Too Dangerous For a Lady (9 page)

M
ark dropped the pistol and leapt out of the carriage, leaving Braydon to deal with his panicked horses. The job horse was calmer, but it was snorting and stamping too close to Hermione. He scooped her up and carried her to safety. A quick check assured him she'd merely fainted. As well if she didn't see any of this.

“I need to get her away.”

“Yes. I'll drive her. . . .” Perhaps Mark's total rejection showed. “Can you drive this?”

“Just about.”

Braydon winced, but he turned the curricle and then surrendered his place and helped Mark get into the seat and settle Hermione at his side, in his arm.

“Apologies,” Mark said. “Can't let her out of my sight yet.” He couldn't even make complete sentences. He'd almost lost her. Almost seen her killed before his eyes. Until that moment he'd not realized . . .

“Quite all right,” Braydon said. “I'll take care of things here.”

She was beginning to stir. “You're safe,” Mark said to her. “I'll get you back to your family.”

He gave the horses the command to go. Still fidgety, and unhappy with a tyro on the ribbons, they were slow to settle to their pace, but then they were on their way. He kept them to a walk.

Hermione was coming alert. “Where . . . ? Who are you?”

“Mark Thayne. I have you safe.”

His words seemed to act as well as smelling salts.

“You!
You!
” she spluttered.
“Get away, you!”
She pushed at him and almost toppled herself out of the seat. He dragged her back one-handed, trying to settle the horses again.

“Let go of me!”

“You want to kill yourself?” He had to release her to control the beasts.

“I want to kill you! Let me down immediately!”

“I'm taking you back to your family. They're frantic. Calm down, you idiots!”

“What?
What?
You call me an
idiot
?”

“Not you. The horses. You calm down, too, or we'll overturn.”

She went silent, which would do for now, but he could feel her seething animosity and wanted to laugh like a maniac. He'd just realized he was in love with this woman, that the seeds of insanity had been there for six years, and she wanted to kill him.

He managed to relax his hands and the horses settled back into their steady pace, but the occasional tossed head told him they weren't pleased.

“I'm sorry,” he said to them.

“Sorry!”
At least she managed not to screech it. “I wish I could make you sorry, you . . . you wretch, you idiot, you
cur
.”

“Guilty on all counts.”

“Is an admission supposed to make it right?” She dragged the letter out of a pocket and tossed it in his lap. “Take it. Take it and begone. I hope never to set eyes on you again.” She folded her arms and stared ahead.

He gave her a few moments to settle and then asked, “What will you tell your family?”

“The truth.”

“That you allowed me to spend the night in your room, where your sister's children were sleeping? Then accepted a dangerous package, which brought a villain down upon them?”

If a gaze could sear, hers would have.

“I'm not blaming you, but your family will. I have a suggestion.”

“I'm done with you and all your machinations, sir. I could have been killed. He wanted to . . .” She began to shiver, so he put his arm around her again. She tensed, but didn't fight free.

“You're safe now. I promise. I have the letter, so no one has reason to attack you. We'll soon be back at your coach and I'm sure you don't want to upset your family more than necessary, especially the children.”

“Wretch,” she muttered, but accepted it. “What can I say? That a complete stranger suddenly ran mad?”

“Yes.”

She pulled free to stare at him. “
That
is your brilliant suggestion?”

“We don't have time to bicker. You are mystified. I tell your family there've been previous incidents of a madman attacking women on this road. My friend will corroborate if necessary.”

“You had it all worked out? You
expected
this?”

“I've come up with the story on the instant, but it'll work if you do your part.”

“What of the brute? Didn't you shoot him?”

“Winged him,” he lied. He reached to touch her and she flinched away.

“Don't!”

“Your bonnet is awry and somewhat damaged.”

“If so, it's all your fault.” She untied the ribbons and took it off. At the sight of the crumpled brim, tears started. She
sniffed and wiped them with the ribbons. “Take me back to my family. I'll not contest your clever lies.”

