Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue (5 page)

Heather played the obedient abductee and allowed
Martha and Cobbins to usher her outside. Stepping into the forecourt, she was
just in time to see Breckenridge, in drab, dull clothing quite unlike his usual
elegant attire, turn a plain curricle out of the inn yard and set his horses
pacing up the highway, heading north.

She surmised he’d decided to go on ahead of
them.

Fletcher hadn’t taken any notice of the curricle
and its driver; he’d gone straight to their own coachman and had started some
discussion. She didn’t think Cobbins had noticed Breckenridge either, and Martha
had emerged from the inn behind her; at best she would have seen his back, and
that at a distance.

Fletcher opened the coach door and waved her in.
She climbed up and settled on the seat, in her now usual position. While the
others climbed in, she prayed Fletcher hadn’t realized her ploy, hadn’t realized
Breckenridge was following, and had therefore told her a lie.

If she lost Breckenridge’s protective presence
. . .

Even as the thought formed, along with the
realization of how very alone she would feel if she didn’t know he was close,
how very much more afraid and truly panicked she would be, she couldn’t help but
recognize how ironic it was. How strange that her nemesis—he who she habitually
avoided and thoroughly disliked—had somehow transformed into her savior.

Breckenridge, her
savior.

She very nearly snorted. Turning her head, she
looked out of the window as the coach lurched, and rumbled out of the yard.

B
reckenridge swept into Newark-on-Trent in the middle of the afternoon.
He’d driven like a demon to get far ahead of the coach carrying Heather, and the
pair of grays were flagging. He turned in at the first large posting inn and
shouted for the ostlers and stableman.

Despite his unprepossessing attire, they responded
to the voice of authority and came running. Stepping to the ground, he tossed
the reins to the first ostler, spoke to the stableman. “I need the best pair you
have, harnessed and ready to go in . . .” He drew out his fob-watch,
checked the time, then snapped it shut. Tucking it back in his pocket, he met
the stableman’s eyes. “One hour.”

“Aye, sir. And the grays?”

He gave the man the direction of the posting house
in High Barnet, then strode out of the inn yard and made for Lombard Street.

His first stop was the local branch of Child’s
Bank; once he replenished his supply of cash, he followed the bank manager’s
directions to the town’s premier bootmaker, and was lucky enough to find an
excellent pair of riding boots that fit him. His next stop was the best
gentlemen’s outfitters, where he created a small furore by demanding they
assemble for him outfits suitable for a groom and for a north country
laborer.

The head tailor goggled at him and the assistants
simply stared; holding onto his temper, he brusquely explained that the outfits
were for a country house party where fancy dress was required.

Then they fell to with appropriate zeal.

It still took longer than he would have liked. The
tailor fussed with the fitting until Breckenridge declared, “Damn it, man!
There’s no prize for being the most perfectly dressed groom in the north!”

The tailor jumped. Pins cascaded from between his
lips and scattered on the ground. His assistants rushed in to gather them
up.

The tailor swallowed. “No, of course not, sir. If
Sir will remain still, I will endeavor to remove the pins . . .
although really, such shoulders . . . well, I would have thought
. . .”

“Never mind about showing off my damned
shoulders—just make sure I have room to move.” The instant the dapper little
tailor stepped back, Breckenridge swung his arms up, then forward. Neither
jacket nor shirt ripped. “Good—these will do.”

He nodded at the other outfit and the jacket and
breeches he’d traded his evening coat for back in the Knebworth tavern. “Just
parcel those up. I’ll wear what I have on. I have to get back on the road.”

The tailor and his assistants scurried to obey.

Breckenridge paid and tipped them well, grateful
they hadn’t led him to lose his temper, which seemed to be riding on a
distinctly frayed rein.

The parcel of clothes under one arm, he strode
quickly back to the posting inn. A pair of decent-looking blacks had been
harnessed to the curricle he’d hired in Baldock to replace the too-showy
phaeton. He inspected both horses, then paid the stableman, stowed his parcel
beneath the seat, climbed up, sat, and, after testing the reins, nodded to the
ostlers. “Release them.”

