Читать книгу Return Of Scandal's Son - Janice Preston - Страница 16

Chapter Eight

Just before dawn the following morning, Matthew was jerked awake from a fitful sleep by a piercing scream. It took a couple of moments for him to register his whereabouts—he was in one of the two rooms bespoken for Eleanor and her aunt at the White Lion in Stockport. He catapulted from his bed as a series of thuds sounded from the next bedchamber. It was dark in his room and he groped his way to the door.

In the passage, the next door but one to Matthew’s room had opened and the occupant peered out, holding aloft a candlestick. The wavering flame illuminated the scowling features of an elderly gentleman, clad in his nightcap and gown.

‘What’s to do?’ he grumbled.

Matthew didn’t waste time answering, but ran to the door between them and flung it open, vaguely aware of the man hurrying along the passage, quavering, ‘That’s my Jenny’s room!’

The bedchamber was as dark as his and all Matthew could make out was a shapeless, struggling mass on the bed. He darted forward, yelling, ‘Bring the light.’

As the elderly man reached the open door, the scene was suddenly revealed: a figure in black, turning in Matthew’s direction, eyes glinting through holes in a mask; the flash of a blade; blood, streaking the bed linen in vivid splashes of red; a girl’s terrified face, mouth suddenly slackening as her eyes closed.

Matthew grabbed the man, hauling him from the bed. He staggered backwards as the assailant swiftly changed from resistance to flinging himself at Matthew. Stiff fingers jabbed at Matthew’s windpipe as a blade burned his arm and the man wriggled free, barging past the man with the candle as he fled the room. Matthew dragged in a painful breath and rushed to the door, but the assailant was already out of sight. The elderly man—presumably Jenny’s father—stood frozen, his mouth gaping in horror.

On the verge of giving chase, a moan from the bed stayed Matthew. The victim needed help. He found a candle on the mantelshelf and lit it. He went to Jenny’s father, gripping his shoulder, then shaking him hard.

‘Sir, you must be strong.’ He could hear the sound of people stirring, voices getting louder. ‘Find the innkeeper. Tell him there has been an accident and to send for a doctor immediately. And send his wife here, to me.’ He pushed the man out into the passage. ‘Hurry!’

He crossed to the bed, shrinking inside with the dread of what he might find. Jenny lay motionless. Her face, shoulders and arms were the only parts of her visible. Her arms and hands bore the signs of struggle. Blood seeped from her wounds, but it wasn’t pumping out. That was a good sign. Matthew put a finger to her neck, feeling for a pulse. It was there, not as weak as he feared. He lifted the candle, to examine the bedclothes that covered Jenny. The slashes he had feared to see were not there. The blood appeared to have come from Jenny’s arms and hands and one long diagonal slash from her left collarbone that had ripped through her nightgown. Matthew grabbed a towel from the washstand to try and stanch the bleeding. Jenny did not stir.

As he worked, Matthew’s mind travelled back to India and to his great-uncle, Percy, who had been so kind to a bewildered and resentful youth, unjustly banished from his family and his homeland. Poor Uncle Percy, who had died after being attacked and stabbed during the course of a robbery. Matthew’s throat squeezed tight as he relived his futile efforts to save his great-uncle. He prayed Jenny had suffered no injuries other than those he could see.

His thoughts returned to the present as the innkeeper’s wife, Mrs Goody, bustled into the room, followed by Jenny’s father.

‘Lord have mercy, sir,’ Mrs Goody gasped, hands clasped at her ample bosom as she halted by the bed. ‘Whatever happened?’

‘She was attacked. Her hands, arms and upper chest are bleeding, but I do not think she has been stabbed elsewhere.’

‘Stabbed? My Jenny? Oh, Jenny, Jenny, my love...’ The elderly man cast himself on to his knees by the bed, clutching at Jenny’s hand. Her eyelids fluttered.

‘Goody’s sent for the doctor,’ Mrs Goody said. She glanced at Jenny’s father, then leaned towards Matthew, lowering her voice. ‘Did you examine the girl for more injuries, sir, or...?’

Matthew felt heat flood his cheeks, understanding both her question and her discretion. Her father had enough to worry about.

‘No,’ he said.

Poor girl. Depending on her position in society, if news of this got out there would always be gossip and innuendo about her innocence. The thought made his blood simmer. ‘No,’ he repeated. ‘I merely examined the bedcovers and, as they do not appear torn, I took that to mean she was only injured in those areas we can see.’

