Chapter 19
Philippe sprinted to the closest hackney stand. He gave the jarvey a guinea to spring his nags. Reaching the livery stable where his own horses were kept, he hammered on the door and shouted himself hoarse, rousing a groom from his bed. Within five minutes he was mounted on his big gelding, fresh and ready for a long ride after not being exercised for three days.
Now all he needed was his pistols, but they were in Islington. With an effort of will, he kept the horse to a canter, for he couldn’t afford to tire him out. As long as he caught up with the coach before Hythwick stopped for the night . . .
Unless that dastard raped her on the way.
Why the devil had she entered his coach in the first place? She didn’t want Hythwick—she couldn’t want him. And yet, for a while, she’d made a play for him. Maybe she was making another play. Maybe she was counting on Hythwick’s horror of scandal . . .
No. Philippe couldn’t afford to doubt Gloriana now.
The gelding felt his urgency and picked up speed. Soon they arrived at Sophie’s house. He tethered the horse to the wrought iron fence and dashed up to the doorstep. Naturally, the door was locked. He pounded on it, and then dug for his own key, but before he got the door unlocked, Eric Alexander opened it, with Sophie right behind him.
“What’s wrong?” they chorused.
“Hythwick has taken Gloriana.” He pushed his way past them and dashed up the stairs. “Need my pistols.”
Eric followed. “I’ll come with you.”
“I can’t wait for you.” Philippe was almost calm in his rage, as he unlocked the chest that contained his pistols.
“Where’s he headed? I’ll catch up.”
“Great North Road.”
“He’s eloping with her?” Sophie cried.
“No!” She’s mine and only mine. “His sister and her lover eloped today, and he’s pursuing them.”
“Then why did he take Gloriana?”
“Because he wants her,” Eric Alexander said, “and abducting her was the only way to get her.”
But an abductee doesn’t climb willingly into her abductor’s coach. “And because he hates me for preventing him last time.” Philippe took a deep breath. He couldn’t afford emotion, or doubt, or anything that got in the way of cool resolution. He set the Book of Hours on the table beside his bed. Then he took out the powder and shot and loaded both pistols.
“You are going to kill him?” Sophie gasped.
“If necessary.” If that cur had harmed Gloriana . . . He shut the thought from his mind.
“You need a neckerchief to disguise yourself.” Sophie scurried into her bedchamber and brought out two large squares of indigo fabric. She passed one to Philippe. “Just like the old days,” she said in a shaky voice. “Bring her safely back.”
“I shall, chérie.” With that, Philippe was gone.
~ ~ ~
Sophie gave the other neckerchief to Eric. Suddenly, all hesitation was gone. What did she care about legalities and foolish what-ifs when she might lose him forever?
“I’ll get my gun and our nag from the mews behind the school,” he said. “Hythwick can’t have got far.”
She put her arms around him and hugged him tight. “I shall marry you anytime and any way you like. Only please, please come home safely tonight!”
Eric kissed her hard, then clattered down the stairs and hastened into the darkness. Whispering a prayer, she shut the door behind him.
~ ~ ~
Gloriana pondered her chances of escape. Judging by what he’d said, the earl didn’t intend to assault her there in the coach. If he did, the problem would be solved—she would shoot him, and the consequences be damned. But she didn’t want to flee the country or remain to be hanged for killing a man who deserved to be dead, so she stared out the window as they rolled through Islington—past the street where Sophie and the school were located, then past the Angel Inn. At the tollgate, they stopped. She sighed, for there was no help here. The gatekeeper wouldn’t come to her aid.
“Very wise,” said Hythwick.
Pettishly, she turned away, hoping it would lead him to believe she’d resigned herself. She remained silent as they continued through the darkness to Highgate Village and emerged onto Finchley Common, which was notorious for highwaymen.
“This is a bad stretch.” The earl retrieved the strongbox and its contents from the floor, closed it, and felt in his pocket for the key. He locked it and stowed it under the bench.
“I was robbed here once,” she said conversationally. They were horrid, rough fellows, but what she wouldn’t give for a highwayman now!
“As was I, but never again.” He was fingering his gun. “The Runners have been advised to set up a patrol here, and it’s about time. In the meantime, travelers are obliged to fend for themselves.”
The blast of a yard of tin assailed them, followed by galloping hooves. “Nobody passes my coach. Damn their eyes!” He banged on the roof of the carriage. “Spring them!”
The coach picked up speed, but the galloping horses came closer. The coached bumped and swayed. A horse and rider surged past, swift and dark in the night. There was a shout, and then another. The coach slowed and rolled to a halt.
