By Way Of A Wager (14 page)
Authors: Hayley Ann Solomon
“Stop! What do you want me to do? Think of your reputation!”
“Reputation?” Cassandra smiled a trifle dolefully. “I seriously doubt I have anything left by now. Even so, my brother is worth more to me than any ballroom whisperings and social approbation. If you're concerned, though, let my departure be a secret. Let me dress as a man and no one need know that I've accompanied you alone across the seas. No one need know anything. Not even the duke.”
“Especially not the duke! If he knows what I've let you in for, he'll kill me. Promise me that, Cassandra. This will be a secret between the two of us.”
“I promise.” Her eyes were shining, vivid and violet, a sore temptation to any man. Her enthusiasm was infectious, and it was not long before Rupert had entered fully into the spirit of the plan, issuing orders and hunting avidly through old chests in a quest to find garments of a suitable size.
Strong willed though Cassandra was, he had somehow managed to prevail on her not to draw from her banker. Miles had made it very clear that her whereabouts was to be kept secret, and it was hardly to be expected that Mr. Pratt of His Majesty's Bank Royal would not display some degree of curiosity.
It did the viscount justice that he did not draw on the duke's personal fortune for the journey. Instead, he regretfully conveyed his emerald cuff links and lapis lazuli-embedded snuffbox to Upper Wimple Street, where he sold them for a fraction of their market value. It was well for Cassandra's peace of mind that she knew nothing of this little transaction.
If Pickering was surprised at the young Viscount Lyndale's sudden intentions of conveying mistress Beaumaris to Bath, he knew enough to keep his peace. It was unthinkable that the young scamp would embark on such a venture without His Grace's blessing. No doubt they knew what they were about. Perhaps they were right, too. The duke wanted scandal averted. Removing the unwitting but constant source of gossip from his household might be sufficient to accomplish just that.
Entering into the spirit of the expedition, the lady in question donned bottle green breeches, an unexceptional Marseille waistcoat, and slightly underpolished topboots as if to the manner born. It is not to be denied, however, that she suffered a few anguished moments in front of the glass before summoning up sufficient strength of will to undertake the first few snips of her luxurious locks.
It was fortunate, indeed, that the viscount arrived on the scene at this very unprepossessing moment. With all the powers of persuasion he could muster, he succeeded in convincing her that a hat was sufficient to cover her tresses. Seizing the scissors from her hands, he offered thanks to immortal God that he had caught her in time. What Miles would have said in response to a shorn fiancée was enough to make him shudder.
The matter thus satisfactorily resolved, Cassandra was left only to shrug herself into morning coat and cravat before surveying herself once more in front of the glass. The effect was admirable. Hastily scrawling a note to the twins, the duo's next endeavor was to ensure her safe incarceration in the carriage. It would not be to their advantage to be forced to explain their actions to the numerous lackeys and household staff that the duke saw fit to employ.
Cassandra had just time enough to gasp at the splendor of the traveling chaise that confronted her, gold-mounted harnesses shimmering like diamonds in the afternoon sunlight. The inside squabs looked curiously inviting as she was bundled inside with due lack of ceremony and uncompromisingly little fuss.
The crest of Duke Wyndham, Earl Roscow, and Baron of the Isles glinted with fine pomp as the door flashed shut. She was later given to understand that although Rupert's conveyance bore all the marks of being “a prime one,” even he, in his more sober moments, would not consider it fitting for a hastily conceived cross-country flight.
The groom beamed at his instruction. “Set them to, Brentley! As swift as the wind, mind! We'll change at the first posting station and get a fresh pair. No need to save their stamina.”
With a bow and slight flourish of the whip, the groom took his young master at his word. The carriage gave a sudden jolt and started on its way, the clip-clop of horses sounding resoundingly in Cassandra's ears as town was left far, far behind.
So it was that the Honorable Miss Cassandra Beaumaris, previously of Surrey House, found herself clad in buckskins and topboots, alongside a young gentleman of good breeding, great impetuosity, and little sense, on the great market road to the coast.
THIRTEEN
“Where is the sloop, Jake?”