‘Thank you, sir. We will do all we can to protect her. Can I ask you to find Goody and ask him to boil water and send up some clean linen? If you close the door on the way out, I’ll check the lass for any further injuries. Oh, to think such an evil thing could happen here.’

On his way to find the innkeeper, Matthew came to a dead stop, his knees suddenly weak. Dear God! The realisation robbed him of his breath. Had he not swapped accommodation with Eleanor and her aunt, it could have been one of them in that room tonight. He quelled the wave of nausea that invaded him—there would be time enough for that horror later.

After speaking to Goody, Matthew sped back to the bedchamber, with a bundle of clean cloths, to find Jenny awake. As he entered, her eyes widened and she clutched at her father. Mrs Goody shooed him from the room.

‘She’s had a terrible fright, sir. It’ll take her time to get over it. You go on back to bed. You’ve done all you can.’ Her eyes skimmed him and then she touched his arm. ‘You’re bleeding. I’ll fetch a cloth to bind it.’

Matthew remembered that burning sensation as he had grappled with the attacker. He pulled up the sleeve of his nightshirt. It did not look deep. Mrs Goody soon returned with a strip of linen. She wrung a cloth out in cold water from the washstand.

As she bathed and bound his arm, she said, ‘The lass has no other injuries, sir, thank the good Lord. None at all, if you get my meaning. It was a lucky thing for her that you were there.’

Matthew nodded, relieved for poor Jenny. At least she did not have that nightmare to deal with on top of everything else. He pulled on his clothes and sought out the innkeeper again. Goody had already roused some of his ostlers to search for Jenny’s attacker and Matthew joined them. How he regretted not chasing the villain immediately but, with Jenny’s father in a state of shock and without knowing how severe Jenny’s injuries were, he knew he had been right to tend to her first.

A lengthy and thorough search of the area around the White Lion—joined by other local men—proved fruitless. Whoever the culprit was, it seemed he was long gone, or holed up somewhere. Matthew returned to the inn and ate a hearty breakfast, after which Goody beckoned him into a room at the back of the inn. Jenny’s father levered himself to his feet as Matthew entered.

‘George Tremayne,’ he said, in a gruff voice, holding out a trembling hand.

Matthew shook it. ‘Matthew Thomas.’

‘I must thank you for what you did for my daughter. I don’t know what I should do if...’ His voice cracked, and he harrumphed noisily, taking a large handkerchief from his pocket and blowing his nose.

‘How is Jenny?’

‘As well as she can be. Physically, at least. She is still very shaken. The doctor advised her to stay here for a few days’ rest, but she doesn’t want to spend another night under this roof.’

‘Understandable,’ Matthew said.

‘The magistrate and the constable were here, asking questions,’ Mr Tremayne said. ‘They want to speak with you.’

Matthew grimaced. ‘I don’t think I can tell them much to help. The rogue was masked. Do they know how he got in?’

‘A window at the back was open. There’s a lean-to roof just below. They think he was a thief and Jenny woke up at the wrong time. She doesn’t remember much. That’s probably for the best.’

‘Indeed. Is the magistrate still here?’

‘No, but he said he will come back later and asked that you remain here until then.’

Matthew quashed his frustration. The sooner he left, the sooner he could catch up with Eleanor and her party on the road and assure himself of her safety. Had she been the real target? If the attacker had meant to kill, he would know he had failed. And, if he was still in the town, he would soon discover he’d attacked the wrong girl anyway. Eleanor was still very much in danger.

* * *

It was mid-morning before the magistrate returned and Matthew could recount his version of events and answer his questions. At first, he seemed disposed to believe Matthew the culprit, until Matthew pointed out—with some vigour—that Mr Tremayne had also seen Jenny’s masked attacker. Finally, satisfied Matthew had given all the information he could, the magistrate gave Matthew leave to continue his journey. The interview had seemed to Matthew to last a lifetime and he had fretted throughout. All thought of returning to Ashton to attend the boxing match was forgotten. He was convinced Eleanor was in grave danger and his one thought was to protect her.

The minute he was free to leave, he leapt aboard his curricle—with Henry perched on the rumble seat behind—and whipped up the horses. It was almost noon already. Even though he doubted Eleanor would have set off early—bearing in mind she must arrange a suitable replacement for the damaged carriage first—her party must surely have passed through Stockport already, on their way to the capital.