“Why did those fools stop?” Hythwick put the window down. “What the devil is going on?”
“Drop your weapons,” a gruff voice said, followed by one thud and then another.
“Get out of the coach,” said another voice.
From where she sat, Gloriana couldn’t see the rider, but a dazzling hope lit her heart.
And terror, too. “Watch out!” she shrieked. “He has a gun!”
“Of course he has, you fool. He’s a highwayman!” The earl cocked his pistol.
Gloriana snatched her reticule, grabbed the muzzle of the pistol through the fabric, and brought the handle of the gun down hard on Hythwick’s skull. He slumped, and his gun fell to the floor. She reached behind her, opened the door, and tumbled onto the verge. She scrambled up, pulling out her pistol, but Hythwick hadn’t moved. She leaned into the coach, grabbed his gun as well, and hurried around the vehicle.
Both highwaymen were masked. One had pulled open the coach door while the other had his pistol trained on the coachman and groom, whose weapons lay on the road.
“He’s unconscious,” Philippe said. He had disguised his voice, speaking with a low accent, but she would know him anywhere. He tugged Hythwick through the door and dropped him onto the roadway. He aimed his gun at the helpless earl.
“Don’t shoot him!” she cried.
“Why not?” He sounded so enraged she hardly recognized his voice.
“Because shooting people is stupid,” said the other highwayman. She knew this voice too: Eric Alexander. “Take his money, and let’s go.”
Still Philippe fingered the gun. Would he really murder the earl? She understood why he might wish to, but he must not. Good God, playing at highwaymen was bad enough. They had to get away from here as fast as possible.
“You. Woman.” Philippe motioned with his gun. “Get his money and give it to me.”
She bristled at this form of address, but acquiesced. He was playing a role, so she must too. “The key to his strongbox is in his pocket.” She was trembling, more because of his harsh tone than from relief. She extracted the key from Hythwick’s pocket, dragged the strongbox from under the seat, and opened it to find a substantial purse. She stalked over and handed it to Philippe, who stowed it in his greatcoat pocket with a coarse, brutal laugh. He trained his gun on the servants, while Mr. Alexander retrieved their weapons.
The servants seemed surprisingly undisturbed. She walked around Hythwick’s motionless form and approached the box. “Your master has swooned. Kindly convey him to the next village—the one to the north of here—and have him seen by a doctor.” She dug in her reticule and handed a couple of coins to the coachman and groom, and then walked briskly away toward Town.
“But-But miss, what about you?” The coachman clambered down from the box. “It ain’t safe out here, miss.” He glanced uneasily at the highwaymen. The groom climbed down as well, approaching his unconscious master. In the moonlight, she saw him prod the earl with his boot.
“I shall be safer on my own than with your master. I pity you, obliged to serve such a man.” She continued down the dark road, clutching her reticule in one hand and Hythwick’s gun in the other.
A few seconds later, Philippe cantered past without so much as a glance at her. Eric Alexander followed. They disappeared into the night.
~ ~ ~
A couple of hundred yards down the road, Eric came to a halt. “This is far enough. We have to fetch her and get out of here.”
Philippe reined in. “It won’t hurt her to walk awhile. She understands the role she is to play.”
“Is this another idiotic French way of doing things?” Eric said. “Because if you don’t return for her straightaway, I shall. What if the servants decide to come this way?”
“They won’t,” Philippe said. “Didn’t you see how much the groom enjoyed giving Hythwick a taste of his boot?”
“Fine, but what if that horseshit wakes up and orders them to drag her back?”
“We have their weapons, and she has a gun. I know from experience that she is not afraid to shoot.”
“You’re angry with her, aren’t you?” Eric asked. “Why? She warned us about Hythwick’s gun, she knocked him over the head, God knows how, and she played along with our charade. I find that rather impressive from a woman who’d been abducted by a villain.”
“Impressive indeed, but that is no surprise. I would not ask an unimpressive woman to marry me.” But why did she get into his coach?
She must have been duped. “I am not angry with her. I am enragé that she had to suffer at the hands of that cochon. I do not wish to speak to her until I have controlled my rage.”
“Aha,” Eric said, “it is because you are an aristocrat, isn’t it? You’re afraid he has raped her, and now you will never know whether the son who inherits your title will really be yours.”
Philippe huffed, thankful his future brother-in-law was so far off the mark. He would not abandon Gloriana for such a reason. Or for any reason. He had asked her to marry him. He had made her his wife in all but name last night. He was an honorable man.
