Читать книгу The Wayward Governess - Joanna Fulford, Joanna Fulford - Страница 9

Gleams of moonlight shone through flying rags of cloud, its pale glow illuminating the moor and the winding road along which the wagon made its steady progress. Drawn by four great draught horses it lumbered on, its load a dark mass concealed beneath a heavy tarpaulin. Apart from the driver and his companion on the box, six others accompanied the wagon, big men chosen for their physical strength. Two walked in front with lighted torches; the others rode on either side of the vehicle. All were armed with clubs and pistols. Conversation was kept to a minimum. The only sounds were the wind and the muffled rumbling of iron-rimmed wheels over the track. For it was more track than road, an ancient drovers’ trail that crossed the hills above Helmshaw. As they walked the men kept a sharp look out, their eyes scanning the roadway ahead and the pooled shadows to either side. No other sound or movement revealed any more human presences. The little convoy might have been the last living things upon the face of the earth.

‘All quiet so far,’ muttered the driver, ‘but I’ll not be sorry to see journey’s end.’

His companion merely grunted assent.

‘If it weren’t for t’money you’d not catch me out here with this lot,’ the other continued. ‘I thought long and hard about it I can tell thee. A man should be at his fireside of an evening, not wandering t’moors to be prey to scum.’

Another grunt greeted this. Seeing his companion wasn’t in a responsive mood, Jethro Timms gave up the attempt at conversation. From time to time he eyed the other man. A taciturn cove, he thought, and no mistake. However, what he lacked in amiability he made up for in sheer physical presence for he was tall and well made with a lean, athletic figure that had about it something of a military bearing, though nothing about his clothing suggested it. Coat, breeches and boots, though strong and serviceable, had seen better days. Still, the driver reflected, that was not surprising. Since Napoleon went to Elba there were lots of ex-soldiers roaming the land looking for work, though heaven knew it was in short supply. If a man was desperate enough he might volunteer to ride guard on a wagon in the middle of the night.

He gave his companion another sideways glance, but the other seemed unaware of it, his gaze on the way ahead. Dark hair was partly concealed under a hat which shadowed the strong lines of brow and jaw. Down one cheek the faint line of a scar was just visible. It might have been a sabre slash, but the driver didn’t care to ask. Something about those steel-grey eyes forbade it. Nevertheless, he thought, Eden was a comforting presence tonight, not least for the blunderbuss he held across his knee and the brace of pistols thrust into his belt.

Timms made no further attempt to break the silence and the wagon lumbered on. Gradually the scenery began to change, the open heath giving way to more rugged terrain as the track passed through a deep valley. On either hand the dark mass of the hillsides was just visible against the paler cloud above, but to one side the ground fell away in a steep drop to the stream. As it passed through the declivity the track narrowed. Suddenly Eden sat up, his expression intent.

Timms swallowed hard. ‘What is it?’

‘I thought I heard something. Stones sliding.’

‘I can’t hear owt.’

For a moment or two they listened, but the only sounds were the wind through the heather and the chuckling water below.

‘Tha must have imagined…’

The driver’s words were lost as the darkness erupted in a flash of fire and the sharp report of a pistol. A linkman cried out and fell, his torch lying unheeded on the path. As though at a signal a dozen dark shapes rose from the concealing heather and rushed forwards. Cursing, Timms reined in his startled team as a masked attacker reached up to drag him from his seat. Beside him the blunderbuss roared and a man screamed, falling back into the darkness. On the other side of the wagon two others launched themselves at Eden. He swung the blunderbuss hard and felt it connect with bone. His attacker staggered and fell. The other came on. Eden kicked out at the masked face and heard cartilage crunch beneath the sole of his boot. A muffled curse followed and the would-be assailant reeled away, clutching his ruined nose. Eden drew the pistols from his belt as his gaze took in the chaos of struggling shadowy forms in the roadway. As another masked face loomed out of the dark he loosed off a shot. The ball took the man between the eyes and he fell without a sound. Several others swarmed toward the wagon.

