Читать книгу The Taming of the Rake - Kasey Michaels, Кейси Майклс, Kasey Michaels - Страница 10

AFTER SNEAKING OUT of London like thieves—Puck had seemed delighted to make that comparison—they rode southwest, the three of them, because Scotland lay to the north. It wasn’t a brilliant plan, but hopefully it would suffice for the moment. It wouldn’t do to tell his brother and Chelsea that he was making up his steps even as they were taking them, but in truth, other than getting himself shed of London and his brother, he really hadn’t thought of what step would come after that.

There had to exist some way of getting rid of Chelsea, as well.

Sadly, inspiration seemed to have deserted him.

They’d left Wadsworth behind to take the knocker from the door, signaling that the master was not in residence, and given instructions to inform any visitor rude enough to demand entry that he and a young lady were accompanying Mr. Robin Blackthorn to France, by way of Dover.

Indeed, Beau’s traveling coach had set off, heading southeast, for Dover Road, the coachman told not to spare the horses, as if the devil himself was after them. The earl and his entourage would surely overtake the empty coach by the time it reached Rochester, but by then Beau and his small company would have arrived on the outskirts of Guildford, a lovely forty or more miles of countryside between the two points.

He considered it a brilliant diversion.

He hadn’t considered Chelsea’s horsemanship, or if she even knew one end of a horse from the other. He’d only rather rudely thrown her up onto the sidesaddle and told her to hang on and not complain or else he might be tempted to leave her to her fate.

Which, he had to admit several hours later, she had not done.

The same, alas, could not be said for Puck.

“I still don’t see the point of keeping the family yacht at Brighton,” he was saying now, for at least the third time. “Who goes to Brighton, anyway, except fat Prinny and his fat ladies tottering about that monstrosity of his, probably bouncing off one another. Minarets? What possessed the man, do you think? I mean—minarets? What’s wrong with good old-fashioned English turrets, I ask you? Ah, there it is, another fingerpost pointing the way to Hove. Since you probably won’t wish to go any farther south before turning north, I imagine we part company here.”

“Thank heaven for small mercies,” Beau said as the three of them pulled up their mounts at the crossroads and looked at the fingerpost. Brighton lay to the south, Blackdown Hills and one of their father’s lesser estates to the west; a good stopping point for the night, and some serious thinking. “Although, of course, we’ll miss you terribly.”

“I won’t,” Chelsea said, half standing in the sidesaddle and none too discreetly rubbing at her derriere. “It’s not a proper elopement if one brings one’s brother along. Especially one who sings.”

“Ah, my dear soon-to-be-sister, I am known for my fine voice.”

“Not to me, you’re not. I imagine people are just being kind if they compliment you on it,” Chelsea said, settling herself once more, but not quite able to hide a wince of pain as she did so. She turned her head to look at Beau. “You haven’t changed your mind, have you? He can find the Channel by himself, without us accompanying him?”

“I’m not sure,” Beau answered, as he’d been considering an alternate plan these past two hours, ever since their hurried meal at an out-of-the-way inn, when he’d noticed Chelsea’s reluctance to remount her horse. “You’ve a good seat, Chelsea, but I don’t know that you’ll enjoy riding all the way to Scotland. I’ve been thinking we might leave Puck to his own devices once we reach Brighton, and take the yacht.”

“What? All along the Channel, ‘round Cornwall, out into the sea and up? It would take forever,” Puck pointed out. “I can see you wanting to get to know your bride, Beau, but confined together like that on a small boat? I’d give you odds that by the time you reach Scotland you will have murdered each other.”

“He has a point,” Chelsea said, nodding. “I’m not certain I like the idea. I’ll be fine as soon as you locate a coach for us.” She looked at him with some intensity. “You are planning to hire a coach, aren’t you, now that we’re safely away from London?”

“I’d planned to spend the day reclining on a comfortable couch, nursing this damned headache that still won’t quit. Instead, within the space of a heartbeat, you, madam, have turned my entire life, my orderly existence, upside down. But to answer your question, no, I have not considered hiring a coach.”

