Devil's Match (6 page)

“Mr. Bascombe, 'twas not my intent to distress you,” Caroline tried again. “Perhaps if we talked about something else, it would be better.”

“Your pardon, Miss Ashley—shouldn't have run on like that, I suppose, but I get tired of hearing about what a rounder Patrick is.”

“Well, your defense of your friend is commendable, I am sure.”

Having said his piece, Bertie found himself at a loss for further conversation. In less than five minutes, he'd said more to a female than he'd said in five years and now he had nothing left to say. He turned to stare out the carriage window into the London street. When Caroline found it necessary to comment on the various landmarks, Bertie responded in monosyllables until she abandoned the attempt. They sat in strained silence for perhaps another fifteen minutes until she suddenly noted their direction.

“Mr. Bascombe, we cannot reach the park this way. Perhaps you should stop and direct your driver before we are hopelessly lost.”

He'd hoped she wouldn't discover his plan quite so soon, but for a female, she was deuced clever. Bertie drew in a deep breath before turning back to look at her. “Can't,” he told her at last.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Can't,” he repeated. “We ain't going for a turn in the park, Miss Ashley. Deuced sorry for it, but I am abducting you.”

“You jest,” she decided matter-of-factly.

“No.”

“Mr. Bascombe, this is ridiculous. Why would you wish to abduct me?”

“Mean to marry you. Knew you would not entertain my suit if I asked.” He repeated the carefully memorized lines he'd practiced. When she stared at him, he looked at the floor and mumbled, “Knew you wouldn't. Slowtop,” he added succinctly, as though that explained everything.

“But you do not even know me.”

“Knew that if Patrick thought you was all right, you must be.”

“I see.” She nodded in dawning understanding. “And I suppose you too are in need of an immediate heir.” Her voice was deceptively calm.

“M'father's past his prime,” he defended. “Make you a countess someday.”

“And of course you had no wish to survey the Marriage Mart for an eligible female,” she pursued.

“No. I ain't in the petticoat line.”

“But somehow you saw me and that was that.”

He eyed her warily now, uncertain as to where she was leading him. “I saw you at the Beresfords'.”

“And, never even having danced with me, you conceived this ridiculous scheme? Really, Mr. Bascombe, but you will have to concoct a more plausible story than this.”

“Dash it, I called on you once,” he defended.

“Yesterday morning. And if I recall it correctly, we exchanged perhaps a half-dozen sentences. Indeed, I believe it was Juliana who spoke the most.” She fixed him with a disbelieving look. “Tell me, Mr. Bascombe, how is it that you did not fix your interest with her? Could it be that the three of you—Juliana, Patrick Danvers, and yourself—devised this idiotish plan?”

“No! Patrick don't know of it! And I don't even know Miss Canfield. No, I am abducting you, Miss Ashley, and I am carrying you off to France where I intend to marry you,” he maintained stubbornly. “I'm eloping with you. Thought it out—a man has to get married, after all—must secure the succession and all that. You're a nice-looking female and you ain't got a family to pay off with the settlements.” He glanced up furtively to see if she believed him. “Dash it, Miss Ashley! I got no address! I can't face the Marriage Mart!”

“You cannot have developed a
tendre
for me.”

“But I did!”

“Tell me, Mr. Bascombe—do you wish to kiss me?”

Bertie's eyes widened in dismay and he swallowed hard before nodding. “Want to marry you in France.”

A gleam of amusement crept into Caroline's eyes. “But why go to France? 'Tis a long way to travel in a cramped carriage, isn't it? Why not just get a special license and stay in England?” She leaned across the seat until her face was almost even with Bertie's. “Are you certain you wish to kiss me, Mr. Bascombe? I do not believe for an instant that you do.”

“Of course I want to kiss you! I mean, in the course of things, I should expect to.” Red-faced, Bertie realized he was about to be trapped into admitting his plans if he did not do something. Manfully, he leaned over and bussed Caroline's cheek. When she did not move away, he closed his eyes and gave her a quick peck on the lips. “There,” he breathed triumphantly. “See?”

“Are you absolutely certain that you feel those tender passions necessary for marriage, Mr. Bascombe?”

“Absolutely. But we have to go to France.”

“Why?” she demanded bluntly. “How do you propose to marry me in a Catholic country?”

“Dash it! I left a note for Lady Canfield explaining I was eloping to France with you!”

Her amusement turned to indignation on the instant. “You did what?” she asked awfully. “Mr. Bascombe, how could you? I shall be turned off! I … I shall be ruined! Of all the feather-brained, idiotish things!”

Stung, he flared back, “It ain't idiotish! You'll come back a married lady, I swear!”

