The Stolen Bride (21 page)

When Sophie arrived at the small guest room, Mrs. Haven was up and dressed. In her pressed clothes, with her graying hair brushed under a neat lace-trimmed cap, she looked the picture of comfortable respectability. She was sitting by an open window watching the darkening sky and the growing wind but she turned with a smile as Sophie entered.

“How kind of you to come, Lady Sophie.” There was something bright about the woman’s expression for all it was framed in kindly goodwill. Unpleasantly bright. Sophie thought of the word
avid
or even
gleeful
. Well, why should the lady not be pleased to have her wits back and be set to go home?

Still, Sophie had to admit she couldn’t like Mrs. Haven. The woman made her feel uncomfortable but she fought that unreasonable attitude.

She took a seat close to the lady. “I am happy you are feeling well and have remembered yourself, Mrs. Haven.”

“Well, so am I, even though the Edith Haven I have remembered is not a happy woman. I was feeling such a burden on you all. I have felt like an interloper, and now I find I am. It is most peculiar. I cannot imagine what drove me here, unless it was that my dear husband and I came to public day here many years ago. It was a happier time.”

“You had the newspaper report of my marriage,” Sophie reminded her.

“Perhaps that is what put the idea into my mind.” The woman’s expression became solemn but there was still that glittering eagerness behind it, making Sophie uncomfortable. “I have heard sad news today, my dear,” Mrs. Haven said. “May I hope it is untrue?”

“No, it is not untrue,” said Sophie. “The Marquess of Chelmly has suffered an accident and is gravely ill.”

“The marquess!” exclaimed Mrs. Haven and that gleefulness disappeared. But the woman turned quickly to look out of the window and Sophie felt she could have been mistaken.

“To whom did you think I referred, ma’am?”

“Forgive me,” said the woman, looking back. Now she appeared truly grieved and Sophie told herself that her earlier reading of the woman’s countenance had been in error. “I had heard the injured man was the younger son, the one you are to marry.”

Sophie stared. “I would hardly be here talking to you if Lord Randal lay at death’s door, Mrs. Haven.”

“No, I suppose you wouldn’t,” said the woman distractedly and looked away again, raising a thin hand to her head. Sophie wondered whether the blow to her head had addled her wits. Or perhaps she had always been unbalanced. She felt a distinct urge to flee this room.

Perhaps it was the storm that had created such a disturbance of her nerves. It was coming close and the room had darkened beyond comfortable sight. A sudden gust of wind sent the curtains flapping to knock over a vase. Sophie ran to latch the window and picked up the ornament. Chipped. It would have to go into the target-practice box.

She remembered that carefree evening and felt tears running down her cheeks.

Rain began to splatter the glass. The wind found a gap in the frame and set up a moan.

Sophie blew her nose and made it the opportunity to wipe away the tears. She turned back to the business at hand. The mysterious Mrs. Haven. “Do you perhaps know the marquess, ma’am?” asked Sophie. “You seemed concerned.”

“No,” said the woman, who had grown more haggard and pale during the interlude. She was clutching at the locket she wore around her neck. “No, of course not. I am a merchant’s widow. I do not move in those circles.” A flash of lightning made her start. “Pray tell me, what happened to the poor man?”

Sophie decided it was best not to refer to the suspicious aspects of the affair. “He fell from his horse,” she said, “and struck his head.”

Mrs. Haven looked piercingly at Sophie. “He was perhaps setting his horse at a fence?”

“No,” said Sophie but she offered nothing more. Another, brighter flash of lightning lit the gloom, making the older woman’s eyes appear wide with emotion. Shock? Alarm? Fear?

“Oh dear, oh dear,” said Mrs. Haven. “Truly, in the midst of life are we all in death.” Thunder rumbled long and low, closer now to the Towers. “But if he is so ill, your wedding will now be postponed, dear.”

“No,” said Sophie, looking out as another spear of lightning illumined the dark sky. “Randal wishes it to go ahead on the appointed day but in a simpler manner.”

Mrs. Haven released the locket. “You cannot possibly agree to such a thing!”

