Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue (4 page)

He himself had two older sisters, Lady Constance Rafferty and Lady Cordelia Marchmain. He frequently referred to them as his evil ugly sisters, yet he’d slay dragons for either, and despite their frequent lecturing and hounding, they loved him, too. Presumably that was why they lectured and hounded. God knew it wasn’t for the results.

Nearing the ground, he swung his legs back from the wall, released the pipe, and dropped to the gravel at the side of the inn. He’d bribed the innkeeper to tell him which room he’d put the pretty lady in; still clad in his evening clothes, it hadn’t been hard to assume the persona of a dangerous rake.

Straightening, he stood for a moment in the chill night air, mentally canvassing all he needed to do. He would have to swap the phaeton for something less noticeable, but he’d keep the grays, at least for now. Glancing down at his clothes, he winced. They would have to go, too.

With a sigh, he set out to walk the short distance to the small tavern down the road at which he’d hired a room.

High above, Heather stood peering out of the window. She saw Breckenridge stride away and let out a sigh of relief. She hadn’t been able to see him until he’d walked away from the wall; she’d been waiting, watching, worried he might have slipped and fallen.

She might not like him—not at all—and she certainly didn’t appreciate his dictatorial ways, but she wouldn’t want him hurt, especially not when he’d come to rescue her. She might have decided against being rescued yet, but she wasn’t so foolish as to reject his help. His support. Even, if it came to it, his protection—in the perfectly acceptable sense.

His abilities in that regard would be, she suspected, not to be sneezed at.

Still, she found it odd that the instant she’d recognized him outside the window, confidence and certainty had infused her. In that moment, all her earlier trepidation had fled.

Inwardly shrugging, she turned from the window. Assured, more resolute, infinitely more certain the path forward she’d chosen was the right one, she padded back to the bed, flicked the coverlet back over the sheets, slipped beneath, and laid her head on the pillow.

Smiled at the memory of Breckenridge’s expression when he’d gestured at her to open the window; he hadn’t been his usual impassive self then. Amused, relieved, she closed her eyes and slept.

Chapter Three

T
he next
morning, relatively early, Heather found herself back in the coach and heading
north once more.

Martha had woken an hour after dawn and consented
to hand Heather the round gown of plain green cambric they’d brought for her to
wear. Heather had retrieved her fringed silk shawl, but her amber silk evening
gown and her small evening reticule had been packed into Martha’s commodious
satchel. Martha’s planning hadn’t extended to footwear. With the woolen cloak
about her and her evening slippers on her feet, Heather had been escorted
downstairs to a private parlor.

Over breakfast, taken with Fletcher, Cobbins, and
the hatchet-faced Martha, Heather had had no chance to even make eye contact
with the busy serving girls. If anyone did come asking after her, she doubted
that the overworked girls would even remember her.

While she’d eaten, she’d thought back over her
behavior in the carriage the previous night. Although she’d asked questions, she
hadn’t given her captors any reason to believe she was the sort of young lady
who might seriously challenge them or disobey their orders. Admittedly she
hadn’t burst into tears, or wrung her hands and sobbed pitifully, but they’d
been warned she was clever, so they shouldn’t have expected that.

Although it had gone very much against her grain,
by the time they’d risen and she’d been ushered, under close guard, into the
waiting coach, she’d decided to play to their apparent perceptions, to appear
malleable and relatively helpless despite her supposed intelligence. Her plan,
as she’d taken her seat on the forward-facing bench once more, was to lull the
trio into viewing her much as a schoolgirl they were escorting home.

In the few minutes while she, Martha, and Cobbins
had waited in the coach for Fletcher to finish with the innkeeper and join them,
she’d looked out of the coach window and seen an ostler holding a prancing bay
gelding, saddled and waiting for its rider.

The temptation to open the coach door, jump down,
race the few feet to the horse, grab the reins, mount, and thunder back down the
road toward London had flared—and just as quickly had died. Not only would the
maneuver have been fraught with risk—with no money or possessions, let alone
proper clothes, she might have potentially jumped from frying pan into fire—but,
successful or not, it would have ensured she got no chance to learn more about
what lay behind her abduction.

She’d decided she would have to rely on
Breckenridge, have to count on him following her. She’d wondered if he’d yet
risen from his bed. He was one of the foremost rakes of the ton; such gentlemen
were assumed to see little of the morning, certainly not during the Season.

Then Fletcher had climbed in, shut the door, and
the coach had jerked, rumbled forward, and turned north—and she’d discovered
that trusting in Breckenridge wasn’t all that hard. Some part of her had already
decided to.

She bided her time, lulling her three captors as
planned, letting a silent hour pass as the miles slid by. She waited until
sufficient time had elapsed to allow her to lean forward, peer out, and somewhat
peevishly inquire, “Is it much farther?”

