Chapter 20
Chapter
Twenty
Selby stared down at Harriet. She had fallen near the edge of the field where the earth grew rough and rocky just before it gave way to the tree line.
One arm was trapped beneath her. The other lay outstretched, her fingers curled loosely against the mud.
Blood seeped from a wound near her temple and disappeared into her hair.
More blood still dotted the stone she had struck her head upon.
He had not meant to kill her, but intent would not alter what had happened or persuade anyone that her death was an unfortunate accident.
The coachman and groom had seen him stop the carriage.
His own men had watched him chase her across the field.
If she died here, there would be four witnesses who could place him at the scene.
Selby crouched beside her. Harriet did not move. He watched her back, looking for some indication that she breathed, but her cloak made it impossible to tell. He might have touched her throat or held his hand before her mouth. He did neither.
One of the men shouted from the lane. “Mr. Selby?” Selby rose quickly and turned.
The carriage remained where they had stopped it.
Harriet’s coachman was bound inside, and the groom lay near the rear wheel with his hands tied behind him.
Selby’s two servants stood watching from the road. They had all seen too much.
The coachman and groom might be silenced.
They were injured, bound and in no position to defend themselves.
But then Selby would have to contend with the two men he had brought with him.
He had paid them for their assistance, not for their loyalty, and payment would not hold them if they found themselves questioned by a magistrate.
He could not kill four men. Not here. Not alone.
Even if he managed it, there would be no plausible explanation for five bodies scattered along a public lane and the adjoining field.
Servants at his own house knew who had ridden out with him.
Someone would have seen them upon the road.
And Selby had no desire to hang because Harriet Aldridge had lacked the sense to watch where she was running.
He attempted to have a conversation with Harriet, who, as per usual, was being unreasonable, and ran away. That was all anyone need know.
He looked at her once more. Dusk had already begun to settle.
Her gown was wet and muddied, and while her cloak might have been sufficient had she been riding in a carriage, it was not fit for the current weather.
If the blow to her head did not prove fatal, a night upon the damp ground might accomplish the same end.
If she died, then the only witnesses would be two servants who would hardly be believed over someone of his position.
Selby returned to the road. One of his men glanced behind him, plainly expecting to see Harriet in his custody.
“She got away from me,” Selby said. “She reached the trees before I could stop her.”
The man frowned toward the field. “Do you want us to search?”
“In the dark? No. We have been here too long already.” Selby mounted his horse and gathered the reins. “Leave the servants. By the time they free themselves, we will be well away.”
“What if the lady finds her way home?” the man asked, looking once more toward the field.
Selby disliked the question, reasonable though it was.
“I attempted to talk to her about the validity of her marriage. She can claim we meant to abduct her if she wants, but it her word against mine and a man will always be believed. Now mount before someone comes along the road and discovers us debating the matter.”
The man obeyed. Selby turned his horse toward home without looking back. Harriet would not survive the night. By morning, it would no longer matter what she had seen or what she might have told Benedict.
Still, he could not dismiss the blood upon her face. He had expected to feel relief when she stopped fighting him. He felt none. Only fear. Only the idea that somehow he’d made a grave error that would cost him.
Harriet was late. Benedict had reminded himself at least a dozen times that she was not a child and required no keeper.
She had traveled the road between Alderley and Denham Park, Everton included, for most of her life.
The carriage was sound, the horses steady and she had taken both a coachman and groom at his insistence.
None of that explained why she had not returned.
He stood at the window in the drawing room, watching the drive disappear into the gathering darkness.
The book he had attempted to read lay open upon the chair behind him.
He had not managed more than two pages. Each sound from the road drew his attention, and each time it proved to be nothing more than wind in the trees or a wagon passing somewhere beyond the estate.
Harriet had said she would return that afternoon.
She would not remain at Alderley through dinner without sending word, particularly after the conversation they had left unfinished.
Whatever uncertainty she felt about changing the terms of their marriage, she would not avoid him by simply failing to come home.
A wheel might have broken. One of the horses might have thrown a shoe. The recent rain had left portions of the road in poor condition, and the carriage could have become mired.
Benedict glanced at the clock. It was nearly dark enough to require lanterns.
He turned from the window with every intention of ordering a horse saddled. Before he reached the bellpull, the door opened and two footmen entered supporting a man between them.
For a moment, Benedict did not recognize Harriet’s coachman. Blood covered one side of his face. His coat was torn, one eye swollen and his hands abraded where it was clear he had fought against the ropes which had bound him.