He snapped his fingers. “That for my stupid title. I go by Bonaventure with the common people, and I would give up my title entirely if the Home Office would permit it.”
“The Home Office?”
“Ask Sophie,” Philippe said and wheeled his horse.
~ ~ ~
It was dark, and Gloriana was tired, alone, and a little afraid, although she knew she needn’t be. Philippe and Mr. Alexander would return for her once she was far enough from the carriage that no one would realize they had come to rescue her. Nevertheless, she kept to the verge, ready to flee into the woods and fields at the least sign of danger.
Very quickly, her feet became damp and cold—evening slippers being unsuitable attire for trudging down a country road. Nor was an evening gown with only the lightest of shawls about her shoulders. She began to shiver. In spite of herself, a tear trickled down her cheek. She wiped it away. Before long came the sound of hoof beats—ahead, not behind, two horses, not four, and no coach. The servants had obeyed her and gone the other way.
She waited on the verge, pistol at the ready, just in case. Philippe and Mr. Alexander halted next to her. Both had shed their makeshift masks, which she realized were neckerchiefs tied on backwards.
Philippe leapt down and stripped off his greatcoat. He gave it to Mr. Alexander and mounted again. “Hike up your skirts, Gloriana. You’ll have to ride astride, but you can cover your legs with my coat.” Why did he sound so harsh?
She did as she was told, gathering her skirts like a peasant woman. Mr. Alexander dismounted and hoisted her onto the gelding’s back, waited while she adjusted her gown, and then helped her spread the greatcoat. “Thank you,” she said, her voice quivering despite her best efforts to sound calm and collected.
“Are you all right, Miss Glow?” asked Mr. Alexander.
“I’m tired and cold, but otherwise perfectly well.” It was far from true.
“Thank you for your assistance, my friend,” Philippe said. “We shall return separately. If the authorities come looking, it will be for two highwaymen. I suggest you go first, as we will of necessity ride more slowly than you.”
Mr. Alexander nodded. “Goodnight, Miss Glow. Your marquis is in a foul mood, but let me assure you, I enjoyed playing highwayman. Thank you for an invigorating evening.”
How kind of him. She’d been so stupid tonight—no wonder Philippe was angry. No love or warmth or even kindness emanated from him. With an effort, she smiled at Mr. Alexander and waved him away. He cantered into the night.
“I am not in a foul mood,” Philippe said. “I was afraid for you. That is all.”
“I was afraid for myself.” No more quiver in her voice—good.
“Put your arms around me and hold on.” He urged the gelding into a canter. After a while he turned off the road and headed slowly across a field.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“Avoiding Highgate.” They picked their way around a coppice and skirted another field. The moon had set. The quiet was broken by a flutter of wings in the undergrowth. A small creature skittered as they crossed its path.
Philippe’s silence unnerved her. She didn’t know him well at all and had no idea what this meant. They passed through a gap in a hedgerow. That gave her something to say. “You seem to know this route well.”
“I worked it for a while.”
“As a highwayman?”
“Yes.” Suddenly, he growled. “You should have let me shoot him, like the dog that he is.”
At least he was talking to her now. “I couldn’t have stopped you, but Mr. Alexander agreed that it was a bad idea.”
“Of course it was a bad idea,” Philippe said. “One does not murder an unconscious man. But you should not have pleaded for his life.”
That was why he was upset? “I didn’t want you to commit murder! I was pleading for your life!”
She felt his chest expand and contract as he took a deep breath—and blew it out again. “Fine, but none of this would have happened if you hadn’t got into his coach.”
“He tricked me.”
He said nothing. Didn’t he believe her?
“It’s true!” she cried. “I had just stepped out of the hackney and was approaching my door. A woman called to me from a waiting coach, asking me to help her son, for he had got into bad company, but she couldn’t afford to pay for a school. What was I supposed to do—ignore her?”
He made a rude noise. “If she couldn’t pay for schooling, how could she afford a coach?”
“That never occurred to me,” she said in a small voice.
“You knew what kind of man Hythwick is.”
“Yes, but I thought he was far away, pursuing Marianne and Freddy.”
Philippe had nothing to say to that, and rightly so.
“He was hiding in the coach,” she went on, “and when I got close, he threatened to harm her son if I didn’t get in. So of course, I did.” She paused. “But it was all a sham. She was just playing a role.”
“Didn’t you even think? Didn’t you see the crest on his coach?”
“No,” she said wearily. “Maybe it was too dark. Maybe it was because the door was open, so the crest wasn’t visible. Or maybe I just didn’t notice.” She paused. “How did you know he had taken me?”
