The Reluctant Earl (16 page)

Leah nestled into the corner of the seat with one last thought whirling through her exhausted mind. Chambelston had used her Christian name again.

Chapter Twelve

J
ulian peered at the gray light from under heavy lids. Disorientation swirled through his mind while his sluggish brain absorbed the reality of midday filtering through carriage windows. He glanced at the woman beside him, her even breaths marking her as yet asleep.

Relaxed, her face looked more youthful, offering him a glimpse of the young woman who’d entered his sister’s employ when she was scarcely past her own girlhood. If Elizabeth hadn’t cut her family from her life all those years ago, would Julian have met Leah earlier? Perhaps on a warm summer visit or over happy holiday merrymaking. Would he have appreciated the subtle qualities of her nature then? Would she have turned to him to ease the plight of a desperate friend—rather than resort to treason?

The upholstery rustled as Harrison shifted on the seat across from Julian. “I trust you slept well, my lord?”

“Not particularly.” Not if the cramp in his neck was anything by which to judge.

“I expected to find you in your bed when I arrived. Instead, I encountered you—and then Miss Vance—on the road.”

“Fortunately for you.”

“Oh, I’d have found a way to contact you, even at that time of night.” Harrison’s eyes gleamed with humor.

No doubt, given the man’s background. “Fleming died, shortly after you and I last spoke. Not of the injuries inflicted by the gang of hoodlums, but from poison.”

Harrison whistled a soft note between his teeth. “Administered by someone at the Abbey?”

“So it appears—his killer placed evidence suggesting Miss Vance’s involvement in Fleming’s chamber.”

“You are certain of her innocence?”

“Oh, yes. I saw her while returning to the Abbey after our meeting. According to the doctor’s estimate as to the time of the poisoning, she wasn’t in the manor when Fleming consumed the fatal dose.” Julian glanced at Leah again, then leaned forward and lowered his voice. “She was with a man. The mysterious cousin, I presume. Of course my sister was most displeased when she learned of Miss Vance’s midweek venture beyond the manor and terminated her employment immediately.”

“According to the rumors I heard, Fleming was a nasty piece of work.” Harrison folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the upholstery.

“Yes, we have no shortage of suspects who might want the man dead.” Julian pulled the racing form from inside his coat and passed it across to Harrison. “The magistrate found this in Fleming’s chamber after his death. Something about it bothered me, so I grabbed it when I went back to the abbey for Miss Vance’s solution.”

“Quick thinking, my lord.” Harrison tipped the page toward the window and squinted as he studied the words. “Are you certain this is Fleming’s handwriting?”

“I can’t identify it as such, only that we discovered it with his effects.”

“But you also believe someone wanted Miss Vance suspected—or even charged—in the murder. This could have been deposited in the chamber at the same time as the evidence against her.”

“To implicate Miss Vance? I highly doubt she follows the ponies.”

Harrison glanced at her still-sleeping form and grinned. “A penchant for wagering on the horses could explain her need for money.”

So would a destitute friend. Julian tried to recall if he’d seen Leah’s writing. If she had been communicating with the radicals, Harrison might have had occasion to see notes from her. “Would you recognize her handwriting?”

“I’ve never seen a message from her, so I can’t be certain. However, if I were to venture a guess, I would say this is not hers. A racing form is a rather subtle clue if one is trying to incriminate a governess. It probably belonged to Fleming.” Harrison returned his attention to the page. “Based on the formation of the letters, I suspect if we discover the creator of these comments, we’ll uncover the author of your anonymous note.”

Excitement ricocheted along Julian’s spine. “Are you certain?”

“Do you have the other message? The one about your father’s injury?”

“Yes, it’s...” In the pocket of his greatcoat. The same coat currently shrouding Miss Vance.

Julian leaned closer to her. A hint of lavender teased his senses, and a few wisps of hair escaped her chignon. He tucked them back in her bonnet, marveling as his knuckles brushed against the soft skin of her face. Her puffs of breath tickled his skin as he carefully extracted the note from the pocket. She stirred, then settled back to sleep with a sigh while Julian handed the note to Harrison.