The crack of thunder was so loud it made them both jump and Sophie rose to her feet, charged by the storm. “That is how he wishes it to be,” she said. If Chelmly were to die Randal would need her as never before. She would give her life to ease his path. A hasty, simple wedding was no price at all to pay.

No price at all, in fact, if it meant they were married next week instead of extending their painful waiting. Good heavens, she thought, I must have caught propriety from him to have even considered a delay. Thank goodness he still had retained the common sense to override her.

She watched another flash of lightning and felt her spirits lift a little. Despite everything, they would soon be joined. And Chelmly was young and strong. He would surely recover.

Sophie loved storms. Once she and Randal had been caught in one and they’d run back to Stenby through the streaming rain with lightning and thunder all around, laughing at danger...

Mrs. Haven appeared beside her and took her hand. “Oh, my poor child. Do you need refuge? Would you like to come for a visit to my home for a while?”

Sophie came back to the present and dragged her hand out of that dry grasp. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“Oh dear,” fluttered Mrs. Haven. “Please don’t be angry, Lady Sophie. You have seemed so unhappy about this marriage and now it is being forced with such unseemly haste...” She broke off as a ground-shaking rumble of thunder went on and on.

What nonsense she was talking. Sophie had no intention of discussing her personal affairs further with this woman who was clearly unstable. Thank goodness Stenby would see the back of her tomorrow. She moved a few steps away and assumed the dignity of generations of Kyles. “Even if it was so, ma’am, I would hardly wish to run away with a stranger.”

“Of course not. Of course not. I just ...” The woman pressed bony fingers to her head. “Storms. I am afraid of storms. Draw the curtains please, my dear, lest the lightning come in!”

Sophie raised her brows at this unlikely notion but did as the woman asked. As soon as she did so, the storm seemed less a part of the atmosphere in the room and her earlier repugnance toward the woman appeared unreasonable.

Mrs. Haven resumed her seat. “Families are not always a comfort, Lady Sophie,” she said quietly. “As I know to my cost.”

Sophie softened. The woman obviously had suffered in her life and had recently been ill. “My family is all it should be, Mrs. Haven.”

“I am reassured then, my dear. As you know, I expect my people and my coach tomorrow. Could I ask that you take breakfast with me and bid me farewell? I have grown so fond of you while I have been here, as if you were the daughter I never had. Or is that too presumptuous, my lady?”

Faced with that, Sophie felt compelled to agree to see the woman off.

She was happy to escape, though, and find her favorite spot—a casement window in the old nursery of Stenby—from which to watch the passing of the storm. She opened the window wide, careless of what rain sprayed in and inhaled the cool, electrified air.

This turbulence was her element. Randal’s too. Where was he? Would he be watching the storm approaching the Towers, or would he still be drowning in problems, both great and small? She wished she was with him. Even delaying the wedding until its appointed day now seemed insupportable when they needed each other so.

Perhaps they should run away. All those people—the managers, the stewards—they could earn their keep for once and set him free. She and Randal could elope to Scotland, then run off abroad for a long honeymoon. They could forget the Duchy of Tyne ...

No matter how hard she tried she couldn’t make it work. Though they were games players, neither she nor Randal had missed the training in responsibility, the noblesse oblige. Before today there had been no obligations but now they were inescapable. Unless... until, she corrected firmly, Chelmly survived, the burden of the duchy was Randal’s to bear, and therefore hers.

It was for her to find ways to make the burden supportable for both of them. The storm began to lessen as it drifted west toward the Towers. Sophie remained at the window, chin on hand, making plans.

T
HE MEN worked hard all day, but by evening little had been achieved.

It had been discovered that there had been a stranger in the area recently. He had moved from village to village, claiming to be a servant looking for a house to lease for his master and mistress coming home from India. He had been the kind to spend time in the inns talking and had been interested in all the local goings-on. He’d shown no particular curiosity about the marquess or Tyne Towers, but he’d doubtless heard something about him as well as all the other local dignitaries. The man’s name had apparently been Squires but he had left the Three Bells at Setterby the day before and not been seen since.

