gone, she rushed to the ramshackle hunting box. She passed through the small kitchen and entered the main room, desperately searching the untidy, sparsely furnished room for something to write on. There must be paper somewhere.
She found a pencil first, a small silver one in the drawer of a splintered table. No paper, though.
Amelia surveyed the room again. There, in the corner. She sifted through a pile of sodden leaves and dirt, finally pulling out an old book.
Tearing out the title page, she scribbled a note to James telling him what she had heard and seen. Now she had to ensure James received it before David hurt someone.
She raced back to Jack. “Listen carefully. Take this note to Lord Peyton and tell him he must send it express to Lord James. It must go to London immediately. Do you understand?”
The groom nodded then looked at her in confusion. “Aren’t you comin’ with me, my lady?”
“No. I must see Lord Kensworth. Go, Jack! Do not tarry.”
The groom left, albeit reluctantly, and Amelia turned back to the old box. Stephen would never believe what she had to tell him about his brother—she could barely believe it herself—unless she had proof. She must search the cellar.
Stepping carefully, she descended into the semidarkness. At the bottom of the stairs, dirt crunched beneath her boots. Cobwebs hung low from the ceiling, but the air didn’t smell musty. Instead—she sniffed again—it smelled like Kensworth after he went shooting. Like gunpowder.
No wonder. The grayish powder covered much of the floor. Nearer the steps she saw two barrels, one empty, the other half full. So—she shuddered—David had carted away one and a half barrels of gunpowder.
At least she had something to show Kensworth.
“Time” —David’s voice suddenly sounded from outside the cellar door— “to destroy the evidence! Wouldn’t want that interfering Lord James to find anything.”
Amelia froze, and David laughed, a sound she no longer found appealing. She eyed the gunpowder all around her and nearly retched. She wanted to scream but only choked on the sound.
“Thar she blows!”
A flaming piece of tinder wafted through the opening above.
Amelia turned and ran toward the back of the cellar.
***
JAMES WOKE TO A SMASHING headache. He kept his eyes shut, attempting to contain the pain. As he became more aware, he realized he was slumped against the thin trunk of a tree, his arms awkwardly pinned behind him.
He forced his eyelids up. Daylight’s brightness assaulted him, sending sharp arrows of agony into every corner of his brain. Barely visible through the grey clouds, the sun was nearer the western horizon.
He’d been here for a few hours. God knew what David was up to. He could be on his way to the Continent by now. Things would be easier if he were.
However, James had a feeling the stubbornly passionate young man would barrel forward with his plan. Because David didn’t know James was a government agent and David didn’t know his plan had been discovered and the prime minister would not be going to Covent Garden.
Damn you, Caldwell!
A sparrow responded with a singsong chirp.
Despite the hammering in his head, James began to work methodically at the ropes around his wrists. The knots were tight, but he had more than enough experience to wriggle out of them. It would just take time. Not that he had much.
With only the company of melodious sparrows, two squirrels, one rabbit, and a vole who stopped to observe, bit by bit James loosened the ropes. After untold minutes—an hour?—he was free, though his wrists were chafed.
He stood and flexed his legs, relieving the tight cramps that had set in, all the while thinking. He was almost certainly not far from the road he and David had traveled; this wood smelled the same and he couldn’t imagine David dragging his limp body far. Should he head to London or Kensworth’s estate?
He decided on Wakebourne. David had been heading there earlier, and besides, the estate was closer.
He pulled his father’s watch and a compass from his pocket. It was past three o’clock. On the chance David had been reckless, James whistled for his horse. No luck. So he set off at a brisk pace, heading northwest.
Once his muscles loosened, he broke into a jog, though his head did not appreciate the pace. As he’d surmised, the road wasn’t far. Another twenty minutes brought him to a small village. A harsh interrogation of the tavern owner elicited the whereabouts of James’s bay. David had paid to hide the horse at the smithy. A few more precious minutes passed while the mount was re-saddled.
At last James was on the road again, pounding hoof beats keeping time with the throbbing in his head. If David made it to Covent Garden with the full intention of carrying out his plot, he could be arrested for the attempted assassination of the prime minister. If, however, James could stop him here, a different solution could be worked out.