Benedict crossed the room. “Where is Lady Everton?” The coachman tried to answer but had not breath enough for it. The footmen lowered him into a chair, and Benedict waited only until the man no longer appeared likely to collapse upon the floor before asking again. “Where is my wife?”
“Selby, my lord.” The coachman pressed one hand to his ribs. “Him and two men stopped us in the narrow lane beyond Alderley. They pulled me from the box and set upon the groom. Her ladyship ran when Selby opened the carriage door.”
Benedict gripped the back of the nearest chair. “Did he take her?”
“I don’t believe so. She ran across the field, and he went after her.
That was the last I saw of her. He came back without her claiming she had gone into the woods, but she’d have made it home by now.
” Shame entered the coachman’s expression.
“They bound me inside the carriage. It took me hours to work free, and I hadn’t the strength to search for her.
I thought it better to come here and raise help.
Billy is in worse shape. Hated to leave the lad, but didn’t know how else to get him help! ”
“You were right.” Benedict looked at the waiting footmen.
“One of you ride to Denham Park and tell my father what has happened. Someone else fetch a cart and go retrieve the groom and get Dr. Easton here. Every other able-bodied man from Denham and Everton will aid in the search. Bring horses, lanterns and blankets.”
Mrs. Mercer entered as the younger footman hurried away. Her gaze moved from the injured coachman to Benedict, and her face lost all color. “Where is Lady Everton?”
“Missing.” He disliked the word so intensely that forcing it from his mouth required effort. Benedict turned back to the coachman. “Tell me precisely where this happened.”
The man described the turning, the low stone wall and the field bordering the woods. Benedict knew the place. He had ridden through it often enough as a boy and had hunted the woods beyond it with his father.
“My lord, you cannot search alone,” Mrs. Mercer said when he started toward the door.
“The others will follow when they are ready. I haven’t the luxury to wait for them. The weather is turning and if she is injured…”
She caught his sleeve. Mrs. Mercer had offered him a great many warnings since his marriage, most of them delivered with the calm certainty that he would disappoint Harriet if not properly managed. There was no warning in her face now. There was only fear.
“Bring her home,” she said, tightening her grasp upon his sleeve.
Benedict covered her hand briefly with his. “I mean to. Whatever has happened, I will find her.”
His horse was brought round before the men at Everton had fully assembled.
He mounted and took the shortest route across the estate, carrying a lantern and little else.
The wind caught at his coat as he rode. Branches struck his shoulders when he cut through the wooded path, but he scarcely noticed them.
Selby had taken Harriet. Benedict knew what the man wanted from Alderley. He understood his anger over the marriage settlement and the land he believed had been stolen from him. None of it explained why he would stop Harriet’s carriage or what he meant to do with her once she was in his power.
Whatever Selby intended, Harriet would have fought him. She would have fought until she could not do so any longer, and the thought of what might be required to render her helpless made Benedict urge his horse faster.
He had known fear before. He had feared for his father that morning while waiting for the physician to say whether the fall had caused some hidden injury.
He had feared for Alderley when he first understood the extent of its debts and the danger Selby posed to both estates. Neither had prepared him for this.
He could not imagine returning to Everton without Harriet.
He could not imagine walking into the breakfast room and finding her chair empty or passing her chamber each night knowing she would never again be on the other side of the door.
The idea that he might never hear her voice again—not even raised in argument—was unbearable.
Benedict had told himself that he desired her.
That much had been impossible to deny. He had admitted that he admired her, trusted her and had begun to look forward to the quiet hours they spent together each evening.
He had not examined what any of it meant because there had been no need to do so.
Faced with the prospect of losing her, there was no longer any point in avoiding the truth. He loved her.
The realization did not surprise him nearly as much as it ought to have.
It simply gathered every feeling he had refused to name and made sense of them.
He had probably loved Harriet long before their fathers forced them to marry.
He had simply been too accustomed to having her in his life to understand what her absence would cost him.
If he found her, he would tell her. He did not care if she laughed, argued or informed him that marriage had finally addled his wits. If she did not love him in return, he would spend the remainder of their lives attempting to change her mind.
The lanterns of the search party appeared behind him as he reached the narrow lane. Benedict sent his horse over the low wall and into the field.
“Harriet!” he shouted, raising the lantern to search the uneven ground. “Harriet, answer me!”
Only the wind moved through the grass. Benedict turned toward the woods and continued calling her name.