Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
T he road curved around a green hillside dotted with sheep and lambs. Wild daffodils danced amidst the new grass, and the air that blew in through the empty hole where the rear window had been was mild.
Keynsham’s horses were rested and newly shod, and his bruises hurt less than they had the day before. They were making good speed, racing the shadows of clouds across the south downs, traveling on a well-maintained side road.
One of the servants at the Bullock had been almost certain that he’d seen a young lady matching Celia’s description board a southbound stage very early in the morning.
Why was she going south? He wouldn’t know until he could ask her. It felt as though his life wouldn’t start again until he could see her face. He’d slipped the man a pound not to talk to anyone else. Of course, he had no way to know if his bribe would keep him man silent—but he had to do something. Doing something felt better than doing nothing.
This route would allow them to cut a wide curve of the main road out of their journey. With any luck, they could catch up to the stage at the next inn.
There was only one problem: He still hadn’t the slightest idea how he could explain himself. He couldn’t tell Celia the truth—that he didn’t wish to marry Miss Spry. That would be ungentlemanly. That would mean explaining how his obligation to Miss Spry had come about in the first place.
There was no way to explain the situation without casting Miss Spry in a bad light. That was what had kept him silent the previous night. Under the circumstances, there was nothing that he could say to explain his engagement—or, well, his near-engagement.
And besides, Miss Spry wasn’t the real problem. The real problem was his own dishonest behavior. Celia had depended on him to help her. He’d taken advantage of the situation. He’d taken advantage of her . And he’d done so despite knowing that he wasn’t free to marry her.
Misgivings flickered through his consciousness like the shadows of the March clouds racing over the hillside. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. If only there were a way that he could go back in time and not kiss Celia!
But that was impossible. So he must do the next best thing. He must rescue her.
Yes. He stared out the window. Perhaps, once he was back in London, he’d once again feel foggy-headed, beset by complexities, and depressed in spirits. But for now, out in the open countryside, his objective was clear: Find Celia—and keep her safe from Wilkes.
The road wound down the side of the hill and into a wood. The carriage slowed. “Your lordship!” Young pulled the horses to a stop. “There is a tree down on the road ahead.”
That was odd. Keynsham pushed the carriage window down and leaned out. The trunk that lay across the road was just big enough that it would take both him and Young to move it. Well, it would add a few minutes to their time—but they would still have minutes to spare and every hope of catching the stage. He opened the door and was about to spring down when some sixth sense made him hesitate.
They were in the midst of a beechwood. Thickly growing trees stretched up and down the hillside. But instead of the birdsong that he would have expected, there was a curious silence. He had just time to note the prickling sensation of being watched when he heard the unmistakable sound of a gunshot.
He dropped to the floor of the carriage. A moment later there was a second shot. The carriage window burst, showering glass over him.
“Young!” he called.
There was no answer. Had the coachman been shot? The report of a pistol just outside answered that question: Young was returning fire. “Sir!” he called back, his voice hoarse.
Wilkes. It couldn’t be anyone else. He must have cut across country and ambushed the carriage, like some highwayman of the previous century.
Still on the carriage floor, Keynsham was already feeling for a hidden latch under the rear-facing seat. His father had faced many sticky situations of his own making—including enraged husbands and bill collectors. When he’d ordered this carriage, he’d had it built with a secret compartment in which to stow guns.
The latch clicked and the compartment opened to reveal two rifles and a brace of pistols. He checked the pistols and stowed the double-barreled revolver in his breast pocket, and a pistol in his tailcoat pocket. His mind had gone unnaturally calm. He loaded the rifles with the speed born of years of practice and slid out, long guns in hand, just as another bullet hit the side of the carriage with a thunk .
Young was flattened against the side of the carriage, his face strained and his forehead beaded with sweat. “They’re up there.” He motioned up the hill.
Keynsham edged past him and peeked past the nervous horses. Between the trees, not far up the hill, were a few stones that might once have been a hut.
Whoever was hiding behind the stones also saw him. A bullet whined past. He threw himself flat against the side of the carriage again. “How many?”
“Two, maybe. Didn’t get enough of a look.”
Keynsham took a deep breath and ducked around the corner just long enough to aim and fire. He heard the ball ricochet off stone. He’d aimed too low.
A moment later an answering shot passed through the carriage. Shards of glass sprayed his coat and stung his cheek. The horses whinnied in fright and began to sidle backwards. Much more of this and they’d be lucky if the bastards didn’t kill one of them.
He reloaded and handed Young both rifles. “Take these. I shall work my way up the hill to get a clear shot at them.”
