A Suspicious Affair (14 page)

Marisol stormed over to the parlor door and threw it open hard enough to rock the panel on its hinges. “So you’ll ride into danger with your pride for protection like any insolent, footloose bachelor. What about your responsibilities to Nolly, my lord? To your sister? You are even more of a jackass than I thought.”

She left in a swirl of silk. The earl shook his head, wondering if that was the sound of the door slamming or the sound of his brains rattling loose in his skull. And here he’d thought she’d appreciate his efforts.

*

Lord Kimbrough and Jeremiah Dimm went ahead with the plan that night despite Her Grace’s objections. The earl drove his curricle up and down the highways and country lanes, humming unconcernedly, while Dimm lay covered with a carriage blanket at his feet, pistol in hand.

It was a good plan, Carlinn told himself, not reckless or devil-may-care. He cared very much to stay alive, thank you. He’d even sent reservations to the Ship Inn in Bath, so confident of the future was he. As Carlinn tooled his pair up a tree-lined lane, the perfect place for an ambush, he wondered how soon after his arrival in Bath he could call on Miss Sherville without being too obvious. He’d have a letter from Cousin Winifred, of course, her godmother, but it wouldn’t do to raise expectations in her mama’s hopeful breast until he was certain.

Fortunately the highwayman did not choose that particular spot to make his move for, unfortunately, that hopeful breast brought to mind not Miss Sherville’s inadequate one, but the devilish duchess’s milk-filled, rounded, mounded abundancy. The carriage hit a rut and Dimm cursed. Lud, the sooner he was wed the better.

The highwayman did not choose any other roadway Kimbrough drove that night either. It was a good idea, driving around with a lantern on his curricle like some perverse Diogenes seeking a dishonest man, but it didn’t work. Nor did the earl’s efforts to keep Duchess Denning out of his dreams when he finally sought his bed after midnight.

Chapter Fourteen

The urgent message came at three in the morning. There had been another incident at Denning Castle. With a scant two hours’ sleep in two days, and that interrupted by extremely disturbing dreams, the earl could not generate the fever pitch of excitement he used to feel riding into battle. He didn’t bother with a neckcloth or a waistcoat or a hairbrush. He just went. Lord Kimbrough was not in prime twig for more alarms.

*

Neither was Marisol. Her thoughts all night had been filled with images of the earl’s bride, whoever she turned out to be, the poor dear. He’d bully her and shout at her and insist on having his pigheaded way about everything. The woman would be miserable, unless she admired broad shoulders and a firm jaw and a dedication to duty as immovable as a mountain, the widgeon.

Marisol pummeled her pillow. At least there was something she could force to her will. Of course, the pillow fought back, making lumps and hollows that kept her from a deep sleep. Tossing restlessly, she was easily roused by a slight noise next door. She waited to hear if it was Nolly stirring, or Rebecca checking on him, or even Max sounding an alarm. She heard nothing, and was about to drift back to sleep, chiding herself for a peagoose, wasting precious sleep time when Nolly would be up soon enough.

Then she did hear another noise: the sound of a door shutting.

*

“And don’t tell me my imagination was working overtime, my lord,” she told Kimbrough, “for someone was there. They knew enough to give Max a lamb chop to keep him quiet, and if I hadn’t screamed, who knows what would have happened?”

Her scream had woken the baby, of course, and the weary servants who had to be up in a few hours, and Foster, who was to leave after breakfast. Even Boynton dashed to the rescue in his nightshirt, his hair in curl-papers. They found nothing but the lamb chop to signal an intruder.

The earl had the staff go outside with lanterns, looking for tracks under windows, signs of forced entry, anything. He made each one account for his or her time, then made them swear on the Bible they hadn’t come next or nigh the infant. Then he ordered wine for the duchess; she must be more disturbed than he thought, for she didn’t even rip up at him over his high-handed treatment of her servants. She merely amended his order to tea, with brandy for the gentlemen. Marisol was so pale, with purplish shadows under her eyes, her voice so subdued, that the earl almost forgave her for another night’s missed rest.

What a damnable coil! Foster was in anguish over leaving in the midst of a family crisis. The young man’s sense of honor couldn’t permit him to abandon his sister in time of need, but he had his orders. Boynton, on the other hand, was packing to get out of this madhouse as soon as his valet could manage. Between the infant’s caterwauling and his sister-in-law’s fits and starts, a gent couldn’t get his beauty sleep. Marisol meanwhile was asking the butler to find Arvid’s hunting rifle. Lud, that was all they needed, Carlinn thought: a hysterical woman with a loaded weapon. She was wound so tight she’d likely shoot a crackling log in the hearth or a branch scraping along the window. Or him, for not protecting the infant.

Kimbrough could see the accusation in her eyes: He’d been out having a lovely drive around the countryside while some heinous malefactor was attempting to make off with her baby. He rubbed his eyes and tried to stifle a yawn. The sooner Dimm’s son got here, the better.

