Allison Lane (6 page)

“Damn,” he muttered as memory returned.  Forcing himself to sit up, he took in his state of undress, the clothing hanging over benches near the fire, and the bandages wrapping his shoulder and head.

He remembered jumping into the river.  The lady had been valiant, but her riding habit had made rescue nearly impossible.  He recalled grabbing a tree, but little after that.  His impulse might easily have killed him.  The current had been far stronger than he had anticipated, and the water had chilled him until every movement required Herculean effort.  All in all, he had been a prime fool, as Whitfield would say.

Had his mission been successful, or had someone else fished him out?

Sedge.  Dear God, he hoped Sedge had followed orders!

But Sedge was no fool.  He would already be leading a search party along the riverbank.  Surely they would check any dwellings, which meant that they had not yet reached this point.

Struggling to his feet, he began the painful process of forcing his battered body into the remains of his clothes.  He was buttoning his waistcoat when a lady emerged from the next room.

“You shouldn’t be up, Mr. Randolph,” she scolded.  “I already told you that Sadie will see after your wounds.”

Now that she mentioned it, he vaguely recalled speaking with her.  “Who are you?” he demanded, reaching for his boots.  Linden would shudder when he saw them.

“You may call me Anne.”

“Are you all right?”  He was fairly certain that she was the lady from the river – she was wearing a mud-stained habit.  But her brown hair was dry, the scratch on her face was scabbed over, and she looked remarkably alert for someone who had nearly drowned.

“Of course, and I appreciate your assistance, though it is unfortunate you were injured.  I will always remember you kindly.”

He touched the bandage around his head.  “What happened?”

“Don’t you recall?”

He shook his head.

“A branch struck you just as we reached the riverbank.  You managed to stagger this far before you collapsed.”

“Is Sadie in there?” he nodded toward the room she had just emerged from.

“She’s in the village, but should return shortly.”  Her face had taken on a haunted expression.

“What time is it?”  He had a gnawing feeling that it had been much longer than he’d thought.  Even his boots were dry.  His premonitions surged back.  This trip had been a disaster from the beginning, every day worse than the last.  Would the Ides of March deal him a death blow as it had done to Caesar?

“Morning, sir.”

“We’ve been here all night?  Alone?”  She was at least gentry, if not higher.  No one else in the country could afford a riding habit or a dedicated saddle horse.  Most did not even ride aside, if they rode at all.  So she was a lady.  And he had badly compromised her.

“You were unconscious.  I fell asleep waiting for my clothes to dry, but there is nothing to fear.  No one will ever learn of this.”

“And just how will you keep it a secret?  Sadie knows we were here.  Your family will have missed you.  You are naïve to believe they won’t notice your condition.”  He nodded toward her disheveled habit.

“No one will miss me because they did not expect me to return yesterday.  The storm will adequately explain the state of my clothing.  Sadie remained in the village last night, so she will know nothing of this.  Besides, she is a friend who would never betray me.  Would you like some breakfast before I leave, or would you prefer to wait for Sadie?”

“You aren’t going anywhere without giving me your direction.  Honor demands mar—”

“No,” she interrupted, glaring at him.  “Honor demands nothing.  I have no intention of wedding anyone, and certainly not for such a ridiculous reason.  Byron said it best –
Wedlock’s the devil.
”

“I would hardly recommend him as an authority on anything.”

“All right.  If you prefer someone less controversial, how about Shakespeare? 
What is wedlock forced but a hell?
  I’ll not be locked in a cage, sir.  I have done nothing of which I need be ashamed, nor have you.  We will drop the subject.”

“But—”

Again she ignored his protest.  “Good-bye, sir.  If you wish to remain here, Sadie will look after you.  You needn’t fear her, for she is a widow long past fifty and quite content with her life.  If you choose to leave, the center path will take you to the village.”

Without another word, she walked out, closing the door decisively behind her.  By the time he finished dressing, she was out of sight.  He had not even seen which of the three paths she had followed. 