Another bend brought the coach into sight.

*   *   *

“Thank God!” William exclaimed, running toward them and helping Hermione down. He pulled her into his arms. “There was nothing I could do! No horse free to pursue!”

Polly and the children were staring out at her through a window in the coach.

“Of course not,” Hermione said. “Of course not.”

“Then the curricle came by and set off in pursuit. My thanks to you,” he said to Thayne, “and to your master.” He looked around for Braydon.

“'E 'as charge of the madman, zur,” Thayne said in what Hermione thought an overdone and peculiar accent.

“Madman?” Polly asked, rushing out of the carriage. “Are you all right, dearest? Oh, your poor bonnet!”

And my poor back and chest and nerves.
But Hermione tried to make light of it. “Nothing but a few bruises.”

“Madman?” William demanded.

“Aye, zur. 'E's been reported 'ereabouts in the past weeks, zur, attacking women. Never caught afore.”

“Then it's a blessing that he has been now!” Polly exclaimed.

“Indeed,” William said, “but I fear this will delay us, my dear.”

“Delay us?”

“We'll be required to give evidence to the magistrates, and possibly to speak at the trial.”

“No!” Polly looked at Thayne as if he might be able to help. “We are on an urgent journey. To a deathbed!”

Thayne scratched his nose. “Well, then, ma'am, 'appen you could leave it with us. I reckon if we could give the magistrates a means of contacting you, zur, that'd likely be enough, there 'aving been other cases, see?”

It seemed odd to Hermione, but William grasped at it.

“Good man. Good man. We're traveling to Tranmere.” He produced a card, and wrote their destination on the back. “Thank your master for me.”

“I will, zur.” Thayne touched his hat and turned the carriage. Not without difficulty, Hermione was pleased to see. Then she realized that meant he was no true groom. What was he other than a bundle of lies and danger?

“Why are you glaring after him?” Polly asked. “Did he do something wrong?”

I could give a sermon on the subject.
But she said, “Of course not. I'm still all ajangle. It was frightening for a while.”

“For a
while
? Oh, you! Terrifying, more like. We didn't know what to do. Oh, William, we don't have the gentleman's name!”

“So we don't. I would have wanted to write our thanks. A true Good Samaritan.”

Hermione's teeth clenched, but perhaps Thayne's “master” was an innocent party. Her memory was fuzzy, but full of horrors.

The ride. The violence. That man.

Take the papers, break your neck.

The hand around her neck.

The thing flying at her.

The shot.

The fall.

“Come back in the coach, where it's safe,” Polly urged, arm around her. “We'll try to mend your hat.”

She had the whole world to mend, but Hermione was happy to climb inside the coach and sit down. In fact her legs only just held up.

Take the papers. Break your neck.

Take the papers. Break your neck.

She realized the boys were staring at her, wide-eyed and anxious, so she tried a smile. “Quite an adventure.”

They didn't seem convinced.

For once, Polly was the sensible one. “A bad man tried to steal Aunt Hermione, dear ones, but a good man brought her back and all's well now. Papa will soon have the coach mended and we can be on our way to Great-uncle Peake's.”

“I want to go home,” Billy said, lips wobbling.

Roger nodded, thumb in mouth.

Hermione was in complete agreement.

The brute was wounded, but how badly? What if he escaped and came after her again?
Take the papers. Break your neck.

Hurry,
she thought at William and the coachman. If they were moving, she'd feel less like a tethered goat, and if they could reach Great-uncle Peake's house tonight, she'd bless having four strong walls around her.

*   *   *

Mark headed back to Braydon, driving by a white-wigged clergyman on a sturdy gray horse. The clergyman shot him a look stern enough to make any conscience twitch, but the condemnation was probably only for the fancy curricle and livery.

He found Braydon standing by the stolid job horse, which was cropping the grass.

