Chapter 17
Christopher had a head start, but not much of one. Within moments of whipping his team into a frenzy, he could hear shouts behind him calling for the duke’s own light carriage to be brought. He craned his neck to look back at the rapidly shrinking sight of Grosvenor Square—-and the handful of footmen in the lurid green Rushford livery shaking their fists at him. Christopher grinned and faced forward once more, leaning into the cold wind and snapping the reins along the backs of his horses.
His landau clattered down the cobblestones for several miles before making a wide turn onto Aldersgate Street. Christopher could hear another set of wheels rattling at a clip behind, gaining ground. He turned to find the duke’s carriage fast approaching. The driver appeared to be an extremely angry little man with a head of wild curls, wearing an improperly buttoned coat. No doubt he’d been roughly awoken from a dead sleep moments before by the footmen. If Christopher was cor rectly understanding the consonant--heavy curses the fellow was shouting into the night air, he was Welsh.
“Sorry!” he called out, for he -really did feel for the man. Yet he had a job to do, and for the moment, Christopher refused to be caught.
He turned the horses sharply to the right, headed for Shoreditch, the side of his carriage scraping along the stone facade of a bakery as he went. His hat tumbled off his head and was crushed beneath the wheels, but Christopher barely noted its loss—-a testament to his steely focus.
The Welshman followed, though his horses and axles both protested at the harsh treatment. Sparks flew as the iron bolts at the center of his wheels hissed along the bricks. Christopher looked back, eyes widening at the sight. In the midst of the chaos, the Duke of Rushford himself leaned out the carriage window. Spittle flew as he shouted at Christopher: “Stop this instant and unhand my daughter!”
Christopher did not plan on doing either. “Hold on,” he called to his passengers as he executed another devil of a turn, this time on Bunhill to head north once again. “We’re getting out of the city if it’s the last thing I do,” he muttered under his breath as he guided the horses down the narrow, dark lane. It was a good thing they had planned this sojourn for the middle of the night; otherwise their two racing carriages would be plowing down old ladies and small children left and right. As it was, the only victims of their race were a few shop signs that they bashed aside in their hurry.
There was a tense moment where Christopher pulled his landau abruptly down a blind alley while the Welshman flew by, unable to stop at such speed. With the sounds of shouting echoing all around them, Christopher drove his team as quietly as possible into another nearby alleyway where the close shadows might hide them for a time. He stayed there for long minutes, parked behind a cart stacked high with barrels, and listened to the duke’s carriage clattering back and forth on the street just outside his hiding place.
Then the light of a lantern shone in Christopher’s eyes, and he was once again off like a shot with the duke in hot pursuit.
Buildings flew by, then thinned. Christopher reached the outskirts of London with a whoop. The horses could gain speed on the wider country roads, and that was exactly what Christopher encouraged them to do. Fresh air rushed into his lungs as he inhaled the perfect scent of horseflesh and fields.
His wind--tousled curls fell into his eyes as he turned his bare head to gauge the distance between himself and his pursuers. He’d gained a slightly larger lead now that he was on familiar turf; Christopher suspected that the Welshman rarely drove outside the city. His horses hardly knew what to do with themselves.
Christopher gave a yelp of pleasure at the sight of heaths and meadows. It was working. He thumped his fist on the carriage roof to let his passengers know all was going according to plan. “Just a straight shot now!” he called.
A bullet whizzed past his ear.
Christopher twisted in his seat, what little color he possessed draining from his face. “Are you actually shooting at me?” he cried.
The duke, leaning out of the carriage window once more, reloaded his dueling pistol in answer. At that distance, Christopher couldn’t make out every detail, but he imagined he saw His Grace’s upper lip quivering in rage.
The cape of Christopher’s greatcoat fluttered wildly as he snapped at the horses to hurry. He hadn’t accounted for gunfire in his plan, and he preferred to end the night with all his blood still contained inside his body, if possible.
A muffled feminine voice called from the confines of the carriage: “Lord Eden, it’s not worth getting shot! Stop the carriage, please!”
Christopher gritted his teeth. “A little farther,” he whispered to no one but the wind. “Just a little farther.” Every moment, every mile was precious.
Chester and Belinda weren’t the only ones who had fixed their hopes upon him. Har-ding had as well.
The horses were in a lather and tiring fast. They wanted to run for him, Christopher could feel it in the reins, but they needed rest. That last terrible scrape on the London streets had also affected one of the wheels; there was a dangerous wobble on the left--hand side. The duke fired another shot, this one right over Christopher’s head. He ducked downward like a turtle.
He swung the horses around a bend in the road rather recklessly, almost tipping the entire carriage, but righting it at the last moment. The duke’s team thundered directly behind now, the Welshman cursing like a sailor.
