The Random Gentleman (15 page)
“Oh, damn the little wretch!” muttered the Duke, changing, to Pliss’s extreme displeasure, into the clothes he had worn while traveling with the gypsies. “If some of my friends in the embassies could see me now,” he informed Pliss, “how amused they would be!”
“Incredulous, sir,” amended the valet crisply.
“The Duke shrugged, unable to defend his conduct in donning masquerade to please a willful chit who had no idea of the risks she was causing them both to run.
He met Freya for dinner in the private sitting room of his suite. When he had listened for long enough to her admiring raillery at his costume, the Duke leaned forward purposefully. “I had better warn you, in case there is some hitch in this ridiculous charade, that the leader of the gypsy band, who bears the soubriquet The Whip, would as soon mill me down as look at me. His intended has been playing games to rouse his ardor, using me as the irritant. I will admit to you that I was happy to be able to walk out of the camp the other day without an open break.”
Freya had stopped smiling. “Perhaps the gypsies are gone? Dane, you must not engage in fisticuffs with this man in a dark wood! After all, it is his native habitat, while you—”
“Of course I won’t engage in fisticuffs—what a phrase!—if given any chance to avoid it! I don’t really anticipate that Belinda has tried to enlist him in her scheme. Still, someone besides myself should know where I am going tonight, and be able to send out after me if I’m not back in good time—”
Freya had become pale and sober-faced. “I believe you had better tell me exactly what is going on,” she said. “Under these circumstances, I am not all sure that you should indulge Belinda’s playacting.”
“I had the misfortune to best The Whip in a duel of wits when first we met—”
“Misfortune?” repeated Freya.
“As it now appears, yes. Had I permitted him to face me down, he would not have been left with this urgent need to prove himself superior in the eyes of his men. But
I
had to be the bravo-diplomat,” the Duke said bitterly. “
I
had to live up to my inflated reputation and Conquer All. Perhaps this will teach me a lesson.” He scowled. “The local Authority consists of one village constable whose most onerous duty is to keep an eye out for local poachers and strayed cattle. He is no match for even a gypsy brat, much less a determined and powerful adult.”
“Should we inform the Earl?” suggested Freya. “It is still early evening, and Belinda will not yet have left the Court—” She regarded her normally self-confident brother with concealed dismay. The battle was not yet begun, and the Commander was in poor spirits!
“Would Belinda forgive me if I revealed her romantic game to her grandfather?” Dane asked ruefully. “She would think me a very poor imitation of a hero, in such a case.”
Freya took a steadying breath. “You are underestimating yourself. The child has created an opportunity for you to rescue and claim her, thus putting an end to any further petty brangling about arranged marriages. In this way, all faces can be thus putting for you to rescue and claim her, thus putting an end to any further petty brangling about arranged marriages. In this way, all faces can be saved: the Earl’s, yours, and her own, with universal acclaim to the hero of the piece. Do not tell me you cannot bring off a simple raid and rescue—you who received citations for courage and daring after Waterloo?”
The Duke put up one hand. “Spare me that,” he requested, in so firm a voice that his sister held her tongue. After a moment’s reflection, the Duke said slowly, “It may be that Belinda has not confided in any of the gypsies. Or if she has, it may be just one of the youths—or the girl Lara. I cannot count, however, upon any of them keeping this jest from the whole tribe. The People love an artfully contrived jape—some devious trick acted out for amusement or gain. I may find the whole tribe arrayed against me when I come—and for sure I will return with no money left on my person. But that would be acceptable to me. I might even enjoy it. What must not happen is a serious confrontation between the leader and myself. Pride would compel him to carry such a trial to . . . to a positive conclusion.” He paused, already condemning himself for having been so open to his sister. Still, having gone so far, he must share the whole problem. “I should have to disable him, or permit him to disable me. An unpleasant choice.”
“If I came with you,” began Freya. “No, let me speak!” she insisted as the Duke tried to interrupt. “You could tell them that your sister had demanded to meet them all. It might become a social occasion? Perhaps if we brought wine, we might invite them to celebrate your engagement?”