Matthew drove south, worry gnawing at him as he wondered what further dangers Eleanor might face. He varied the pace, mindful of the need not to overtire his horses, but also needing enough speed to give him some chance of catching up with Eleanor’s party. He was conscious of Henry muttering behind his back and, upon hearing his man’s sharp intake of breath as they flew past a lumbering farm wagon with mere inches to spare, Matthew shot a quick glance over his shoulder.

‘You do know, I s’pose, that this is the wrong road for Ashton?’ Henry said, leaning forward to speak into Matthew’s ear.

‘Indeed.’

‘Can I ask where we’re headed?’

‘That,’ Matthew replied, setting his teeth as he narrowly avoided a stagecoach coming in the opposite direction, ‘is a very good question. I don’t precisely know. But we are following Lady Ashby and her party. They are heading for London. I need to find out where they will stop for the night.’

‘You think that attack was connected to them?’

Matthew tamped down the surge of fear as the image of Jenny, lying bloodied in her bed, rose in his mind. Her features rearranged themselves in his imagination until it was Eleanor’s face he saw and he knew, deep in his gut, that she might now be dead, had they not swapped accommodation.

‘I am certain of it,’ he replied. ‘We must enquire at the posting inns we pass, to find out if they have changed horses. We can ask if anyone knows where they plan to stop for the night. Whoever was responsible for the accident and the attack clearly knows the route she is taking and could try again.’

‘Last night brought it all back, didn’t it?’ Henry said. ‘You aren’t responsible. You weren’t responsible. You can’t protect the whole world and everyone in it.’

Matthew clenched his jaw. Henry had been with him since the early days in India, and was a trusted employee, taking on the roles of both servant and groom as required. He knew Henry referred to Uncle Percy’s death, but Matthew was still haunted by his insistence on going out that night. If only he had been at home... The guilt had near overwhelmed him at the time. His uncle’s death had spurred Matthew’s decision to return home. There was no one to anchor him to India now and he and Benedict could run their business equally well from England.

He was driven by the need to protect. It was in his nature, a part of him, but that did not fully explain why the thought of Eleanor being hurt made his stomach clench with such fear. Frustration flooded him as their progress was slowed by the need to enquire for the travellers at every likely-looking inn they passed, and the need to rest his own horses.

‘Where on earth can they be?’ he bit out, as they drew yet another blank. ‘They must have stopped for the night by now.’

‘Maybe they just had too much of a head start on us, sir. Now, don’t bite my head off, but them cattle are getting weary and you’ll be risking their tendons if we carry on much further.’

Matthew knew Henry was right. He cast a worried look at the sun, sinking to the horizon, then straightened in his seat as a milestone proclaimed they were one mile from Leek.

‘This must be it,’ he muttered. ‘They surely can’t have gone any further today. They have to be here.’

* * *

Shortly afterwards, they drew up in the yard of the George, situated right in the middle of the small market town, where the first person they saw was Timothy. Leaving Henry to see to the horses, Matthew strode into the inn, breathing easily—it seemed—for the first time that day.

‘William Brooke at your service, sir—landlord of this fine hostelry. How may I be of assistance?’

‘Good evening, Brooke. I understand Lady Ashby is a guest here tonight? I wish to see her.’

The innkeeper lowered his gaze. ‘Lady Ashby, sir? I’m sure I couldn’t say. Might I ask who is enquiring?’

Matthew resisted the urge to grab the fool by his neck. Drawing himself up to his full height, he looked down his nose at Brooke. ‘My good man,’ he announced haughtily, ‘I am Lord Ashby. Now, please be so good as to conduct me to my wife.’

The innkeeper bowed low, almost wringing his hands in his obsequiousness. ‘My humblest apologies, my lord, I wasn’t expecting you. Your lady is in the private parlour, if you would please follow me?’

Matthew followed Brooke along a passageway to the rear of the inn. The innkeeper paused outside a closed door and Matthew stayed him before he could announce Matthew’s presence.

‘Thank you, Brooke, that will be all. If you could see that we are not disturbed, I should be grateful.’

‘Very good, my lord.’ Brooke backed away, bowing as he retreated.

The fear that had plagued Matthew since before dawn that morning receded only to be replaced by a rush of anger, stoked by Brooke’s meek acceptance of his identity.

I could be anybody.

He hauled the door open and stepped inside the room.

There, sitting at her ease on a comfortable sofa, glass of wine in hand, was the object of all his fretting and fears throughout the long day. Relief exploded through him and all his pent-up emotions surged to the fore as he slammed the door shut and crossed the room in three swift strides.