Timms, struggling to control the restive horses, cried a warning as hands reached up to drag him from the box. Eden heard it and, turning, fired the second pistol. He heard a yelp of pain and saw a man go down, but almost immediately another shot rang out and Timms swore, clutching his arm. A moment later he was dragged from the box and lost to view. Other hands caught hold of Eden. Instead of resisting them he threw himself forwards, diving off the wagon to land on top of his assailants in the road. Fists and feet connected with flesh amid muffled cries and oaths. Then he was free. Leaping to his feet, he spun round to find himself staring at the mouth of a pistol. Pale moonlight afforded a swift impression of cold eyes glinting above a mask, and below it a soiled green neckcloth. For one split second something stirred in Eden’s memory. Then there was a burst of flame and a loud report. Hot lead tore into flesh and he staggered, clutching his shoulder. Blood welled beneath his fingers and then vicious pain exploded in a burst of light behind his eyeballs and he fell.

He lay in the dirt for some moments, aware only of the pain that seemed to have replaced all other sensation. The sounds of fighting receded. With an effort of will he forced back the threatening faintness and became aware of a voice issuing instructions. Moonlight revealed dark figures round the wagon, some unhitching the horses, others loosening the ropes that held the load, flinging back the tarpaulin to reveal the crate beneath. Eden’s jaw tightened as the figures swarmed aboard and levered it off the wagon. As in slow motion it crashed onto the road and rolled forwards down the slope, tumbling over and over, gathering momentum until it came to rest, smashed and broken on the rocky streambed below. A ragged cheer went up from the wreckers. At that a man stepped forwards to face the remaining members of the escort. Like his companions his face was covered by a scarf and his hat pulled low.

‘Tell Harlston his machines are not wanted here,’ he said. ‘Any attempt to replace this one will result in more of the same.’

With that he jerked his head towards his companions and the whole group made off into the darkness. Eden tried to rise, but the pain scythed through his shoulder. Crimson bombs exploded behind his eyes and then blackness took him.

He had no idea how long he lay there; it might have been minutes or hours. For some moments he did not move, aware only of cold air on his face and the dull throbbing ache in his shoulder. Instinctively he lifted his hand to the wound and felt the stickiness of blood. Then the details began to return. As he became more aware of his surroundings the first thing that struck him was the eerie silence, a hush broken only by the wind and the stream. The sky was a lighter shade and the stars fading so dawn could not be far off. Experimentally he tried to rise; pain savaged him and he bit back a cry. With an effort of will he dragged himself to a nearby boulder and used it to support his back while he forced himself to a sitting position. The effort brought beads of cold sweat to his forehead and it was some minutes before he could catch his breath. Then he looked around. In the predawn half light he could make out the dark silent shapes that were the bodies of the slain. Grim-faced, he counted half a dozen. Where were the rest? The wreckers were long gone, but surely some of the wagon escort had lived. He could see no sign of the wagon or the horses. Had the surviving members just abandoned their fellows to their fate and saved their own skins?

Anger forced Eden to his knees and thence to his feet, using the rock to steady himself. Agony seared through the injured shoulder. His legs trembled like reeds. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he drew in a few deep breaths. As he did so he glanced over the edge of the hillside. Among the rocks that lined the stream he saw the smashed remains of the power loom and with it the wagon. At the sight his fists clenched, but he understood now why he had been left behind in this place. The survivors had taken the horses for themselves and the injured. He had been mistaken for one of the dead. The thought occurred that if he didn’t find help soon he might well be among their number. The nearest town was Helmshaw: Harlston’s Mill was located on its edge. It was perhaps two miles distant. Mentally girding himself for the effort and the coming pain, Eden stumbled away down the track.

His progress was pitifully slow because every few minutes he was forced to rest. The sky was much lighter now and the track clear enough, but pain clouded his mind until he could think of nothing else. Moreover, the darkened patch of dried blood on his coat was overlain with a new scarlet wetness that spread past the edges of the original stain. He had tried to stanch the bleeding with a wadded handkerchief, but that too was sodden red. His strength was ebbing fast and only sheer will forced him to put one foot in front of the other. He had gone perhaps half a mile when the level track began to rise at the start of a long steady climb up the next hill. Eden managed another fifty yards before pain and exhaustion overcame his will and he collapsed on the path in a dead faint.