The head groom, Mick Zoun, nervously volunteered the information to Randal that he’d struck up a friendship with the man and that Squires had been in the stables that morning.

“But that was long after the marquess rode out, milord,” he assured him. “Squires never showed any curiosity about him or anyone in particular. He looked over the horseflesh and shared a jug of ale, that’s all. Then he went on his way. In no hurry at all as far as I could see. I’m sure he could never have had anything to do with such a black deed.”

Still, Mr. Squires’s name and description were sent out along the roads throughout England. But, as Randal pointed out bitterly, if he was innocent and came forward nothing would have been achieved. If he was guilty the name was surely false, his appearance would have been disguised, and he would have slipped out of the area already and be lost to them.

“But why?” asked Randal of the men as they sat in the library eating a late supper. “If this Squires is our villain he came here days ago and coldly planned to attack my brother. Why?”

“Perhaps,” said Justin Delamere, with slight hesitation, “there is something about your brother you don’t know.”

“I’ve asked his secretary and his valet,” said Randal flatly. “You know what Madame Cornuel is supposed to have said, ‘No man is a hero to his valet.’ Well, I don’t know about hero but Chelmly is close to a saint. There’s nothing. No peccadillos, no shady dealings, no gaming, no women... As you have all found out the people hereabouts are suitably grateful for prosperity, a caring hand, and an open ear. For heaven’s sake,” he said, surging to his feet, “if someone was out to kill me it would make more sense.”

Through the open window there was a distant roll of thunder. The men all looked at one another.

“He was riding your horse,” said Marius at last.

Randal looked around. “Chelmly was mistaken for me?” There was an edge of disbelieving horror in his voice.

“What about that note, Randal?” said Verderan.

“What note?” asked David, instantly alert.

Somewhat reluctantly, Randal produced the letter and the second one he hadn’t even shown to Verderan. David pulled out the ones Sophie had received. They were all clearly in the same hand.

The earl leaned back thoughtfully. “He was riding your distinctive gray on the path you would take to get back to the Towers. Could Chelmly be expected to use that path today?”

“I don’t know,” said Randal. “It seems unlikely. He doesn’t ride a circuit or anything. I’d guess that when his horse cast a shoe he headed back to the Towers by the shortest route. When he passed Major where I had him tethered in the shade he decided to ask if he could borrow him. But for heaven’s sake. No one has any reason to attack me either.”

“These notes mean we have to consider it,” said David levelly. “There seems to be a connection to Sophie. Would anyone want to kill you just because you’re marrying her? No, that’s ridiculous. Have you made any enemies recently?”

“You should know,” said Randal with an edge, “that I’ve been on my best behavior for months.”

The earl didn’t react to the statement. “Before then?”

“Before then was the Season and I spent the quietest couple of months in London I’ve ever known.”

“Let’s go back further, then,” pursued his friend. “Have you injured anyone?”

“Physically?” snapped Randal. “There was that duel with Jessamy two years back but that was a silly business and I gave him the merest scratch. He doesn’t hold it against me. And I haven’t won anyone’s fortune off them, nor have I stolen any wives, or debauched any daughters. God, I think I’m almost as saintly as Chelmly,” he said, thrusting away from the table again. “I suppose that augurs well for the future.”

“Randal,” said Verderan firmly. “Don’t fall apart now.” He added lightly, “Perhaps our villain was really trying for me. I have enemies behind every bush.”

Randal responded with a slight laugh. “But no one with sight could mistake us whereas Chelmly and I are superficially alike.” His hand clenched and he pounded lightly against the back of a chair. “Without a motive, we’re not going to catch him, are we, so we’ll probably never know. And that,” he said turning sharply, “I find totally insupportable.”

“You’ve sent for a Runner,” said Justin. “The word is out. If Squires shows his face around these parts again he’ll be noticed.”

But it wasn’t very helpful and they all knew it. Randal picked up the letters and searched them again for clues, for hidden meanings. He threw them down in disgust.

He looked stretched tight, as if the slightest thing could snap him. Verderan took it upon himself to call for brandy with the express intention of getting his friend dead drunk.