Frances was doing his best not to fall back into a swoon. The tramp down the mountain was wearying indeed for anyone in a full state of good health. For Frances, it was torture. The only light at the end of the tunnel was that it would soon be over. The whole nightmare would soon be over.
He could not wait to be with friends again, to slowly heal from the trauma of seeing all his companions at arms downed under Ney's cavalry. The picture of the young infantry officer who died atop him would forever haunt his dreams. There was little consolation that Napoleon was captured. So many lives! So many lives! It had seemed like a game going in. Now it just seemed a travesty.
Jake leered, but held his tongue. No point enlightening his young victim just yet. Plenty of time for that later. Right now, they had a mountain to get down and a stream to ford. Better to have a willing participant than a surly one.
Frances shrugged. He found it very odd that Cassandra should have chosen so cantankerous a man. Strange, too, that she had organized it at all. Surely grandfather Surrey ... ? No use trying to ponder. No doubt all would be revealed in good time. Such a pity he was feeling as weak as a kitten. It was churlish, perhaps, but he could not help but hope for a good crossing.
Time seemed to stand still, an endless ebb and flow of light and dark. The air was dry and cold, biting into the thin buckskins and well-rinsed coat of his battle uniform. All the braid was frayed, and the bright scarlet of the Fourth Hussars had dimmed. Frances did not allow his hope to fade in the same way. His will to survive was great.
If he could only make it to the safety of his sloop he'd be home and dry. He could picture Cassandra at the helm, perhaps even his old friends Sir Reginald or Freddie Althorp. If he could just sustain himself enough to bear with the steady clip-clopping of the mares, he'd get there. Gritting his teeth, the young lord permitted exhaustion to overcome pain.
Not for long. It was growing dark, and the nags were inclined to stumble. It was a great effort not to wince at every jolt. Frances closed his eyes and imagination took over. The calm, soothing voice of Suzannah as she mopped his brow, singing all the while. His breathing became easier, his pallor less distinct. Jake glanced at him sharply and shook his head. Wouldn't do for the blighter to recover altogether!
He began a monologue, his agile brain looking for every crack in Frances's defense. Wear him down, that was the ticket! The weaker the man, the easier his task. Frances opened his eyes and groaned. The barely audible mumbling made it impossible to slip back into the hazy half world between dream and reality. It seemed he was to be firmly ensconced in the real world, and he was not sure whether to be glad or sorry.
The candles burning aboard the sloop did much to revive his spirits. The Surrey heraldic crest blazed bright in the new gaslight of the wharf, engendering a warm feeling of triumph in his breast. So far he'd come, so far! He closed his eyes and blinked back sudden, relieved tears. So many good friends had died in this battle. It was a miracleâtruly a miracleâthat he had been spared.
Climbing aboard brought back a shock of pain and weariness. The earl of Surrey bit back several peculiarly unsavory curses in his efforts. Jake grinned at the stifled oaths and lent a grimy hand. Frances thanked him, a fact he was later to regret quite bitterly.
And then, it was done. Dusk was casting pink streaks across the clouds and his lordship finally was aboard his sloop. But what a shock! Not the waiting servants, the banquet, the sight of a beloved face. Not even, at least, a familiar one. Instead, he found himself being roughly handled and dragged to the stern. Jake's sneer had turned suddenly malignant. His slothful veneer had disappeared without a trace.
Without ceremony he reached under the sacks and hauled out a long, yellowed piece of gutting used for the mast. Before Frances could make sense of the turn of events, he was trussed to the rigging and gagged in the bargain. There was no reasoning with Jake. Even if he could, he realized it was useless. The man had begun a fervent whispering, his eyes glazed at the thought of the bounty. Night had fallen, the gaslights dimmed of their own volition, and it was pointless leaving the calm of port.
Jake checked the mainsail and decided that another night could be of little harm one way or the other. Besides, there was still the little lady bird of the night before. If he could but be certain of his captive's compliance, there was no reason why he should not pay the Villa d'Esprit another nocturnal visit.
Again, he checked the bonds that to Frances were as heavy as chains. Talking all the time, he feverishly calculated the sum owed by Harrington and the likely interest off that sum. To Frances, it was just a blur of words. Nothing made sense. He was startled when his tormentor addressed him.
“I don't suppose you can do the dandy? Your pockets to let like the rest of 'em or what?”
