Andrews Brothers 01 - The Ruse (5 page)

Luke ignored the previous
speculation that had swirled around him and watched with the hushed crowd as
Brigitta spun on her heel and headed upstairs without utterance. There was no
slamming door, no wails of sorrow, no indication at all that the baroness was
once again ensconced in her room.

Chadwick drew his brows together
and the crowd exploded.

“I paid money to see that!”

“I heard the couple put on a real
show. The quarreling was supposed to be first class.”

“So did I. I wouldn’t have come
if I’d known it was this unsatisfying.”

Chadwick’s frown deepened and he
attempted to regain control, but the crowd failed to cooperate. Frustration
mounting, Chadwick summoned Roland and the servants. Livered footmen surrounded
the crowd and ushered them through the front door amidst vehement protests.

Outside the estate walls, the
footmen returned coins. They offered no excuses for the unusual show but
promptly returned inside and shut the gates. The crowd grumbled as it departed.
Some took off on foot and headed across the bridge toward the cobbled streets
and the village. Others crossed the bridge and procured their waiting
carriages.

Luke hung back. Once everyone was
out of sight, he removed his hat and knocked on the wooden door to the left of
the metal gates.

“Open the door.”

An unknown footman poked his head
over the battlements and yelled to him, “Get ye away from here! We’ve given ye
your money.”

“I do not want money! I’m the
baron and I demand you open the door.”

The footman squinted and laughed
uproariously, sending a wad of spittle raining down. He yelled, “The baron, are
you? If you’re the baron, then I’m the queen!”

More newly employed footmen
joined in hurling insults. Luke calmed his rising temper. He had only himself
to blame. If he hadn’t been dumb enough to trust Chadwick to run the estate in
his absence, or if he’d presented himself upon his arrival instead of hiding
out with only Jarvis aware of his presence, then he would be safe inside the
manse where he belonged.

Assured he wouldn’t be allowed
through the front gate, Luke crossed the bridge and entered the dense woods.
Exiting into a clearing, he jaunted along the path between two pastures. Sheep
bleated and farmers raised their hands in greeting.

Clouds drifted overhead and the
sky darkened. A dollop of rain splattered upon the road. The wind increased and
lifted the edges of his coat. The brim of his hat rose and he held it in place.
The rain slanted and struck him in the knees as he made his way beneath the
shelter of the loblolly pines. As if in response to his rising anger, the storm
grew fiercer. Thunder rumbled overhead. The rain fell in solid sheets. Water
ran underneath his coat’s collar and soaked his clothing. Lightning struck a
tree, the wood splintering. He needed to find shelter.

A narrow creek formed a line
between the estate and the town’s property line. If he crossed the creek, he
could shelter against the estate’s wall and maybe climb over it.

The hairs on Luke’s arms rose.
Hurriedly, he moved. The rain swelled the creek and finding a passable section
proved difficult.

Smooth flat stones protruded and
Luke chanced a jump to the first one. Slick with rain, the boulder didn’t
provide the best perch. Without waiting, Luke continued. By the time he reached
the opposite side, the water had swelled and covered his path.

He splashed through the deepening
puddles and sheltered against the estate’s wall. In the darkness, the stones
appeared foreboding and without an ounce of warmth. He leaned his back against
the stones and placed his hands on either side of his body. Sliding to avoid
detection, Luke jumped when the boom of thunder startled him. When he touched
the wall to regain his balance, he felt an opening amongst the stones. He
smiled. The breach in the estate wall that faced the west wing had never been
repaired.

****

Chadwick waited at the top of the
stairs until all the tourists had gone. Relieved, he leaned his head against
the wall and sighed.

“Are you all right, sir?’ asked
Roland.

He straightened and glared. “Nay,
I’m not all right! Why would I be? Do you know how much coin we had to return?”
He stomped through the hallway toward his rooms and Roland followed.

“Whatever could have happened?
The ruse was working so well. Brigitta is the perfect specimen: beautiful,
regal in actions, and full of passion.” He slammed the door, fell into a chair,
stretched his long legs in front of him, and placed his hands over his firm
stomach. “When I married her, I thought it was understood that she would continue
to argue with me.”

