Lord Satan (25 page)

“I have no objection to leaving. I only went out of
boredom; I had no particular interest in the event.”

“I suppose you must miss your London friends?”

“I suppose I do.”

“But you will be there soon. That must make you happy.”
She forced back her tears; she could not let him realize how she ached at the
thought of his leaving. She had scarcely seen him of late, but once he left,
she would not see him at all.

“I have much to do once I arrive back in town,” he agreed.

“Please tell me about London.”

“Very well. I will endeavor to describe it. Have you been
to any large city?”

“Yes, to Worcester.”

“How much of the city did you see?”

“Papa took me to the Cathedral. We only stayed one night
and came home the next day.”

“London is much greater in size. However, even Worcester
has its slums, pockets where the poor live in the greatest privation and
debauchery. Such areas in London beggar the imagination. Even in the fashionable
parts of town, you could not wander freely as you do here. A young woman alone
is subject to indignities and danger.”

They approached the Cauldreigh woods, and Pandora took
exception to the dark, shying and resisting Libbetty’s attempts to control her.
Snorting, the mare stepped forward slowly.

Libbetty wondered why Lord Neil dwelt on the dangerous and
bleak aspects of life in town. “But you must find some things about London
enjoyable. Otherwise, why would you live there?”

“London is the seat of power for the whole nation, and if
one wishes to influence events, one must reside there.”

“So you live in London because you work for the government,
not because you derive any pleasure from society?”

“Mostly, but you must not suppose me to be a recluse. I do
socialize, go to routs and balls and plays during the season. However, I would
live in the country if I could.”

Silence fell between them, Libbetty trying to imagine his
life, and progressing to wondering if he truly meant what he said about living
in the country. Perhaps he might return to Peasebotham some day.

A small clearing gave access to the faint light of the
moon. Later she did not know if her horse saw or heard something, or if she
herself caught some flicker beneath her conscious awareness. Pandora whickered
and shied; light flashed from the shadows ahead of them, and an earth-shaking
boom shocked Libbetty.

The bay half-reared, then leaped forward as Libbetty reacted
by instinct, digging her heels into the mare’s flanks. The horse ran straight
ahead, jumping a bush and crashing into something alive that grunted with pain
and panic.

Libbetty tumbled into the bush, tangling with clawing
branches, a long metallic object and a hard body that struck at her. Pandora
screamed and kicked, and Libbetty curled herself into a ball, trying to avoid
hooves and blows.

Lord Neil was there. He grabbed the reins and led Pandora
away from the maelstrom, then plucked Libbetty out of the bush, his hands
gripping her arms with fierce strength. Instinctively she melded against him,
shaking, and felt his arms close tightly, possessively around her. His lips
descended over hers. As their mouths met, she sucked in her breath and threw
her arms around him, kissing him back wildly. The world swirled away, all sensations
reduced to the hot taste of him and the molten incandescence at the core of her
body.

At last he pulled away. “Are you hurt?” His voice shook.
His hands squeezed her arms painfully, but he loosed her to urgently brush his
hands over her. “You aren’t shot, are you?”

“No, I’m all right.” Libbetty trembled, hardly knowing if
in reaction to the terrifying events or to Lord Neil’s kiss. She leaned
against him, grateful for his warmth and the concern she heard in his voice.
“Did he take a shot at me?”

The assailant had lain stunned after his encounter with the
horse, but now she realized he was trying to crawl away. Lord Neil pounced on
him, tearing the musket from his grip. The gunman offered little resistance as
Lord Neil dragged him out into the clearing, where the moon revealed his face.

“That’s Owen Whitelow!” Libbetty exclaimed.

“What?” Neil slackened his hold in surprise, and the
assailant sat up, but Neil pushed him down again.

“Owen Whitelow. Mrs. Whitelow’s nephew—or her late
husband’s nephew. He worked on the vicarage repairs. I think he’s White.”
Elizabeth stood behind him, peering at Owen over his shoulder. The shakiness
in her voice revived the sick wave of terror that had washed over Neil when he
thought she had been shot.