The speech was incomprehensible to the sixth earl of Surrey.
Jake loosened the gag. “I said your pockets to let or what?”
Receiving no comprehensible response, Jake shrugged his shoulders and made as if to tighten the bonds. A sudden spirit of self-preservation overcame Frances. “Money. Do you mean money?”
“Well, of course I do, you blighter! Ain't that what I been saying all along?”
“This is a kidnapping, then?”
Jake sniggered. “Well, there be some as would call it that. I like to call it an unfortunate accident, that's wot. Better ask your mate Harrington what this is all about, then. I don't half like the word murder. So nasty sounding, don't you think? But for an earldom and some of the ready like folks says you got stashed away, murder don't seem so bloody terrible, now does it? Come to think on it, you won't have much of a chance to ask, buddy boy. Better ask meâlike as not I'll let you in on it if you behave. Still, it won't do you much good, you know.”
The last part of his sentence was lost on Frances, who was still trying to glean sense out of the first.
“Harrington. What's Harrington got to do with this?”
Jake positively guffawed, in an expansive mood now that the serious business of getting his hands on Beaumaris had been accomplished.
“I don't usually give away no secrets, mate, but seeing how you're going to be fish food afore long, I reckon it don't matter too much. Come to think on it, maybe I won't tell you. Matter of professional pride, you understand.”
Frances felt compelled to inquire further, then gave it up in disgust. It was only too obvious that Jake meant simply to torment him. Why give him the satisfaction? On the other hand, the more he knew of what he was up against, the greater chance he stood. Weighing up his pride with his natural curiosity and life force, self-preservation won out.
“Tell me more, Jake. You were hired by Harrington. Why? Where is the earl of Surrey?”
Jake guffawed with enjoyment. “I be staring at him right in the face, you cawker! What a joke to be sure!”
Bewilderment then realization crossed Frances's pain-racked face. “Surrey? You mean Grandfather Surrey is dead?”
Jake winked. “As dead as a doornail he be! As dead as you're going to be in a few hours! No use frettin' now, what will be will be. Died of the pox, very like.”
The vulgarity angered Frances intensely. He moved toward Jake, unconsciously handling his flaccid gag as he did so. Instantly his enemy was on the alert, menacing once more.
“Now don't you take it into your head to start hollering, mate. Just remember. I can do it nice and swift or I can do it nice and slow.” The eyes that glinted in the starlight were deadly.
Frances felt the sweat pour from his palms and forehead. In his weakened state, he wouldn't have a chance against this assassin. As far as he could see, he'd reached the end of the road. What a bizarre place to end it, after all he'd witnessed on the battlefield! The horror was slowly sinking in, leaving him breathless.
Jake tightened the gag. His concentration was momentarily diverted by the sounds of footsteps along the gangway. Pistol at the ready, he left Frances at the stern and made his way to the helm, his tread heavy and dangerous. Low voices followed. Frances strained to hear snippets of the conversation but failed dismally.
Occasionally, the words “bale” and “barrel” wafted through the silent night air, but nothing he could make any definite sense of. Jake seemed to be arguing, then listening. By the time the footsteps receded and he was back to the aft, his face was transformed in a veritable wreath of smiles. The fiver, it seemed, had paid off.
“Slight change of plan, mate!”
Frances sat up as far as his restraints would allow.
“Nothing to get too excited about, mind! Noon tomorrow I've a small meeting in the way of business, you understand. Taking delivery of a few kegs of choice proof cognac. A couple of bales of triumph lace, too, if those blithering fools are to be believed. Times are aripe for merchanting around here, I reckon. I couldn't well turn down such a likely cargo just because of you, now, could I? You may just as easily be drowned Tuesday as Monday, can't you then?”
As Frances could hardly be expected to agree, it must be assumed that this monologue was largely rhetorical. As it was, it offered the beleaguered Beaumaris a small reprieve. For that gloomy night, at least, he could rest easy. Jake checked the bonds that were slicing now into Frances's wrists. Satisfied that they were still secure, he nodded abruptly, gave a farcical doff of his cap, and skipped over the moorings to the dry land ashore.
For the earl, it was the start of a solitary night.
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