While he completely refused to consider letting Freya accompany him to the Home Wood, the Duke liked her idea of making the occasion a celebration and had Pliss secure several bottles of the best French brandy host Appledore’s cellars could produce. Then he had a dozen bottles of ale added to the collection and requested Appledore to secure the whole in Ben’s saddlebags. For he had decided to ride to the rendezvous; Ben had saved his bacon more than once in the field and could be depended upon to help tonight if called upon.
So it was with lighter heart, and rather rueful amusement at his own behavior, that His Grace the Duke of Romsdale rode into the Home Wood well before moonrise that evening. It was the simplest of good tactics to pick a spot and settle in before the battle.
Belinda escaping early after dinner by telling the Earl she had a headache, had dressed herself carefully in her best riding dress, a deep blue velvet which set off her lustrous hair. It was modishly tight at her slender waist, and modishly full in the skirt, and it was frogged à la Hussar. She rejected the plumed hat which was supposed to accompany it, but kept her whip and gloves. A purse? No, she’d already given Quebracho all she had left of this month’s allowance. And well spent, she decided briskly as she prepared to slip out of the Court without attracting attention.
She was fortunate. The servants were at their own dinner, and the Earl would be drinking a glass or two of port in his library, a custom he had long enjoyed. Dull work sitting alone at table night after night when you withdraw, Puss, he had told her. In the event, Belinda did manage to escape to the stables without alarming any member of her too-devoted staff. Quickly she saddled her mare, Elba, and cantered off toward the Home Wood.
She had written the note telling the Duke that “Mis Olyfant” was tied up in the barn on the Old Farm near the highroad. This missive was to be left by Quebracho’s agent in the hollow oak at the crossroads—a familiar local landmark. Now all that remained for her to do was to find her guide at the encampment and follow him to the dilapidated structure from which she was to be “rescued” by Osric Dane.
Belinda mused upon the name of her intended as she gave Elba her head to find a way through the woods in the dusk. The path was wide enough and well enough defined, even in the fading light, for the sagacious little mare to be able to make her way. Osric Dane. She was forced to admit that she could not care for the name Osric. Dane was better, and of course Romsdale carried its full measure of ancestral dignity. What should she be obliged to call him? Suppose, she thought with an urchin grin, she called him Perry, just to remind the arrogant nobleman of his ragtag masquerade? Would he be angry? She shivered deliciously. There was so much she had to learn of her future husband’s moods, his preferences, his needs. . . . With a sigh of satisfaction she contemplated the years ahead, so full of mystery and delight.
Just before she reached the encampment, she was accosted by a slight lad in dark leather clothes and the familiar broad-brimmed hat. The youth’s face was darkened by charcoal. Belinda had heard from the servants at the Court that the smugglers often darkened their hands and faces at night so as to slip past the prowling Excise Riding officers.
“You have come to lead me to the old barn?” Belinda asked softly.
The lad nodded and, mounting a black mare, led the way stealthily through the forest. It was dark within the wood, and Belinda found herself completely disoriented. It seemed to her that they were proceeding south rather than west—still, she had not come this way before and had really no idea where the abandoned barn was located.
At length the horses moved out of the wood. When they had been walking across rough turf for several minutes, Belinda noted a lightening in the sky to the east.
“We are here,” announced the gypsy youth, indicating a dilapidated-looking structure huddled among dark, looming rocks. Belinda hardly glanced at it. With a sense of surprise she found herself looking at a calm ocean gleaming faintly in moonglow.
“I thought we were to avoid the fisherman’s hut? Quebracho said—”
“It is all changed,” the youth said huskily. “Get inside quick, Miss. I am to tie you up.”
The girl dismounted. “I do not wish to run afoul of the Free Traders,” she began, dubiously.