“Mr. Bascombe,” she managed in a calmer voice, “it isn't too late. Take me back now and perhaps I can explain that it was some sort of a jest.”

“Can't.”

“Are you still persisting with this Banbury tale that you are wishful of marrying me?”

“Determined to do it,” he maintained stubbornly. “Got to.”

“Mr. Bascombe, this has gone quite far enough. If you do not set me down this instant, I shall scream my lungs out and let you explain to the constable how you have attempted to abduct me.”

“Closed carriage—cannot be heard.”

“I can make you nigh deaf trying,” she threatened.

“I ain't going to set you down and I ain't going to take you back, Miss Ashley. I'm taking you to France to get married.”

“Mr. Bascombe, have you thought of what a positive harridan I shall be if you force me to wed with you? I shall make your life absolutely, totally miserable. I shall give you no peace. I—”

“No, you won't,” Bertie cut in. “For one thing, I won't listen to it, and for another, I'll just do what half the
ton
does. I'll pack you off to the country until you are glad to see me.”

“I shall spend all your money.”

“Put you on an allowance,” he shot back smugly.

“Mr. Bascombe, if you persist in this nonsense, I shall still refuse to give my vows. Moreover, I shall do my best to escape, and I shall see to it that you are clapped up in Hoxton or some other asylum for the criminally insane. You clearly are not in possession of your wits.”

“I ain't worried.” Resolutely he turned to stare out the window again. “I just hope Patrick gets back from Newmarket,” he muttered under his breath.

I
t was nightfall by the time Patrick reached London. Bone-weary, he'd ordered a cold collation instead of supper, and sat down to eat it while his bath was drawn. He ought to be in a better frame of mind, he chided himself as he cut into a slab of chilled beef, for his trip to Newmarket had yielded him two things—four hundred pounds in winnings and new hope. The widowed sister of his host had shown a marked interest in him, and it had been more than that speculative gleam he usually got from women who merely wanted a little dalliance. Not that he was interested in Anthea, of course. But then, if a perfectly respectable widow dared converse with him, then perhaps not all was lost. His thoughts turned to Caroline Ashley. Now, if he'd been received, if he were somehow respectable, perhaps she would not have been so precipitate in her refusal. That refusal still stung. Devil Danvers! He'd heard the appellation a hundred times, but it sounded different coming from men. And what could she know of him, anyway? Resolutely he put her from his mind and reached for the correspondence tray.

He sifted through the usual assortment of tradesmen's bills, a letter from an antiquities scholar, and a theater subscription before Bertie's envelope caught his attention. He picked it up, examined the irregular handwriting on the front of the envelope, and sighed. Poor Bertie. Knowing him was somewhat like owning an untrainable pup—one came to feel responsible for him. Not that Bertie had not proven himself a hundred times during Patrick's troubles, of course. But Bertie's miserable attempts at writing defied patience, and Patrick was in no mood to attempt unraveling and piecing together the puzzle of his letter. He set it aside while he poured himself a glass of port.

He pushed his plate away and leaned back in his chair to prop his booted feet up on a stool. Sipping his wine, he stared speculatively at the letter, wondering what on earth Bertie needed now. He'd been gone only two and a half days, but it didn't take Bertie long to get into a scrape. With another sigh of resignation, Patrick tore open the envelope and drew out the paper inside. Absently he pulled the brace of candles closer.

Reading a few lines, he was making no sense of it until he got to what appeared to be some sort of reference to Caroline Ashley. Cursing Bertie's miserable spelling and cramped style, Patrick deciphered the words “France,” “follow,” and “abduction,” all spelled incorrectly. “What the deuce,” Patrick muttered as he tried to piece together Bertie's meaning. The letter now had his full attention as it dawned on him that Bascombe had abducted Caroline Ashley for whatever reason and carried her off to France.

“The fool—the bloody fool!” Patrick exploded. “Damn his interference! Of all the cork-brained—” He stopped and reread the offending message again in the hope he'd misunderstood it. “Damn him! Crump!” he called out as he lurched to his feet. “Crump!”

“Milord?” the butler responded promptly.

“Tell Jenkins to pack for France—I leave within the hour.”

“But, your lordship—”

“I know, I know,” Patrick muttered further, “I've but got here and the horses are tired. Tell Barnes to hitch the bays instead, if you will … and Crump …”

“Yes, milord?”

“Best have Mrs. Winters pack something that'll keep—I doubt I have time to stop anywhere to eat.”

“Begging your pardon for asking, sir—but is something amiss?”

“I have not killed anybody—yet—if that is what you are asking, Crump. But I cannot vouch for what I'll do when I catch up to the wretch.” Patrick caught the butler's curious expression and snapped, “Well, do not be standing here gaping, man—I've a long way to go tonight!”