“The first two shots were a warning!” the duke screamed into the night. “I shall not aim wide a third time!”
Christopher squeezed his eyes shut, then blinked them open. It wasn’t just the horses; he was tiring as well. How much ground had he covered tonight? It felt like he’d driven halfway to Cambridge.
Had he done enough?
The cocking of the duke’s pistol made the decision for him. Whatever he’d managed, it would have to do. He pulled his team to a skittering stop, his carriage sliding sideways on the packed earth of the road. Behind him, their pursuers came to a similarly messy halt. Christopher raised his hands in the air with as much dignity as he could as the duke, flanked by two footmen and his driver, advanced on him.
“Who the devil do you think you are, absconding with my little girl in the dead of night?”
One of the footmen obediently raised a lantern -toward Christopher’s face so that the duke might have his answer.
“Lord Eden?” he cried. He was as shocked as if he’d come face--to--face with a ghost. “But why! When you would have had my blessing, why would you abduct my sweet child like some common brute?”
“I’m afraid I have no idea what you mean,” Christopher said blithely. “Lady Belinda is not with me.”
“Don’t talk to me as if I am a fool,” the duke snapped. “She went missing tonight; my men saw her get into your carriage.” The footmen nodded solemnly in agreement.
“I can’t speak to that. I can only say that I was out for a bit of a drive to enjoy the night air when you began chasing me through the streets.”
“Ridiculous!” the duke spat. He rounded the carriage and reached for the door handle. “Belinda! Come here this instant.” He wrenched open the door and stood there gaping.
For in truth, Lady Belinda was not inside. There was only a motley party consisting of Verbena Montrose, her maid, and étienne Charbonneau. They were all a bit worse for wear, what with having been tossed around in the carriage during the race through the streets, but étienne at least managed to tug his waistcoat back into place with one firm motion.
A moment was spent with everyone silently staring at one another while Christopher climbed down from the driver’s seat.
Verbena ventured to speak first. “Your Grace,” she said in a trembling voice that did not seem to be an act, “what a frightful evening we’ve had! My friend Lord Eden was taking us on a lovely midnight ride when we were suddenly set upon by highwaymen. In the middle of the city, no less! I cannot believe it; look, Monsieur Charbonneau, I’m shaking still.” She held out her delicate hand, which was indeed dancing like a leaf in the wind.
étienne grabbed her hand and held it between his. “My dear, please, there is no need to fear. As I told you, our Lord Eden is a most wonderful driver. We could not be caught! And look, here is His Grace to ensure those villains will chase us no longer.”
“My friends.” Christopher sighed theatrically and smoothed his hands through his unkempt hair. “It appears there has been a terrible misunderstanding. It was the duke who chased us out of London. He must have thought I was someone else.”
The duke sputtered. “Someone else? Someone else!”
Verbena’s maid shrank into the back of the carriage seat as if endeavoring to become one with the rich velvet upholstery. Christopher wished her the best of luck, of course. Of all the people he’d involved in this little scheme, he felt the most guilt on her account. The poor girl had only been dragged along to play chaperone, and here she was being screamed at by a duke.
étienne tried to calm the man with the voice he used when dealing with addled customers. “Your Grace, perhaps we should adjourn elsewhere, drink a nice glass of sherry, and talk this through, non ?”
The duke ignored him, pushing his way into the carriage. “Where is she?” he demanded. He displaced étienne from his seat so that he could overturn the cushions. “Where are you hiding Belinda?”
“Dear me, could it be your men saw me and thought I was Lady Belinda? It was so very dark.” Verbena blinked at him, all innocence. “I did ask Lord Eden to stop for a moment at Grosvenor Square so that I might take in the moon over the rooftops. There’s nothing like moonlight over the square, don’t you agree?”
The duke, hunched over as he was in the confines of the carriage, turned to glare at Christopher with all the gravitas such a position could afford. “Where is my daughter?”
“I could not say,” Christopher replied. This was very much the truth, as he couldn’t be entirely sure where she was on her journey. Likely she was just now leaving London on the westernmost route, where she and Chester would be borne in an unassuming dog cart driven by Har-ding. The man was prepared to drive all night at a sedate pace that would capture no one’s notice. They would be in Gretna Green before anyone could catch them. Even the duke wouldn’t be able to organize a search party on every road out of London.
The decoy carriage had been Har-ding’s idea. Too clever by half, was Christopher’s man.
Neither of them, however, had counted on the duke bringing a pistol. The thing was still clutched in his white--knuckled hand, trembling as his face turned a shade more magenta. Christopher stood just outside the open carriage door and hoped to god the man wouldn’t decide to blow his head off right there in the middle of the road.