Young’s face was gray. “Work your way… But your lordship! If you go out there, they’ll blow your head clean off!”
“If I do not, they will keep us pinned down and kill us where we stand. I am counting on you to provide covering fire.”
Young seized his arm. “I’m no marksman!”
“You do not need to be. You simply need to make them keep their heads down for a few moments, until I am across the road.”
Young swallowed. “Yes, sir.”
Keynsham ducked past the shattered windows. He paused. “Oh, and Young?”
“Yes, your lordship?”
“Don’t get shot.”
Young fired twice. Crouching as low as he could, Keynsham ran for the edge of the woods, where he’d seen the start of a narrow trail. He dropped to his belly and, on his elbows, began to crawl along what seemed to be an ancient, slightly sunken woodcutter’s track that led uphill from the road. After the war had ended, he’d hoped that he’d never have to do anything like this again.
Young fired twice in quick succession again. For the moment there were no answering shots. Good. That meant that the men who’d ambushed them were staying down. He hoped that the sparse underbrush would provide him enough cover as he tried to work his way level with the tumbled heap of stones where they were hiding.
A puff of smoke rose just ahead and to his left as the bastards got off another couple of shots. But Young must be quick at reloading, for there were answering shots from below. Keynsham rolled onto his back and pulled out the revolver. It felt solid in his hand. He could say one thing for his father: The fifth viscount had always bought quality guns.
He rolled over again, took a steadying breath and raised his head above the level of the ivy that twisted over the ground.
He was scarcely forty feet from the pile of stones. There were two men crouched behind it. And one of them must have heard something, for he turned and looked directly at Keynsham.
Keynsham didn’t have time to think. He barely had time to sight. The man was raising his gun and shouting something. Keynsham squeezed the trigger. The man reeled backward, dropping his rifle.
He’d hit him. He must have. But there was no time to be certain, because the other man was charging him. He was the same massive thug that Keynsham had fought in Grosvenor Square.
Scrambling to his feet, Keynsham fired again. He missed. Now the double-barreled pistol was empty, and something glinted in the man’s hand. A knife. Nothing like a London thug for a knife fight , he thought grimly.
The man lunged. Hours of training in boxing and fencing meant that Keynsham’s body dodged the first few strikes almost effortlessly. But the big man had done plenty of fighting too. He was powerful—and his arms were long.
He held the knife flat in a practiced grip in his huge hand as he lunged, the blade poised to slash and thrust upward into Keynsham’s ribs.
Again and again, he tried to close. Keynsham took a step backward, eyes on the blade. His foot landed on a loose stone. He almost went down as the thug lunged again. He barely managed to stumble aside in time, and brought the butt of the now-empty pistol down where the man’s skull met the back of his neck.
The blow had no effect. The ruffian righted himself and came straight back at Keynsham. He was disconcertingly fast. The knife flashed toward Keynsham again and again. He hadn’t a split second or an inch of space in which to grab the second pistol from his tailcoat pocket.
The thug’s enraged breathing filled Keynsham’s ears, and his sour body odor filled his nose. Dodging the man’s knife strikes he was forced back and back—until his shoulders met something solid.
He was cornered against a massive tree trunk.
A smirk of triumph broke across the thug’s dirty face. He’d planned this. He struck; the knife angled toward Keynsham’s gut. Keynsham twisted away just in time. The knife went through his jacket, pinning him to the tree.
Keynsham made a desperate plunge forward. Something tore, and he found himself with just room enough to swing.
The enormous man was caught off guard. Keynsham’s empty pistol connected with his temple with the full force of a trained punch behind it.
The thug collapsed.
Footsteps pounded toward Keynsham. He had just enough time to tear the other revolver out of the jacket, his shaking finger on the trigger.
George Young skidded to a stop, a rifle in his hand. “Your lordship! You got them! You got them!” He was beaming.
Keynsham stared at him, panting. He had to force himself to point the pistol at the ground. Good God. He’d almost shot Young.
The coachman clapped him on the back. “You got them both!”
Keynsham’s hands were shaking. Would the man get up and attack? No. He was lying still, face down. He might be dead.
He knelt and felt for a pulse in his neck. “He is merely unconscious. Find something to tie his hands.” His voice sounded oddly normal.
Young hurried back to the carriage for rope. Keynsham looked over at the pile of rocks. The man he’d shot lay in a heap, blood visible on his coat. He could tell even from this distance that whoever he was, he wasn’t well-dressed enough to be Wilkes.