The ostlers let go. Both horses lunged but
immediately felt a firm hand on the reins. They tossed their heads but quickly
settled. With a flick of his wrist, Breckenridge sent them pacing neatly to the
street, then turned out and headed briskly on, up the Great North Road.

H
e was
in position in the tap of the Old Bell Inn in Carlton-on-Trent when the coach
carrying Heather turned in under the inn’s arch and drew up in the forecourt.
Seated at a table in the front corner of the tap, he sipped a pint of ale and
watched the group descend from the coach. As before, Heather was closely guarded
and ushered toward the inn’s front door, which opened to the inn’s foyer.

The foyer, most helpfully, was separated from the
tap by a wooden partition. From where he sat, he could hear every word uttered,
even muttered, in the foyer, but no one in the foyer could see him. Of course,
he couldn’t see them either, but he hoped Heather would have noticed that there
was only one inn in the small village, and would assume he’d be somewhere
near.

He heard the front door open, followed by the usual
sounds of arrival, then someone rang the bell on the counter. He sipped and
listened as the innkeeper arrived and quickly set about the business of
welcoming his guests and getting them settled. Breckenridge paid particular
attention to the room allocations, both the women’s and Fletcher and Cobbins’s.
Like the women, the men would share a room, but their room would be in another
wing.

Breckenridge listened as Fletcher tried to change
the innkeeper’s mind and get a room closer to the women’s. The innkeeper
insisted that he only had the two rooms still available, many others being
closed due to rain damage during a recent storm. Fletcher grumbled, but
reluctantly conceded that he and his friend would take the offered room.

“Good,” Breckenridge murmured. He’d paid the
innkeeper to ensure that both Heather’s male captors would be far distant from
her room that night. He sincerely hoped that by this evening she would be ready
to quit their company and return to London. The further they went
. . . yet, as attested to by the extra disguises he’d bought, he
wasn’t placing any wagers on her coming to her senses, especially not because he
thought she should.

The abduction party fussed over their luggage, then
Heather spoke, her voice carrying clearly into the tap. “I’m unaccustomed to
being cooped up all day—I really must insist that you permit me to enjoy a short
walk.”

“Not on your life,” Fletcher growled.

From the sound, Breckenridge realized the group had
moved closer to the tap.

“You don’t need to think you’re going to give us
the slip so easily.” Fletcher again.

“My dear good man”—Heather with her nose in the
air; Breckenridge could tell by her tone—“just where in this landscape of empty
fields do you imagine I’m going to slip to?”

Cobbins opined that she might try to steal a horse
and ride off.

“Oh, yes—in a round gown and evening slippers,”
Heather jeered. “But I wasn’t suggesting you let me ramble on my own—Martha can
come with me.”

That was Martha’s cue to enter the fray, but
Heather stuck to her guns, refusing to back down through the ensuing,
increasingly heated verbal stoush.

Until Fletcher intervened, aggravated frustration
resonating in his voice. “Look you—we’re under strict orders to keep you safe,
not to let you wander off to fall prey to the first shiftless rake who rides
past and takes a fancy to you.”

Silence reigned for half a minute, then Heather
audibly sniffed. “I’ll have you know that shiftless rakes know better than to
take a fancy to me.”

Not true,
Breckenridge
thought, but that wasn’t the startling information contained in Fletcher’s
outburst. “Come on, Heather—follow up.”

As if she’d heard his muttered exhortation, she
blithely swept on, “But if rather than standing there arguing, you instead
treated me like a sensible adult and told me what your so strict orders with
respect to me were, I might see my way to complying—or at least to helping you
comply with them.”

Breckenridge blinked as he sorted through that
pronouncement; he could almost feel for Fletcher when he hissed out a sigh.

“All right.” Fletcher’s frustration had reached
breaking point. “If you must know, we’re to keep you safe from all harm. We’re
not to let a bloody pigeon pluck so much as a hair from your head. We’re to
deliver you up in prime condition, exactly as you were when we grabbed you.”

From the change in Fletcher’s tone, Breckenridge
could visualize him moving closer to tower over Heather to intimidate her into
backing down; he could have told him it wouldn’t work.

