Lord Darlington's Darling (26 page)

“You do that,” said Mr. Crocker, ruthlessly thrusting Lord Fielding through the door and setting up a
shout for the butler. “Tarley, his lordship is just leav
ing. Pray show him out.”

When he turned back into the breakfast room, he
shut the door decisively behind him. Mr. Crocker
came toward Lord Darlington, his hand outstretched.
“I shall not inquire the details, my lord, to spare you
embarrassment on behalf of your sister. I have not
much liked you, Darlington. But you prove yourself a
friend in our time of need, at least.”

“Certainly more than that worm of a man!” ex
claimed Mrs. Crocker, flashing a glance at the break
fast room door.

“I intend to be more than a friend to Miss Fair
childe,” said Lord Darlington shortly. “I set out at
once, sir.”

“And I with you,” said Mr. Crocker at once.

Lord Darlington looked at him, then suddenly
smiled. “Very well, sir! Let us be off. My phaeton is
at the door. I stayed so long only to learn what you
might know and to apprise you of my intentions.”

“To the chase, then!” Mr. Crocker shouted for his
butler again, demanding his hat and greatcoat. While
these items were being fetched, he turned to lift his
wife’s hands to his lips, one after the other. “I shall bring her home safely, Melissa,” he said quietly.

Mrs. Crocker’s eyes were awash with tears and her
smile wavered. “I know you shall, my dear one.” She
turned to Lord Darlington. “Godspeed, my lord.”

Lord Darlington bowed. He waited impatiently for
Mr. Crocker to hastily don greatcoat and hat before striding out of the town house. He leaped up into the phaeton. Mr. Crocker climbed in on the opposite
side. Lord Darlington cracked his whip, and the team set off.

At first there was no conversation between Lord
Darlington and Mr. Crocker, each man being
caught up in his own silent thoughts. In addition, Lord
Darlington was concentrating on his driving. At that
early hour the traffic was light in the fashionable quar
ter of London, but as the phaeton passed quickly
through the streets there began to be a steady flow of
dray wagons and coaches and other conveyances of produce and merchandise. Tight-lipped, a frown of ab
straction between his brows, Lord Darlington handled
his high-spirited team with expert hands. Once, as the
phaeton nipped neatly between a ponderous mail
coach and a wagon with but inches to spare, Mr.
Crocker exclaimed, “Bravo!”, giving credit where it
was due.

However, in short order the metropolis was left
behind and the hunters turned onto the Great
North Road. The 200-mile highway to Scotland and
Gretna Greene, where a fleeing couple could be
wed over the anvil, was then speeding past beneath the phaeton’s
flying wheels.

Mr. Crocker spoke the question that was uppermost
in both their minds. “How much of a start do you
think they have on us, Darlington?”

“I wish I knew. Several hours, perhaps,” replied
Lord Darlington shortly.

“Abby’s bed was not slept in,” remarked Mr.
Crocker colorlessly.

“Ill-tidings, sir,” said Lord Darlington, feeling a
sinking in his heart. Then black fury suddenly rose up
inside him, pushing aside the faltering of hope in his
breast.

“We shall find them! We shall come up in
time!” He spoke grimly from between clenched teeth.

With a flick of his wrists, he put the horses into a
faster pace. The team was fresh. The horses could run
awhile before he was forced to pull them in and steady
them for distance.

“I doubt Farnham will have horses exchanged at
every post,” observed Mr. Crocker hopefully. “I heard
he is none too plump in the pocket. A bad gambler, they say.”

Lord Darlington flashed a wolfish smile at his com
panion. “Then we are assured of a speedy outcome!”

Mr. Crocker regarded the marquess for several sec
onds. “What do you intend, my lord? With Farnham,
I mean?”

Lord Darlington glanced at him. Quite coldly, his
expression one of ice, he said evenly, “I daresay I
shall kill him.”

Mr. Crocker smiled slightly and took a firmer hold
on the seat railing.

The conversation lagged after that. Mile after mile
swept by. The pale sun rose higher as mid-morning
approached. At every village and posting house and tollgate, word was sought of the runaways. There was
enough gleaned from stable hands and gatekeepers to
keep them on the scent. Twice, they discovered that
Mr. Farnham had called for a new team.