Rage swamped the terror. His fists clenched with the urge
to fasten around the younger man’s throat. Controlling his impulse, he hauled
Whitelow up, twisting his arm behind him.

“Ow!” said the gunman. “Be careful! I am bruised all over from
that savage of a horse.”

“Tell me why you tried to kill Miss Bishop, or you’ll have
worse than a few bruises.”

“I didn’t try to kill Miss Bishop.”

“No doubt you were shooting at pigeons.” Neil applied more
pressure to the arm, and the younger man cried out.

Elizabeth gasped, “He must have thought I was Lord
Cauldreigh. I rode his horse, and I have his cloak.”

“You say he worked on the vicarage repairs?”

“Yes. Mumms said there was a man named White on the crew.”

“He was the man on the roof?”

Elizabeth stepped closer to Neil, grabbing hold of his arm.
“He must be the one who has made all the attempts. But I can’t understand why
he should want to harm Lord Cauldreigh.”

Staring at Whitelow, Neil demanded, “What do you have
against Cauldreigh?”

Owen did not answer, but regarded Neil sullenly.

“You’ll answer that question for the magistrate.” Neil
pulled Whitelow’s arms forward, pinning the wrists together in front with one
hand. He whipped off his cravat, wrapped it tightly around the younger man’s
wrists, and searched Owen’s pockets, finding the pouch with powder and shot.

Neil looked at Elizabeth. “We must see you home, but I have
to ensure this miscreant is never able again to harm anyone.”

“I’ll walk,” she offered. “We aren’t far from my house.”

“I can’t let you go home unescorted. It’s full dark.” He
eyed the two horses grazing nearby. Picking up Whitelow’s musket, he hauled
Whitelow over to Pandora. “Mount.”

The would-be murderer managed to clamber up.

Neil pulled Pandora’s reins over her head as a lead rope.
He reloaded Whitelow’s gun, mounted his own horse and pulled Elizabeth up
behind him. She clung to him, her shivers apparent through their clothing. An
ice-cold wave swept through Neil at the renewed realization that he had almost
lost her. “Are you all right?” he asked. She murmured an indistinct
affirmative.

He could not almost lose her—she was not his. He must
remember this, despite the wondrous sensation of her clinging to his back.

He had thrown aside all his resolutions and kissed her
again. The desire that had roared through him rushed back at the memory of her
eager response. He pushed it aside ruthlessly. He would have to emphasize to
her that the kiss changed nothing.

“Why does the reckless Miss Bishop attire herself in men’s
clothing?” Whitelow drawled. “Was she doing something shocking? Eloping? Did
you catch her running away with your nephew? Not with the nephew—I saw that
tender moment. It was you. Has parson’s mousetrap caught you at last? No, I
think you had no plans to marry her, just to have some sport.” He snickered.

“Shut up! Don’t try to blacken Miss Bishop’s reputation.”

“I can hardly harm anybody’s reputation after I am hanged.”

“That’s for a jury to decide, but before that you have to
deal with me. If you value your skin, you won’t push further.” Neil waved the
musket at him.

Elizabeth said nothing. What did she think of the
exchange? Did she think he trifled with her? She might as well draw that
conclusion. For practical purposes it was true. Never mind that he was even
more caught than she—he could never tell her so.

They approached the back of the vicarage. “You may leave me
by the garden shed,” she said. “My clothes are there.”

The shed stood in darkness, shaded from the moonlight by a huge
oak. Neil halted the horses under the tree and helped Elizabeth down. He
hated to leave her alone after her ordeal, but if he stopped to help her, he
risked Whitelow’s escape.

No lights showed on the ground floor and only a dim glow in
a first floor hall window. “Will you be safe?”

“Owen Whitelow is the only danger. If he doesn’t escape, I
shall be fine.” She faded into the shadow of the shed.

Neil tugged on the reins and turned his horse. “I advise
you to make no attempt to escape. I am a fair shot, and I can see you well
enough in the moonlight.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“To The Castle.” Disinclined for further conversation, he
set Camisard to a trot. They rode silently through the woods.

At length Whitelow asked, “What do you plan to do—imprison
me in the dungeons?”