Claire was woken just after dawn by heavy pounding on the front door. Her heart thumped painfully hard and for one dreadful moment she wondered if her uncle had discovered her whereabouts and was come to drag her away. Forcing herself to take a deep breath, she slipped from the bed and threw a shawl about her shoulders. Then she crept to the bedroom door and opened it a crack, listening intently. The pounding on the door increased and was followed by Eliza’s indignant tones as she went to answer it. Then a man’s voice was heard demanding the doctor. Claire breathed a sigh of relief. Not her uncle, then.

‘What’s so urgent that the doctor must be dragged from his bed at this hour?’ demanded Eliza.

‘There’s half a dozen injured men at Harlston’s Mill,’ the man replied. ‘Some bad hurt.’

‘Good gracious! Not another accident?’

‘No accident. They were escorting a consignment of new machinery for t’mill. Seems they were attacked on their way over t’moor. There’s been some killed an’ all.’

‘Heaven preserve us from such wickedness! Wait here! I’ll fetch the doctor.’

Within a quarter of an hour Dr Greystoke had left the house. Claire heard the sound of horses’ hooves as the men rode away, and in some anxiety digested what she had heard. Her limited knowledge of the machinebreakers’ activities had been gleaned from newspaper accounts: here evidently it was far more than just a story of distant industrial unrest. Here the violence was all too real. Could it be true that men had lost their lives? The thought was chilling. What could make men so desperate that they were prepared to kill?

It was a question she put to Ellen when they met in the breakfast parlour some time later.

‘When the war with France cut off foreign trade it caused a lot of hardship hereabouts,’ her friend replied. ‘Even now that Napoleon is exiled the situation is slow to change. The advent of the power looms is seen as yet another threat to men’s livelihoods.’

‘Then why do mill owners like Harlston antagonise the workforce in that way?’

‘They see it as progress and in a way I suppose it is. The new machines are faster and more efficient by far than the old looms. All the same, it is hard to reconcile that knowledge with the sight of children starving.’

Claire pondered the words, for they suggested a world she had no experience of. In spite of recent events her life had been sheltered and comfortable for the most part and although she had lost her parents she had still been clothed and fed and there had always been a roof over her head. Other children were not as fortunate. For so many orphans the only choice was the workhouse. If they survived that, it usually led to a life of drudgery after. For a young and unprotected girl the world was hazardous indeed. Recalling the scene in Gartside, she shuddered.

‘Are you all right, Claire? You look awfully pale.’

‘Yes, a slight headache is all.’

‘No wonder with all you’ve been through.’

Claire managed a wan smile. She hadn’t told Ellen about the incident with Stone and his cronies. She had felt too ashamed; the memory of it made her feel dirty somehow and she wanted nothing more than to forget about it. Yet now it returned with force and with it the recollection of the man who had saved her.

‘Why don’t you go for a walk this morning?’ Ellen continued. ‘I’m sure the fresh air would do you good.’

‘Yes, perhaps you are right.’

‘There is a gate in the garden wall that leads out onto the moor. It is quite a climb, but the views from the top are worth the effort.’

‘I could take my sketchbook.’

Ellen smiled. ‘You have kept up your drawing, then?’

‘Oh, yes. It is one of my greatest pleasures.’

‘You were always so gifted that way. I shall look forward to seeing your work later.’

‘Will you not come with me?’

‘I wish I could, but this morning I have an engagement in town. Never fear, though, we shall take many walks together in future. The countryside hereabouts is very fine.’

Looking out across the sunlit moor an hour later Claire could only agree with her friend’s assessment. From her vantage point she could see the town below, and the mill, and then the wide expanse of rolling heath and the hills beyond. Far above her a skylark poured out its soul in song. Listening to it, Claire felt her spirits lift for the first time and suddenly the future seemed less threatening. Smiling, she walked on, revelling in the fresh air and exercise.

She had followed the track for another mile or so when she saw the figure lying on the path. It was a man and he was lying very still. Claire frowned. What on earth was he doing there? How had he got there? She approached with caution but he did not move. Her gaze took in boots, breeches and coat and the dark stain on the shoulder. It was unmistakably blood. Swallowing hard, she drew nearer and then gasped.