As he drew close to Wakebourne, James reined in the bay. From his previous trip he knew the road wound around the southwest corner of Kensworth’s estate. The house was located nearer the northeast corner. Some of the land was wooded, but most of it was open and rolling. The fastest path to the house was across the land.
Lightheaded, and aware of a knot forming behind his ear, James turned his mount onto Kensworth’s land. Unless he stumbled upon David by chance, he would have to confront Kensworth. He didn’t look forward to either. He scrutinized every corner for a sign of David.
After a few minutes he topped a gentle rise and saw another rider, one with the burly build of a Caldwell. He spurred his horse forward but was disappointed to discover the horseman was Kensworth.
He hailed the viscount, who turned toward him with lips parted and eyes unwelcoming.
“Have you seen David?” James asked without preamble. The important thing was to find David.
“Your manners are appalling, Danforth. What are you doing on my land?”
Still dizzy, James steadied himself against his saddle pommel. “Manners are of no consequence at the moment. It is urgent I locate your brother.”
Kensworth threw back his broad shoulders. “Why?”
The man was going to find out about his brother’s perfidy sooner or later, but James feared if he said something now Kensworth would argue for David’s innocence and delay his being found until it was too late. “Damnation, there isn’t time! Please, just trust me.”
Undoubtedly it would be only this once that Kensworth trusted him, after he discovered what James was and why he wanted David.
“He’s on his way back to London.”
The words issued from Kensworth’s mouth in a cloud of disgust, and James’s heart sank. “Are you certain?”
“He said as much,” the viscount ground out.
James wheeled around but hesitated. He faced Kensworth and said, “I am sorry.” Then he was off again.
Kensworth’s shouted reply was unexpected and almost lost in the wind. “You’re bleeding!”
Ignoring him, James rode on.
A large boom suddenly resounded through the woods, shaking the earth beneath his horse. The bay reared and twisted. James held on with a death grip but saw Kensworth lose his seat and land with a dull thud. At what sounded like a sudden medieval battle cry, they both looked sharply toward the wood.
Dismounting in haste, James tied his horse’s reins around a tree branch and slipped a pistol out of his saddle bag and into his waistband. He soothed his horse as best he could before hurrying to Kensworth’s side. “Are you all right?” he asked, helping Kensworth to his feet.
The other man nodded, stooping to retrieve his hat.
James spoke a few calming words to Kensworth’s dun and secured that animal as well. Then, before turning to Kensworth, he grabbed a length of rope. “Is that old hunting box still around here?” He’d been thinking a building tucked away in the far corner of Wakebourne would be the perfect place for David to make secret plans.
Alarm darkened the viscount’s green eyes. “Yes. I mean to rebuild it.”
They both turned and ran through the thickening trees, ran toward the spot where the explosion had sounded.
James burst into a spacious clearing with Kensworth following behind. The first floor of the ramshackle hunting box had collapsed, a smoldering pile of broken lumber. The acrid air stung James’s nose and throat, and through the smoky haze he spied David whooping as if he’d demolished a French military encampment.
“My brother just blew it up,” Kensworth said in shock. A horse still whinnied and cried.
The thought of David in possession of an explosive material sent James’s blood boiling.
He looked around for the reckless youth’s stallion, certain that fretful beast must be the one still carrying on, but instead he spotted a mare frantically trying to break free from where it was tethered to an oak tree.
His breathing hitched as he recognized it. He rushed at David, drawing his pistol as he did. “Where is Amelia?”
David’s broad face contorted. “Why have you got a pistol? What’s this about Amelia?”
“Danforth!” Kensworth appeared at his side. “Have you gone mad?”
Pistol still leveled at David, James spoke to Kensworth. “We need to find Amelia. She could be in that tinderbox.” He held the rope out. “Your brother and Bates have been plotting to assassinate the prime minister. Tie him to a tree and help me look for Amelia. Don’t you recognize her horse?”
Kensworth didn’t move. “You’ve lost your head. I will not tie up my brother.”