Abovestairs, Jenkins greeted the news with consternation. “Tonight?” he wailed. “But we've just arrived! And his bath—I've had his bath drawn! Are you sure you heard him aright, Crump? An hour! And did his lordship tell you if I am to go?”

“I wouldn't be using that tone around him if I was you,” the butler warned, “for he's not in the best of tempers, I can tell you. And don't be asking foolish questions neither, 'cause I've not got the answers.”

“But—”

“ ‘Tell Jenkins to pack for France—I leave within the hour.' Them's his exact words, my good fellow—and that's all I know. Now, I have to find Barnes.”

“Should have stayed with Tillotson,” the valet grumbled. “He wasn't given to queer starts. France! I hate the Frenchies—bunch of babblin' fools! And I don't suppose he said what he wanted to wear, did he? No, of course he did not!” he answered himself. “Humph!”

At almost that same moment, Albert Bascombe's other letter was being discovered some six blocks away at the Canfield residence. Caroline's absence had already been remarked, and Juliana, to avoid further conflict between her companion and her mother, had contrived to explain that Caro had been called away to her godmother's bedside. When questioned at length by Lady Lenore, she had invented in great detail the nature of the godmother's illness, but alas, could not exactly remember the lady's name. Thus, when Thomas, the footman, let it be known that Mr. Bascombe had sent a message, Juliana wasted no time in pocketing it and slipping away to her room, where, to her dismay, she found she could not read it. Since it was by then quite dark, she was becoming increasingly apprehensive about Caroline's whereabouts, so much so that she pleaded the headache to escape accompanying Lady Lenore to a select musicale at the Harringtons'.

Her mother surveyed her shrewdly, decided that she did look a trifle peaked, and thereupon bundled her off to bed. Pastilles were burned and her room was darkened to alleviate her headache before Lady Lenore left. But as soon as she heard the carriage leave the drive, Juliana wrapped herself in one of the downstairs maids' cloaks and slipped out the servants' door in search of Patrick.

By the light of day the six blocks did not seem so long, but in the dark they were quite another matter. Juliana drew the cloak closer and let the hood slip down to hide her face. Keeping her head low, she stayed to the inside away from the street and walked briskly. As usual, the night was misty from the spring rains, and she expected the damp fog to ensure her anonymity.

“ 'Ere, 'ere—wot's this? Eh, Billy, ‘hit's a Lunnon dove!” someone called out.

“B'leve yer got th' bloody right o' hit, yer has,” a drunken companion agreed. “ 'Ere, lovey—let's 'ave a look ter yer.”

Alarmed, Juliana walked faster, only to hear the thud of footsteps behind her. She pulled away as bold hands grasped the cloak and it came off to expose her fashionably cropped blond curls and her blue crepe walking dress under a lantern.

“Gor! Yer ever see th' likes o' this, Billy?”

“Take your hands off me,” Juliana ordered with a bravado she did not feel. “I'll call the watch.”

“Yer 'ear 'er? She'll call th' watch!” the other one guffawed. “And th' watch be tippin' a pint somewheres, Oy wager! 'Ere—let's 'ave a peep, Oy say!”

“My father is Maximillian Canfield—Sir Maximillian Canfield—and he'll have you arrested … or transported. He will! Don't you dare touch me!”

One of the men grasped her chin and tilted her head to the lantern light. Juliana bobbed slightly and sank her teeth into the soft fatty tissue between his thumb and forefinger. He howled in pain and released her to shake his hand. The other fellow caught her from behind and slid an arm around her neck. She stomped his foot and kicked backward furiously. For a moment she thought he meant to choke her, and she struggled with all the force in her slender body. Suddenly he stiffened and his grasp slackened.

“Unhand the lady,” came a perfectly level but totally chilling voice from somewhere behind her.

“Now, guvnor—”

She drove an elbow into her captor's middle and spun around accusingly as he stepped back. “Blackguard! Miscreant! Toad!”

“Ravisher?” that voice supplied, this time with the barest hint of amusement. “Really, my dear child, but what can one expect alone and untended on a city street at night?”

“I am not a child!” Juliana snapped. “And these men—”

“I am perfectly aware of what they were about, miss.” The voice had grown cold again. “Do you want me to kill them for you?”

“Now, guvnor—naught's 'armed—hit ain't! Oy wasn't ter 'urt 'er, Oy swear!” The fellow who'd held Juliana backed away, his face a pasty yellow gray in the flickering light. “Oy swear!”

The other man who had accosted her took the opportunity to run, and his footsteps faded rapidly into the mists. “Coward!” she shot after him before turning to her rescuer. “You let him get away!” Then she saw the gleam of his rapier resting against the remaining offender's neck vein, and her eyes widened.