She looked at Fletcher, but he only grinned. The
other two, when she glanced questioningly at them, simply closed their eyes.

Looking again at Fletcher, she frowned. “You might
at least tell me how long I’ll be cooped up in this carriage.”

“For some time yet.”

She opened her eyes wide. “But won’t we be stopping
for morning tea?”

“Sorry. That’s not on our schedule.”

She looked horrified. “But surely we’ll be stopping
for lunch?”

“Lunch, yes, but that won’t be for a while.”

Adopting a put-upon expression, she subsided, but
“stopping for lunch” suggested they would be heading on afterward. She debated,
then asked, “How far north are you taking me?” She made her voice small, as if
the thought worried her. Which it did.

Fletcher considered her but volunteered only, “A
ways yet.”

She let another mile or two slide by before
restlessly shifting, then asking, “This employer of yours—do you normally work
for him?”

Fletcher shook his head. “We work for hire, me and
Cobbins, and as we’ve known Martha forever, she agreed to assist us.”

“So he approached you?”

Fletcher nodded.

“Where did you meet him?”

Fletcher grinned. “Glasgow.”

She met Fletcher’s eyes, grimaced, and fell silent
again. She’d eat her best bonnet if either Fletcher or Cobbins hailed from north
of the border, and from her accent, Martha was definitely a Londoner
. . . did that mean the man who’d hired them was Glaswegian?

Were they actually imagining taking her over the
border?

Heather longed to ask, but Fletcher was watching
her with a faintly taunting smile on his face. He knew her questions weren’t
idle, which meant he’d tell her nothing useful. At least, not intentionally.

Yet from what he’d let fall, she had at least until
sometime after lunch to quiz him and the others. Folding her arms, she closed
her eyes and decided to lull him some more.

There were really only two answers she needed
before she escaped—who had hired them, and why.

She opened her eyes when the houses of St. Neots
closed around the coach. They passed a clock tower, the dial of which confirmed
it was only midmorning. Stretching, she surveyed the view outside, then settled
back and fixed her gaze on Fletcher. “Have you and Cobbins always worked
together?”

That wasn’t the question he’d been expecting. After
a moment, he nodded. “Grew up together, we did.”

“In London?”

Fletcher’s smile returned. “Nah—up north. But we’ve
been down in London a lot over the years. Lots of jobs there for gentlemen like
us.”

She wondered, then decided it wouldn’t hurt to ask,
“I don’t suppose you’d consider earning more than your employer is paying you by
turning the coach around and taking me home?”

Fletcher shook his head. “No. Much as I wouldn’t
say no to extra money, double-crossing an employer is never good for
business.”

She frowned. “Is he—your employer—paying you so
well then?”

“He’s paying all he needs to get the job done.”

“So he’s wealthy?”

Fletcher hesitated. “I didn’t say that.”

No, but you believe he
is.
She sat forward. “I’m curious—how does a man like your employer
go about hiring men like you? You can’t possibly put a notice in the news sheets
advertising your services.”

Fletcher chuckled. Even Cobbins cracked a
smile.

“We get business on recommendation,” Fletcher
explained. “I don’t know who mentioned us to him, but he sent word to our
contact, and we met him in a tavern. He laid the job before us, and we accepted.
Simple enough.”

“So you don’t know his name?” It was one step too
far, but, she judged, worth the gamble.

Fletcher’s expression closed, but when she
continued to look expectantly at him, his slow, taunting smile returned. “It’s
no use, Miss Wallace, but if you truly want, I can put my hand on my heart”—he
suited action to the words—“and tell you he called himself McKinsey.”

She caught the implication. “That’s not his
name.”

“No, it’s not. And before you bother asking, I
don’t know his real name—he’s the type wise men don’t question about anything
they don’t want to reveal.”

She pulled a face and sat back. And asked nothing
more for the moment.

The man who had hired them to kidnap her and
deliver her to him was wealthy, lived somewhere in the north, possibly as far
north as Glasgow, and was of the caliber to inspire a healthy respect, if not
fear, in men like Fletcher.

Despite her curiosity over his identity, she felt
increasingly certain she didn’t want to actually meet the man.

T
hey
halted for lunch a little after noon in the village of Stretton. As they turned
into the forecourt of an inn, Heather noted the sign—the Friar and Keys. She’d
been this far on the Great North Road on several trips to visit her cousin
Richard and his wife Catriona in Scotland, but she couldn’t say she recognized
the village.

Descending from the coach, she eased her cramped
limbs, then looked swiftly around. Would Breckenridge notice that they’d
stopped?

Assuming, of course, that he was indeed following
and wasn’t too far behind.

