Sattler, Veronica (16 page)

Death
was something he'd dealt with before. Slowly, his mind turned back to the time
when he was ten and he'd heard the news of his father's passing. He remembered
the sharp stab of pain he'd felt then, but also the almost simultaneous and
insistent need to subdue it. Yes, he thought, nodding at the memory. It had
been necessary—important somehow—that he will away his grief and remain strong
in the face of those around him. Part of this had to do with not succumbing to
any sort of emotional weakness—"womanish behavior," the duke would
have called it—but another part came as a result of forces he little understood
at the time and, in fact, still failed to comprehend. There had been sinister
undercurrents surrounding the time of his father's death, undercurrents he'd
felt with the sharply honed instincts of the child he was, a child allowed to
see much, yet express little.... Such was the order of things in his
grandfather's house.

Did
he want to pull out all those long-buried questions now and hold them up to the
light of day, examining the crosscurrents that, as a child, he'd not dared to
pursue? Or was he merely being maudlin, the victim of ghosts and phantoms of
fancy, perhaps as a means of getting in better touch with the emotions that now
threatened to elude him? If he forced himself to go back in time and release
the pent-up grief over his other losses, would this allow him to open this
latest dam that seemed to have been erected in his heart? Did he dare exhume
what he, perhaps with a child's unusual wisdom, had buried?

Suddenly
an image of an even earlier time in his childhood came to mind. In it he stood
in the shadows at the end of the hallway that led to his parents' bedchamber
and watched as two footmen came through the door carrying a portrait in a
heavy, gilded frame. It was a portrait of a woman with chestnut hair and soft
eyes... of
her....
He saw himself standing there, unnoticed, as a pair
of silent, bewildered tears coursed down his cheeks....
Damn!

With
a jerk, Brett raised his head and gave it a shake of impatience. What in hell
was the matter with him? He'd never, in recent memory anyway, allowed himself
any groping in such sentimental sludge! It was time he took hold of himself.
Rising, he was about to reach for the decanter of fine French brandy he kept on
hand—fine
smuggled
French brandy, he thought with a wry smile—when there
came an urgent knocking at his door.

"Yes?"

"Begging
yer pardon fer th' late hour, Yer Grace," came the reply, "but I must
'ave a word wi' ye!" The voice was old Henry's. What was
he
doing
here?

"Come
in then, man," Brett answered as he poured the brandy.

The
door opened, revealing the disheveled figure of his head groom. He looked half
dead on his feet, and Brett lowered the snifter he'd raised to his mouth.
"Good grief, man, what is it?"

Gasping,
Henry stumbled into the room. "I... be—be sorry t' be troublin' ye, Yer
Grace, but th' news—I—th' wee miss— she's run away!"

"The
wee—?"

"Th'
wee Miss Ashleigh, Yer Grace, she's
escaped!"

Brett
held the old man's eyes for one glaring moment, then downed the contents of his
snifter before setting it on a nearby table.

"When?"
he asked.

"Not
an hour after ye left, Yer Grace. Me missus—ah, Mrs. Busby and me—we thought
ye'd want t' know and—"

"Yes,
of course," Brett replied, not sure he wanted to know at all. He'd all but
forgotten the girl in the whirl of events surrounding his grandfather's death,
and now he wondered why he hadn't released her as she'd wished. It would have
been simple enough. With his grandfather dead, there was no longer anyone to
appease by making use of her. Yet, for some reason, when the question had come
from Higgins—instigated, he supposed by Hettie—as to what was to be done with
the girl, he'd given orders to detain her at Ravensford Hall.

Why
had he done that? And, more to the point now that he'd learned she'd escaped,
why was he troubled by it? Surely she meant less than nothing to him. And yet,
as this thought crossed his mind, he was seized immediately by an inexplicable
desire to find her and bring her back.