A pair of horses were picketed behind a tree. They’d have to free them—they could likely wander home on their own—but he didn’t fancy seeing the body any closer. He’d shot enough men in the war. He’d never thought he’d have to shoot another. The air under the low canopy of the trees seemed suffocating. He felt sick.
He pulled out the knife that pinned his jacket to the tree trunk. The blade was four inches long and deadly sharp. He set it on the ground, shook out his ruined jacket almost mechanically, brushed it off, and put it back on. One sleeve hung by a few threads, and he’d narrowly missed being gutted, but it wouldn’t do to appear in public half dressed.
“Your lordship.” Young rushed back with a length of rope. He seemed to be full of something that was very nearly hero worship. Keynsham could have told him that there was nothing heroic about what he’d done. He’d killed a man before he could kill him. That was all it was. That was all it ever was.
Keynsham bound the big thug’s hands behind him. “Help me roll him over.” They heaved him onto his back. His mouth hung slackly open as Keynsham searched his pockets. A few coins amounting to perhaps a pound, a tinderbox—nothing that identified him.
The man groaned. It wouldn’t be long before he regained consciousness. Keynsham straightened. “Let us not linger. Wilkes may be nearby.”
They worked together to roll the tree trunk off the road. Any optimism he’d had was gone. The sky had clouded over, and the grimness of death lingered in the place. And the carriage—all of its windows shattered, its sides splintered by bullet holes—wouldn’t offer any comfort for Celia. But there was nothing that he could do about that now.
He reloaded and stowed the rest of the guns under an old blanket on the box. Then he put on his greatcoat, climbed up next to Young and sat with a loaded rifle across his lap, concealed by the coat. If there were any more of Wilkes’s thugs lying in wait, they’d be the ones who got an unpleasant surprise.
Young whipped up the horses. They left the eaves of the wood behind for more rolling pastureland dotted with sheep. Keynsham pulled out his watch. Miraculously, it wasn’t smashed. Each moment of the fight had seemed to stretch on for eternity. In reality, they’d lost only three quarters of an hour.
It began to rain. Soon a heavy, silvery curtain shut out the distant line of the sea to the east. He rearranged the rifle to be certain that his greatcoat protected it. The gun battle had made him even more fearful for Celia’s safety. Wilkes would stop at nothing. If he harmed her… He’d never forgive himself for having driven Celia away.
When they reached the inn, they found the rain-swept yard empty. The ostler’s boy ran out, pulling his jacket collar up against the downpour. Yes, the early Southampton-bound stage had already departed. No, he hadn’t seen a young lady answering Miss Talbot’s description.
Keynsham’s heart sank. What could this mean? Had Wilkes intercepted the coach first? The thought made him feel sick.
Well, no matter what, before they could continue, he had to hire a fresh pair of horses. After miles of the pace they’d set, his team was done for.
“Well, well, well—this won’t do!” The ostler, unharnessing the horses on the slick cobbles of the inn yard, stuck a finger in one of the splintered holes in the side of the carriage and whistled. “This won’t do at all! Why, you’d as well drive yourselves about in a cheese grater, your lordship!”
Keynsham was too tired and sore to be amused. And he certainly wasn’t about to discuss how his carriage had got riddled with bullet holes. There would be enough talk as it was. “Indeed,” he said curtly, and stowed the guns back in their compartment.
Now that he had a chance to look at it, he realized that the once-elegant carriage had taken so much damage that it might not be worth repairing. Its expensively lacquered body was a splintered wreck, and the rain had soaked the fine leather upholstery through its shattered windows. Like everything on which his father had spent money, it had been but a fleeting luxury.
He and Young sat at a quiet table in the low-ceilinged snug to wait while the horses were changed out. It was now obvious that Wilkes and his men were following Celia south. So it all came back to the same refrain that had been going through his mind since before dawn: He must find her before they did.
The rain lashed the window. He swallowed some ale. The once-promising day had turned bleak. He’d shot a man. Celia wasn’t on the coach. And there were still twenty miles of increasingly muddy road between them and Southampton.
And when he reached into the pocket of his ruined jacket for money to settle the bill, his fingers met a folded piece of paper that hadn’t been there before. He withdrew it. It was a note. His eyes went first to the signature. It was from Celia.
Though it had been written hastily in pencil, the message was plain enough. He read it. He read it again. He slumped back in the seat and put his hand over his eyes.
He’d failed.
Young put down his ale. “What is it, your lordship?”
He took a deep breath. “We shall return to London.”
“Your lordship?”
“I do not believe that Miss Talbot has gone to Southampton.”
Young looked puzzled. “Then… where has she gone?”
“To London. But where she has gone beyond that, I do not know.”