“Then I suggest you consider it now,” Chelsea said, rolling her eyes at what she clearly believed was a horrible overreaction to her brilliant plan. “Honestly. I had only a few minutes to come up with my plan, so, of course, it wasn’t complete in all areas. But you’ve had entire hours now. I should think you might be able to pass beyond the idea of us riding all the way to Scotland on horseback, and I don’t think spending the next several weeks bobbing up and down on the water during spring storms could possibly be considered a laudable plan in any case.”

“Yes, Beau, for shame,” Puck said, gleefully joining his voice to Chelsea’s. And then he frowned and put a hand to his ear. “This is the main road to Brighton, correct? We didn’t take some lesser highway, because we didn’t have to worry about pursuit? Because that doesn’t sound like a coach barreling toward us. We’ve heard plenty of those.”

Beau, who had not been precisely jolly from the moment he’d first set eyes—and ears—on Lady Chelsea Mills-Beckman, opened his mouth to say something cutting about his brother damn well knowing what road they were traveling. The words died halfway to his tongue, however, and he quickly leaned over, grabbed the bridle of Chelsea’s horse and turned both mounts into the trees, Puck urging his own horse off the road on the other side.

“What on earth do you think you’re—”

She got no further, because he’d unceremoniously dragged her out of the sidesaddle, holding on to her as he kicked his feet free of the stirrups and rolled the two of them onto the ground.

“You had to wear red,” he gritted out just as he rolled on top of her, covering as much of her riding habit as he could with his body even while reaching up one hand to grab on to the bridles of both horses, to keep them in place. “Lie still, damn it.”

He could feel the rumble now, and by the way Chelsea’s magnificently expressive eyes widened, he was sure that she, lying on her back in the weeds, could feel it even more.

Horses, at least a dozen, were approaching rapidly. There had been other travelers along the way, but this was different. This was like the advance of a small troop of soldiers. If he sniffed the air, he could almost smell the stink of pursuit; he imagined a cavalry charging down a hill and into the fray of battle.

Beau lifted his head slightly, peering through the long grass and underbrush, hoping he would not see any hint of his brother on the far side of the road. He didn’t. What he did see, about ten seconds later, were a dozen horsemen, four of them wearing the Brean livery, pounding past them, not sparing their horses.

“How?” he asked, not really addressing Chelsea, who still lay beneath him, her complexion gone rather pink. “How did he know?”

“I think I can answer that, and I apologize for not thinking of it sooner,” she said, pushing at his shoulders. “Thomas loathes you, most especially so since he has been losing money while you, so clearly his inferior, are also so clearly odiously wealthy. I’ve heard him go on for hours about you with Reverend Flotley, as you are the one sin Thomas can’t seem to expunge with prayer. How he detests you. Your father’s money. All those unentailed estates the marquess plans to gift you and your brothers with upon his demise. The Grosvenor Square mansion. The hunting box in Scotland, the townhouse in Paris. The box at Covent Garden.”

“The yacht berthed at Brighton,” Beau supplied dully, shaking his head, cursing himself for his stupidity. “He’s probably got men riding to each of my father’s properties. Damn.”

“Yes, well,” Chelsea continued, still pressing against his shoulders. “Now that that’s explained …?”

Beau looked down into her face once more, belatedly becoming aware—very aware—of her body beneath his. “I was attempting to cover up your red habit,” he explained, still not moving. “Are you all right? Am I crushing you? You seemed uncomfortable.”

“I’m fine. I’ve … I’ve simply never been this … close to a man before.”

“Is that so?” he said, smiling … and still not moving.

“Oh, don’t look so smug. I didn’t say I liked it. Now get off me!”

“Ah, getting to know each other better, I see,” Puck said from somewhere above them. “Good for you.”

Beau rolled himself away from Chelsea and got to his feet, helping her up, as well. “You can’t go to Brighton,” he told his brother unnecessarily. “And I can’t take Chelsea to Blackdown, damn it.”

Puck sat himself down on a tree stump, taking off his curly brimmed beaver and slapping at it with one of his riding gloves to rid it of road dust. “You know, Beau, I’ve always looked up to you and Jack. The elders, the ones I’d turn to for assistance and advice. I probably shouldn’t have done that. You’re no smarter than I am, and Jack, probably considerably less. May I make a suggestion?”

“No,” Beau barked just as Chelsea said, “Yes, please.”

