Miss Mischief - A Regency Romance (4 page)

‘What a wise woman you are,’ he said fondly, turning to give his parent a breathtaking hug.

‘I’m not sure about that,’ she said wryly, straightening her cap and eyeing him with mock severity. ‘Only stay out of trouble, my lad and remember you’re a gentleman if you please. I might wish that you had a valet -’

‘I cannot
afford
a valet.’

‘ – but I suppose you will do well enough by yourself.’

‘Which direction do you think I should head in?’ he said musingly.

‘That, my dearest son, is entirely up to you!’

Chapter Two

As it turned out, there was plenty of time for his letters to reach his family, as after nine weeks, he still hadn’t turned his mount’s nose for home. On the contrary, he had been enjoying his journey so much that he was currently in the county of Yorkshire, a place he’d had little reason to visit before but was quite glad to introduce himself to now.

This far north there were still pockets of snow laying in dips and dells that the sun did not reach but by the beginning of April, spring had finally decided to put in a proper appearance and flowers seemed to have burst into life in every field and hedgerow, softening a landscape that was largely wild and untrammeled. Yorkshire, he could not help but feel, was a wonderful discovery.

He had spent most nights in inns along the way, mostly respectable places where he could get a decent stable for his big roan gelding, Hermes. Once or twice, since the weather had improved he had found a dry barn to sleep in if nothing else had presented itself by evening, paying the farmer for his trouble and adding extra if he could obtain some food for his supper. All in all it had been a delightful nine weeks and he found that he was in no real hurry to return to the conundrum of what to do with himself. Whilst he wandered no decisions had to be made and there was something essentially liberating about going wherever he would, with nothing to do other than discover what was around the next bend in the road. His closest companion had been his horse and the two of them had definitely developed a bond over the past weeks and, if Hermes
did
consider much of Marcus’ conversation to be tedious at times, he was far too well bred to mention it.

He had been contemplating a trip to York but had no real desire to immerse himself in a large town just yet. Instead he turned towards the sea and had been making his way steadily towards the coast for two days. A signpost had informed him that Driffield lay some way ahead and he supposed he might stop there if he hadn’t sighted water by nightfall. He knew he’d have to face the bustle of a large town sometime; he wanted several new shirts and a new pair of breeches would not go astray. Traveling for such a long time had not been kind to his meager wardrobe and he knew he would soon require other personal items he might not find in a smaller village. Driffield was a sensible, if unappealing, destination.

Millie would love all this
, he reflected, surveying the rolling expanse of downs that stretched out before him. He had been approaching a sizeable forest and it still lay ahead but before it was a vast sweep of open sky and a weald in shades of grey and green and brown. Such a wonderful vista felt wonderfully liberating and Marcus knew Millie would have felt that same wistful pang that pierced him. She had asked if she could go with him and he had hated to say no, despite the fact that the open road was no place for a gently bred girl just turned fourteen, even if that girl had a heart as staunch as his youngest sister. Naturally their mother had vetoed the request, but Marcus suspected that Millie would have done far better than most when facing the discomforts of the road, men included.

If nothing else, the past few weeks had certainly toughened him up. He did not ride all the time but elected to walk for some miles every day, the better to exercise the muscles in his damaged leg. He’d half expected his body to object to such treatment but instead, days of riding and walking seemed to have a beneficial effect, especially when he took the time to stretch out the muscle and now he barely noticed any pain and his limp had virtually disappeared. He certainly hadn’t suffered on the journey, although sometimes it had been damned unpleasant, the weather turning on every imaginable mood the better to test him. Instead of finding the whole thing daunting, it had been exhilarating, even when it had been wretchedly cold.

