A Rake Reformed (A Gentleman of Worth Book 6) (2 page)

After that discussion the weather seemed to have taken a turn for the worse. It grew colder, damper, then colder again until a new blanket of snow covered their surroundings, making an unfamiliar landscape further unrecognizable. Freddie only hoped by staying on the main road they would come across someone who might be able to point them to the correct property. He had no expectations of signs directing one to Penshaw Manor.

The two traveled silently, together enduring the cold and rhythmic rocking, bumping, and dropping of the phaeton. Freddie was beginning to think Trevor was right. Now they were lost and, if they did not find some sort of shelter, would freeze to death.

This was the absolute worst idea he had ever had. What gave him the notion he should head north, to somewhere he’d never been, during winter? Maybe Freddie deserved this end after his nonstop, wastrel lifestyle of parties, women, drinking, and gambling. Trevor did not.

The sound of the horses’ hooves altered just slightly, accompanied by the unmistakable screech of the metal horseshoes sliding over ice. Instead of the crunch of frozen mud and snow, the wheels rolled upon something dense and hard.

The horses, in their panic, moved quicker, which was the wrong thing. The phaeton slid sideways. There was the sound of cracking and splintering wood. Freddie barely caught sight of Trevor—his wide-eyed expression of fright when he, too, realized that something was horribly wrong.

Freddie sailed through the air from the transport, as if everything around him moved in slow motion. He could do nothing about his hat tumbling from his head in an opposite direction. He stretched out his arm, reaching for it.

My hat . . .

He drew in an icy breath to shout out a warning when blackness enveloped him and ended his fleeting conscious thoughts.

Chapter Two

T
he cacophony of hooves woke Freddie. He opened his eyes to see white, all white around him. And it was cold. Bitterly cold. He managed to sit upright, bringing a fading blue sky into view. Freddie recalled he was in the country and to his left was the wreck of what used to be Sir Nicholas’s phaeton.

He glimpsed a pair of horses rearing as if performing in some sort of show. They were tethered together, their heads were held high with fright, steam shooting from their nostrils. The two horses, pulling against one another, broke completely free from the wreckage. The torn harness traces flew around in midair while the metal fittings jangled about to further frighten them. They bolted, racing away down the road with speed not seen from them during the entire journey.

There was nothing he could do. Freddie felt immobilized. Cold surrounded him, his arm felt stiff, his leg hurt, his back ached. Oh God, how his head throbbed!

“Trevor?” Freddie called out, his voice soft, hoarse from the recent trauma. “Trevor?” he said louder this time and made to launch to his feet to search for his friend. He stood, rather slowly, extricating himself from the bits of wreckage sitting atop the snow that partially buried him. He placed his hand on his right thigh. It was sore. Just strained, he imagined. Moving toward what remained of the phaeton, he kept an eye open for movement and called out, “Trev, where are you? Trevor?”

There was nothing; no response at all.

“Rutherford! Where are you?” Freddie shouted louder this time, his anxiety mounting. He would not be able to bear it if something happened to his friend. “You’d best not leave me out here by myself. You know I cannot manage alone.”

Pausing again to best hear a response, he turned his head slowly, taking in the landscape, and kept a careful notice of anything out of the ordinary.

“No, Dawlish, I think I’ve had more than enough to drink.” It had been Trevor’s voice, in barely a croak, but what he said didn’t make much sense. “I’ll be drunk as a lord and it’ll take me twice as long to walk home as it took me to arrive. But no matter, oh, all right, send the footman around with the bottle, what’s the harm of one more glass?”

Trevor stopped talking before Freddie could determine his friend’s exact location. Farther away from the phaeton’s wreckage than he would have expected, Freddie spotted a great disturbance in the surrounding smooth-fallen snow and hurried toward it. He rushed into snow so deep it came over the tops of his boots, turning into water when meeting his calves.

“Lawks, it’s cold in here.” Trevor moaned in his delirium. He lay faceup in the snow with one arm, his head, and part of his torso exposed. “Have them stoke the fire, will you?”

Freddie dropped onto his good knee and held his sore leg out to the side for balance, while half brushing, half digging into the snow until he uncovered his friend.