Briefly
his thoughts flickered to the morose sentiments that had been gripping him just
before Henry's appearance. No, he clearly wasn't ready to indulge in
that
again.
Perhaps what he really needed was a diversion. A lovely little raven-haired diversion
with deep blue eyes as big as saucers and a body that— "Henry, can you
tell me any more particulars about Miss Sinclair's—ah—escape?"

"Aye,
Yer Grace. She stole th' black filly ye brought over from Ireland last
year."

"Irish
Night?"

"Aye,"
said Henry with a tired grin. "Either she's crazy as a lune 'r she knows a
'ell of a lot about 'orseflesh!"

"But
that filly's not completely broken to saddle!"

Henry's
grin grew wider. "She didn't steal a
saddle,
Yer Grace."

Brett
groaned. "Are you telling me she took off on a half-green horse, riding
bareback?"

"Aye,
Yer Grace, an' th' missus be worried sick fer th' wee mite—ah—th' young miss, I
mean."

Suddenly
Brett's considerations took a new turn. Until now, he'd only concerned himself
with the return of a plaything—a term he had no trouble ascribing to the girl.
But now, quite unexpectedly, he began to imagine additional problems, problems
that had to do with the chit's safety. It was one thing to think abstractly of
her running away from him; it was quite another to imagine her lying bloody and
broken in a ditch somewhere as a result of being thrown from a half-wild horse
she'd been stupid enough to steal and chance riding!

Immediately
Brett was propelled into action. "Henry," he said, "do me one
small service before you go to take a well-deserved rest."

"Aye,
Yer Grace?"

"Send
Higgins to me, if you will, and tell him to hurry!"

As
Henry left to do his bidding, Brett laid out his course of action. From what
he'd been able to piece together, Ashleigh had been found in a first-class
brothel here in London. That piece of information would narrow down his search
somewhat, but not completely. Although he was reasonably sure she would have
headed back to where she'd come from, its location could be one of perhaps four
or five in the city. If he was to find her, he had to learn more. That is, he
added darkly, if she'd made it back at all.

Less
than an hour later Brett was in possession of a hastily written note from
Robert Adams, whom Higgins had caught at his apartments on St. James's. Noting
that the solicitor's directions to Hampton House required but a short drive, he
ordered his barouche brought around and took the reins himself.

* * * * *

Ashleigh
summoned what felt like the last remaining strength in her body and slid wearily
off the lathered back of the filly. Then she managed a rueful grin while
delivering a pat to the game little horse's withers.

"I'm
sorry I pushed you so hard, sweetheart. But I didn't do it to pay you back for
those two times you threw me, honestly, I didn't."

She
began walking the final hundred yards along St. James's toward Hampton House,
using this distance both to cool the filly down and to collect her thoughts
before she arrived. It had been a gruelling, yet satisfying, day. First, she'd
succeeded in escaping from Ravensford Hall without being detected—no small
feat. From the moment she'd lowered herself to the ground via some knotted
bedsheets, it had felt as if there were obstacles everywhere, from the
gardeners pruning hedges near the house, to the footmen and grooms lurking near
the paddock where she'd spied the lovely little black filly she'd borrowed.

Of
course, the filly had been pure luck. Never would she have dreamed of stumbling
upon such an animal, one that had clearly been bred for stamina and speed. It
had shown in every sleek, muscular line of her. Again a rueful grin worked its
way across Ashleigh's tired features. Of course, while her early childhood
acquaintance with horses had stood her in good stead for gauging the potential
the black horse had for making a speedy escape, it had fallen somewhat short in
preparing her to assess the extent of the filly's training.

"Leave
it to me to pick a half-green youngster!" she said aloud. At the sound,
the little horse's ears pricked forward and Ashleigh chuckled. "But we're
fast friends now, aren't we, sweetheart?" She smiled to herself as she
recalled the two spills she'd suffered at the outset of their ride. The first
had been entirely her own fault, for she'd failed to take proper stock of her mount
before settling down for some serious riding. "Always get to know your
animal before asking anything significant of it," Patrick had often told
her, but she'd been far too involved in fleeing to remember that basic
equestrian rule. Then, to make matters worse, after she'd climbed right back on
the filly with an I've-got-to-show-you-who's-in-charge attitude, she'd ridden
the horse about a mile farther before trying to take a low hedge—again, without
thinking! The animal had balked at the last instant and sent Ashleigh careening
over the hedge
sans
mount!