“Well?”

As angry and frightened as she was, Juliana still had no wish to see anybody's throat slit. “No”—she shook her head decisively—“let the watch have him. Papa will …” Her voice trailed off as she realized that she dared not ever let her father know of it. Her eyes traveled from the fellow who'd held her to the man behind him. “Much as it distresses me,” she admitted, “ 'twould be best if you just let him go.”

The blade made a brief swishing sound as it sliced through the air and into flesh. The fellow screeched and Juliana closed her eyes to keep from fainting. When she opened them cautiously, he was holding a gash closed on his cheek and blood was dripping between his fingers.

“A reminder merely that one does not accost females of Quality, no matter how stupid they may be,” the tall man bit off precisely as he sheathed the rapier. “Count yourself fortunate that she didn't ask for the ultimate penalty.”

“M-my thanks, sir,” she managed. “Had you not come—”

“Had I not chanced by, your virtue would be extinct,” he finished baldly. “As it is, how can you be sure that I am any better than those louts?” He gestured at the retreating figure of Juliana's captor. “Tell me, Miss Canfield, how is it that Sir Max allows you out unprotected?”

“You know my name.”

“I heard you shout it to your most recent acquaintances,” he admitted.

“Then you have the advantage of me, sir,” she acknowledged stiffly.

“I am Rotherfield.”

Rotherfield.
Juliana blinked and stared anew as she digested this startling revelation. The notorious Earl of Rotherfield. Even in the faint illumination of the street lantern, her shock must have been evident.

“Alas, yes,” he murmured as he executed a mocking bow. “My shocking reputation precedes me—as always.”

“N-no—not precisely, that is. I mean, of course I have heard of you, my lord. But it doesn't signify to me—I daresay you cannot be all I have heard, after all. Ten to one, you are like my cousin Patrick, and half of it is untrue.”

“Patrick?”

“Patrick Danvers—Westover. He's my cousin, you know, and he's nothing like people think he is.” She caught the arrested expression in his black eyes. “Well, he isn't!”

“I am certain he is not.” His eyes met hers for a brief moment, and Juliana's heart lurched. “I know Bridlington.”

“Then you must know Patrick's no murderer! Why cannot everyone accept the inquest verdict? Why—”

“You seem to have an uncommon concern for your cousin,” Rotherfield cut in dryly. “Can it be that you were planning an assignation, perhaps? How very careless of him if he lets you wander about at night alone.” His voice dropped to a silky softness. “After all, one can never be certain whom one might meet.”

“It was no such thing. Patrick will tell you we should not suit—thought I do find him fascinating …” She caught herself and dug into a pocket for Bascombe's letter. “Lud, how I do rattle on like a noddy, sir. I am on my way to Patrick's to see if he can make any sense of this.”

“At this hour?” A black eyebrow lifted skeptically. “Really, my dear, but it won't fadge. No, I think you should be at home under the watchful eye of a parent, child.”

“You wouldn't!” Juliana gasped in alarm. “And I am not a child—I am eighteen!”

“No, I wouldn't,” he admitted with a faint smile. “I should have a devil of a time explaining to your father how you came to be in my care, shouldn't I? I mean merely to take you back and let you slip unnoticed into your parents' house. You can do that, can you not?”

“Yes, but … Oh, you do not understand! I have to see Patrick! Dare I trust you, sir? I mean, you would not betray a lady, would you?” She wavered while trying to fathom his expression. “Well, would you?”

“Miss Canfield, I am scarce the person to ask.” His dark eyes considered her for a long moment, and then he sighed. “But … no, I would not.”

“Then will you help me, sir? I mean, I must find Patrick, for I am afraid something ill has befallen my companion.” Abruptly she stopped to hold out the letter. “Do you know Albert Bascombe? He's Haverstoke's heir. Well, this afternoon he took Miss Ashley—my companion—for a drive in the park. Oh, dear, I do not know what to think—Lord Rotherfield, she has not returned home! And … and they are barely acquainted! Surely if something had befallen, we would have heard! And then Mr. Bascombe sent this letter round to my mother, but I took it from the tray.”

“You removed your mother's letter?” Again the black eyebrow shot upward, but his eyes betrayed amusement. “Dear me, but you are a resourceful child, are you not?”

“If I have to tell you I am not a child one more time, Lord Rotherfield, I shall shout it!” she retorted with asperity. “And I could not let Mama see it in case it should reflect on Caro—Mama dislikes Caro and would have turned her off just this week but for Papa's intervention. You see, Patrick was trying to fix his interest with Caro.”