Servants lit a fire in the parlor, the child was put back to sleep with a weary nursemaid, and Max was taken outside to be dosed with salts in case the lamb chop was poisoned. The footman who got that job was almost as aggravated with the earl as the duchess was. The servant couldn’t show it, of course; Her Grace could. She practically ignored Kimbrough’s presence while they waited for Mr. Dimm and the tea tray, as if she regretted sending for the nobleman and his useless suggestions.

Marisol was indeed avoiding looking at Lord Kimbrough who, with his unbuttoned shirt and ruffled hair, was looking barbaric and heroic and sleepy. His poor wife would have to look at that broad, hairy chest every night, if she was lucky. Marisol blushed at her own thoughts and dragged her mind back to Nolly. Maybe she should take him into her own bed? Nolly, she reminded herself, Nolly. At this rate her son was never going to reside in the nursery the dowager was so busily refurbishing for him. He’d never ride the rocking horse or play with the tin soldiers, for he’d have to be walled around with armed guards. But she would not weep. No, not a drop, at least until she was alone in her room, Nolly under one arm and a rifle under the other. Marisol made herself be strong for Foster, so he could go off and follow his own dream. And she had to show the earl she was no milk-and-water miss. She tucked a wayward curl back under her nightcap and poured out the tea as if she were entertaining Princess Lieven and Sally Jersey at an afternoon call.

The earl had to admire the chit’s backbone. But how could she sit there so calmly when he was at his wit’s end wondering what was to be done? Not that he thought the child was in any real danger; if someone truly wished the boy harm, there had been plenty of opportunities. He wondered if the duchess would feel safer at Kimbrough Hall. He could move her, infant, nursemaids, aunt, and all, but would he get any sleep whatsoever, knowing she was a few doors away? Botheration. Besides, he couldn’t promise to keep her safe and then scamper off to Bath. What kind of watchdog would that be?

“A watchdog, that’s what you need,” he declared. “Not a barking lap-sitter like Max, but a real trained guard dog. The kind that stays out watching after sheep and cattle, defending them from wolves. Looking after one small baby can only be, well, child’s play to a protective breed like that.”

Marisol was dubious. A large, unkempt herd dog in Nolly’s room? Besides, there hadn’t been wolves in England in ages; she’d worry more the animal would swallow the baby. But Foster was nodding eagerly and the earl was going on, excited to have a plan of action. This plan seemed as harebrained as his notion of trapping the bandit, but Marisol didn’t say anything. He meant well, and she didn’t actually have to get the dog, so she nodded.

Then Kimbrough said, “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of finding just the perfect animal myself.”

Before Marisol could voice her objections, Aunt Tess wandered in, a frilly mobcap askew on her gray hair. She frowned at her niece. “I saw all the lights, dears. Don’t you think it is a trifle late for company?”

“This isn’t a social call, Aunt Tess,” Marisol explained, pouring a cup of tea for the older woman and speaking loudly. “I didn’t want to wake you to another frightening event, but there has been another intruder in Nolly’s room. Please don’t be upset, Aunt Tess, but someone gave Max some food to keep him quiet. We don’t think it was poisoned, but…”

“Poisoned?” Her aunt blinked. “Oh no, Cook would never leave poisoned food out on the table. Why, one of the servants might eat it. Much better to put the lamb chop on the floor behind the cupboard if you wish to kill rats. But I thought cheese…”

“Aunt Tess, you knew Max ate a lamb chop?”

“Of course, dear. Didn’t I tell you Cook leaves a snack out for me? I don’t sleep well at night. Old bones, don’t you know. So I often take myself to the kitchen for some warm milk or whatever Cook leaves out. Tonight I thought Max was doing such a good job, he deserved a treat, too. And I did want to check on dear Nolly in case he needed another blanket. I thought he might like a lullaby or something, so you could sleep longer. You’ve been looking so tired, dear. But he was sleeping soundly, precious darling, so I tiptoed out.”

“And you didn’t hear me scream?”

Aunt Tess was stirring her tea. “What’s that, dear?”

*

So Carlinn drove his curricle home as another dawn was breaking. He was exhausted, emotionally drained, confused by the feelings that warred in him. That’s when the highwayman struck, of course.

The first shot startled the horses into rearing and kicking. Kimbrough had all he could do to keep the curricle upright. He certainly couldn’t remove a hand from the ribbons to reach for his pistol in his greatcoat pocket. He fought the horses to a standstill, as per instructions.

“That’s right, guv’nor, keep them steady. Hands on the reins where I can see them.” The masked horseman rode over, a second pistol aimed straight at Carlinn’s heart. “Now real slow, throw down your purse. And if you think to reach for a gun instead, you better be thinking fast, for I can’t miss at this range.”

It wasn’t worth the gamble. He didn’t have much money with him at any rate, and the thief already had his weapon cocked. Carlinn did as directed.

“Hell’s fires!” the bandit cursed when he felt the lightness of Kimbrough’s purse. “And not even a stickpin or a watch fob to pay for my time. Damn it!”