“Making my vote the tiebreaker,” Puck pointed out happily, “and I vote that I make the suggestion. Let’s head back to Grosvenor Square. It will be nightfall by the time we get there, so no one will see us if we keep to the same dank alleyways we employed for our exit. A good meal, soft beds, Wadsworth and his fellow former soldiers keeping guard. Yes, it’s brilliant.”

“It is, you know,” Chelsea said, tugging on Beau’s arm. “Thomas has everyone out hunting us, with him self leading one of the groups, I’m sure. No one would think to look for us back where we started. Besides, then perhaps I can sneak back into the house and gather more clothing. The servants all dislike Thomas, but they seem to like me. They’ll help, I’m certain of that. Because I checked when we stopped at that inn a while ago, and all Beatrice seemed to pack for me was some clean under—well, she didn’t pack much at all, not even my tooth powder. And I do want to apologize if Beatrice was punished in any way.”

“I should have allowed you to figuratively throw yourself on the sword, Puck, and sent you two off to Gretna Green while I stayed behind to fend off Brean. You suit each other so well, the both of you missing several slates off your roofs. Go back to London? Sneak into the house you’ve just escaped in order to pack your tooth powder?” He rubbed at his forehead. “I’m never going to be rid of this headache, am I?”

“Don’t be such a stick,” Puck told him. “My part of the plan is brilliant.”

“It is, you know,” Chelsea said, smiling at Puck. “After all, who looks for something twice in the same place, when the something you were looking for wasn’t there when you looked the first time. I mean, it would be rather pointless, wouldn’t it?”

“Beau? Did you hear that? Beau? It’s getting on toward five, and we really should be on more familiar roads before dark. Because you’re right when you say I can’t continue on to Brighton, and you certainly would be all kinds of a fool if you took Chelsea to Blackdown. Where else is there you’d have us go?”

“I’d answer that,” Beau bit out, feeling rather abused, “but supposedly there is a lady present. All right, let’s go.”

“I STILL DON’T SEE why I must be involved,” Madelyn said as she stripped off her gloves and tossed them in the general direction of her long-suffering maid. “For pity’s sake, Thomas, just go get her, you and your conscience over there, hulking like some great black crow. You have to know where she’s gone. And I, God help me, know why. Marry her to that? It wasn’t enough for you to have destroyed my life?”

“I think you did that rather effectively on your own, Madelyn,” Thomas said, although he retreated to the mantelpiece before he said it.

Lady Madelyn sat herself down in the drawing room of the mansion in Portland Place, slapping at her maid’s hands as that woman attempted to relieve her of her short, fur-trimmed pelisse. “Will you just go away? I decide whether or not I wish to be shed of my clothing, and I do not.”

“For which you have my eternal gratitude, dear sister,” the earl told her. “Now, if we could only keep you from shedding it as do trees their leaves each fall, and with all and sundry, I might consider my prayers answered.”

“Prayers? I liked you better when you were godless, dear brother, not that I ever liked you much at all. It wasn’t as if you were actually going to die, you know. None of my brats did, now did they? This man here has sold you a bill of goods. Or should I say that’s the other way round, hmm? How much lighter are your pockets since the black crow here pecked his way into your life promising salvation?”

The Reverend Flotley bowed to the earl. “I should retire, my lord. This is clearly a family matter, and I should not wish to intrude, as I am not family.”

“No, but you’re as near as such, and when we get Chelsea back from that arrogant, encroaching bastard, you will be.”

Madelyn had taken a small mirror from her reticule and at that moment was examining her reflection, clearly pleased with the look of her new bonnet with the dark blue ribbon as it contrasted so well with her white-blond hair while highlighting her blue eyes. “Yes, yes, Thomas, and who is this encroaching bastard? Some half-pay officer with a winning smile and empty pockets, I’d suppose. That would be just like my silly sister. You play with the ineligible if they take your fancy, but you don’t marry them. Do I know him?”

The earl pushed away from the mantelpiece. The Lord punished, the Lord prodded … and the Lord sometimes rewarded. Thomas could have included the name in his note, but he’d wanted to see Madelyn’s reaction when she heard the news. He’d do penance for that small sin later, but he would enjoy the sin. “The bastard is Beau Blackthorn. Our sister, it would seem, has allied herself with our old enemy.”