The former spy pursed his lips while he perused the message. “I can’t be absolutely certain, you understand. But a clever gamester would wager the same hand wrote both.”

Julian contemplated the implications of two such disparate records being in the same hand. “Who would seek my involvement in the quarrel between the government and antiroyalist extremists? Most certainly not Miss Vance or her allies. Suggesting the radicals had killed my father would attach me firmly to the government’s cause.” And Fleming? By all accounts the man was a frivolous sort, too absorbed in pleasure to exert himself with the effort of politics. Exactly, in fact, the sort of man who would record his observations about the best betting options on a racing form.

“Once we ascertain the answer to that question, we may unravel the entire plot.” Harrison handed the paper back to Julian. “Do you know when Parliament begins its session?”

“Tomorrow morning. We have less than twenty-four hours to reach London and prevent a catastrophe. I didn’t realize when we left how momentous our journey would be.” Helplessness churned in Julian’s stomach. If only they had learned of the radicals’ intentions earlier. Even one day would have bought them more time to make the trip, notify the authorities and station men along the roads. Julian glanced toward the window and the clouds that muted the sun. All they needed was for the snow to begin again. “Do you think we’ll arrive in time?”

“I think a few prayers are in order.”

Prayers. Julian stiffened at Harrison’s overt proselytizing. “Then why not just ask God to stop this assassin before we get there?”

“I’m afraid God wants our participation, my friend.”

“Even though there is a good chance we will fail?”

“Yes, our participation, our reliance and our trust—trust that He will use whatever happens for greater purposes than we can see with our limited perceptions.”

“I suppose, given the prince’s ill repute, some might find his death to be God working for good.”

“Well, the Bible does tell us God doesn’t wish for any to perish. But He can use what is meant for evil for good. For instance, my lord, but for your father’s death and the note you received, you wouldn’t be here right now making a madcap dash to London to save the prince’s life. Miss Vance would be alone on a dark, cold night with no place to go, if not hanged. And I would be hard-pressed to afford sustenance for my family.”

Julian pulled his watch from his pocket, surprised to find the hands had climbed past twelve already and well into the first hour of the afternoon. “Speaking of sustenance, we must procure a meal. I don’t suppose you know of a suitable inn along our route?”

“Not I. We shall have to make do with the first place we find.”

“Yes, you are correct. Time is of the essence.” Julian sighed. Despite his sister’s initial hostility to his presence, she furnished a fine table—something many an innkeeper would be hard put to match in this winter of want.

Harrison tapped his templed fingers against his mouth. “My lord, have you considered we shall arrive in London very late. You cannot take Miss Vance to your house.”

“Why not? I won’t have time to be there myself. We have to notify the palace of what is happening, so the prince can make alternate arrangements for his ride to Parliament. It would be best if he sent his carriage along the usual route as a decoy. And then, if I have time, I thought to meet with some of the officers at the Admiralty so we can station men along the streets and hopefully capture our villain before he commits serious harm. A night at my house—with servants present and me absent—isn’t going to limit Miss Vance’s future employment any more than her dismissal from my sister’s household.”

“I’m sure London has at least one inn with an available room.” The feminine voice cut into their quiet conversation.

Julian shifted to meet the determined hazel eyes. He studied the proud tilt of her chin, so incongruous with the unruly tresses escaping from the sadly crushed bonnet. “A woman alone at an inn would be more unsuitable.” Not to mention dangerous.

Harrison cleared his throat. “If I may suggest, Miss Vance is always welcome in my home.”

“But as you already said, we will not reach London until well into the night. That is quite an imposition.”

“My wife Alice has the gift of hospitality. If she were here, she would insist. Besides,” he winked at Miss Vance, “I’d like to think she’ll be so pleased I’ve returned that she will agree to any suggestion I make. For a day, at least.”

Julian looked from one to the other. “Well, then, let’s hope the matter concludes quickly. In the meantime we must find provisions as soon as possible. Other than a few bites of bread and cheese, neither Miss Vance nor I have eaten since yesterday’s nuncheon.”