“Where's Nathan?” Mark asked.

“In the ditch for now. I heard someone coming, so rolled him in there, then pretended to be getting a stone out of Zeno's hoof.”

“A suitable name. The beast does seem to be blessed with a stoical disposition.”

“What are we going to do with the body?”

“Lady Hermione's party will be passing this way soon, and someone else could come upon us. Let's get him into the curricle.”

“Over the horse might be better.”

“Too visible. Whatever we do with him, we don't want to be connected.”

Hooves and the jingle of a harness gave warning, and when a private coach passed by Mark was mounted on the horse and Braydon was back in the curricle seat, apparently paused to point out some aspect of the scenery.

A curious man looked out, but the coach carried on without interruption.

“Damn your memorable rig,” Mark said. “We'll have to take the corpse a long way from here.”

Nathan Boothroyd's muscular build made hoisting his deadweight out of the ditch and into the well of the curricle seat a struggle for two strong men, but eventually he was in place with the travel rug over him. Braydon took his seat, Mark mounted the horse, and they set off farther into the Wirral Peninsula. Mark looked for a side lane that would conceal them until Hermione's carriage had passed.

How was she? It had been painful to leave her in such distress, even in the loving care of her family, but she'd reviled him, and with cause.

She never wanted to see him again. With cause.

Despite the pain, it would be better so. He'd lived apart from his old life for three years, and only see what happened when he weakened. Hermione had almost been killed and Braydon was implicated in a suspicious death.

A gig overtook them, driven too fast by a young man who was so enraptured by the splendid curricle and horses that he almost ended up in the ditch. Someone else who'd remember them.

They passed some farm tracks that were too rutted and straight to serve, but then came to a side road that soon curved. The fingerpost was weathered into illegibility, but it didn't matter where it led as long as it took them out of sight. They turned into it and around the bend, where they pulled up. A sparse hedge and a couple of trees provided enough of a screen for them, but would allow a glimpse of the coach as it went by.

“What now?” Braydon asked, at ease with a corpse beneath his feet. “Dump him here?”

“Too close. When he's found, there'll be an inquest and the clergyman and the young whipster will remember your rig.”

“Water?” Braydon suggested. “We can't be far from the Mersey.”

“Difficult to lose a body without a boat, and we might be seen.”

“We don't have the means to bury him effectively.”

“No. He's going to have to be found by the road, victim of violent robbery, but not here. Close to the Chester road, where the culprit could have been anyone.”

“What about the lady and her party? Will they keep mum?”

“No one mentioned a pistol shot, but they must have heard it. But they were anxious to not be delayed. They're on their way to a deathbed, and with urgency.”

“So it will suit them to keep quiet.”

Mark took out the card. “Sir William Selby—probably a justice of the peace—Selby Hall, Yorkshire.” That must be where Hermione now lived, in penny-pinching dependency when she was made for so much more. He flipped it over. “En route to Riverview House, Tranmere.”

Braydon found a map book. “About eight miles from here. They may not learn of the crime at all.”

“Especially if it's connected to the Chester road, even further away.”

“Do we want him identified?” Braydon asked.

Mark considered it. “I'd rather his disappearance be a mystery to his employers for as long as possible.”

“An unidentified victim of violence could become an item in the newspapers,” Braydon warned.

“But only after a delay.”

Braydon climbed down, flipped back the rug, and
searched Nathan Boothroyd's pockets. “Some money, a garrote, no card case.”

Mark inspected the garrote with its fine cord and leather handles. “Unexpected sophistication. As for a card case, he wasn't the sort for social niceties.”

“Nothing to make identification easy.” Braydon checked further, finding a knife in a boot. He kept that, too. “Don't want him to look unusual. He might have been useful in the army.”

“He could follow orders.”

“Perhaps the blame lies with those who gave the orders.”

“It counts against them, but the orders didn't shape the Boothroyds' natures.”