Who was this girl anyway?  He had never met anyone with even remote claims to gentility who did not cast a covetous eye on his tit—

She was unaware of his title, he realized abruptly.  He must still be half-asleep.  Only now did he realize that she had been calling him
Mister
Randolph
.
  So he must not have introduced himself very coherently.

But that did not explain her adamant refusal.  If she had been married or betrothed, she would have said so.  So why had a single young lady of good family refused to take advantage of him?  An educated young lady, he added as he returned to the cottage to clean up before heading for the village.  Familiarity with Byron and Shakespeare was common enough, but her quote had come from Byron’s first collection of poems, published in 1806 to so cold a reception that few people had even heard of it.  And
Henry VI
was not usually taught to females.

His cravat was a mess, so he knotted it loosely the way John Coachman wore his, then headed for the village.

Where was Sedge?

He had removed the bandage from his head.  Most of the scrapes were hidden by his hair, and he did not wish to draw more attention than his muddy clothes already claimed.  Until he could honorably deal with Anne, it served no purpose to advertise that he had met anyone.  He would hardly have bandaged himself with clean linen if he were dressed like this. 

He had left both hat and greatcoat in the carriage, so the crisp morning air bit through his jacket.  His boots had dried into hard creases that rubbed against his feet and legs.  Within a quarter mile, he was limping.

How was he to discover Anne’s direction?  Perhaps she had been truthful.  Or perhaps she had her eye on someone else.  If she cared for another, he would wish her well and turn his attention to Lady Elizabeth.  But first he must make sure that no harm befell her over this escapade.  If the truth came out, they would have to marry.  He had never ruined a reputation, and he wasn’t about to start now.

What had happened to Sedge?  The cottage was well downstream from the bridge, but surely searchers would have reached it long since.  It was in clear sight of the river.

He shivered, then shivered again as the village came into view.  The inn looked even worse than the last one he had stayed in.

CHAPTER FOUR

Sedge’s shout died as Randolph disappeared into the raging water.  He had never known his friend to be so reckless.  Since childhood, Randolph had been quiet, responsible, and studious, preferring country to city, eschewing the frivolity most of his friends enjoyed, locking himself away with his books and manuscripts.  What maggot had eaten into his brain that made jumping into a flooded river seem reasonable? 

But it was too late to stop him.

“We must fetch help,” he shouted to John Coachman as he vaulted back inside.  “Spring ‘em!”

The carriage lurched forward.  The horses splashed through the water and onto the bridge.

Sedge fingered Randolph’s card case as he squinted at the river.  No heads dotted its surface.  No arms struck out for the bank.  Had Randolph hit a rock with that reckless plunge? 

He shuddered.  How was he to face Wyndport if Randolph perished?  How could he face Whitfield?

Fool! 
Such thinking was unproductive. 

He tucked the card case into his pocket for safekeeping.  Randolph was a strong swimmer who would easily rescue whoever had fallen into the water.  But he would need dry clothing when he emerged.  An inflammation of the lungs could kill him.  Yet finding him would require help if they were to manage it quickly.  It was anyone’s guess how far downstream he would land.

The carriage bucked wildly as it raced along the uneven road.  Mud sucked at the wheels.  Rain battered the roof, though he had been right about the estate wall.  It kept the wind away.

A sudden swerve sent them into a skid.  Sedge caught a glimpse of gates flashing past the windows, their posts topped by huge stone birds.

Ravenswood.

The gatehouse was a tumbled ruin, so he would find no help there, but the manor was visible in the distance, perched on a rise across the valley.  And seeking assistance from an estate was better than in a village.  Lord Fosdale could command the servants to help, so Sedge would be spared enlisting the cooperation of strangers.  He had no doubt Fosdale would do it.  Allowing harm to befall a duke’s heir would create a scandal that would cling to him for life.

John slowed the team.  Away from the sheltering wall, the wind slammed into them.  Trees might have offered protection, but few dotted the park grounds.  Gusting gales whipped those few into frenzied dances that bowed the smaller ones to the ground and back in an orgy of curtsying lit by flash after flash of lightning.  Pines shivered, their heavy foliage fighting blasts that sought to strip them bare.  Leaves and twigs battered the windows.