‘Mr Eden!’

In a moment she was beside him, her fingers seeking his wrist for a pulse. For a moment she couldn’t find one and her heart sank. Her fingers moved to his neck and in trembling relief she found it at last, a slow and feeble beat. His face was very pale, the skin waxy where it showed above the stubble of his beard. When she spoke to him again there was no response. Claire gently lifted the edge of his coat and her eyes widened.

‘Dear God,’ she murmured.

Shirt and waistcoat were soaked, as was the wadded handkerchief thrust between. He had been shot. Shocked to the core, she stared a second or two at the scarlet stain. Who could have done such a thing? Unbidden, the memory of their first meeting returned and she heard Stone’s voice: ‘You’ll get yours, Eden, I swear it.’ Feeling sick and guilty, Claire bit her lip. Was this her fault? Had his earlier action brought this on him? There was no time for further reflection; he needed help and soon. She looked around in desperation, her mind retracing her route and the length of time it would take to get back and wondering if she would find Ellen or her brother returned yet. In the midst of these thoughts her eye detected a movement further down the track. Straightening, she shaded her eyes and strained to see, praying it might be a rider. In fact it was several riders and in their midst a cart. Almost sobbing with relief, she waved frantically.

‘Help! Over here!’

It seemed to take an age before they heard her. Then two of the men spurred forwards to investigate. Claire stood on the track and watched them come. They reined in, regarding her with open curiosity. Then they noticed the still form lying at the edge of the path.

‘What’s happened here, lass?’ demanded the first.

‘He’s badly injured. He needs a doctor and soon.’

‘Have no fear. Help is at hand.’

The first rider dismounted and hastened over to the injured man. Then Claire heard a muffled exclamation.

‘Merciful heavens, it’s Mark Eden.’

‘What!’ His companion edged his mount closer. ‘I heard he was missing, believed dead.’

‘He soon will be if we don’t get him to a doctor. Help me get him onto my horse.’

Claire eyed the approaching vehicle. ‘Would it not be better to put him on the cart?’

The men exchanged glances, then shook their heads.

‘Better not, lass.’

‘I don’t understand.’

They gave no further explanation and she could only watch in helpless bewilderment as they lifted Eden and put him on the horse. Then one mounted behind, holding the inert form so it could not fall. They had no sooner done so than the lumbering wagon drew nigh. Seeing what it contained, Claire went very pale.

‘Come away, lass, it’s no sight for a woman’s eyes.’ The man’s voice was gruff but kindly. ‘I’ll take thee up on t’ horse behind me.’

‘Those men in the cart, are they…?’

‘Dead? Aye. Killed last night in the attack on Harlston’s machines.’

Claire drew in a deep breath and then glanced at the slumped form on the other horse, praying they had not come too late.

When Eden came round it was to the sound of voices and hurrying footsteps. Through a fog of pain he had an impression of walls and floor and ceiling. He didn’t recognise the room. It had a strange and yet familiar smell too, something vaguely chemical that resisted identification and yet one he thought he ought to know. He shifted a little and winced as pain knifed through his shoulder.

‘Don’t try to move.’

He looked up and saw a face bending over his. His mind registered a girl—no, a young woman. Twenty years old or thereabouts. Dark curls framed a face with high cheekbones and beautiful chiselled mouth. But it was the eyes one noticed most: huge hazel eyes deep enough to drown in. They seemed familiar somehow.

‘Where am I?’

‘At the doctor’s house.’

His brows knit, unable to comprehend how this had occurred, but having to trust the evidence of his eyes. Before he could say more he heard another voice.

‘Lift him onto the table. Gently now. That’s it.’

He stifled a groan as hands raised him, felt the hard, flat surface under his back. Then he heard the same voice speak again.

‘Fetch me hot water, Claire, and clean cloths.’

A swish of skirts announced her obedience to the command. Her quiet voice brought the two erstwhile assistants after her. As their footsteps receded a man’s face swam into view, a pleasant clean-shaven face with clear-cut features. It was framed by light brown hair, greying a little at the sides. The eyes were blue and now staring as though they had seen a ghost. The same shock was registered in the grey eyes of the injured man.