“But they ain’t anything like these ‘uns, m’lord,”
said a stable hand, admiring Lord Darlington’s team.
“Slugs, they were.”

Lord Darlington relayed this bit of news to his com
panion.

“Good,” said Mr. Crocker, climbing back up in the
phaeton and settling on the seat. He felt refreshed by
the pint of ale that he had tossed back in the taproom while Lord Darlington had put his questions. “Perhaps
they’ll throw lame.”

“That would aid us, indeed,” said Lord Darlington
with the hint of a smile.

Eventually, Lord Darlington was forced to exchange
his team for another. Though the job horses were not
the sweet goers that his own had been, they were
well enough.

Mr. Crocker brought out his pocket watch and con
sulted it. “At the rate we have been traveling, we must
have gained on them. I estimate we should come up on them at any time. We’ve been at it for six hours.”

The phaeton rounded a bend in the road, and Lord
Darlington swerved the team, narrowly missing an
overturned chaise. As they passed, he saw that the
hind axle had been splintered in half. “Someone had a nasty tumble,” he remarked coolly.

Mr. Crocker twisted his head to look backward at
the deserted wreckage. “Do you think it is possible-?”

“We shall see at the next village,” said Lord Dar
lington.

As the village came into sight, he slowed the team
and looked for a posting house or inn. Quickly enough,
he found it.
The inn was tucked back from the road, the wall surrounding it garmented in a profusion of wild hon
eysuckle. Lord Darlington smartly tooled the phaeton
into the yard and stopped before the door. He jumped down and strode toward the entrance. Mr. Crocker followed more slowly, stiff from sitting so long.

Even before Lord Darlington entered the dim, cool
taproom, he became aware of a commotion of raised
voices somewhere inside. He went swiftly in, his
glance keen for all around. There was no one in the
taproom, an unusual circumstance for that time of day. B
ut he found a motley group crowding around the
stair bottom. An excited babble informed him of the
shocking scandal that had taken place just a quarter hour before.

Lord Darlington pushed swiftly through the crowd and bounded up the stairs, his heart pounding. On the
landing, he shouldered his way through the open door.
He stopped on the threshold, held back by astonish
ment and a rush of relief.

Abby was calmly binding a rough bandage onto Mr.
Farnham’s shoulder, which was bloodied through the
rent in his shirt. The gentleman leaned his head limply
against the chair back, his mouth tight-set in a whitened
face. A bowl of bloody water was set on the table, along
with a pile of dirtied strips of linen. Beside it was laid
a long-barreled, silver-mounted dueling piece.

The innkeeper was volubly expressing his distress
and disapproval at such goings on in his house, even as
he was expertly cleaning away the signs of the debacle.
“Now, miss, as I’m telling you, I won’t have it. No,
whatever I’m paid for the trouble you’ve caused!
You’ll have to leave, both you and the gentleman.
Wicked, is what I call it!”

“Cease, fool,” said Mr. Farnham wearily but as
though he had no hope of being attended to by the innkeeper.

“I assure you, I am leaving on the next mail,” said
Abby calmly, putting a last knot in the bandage.

“No, you are not,” snarled Mr. Farnham, lifting his
head to glare at her. He grasped her wrist unkindly
with his good hand. “Do you think this alters
things?”

“On the contrary,” said Lord Darlington, moving
leisurely forward. “Everything is changed.”

Abby spun, her wrist still tethered. Mr. Farnham looked quickly around,
his brows snapping together. “Darlington! What do
you here?”

Abby said not a word. Her hand fluttered to her
breast as she stared wide-eyed at the marquess. Her face went white,
then pink.

“Unhand her, Farnham,” said Lord Darlington with
deadly quiet. His dark eyes were hard and glinting.

Mr. Farnham gave a sharp laugh and flung Abby’s
wrist from him. “Do you want the doxy, then, my lord? Then take her!”

In one bound, Lord Darlington smashed his fist into that sneering face. Mr. Farnham flew backwards, the chair crashing to the floor.