“I will notify Mr. Hogwood. He will take you in charge and
place you in jail in Peasebotham—for now at least.”

Why should Maude Rose wish to kill Trevor? The attempts
must be laid at her door. Could she hate the Coltons enough to kill her
lover’s son? A thought struck Neil like a blow. Good God, how old was
Whitelow? He could not tell in the dark, but the boy must be around
nineteen—the right age for Tipton’s son.

They came to the archway that led into the courtyard and
rode to the stable. Light from lanterns hung at each side of the double doors
illuminated the yard.

Neil called to his chief groom, who came running, along with
two stable hands. Neil hauled Whitelow down from the horse, grabbed his collar
and held his face to the light. He could not be sure, but the young man had a
certain look, very like Tipton.

“Woodbridge, take this culprit in charge. He has made all
the attempts on Lord Cauldreigh’s life.”

The men glanced at each other and at the horses. Woodbridge
said, “That’s the Master’s horse.”

“Yes, but Trevor is unharmed. He will come home later. He
took Captain from the stable for a friend to ride this evening?”

The head groom nodded.

“Captain cast a shoe. It will take Trevor some time to walk
him home. Bring this criminal in and lock him in Mrs. Browning’s room. She
may bring him something to eat and drink if he wishes, but keep a guard on him
to make sure he doesn’t escape.”

Neil handed the gun to an under-groom and strode to the
house. “Woodbridge has a prisoner. You might help in securing him,” he said
to Salton. “Bring me a fresh bottle of brandy, and send Lord Cauldreigh to me
as soon as he arrives home.”

In the library, he paced and waited for Trevor. He had a
right to be consulted. If Whitelow is his half-brother…

Remembering the heart-stopping moment when he believed
Elizabeth had been shot, he still shook with murderous rage. Probably her
quick thinking had saved her again—and saved Trevor as well. If she hadn’t run
the horse over Whitelow, he might have escaped to make another attempt—one that
succeeded.

A footman arrived and set a brandy decanter on the side
table next to Neil’s favorite leather armchair. He lingered, as if curious
about the events of the evening, but Neil said, “You may go,” and the footman
bowed himself out.

If only Neil had not been forced to deal with Whitelow, he
could have comforted Elizabeth. He had wanted to keep holding her, to reassure
himself she was safe…but he could not. He had vowed to leave her free, to
relinquish his own happiness and allow her to marry a man with an untarnished
reputation…

Perhaps he could now forgo his decision, as the true culprit
was caught. His primary worry was past—the fear that, despite his attempts to
protect Trevor, the assassin would succeed, leaving Neil to carry the blame.
He could never have allowed someone he loved to bear that stain along with
him.

He would be free from suspicion of evil intent toward his
nephew. No, the suspicion had existed before anyone tried to kill Trevor.
Nothing could restore his character, and she was too young to truly know her
heart.

Would Trevor wish the scandal of a trial if Whitelow were
his half-brother? Without the conviction of the actual assailant, he could not
clear his name. Should Whitelow be handed over to Squire Hogwood and charged
with attempted murder? He poured a measure of brandy into the snifter and
sipped it.

If Whitelow’s crimes came to trial, Elizabeth would have to
testify, and reveal her adventure that evening. It would ruin her. He could
protect her by marrying her, but, however tempting that solution, it negated
his efforts to ensure her free choice.

If he could not keep Trevor safe any other way, there was no
alternative.

He must also consider Whitelow. Neil jumped up and stalked
about the room again. Trevor’s brother, or half-brother—his own
nephew—according to his theory. Why had Maude not contacted them? Did she
think he would not have helped them? He must get Maude here and question her
as well.

He could not forgive Maude Rose and Tipton. Their
selfishness had ruined several lives. Both Tipton’s wife and Neil’s father had
given up on life and died too soon. Trevor suffered the pain of abandonment,
and Neil’s undeserved reputation for callousness dated from that time.