“Enough. Enough . . . have done, I say.” Trevor swiped at Freddie with his free arm and thrashed about a bit. “I’m awake. I’ll get up. Only dozed off for a bit ’cause I’m in
ma-
cups, that’s all.”

“We ain’t at Brooks, dash it,” Freddie replied, happy to see his companion unharmed, for the most part.

“Wot?” Trevor lifted his head and seemed to come around. Freddie slipped his arm around his friend and helped him to his feet. “What’s to do? I’m all right, I say.” Trevor winced a bit as he stood and put his hand to the top of his head. “Where’s
ma
-beaver?”

“I’ll find your hat in a bit. Are you hurt?” Freddie stepped away to take a proper look for himself.

Trevor took a couple steps on his own, grabbed his left side with his right arm and cried out. “That’s a bit sore but it’s nothing, really.” He stared at the phaeton now embedded in a mound of snow on one side of the road.

“Awww . . .” Trevor groaned, taking in the pile of broken wood and bent metal. “You’ve wrecked the thing.”

“I know.” Freddie did not lament the loss of the vehicle as much as the loss of their only means of transportation.

“Look at me, will you, Brent?” Trevor gestured to the deplorable state of his greatcoat, which hung open under both arms to his waist and had torn apart at the shoulders, never to be the same again. “I’m in ruin! Not fit to be seen by gentlefolk of any kind.”

“Who the bloody hell is going to care, much less see you, out here?” Freddie adjusted his own coat, which had been damaged as well. “We can’t stay here. Let’s get moving. It’s deathly cold and we’re losing the light.”

“We ain’t dressed for it, either.”

There was no doubt that every item of clothing they wore had shared the same unfortunate fate, but the survivors’ physical condition was yet to be determined. The moans and groans they emitted, the complaints of various body parts, continued as they moved about.

Trevor hobbled back to what was left of the phaeton, wincing with every other step. “Devil take it, I’d like to fetch
ma-
trunk but I best not get any closer. Don’t know how deep the snow is there.” He appeared quite worried on his side of the snowdrift.

“There’s nothing for it, we’ll have to fetch it later.” Freddie could count on Trevor’s uncommon good sense not to press the matter.

“I s’pose. So what are we to do now? Where are we to go?” Trevor sounded disheartened by this latest downturn to their previous lamentable situation.

“We continue on to Penshaw, of course.” Freddie couldn’t quite sound cheerful about his edict, but what else could they do?

“On foot? You’re mad!” No doubt it was Trevor’s
good sense
speaking once again.

Freddie could not voice an argument and as far as he was concerned their options were very few. He would be glad to hear any that his companion could offer. “What choice do we have?”

“None, I s’pose. We have absolutely no alternative but leg it the rest of the way.” The brilliant idea Freddie hoped Trevor would come up with never materialized. “Can’t imagine some farmer or some such coming down the road will stumble across us. Not in this weather.”

“We have no choice, I’m afraid.” Freddie stared in the direction from which they had come. The tracks of their wheels, where they had run off the road, cut deep into the snow.

“Say, look there! It’s your hat!” Trevor pointed off to one side.

Freddie spotted the dark, flat brim of a beaver half embedded in the snow. He rubbed his gloved hands together before lifting the beaver and shaking off the white stuff. “Now to find the other,” he remarked and made to set it on his head, where it slid down over his forehead and past his ears. “Trev, this is
your
hat.”

Trevor chuckled but it soon turned into a groan. “Hand it over, then.” He extended his arm but it did not stretch far from his body.

“You all right?” Freddie eyed his friend. Need he worry about Trevor’s condition?

“Just a bit sore, that’s all. Nothing that won’t work itself out.” He set his hat upon his head and straightened, working the stray kinks and knots from his neck and shoulders. “I’ll be fine. Give me your arm, will you?” Trevor reached out again. “Oh, look there. It’d be your hat.”

“Quite right.” Freddie retrieved the second hat with the same dexterity as the first and set it upon his head. “Now we’re ready to be off.” With Trevor’s arm upon his for balance, Freddie led the way down the path in the same direction that the horses had fled.

Not more than an hour had passed. Any hope Freddie might have had when they’d begun soon abated. With every passing minute, he grew more and more concerned for Trevor. Where Trevor had taken Freddie’s arm to steady him, Freddie now supported most of his friend’s weight.

