Araminta (Regency Belles Series Book 2) (15 page)

‘The sooner,’ Wilhelmina began, her voice shivering, ‘that more of these lamps are installed in Town the better. We shall all be much safer.’

The barouche crossed towards the entrance to St James Square. A hackney with a spirited horse between the shafts waited at the corner. Its driver stared into the narrow street leading to the Square. Half way along, a shabby hackney was almost blocking the street.

‘What the devil ..?’ Pilton said.

Mellor roused himself from his damp misery. ‘It’s stuck. Look.’

Pilton stared. The nearside wheel was jammed into a rut in the road. It almost blocked the street. He muttered a curse then shouted at the three labourers who were trying to lever it free with stout lengths of wood. ‘Move yerselves out of the way. I need to get past.’

The men straightened from their task. Two stayed near the cab. The other crossed to the opposite side of the narrow street. He held onto the heavy stave. Pilton muttered some more and dragged the reins to guide his pair through the gap. The barouche drew level with the single man. Placing a foot on the wheel hub, the labourer jumped up. He grabbed a handful of Pilton’s coat and pulled. Shouting a protest, the coachman slid to his knees. A blow from a wooden club stunned him. He crumpled into the footwell. A second man ran to Mellor who sat frozen in his seat, mouth drooped open. His attacker hauled him into the road and kicked him violently in the ribs. The third man dragged the barouche door open. He reached a grubby hand across Wilhelmina. She screamed.

‘Leave us alone. Leave us alone.’ She struck at him with her reticule. He back-handed her against the ribs of the hood and grasped for Araminta’s skirt.

‘You’m just come here, Missie Neave.’

Bracing herself away from him with one hand, Araminta dug the other down the seat and pulled up the pistol. The man gawped at her and hesitated.

‘Stand off,’ she shouted.

Her cry brought Pilton to his senses. Landing a punch squarely on his attacker’s nose, he reached under his seat for the blunderbuss. Still dazed he raised it wildly.

The third man’s courage returned. ‘You’m females ain’t no shots.’ He grabbed at Araminta again.

Without a second thought she levelled the pistol and fired. The sharp noise was drowned as the blunderbuss exploded into life.

Shot sprayed everywhere. Wilhelmina screamed. She fell back against the cushions.

Araminta sat down suddenly. The man she had shot at lay in the road. One foot was caught on the barouche’s step. She tossed the smoking pistol onto the seat opposite with a shudder.

The noise had all three horses rearing. Pilton struggled with his two but the frantic whinnying from the third alarmed them. They bolted three steps forward until the barouche’s wheels collided with the hackney. The shot man was dragged forward into Mellor.

‘Hey,’ he gasped.

‘Move yerself,’ Pilton commanded, wrapping the reins round his fists. He heaved. The horses reared and slowed. ‘Get to their heads afore they bolt and break us apart.’

Grasping his ribs, Mellor grabbed for the leader’s bridle. The lead horse shook its head in terror. Its jaw battered Mellor on the cheek. He collapsed onto the ground, clutching his head.

In the carriage, no sound came from Wilhelmina. Araminta looked at her and gasped. A dark stain was spreading across one shoulder.

Chapter Nineteen

T
he curtains on the Ellonby’s ground floor window whisked apart. Light flickered out. Moments later, two figures burst through the front door and leapt down the five stone steps.

‘Hoy!’ one shouted. ‘What goes?’

He ran towards the barouche. His companion followed hard on his heels. Chaos met his eyes. The carriages were trapped. The horses, terrified by the gunfire, were skittering and trying to kick over the traces. Pilton, one hand to his head, struggled to control them. Mellor groaned on the ground, his hands still cradling his ribs. In the carriage, Wilhelmina was slumped against the cushions, eyes closed, face still. Araminta leant over her, ripping the stained spencer away from her shoulder. Beyond the barouche, two men were tumbling into the hackney waiting in Pall Mall.

Lord Frederick and Everett Blythburgh chased after them. The driver was not disposed to linger. He whipped his nag and the cab shot away with the second man flat on his stomach on the cab’s floor, frantically trying to drag his legs inside. One boot tumbled off to be squashed under the hackney’s wheel.

With no hope of apprehending the malfeasants, Frederick and Everett turned their attention to the single man stretched on the ground. Lord Frederick nudged him. There was no movement. Everett flicked open the grubby jacket with his toe. A dark patch had spread over the man’s chest.

