Читать книгу Scandal Becomes Her - Shirlee Busbee - Страница 8

Since it was Saturday, and he doubted that he would find his friend Colonel Stanton at the Horse Guards, Julian put off the chore of settling Captain Carver’s fate. The problem could wait until the beginning of the week. But Diana was not so convinced and to head off the incipient hysterics he could see brewing, before he left the house that afternoon to follow his own pursuits, he wrote to Stanton, requesting a private meeting on Monday afternoon. He was not worried about the situation and he doubted that Elizabeth would throw her cap over the windmill for a mere captain—no matter how dashing. Elizabeth had a good head on her slender shoulders. His mouth twisted. Unlike her mother.

The woman was quite mad, Julian decided several hours later as he strolled down St. James Street toward Boodle’s. Quite mad if she thought he would ever make another marriage based solely on pleasing his family. His lips thinned. His marriage to Catherine had taught him the folly of that!

Catherine had been an heiress, the only child of the Duke of Bellamy and she had been very beautiful. His father had been pleased at the match—Julian had been twenty-nine at the time and to his father’s despair, he had not shown the slightest interest in marriage. “Think of the title,” Lord Wyndham had exhorted him on many an occasion. “When I am gone, and you stick your spoon in the wall, I want your son, not Daniel’s—fine boy that he is—to be the one stepping into your shoes. You need to marry, boy, and present me with grandchildren. It is your duty.” His father had winked at him. “Pleasant one, too.”

When the alluring Lady Catherine had crossed his path a few months later, to please his father, Julian had offered for her. Their wedding had been the most anticipated social affair of the Season of 1795. As he and his new bride had driven away from the reception, Lord Wyndham had fairly rubbed his hands together in glee at the thought of the grandchildren that were sure to be soon forthcoming from the union.

Except, he had thought wrong, Julian recalled grimly. Catherine was not eager for children and Julian discovered almost immediately that behind that beautiful face lived a spoiled and petulant child. Before many months had passed they were openly sniping with each other, and before they were married a year, except for necessity, were seldom seen in each other’s company. Neither one of them had been happy, he admitted, and Catherine had probably found him as boring, insipid and infuriating as he had found her. But they had hobbled along together for a few years, like many other couples in their position, and might still be yoked together if Catherine, pregnant and hating every moment of it, had not been killed in a carriage accident. Julian sighed at the memory.

Despite the fact that the marriage had been a mistake, he had never wished Catherine dead and her sudden death had stunned him. He had felt both guilt and grief and it had been years before he could think of her and the unborn child without an anguished pang. It had all happened over six years ago, but Julian would not have been honest if he had not admitted to himself that with every passing year his determination never to marry again had grown. Let Charles or Raoul step into my shoes, he thought sourly, I’ll be damned if I tie myself to another woman simply to oblige the family!

He was scowling by the time he walked into Boodle’s. Unaware of the fierce expression on his face, he was startled when his friend Mr. Talcott accosted him in the grand salon and demanded, “By Jove, but don’t you look glimflashy this evening! And with hunting season just started!” He studied Julian’s face. “I’ll wager that stepmother of yours has put you out of sorts.” Talcott’s usually merry blue eyes became thoughtful. “She’s a taking little thing, won’t deny it, but think she’d drive me mad.”

Julian laughed, his dark mood vanishing. Clapping Talcott on the back, he said, “Very astute of you. Now come join me in a drink, and tell me that you have decided to accept my invitation to stay at Wyndham Hall.”

They had just started to leave the grand salon when Julian caught sight of a slim blond man. His expression grim, he asked, “Since when has Boodle’s started letting any ragtag bobtail join its ranks?”

Talcott looked startled, then, following Julian’s gaze, he stiffened. “Tynedale! He is pushing his luck, isn’t he? Surely not even he would dare—” Catching sight of the burly man who stood to Tynedale’s left, he muttered, “Well, that explains it—he must have prevailed upon Braithwaite to sponsor him.”

Julian started forward, but Talcott grabbed his shoulder and jerked him into a nearby small alcove. “Don’t be a fool!” he hissed. “You’ve already fought one duel with him—and won. Leave it be. Challenging him again is not going to bring young Daniel back.”

Julian’s gaze never left Tynedale’s handsome form. “He killed him,” he snarled, “as surely as he had held the pistol to the boy’s head himself. You know it.”

“I agree,” Talcott said quietly. “Tynedale ruined Daniel, but Daniel is not the first green ’un to fall into the hands of an unscrupulous scoundrel like Tynedale and lose his fortune at the gaming table. Nor is he the first to kill himself rather than face what he had done—and he will not be the last.”