“Turner suspected his master had foul plans, and he hurried to your house—just in time to see you get into the coach and drive away.”
Thank you, Mr. Turner.
“The woman was one of his servants.” After a begrudging sort of pause, he added, “Turner told me.”
He had no reason to doubt the valet, so at least there was some corroboration for her story. Why did he seem so bent on blaming her? Had he changed his mind about marrying her?
She contemplated this ghastly possibility as they approached Islington. After more horrid silence, Philippe said, “You had your pistol with you. Is that how you knocked him out?”
“Yes, it was in my reticule.”
“I thank le bon Dieu for that,” he said.
“I would have shot him if he had tried to assault me, but he did not. He—he said he was saving that for later.”
Philippe cursed and once again urged the tired gelding into a canter. Soon they were in Islington. “We will stay with Sophie tonight.”
We, he’d said. Should she be encouraged by that one short word? “Very well, but I must send a message to Elspeth. She will be so worried!”
“Morning is only a few hours away. I shall send Sophie’s footman as soon as it is light.”
She thanked him. “Stop at the school, if you please. I have a change of clothing and a nightdress there.”
Silence.
“In case of inclement weather.”
“I see.”
Good Lord, did he suspect her of trysting with Mr. Alexander? Indignation did its best to surge within her, but she was too tired—and most likely reading absurdities into his silence because she didn’t know what it meant.
He reined in at the school. Mr. Alexander had thoughtfully left a lantern burning just inside the door. She handed Philippe the greatcoat and slid carefully to the ground. Her legs wobbled, but she managed to stay upright. He dismounted as well, waiting as she dug in her reticule for her key.
“If you like, you may stable your horse with ours,” she said. “To avoid causing talk at the Angel.”
He thanked her—they were being extremely polite to one another, which unnerved her—and she detached the stable key from her ring and handed it to him. She unlocked the door, picked up the lantern, and went slowly up to her office. She found the valise with her clothing and was about to leave, when she turned and took one of her old sketchbooks off the shelf. Sketching might calm her down and comfort her.
Or it might not. She felt singularly comfortless tonight. When she emerged from the school, Philippe was waiting.
Silently still, he took her valise and escorted her to Sophie’s door, but before he got his key into the lock, Sophie had opened it. She put her arms around Gloriana and hugged her hard.
Friendship is much, much easier than love. That sounded like a good dictum. No wonder the Warren family had given up on love—for ecstasy and pain were not far removed from one another.
“Go to the stable, but do not take too long,” Sophie told her brother and shut the door on him. “Ma pauvre, let us go upstairs. I shall ring for the footman to bring up the bath, and—”
“I don’t need a bath.” Gloriana set her sketchbook down on the table by the door. “All I want is to sleep.”
“Très bien, we shall prepare you for bed.” Sophie led the way to Philippe’s chamber. This should be encouraging, for if anyone knew her brother’s moods, Sophie did.
But most likely not when it came to love. She shivered.
The room was gloriously warm, but when one’s heart is turned to ice, no fire will thaw it. This might or might not be true, but it would make an impressive dictum. One of these days, she would write them all down, with illustrations to match.
Sophie guided her to a chair by the fire. “I have already brought water to wash with—at least your face and hands.”
“And my muddy feet.” Gloriana peeled off her wet slippers and silken hose. “They’re wet and aching. Sophie . . .”
“Oui, chérie?” Sophie set a basin of water on the carpet. “Rest them in there.” She passed Gloriana a warm cloth. “What is wrong?”
Gloriana washed her face and hands. “Philippe is angry with me, and I understand why, although it wasn’t my fault, not really. Hythwick tricked me.” She passed the cloth to Sophie, who exchanged it for a dry one.
“Did you tell Philippe so?” Sophie asked.
“Yes, and I think he believed me, but he hardly says a word, and we’re being horribly polite with one another.” Gloriana dried her hands. “If something is bothering him, he should say so. I would much prefer a raging argument to this silent civility.” She sighed. “I have loved him for many years, but now I find I hardly know him at all.”
“I shall tell him not to be a fool,” Sophie said briskly, rising to her feet.
Gloriana put up a hand. “No, no, I’m not asking you to intervene. I just wish I understood him better. I wish I knew what to do.”
Sophie removed the basin of dirty water. “If it were Eric and me . . . we would overcome the silence in bed. I do not know if that will work with my brother.”
Gloriana shook her head. “I am afraid that if I try to lure him to bed, he will think I am playing him for a fool.”
Sophie nodded. “He does not trust easily. Perhaps you will just have to give him time.”
Or his freedom—if that was what he wished.