“Sir, begging your pardon, but I
don’t remember you explaining the plan to Brigitta.”

He stood and stalked to the
window. “Why should I have to explain the plan? We were married, well, not
really, but she thinks we’re married. That should be enough to keep the
arguments going. Doesn’t she know that?”

“Perhaps not all relationships
are as volatile as that of your parents.”

Chadwick refused to be mollified.
The coin from today’s tours was to have paid for last night’s game of Faro.

There had to be a solution. He
needed to find funds. Perhaps he could reschedule the tour. That was it! He
could go to Brigitta’s room and anger her and then push her out in front of the
crowd. They would give the people a show they would never forget.

Roland interrupted his thoughts. “Sir,
if you need nothing further from me, then I will leave to assist with the
afternoon meal.”

Chadwick waved him away. “Please
go. I need to be alone.”

Roland left him and Chadwick lay
on the bed and drifted into a restless sleep.

****

Brigitta grabbed a pile of gowns
and threw them against the wall. They landed in an unceremonious heap.

Wind howled and whistled. Her
shutters banged and Brigitta had an idea.

The cold floor pierced her bare
feet as she padded to the clothes pile. Arms full, she drew back a shutter.
Rain entered, sharp and piercing, stinging her legs and spraying her face. She
dropped a gown through the window. As the gown billowed out and drifted
downward, Brigitta’s lips twitched with satisfaction.

Once all the yellow gowns were
disposed of, Brigitta picked another color. The release of the fabric felt like
being released from her prison. With each one that dropped, her elation
increased. Holding a blue gown over the window ledge, she hesitated. Lightning
flashed in rapid succession and a shadowy figure emerged in the gardens below.
Brigitta leaned forward. Her hand slipped on the wet sill and she jerked
herself back before toppling out the window. She placed her hand over her
racing heart and leaned against the wall until she caught her breath.

Once calm, she hung onto a
shutter and searched the outside again. The figure appeared comfortable
sneaking around in the estate’s gardens, getting closer and closer to the
house. She opened her mouth to yell for the footmen outside her door, but
paused. Fueled by anger at the stranger’s freedom and her own outrageous
imprisonment, she grabbed the remaining dresses from her bed and closet, and
tied them together. Next, she secured one to a bed post. Confident her knot wouldn’t
slip, she lowered the makeshift rope out the window and began a gradual descent
along the outer wall.

Why had she never thought of this
before? The garden below represented the perfect escape route. Shimmy down to
the ground, find a chink in the estate’s wall, and slip through to the other
side.

Halfway down the rope, she
realized her mistake. The gowns had soaked up the rain. Once waterlogged, the
makeshift rope’s weight increased. The bed frame couldn’t hold the extra weight
and scooted in a jerky motion across the floor. Brigitta held tight.

Fear clenched her stomach as the
rope bounced in her slick hands. Sounds of cracking wood mingled with the loud
booms of thunder. Her cries for help were drowned out by the fierce storm.

She tightened her grip and
prayed. Words drifted to her and she glanced below. Unable to decipher the
figure, she refocused on her slipping fingers. Again she thought she heard a
voice.

“I-ca– you.”

“What?” she yelled.

“I sa-, I’ll ca– y—.”

If Brigitta’s ears didn’t deceive
her, the voice said its owner would catch her. She hoped she had heard
correctly because she had reached the end of her rope and she was still
sliding.

****

Skirts caught the wind and
rotated above. The first yellow gown had descended and landed at Luke’s feet.
He had shielded his eyes and gazed upward. A rope made of gowns had flown
through the air and slapped against the estate’s wall. Next came a figure
bathed in white and clinging to the rope like a spider on a silken fiber. A
feminine scream had mingled with the wailing wind and Luke had squinted. Rain
had decreased his visibility and he had stridden closer.

The spider-like figure danced on
the jiggling line. With each jerk, the figure fell another inch. He yelled that
he would help, but the storm swallowed his voice. He cupped his hands over his
mouth and tried again. Whether the lady heard him or not no longer mattered
because her body now tumbled through the air like a toy.

She landed in his arms with such
force his knees buckled and they collapsed onto the rain-soaked earth. He
grunted but the lady remained quiet. Except for her heavy breathing, he might
have thought her dead.

“My lady, are you all right?”

Breathlessly, she said, “Aye. And
you, kind sir?”

“I will do.”

She moved from his lap and used
both hands and knees to rise to a standing position. He followed suit. They
moved beneath overhanging tree limbs which provided minimal shelter. Lightning
flashed and Luke got his first real look at the rescued damsel.

Swathed in a white chemise, which
clung to every nuance of her body, the lady trembled. Wet tendrils of reddish
brown hair hung to her waistline. Pale ice blue eyes watched him wearily. Her
teeth chattered and she wrapped her arms around her middle.

“Thank you for the rescue,” she
said.

“You’re most welcome. May I be of
further assistance?”

She shook her head, sending
droplets of water over them both. She gnawed at her lip, pushed hair from her
eyes, and said, “Why are you in the estate’s garden, in a storm, no less?”

He wished to ask the same of her,
but the sight of her scantily clad frame tortured his already frazzled mind.

“Sir? Why do you stare at me so?”

The discomfort in his legs and
bum from his less-than-graceful catch distracted him from his salacious
thoughts and he said, “I came to enjoy the flowers.”

The lady dropped her arms to her
sides, and if not for the covering of hair that wound over her shoulders, she
would have appeared completely nude.

Luke forced himself to look away
and mentally chanted, I am not a cur like Chadwick, I am not a cur like
Chadwick.

“Sir, begging your pardon, but
this hardly seems the time. Besides, you’re not in the public gardens. This
land belongs to the Baron of Stockport. One does not just drift into these
gardens and enjoy the flowers.”

He turned. A gentleman should
always face a lady when speaking to her.

His throat clenched as the chant
died away and he allowed his gaze to rove over her form for only a moment.
Clearing his throat, he spoke. “You don’t say? And what about you? Why are you
dropping from windows during a torrential downpour into the baron’s private
gardens?”

“I — I, um…” She tapped a finger
to her chin. Whatever her internal deliberation, she didn’t take long to say, “I
have every right to be here.”

“Do you now?” he asked.

“I do.”

“And why is that, my lady?’

She gnawed on her lip and Luke
fought his body’s carnal reaction to take over the chewing himself.

For a moment he believed she
would tell the truth and reveal her identity as Baroness Stockport, or that she
would accuse him of looking like her husband, but when she continued in silence
he thought of other concerns. They couldn’t continue to stand here. If the
lightning didn’t strike them then they would be spotted by the night watchmen,
neither of which he was prepared for.

Taking a chance, he grabbed her
arm and attempted to guide her to a safer location. She protested by digging
her heels into the mud and leaning backward. Wind from the storm kicked higher
and Luke’s fear escalated. They were running out of time.

Lightning flashed and lit up the
afternoon sky. She placed a hand over her mouth. “Oh, my word!”

“We need to move. The storm is
getting worse,” he said, hoping to distract her.

In a breathy tone, she said, “The
resemblance is uncanny.”

She moved forward and placed her
hands upon his chin, rotating his face and continuing to gasp.

“We need to move now. You don’t
want to be caught.” The last words were said with a hint of a threat.

“I won’t move until you tell me
who you are.” She backed away and crossed her arms over her chest.

Instead of waiting for
compliance, he hoisted her over his shoulder. She pummeled his back and kicked
above his waist. He kept his grunts of pain to himself, unwilling to give her
the satisfaction.

Gruffly, he announced, “I’m
Chadwick’s brother.”

The statement halted her beating
and he continued forward, skating on the slick grass toward the house.
Lightning struck and lit a crevice in the wall. He headed there. As soon as he
entered the tunnel, he dropped his burden and she yelped.

“Next time, don’t beat your
rescuer,” he said, his breath strained.

Smidgeons of light drifted
through the opening and she stood and massaged her behind. The action drew her
wet gown taut across her unrestrained chest, and he fought his desire to peek,
instead looking away.