Julian glared at his friend, his expression one of anguished fury. “I remember the day when Daniel was born and his father asked me if I would be willing to be Daniel’s guardian if something ever happened to him.” He sighed. “We were both half-drunk, celebrating his son’s birth and neither one of us ever thought that the need would arise. Why should it? John was only twenty-two and I wasn’t even of age—not yet eighteen. Who could have guessed?” Julian looked down, his thoughts far away. “Who could have guessed,” he said in a low tone, “that my cousin would be murdered when his son was not quite eleven years old? That I would actually become Daniel’s guardian?” One hand clenched into a formidable fist. “John trusted me to keep his son safe, not only from a rakehell like his own brother but safely away from any other danger that might cross the boy’s path.” His voice bitter, he added, “I was so busy making certain that his uncle Charles did not corrupt Daniel that I failed to protect him from the likes of Tynedale.”

“Daniel was not,” Talcott said bluntly, “your ward when Tynedale fleeced him and he killed himself.” His voice urgent, he added, “I know that you loved Daniel’s father, I know that John was your favorite cousin and I know that you were shattered when he was killed. But none of it was your fault! Not John’s murder, or Daniel’s suicide. My God, man! You weren’t even in England when Tynedale got his hooks into the boy. You were off playing spy for Whitehall.” His fingers tightened on Julian’s shoulder. “You have nothing to blame yourself for—let it go.” When Julian appeared unmoved, Talcott said quietly, “You bested him in the duel this spring and scarred that pretty face of his—and do not forget, you have the means to ruin him…Won’t that be revenge enough?”

Julian suddenly smiled, like a big predator in anticipation of an easy kill. “How kind of you to remind me. For a moment just now, I had forgotten that.” He studied Tynedale. “I suspect that he has learned by this time that I am the holder of all his vowels. He must be rather desperate, wondering when I shall demand payment—and he knows that I shall allow him no extensions.” Julian looked thoughtful. “I had thought that I could take pleasure in watching him twist in the wind before demanding payment, but I find that I have changed my mind. I shall call upon him tomorrow.” He smiled again, not a nice smile. “Come,” he said, “let us forget about Tynedale for the evening. I find myself in need of a drink. Shall we go?”

Ordinarily Nell’s evening would have consisted of an early dinner with Sir Edward and then quiet hours spent reading in the library. During her rare trips to London, she tended to visit bookstores and museums and had never cared much for the giddy round of balls, soirees and such. But since she had reluctantly accepted an invitation to one of the last balls of the Little Season at Lord and Lady Ellingsons’, her evening that night did not follow routine.

The Ellingsons were old friends of her father’s, one of the reasons she had consented to attend—that, and his kindly badgering—and he happily escorted her to the ball.

Once Sir Edward had seen her settled amongst several female friends, and Lord Ellingson had completed his most pressing duties as host, the two men had toddled off to the card room. It was several hours later when Sir Edward finally ambled out to the main room looking for Nell.

It took him a while to find her—she was half-hidden in a quiet corner, deep in conversation with a golden-haired gentleman. Recognizing Lord Tynedale, he frowned. What the devil was that fellow doing here? Then he remembered: Tynedale was related to Lady Ellingson. Lord Ellingson had complained to him often enough of having to entertain the bounder just to keep his wife in charity with him. She doted on him. Most women did.

Eyeing the exquisite form attired in a dark blue formfitting jacket and black knee breeches, his linen starched and glistening white, Sir Edward had to give him credit for his appearance. With thick, curly blond hair and femininely lashed blue eyes, he made a handsome sight. His features were aristocratic, from the chiseled nose to the sculpted jaw, and he possessed a winning smile and a practiced grace. Despite the clear signs of dissipation on his face and a narrow scar across one cheek, considering all his charms, it wasn’t surprising that women tended to be taken in by his manner and even thought the scar rather dashing. On the point of marching to his daughter’s side and routing a man he plainly labeled a loose-fish, Sir Edward recalled this morning’s conversation and hesitated. Nell wouldn’t thank him for acting the outraged father. Besides, he thought to himself, she was quite capable of ringing a peal over Tynedale all on her own.

Out of the corner of her eye Nell had seen her father come out of the card room and she was conscious of a feeling of relief. Tynedale had been annoyingly attentive since he had arrived a short while ago and he hovered over her like a bee around a sweet blossom. She was as susceptible to the notice of a handsome man as the next woman was, but aware that it was her fortune and not herself that aroused his interest, she had been trying to keep him at arm’s length, to no avail. He was either, she decided, very dense, very desperate or impervious to insults.