* * *

The worst of her hunger satiated and even hastily donned in a fresh—if wrinkled—gown from her bundle, Leah snuggled back into the familiar corner of the carriage as the driver urged the horses into motion once again. A few raindrops clinked against the window and then dripped along the outside of the glass. She let her eyes drift shut, more to save herself from having to converse with Chambelston, who sat mere inches away, than from any real fatigue.

Besides, she could learn so much when the men thought her asleep. Such as Harrison’s contention that Reginald Fleming may have written the letter accusing Alec’s friends of the murder of Chambelston’s father. Why would Fleming even consider such a thing? He didn’t know anyone in their group. Unless he only sought to cause mischief—a sick joke to be played on a grieving family.

Now
that
Leah could believe more than the idea of Fleming developing a sudden interest in politics or a sudden concern for the welfare of the nation.

She peeked out from under her lids at the man beside her. He reclined against the seat, head tilted back, eyes closed, his hat shadowing his brow and his greatcoat once again shrouding him from chin to boots. How had the events of the night changed their relationship? Did he still distrust her so, after she had put her life, and Alec’s, in his hands? And perhaps even the prince’s?

The carriage skidded, lurched and tipped, tossing her against the side and hurling Chambelston atop her. The crack of shattering wood mingled with the coachman’s shout, then the entire conveyance toppled and jolted to a stop.

“Miss Vance!” The muffled voice pierced the ringing in her ears as Chambelston scrambled off her.

Leah pushed back the bonnet that had slammed across her face in the melee.

The door flew open to reveal the disheveled coachman. “She slid off the road in the ice and broke the wheel, my lord. Are you injured?”

“Not I.” Chambelston took Leah’s hand and assisted her from the floor. “Miss Vance?”

“I’m fine.” Except for the wrench to her neck and the bruises she could already feel forming on her arms. Legs. Everywhere.

Harrison crawled out of the carriage, then reached back in to help her out. Gingerly.

Once they’d all safely exited, they slogged to the other side of the vehicle. The rain had soaked into the packed snow and created a heavy, miry mess that seeped through Leah’s worn, damaged boots to saturate her stockings. Tracks cut through the slush and ended abruptly at a rut littered with pieces of the carriage’s wheel. Her gaze slipped from the scattered remains to the carriage where broken spokes jutted out from the axel like a child’s sketch of the sun.

“You might want to add this to your prayers, Harrison,” Chambelston murmured to the other man before addressing his coachman. “Any idea whether we would do better to return to the inn or take our chances on what lies ahead?”

“Well, my lord, the last village was some ways back, and I suspect we are about halfway between posting inns. I suggest we continue in the direction of London.”

Leah pulled her bonnet lower over her brow to shield her face from the cold rain. “Perhaps we’ll meet with a farmer or carrier with room on his cart for us.”

Harrison accessed the carriage and retrieved his crumpled hat. He shoved it onto his head and surveyed the lonely stretch of road that extended in both directions. “The coachman makes an excellent point about our position. However, I am less optimistic than Miss Vance about our chances for a ride on such a day.”

“Then forward it is.”

Chambelston extracted the blanket from the coach and draped it over her shoulders. “Not as comely as your mother’s shawl, but it will add another layer since I’d like to keep my coat this time. I don’t know how long we will have to hike through the rain.”

“Or worse.” Harrison kicked a pile of water-saturated snow. “As soon as the sun sets, this slop will harden to ice.”

Leah glanced at the leaden sky, estimating the time to be well into the afternoon.

Chambelston gestured to the coachman. “Let’s unhook these traces. We’ll have to lead the horses. Hopefully we can rent a bit of space for them in the next village.”

The two strode off to disconnect the horses, leaving Leah alone with Harrison.

“So you have a house in London then, Mr. Harrison?”

“Not an especially large one.”

That was...vague. Not large compared to Rowan Abbey? Or compared to the tiny vicarage of her childhood? “And you live there with your wife?”

“And our five children.”

“Five? Well, I suppose that would make any house feel small at times.”

Chambelston chuckled as his long strides reached them, one of the horses clomping in his wake. “As the fourth of six children, I will vouch for that. Some days it seemed as if I couldn’t find a few quiet moments alone. And then I joined the navy where I got to live in close quarters with hundreds of men.”