Traveling by foot, Freddie saw many signs telling the severity of the cold. The drifts stood intimidatingly high on both sides of the road. Snow balanced on the arms of the shrubs and trees. Ice formed on the ends, adding weight to the burdened branches, bending them downward.

Drawing in the icy air made breathing painful; Freddie’s lungs burned. The benefit of the crisp weather gave them clear visibility. He wasn’t certain how long or how far they’d gone. The physical exertion did little to warm him. Trevor, who barely remained upright, wasn’t moving much. He hadn’t spoken during the last half hour. Freddie took this as a very bad sign and held on tight to his friend. He fervently hoped they would find refuge soon. Trevor needed warmth and time to mend.

They needed to go a bit farther, that’s all. Keep walking for only a little while longer. They could do it . . . 
he
could do it.

Freddie continued onward. Another half hour passed before Trevor raised his head and groaned, becoming alert once again.

“All right, then?” Freddie took this as an encouraging sign.

“I don’t know . . .” Trevor stiffened, making an effort to walk. “Hey, wot’s that?”

“Where?”

“I think I see a roof.” Trevor nodded to someplace in front of them.

The moon had come out and provided some illumination before the daylight faded. Freddie gazed out before them, and there was, indeed, something distinctly horizontal in the distance, as if it might be part of a building.

“Let’s give that place a try, shall we?” With a newfound determination, Freddie renewed his grip around Trevor and they strode forward.

Another ten minutes brought the house into view. It was a large, abandoned, old, desperately-in-need-of-repair type of house. Freddie scanned the roofline, what was left of it, and supposed there might be some part of the building intact where they might find refuge.

“Must be vacant, don’t you think?” Trevor voiced Freddie’s exact thoughts. “Can’t imagine anyone living in there.”

“No matter. It’ll be dark soon and we need shelter. We can manage here for the night and find Penshaw Manor in the morning when we can see properly.”

“Agreed. Let’s go, then.” Trevor motioned Freddie on.

They approached the building and the nearer they got, the more doubtful Freddie grew about the soundness of the structure. They stopped before stepping under the portico, and Freddie hoped it would not take that moment to tumble down around them.

“It does seem a bit precarious, don’t it?” Again Trevor echoed Freddie’s thoughts. Freddie left Trevor to lean against the column lest his pounding on the door to announce himself should bring down part of the ceiling above.

Freddie knocked, avoiding the crumbling bits of the wall. He could nearly see into the building.

“Do you think anyone lives here?” Trevor whispered.

“Can’t imagine, but it won’t do to go barging into the place without giving it a try first.”

Many minutes went by before Trevor murmured, “Don’t seem as if anyone’s here,” sounding weaker than he had previously.

Freddie tried the rusted door handle that turned easily enough, but the hinges protested when the door slowly opened. He had the eerie feeling it might be a ghosty or ghoulie. He almost felt embarrassed that such a juvenile emotion would well up in him. He pushed the door open and called, “Hello?” to whomever might inhabit this godforsaken dwelling. “Is anyone here?”

There wasn’t a sign of a soul. Freddie stepped back, ready to gather Trevor to help him inside and get him out of the weather. Perhaps he could even manage to make a fire once they got settled.

Trevor held up his hand. “Wait. Shhh—”

Freddie stilled, making a concerted effort to listen. Then he heard it too. Not a voice but movement, quiet rustling, shuffling. An animal, perhaps?

Someone . . . it was a man who approached. He wore a slouch hat, a threadbare heavy coat, and fingerless gloves. Stepping into view, he raised a lamp, illuminating the visitors.

“Wot can I do for you gents?” came the gravelly voice.

Freddie and Trevor exchanged glances.

“We’re seeking shelter for the night, sir.” Freddie hoped the man would be gracious enough to provide at least that much for them.

“Are ye, now?” One of the man’s eyebrows rose and he took in their shabby exteriors. “Ye be Quality, I’m guessin’.” He held his light closer to get a better look at the intruders. “An’ ran into sum trouble, I’d say.”

“Yes, we did, sir,” Trevor replied, followed by a wince.