Meeting Tynedale’s limpid blue eyes she murmured, “Ah, there is my father. I am sure that he is ready to leave—I know I am. I shall be glad to retire and rest.”

“Must you go?” He flashed her a warm look. “I am afraid that the evening will become quite flat without your charming presence to enliven it,” Tynedale said, a winning expression on his handsome face.

Nell smiled at him sweetly. “Really? When there are at least two other heiresses in the offing?”

His eyes hardened. “Why must you think that my only interest in you is your fortune? Hasn’t it occurred to you that amongst all the chattering giddy females here tonight that you, and you alone, are the one who has captured my regard?”

She tapped a painted silk fan to her lips. “Oh, you’re absolutely right! How could I have thought any differently? Silly me. After all, I am only suspected of being half-mad, known to be a cripple and as near to being an ape-leader as possible.” She looked pensive. “Of course, I do have a rather vulgar fortune.” She grinned at his expression and added, “Naturally that must put me high on your list of possible brides.”

Fist clenched at his side, the scar flaming an angry red across his cheek, he muttered, “This isn’t the moment or the setting I would have chosen to approach the subject, but we could do well together, you and I. There is no denying that I could use your fortune…and you could use a husband. I may not have a feather to fly with at present, but your fortune would change all that.” Tynedale leaned forward, urgency in his voice. “You should consider the possibility—it would be a good bargain for you when all is said and done. Remember, I do have an old and valued title.”

“Thank you, no.” Insulted and annoyed, she said bluntly, “Since this conversation is already unseemly I will leave you with this comment: I would much prefer being considered an antidote than married to you.”

She turned her back on him, only to be swung around by his hand on her arm. Bending his face to hers, he growled, “You will come to regret those words.” He hesitated. “You must understand me: I have received unfortunate news and my need is great—I am a desperate man.” His voice took on a threatening note. “And desperate men have been known to take desperate measures. Be warned that I am not to be trifled with.”

“Take your hand off me,” Nell snapped, outraged. Her eyes glittering with indignation, she said, “I will give you a little advice, my lord: I am leaving London on Monday. Who knows when I will next return to the city, but when I do, keep away from me. I do not wish for your company!”

He let go her arm, a nasty smile on his face. “We’ll see about that.” He bowed. “Until we meet again.”

Deigning a reply she swept away, the skirts of her cream-and-gold-spangled gown fluttering behind her.

Sir Edward turned at her approach and his gaze narrowed at the expression on her face. He glanced over to where Tynedale stood.

“Should I be issuing a challenge to that puppy?” he asked as he took her arm.

Nell looked startled. “Oh, good heavens, no! Do not give him another thought.” She grinned impishly. “I promise you I shall not.” She pinched his cheek. “Do not worry, Papa. I will confess that he was brazen enough to suggest a match between us—I think his creditors must be dunning him. Do not let it upset you. I assure you that I gave him a decided set-down, he will not trouble us again.”

Sir Edward was affronted. “Suggested a match, did he? Without a word to me? Insolent bounder! How dare he? I shall have a word with him.”

Nell grabbed his arm. “Papa! No, do not. I beg you. Recall, if you will, that I am not an innocent miss dazzled by my first trip to London. I am quite capable of repulsing the attentions of a contemptible creature such as he is. Please do not let us waste another second of our time on him.”

He gave her a searching glance and, satisfied by what he saw in her face he nodded, and beyond a bit of grumbling about the effrontery of certain fellows said no more on the subject.

As Sir Edward escorted her down the steps of the Ellingson residence and into their coach, Nell discovered that it was raining. She had noted the heavy clouds late that afternoon, but she had hoped that they had been merely threatening and would blow over.

Damp from the dash to the carriage and listening to the pounding rain on the carriage top, Nell pulled her velvet cloak closer around her and grimaced. If it was a big storm and lingered, by the time they left on Monday, the roads were going to be atrocious.

A bolt of lightning crackled across the night sky and she flinched. Oh, bother. It was probably, she decided, going to be a long, wet, muddy and, no doubt, harrowing journey home.

A few moments later Nell and Sir Edward were home and rushing inside to escape the rain. After bidding her father a fond good night, Nell hurried up the stairs to her rooms, eager to get out of her finery and crawl into bed.

