Realm 04 - A Touch of Grace (4 page)

“You be traveling to visit relatives?” the man asked. His gaze slid over her.

Grace knew how it appeared: An unmarried woman did not travel alone. “My mistress has sent me on an errand,” she offered. It was a poor excuse, but possibly it would allay the man’s interest. Since the day she had departed Foresthill to become a governess to Gwendolyn Aldridge, Grace had hidden what feminine features she possessed. Never a great beauty, it had been easy to conceal her real appearance away behind a high-necked gown–always a bit too large for her buxomy figure–hair pomade and a slicked-back style, as well as spectacles sporting clear glass. The woman at the employment agency had warned Grace not to display her femininity. A governess never knew of the household in which she found herself.

Only once in the past four years had she felt the least bit feminine. The Aldridges had accompanied the Duke of Thornhill to a gathering at Carlton House, and His Grace had insisted she attend. The duke’s aunt, the Dowager Duchess of Norfield, had arranged for a luscious gown of the deepest chocolate. Grace would have preferred the royal blue or the deep green silk, but she had accepted the dark brown in keeping with her position as the governess. Thoughts of the silk skimming across her skin brought a smile to her lips.

“It be pleasant when a woman greets her duties with a smile,” the solicitor remarked.

Grace blushed deeply. Her thoughts had rested on the pleasure of having dined in the presence of royalty, of having been among lords and ladies, even if she had only been part of the scenery for that particular evening. The duke had invited her because her true surname was “Nelson,” and His Grace, along with Viscount Worthing, had constructed a farce to protect the reputation of Thornhill’s sister, Lady Eleanor Kerrington.

Grace should have known a duke would hold an ulterior motive for inviting a lowly governess to the Prince Regent’s home, but she had permitted the dream to linger. Even when George IV’s gaze had only briefly tarried upon her, Grace had not considered it a slight. She realized that compared to the rich beauty of Miss Velvet Aldridge and the lady’s younger sister, Miss Cashémere, and of the classic elegance of the Viscountess Worthing her looks paled, but their decadent monarch had, at least, taken Grace’s measure; and she had thought it possible if she had worn her hair in a less severe style and had abandoned her spectacles Prinny might have lingered a moment longer on her countenance. Another deep sigh escaped as the memory of that evening faded.

“I serve a kind mistress,” she announced baldly. “Why should I not know pleasure?”

*

Gabriel had watched the tree line behind him for what seemed like hours before a flicker of movement proved his suspicions correct. The attack that had left a gaping hole in his shoulder had not been from a highwayman or even a hunter accidentally shooting in the wrong direction. Someone had followed his trail. Someone had purposely targeted him. Likely, Jamot had doubled back. Kerrington had escaped, but their old enemy had laid in wait. Now, Gabriel would likely die on this lonely Scottish road, halfway between his past and his future.

With difficulty, Gabriel raised his gun to rest along the flat line of the rock he had chosen as shelter. Resting his gun against the rock face, he used his left hand to lift the right to where he might grasp the gun’s handle. The movement brought fresh blood gushing from the wound, and Gabriel bit the inside of his jaw to prevent his losing consciousness. He might meet Death in the next few minutes, but if had anything to say of it so would Murhad Jamot.

The woods around him had silenced–a sure sign that a man stalked the land. It was the way with nature. A signal of an invasion within its midst. Gabriel gave his head a shake to clear his vision, and then he inhaled deeply to steady his shaking grip. “I few more minutes, God,” he whispered as he wrapped his index finger about the gun’s trigger. “Then you may claim my sorry soul and that of a Baloch heathen.” He wondered how God might receive such a prayer: one where he prayed to be permitted to kill another before he died. Thou shall not kill.

Before he could finish the thought, a man on horseback burst through the tree line. Expecting to see a dark-skinned Baloch, the pale-faced Anglo caught Gabriel’s mind napping, and for a brief second, he pause. Just a fraction of a second, but long enough to give his opponent an advantage. Luckily, the man’s aim was off. A spray of rock fragments peppered Gabriel’s head and chest, but he did not flinch. His years with the Realm had taught him well. In the next instant, he returned fire. The Realm had seen to those lessons, as well. His attacker had foolishly risen up in the saddle–making him a larger target.