The mirror dropped to the marble floor and shattered as Madelyn sprang to her feet. “That bitch! And yet you stand here, doing nothing?”

“Far from nothing. I’ve sent out riders everywhere I could think of, thinking they couldn’t have gotten far, but all have yet to report back to me. Now I intend to go straight to the marquess myself and demand that he either turn Chelsea over if she is there, or tell me where his bastard son has taken her.”

“There’s no question where he’s taken her, Thomas. They’re for Gretna Green, obviously. How could she do this to us? We’ll be a laughingstock!”

Reverend Flotley, who had stayed after all, advanced on her, holding out his hands as if to soothe her. “Now, now, ma’am, we must remain calm. We have right on our side, and right will prevail.”

“If right were to prevail, you pious buffoon, I would be a duchess.” She then shot him a look that had him reconsidering any notion of taking her hands and asking that they pray together and stepped back a pace. “But you’re right, Thomas. Like any low animal, Blackthorn will most probably run first for his den, thinking himself safe there, and only from there continue to Scotland. What I wonder again is, why are you lingering here?”

“I was hoping for an easy capture and a swift return,” he told her as his pink cheeks went florid. “But we must get to her now, before this goes too far. For that, Madelyn, I need you. Once we have her she will need female companionship, in case we are seen. Now that you understand the gravity of our situation, will you agree to accompany us?”

“Us? The black crow goes, as well? In my coach?”

“In my coach, and we should leave within the hour. Francis is Chelsea’s affianced husband, Madelyn,” the earl reminded her. “We’ll find her, take her, bring you back here to London immediately and then travel directly to Brean, where they will be married. If I have to tie her down to get it done. But we’ll have to spend one night on the road, at least. One small trunk, Madelyn, and within the hour—I mean that. We have no time for more.”

Madelyn seemed to consider this for a few moments and then agreed. On one condition. “But no praying. I do not want to hear any praying!”

“I will converse with my Lord in silence, ma’am,” Flotley said. “And pray for your immortal soul.”

“Pray for Blackthorn’s immortal soul, Reverend,” Madelyn told him. “You think you know my brother, you think he is a man of God now? Then more fool, you. I’ve known him longer and I know him better. Thomas? You’re going to kill Beau Blackthorn, aren’t you? Shoot him down like the bastard cur he is. You have every right, as he absconded with your sister, kidnapped her. I will swear to it. Thomas! Answer me!”

The earl looked to his spiritual adviser, the florid cheeks now advanced to an unlovely shade of puce. “Francis says I must turn the other cheek, forgive not the sin, but the sinner.”

“Francis is an ass, and you, Thomas, have turned yourself into a sniveling coward hiding behind religion,” Madelyn said, already heading for the foyer. “Very well, just get me to him. I’ll do what you aren’t man enough to do, what you should have done seven years ago!”

She slammed out the door, her maid trotting to keep up.

The earl picked up a figurine and smashed it against the marble of the fireplace. Then he turned about to face Flotley, his fingers drawn up into tight, white-knuckled fists, his breathing so quick he could feel his heart straining to burst.

“By God and all that is sacred, Francis, I’m the worst of sinners. And may God strike me down, because I want that man dead! I ache for it. I will whip him, no matter how you made me confess sorrow for what I did when he dared to ask for Madelyn. I wanted to whip him then, and I want to whip him now. I—I—I want to rip out his liver and put it on a spit! And I will do it, in front of his own father if I must. Do you hear me? I’m a sinner. I’m a damn and damned sinner! That’s what I was, that’s what I am, no matter how you say God wants me to be better than I am, no matter how many promises I made Him. And I don’t care anymore!”

All remained quiet in the drawing room for some minutes, as the earl collapsed into a chair and lowered his head into his hands. Did he feel remorse for his outburst? Guilt for his violent desires? Or relief, because after two long, God-fearing years, he had once more embraced the Devil, whom he felt much more of an affinity for, at least.

“For it is written, ‘Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord,’” Flotley finally reminded him quietly. But then, perhaps seeing that his personal disciple might be experiencing a crisis of his newfound faith that could end with his spiritual adviser tossed out into the street—to land on his empty pockets—he added, “But I do believe there are a few Old Testament writings that may apply here. I will find them for you.”