“So
now
you see,”
Fletcher went on, voice low and forceful, “that it’s entirely out of the
question for you to go out for any ramble.”

“Hmm.” Heather’s tone was tellingly mild.

Fletcher was about to get floored by an uppercut.
For once not being on the receiving end, Breckenridge grinned and waited for it
to land.

“
If,
as you say, your
orders are to—do correct me if I’m wrong—keep me in my customary excellent
health until you hand me over to your employer, then, my dear Fletcher, that
will absolutely necessitate me going for a walk. Being cooped up all day in a
carriage has never agreed with me—if you don’t wish me to weaken or develop some
unhealthy affliction, I will require fresh air and gentle exercise to recoup.”
She paused, then went on, her tone one of utmost reasonableness, “A short
excursion along the river at the rear of the inn, and back, should restore my
constitution.”

Breckenridge was certain he could hear Fletcher
breathing in and out through clenched teeth.

A fraught moment passed, then, “Oh, very well!
Martha—go with her. Twenty minutes, do you hear? Not a minute more.”

“Thank you, Fletcher. Come, Martha—we don’t want to
waste the light.”

Breckenridge heard Heather, with the rather slower
Martha, leave the inn by the main door. He sipped his ale, waited. Eventually,
Fletcher and Cobbins climbed the stairs, Cobbins grumbling, Fletcher ominously
silent.

The instant they passed out of hearing,
Breckenridge stood, stretched, then walked out of the tap and into the foyer.
Seconds later, he slipped out of the front door.

T
he
river Trent flowed peacefully along, a mere hundred yards from the rear of the
inn. A well-beaten path wended along the bank. Heather ambled down it, genuinely
glad to have the chance to stretch her legs, to breathe fresh air, but her
principal reason for insisting on the walk was to gain some inkling of whether
Breckenridge was there.

Until she saw him, she had no way of knowing if he
was—whether he’d arrived ahead of them or was still on his way.

One thing she did feel certain about was that he
would materialize and hover close. He’d said they would have to meet every
night. She was under no illusion; if he thought she was in real danger, he would
intervene and rescue her, regardless of what he might have to do to accomplish
that. By the same token, when they met that night—however they managed it—he
would most likely try to bully her into giving up her quest and returning to
London with him.

So while she walked, she reviewed all she’d
learned—not enough, but a few telling facts, enough to justify persisting, and
learning more if she could. She ordered the points in her mind.

She was mentally far away, absentmindedly
strolling, when Martha, plodding heavily alongside, said, “You’re taking this
awfully well.”

Heather glanced at her, met Martha’s shrewd
gaze.

“I’d expected,” Martha continued, “to have to deal
with hysterics—bouts of weeping and pleading at the very least.”

“Yes, well . . .” Heather pulled an
expressive face. Looking ahead, she went on, “I have to admit I did feel like
panicking at first, but . . . I’ve been wondering if I shouldn’t view
this as an adventure.” She had to deflect any suspicion, so offered the one
explanation that might serve. She gestured dramatically. “A romantical
adventure, complete with mysterious villain, who might or might not prove to be
devastatingly handsome.”

Martha snorted. “So that’s the way it is—you’re
romanticizing this blackguard who’s arranged your kidnapping.”

“Do you actually know if he’s a blackguard?”
Heather didn’t have to manufacture her concern.

Martha grimaced. “I can’t rightly say. I haven’t
had anything to do with the beggar. Fletcher and Cobbins were the ones that met
him. But,” she continued, “any blighter who arranges a kidnapping, and one as
coolly planned as this, take it from me, handsome or not, you won’t want to meet
him.” Martha glanced at her again. “Sure you don’t want to rethink those
hysterics?”

Heather arched her brows. “Will they get me any
further?”

“Not with me—and Fletcher’s more like to slap you
than come over all solicitous.”

“Well, then.” Heather tipped up her face. “I
believe I’ll just go on romanticizing, at least until I have cause not to. You
should be grateful—I’m making your task much easier.”

Martha snorted. “Speaking of which.” She halted.
“This is far enough. You may need the exercise, but I don’t—we head back from
here.”