Biting away the pain, he squeezed the trigger. The bullet flew straight, but the horse turned its head ever so slightly, and Gabriel’s hope of the shot finding his attacker’s heart disappeared. Instead, the man slumped forward as the horse raced away to the west.

Gabriel groaned as he forced himself to stand. “I require a few additional minutes, God,” he gasped. “Hold your hand steady, Lord.”

With those words, he stumbled toward where Balder waited impatiently for him. Reaching for the saddle, he strained to swing his leg over the rise and settle in the seat. “Come on, old friend.” Gabriel laced the reins through his gloved fingers and set the horse in a cantor. Each thud of Balder’s hoofs set his teeth on edge, but Gabriel managed to stay in the saddle. He would find the man who had shot him. He would finish what he had started, and then he would die.

*

Grace wanted to stomp her foot in annoyance. They had arrived at the over night stop for the coach, but she had received no welcome. “I do not let rooms to unchaperoned or unmarried ladies,” the innkeeper asserted as she had protested his lack of understanding. “You are welcome to wait in the common room.”

She shot a quick glance at the open room. The inn sported several occupants–a variety of social classes mingling together. Unfortunately, other than the bar maids, only two women took their evening meals among the patrons. Even dressed as non-conspicuously as possible, her “aloneness” would draw attention. And in these quarters, attention was not a desirable commodity. Grace swallowed hard and straightened her shoulders. “I understand,” she said royally. It would be a very long night.

She reluctantly accepted the man’s objections. If the innkeeper wished to maintain his business’s reputation, he would enforce the unwritten rules, which governed society. Permitting a man the liberty of a kiss resulted in a woman’s ruination and provided a man with bragging rights. Dancing more than two sets at a ball would bring about an engagement. Responding to a man’s attentions before his intentions were known brought ridicule or disappointment. One could not use one’s suitor’s Christian name, nor could one exchange correspondence or gifts before the wedding vows were pronounced. Likewise, it was not quite the thing to drive alone with a gentleman. And, most decidedly, a woman did not travel unaccompanied. With a deep sigh, she turned to survey the room.

Grace did not look forward to remaining awake all night. She certainly would not permit herself to fall asleep. It would be too dangerous. Someone could steal her coins or something more precious. A woman was easy prey for a man who had consumed too much ale. A woman was defenseless in such matters. She always bore the blame for a man’s lack of control.

Frustrated, she stepped outside to watch the busy inn yard. More strangers had arrived. She should claim a dark corner of the noisy common area before none remained for the choosing. “Stretch my legs while it remains light,” she said softly to herself. If the mail coach had stopped in a village, she might have sought the pity of a widow or a newlywed couple to spend a night on a chaise or even a pallet before the hearth. But their journey had brought her and her fellow passengers to this inn, one between villages–with no choice but to wait with the others for the morning coach. “The innkeeper said the coach will depart at four,” she reminded herself.

She inhaled deeply. “No rain,” she continued to keep her own company. “At least, my journey shall not be delayed.” She thought of her home. Of her brother Geoffrey, who had assumed her father’s title after the funeral. Of how quickly things had deteriorated. Of how Geoffrey had brought his debts to the barony. Of how many of the family’s treasures had been sold to keep the title solvent. Of how she had promised to make her own way in the world if Geoffrey would warrant the care of their younger sister Mercy. “Geoffrey will not be pleased to see me,” she thought aloud. “But it will not be for any duration. I have my letter of reference; I will find another position.”

*

He had trailed his attacker for nearly two hours. Gabriel had decided that the man was not a professional killer. His attacker had made no attempt to hide the blood from where Gabriel’s bullet had removed a mighty chunk of the man’s shoulder. He did not think the man he pursued would die from the wound Gabriel had inflicted upon him. It was more than a flesh wound–it continued to bleed after all this time–but it would not be fatal unless the man did not find medical assistance soon. His attacker could die from infection, but Gabriel would see to the task before that time.

He would not fail his friends. He could have personal enemies–knew for certain he did have many who objected to the descendant of a French diplomat as a ranking member of the British aristocracy–but not the type of enemy who would assault him on a deserted Scottish road. First, no one but a select few even knew of his presence in Scotland. Those who hated him would fight their battles in London’s ballrooms and on the Parliamentary floor. No, the man he sought was the Realm’s enemy. If his assailant succeeded in eliminating Gabriel, he would turn his attention to Gabriel’s only true friends. Before he took his last breath, Gabriel would see his attacker dead. Viscount Worthing and the others would observe his death as a warning for their own safety.