Still, he couldn’t stay away forever. He knew that perfectly well. While he might not have an estate to go back to he understood that his mother and sisters would be awaiting his return anxiously, still convinced that he was suffering from his experiences in France. The idea had given him pause when he’d considered it. Was he still suffering? When he had returned he had been plagued by nightmares, caught up in the cries of the fallen and the high-pitched screams of terror from the horses on the battlefield. Battle had been in every way hellish and he knew that he was not the only man who suffered ill-effects afterwards. But since he had been traveling the dreams had not come. Perhaps it was because he was so tired from a day in the saddle, but the moment he set his head down at night he slept, deeply and – it seemed – dreamlessly. Not that his family could know that. He had tried to alleviate whatever worries they might have by writing about amusing incidents that befell him along the road and could only hope that they would tolerate his absence for a little while yet.

Besides, he had a return date in mind that he knew he would adhere to. Audrey’s birthday was at the end of May and he would not miss that. He had missed enough of them already. It seemed likely he would have to travel to London to celebrate it, for the preparations for the Season would be well underway. But there was plenty of time left to him before he must turn his mount’s head for home. Perhaps, he thought wryly, he had been making much ado about something that did not signify in the least and everything would fall into place when he returned. So he was a lord without anything to lord it over. It wasn’t as if he were unique. England was full of impecunious lords without a bean to bless themselves. Their tailors, he reflected, must be very forgiving.

When hunger pangs hit at around midday he decided to stop and assuage them with some of the sandwiches he’d had made up before he’d left
The Black Bull
, an agreeable inn he had given his patronage to the night before. Dismounting, he led Hermes to a grassy patch and let the roan graze while he perched on a rock and enjoyed the tentative warmth of the sun on his face. It was a beautiful day, one of the nicest he had experienced so far and he was looking forward to more as the weather improved.

‘Perhaps I could become a wandering bard,’ he mused. ‘What a pity I’m so cursed hopeless at all things literary and musical. I wonder, Hermes, is it too late for me to take up the lute?’ Naturally, his horse treated this with the contempt it deserved.

Unwrapping his sandwiches, he took a bite, relishing the strong cheese and tart pickle that the area was well known for (according to the landlord, anyway) and decided that, generally speaking, life was remarkably good. His mother had been quite right. All he’d needed was some space to clear his thoughts, something the constant distractions of travel provided very well. Rising to his feet, he dusted the crumbs off himself and called to his horse.

‘Come along then. Much more of that grass and you’ll start to look like a barrel.’ An ill deserved observation, as Hermes was the picture of svelte refinement. He flicked his ears forward and walked across to Marcus placidly. ‘What a good natured fellow you are, my friend,’ he observed cheerfully, swinging himself up into the saddle. ‘I have no idea where Harry found you but you’re worth your weight in gold. Happily, my brother-in-law has a great deal more of it than I have, bless him.’

They set off again. He had not gone but a mile and had entered the forest they had been approaching for some time. It was a pretty place, and branches of ash and alder arched over the road ahead. Not half a mile in, the peace and quiet was broken with the sound of raised voices. One voice, and the words that were uttered, was perfectly audible.

‘How
dare
you!’

A woman’s voice, sharp with fury. Marcus pulled Hermes to a halt and cocked his head to listen. He heard a lower rumble of a male voice, too indistinct to make out clearly but there was no doubt the accents were far from refined.

‘Now what do we have here?’ he muttered and, turning his horse’s head, he headed off the road and into the trees, picking his way forward cautiously as he followed the sound of voices to the source. Sure enough, a clearing opened up some little way ahead for he could see where the trees thinned, admitting more sunlight into a glade of sorts. Marcus dismounted and tied Hermes’ reigns to a branch before stepping cautiously forward. The conversation was perfectly audible now and he thought there might be a reason to take it slowly.

‘All you got ta do is give us yer pretties, like,’ a low, gruff voice said, sounding slightly exasperated.

Marcus peered ahead and saw a young female mounted on a sorrel mare that was prancing nervously from foot to foot. The girl was very young, by the look of it, and remarkably lovely, a fact that was in no way disguised by the expression on her face. She was regarding the two men confronting her with scowling disdain. Even from where he stood he could clearly see it
was
disdain, not fear.