Twenty minutes later, she was cozily abed, having shed her ball gown and slipped gratefully into a nightgown of soft cambric. Sleep came at once.

At first, she slept dreamlessly, but then, gradually she became uncomfortable, her breathing heavy, her limbs feeling trapped. She moaned in her sleep and twisted in the bed, seeking to escape the invisible bonds that held her. Another nightmare, she thought, as she fought her way up through the layers of sleep.

A particularly nasty one, too, the sensation of smothering, of drowning in blackness almost overpowering. Still half-asleep, she struggled to escape the oppressive blackness, but her hands tangled in the same enveloping darkness of her dream.

Feeling herself sliding across the bed her eyes snapped open and to her horror she discovered that she was trapped—in a smothering mass of heavy fabric—and being swiftly hauled out of her bed. Panicked, she writhed and thrashed, her fingers clawing against the cloth that engulfed her in its folds.

“Be still!” hissed a voice she recognized immediately.

“Tynedale!” she gasped. “Are you mad? My father will kill you for this—if I don’t first!”

He gave an excited little laugh. “I will take my chances. Once you are my wife, I think that your father will change his mind.”

“But I will not!” she swore and increased her struggle to escape.

The breath was knocked from her as she was lifted and suddenly flung over his shoulder. Keeping one arm clamped across her buttocks, he strode across the room.

Wide-awake now, Nell’s brain raced. There was only one way he could have gained entry to the house: from her balcony and in through the unlocked glass doors. But how had he known in which room she slept? A chill slid down her spine. He must have spied on her, followed her home tonight from the Ellingson ball. He would have guessed her father would not retire immediately, but that she probably would. She had as good as told him that she would. Anger poured through her. All he had to do was watch the upper floor and observe in which room the candles were soon blown out. Blast him! And how lucky for him, she thought grimly, that hers was one of the few that possessed a balcony. Her heart sank. It appeared from both sounds and movement that he was taking her out the same way he had entered.

Knowing that every second counted, aware that once he had her away from the house and her father’s protection, that all was lost, she dragged in a deep breath and screamed.

His nerves razor-edged, Tynedale jumped at the sound. Cursing, he half-fell, half-climbed over the balcony rail. “Bitch! Do that again,” he snarled, as they started the perilous journey down to the ground, “and I shall throttle you.”

Nell squeezed her eyes shut, suddenly terrified as she felt them swaying wildly in the air. He must have used a rope, she thought. Attached it somehow to the balcony and climbed up it. And now, dear God! We are going down it!

Frightened by the knowledge that if Tynedale’s grip on her or the rope slipped she would go crashing to the stone terrace below, Nell remained frozen as he made the descent. The instant she felt his feet thud against the ground, she screamed again, kicking and twisting wildly on his shoulder.

“I warned you,” he growled.

His grip shifted and she slid upright. The next instant there was a blinding explosion in her head and the world went dark.

But Nell’s screams had not gone unheard. Above the sounds of the storm, Robert barely heard the first scream. But he had heard something and, about to enter the house, he stopped at the door and listened. He had just decided he was imagining things when a faint sound came to him again. The wind and rain and the bulk of the house distorted the sound, yet Robert was convinced that he had heard something. A kitten? A dog howling?

Frowning, he entered the house. Sir Edward was just crossing the black-and-white-marble-tiled floor of the main hall and he smiled in his direction.

“Drew buy the horse?” he inquired with a lifted brow.

Robert laughed. “It was a near thing, but Henry and I convinced him that it would not be wise.” The frown returned. “Have you heard anything strange tonight?” he asked.

“Strange? No. Just the usual shrieks and creaks of the storm. Why?”

“I thought I heard something…” He shrugged. “It is probably nothing, but I think I’ll take a look around before I seek my bed.”

Finding nothing amiss, Robert was feeling rather foolish several minutes later when he tapped on Nell’s door. He was not alarmed when she did not answer; Sir Edward had mentioned that she had retired just as soon as they had returned home. She was, no doubt, asleep. Robert smiled. Nell was known to sleep like the dead and even with a storm howling outside it was unlikely that anything short of a lightning bolt next to her bed would disturb her. His smile faded. A lightning bolt or one of those damn nightmares.

He stood there, undecided whether to intrude upon her, but prompted by some instinct, he tapped again and hearing no reply, opened the door and entered. Crossing the sitting room, a small candle held in his hand, he peered into her bedchamber, the bed and furniture outlined by the light of the dancing fire on the hearth. A sudden flash of lightning jerked his gaze to the double doors.