Sedge grimaced.  How was John faring under this onslaught?  Or the horses? 

A loud crack boomed outside, sharper and more immediate than the ubiquitous thunder.  Ripping sounds filled the air.  The horses screamed. 

“Hell and damnation!”

A huge pine toppled, swooping straight for him.  Sedge lunged across the carriage, but there was no escape.  His shouts joined John’s curses.  The moment stretched endlessly, punctuated by rending, cracking, and dizziness.

Then silence.

Sedge opened his eyes.  He was alive.  The wind continued to wail, though his thudding heart dulled its sound.

Pine needles and splintered wood nearly buried a wad of fabric an inch from his face.  His greatcoat.  The remains of Randolph’s hat peeked out nearby.

It took him a moment to realize that he was hanging headfirst off the seat. 

“Aayaahh!”  Pushing himself up stabbed pain through his left arm.  His shout trailed away into curses.

A new blast of wind shook the coach.  Water spattered the back of his head. 

Gritting his teeth, he fumbled about until his right hand found a sturdy hold, though he was shaking so badly he could barely hang on.  Fierce effort pulled him upright, but not without painful contortions that more than once threatened him with unconsciousness.  He wiped the sweat from his forehead, swallowing nausea as he took stock of his narrow escape.

The coach sat on a slant, skewered by a tree limb that entered through the roof and continued through the floor.  Jagged splinters stuck out at intervals.  Broken branches and wet foliage filled much of the interior, leaving only this cramped corner where he had landed.  Rain battered the wreckage.  He needed to escape, but the door was blocked.

The window was broken, but another limb speared the ground inches beyond it.  The pine was suspended overhead, its thick trunk held up by splayed branches.

“John!” he shouted, repeating the call several times.  Was the coachman unconscious, or worse?  A horse whinnied in fear, so something still lived.

He gave up, concentrating on his injuries.  His left arm was broken a handspan above the wrist, but the skin was intact, so it could have been worse.  Fighting pain, he wrenched loose a short branch and a piece of the roof, then used his cravat to bind the makeshift splint in place.  The bone was not set, but at least jarring would not damage it further.

Jarring was inevitable.  He couldn’t stay here.

Scrapes and cuts testified to the violence of flying splinters and glass.  Bruises had already formed on hip, shoulder, and head.  Wind blew into the carriage, lowering the temperature alarmingly.  He shook away the creeping lethargy and concentrated on escaping his prison.

Using another stick, he broke out the remaining window glass.  But he could not squeeze past the branch.  He tried pulling down more of the roof, but once he worked a hand outside, he discovered a tangle of branches he had no hope of penetrating.

Cold water leaked onto his head.

Kicking at the coach wall did nothing beyond hurting his foot.  The interior was too cramped to put any force behind the blows.

The window offered his only escape.  Wrapping his coat around the largest glass shard, he attacked the wooden frame, shaving it away strip by strip.  Sweat was trickling down his back by the time he reached the carriage wall.

Randolph needed help. 

John Coachman needed help. 

He needed help.

The reminders circled his brain, prodding him on, forcing action even as cold and shock urged him to rest.  When his shard broke, he found another.  When slivers sliced through the coat into his hand, he shifted his grip and doggedly continued.

But his progress grew slower.  The heat of exertion no longer countered the chill from wind and rain.  Determination could not hold pain at bay.  By the time the third shard shattered, his voice was hoarse from shouting, his hand was bloody where glass had penetrated the mangled coat, and his body rebelled against cold, shock, and terror with shudders that destroyed his control.  His fingers wouldn’t grip.  Pain deadened all thought.

He closed his eyes, leaning his head back as he tried to gather the strength to continue.  Another six inches should allow him to slip past that branch.  Only a little more…

Creeping lethargy blanketed his mind until everything went blank.

* * * *

“Yes, Wendell?”  Lord Fosdale closed his account book when the butler appeared in the study doorway.  Only an emergency would prompt Wendell to interrupt him this late at night.

“A tree is down across the drive, my lord.  There is a carriage pinned beneath it.”