However, Owen was innocent of his parents’ sins—at least
until he had bent on murder to redress whatever wrongs he had suffered. How
deeply did young Whitelow owe his actions to Maude’s influence? Was the boy
completely unredeemable? Could he really be as inept as he seemed in several
murder attempts? Or had he not given his whole heart to his endeavors?

Neil flung himself into his chair and drank the remainder of
the brandy in his glass. He could not gamble Trevor’s life on the hope he
could persuade Whitelow to give up his purpose.

*

Left alone at the garden shed, Libbetty’s shakes came back.
She relived it all: the flash and crashing noise of gunpowder; the disturbance
in the air as the bullet shot past her; the sulphurous scent of gunpowder; the
feel of the horse surging forward to her signal; its screams and those from
Owen; her pain—from falling, the scratchy branches, and the blows from Owen and
the horse’s kicks—all jumbled in her mind as one horrendous impression.

She gritted her teeth and forced her aching limbs to move,
shed her male attire and don her dress. Slowly her body warmed, easing the
chill of realizing how close she had come to death.

Lord Neil was innocent of the attempts on Cauldreigh’s
life. She had known it in her heart, but allowed her doubts entry. She wished
she had thought to apologize for those doubts, to blurt out her love for him.
No, she could not say such a thing. He would be embarrassed, would have to
think of an answer to negate her declaration. He was leaving soon, and she
must let him go without any awkwardness between them.

Did the kiss mean anything to him? He had kissed her
before. Was there hope? No, she must not think that. Lord Neil had kissed
many women. She must go on with her life and not expect he would find a kiss
as shattering as it had been to her.

What did she look like? She had left a comb and hairpins,
and a broken bit of mirror in the shed with her clothes, but she had no lantern
to see by. She ran the comb through her hair and inserted pins anyhow,
managing to secure it. She could only hope her luck held and that her
appearance would pass muster or that she would make it to the sanctuary of her
room unseen.

The back door was locked, but she and Tom had foreseen this
contingency and armed themselves with the housekeeper’s extra key, kept on a
hook in the pantry.

Letting herself in, she stole down the hall and upstairs.
She had nearly reached the chamber she shared with her sisters, when Mrs.
Berkfield rushed out of her parents’ room.

“Oh, Miss Libbetty, where have you been?” the distraught
woman moaned. “Your mother’s about to give birth, and your father’s gone to
see a parishioner. I don’t know what to do.”

“She can’t be,” gasped Libbetty. “The baby is to be born
next month. It’s too early.”

“Early or not, she’s in childbed,” snapped Mrs. Berkfield.

“We must send for Mrs. Crockett.”

“She’s gone to Evesham to attend her daughter’s lying-in.”

“Then we must have Dr. Hayes come. Where is Cranshaw?”

“I sent him to bring Mr. Bishop home.”

“Oh dear. In that case, Floss must go after the doctor.
Stay with Mama and I’ll go tell her.”

“I can’t stay with your mother.” The cook’s white face
proclaimed her ready to swoon. “And Floss has gone to bed.”

“All right, go wake Floss. Then come and attend me. I
don’t know what to do, either.”

Opening the door to her parents’ bedchamber, Libbetty paused
to gather her courage. Her mother lay on the bed, arched in a paroxysm, while
low, guttural sounds tore from her throat. Libbetty forced her body forward to
the bedside.

As Mrs. Bishop’s body relaxed, she noticed Libbetty. “This
is not a fit place for you,” she said, her usually neatly pinned hair tangled
and damp, her face sweat-bedewed.

Libbetty stroked her mother’s forehead, smoothing her hair.
“There isn’t anyone but me right now, Mama. We have sent for Dr. Hayes. Tell
me what to do until he gets here.”

“There’s no time. The baby is coming now. Ahhh!” Another
pang clutched at her as she spoke. It seemed to go on and on, and Mrs. Bishop
gasped, “You must go there and catch the baby,” waving a hand toward the foot
of the bed.

Libbetty pulled back the blanket, and, as her mother’s
swollen belly clenched, she could see the dark head emerging between her legs.
The heaving body paused and gathered itself for a final thrust. Then the baby
slithered out onto the bed with a gush of blood and fluid that stained the
sheet.