‘He’s a gonner,’ Frederick said, peering over Everett’s shoulder. He looked up into the barouche. ‘Miss Neave!’ He pulled open the low door and leapt up beside her. ‘Are you hurt?’

‘I’m not,’ Araminta said, pressing her handkerchief over Wilhelmina’s shoulder, ‘but I fear for Miss Orksville.’

‘Good grief.’ Frederick bent forward. Blood had soaked through the handkerchief onto Araminta’s pale lemon gloves. ‘There’s still some claret forming so she’s not dead.’

Araminta turned a surprised face towards him.

He cleared his throat. ‘Beg pardon, ma’am.’ He made a second attempt at clearing his throat. ‘Hey. Coachman. Drive to number fourteen. We must convey the ladies to shelter and aid. Everett, grab that horse.’

Mr Blythburgh ran to the horse trembling in the stranded hackney’s traces. Grasping its bridle, he held it aside. Pilton drew the horses back until the wheels disengaged.

‘Gently, man. Gently,’ Frederick commanded. ‘The lady is wounded.’

Pilton clamped his teeth together on unwise words. Blinking hard, he angled the barouche past the abandoned cab. Behind them, Mr Blythburgh abandoned the horse. Regardless of any possible damage to the cut of his superfine coat, he helped Mellor to his feet. The pair staggered towards the Ellonby’s mansion.

Wilhelmina stirred. She groaned. ‘Your father. Fetch your father.’

‘Mr Neave,’ Frederick said. ‘Is he at home?’

‘No, he’s not.’ Araminta continued pressing her handkerchief to Wilhelmina’s shoulder. ‘Some business called him to the City.’

‘Then you must bring Miss Orksville to our house. You cannot be left to cope with this with only servants to support you.’ He jumped from the barouche. ‘You there,’ he called up to Pilton. ‘Pull over to the corner house there. Quick now.’

Pilton dizzily shot him a look and swallowed his response.

Frederick took the steps of his home two at a time. He flung open the door. ‘Sallis. Sallis, where are you? Make haste man. Make haste.’ He descended the steps again and leapt back into the barouche. ‘Forgive me, ma’am,’ he said to Wilhelmina Orksville, unaware she had lapsed back into unconsciousness. He scooped her long figure into his arms and swung round. Araminta fell back onto the front seat as her chaperone’s feet swept past her waist. Frederick descended with his insensible burden.

Mr Blythburgh engaged in depositing the moaning groom onto the steps, left him and hurried forward. He gripped Frederick’s arm to steady him as he stepped down. So occupied were they, they failed to see a somewhat flustered butler arrive in the doorway above them. The housekeeper and three footmen stared, wide-eyed, round his imposing figure.

On firm ground, Frederick looked up. ‘There you are, Sallis. Summon Her Grace’s maid. Miss Orksville is hurt.’ He mounted the first step. ‘And have Mrs Witchingham prepare a room at once.’

Agog with curiosity and eager to play a part, the housekeeper stepped importantly into view. ‘I’m here, your lordship. I’ll see to soonest.’ She disappeared. Her quick footsteps could be heard hurrying across the tiled hall floor.

Frederick gained the house. Behind him, Everett Blythburgh waited at the barouche.

‘Allow me, Miss Neave, ma’am.’ He raised his hand for her to take. ‘A most distressing event. No wonder you screamed.’

‘I didn’t. It was Miss Orksville.’

‘But you must be prostrated by the ordeal.’

‘Not at all.’ She glanced back at the body in the street. ‘Is he dead?’

‘I beg you not to discompose yourself, ma’am. I’m sure your coachman did all that was necessary.’

‘It wasn’t Pilton. It was me.’

Mr Blythburgh gawped at her. ‘You, ma’am?
You
shot him?’

‘Of course I did.’ Araminta set foot on the flagway. She brushed her shirts straight. ‘There.’ She pointed at the pistol on the forward seat. ‘Will you take it? My reticule is too small to hold it.’

A blank stare and no movement met her request. She reclaimed the pistol and waggled until relieved of its weight.

‘Well,’ Blythburgh remarked. ‘Well, I say.’ His belief that all females fainted at loud noises, especially gunfire, crumbled about him. He eyed Araminta with a mixture of amazement and respect. Nevertheless, he escorted her into the house with a hand under her elbow.