‘George,’ he murmured. ‘George Greystoke.’

‘Marcus?’ The doctor looked closer, taking in every detail of the pale face and resting on the scarred cheek. ‘Marcus Edenbridge. By the Lord Harry, it is you. But what in the name of—?’

He broke off as a hand closed over his in silent warning.

‘No, it’s Mark Eden at present.’

For a moment the blue eyes narrowed and then the doctor nodded. Then he took Eden’s hand in a warm grip.

‘Tell me later. Right now I must get that ball out of your shoulder or the wound will fester.’

Before either of them could say more the girl returned. With her was an older woman who seemed to resemble George. They set down the bowl of water and the cloths and then came to stand by the table. George glanced round.

‘Help me get his coat and shirt off, Ellen.’

They were gentle, but nevertheless Eden bit his lip against the pain. Once the task was accomplished George laid out his instruments and, selecting a probe, held it in the flame of a spirit lamp before dousing it in alcohol. He did the same with the forceps. Then he put a thick strip of leather between the patient’s jaws.

‘Bite down on this.’

Eden obeyed. A moment or two later the probe slid into the wound. Sweat started on his skin. Greystoke frowned in concentration and the silence stretched out. The probe went deeper. Eden’s jaw clenched. Then he heard the other speak.

‘Ah, here we are. Hand me the forceps, Ellen.’

Eden’s fists tightened as the pain intensified until it dominated every part of his being. Then the light in the room narrowed to a single point and winked out.

Claire watched Greystoke extract a wad of bloody cloth from the wound and drop it into a metal bowl. Then he returned for the ball. It dropped into the receptacle with a metallic clink. After that he swabbed the area liberally with alcohol before covering it with a thick pad of gauze and bandaging it securely in place.

‘Will he be all right?’

‘Time will tell,’ replied Greystoke. ‘He’s lost a lot of blood and is much weakened by it. There is also the chance of fever.’ Then, seeing Claire’s white face he gave her a gentle smile. ‘But he’s young and strong and with God’s grace and good nursing he may recover.’

Eden was riding down a dusty road. It was hot, very hot. He could feel the burning sun on his skin and the rhythm of the horse beneath him, could hear the hoof beats and the jingling harness of the mounted column behind. The air smelled of dry earth and dung, spice and horse sweat. Above him the sky was a hard metallic blue. Then he heard shouting and the clash of swords, he saw the mêlée in the road ahead and the litter, its curtains a vivid splash of colour in the midst of all. Women screamed. Then his sword was in his hand and the column swept like a tide onto the dacoit raiders and washed them away or drowned them quite. And then there was silence and the curtains of the litter parted and he saw her: Lakshmi. For a moment he was struck dumb, unable to tear his eyes away. He thought he had never seen anything so beautiful in his life, a living dream and lovelier than a fairy-tale princess, though a princess in all truth. Unable to help himself he smiled and she smiled too, though shyly. And he spoke to her in her language and she to him in his and he offered her his protection for the remainder of her journey home. Four days and four nights. Nights of velvet starlit skies and air fragrant with jasmine and frangipani, warm nights of firelight and shadow, cushioned with silk, scented with sandalwood and patchouli; nights made for love. Four nights. That was all. He had prayed that the fourth one might last for ever, but the daylight came anyway and brought with it the end of their road. He could see her face and the sadness written there and then the yawning palace gateway that swallowed her up. He thought his heart would break.

‘Lakshmi!’

Later he lay on his hard bed in the sweltering heat of the barracks, too hot even for a sheet, hearing the whine of mosquitoes in the sultry air while the sweat trickled down his skin. When he shut his eyes he saw her face, the wonderful eyes filled with love and longing. Sometimes he dreamed she was there, bending over him, speaking softly and bathing his forehead with cool cloths. But he knew it was a dream because she was lost to him, given in marriage to the rajah of a neighbouring state, a man old enough to be her grandfather.

‘Lakshmi.’

And then his brother was there, shaking his head.

‘Why the devil didn’t you take her away while you had the chance, you fool?’

And he was right. Greville was always right. But the chance was gone now. Why had he not acted? He had broken his promise.

‘I’ll find a way, my love.’