The youth had already dismounted and was leading both horses around to the rear of the hut. In a moment he was back, working at the lock on the heavy plank door. The door swung inward silently, well oiled. Belinda followed the slim figure into the dark, redolent interior. She heard the scrape of flint. A dull, small flame of light grew in one corner of the shanty, revealing the fact that almost the entire space was piled with kegs.
“I am sure you have mistaken your instructions,” Belinda began.
The youth, a dark silhouette between her and the soot-blackened lantern, was advancing toward her, a coil of rope in one hand. He dragged over a wooden stool. “Sit down, Miss. Don’t be afraid. I will tie the ropes loosely.” There was almost a sneer in the gruff little voice.
Head high, Belinda seated herself on the stool. “Get on with it,” she said coolly, offering her wrists.
Instead of tying them, the gypsy looped the rope around her body, binding her arms to her sides. The rope was pulled so snugly that it cut into Belinda’s flesh, but she scorned to voice an objection. When the knot was secure, the gypsy brought a long end up and tied it around Belinda’s wrists in a complicated fastening.
“That is very uncomfortable,” the Earl’s granddaughter said quietly. “It need not be so tight, surely? ’Tis a trick we play, only.”
Without replying, the gypsy knelt and bound her ankles. That knot was pulled painfully tight also. Belinda experienced a pang of alarm. The gypsy rose and stood, fists on hips, in front of the helpless girl.
“So, Miss Elephant, you are ready for your little performance. Scream, Miss! Bring your pretty man to your side! The Whip and nine of our best Roms are on the way here to move the brandy to a safer spot in the woods.”
“But it’s
moonlight!
” Stunned by the sudden hostility on the part of Quebracho’s courier, Belinda could only grasp at the idea of how dangerous for the smugglers such a moonlit transit would be.
“Needs must when the devil drives,” quoted the gypsy spitefully. “Not even a stupid exciseman would dream we’d try to move the casks tonight.”
“But what has that to do with—with Mr. Random and myself?”
“We’ve had word your lover is a Preventive, on the prowl.”
“That’s absurd,” snapped Belinda. “Mr. Random is no Preventive officer!”
“You’ll swear his name
is
Random, then?” sneered the gypsy.
“He is—a duke,” said Belinda fiercely. “You had better not try to harm him!”
“A duke!” There was a snort of mocking laughter as the gypsy turned away to check the smoking lantern. “He’s a Customs Riding officer, trying to worm his way into the tribe!” But Belinda was not listening. Something about the bending, graceful figure had caught her attention.
“You—you’re a girl!” she accused.
Lara came to stand in front of her prisoner.
“It took you long enough, Elephant!” Even under the film of charcoal, her features showed scorn. “We’ll soon see what The Whip has to say to your lover’s spying! He will catch you both here with the run cargo.”
Belinda felt a tremendous sense of relief. “The Duke won’t come here. He expects to rescue me from the Old Farm.”
“And why should he expect that?” Lara’s grin was a white slash in the darkened face.
“That’s what my letter said—the one Quebracho left in the riven oak. . . .”
Lara laughed. “But he can’t find it if it isn’t there, can he? A boy will tell him you are here, and lead him to you.”
“I cannot believe Quebracho would—”
“Who said anything about Quebracho? I’ve diddled that old fool, too.” Lara pulled a cloth from her pocket and whipped it around Belinda’s face in a crude but quite effective gag.
“Just so you don’t scream and warn your Gorgio lover away before The Whip finds him,” she taunted. Then, extinguishing the lantern, she slipped out of the hut. Before she closed the door, Lara said, “Kushti bok, mort! That means good luck!” A key grated, there was the sound of hoofbeats . . . then silence.
Dressed in his new riding coat, one of Stultz’s triumphs, and mounted on Ben, the Duke rode away from The Climbing Man in the dusk. His sister watched him from the window of her bedroom, smiling affectionately at the picture he presented. He had done the little Belinda proud, her gallant cavalier, and would surely satisfy her romantic young heart with his handsome face, fine carriage, and abundant charm.
