Changing the Earl's Mind (The Lords of Whitehall Book 3) Page 7

  Dear Elisabeth,

  I write to you with tears in my eyes and great pain in my heart. My beloved Margaret has left. Despite the desperate pleadings of myself and the strict warnings of Lord Umberton, she has wed the farmer, Mr. Tindall. The scandal will be harsh, but I am sure we shall rise above it.

  To think, in mere months she would have had her come-out in London, with scores of suitable admirers lined up before her. With her beauty, she could have been a duchess. Now, she will be a farmer’s wife. Not that I mind too terribly. Of course, I wanted better for her, but I want her happy.

  Oh, Beth! Lord Umberton has forbidden me to even speak her name. I shall never see her again, my beautiful daughter!

  Elisabeth sniffled and wiped at the tears streaking her cheeks. Margaret had only been mentioned twice more. Once, when she’d had her son, Francis, and once more when she had succumbed to illness. After that, Mr. Tindall had left with his son to America, putting an end to the wretched scandal.

  Lady Umberton had plunged into a deep depression shortly thereafter and nearly died. If not for Elisabeth and Lord Umberton’s steadfast support and love holding her together, she surely would have given up on this life.

  Elisabeth cleared her throat and turned to Mary. “Do you still have that handbill on you, my dear?”

  Mary lifted her brows, affecting a surprised expression. “Why no, my lady. Of course not—”

  “Oh, posh, Mary,” Elisabeth interrupted. “I know you have a tendency for the melodramatic and macabre. Hand it over, if you please.”

  “Oh,” Mary said. With a sheepish smile, she pulled the handbill from a pocket in her skirts and handed it to Elisabeth. “Of course, my lady.”

  She glanced over the handbill, noting the name and the depiction of the man in the bottom corner. “That’s just what I thought.” Then she eased herself to her feet with Mary’s help. “Come, Mary. I’m afraid we have to pay my dear friend a visit.”

  Chapter 5

  Once Drake helped Mrs. Tindall back into the carriage, he pulled himself inside, settling against the squabs opposite before rapping his knuckles against the roof.

  “Manchester, Coachman.”

  He watched her gaze flick from his hand to his face before she turned to stare out the window. For the moment, she looked as though she would behave, but if she knew he was planning to leave her to the care of Mr. Davis in Manchester, she might try something far riskier than running into a forest. Jumping from a moving carriage, for instance.

  She would break her neck.

  He repressed a shiver. Hopefully she would not be familiar enough with the local geography to know Manchester wasn’t on the way to London. Then again, Drake was never one to rely on hope.

  He leaned toward the window and yanked on the velvet rope holding back the curtain, snapping it off in his hand.

  Hazel eyes widened. “What was that for?”

  “Your hands, if you please.”

  She laughed as though it were a jest.

  He moved to sit beside her, catching her when she started to leap for the other side of the carriage.

  “Let me go!” Her hand struck out, just missing his cheek, while her feet battered his shins.

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said through clenched teeth. “Stop kicking me!” He threw his leg over her lap, holding her in place as he wrapped the rope first around one slender wrist, then the other, making sure to loop it through the handle near the window to keep her put.

  She glared up at him, breathing angrily through her nose while wisps of hair fell about her cheeks and neck.

  “You can get off me now,” she ground out. She blew a puff of air from the side of her mouth to move an errant strand of hair. “Amputation may soon be in order if you don’t. Your leg is cutting off the circulation to my feet.”

  “Forgive me if this seems rather extreme,” he said, moving back to his side of the carriage, “but necessity dictates I bind you. Otherwise, I am ninety-six percent certain you will try to run away again. And if you do, I am one hundred percent certain you will do far worse than sprain your ankle.”

  “How medieval of you.” Her gaze flicked to where he was rubbing his shin. “Does it hurt?”

  “Like the bleeding devil,” he admitted, leaning back into the cushioned seat and wishing very much he had stayed at Barrington Park, instead of rushing off to that blasted hunting cabin.

  When they drew up to the inn yard in Manchester, Drake leaned forward to detach her from the carriage. He drew the cord through the handle and tied her wrists back together in front of her, draping a traveling blanket over her hands to hide the bindings.

  “Not one word, do you understand?” He waited until she nodded before he stepped down from the carriage and turned to assist her.

  Hazel eyes narrowed on his proffered hand, and Drake felt his jaw tighten in anticipation of whatever mischief she was about to unleash.

  “Mrs. Ramsey?” he prodded, the soft warning evident.

  She refused his hand, carefully stepping to the ground on her good foot in an almost graceful move. Then she stood, pinning him with a mutinous glare.

  “Well?”

  Drake lifted a brow. “You obviously have no need of my assistance, but may I escort you inside for the sake of appearances, Mrs. Ramsey?”

  She lifted her wrists, still covered by the blanket. “Is this for appearances, too?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well,” she muttered, lowering her hands, “in that case, why don’t you carry me over the threshold? We are newlyweds, after all.”

  “Frankly, because I am not convinced you won’t strangle me on the way.”

  The corner of her mouth twitched as she sent him a long side-glance.

  “Can you walk?” he asked.

  “Let’s see.” She held out her elbow to him, and Drake took her arm, noting with a wave of relief that she could walk.