He had believed it too, then. They could have found a place somewhere; they could have carved out a future together. What matter if others looked askance; what matter if there was a scandal? He was no stranger to it. But the thought of what it might mean for her had stayed him for the news would have swept like fire through the length and breadth of the Indian continent. News travelled fast there. And while he hesitated, she was lost.

‘Lakshmi!’

Claire wrung out the cloth in cool water and laid it on Eden’s forehead. His flesh so pale before was now flushed and hot to touch. Though his eyes were open they did not register her presence and when she spoke to him he did not hear her, but tossed in feverish dreams, speaking the names of people and places she had never heard of. Sometimes he spoke in a strange foreign language whose origin she could only guess at. Her own helplessness tormented her. What if he were to die? She owed him so much and yet knew so little about him. How had he come to be involved in that dreadful business on the moors? She had gleaned a little from the men who brought him to the house, but many questions remained unanswered.

From the beginning she had insisted on doing her share of the nursing care, taking turns with Ellen when the doctor was from home dealing with his other patients. It was the least she could do and precious little at that. It was shocking to see so strong a man laid low. Yet half a dozen others had been hurt in this affair and seven killed. Five were Harlston’s men, the rest were wreckers. Yet death made no such distinctions. It mattered little whose hand fired the shot. She shivered. She knew it was illogical, but the uneasy feeling persisted that she was somehow to blame.

Lifting the cloth from his brow again, she replaced it with a cooler one and rinsed out the first, using it to wipe the sweat from his face and neck and the hollow above the collarbone. For a brief moment her hand brushed the skin of his breast. Claire drew in a sharp breath. His flesh was fiery to the touch. Hastily she poured more cold water into the basin and rinsed the cloth again. Then she bathed his chest as far as the line of the bandage would permit, her gaze taking in each visible detail of the powerful torso. She had not thought a man’s body could be beautiful until now. Beautiful and disturbing, too, for it engendered other thoughts.

She had fled her uncle’s house to avoid being married to a lecherous old man, but what of being married to a younger one, a man like this? If her suitor had looked and behaved like Eden, would she have fled? Would the thought of sharing his bed repel her? Her own flesh grew warmer then for it took but a second to know the answer. Yet what mattered most was the freedom to choose. She had always thought that somewhere there existed the man for her, though she had no idea of the circumstances in which she might meet him. What had not occurred to her was the idea that someone else might wish to do the choosing for her. How could one find love through another’s eyes? Only the very deepest love would ever tempt her into matrimony, the kind of love her parents had shared. It was that or nothing and on this she knew there could be no compromise.

Shocked by the tenor of her thoughts she tried to dismiss them, but it proved impossible while that powerful physique was before her demanding consideration. Her eyes returned to his breast, her hand travelling thence to his good shoulder, moving with smooth and gentle strokes down his arm. Beneath the fineveined skin she could see every detail of the curved musculature beneath, the strong bone at elbow and wrist, the dark hair along his forearms, the sinews in his hands. She took his hand in hers and drew the damp cloth down his palm to the fingertips, then turned it over and repeated the process. His hands were big yet finely shaped with long tapering fingers; hands capable of knocking a man down, or supporting a woman in need. The recollection sent a frisson along her spine. Disturbed by the memory for all sorts of reasons she forced it to the back of her mind. Mark Eden was a stranger who had once come to her aid. She knew nothing more about him. Perhaps she never would.

The thought was abruptly broken off by a hand closing round hers. Claire’s gaze returned at once to her patient’s face. His eyes were open now and apparently directed at her, though they shone with a strange inner fire.

‘Mr Eden?’

He made no reply save to carry her hand to his lips. Feeling their hot imprint on her skin, she tried to extricate herself from his hold. It tightened instead and pulled her down towards the bed. She fell across him and suddenly his lips were on her neck and cheek, seeking her mouth. Claire turned her head aside, feeling the rasp of stubble and hot breath on her skin.

‘Mr Eden, please!’

The words had no effect. His lips sought her ear instead and found it, his tongue exploring its curves. The touch sent a shiver through her whole body, awakening new and unexpected sensations.

‘Lakshmi,’ he murmured. ‘Lakshmi, my love.’