For a moment Carlinn feared being murdered for disappointing a deuced footpad. “Sorry,” he said. “If I’d known your intentions, I would have been better prepared.”

“I’m sure you would have, guv’nor. The local militia and a small cannon, eh?”

“No, just my pistol at the ready. I misdoubt you’d be so brazen were this a fair fight.”

The highwayman laughed harshly. “Life ain’t fair, m’lord, or haven’t you heard?” With that he slapped the flank of the carriage horse nearest him, sending the curricle on another mad dash. He rode off into the woods while the earl struggled to halt the plunging team. If Kimbrough hadn’t been a consummate fiddler, he’d never have brought the bays under control so quickly, nor managed to turn them in time to see which direction the rider had taken.

The dastard had gotten away with Carlinn’s small purse and with a large portion of his pride, but he hadn’t gotten clean away this time. The pre-sunrise air was cold and frost lay on the ground, frost that kept a perfect set of hoofprints riding through the woods. When the earl had the horses calmed, he stepped down from the curricle, tied the bays to a bush to nibble, and followed those receding marks until he had a good idea where the bandit was heading.

This was his land they were on now, and Carlinn knew every inch and every abandoned gamekeeper’s cottage. If he was mad before, he was outraged now; the maggot was using Kimbrough land for his hideout. Carlinn did not let his anger blind him to reason, however, so he went back to the curricle rather than going after the cutthroat on foot with only one round in his pistol. He drove home and changed his curricle for a fast horse, enlisted his stable staff, and sent riders off to fetch Dimm and Foster.

They all met at the marker that divided Kimbrough’s property from Denning’s, had a short conference, and followed the earl into the woods on foot. Some carried pistols, some pitchforks; all wore tired but determined expressions.

When they saw chimney smoke deep in the forest, the earl deployed his troops to encircle the small cottage he knew was there. “But remember,” he whispered, “the man is dangerous. He is a hardened criminal who has nothing to lose now, for he can only hang once. No heroics,” he especially warned Foster and his man Joshua, “and no one moves until I give the word.”

They all nodded and took up positions surrounding the stone dwelling. The earl alone crept closer, dodging behind tree after tree until he was crouched almost beneath one of the narrow windows at the side of the house. He listened intently, then silently crept forward. He listened again. At last he straightened enough to peek through the window.

The glass was none too clean so he had a hard time making out the interior of the cottage. A bed, a stool, a sink, a cupboard. Then he saw a hand-hewn table, with two pistols lying on it alongside his purse. And finally, in the far corner, he spotted the dangerous, deadly, cold-blooded highwayman. Shaving. Pistol in hand, the earl wormed his way around to the front door, waving his cohorts nearer. When they were close behind him, he reared up, kicked the door in, and tumbled after it, landing next to the table holding the man’s weapons, which he swept to the floor.

“Hands up, you son of a bitch.”

The bandit, his back to them, slowly raised his hands, dropping the razor he’d been holding. Jeremiah Dimm kicked it away and gathered up the fallen pistols. “Evidence, don’t you know,” he said, then cleared his throat. “Pardon, milord, but this here’s my line.” He cleared his throat again and addressed the prisoner’s back. “By the power vested in me by His Royal Highness King George, you is hereby arrested in the name of justice. Now turn around, you son of a bitch.”

The man slowly turned, hands still in the air, to face at least five gun barrels. His own face, however, was still covered in soap lather.

“Shouldn’t he wipe his face first, Da, before you take him in?” Joshua Dimm asked. “I want to see what he looks like.”

So did Lord Kimbrough. He tossed the man a towel.

The highwayman scrubbed at his face, then made the earl a mocking bow. “Jack Windham, at your service.”

“Windham? That label is on my list somewheres,” the senior Dimm declared, reaching into his inner pocket for his notebook.

Foster was staring at the accused, a man not much older than his own twenty years. “Why, I know you. We played cards at Banning’s place one night.”

“I’m sure I lost. I always do. Do I owe you money, then?” He jerked his head toward a box on the cupboard. “Help yourself.”

Kimbrough’s eyes were narrowed. “Windham, eh? Any relation to Lord—”

“My uncle,” the man answered quickly, glancing at the crowd of stablehands in the doorway, mouths agape.

“What the bloody hell is any nephew of Lord—” Kimbrough began, to be interrupted by the Bow Street man.

“Aha! I got him now. This here is one of the blokes what lost so heavy to His Grace afore the murder. My man reported that Windham was with a doxy at the time.”

“Patsy is a loyal thing, if a tad mercenary. And of course I was one of those whose vouchers Arvid Pendenning held. Why else do you think I would be doing this?”

Kimbrough shook his head. “You’ve taken to the high toby to pay a gaming debt?”

“Not just a gaming debt. Denning won everything I owned and then took my vowels. Honor was about all I had left, so I had to pay him off.” Windham turned back to the tiny mirror and frowned. “I really do need a shave, old man. I don’t suppose…”