Upstairs, Frederick was laying his burden on the canopied bed in the room set aside for the Ellonby’s most important guests. Araminta hurried round to the far side, lifted her skirts and knelt beside it. She reached across the silken cover to clasp Wilhelmina’s hand. The housekeeper stood at the foot of the bed, hands folded at her waist. The second chambermaid, her eyes wide as saucers and clutching two candelabra, arrived at the door. Her hands were shaking so much the dozen small flames danced shafts of golden light on the scene.

‘Don’t you be standing there gawping,’ the housekeeper said. ‘Put them down and pull the curtains to. We don’t want the hoi poli gawping in at us.’

As the room was on the third floor this was unlikely. The maid however deposited the candelabra on the mantelpiece and hurried to the window.

‘Mrs Witchingham,’ Lord Frederick said. ‘Be good enough to make sure Sallis has summoned the quack . . . er, the doctor,’ he amended with a quick glance at Araminta. ‘Sorry, ma’am. Forgot myself for a moment.’ He stood back from the bed. ‘I’ll leave you now. If there’s anything you need just tell . . .’ He paused, looking at the maid. ‘What’s your name, girl?’

‘Lillie, sir,’ she whispered, clutching one edge of a curtain, her face scarlet. His lordship had never had occasion to speak to her before. She bobbed a belated curtsey.

‘Right, Lillie. You will wait upon Miss Neave this evening. If she requests anything you will see to it at once. If anyone asks why, say I said so.’

‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’ She clasped her hands in front of her. Her second curtsey was more assured. Just let that Emma Burton try to come the snooty over her now. She had been especially selected to help in the amazing happenings. That was something important to tell the servant’s hall.

Frederick bowed to Araminta. ‘Please feel free to demand anything you need, ma’am. I’ll have the qua- . . . the doctor sent up as soon as he arrives.’

‘Thank you, my lord,’ Araminta said, pushed herself up from the bed to stand neatly beside it. ‘I wonder if a message might be sent to the house for Papa when he returns.’

‘Leave that to me, ma’am. Shall I ask him to attend you?’

Araminta pulled at the wet ribbons on her bonnet. She lifted it off and shook a spray of raindrops from her head. ‘No, I thank you. I would welcome a drink though. My mouth is very dry. And perhaps . . . Lillie could bring some warm water and cloths so I might bathe the blood from Miss Orksville’s shoulder.’ She stripped off her gloves. The stained, damp leather stretched. ‘And perhaps a towel?’

Frederick jerked his head at the maid who fled. With nothing more to do, he bowed, ready to leave. The sight of Araminta tending Miss Orksville gave him pause. It filled him with an emotion he did not recognise. He stood silent for several moments until a movement by the housekeeper broke the spell. He bowed again and took himself downstairs in a pensive mood to join Mr Blythburgh in the drawing room.

That effete young man leapt up from the sofa closest to the windows. ‘How does she?’

‘Still unconscious, I fear.’

‘Not her. Miss Neave, I meant.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘Shot the chap as soon as maybe. Amazing. Never known a female like it.’

‘What do you mean, shot him?’

‘Shot him. The one that climbed into the carriage.’ He held out the pearl-handled pistol. ‘With this. Shot him clean dead and never turned a hair.’

Frederick stared at him. ‘Miss Neave?’ A nod. ‘Good God.’ He took a turn about the room. ‘Good God.’ He repeated. ‘What a capital girl.’ He stopped short in his perambulations. A determined look crossed his face. He strode to the bell pull and all but yanked it off the wall.

A stony-faced footman opened the door.

‘Go down to the street. See if there’s a body lying about outside.’

The man stared. Words tumbled round his mouth until his training surfaced. ‘Yes, milord,’ he bowed. ‘A body.’

He withdrew leaving Frederick to pace the room under Mr Blythburgh’s anxious eye. Three minutes later the footman reappeared, his hair and livery darkened by rain.

‘Well?’ Frederick said, stopping his pacing.

‘There’s no body, milord. Not in the square. Nor between here and Pall Mall neither.’

Frederick heaved a sigh of relief. ‘That’s a relief. The fellow must have slunk off.’

Everett frowned. ‘He didn’t look much like slinking anywhere to me.’