  The Drowsy Doxy was loud and obnoxious, but it was not frequented by anyone who might know him, so it was the best option. Tables took up the majority of the public taproom, and most of them were filled with travelers enjoying a pint and some stew.

  He gently steered Mrs. Tindall to the bar at their left, flagging the attention of the innkeeper. Soon after, he secured a room, having signed the registration book and paid the fare.

  The innkeeper turned, snatching a key off one of the hooks behind him. “Room seven. Up the stairs, to the left.”

  Drake began guiding Mrs. Tindall to their room, but a familiar voice booming behind him gave him pause.

  “You there, innkeeper. I’m looking for an American woman. So high, dark hair, muddy eyes. Have you seen anyone matching that description?”

  Drake almost rolled his eyes. If Gordon’s description hadn’t included American, it would have matched any one of the women littering the taproom.

  He felt Mrs. Tindall stiffen at his side, and a quick glance in her direction showed she was chalk-white. He lifted her hood over her head to hide her face and then guided her away, cutting a direct line toward the stairs.

  “No, I don’t believe I have,” the innkeeper replied. “Have you tried the Golden Elk?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Gordon said distractedly. “Mr. Ramsey, is it?”

  Drake took a deep breath before turning around. “Ah, Mr. Gordon. How did you guess?”

  “I read the registration book to make sure Sarah Tindall hadn’t been here.”

  Drake lifted a brow. “Do you think she would use her own name?”

  “Even if she thought to use an alias, I would recognize her handwriting.”

  He blinked hard at Gordon’s misguided confidence. “She could disguise her penmanship.”

  “Perhaps.” Gordon shrugged. “You didn’t stay at the cottage long. I hope I didn’t scare you off with talk of murderesses.”

  “Not at all,” he forced out civilly. “I have been called away.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Gordon said, then turned to Mrs. Tinda
ll. “And this is Mrs. Ramsey?”

  Drake unclenched his jaw. “Indeed, yes.”

  “A pleasure, madam,” Gordon said, bringing her small, shaking hand to his lips. He frowned at the hand as he straightened, then ducked again to peer under her hood. “Do I know you?”

  Drake tucked her deeper into his side. “Do forgive me, but I must get her to our room. As you can see, she scarcely has the strength to stand. If I don’t lay her down soon, her legs may fail her. Good evening, Mr. Gordon.”

  “Evening, Ramsey.” Gordon nodded with a pensive frown. “Madam.”

  Drake half carried her up the stairs and into their room, settling her in the only chair. He turned from her just long enough to lock the door behind them, then sank to his knees in front of her, untying her wrists.

  “Are you all right?”

  She nodded, but her chest was still rising and falling hard against her bodice, an observation he could have gone without.

  He sank back on his haunches, forcing himself to see her as he saw anyone else, which was a difficult but not impossible task.

  She was afraid of Gordon, fact.

  She seemed idiotically not afraid of anything else, fact.

  She truly believed she was innocent, fact.

  She was breathtakingly beautiful, fact.

  He stood and turned his back to her, needing to clear his traitorous thoughts.

  “Why are you so afraid of him?”

  “Because he wants to kill me,” she replied as though it were obvious.

  “The man is sworn to uphold the law,” he said, pausing as his gaze fell on the large four-poster nestled in the corner of the room. He clenched his teeth, clasping his hands behind his back as he turned to face her. “He may wish a criminal harm, but he will act justly. He would have no choice since I am aware of the situation.”

  She silently regarded him with a disbelieving glare.

  “Very well,” Drake said irritably. “Since you seem to know so much about the man, answer me this. Why is it he’s so confident he can recognize your handwriting?”

  “I assume he’s seen it before,” she said dismissively.

  “How insightful,” he said evenly. This entire bloody mess was beginning to grate on his nerves. “Precisely how well do you know this man?”

  “Well enough to know what he will do to me if he finds me,” she muttered.

  “Damnation!” Drake swore, running his hands through his hair. “What are you not telling me? Why must you be the one person on this planet who does not trust me?”

  “I cannot be the only one.”

  For a moment, Drake couldn’t speak, too furious. Then he shook his head and stood to pace the room.

  “I need to know why anyone would want to kill your husband, and if you have any reason to believe they might be coming after you next.” He lifted an arm as he moved, counting off each item with his fingers. “I need to know why this Gordon fellow is convinced you are guilty, and why he would want to play executioner himself. I need to know if your husband owed anyone, cheated anyone, or cuckolded anyone.” Drake abruptly stopped and lifted both hands. “I am through wasting my time with you. I could get more information out of a goldfish… or Gordon.”

  “Oh, that’s unnecessary,” she began, but Drake was already halfway out the door.

  He slammed it behind him, then turned to twist the key in the lock. He had never felt so aggravated before in his life. He felt out of control, and it was all because of her. He couldn’t think clearly when she was near. He growled as he dragged a hand through his hair and over his face.

  He took the stairs deliberately, scanning each table scattered throughout the smoky room. Someone was going to explain to him what the hell was going on, and at this point, Drake wasn’t too particular about who that someone might be.

  Sarah watched the door slam shut, feeling the reverberation deep in her bones. If she wanted to escape, it was now or never, since Saint Brides was more than likely returning with Mr. Gordon in tow.

  She stood carefully, testing her ankle. It hurt like Hades, but she could walk.

  She bent to tighten the binding before moving to the door to try the knob. Locked. