Anne Barbour (27 page)

Tally stared at her in consternation. Clea settled back against the squabs and returned her gaze with a spiteful glare.

“When you return to London, Lady Talitha Burnside, on the back of that drover’s cart, you will find yourself rejected by anyone with any pretension to gentility. You will be the butt of coarse jokes and the subject for gossiping tattlemongers, because, you see,” she finished in a burst of venom, “by this time next week, your shoddy little secret will be spread all over London!”

“What?!”

Tally’s voice trembled with the force of the shock she had sustained. She felt physically bruised by Clea’s tirade and cast an anguished glance at Miles.

“You promised me! How could you... ?”

Crawshay turned to Clea, his eyes glittering in amusement. “What have you done, wicked one?”

Clea tossed her head in malicious pleasure. “Just before I left my lovely house for the last time, I sat down and wrote a note to…” She cast a sidelong glance at Miles. “…to one of my dearest friends, describing how our charming, witty little Lady Talitha has betrayed all her friends in the Polite World by holding them up to ridicule in that filthy piece of trash,
Town Bronze
.”

She leaned forward, her beautiful face contorted with rage.

“Jonathan will repudiate you utterly, you sneaking little bitch. Did you really think you could appropriate my fiancé?”

She breathed deeply, and settled back into her seat. “My only regret is that I will not be around to help him pick up the pieces, for surely you know that I have only to beckon and he will come running to my side.”

Such were the emotions churning inside Tally as Clea’s lips curled in a satisfied smile, that for several moments she could not speak. To be sure, her own problems were trivial compared to the catastrophe that was about to overtake the British Foreign Office, but as she considered the ruins of her life, a small sob escaped her.

Silence settled upon the occupants of the carriage, and for the next several miles all that was to be heard was the sound of horses’ hooves at full gallop, the raucous jingling of harnesses, and the increasingly loud creak of strained leather as the vehicle bowled along the road.

Tally’s thoughts tumbled in frantic chaos. She could see no way out of her predicament. There was no possibility of rescue; she knew that now. Nor could she hope that an opportunity would arise for escape with or without the papers before she found herself stranded in sandy isolation on some remote shore.

She peered out the window, but in the thin light of a clouded moon, she could perceive nothing beyond the fact that the coach was fairly flying along the Dover Road, sometimes veering dangerously close to the ditches bordering the thoroughfare.

She nudged a somnolent Crawshay and pointed out this fact to him, but received only a cold chuckle for her trouble.

“The coach travels in haste at my orders, Mouse. We must reach our destination before the tide goes out, and I whiled away too much time at Crewell House. Be assured, my coachman knows what he is about.”

He yawned and closed his eyes once more. Tally’s eyes were drawn to the packet of papers resting on his lap. If only....

As though at last heeding her prayers, Providence chose that moment to intervene. The coach careened around a curve, and passengers were thrown violently against its side. Clea screeched, and Miles cursed as he scrambled for purchase against the vehicle’s upholstery, clutching the packet against his chest.

The next moment, the coach jarred to a wrenching stop, and the scream of panicked horses filled the night. The coach tilted crazily, so that Tally found herself lying on her back, pinned against the door by a hysterical Clea, while Crawshay’s curses mounted in violence. A slap sounded, and a yelp from Clea.

“Miles!” she cried out in a sobbing gasp. “You struck me!

Crawshay vouchsafed no reply, but grunted and swore himself to an upright position. He waved the pistol threateningly at Tally as he made his way past her to the door on the other side of the carriage, now open to the sky.

“Stay here, and don’t move,” he snarled, “while I see what’s toward.”

Tally observed, to her dismay, that he maintained his grasp on the documents as he scrambled from the coach. In a moment, she heard voices as Crawshay berated his coachman. She glanced at Clea, who still lay crumpled in an awkward heap at the bottom of the coach.

Cautiously, Tally peered through the door from which Crawshay had just made his exit. She could see him wildly gesticulating as he continued to vent his spleen on the hapless driver.

There!

Crawshay set the papers down on a rock—probably the one which had precipitated the wreck--and he moved to assist the coachman. Apparently, the carriage was undamaged. Two wheels remained in the road, while those on the other side had settled in the ditch. The horses strained mightily at the coachman’s command, and it appeared that, the vehicle would be shortly righted. The only light on the scene was provided by the coach lamps and by the dim rays of the lantern held by the coachman on the other side of the carriage. Another sidelong glance at Clea indicated that the countess had fallen into a half swoon, for she had neither spoken beyond a crying whimper, nor attempted to right herself.

Gathering up the tattered remnants of her gauze skirts, Tally lifted herself silently through the coach door. Without a sound she dropped to the ground and made her way swiftly to where the packet of documents lay on the rock. She could not believe her good fortune! Crawshay’s attention was still concentrated wholly on the struggling horses.

In another second, she had the documents in her hand and was racing across the road to the cover of a nearby spinney.

“Dear Lord,” she prayed silently as she ran. “Please don’t let him notice! Just another few seconds—please!”

But Providence had apparently withdrawn its hand. A sudden shout sounded behind her, and a thundering exhortation to stop. Her heart felt as though it would explode as she attempted to run faster.

Suddenly, a shot cracked through the night air, and a spurt of flame made itself felt along Tally’s shoulder. She staggered with the shock and pain of it and fell to the ground. She heard the sound of running feet and tried to rise, but could not summon the strength. Trembling, she waited for what was to come.

What came was an unexpected grunt from Crawshay. Dazed, Tally looked up to see a dark figure standing in the road. At his feet lay a second form, motionless in the dust.

“Tally! Tally, are you all right?”

The sound of Jonathan’s voice was the most beautiful music she had ever heard, and she cried out in relief. “Yes! That is—yes, mostly. Oh, Jonathan, I knew you’d come. But, watch out Miles has a gun!”

“Not anymore,” was the terse reply, and then Jonathan was bending over her. She winced as he gathered her into his arms.

“You are hurt! My God, the bastard shot you!”

“Hush, love. I think the bullet barely grazed me. See, there’s not even any blood to speak of, although I fear Queen Titania has made her last appearance, at least in this costume.”

Jonathan drew her gently to her feet.

“And see,” she continued excitedly. “I have the papers! I was just trying to figure out how to burn them in the coachman’s lantern when you came. Oh, Jonathan, I was so frightened!”

“Ah, yes, the papers,” murmured the viscount softly. He took them from her, then handed her the little pistol, which she received as though she had been given a live firecracker. He led her back to where a groaning Miles Crawshay lurched to his feet.

From his pocket, Jonathan drew a pistol, somewhat larger than the one Crawshay had carried. He leveled it at the befuddled creature before him, and Tally gasped.

“Jonathan! No! You must not! He is not worth it!”

He paused, and after a heartstopping moment, he spoke in a voice Tally had never heard before.

“No, most definitely not worth swinging for—but, by God a bullet between the eyes is a much kinder fate than he deserves.”

Crawshay uttered a wordless whimper and dropped to the ground again. Jonathan nudged him ungently with the toe of one boot and urged him once more to his feet. In a moment, the incongruous trio had made its way back to the carriage.

The horses had brought the carriage out of the ditch, and the coachman now stood at their heads with his mouth open. Jonathan, his back to the open coach door, gestured curtly with the pistol, and the coachman leaped to stand beside Crawshay, his hands in the air.

“Jonathan!” called Tally, intending to warn him of Clea’s presence in the coach. Even as she spoke, however, Lady Belle appeared in the doorway, a heavy, ornate dressing case lifted in her hands.

Before Tally could form a warning, the countess brought the case crashing down on Jonathan’s head, and with a groan, he crumpled to the ground and lay still.

The next few moments passed in a blur of confusion for Tally. Crawshay uttered a shrill cry of triumph and bent to snatch the papers from the unconscious figure. In a single movement, he scooped up the pistol Jonathan had dropped as he fell.

Tally cried out in horror as Crawshay pointed the gun at Jonathan’s head, and at the sound, Crawshay jerked spasmodically. Clea had sunk back in another swoon, her handkerchief pressed against her lips. Without thinking, Tally lifted the hand in which she still carried the pistol Jonathan had given her.

Crawshay relaxed and allowed a faint smile to cross his lips. “Put that down, Mouse, before you hurt yourself.”

His smile phased into a contemptuous smirk, and he turned his attention once more to Jonathan. Once again, he leveled the pistol at the unconscious man before him.

For Tally, the universe seemed to shrink to the circle of reflected moonlight from the barrel of the gun. In an almost reflexive gesture, she fired, and with a howl, Crawshay grabbed his shoulder, dropping the gun in a spasm of agony.

The coachman, suddenly galvanized to action, ran instinctively for his perch atop the carriage. Crawshay, after a single, fulminating glance at Tally, hurled an oath and leaped for the coach. He slammed the door as the vehicle surged into motion.

Tally sank to the ground at Jonathan’s side. She scarcely noticed when the carriage rattled away and was soon lost to sight.

She lifted Jonathan against her breast and cradled his head in her arms, murmuring words of endearment which she realized were perfectly useless. To her vast relief, he began to stir within a few moments.

His first action when he at last opened his eyes was to draw Tally’s head down to his for a long, blissful kiss, and it was only with the noisy approach of a group of horsemen that she freed herself from his dizzying embrace.

Richard’s voice called out, and thankfully, she turned back to the man on the ground.

“Jonathan!” she gasped. “Are you really all right? I was afraid she had split your skull!”

Reluctantly, Jonathan released her and struggled to a sitting position. He probed the back of his head gingerly. “Well, I think I’ll wait a few more days before engaging in any sparring matches, but I believe I’ll survive. I only wish I had the opportunity to do just a little more damage to Crawshay.”

He peered into the darkness into the direction taken by the departed coach, and, with a groan, Tally jumped to her feet.

“Oh, no!” she wailed. “How could I have forgotten? Jonathan, they have the papers! They’ve gotten away with them!”

Chapter Twenty-three

Tally whirled and ran to where the men were dismounting from their horses.

“No!” she cried wildly to Richard. “Do not dismount! Miles Crawshay—and Clea—have escaped, and they have the papers — all of them. You must go after them!”

To her anguished frustration, Richard paid no attention, but ran toward her with outstretched arms.

“Tally! Good God, are you all right? And Jonathan?”

“Yes!” She wriggled impatiently from his embrace. “Didn’t you hear what I said? They’ve stolen the documents!”

To her outraged astonishment, Richard merely clucked at her and drew her over to where Jonathan had now regained his feet. The two men shook hands awkwardly.

“A near thing, I take it,” murmured Richard.

“As near as I’d care to see it,” Jonathan replied with a rueful chuckle. “I suppose I should come up with something clever like ‘All’s well that end’s well,’ but my aching head doesn’t quite agree with that statement. Have you any idea what it takes to maintain a civil conversation with a person who wishes you nothing but ill, all the while knowing that any second you are going to be knocked senseless from behind?”

Tally’s eyes widened.

“You knew Clea was in the carriage?” she gasped.

“I knew.”

“But—but, I don’t understand!” Tally exploded, fairly dancing in her wrath. “What’s the matter with you two? Don’t you....”

The eyes of the two met over Tally’s head, and a rueful glance flashed between them.

Tally,” interrupted Jonathan. “It’s all right. They don’t have the documents.”

“Yes, they do!” she cried, wringing her hands and fingering the place where her ring should have been. “I gave Miles the papers! I tried to take them back, but I failed!”

She gave a despairing sob, and her shoulders slumped.

Jonathan grasped her and shook her gently. “Tally—my darling, listen to me. They do not have the real papers,”

“Real papers?” she echoed stupidly.

Richard drew close to them.

The papers taken by Crawshay and Mendoza were plants, Tally. They were false from top to bottom.”

Tally’s gaze swung between the two men in growing bewilderment. “But—but Miles told me he would be able to tell if I tried to fool him.”

“And so he would have,” responded Richard cheerfully, “if you had tried to falsify the code key. However, I am a little more familiar with the material than you, and the documents I created for his perusal were skewed just enough to make them completely useless to the other side, while still appearing to be the real thing. More than that,” he added in satisfaction, “they could be downright disastrous if the Frenchies try to put any of their shiny new information to use.”