"It
was just lucky for me there was nice, soft, boggy ground where I landed,"
she said as her free hand reached back to rub the spot on her posterior that
had suffered the most from the fall.

Suddenly
Ashleigh's thoughts took a darker turn as she considered the word
lucky.
Hardly!
Here she was, returning to an uncertain future in the only place
she could call home, jobless, ravished and bedraggled. What would she tell them
when she got inside? That she had come upon a demonic madman who had used her
brutally without cause? That someone had made a horrible mistake that had cost
her her virginity and a great deal of additional misery? That she'd been hired
by a duke who was now dead and the one who had taken his place sought to make
her do a different kind of service?

As
her thoughts spun along these lines, she wondered if it wasn't she who had gone
mad. She knew little of men and their ways. Had she, unwittingly, done
something to provoke the outrageous behavior of Brett Westmont—now the ninth
duke of Ravensford? Suddenly she wasn't sure any longer of what to think about
all that had happened, or how to deal with it— much less explain it to those
who lived here at Hampton House. With great effort she choked back the sob that
threatened to break and raised her chin a resolute notch, thinking Megan would
approve of her courage, if not her experiences.... Megan... Yes, she was the
one to seek out. Megan would know what to do, tell her what to make of all that
had happened. Taking a deep breath, Ashleigh clucked to the little filly and
quickened her pace.

They
were a dozen yards from their destination now, and Ashleigh guided the horse
into the shadows of a nearby building as she saw a large, handsome carriage pull
to a stop before Madame's establishment. Placing her hand over the filly's
velvet nose to forestall any nickered greetings to the team of horses ahead of
them, she waited while a pair of elegantly attired bucks descended from the
carriage and were greeted by a liveried footman who quickly led them within.
She held her breath as the carriage then proceeded to pass within a few feet of
her and the filly before continuing down St. James's and out of sight.

Eyeing
the brightly lit windows of Hampton House, she decided, without wasting another
moment, to make for the narrow side drive that led to the stables. It was
Wednesday evening, and she'd hoped to arrive here undetected, owing to the fact
that since it was Almack's night, traffic would be slow—most of Madame's
patrons being among the hallowed few who were favored with access to that lofty
establishment—but it appeared not to be the case. Judging from the number of
lighted chambers, business tonight appeared brisk, and as if to confirm this,
another expensive-looking carriage drew to a halt before the house just as
Ashleigh succeeded in disappearing from view down the drive.

The
stables were immersed in shadows, and there appeared to be no one about, yet
Ashleigh gritted her teeth at the resounding clip-clop the filly's hooves made
on the cobblestones; to her ears it sounded like booming thunder, and she
imagined the whole house coming out to investigate the source.

Then,
suddenly, she heard a yelp and saw a flash of gray, and she was besieged by
Finn's wet and eager tongue as it covered every inch of her face in happy
welcome.

"Finn!
Oh, Finn, it's
you!
Oh, I've missed you so!" All at once the joy
she felt at seeing her beloved canine gave way to a wellspring of emotion, and
the floodgates broke. Great sobs racked Ashleigh's small frame as she threw her
arms around the shaggy neck and wept. How long she remained thus, she didn't
know, but it seemed as if every drop of emotion had been wrung from her body
when, an uncertain time later, she felt comforting arms surround her and looked
up to see a familiar face.

"Father
in Heaven, it's Ashleigh!" cried Megan. "Now, darlin', don't say a
word. It's Megan who's found ye, and everythin's goin' t' be all right,
colleen. Ye're home."