“Come along.” Martha took her arm and propelled her
toward the inn’s main door. “Let’s order that lunch you were asking after before
Fletcher changes his mind.”

Heather went docilely enough, but the comment had
her glancing back. Fletcher and Cobbins had left the coach, which, thankfully,
was being led not deeper into the yard but to one side of the forecourt, where
it would be readily visible from the highway. Fletcher and the taciturn Cobbins
had walked to the highway’s edge and were looking back along the road, talking,
possibly arguing, as they watched.

Allowing herself to be led inside, then steered to
a wood-paneled booth in the back corner of the taproom, at Martha’s nod Heather
sat, then scooted along the seat so Martha could sit, too, hemming Heather in
against the wall. She looked toward the door. Fletcher and Cobbins had yet to
come inside.

A serving girl approached. Martha asked what was
available, then ordered shepherd’s pie for them all. “And three mugs of ale.”
Martha glanced at Heather, then added, “And one of cider.”

The serving girl nodded and took herself off.

“Thank you,” Heather said.

Martha only grunted.

Heather let a moment of silence elapse, then, her
gaze still on the open door, asked, “What’s Fletcher waiting for?” Could this be
where she was to be handed over?

“He’s just playing cautious. It’s habit with him.
He’s making sure no one’s following us along.”

Heather’s heart sped up. Keeping her tone even, she
ventured, “But how could anyone be following? If they’d seen me snatched off the
street, they would have caught up long before now, surely?”

Martha nodded. “So you’d think. But like I said,
old Fletcher’s a man of caution. No doubt but that’s why he’s survived for so
long.”

The serving girl arrived with a tray piled with
plates. Another came up bearing four mugs. The pair blocked Heather’s view of
the main door. By the time they deposited the plates and mugs and drew back, she
was ready to suggest that she or Martha, or even the serving girls, should
summon Fletcher and Cobbins before their meals grew cold, but then she glanced
at the door and saw Cobbins, followed by Fletcher, enter.

She nearly sighed with relief. Reaching for her
cider, she took a calming sip.

Cobbins sat opposite. Fletcher followed him onto
the booth’s bench seat. He met Martha’s eyes. “No one. Looks like we got clean
away.”

Martha, mouth already full, barely looked up from
her plate to nod.

Cobbins lifted his fork and dug into the mound
before him. Fletcher followed suit.

Heather picked up her fork, prodded at the meat
topped with potato, then lifted a small bite. She tentatively tried it, then
went back for more. The dish was surprisingly tasty.

She didn’t know what made her look up several
minutes later, but glancing at the door she saw Breckenridge standing just
inside the room. He was looking at her but immediately shifted his gaze,
surveying the tap as if deciding where to sit.

Pretending to look down at her plate, from beneath
her lashes she surreptitiously watched as he stirred, then, surprisingly
silently for such a large man, tacked through the tables, heading toward their
booth.

She blinked and lifted her head when he disappeared
behind the high panel at Fletcher’s back; he’d slipped into the next booth,
behind her male captors.

Which almost certainly meant he would overhear
anything they said.

Laying down her fork, fixing her gaze on Fletcher,
she took a sip of cider, then cleared her throat. “Where are you taking me?”
Looking down, she set her mug back down. Carefully, as if she were nervous and
tense.

Fletcher shot her an assessing glance. “We’re
taking you further north.”

She looked up, met his gaze, tried for beseeching.
“But how far? Further up the Great North Road? Or somewhere else?” She managed
to imbue the last words with an unspecified dread, as if there were something
she feared in the north, something other than her abductors’ employer.

Fletcher frowned. “Like I said—north.”

“But
where
in the
north?” Histrionically, she spread her arms. “There’s lots of places north of
here! Where—” She artistically let her breath catch, swallowed, then went on
more quietly, “Where are we stopping for the night?”

Her tone suggested she was close to panic at the
idea they might stop too close to that something.

Fletcher frowned harder. Leaning forward, he
lowered his voice. “I don’t know what bee’s got into your bonnet, but we’re
stopping at Carlton-on-Trent overnight.” He searched her face. “Is there any
reason we shouldn’t?”

Breckenridge might not have heard.

She raised her head, hauled in a breath.
“Carlton-on-Trent?” She summoned a weak smile, then shook her head. “No, no
. . . there’s no reason we can’t stop at Carlton-on-Trent.”

“Good.” Fletcher sat back, still frowning, then he
glanced at the other two. “Eat and drink up. Let’s get back on the road.”

The other two grumbled. Heather quickly ate a few
more bites of her nearly cold lunch. The others were still clearing their
plates; heads down, none of them noticed the large man who rose from the next
booth. Without a single glance in their direction, Breckenridge walked out of
the inn.

“Come on.” Fletcher pushed back his plate and
stood.

The others more slowly followed him out of the
booth.