The blood trail had led to a small coaching inn. From his vantage point, Gabriel had watched the comings and goings of the inn yard. Nothing unusual. This place was not a trap. At least, not an obvious one. When his attacker had charged Gabriel’s position, in the midst of the chaos, he had glimpsed the man’s horse. Gabriel closed his eyes to relive those few brief seconds. The man bearing down on him, his firing, and then the slumped over figure in its retreat. “Cream colored. Perhaps fifteen hands high. Not as large as Balder,” he recited what he could remember. Patting his stallion’s neck, Gabriel pulled the reins to the left. “Let us see what the stables holds.”

*

“I want to know of this horse’s rider,” Gabriel told the young boy who had rushed forward to take Balder’s reins. He had found his attacker’s mount. The man could not be far.

The boy rubbed Balder’s nose. “The cream?” The youth looked over his shoulder at the animal he had just placed in the third stall. “His master fell and hurt ’is shoulder. Mistress Bradshaw be doctoring’ ’im in the kitchen.”

Gabriel leaned heavily against Balder’s side. Normally, he oversaw his horse’s care, but not this evening. Tonight, he would trust the boy to see his favorite mount. He tossed the boy a coin. “Give him some extra oats and brush him, and you’ll receive another coin for your efforts.” Gabriel swallowed the pain radiating through his chest. “And another if you inform me immediately if the cream’s owner chooses to leave the inn.”

“Aye, Sir.” The boy’s eyes grew in anticipation. “I be finding’ you, Sir.”

Gabriel shuffled toward the partially opened stable door. Where the bullet rested in his chest burned with hell’s fire. He had managed to stay alive despite his enemy’s best efforts. Despite God’s plan for him to join his parents. Slowly. Methodically, he turned his feet toward the inn. If he were to meet his Maker, he would do so in a clean bed.

*

Grace stepped from the wooden walkway, which ran along the inn’s front and turned her steps toward the stable. She had no desire to be out of view of the busy inn yard. Hostlers rushed to and fro to aid those seeking shelter before nightfall. She would discover what animals the inn housed for the mail line, as well as examining the mounts of her fellow travelers. Anything to pass the time.

Yet, as she reached the stable’s main door, it swung wide, and a man in a finely fitted coat staggered toward her. At first, she had thought to turn on her heels to make a speedy escape, but then a face of an Adonis stilled her. She had seen him previously– but twice. In London. At the party at Carlton House. And again at the celebratory gathering at the Duke of Thornhill’s Town home. “Lord Godown,” she gasped, and then observed the painful grimace as he pitched forward. Grace instinctively caught him, shoving him backward to brace him against the building. “My Lord, you are unwell!” she said anxiously. He used his free hand to steady himself against the door. “Permit me to find assistance.” Her hand rested on his arm, and Grace heard the hiss as he looked out over the inn yard. She imagined he judged how many steps it would take to achieve the inn’s door.

“No,” he insisted. With a deep inhale, he said, “Would you be so kind as to lead me to the inn?”

Without considering her actions, Grace laced his arm about her shoulder to brace his weight against her frame. She had never felt such panic. When she had first laid eyes on this man–some six months prior–she had considered his Christian name and how perfectly it fit his handsome countenance. Gabriel. The angel. The avenging angel, but an angel, nonetheless. “Lord Godown, please,” she whispered hoarsely as his heavy tread nearly took both of them to their knees. “Permit me to find someone more fit to assist you.”

A barely perceptible shake of his head declared his refusal. Grace’s bonnet shifted forward as his arm pressed heavy on her shoulders. He continued his jerky steps toward his goal–another ten feet to the walkway.

Finally, she shoved up on his arm to bracket his weight against the building’s side. Sliding free of his grasp, she turned to examine him more closely. In the darkening shadows, she realized his hair was sweaty and windblown, and dirt streaked his clothes’ fine cut. Then she saw the trickle of blood darkening his shirt. “Oh, my God!” she rasped as she reached for her linen to press to the opening. “Tell me what has happened.”