Lord Darlington reached down and slipped his hands about
his enemy’s throat. “You are a dead man!” His fingers flexed like steel. Mr.
Farnham flopped, tearing at the ruthless hands but to
no avail. Choking sounds issued from his convulsing
mouth. The man’s face purpled. Dimly, the marquess felt someone tugging hard at his shoulders

“Here, now! Darlington! The man’s wounded. Cease, you madman!”

The mists of blind rage receded slightly. Lord Dar
lington allowed himself to be dragged off of his victim.
He was breathing rather quickly. He never turned
his narrowed eyes from Farnham, who had slumped
against the table and was pulling in air with great
gasps.

Shocked, with a hand knuckled at her lips, Abby had watched Lord Darlington’s primitive attack on Mr. Farnham. His ferocity had frightened her, but not in the way she had expected. Some subliminal portion of her mind approved of the marquess’ fury, recognizing it to be a righteous one.

“You deserve to die, Farnham,” said Lord Darling
ton in a low, cold voice. “I shall see to it, I promise you!”

“Of course he deserves to die. But not here, not now,” said
Mr. Crocker quickly.

At her brother-in-law’s matter-of-fact tone, Abby gave a shaking laugh. Lord Darlington
would
fight for those whom he loved, to the death if need be. She knew with every fiber of her being she could implicitly trust him. It warmed her to the depths of her heart.

The innkeeper, thrown into shock by the display of
sudden violence, suddenly found his tongue. He
bleated, “No, indeed, my lord! Not here, I pray you!
Take the gentleman down to the other end of the village, to my rival’s house, and kill him there! Let
my rival suffer loss of reputation, not me!”
It was doubtful that anyone paid particular note to
the innkeeper’s almost tearful plea.

Lord Darlington turned a contemptuous shoulder on Mr. Farnham and
found Abby. He took her nerveless hands and smiled
down at her. There was not the least need for words,
for she gave a muffled sob and flung herself into his
arms. He kissed her ruthlessly and thoroughly, crushing her in his embrace.

Mr. Crocker regarded this shocking display with ad
mirable sangfroid. He addressed Mr. Farnham. “If I
were you, I’d seize the opportunity. You’ll want to go
to ground, of course. Allow me to suggest an extended
journey to foreign parts.” He picked up Mr. Farn
ham’s coat by the collar, rather distastefully, and held
it out.

Mr. Farnham pushed himself to his feet and snatched
his coat out of Mr. Crocker’s hand. With a malevolent
glare, he muttered, “I am well rid of her!”

As he pushed past, Mr. Crocker stayed him by the
simple expedient of grabbing the gentleman’s wounded
arm. Mr. Farnham gasped and nearly doubled over.
Mr. Crocker smiled, not pleasantly. A considerable
hardness clouded his eyes. “I give you fair warning,
Farnham. If I hear a whisper, even the shade of a
whisper, about my sister-in-law or Lady Bethany, I
shall come after you myself.”

Mr. Farnham attempted a sneer. “Pretty talking, sir!
If I was killed, you would have to flee the country.”

Mr. Crocker’s smile broadened, but there was no
warmth or pity in his eyes. “There are ways to accomplish a man’s . . . disappearance without showing
one’s hand, Farnham. Remember that.”

For an instant longer Mr. Farnham measured
glances with Mr. Crocker. Then his eyes wavered and
shifted away. He left the parlor, the crowd of specta
tors at the doorway melting away before him as
though from a leper.

Lord Darlington looked quickly around, some instinct warning him of his enemy’s retreat. He tucked Abby into
his side, his arm tight about her waist. He stared
at Mr. Crocker, his brows drawn together. His expres
sion was not friendly. “You’ve sped him on his way,
have you? I believe you interfere in my business, sir.
I haven’t yet finished with Farnham.”

Mr. Crocker sauntered farther into the room and
stopped by the table. “You’ll thank me one day, for
I suspect you would not wish to spend your days exiled from England for murder.” He spied the firearm and picked it up, his expression one of astonishment.
“I say, this is my dueling pistol! What the devil!”

Abby gave a shaky laugh. “I was afraid of Mr. Farn
ham, Peter, so I brought it with me. I wasn’t very
good with it, I fear.”