He noticed two things simultaneously: Nell’s bed was empty and the glass doors to her balcony were thrown wide. Calling her name, in three swift strides he covered the distance to the balcony. It was empty. Only the storm howled back in answer to his next frantic cry of her name.

A terrible feeling came over him as he remembered those nights when she had awakened the entire household with her screams from the nightmares that haunted her. In the grip of who-knew-what horrors, had she stumbled to the balcony and fallen? Standing in the rain-lashed darkness, his heart frozen in his breast, he forced himself to peer over the short railing to the ground below. Relief swept through him when the flickering flame of his candle showed him that Nell’s body was not lying crumpled on the stone terrace beneath the balcony.

His relief was short-lived. If Nell was not in her bed, then where was she? A quick search of her rooms did not reveal her presence. He called her name again and again, his voice more urgent each time he called out, but only the sounds of the storm met his ears. Uneasiness growing by the second, he raced downstairs. Finding his father pouring himself a brandy in the library, he demanded, “Are you certain Nell went to bed?”

“Said she was,” Sir Edward replied, surprised by Robert’s interest in his sister’s whereabouts. “Did you look in on her?”

“Yes—and she is not there. I cannot find her anywhere. I’ve looked.” Robert bit his lip. “The doors to her balcony were thrown wide.”

Alarm on his pleasant features, Sir Edward put down his brandy and swept past his son. With Robert on his heels, Sir Edward hurried to Nell’s rooms.

The wind and rain were pouring in through the doors that Robert in his anxiety had left open. Paying it no heed, both men quickly lit several candles.

Nell’s room was ablaze with light and in that bright light both men stared in mounting fear at the muddy boot prints that marred the surface of the cream and rose carpet that covered the floor. Muddy prints that led from the balcony to the bed and away again…

“I knew it! I knew he was up to no good. It is that bastard Tynedale!” Sir Edward burst out, his face a mixture of horror and fury. “He has abducted her! And is probably at this very moment on his way to Gretna Green. We must stop them.”

“Wait!” Robert said, when Sir Edward would have run from the room. “I know it looks suspicious, but how do you know that it is Tynedale that took her? I agree that it appears that someone has taken Nell, but we must completely search the house first. We will feel perfect fools if there is a simple explanation for this.”

Looking at him as if he had lost his wits, Sir Edward snapped, “You rouse the servants and have them look. I am ringing for the coach and sending a note around to the twins—we may need their help. We must not delay.”

Drew and Henry, full of anxious questions, arrived shortly. Upon hearing what was feared, outraged and hungry for Tynedale’s blood, they were impatient to set off in pursuit. The search of the household was completed and beyond a scrap of delicate material caught on one of the bushes leading away from the house, there was no sign of Nell.

Within moments of finding the scrap of material, Sir Edward and Robert were in the family coach and rattling over the London streets. Drew and Henry, swathed in greatcoats, their heads bent against the storm, had chosen to ride astride and their horses splashed alongside of the swaying coach.

Until the coach was clear of London, Sir Edward and Robert sat grim-faced and tight-lipped, neither inclined to talk. Finally leaving the city behind them, Sir Edward tapped on the roof and sticking his head out the window, yelled to his coachman, “Spring ’em!”

The driver cracked his whip and the horses leaped forward. The coach, flanked by the twins, rocked and lurched through the night, the blackness lit now and then by the silvery flashes of lightning.

Tynedale possessed nothing so luxurious as a coach—his had been sold weeks ago to pay off his most pressing debts. He was driving his curricle and even with the top up, he and Nell were pelted with rain as he urged the pair of rented horses on to greater speed. He didn’t believe that anyone had heard Nell’s cries, but he was taking no chances. Besides, he had to have her safely hidden away by daylight. He had known from the beginning that Gretna Green on the Scottish border was not feasible—and the first place the family would look for her. He smiled tightly. There were other ways to bring about a hasty wedding…Once he had compromised her, he was confident that their marriage would follow immediately. All he had to do was get through the next twenty-four hours and all his problems would be solved.

Tynedale glanced over at Nell sitting next to him. She held herself rigid, one hand wrapped around the leather strap to steady her swaying body, her eyes fixed on the galloping horses in front of her. Wrapped from head to toe in the concealing folds of his cloak it was unlikely that anyone—anyone fool enough to be out on a night like this—would recognize her. The blackness of the night would have shielded them, anyway, and the storm was a stroke of luck.