‘Well perhaps his cronies came back for him. Either way, Miss Neave need have no concerns.’ He looked at the footman still hovering by the door. ‘Are either of Their Graces at home?’

‘His Grace is in the book room, milord. Her Grace has an engagement somewhere, I believe.’

Frederick dismissed the man with a wave of his hand. ‘I’d best tell my father what’s amiss.’ He started for the door. ‘Order yourself a brandy. And one for me. I don’t expect to be long.’

Despite the late summer month, The Duke of Ellonby was reading by a roaring fire. Regardless of his slight figure and bowed posture he had instilled a significant degree of respect in his sons. As they were both strapping young men only the distinct family likeness about their eyes and noses had saved their petite mother from becoming the subject of vulgar gossip.

Frederick tapped on the library door and entered. He bowed. ‘I beg pardon sir, for disturbing you.’

The Duke looked up from his book. ‘I assume you are come to explain the noise in the house. It has reached quite unacceptable levels.’

‘I beg pardon, sir,’ Frederick repeated. ‘Two of our neighbours . . . two ladies . . . have been attacked nearby.’

‘That is unfortunate but why, if they are neighbours, are they in my house and not their own?’

‘The elder lady has sustained a shot, sir, and the young lady’s parent is away from home. I thought they stood in need of immediate assistance and shelter.’

‘I see. Well, I suppose you know your own business best. Who are they?’

‘Miss Orksville and Miss Neave, sir.’

‘Orksville?’ Frown lines creased the Duke’s forehead. ‘One knows the family of course but Miss Neave? The young lady upon whose horse you have designs?’

Surprise showed on Frederick’s face. It was soon banished. His father’s omniscience was something he and George had learned to treat with the greatest respect.

‘I wonder if perhaps Her Grace will be entirely pleased to welcome a tradesman’s daughter under her roof.’

‘I assure you, sir,’ Frederick said stiffly, ‘that Miss Neave is a most respectable young lady.’

‘No doubt, but I think we shall wait upon Her Grace’s decision.’ His Grace resumed his book.

Frederick bowed. ‘As you wish, sir.’ He backed out of the room.

Sylvia, her Grace of Ellonby, returned home just before three in the morning. Her maid was drowsing in the padded armchair in her bedchamber. She jumped to her feet as the Duchess entered.

‘Good evening, Your Grace. Did the rout prove enjoyable?’

A delicate sigh drifted from the Duchess’s sweet mouth. ‘Tiresome, Mitcham. Tiresome. Everyone kept asking if George really was going as secretary to Arthur Wellesley.’ She permitted the maid to slide the flimsy wrap from her bent arms. ‘One does so hate to be the focus of curiosity.’

The evening’s events were proving too much for the maid to retain. ‘Indeed, milady, but . . .’

Sylvia’s finely arched eyebrows curved higher. ‘Mitcham?’

‘Oh, milady,’ she gasped, all the superiority of a duchess’s maid abandoned. ‘Such goings on. I declare I’ve never seen the like.’

‘Goings on? Whatever can you mean?’

‘A shooting. Right on the steps of this very house.’

The Duchess stopped arranging herself at her dressing table. ‘Shooting?’ She stood up, hands gripping together. ‘His Grace? George? Frederick?’ The names tumbled from her lips.

‘Oh no, Your Grace. No-one from the family. It’s the old lady from across the way. Shot. In the body.’

‘Lady Fosbury shot?’ The Duchess’s pale hand flew to her bosom. ‘Never say.’

‘No, not her. It’s the one who keeps company with the young person staying next to her.’

‘Wilhelmina? Goodness gracious. On our steps, you say. Was she carried home safely?’

The maid drew herself up. ‘She’s in the blue room, Your Grace. Lord Frederick said to put her there.’

Sylvia Ellonby was not an unkind woman. She hurried to her door. ‘Come with me, Mitcham. We must be sure she has all she needs.’ Her quick footsteps had her rustling to the room in moments. She opened the door quietly and gasped at the view that greeted her.

A young woman lay curled in a wide blue armchair drawn up to the bed. Light from a single branch of candles burnished a head of disordered titian curls resting on an arm folded along the edge of quilt. It flickered on a flawless cream skin of a half-seen face and cast a shadow from the line of a dark brow to the curve of dark lashes. The fingers of the other hand were locked into those of the still figure under the covers. The girl’s eyes opened.