Claire stiffened and pulled away, heart thumping, but Eden was no longer looking at her, his head tossing on the pillow, the grey eyes feverish and unfocussed. She realised then that he had not seen her at all, in all likelihood had no idea of her presence. In his disordered mind he was with a very different woman.

The knowledge hit her with force. It was a timely reminder of how little she knew of this man or the events that had shaped him. Detaching herself from his slackened hold, she walked a little way from the bed and took several deep breaths to try and recover her composure, her thoughts awhirl with what she had heard. It raised so many questions. Questions she knew she would never dare to ask nor had any right to. Looking at her patient now, she thought he was an enigma in every way. She would swear he was not from the labouring class whatever his dress proclaimed. His speech, his whole manner, precluded it. And yet the men in Gartside obviously knew him and he them. However, he was as unlike them as fine wine was from vinegar. On the other hand many ex-soldiers, even of the educated officer class, were forced to look for alternative employment now that hostilities with France had ceased. No doubt Eden too had had to adapt to the circumstances in which he had found himself. Those circumstances would remove him from her sphere soon enough. It was a disagreeable thought, for she could not forget how his touch had made her feel, if only for a moment. Yet it was no use to dwell on it; another woman had his heart. She could only pray that when he was recovered he would recall nothing of what had just passed.

Marcus had no idea how long he was unconscious, but the next time he came round it was still light and he was lying in a large comfortable bed between clean white sheets. For a moment his mind was blank. Then memory began to return. Turning his head, he saw a familiar figure at the bedside.

‘George?’

‘Welcome back.’

‘How long have I been here?’

‘Almost two weeks.’

‘Two weeks!’ He started up, only to feel a painful twinge in his shoulder.

‘Have a care. It’s mending, thanks to the efforts of my sister and Miss Davenport, but you’re not there yet.’

Marcus lowered himself onto the pillows again. His friend was right; the savage pain was gone to be replaced with a dull ache. Clean bandages covered his injured shoulder and breast.

‘Could you manage a little broth?’ George inquired.

‘Yes, I think I could.’

In fact, with his friend’s help he managed half a bowlful.

‘Excellent. Your appetite is returning. You’ll soon be up and about.’ The doctor replaced the dish on the side table and smiled.

For a moment neither man spoke. Then Marcus met his friend’s eye.

‘Thank you for all you’ve done, George. That’s two I owe you now.’

‘You owe me nothing.’

‘Not so. I only hope I can repay you one day.’

‘My hope is that the men responsible for the outrage are found and brought to justice.’

‘You’re not alone in that.’

‘You were lucky, Marcus. It was a bad business. Seven men dead and six others injured. Those are the ones I know about. The wreckers took their wounded with them.’

‘They had no choice. Arrest would mean a death sentence.’

‘Aye, desperate men will do anything it seems.’

‘Including murder.’ Marcus’s jaw tightened. ‘They knew we were coming, George, and they knew our route. They chose a perfect spot for the ambush.’

‘So it would seem.’ Seeing the other man’s quizzical gaze, Marcus smiled faintly. ‘You want to know how the devil I got mixed up in it, but are too polite to ask.’

His friend laughed. ‘Is it that obvious?’

‘You were never good at hiding your thoughts. But I do owe you an explanation.’

‘I admit to curiosity.’

‘When I returned from India two months ago I was summoned to Whitehall.’

‘Whitehall?’

‘Yes. The government is keen to break the Luddite rebellion. That’s why the rewards for information are so generous. Intelligence gathering is dangerous, though, so they knew whoever they chose would have to be experienced.’ He paused. ‘They sent one of their finest operatives up to Yorkshire, a man born and bred in the county who, suitably disguised, would blend in.’

‘What happened?’

‘He was betrayed and murdered. Shot in the back.’

‘Good Lord!’ George shook his head in disgust. ‘But betrayed by whom?’

‘That’s what I mean to find out. I amhis replacement.’

‘You?’

‘Who better? I’ve done this kind of work before, for the Company in India. It seems word of that got back to London.’

‘But you could have refused.’

‘They knew I wouldn’t, though.’

‘How so?’

‘Because the murdered man was my brother.’