‘What pretties might they be?’ she demanded impatiently. ‘In case you have missed something, I haven’t got any valuables. I am riding, you great lummox! I do not usually wear the family jewels on a ride.’

This appeared to be entirely true for, while the girl looked very smart in her riding habit, she was certainly not hung about with glittering gems. Still, Marcus was well aware that footpads, even country footpads he presumed, would want to walk away with something. He could only see the back of both men but neither appeared to be particularly prepossessing, being squat and scruffy. Their tricorne hats were pushed forward to better conceal their faces and from behind he could see that mufflers had been tied around their chins. He assumed they were holding guns or some kind of weapon or surely the exasperated young chit they were trying to rob would have ridden right over them. She looked as though she might be inclined to do so anyway.

Under the circumstances, he thought it might be best to intervene immediately.

Bending, he picked up a stick and moved forward quietly. Happily, his quarry’s attention was all for the female before him and, even though her eyes opened a little wider at the sight of him, he managed to thrust the stick hard into the crook of the man’s back while his left arm shot out to circle the villain’s neck. The man struggled briefly at this sudden change of circumstances before the situation caught up with him properly.

‘Hold very still or I will blow a hole through your guts,’ Marcus said amiably. The man held very still. His companion had swung around and was trying to access this new development, clearly something of a struggle as there wasn’t a great deal of intelligence in what could be seen of the fellow’s beady dark eyes. They peered from beneath the tricorne and he took an uncertain step forward.

‘Hold hard there,’ Marcus said easily, relieved to see that the second man possessed nothing more than a cudgel. ‘Or your friend is dead.’

When the fellow took another uncertain step forward, his companion wheezed a protest. ‘Stay there, you fool!’

‘But Jacob -’

‘Shut it!’

A glance over the man’s shoulder assured Marcus that he was armed and he instructed the fellow to throw his weapon on the ground. Jacob did so with alacrity. He was really quite obliging for he did not struggle in the least. Marcus, having satisfied himself that was all the weapons the man was carrying, withdrew his arm and pushed the man forcefully at his companion. They collided together heavily and, in that moment, Marcus stooped and picked up the weapon, leveling it at both men.

There came a small pause. The girl had remained silent during this interchange, which Marcus considered a mercy. He didn’t want any distractions. The two men, straightening, turned to look at him and he saw the fellow he had disarmed give a start of surprise.

‘’ang on! You ain’t -’

‘Got a gun? I do now.’ He waved the pistol at them gently.

There came a new sound, that of a horse approaching and a voice cried out, ‘What is going on here! Miss Claybourn, are you all right?’

Marcus arched an eyebrow at this new arrival. Honestly, this forest appeared to be overflowing with people. He did not take his eyes off the two men, however, who were looking decidedly uneasy. They had shared a glance and were now looking past Marcus nervously.

‘Hugo!’ the girl on the horse exclaimed. ‘What are
you
doing here?’

‘Well I was riding, of course and I… I… But what is going
on here?’

It was, Marcus surmised, the voice of a young gentleman. He sounded quite disconcerted but that seemed only reasonable under the circumstances.

‘These two creatures were intent on robbing me,’ the girl – Miss Claybourn – said, her light, rather musical voice expressing her vexation. ‘But it seems the situation is under control now, thanks to this gentleman.’

Marcus heard the sound of hooves coming closer. The sorrel the girl was riding, clearly a high-spirited creature, danced uneasily at this new intrusion. Not unnaturally, for the newcomer rather blundered in. Marcus glanced over quickly and was dismayed by what he saw. The new arrival was seated on a grey stallion that looked altogether to be too much horse for him. ‘Hugo’ was young, well bred and, if the flush in his cheeks was anything to go by, almost as highly excitable as the horse that he rode.