“Your Grace,” he said slowly, “please know I care deeply for your daughter’s health and happiness. If she has gone missing, I will do everything in my power to assist. Yet, as we have established, she is not here with us. Staying in this spot does her no good. Should we not return to London and seek help?”
“This is a conspiracy,” the duke whispered. His thumb was still resting on the elaborately engraved flintlock. “You are aiding in her kidnapping.”
“Pardon my ignorance, Your Grace, but if a woman leaves a house of her own accord, as your men say she did, then it cannot be a kidnapping, can it?” Verbena asked.
The duke shot her a glare that was thankfully less deadly than a bullet—-though Verbena still paled at the look. With his dignity in tatters, the duke could do nothing but exit the carriage and stow his dueling pistol inside his coat. He towered above Christopher as he did this, glowering down at him. Christopher maintained his blank face as best as he could, though he had to admit sweat was trickling down his back as he waited to see what would happen next.
Nothing, as it turned out. The duke merely signaled to his men, and they all raced to their posts to help him back into his own carriage. The Welshman took up the reins and, with a begrudging nod of acknowledgment to his rival, turned the horses back -toward London.
Only when the carriage was out of sight behind a stand of trees did Christopher allow himself to breathe. He bent over with his hands braced on his knees, taking deep gulps of air. étienne alighted to rub his shoulder. All around them, there was nothing but the sound of crickets and the hoot of owls.
“It worked, mon ami, ” he said in a delighted whisper. “We’ve done it. There’s no way the duke will catch the happy couple.”
“I thought he was going to shoot you for certain!” Verbena cried as she popped out from the landau. She couldn’t keep the note of fascination from her voice. “What a scandal that would have been. I can’t believe I had a front--row seat for the entire thing. This has been the most wonderfully exciting evening of my life! Much better than a ball.”
“I am delighted as always to have entertained you, Miss Montrose,” Christopher wheezed. He at last caught his breath and stood upright. “One cannot blame the duke for such a reaction, of course. If my eldest daughter had been murdered and my youngest disappeared into thin air, I might wave a pistol round as well.”
étienne frowned at this. “It was my understanding that the eldest— What was her name?”
“Lady Constance,” Verbena supplied.
“—-that she merely disappeared. There was no trace of what had happened, non ? She might have been abducted, not killed.”
“Oh, be serious, Monsieur Charbonneau.” Verbena tossed her hair and then took pains to arrange the curls in a fetch ing manner over her shoulder once more. Her maid rushed to assist. “After all this time has passed? With not even a whisper as to her whereabouts? If she were alive, someone would know something. Someone would have come forward.”
“But without a body, what proof is there?” étienne cried. “There is always hope, is there not?”
Christopher held up both his hands and shut his eyes. He was tired and hatless and still quite shaky, and now he was forced to deal with a tremendous amount of morbid information. “It was my understanding that the lady was unquestionably deceased. That there could be no other explanation.” He’d nearly swallowed his own tongue at that damn ball from the thought of it.
“I am sure that she is, Lord Eden,” Verbena said. “Everyone knows it.”
étienne grumbled something in French but was roundly ignored.
“Be that as it may,” Christopher said, “the fact remains that we made mischief with a grieving father tonight. Oh, thank you.” Verbena’s maid had thoughtfully packed a pork pie in a hamper for their excursion, and Christopher gratefully accepted the slice she pushed into his hands. “You will be kind when we return to London, won’t you, Miss Montrose?” He took a bite and chewed.
“Yes, I will take care when writing my correspondence,” Verbena said as she nibbled on her own slice of pie. “The story of your fantastic chase will be of great interest, I’m sure. All a case of mistaken identity, not harmful in the least to His Grace’s reputation. With any luck, word will reach every member of the ton by breakfast.”
“And hopefully will overshadow the news of the elopement,” étienne added. “A pistol--wielding duke is more worthy of gossip than two young lovers marrying at Gretna Green. Young lovers get married at the Green all the time; dukes rarely shoot at earls.”
Christopher swallowed the last of his pie. “Yes, with your help, Miss Montrose, Horace and Belinda should be protected from the worst of the tongue wagging. The duke will have his hands full with the rumors; he won’t dare kick up a fuss over the marriage.” It seemed fitting that, for once, gossip was working in Christopher’s favor, or at least the favor of his dear friends.
étienne brightened. “Shall I drive us back to London, Lord Eden? I have always wanted to handle a carriage as light and fine as this.”
Christopher had seen étienne drive a team only once, but once had been quite enough. He grimaced. “No need, dear fellow. I’m fortified now.” He swung himself back onto the seat and turned the horses -toward home.