Amelia could be bleeding, burning, even dying as they argued. James leveled the pistol at David’s knee. “Tie him up now or I will render him incapable of running.”
“Who the hell are you?”
He’d already lost Amelia—emotionally, possibly even physically. His stomach heaved at the mere thought, but he might as well make a clean break with Kensworth. He shifted his gaze to the blond Viking and said, “I am with the Home Office.”
Kensworth’s green eyes bored into him. Then, muttering vicious epithets mixed with words like traitor and dishonorable directed at James and an apology to his brother, he took the rope and tied David to a stout oak tree. With the pistol pointing their direction, David offered no resistance.
Tucking the gun away, James turned to the ruins behind him, moving quickly toward what might once have been the entrance to a cellar. It was open, but flames flicked up from the gaping hole.
Not fire. Scorching memories flashed in his mind. Another dilapidated building. Fire surrounding him.
David’s pleading sounded behind him. “Stephen, I haven’t done anything wrong. I’m only trying to—”
“Not now,” Kensworth said in his elder-brother voice. “Amelia, if she is here, is our first priority. We’ll sort the rest out later.”
Fire had tried to best him once before. He would not let it take Amelia. James called to Kensworth over his shoulder, “I’m going below.”
He began calling her name before he even reached the cellar steps. There was no reply.
When he arrived, he saw the steps no longer existed, and the dust and smoke rising from below nearly choked him. James whipped off his cravat and tied it around his nose and mouth. Peaks of fire hungrily devoured the cellar’s wooden support beams. For a moment, fear of the structure’s collapse was overwhelming, both for him and for Amelia. More memories surfaced. On his hands and knees, desperately searching for the exit. Hearing, but not seeing the raging hot timber that fell across his back.
A violent shake of his head dispelled the recollection, though not the roiling pit of his gut. James grasped the door frame and swung down into the cellar, lurching sideways to avoid flames.
He had to see if she was down here.
The room was a complete jumble, with beams haphazardly collapsed and under attack from the fire. Dirt spilled from the crumbling earthen walls, and his eyes watered instantly. He removed his spectacles; they would do him no good, fogged and smoky as they were.
“Amelia!”
No answer.
There was nothing for it but to pick his way through the rubble and flames, praying and wishing and hoping he would find her still breathing, untouched. Up above, he could hear Kensworth calling her name too.
The room was small, but it still seemed he’d spent an eternity in a fiery hell by the time he finished searching. There was no sign of Amelia, so he began around the perimeter, feeling for a door that might lead into another room or passage.
“Amelia,” he called again, his voice growing hoarser by the minute.
“James?”
Oh God, her voice was feeble, but it was her voice. She was alive.
“Keep talking, Amelia. I’ll find you.”
“I’m behind a door.” She coughed repeatedly. “On the staircase.”
He followed the sound of her sweet voice around a second corner, orange tongues of fire nipping at him. Snatching his leg away, James saw a scrap of velvet wedged between a mangled door and its jamb, but when he turned the handle it wouldn’t move.
Bracing his leg against the lower part of the door, he slammed his shoulder into the upper half and crashed through. Only after regaining his balance did he see a staircase. About halfway up lay a crumpled and pale figure.
“Thank God.” He raced to her side, slipping the cravat from around his face. “Are you hurt?” he asked, smoothing her hair back from her face. It was enough that she was alive, even if she wasn’t his any longer.
She struggled to sit up, and James supported her. “I don’t think I’m hurt.”
The rasp in her throat concerned him. “We need to get you some fresh air.” Untying his cravat, he used it to dab at a cut on her cheek.
“James, David is going to—”
“Hush,” he murmured. “I know all about David.”
“Of course you do,” she muttered.
He shouted for Kensworth, hoping the way would be clearer going up rather than having to go back through the blazing cellar.
“Coming!” Within a minute Kensworth had jerked open the door at the top of the stairs. Dust motes danced in the hazy light.
James scooped Amelia up before she could protest and carried her through to the ground floor.
“Follow me,” Kensworth said. “The floor is unstable in places.”