He would have preferred to have planned the abduction more carefully and he certainly would not have chosen a curricle in which to make his escape, but the news that Nell was leaving London on Monday had left him with no time to make other plans. That and the news that Wyndham had bought up all his vowels. Bloody stiff-necked bastard! Wasn’t it enough that Wyndham had beaten him in that duel earlier this year and scarred him for life? It wasn’t his fault that Wyndham’s ward had been weak and unwilling to face the loss of his fortune. “Play or pay” was his motto and if the boy couldn’t stand the nonsense, then he shouldn’t have played…Tynedale smiled. Especially since the dice were loaded. It was a pity what had happened and he’d admit that if he had known that the boy would take such final and drastic action, that he might not have completely ruined him. But his own needs had come first and he had needed the Weston fortune to bring himself about. And I should have followed my first instincts, he thought grimly, and with the Weston fortune at my fingertips, put my own affairs in order. He sighed for the lost chance. But once a gambler, always a gambler, and he had been convinced that his luck had finally turned. With an ill-gotten fortune to back him, he was positive that he could recoup all of his former losses. If one fortune was nice, two would be even nicer. With that thought guiding him he had continued his reckless gaming and whoring. It wasn’t until he had discovered himself once again on the verge of ruin a few months ago that he had begun to cast around for a way out of his difficulties. Marriage to an heiress seemed the only answer.

He glanced again at Nell’s set face. Yes. Marriage to an heiress was the simplest solution. And Eleanor Anslowe suited him. She knew the ways of the world and having reached her majority, her fortune was hers to command—his, once they were married. Sir Edward might puff and rail, but there was nothing that he would be able to do. Once Nell was married to him, all his worries would be over.

Her courage waning with every mile that took them farther from London, Nell stared out into the night. She was exhausted. Fright had taken its toll and her leg was aching unbearably. But she was not beaten and she was not going to make Tynedale’s task easy for him. She had a fair idea what he had planned and she knew, with a sinking feeling, that she would not be able to prevent him from raping her. She swore to herself that even if he succeeded in his evil plans and she had to hide her face in shame for the rest of her life, she was not going to marry him! She took a deep breath. She would get away from him. Somehow.

Since it was unlikely her screams had been heard or that she would be missed until the morning, her escape was going to have to be of her own devising. She looked out at the rain-drenched countryside revealed in the flashes of lightning. She had no idea how far they had traveled from London and in the darkness everything looked different, anyway. She doubted that Tynedale was going to stop soon, but she determined that when he did finally pull the horses to a halt that it would be then that her best chance for escape would present itself. And if there were other people around so much the better. She wasn’t a bit averse to revealing his perfidy.

Nell’s chance came sooner than she expected. A jagged bolt of lightning streaked across the night sky and struck the ground less than fifty feet in front of the racing horses. The very ground seemed to shake and the carriage shuddered. The gigantic flash was followed by a boom of thunder that sounded like the end of the world was at hand. The horses screamed and reared and fought Tynedale’s nervous jerk on the reins. One horse slid on the muddy road and became tangled in the traces; the other was plunging and rearing, fighting to escape. Tynedale could not regain control and the curricle was dragged off the slick road. As the vehicle lurched drunkenly into a ditch at the side of the road, the nearside horse broke free and galloped off into the darkness.

Nell was almost thrown from the curricle by the accident, but she managed to stay inside the vehicle. Tynedale was not so lucky. The jolt and plunging of the curricle pitched him into the ditch.

Cursing, he climbed to his feet. Clutching his shoulder, he surveyed the damage. In the midst of one of the worst storms he’d ever seen, one horse was gone, the vehicle was mired in a muddy ditch and if he wasn’t much mistaken he had broken his collarbone. The night could not get much worse.

But it could. Nell hesitated not a moment. The instant the curricle came to a rest, ignoring her throbbing leg, she scrambled down from the vehicle and stumbled for the protection of the trees that edged this section of the road. She heard Tynedale’s shout behind her but the sound only added wings to her flying feet.

The trees enveloped her and she gave fervent thanks for the night and the storm. Heedless of the branches that whipped at her and the debris that tangled around her feet she plunged forward, deeper and deeper into the concealing forest. Tynedale’s cloak impeded her progress, but she dared not throw it aside—her white nightgown would be a beacon for him—if he was following. She stopped once, listening intently, but beyond the furious howl of the storm, she heard nothing but the frantic beating of her heart and her own labored breathing. She smiled suddenly. She had no idea where she was; she was cold and sodden and frightened, but, by God, she had gotten away from him!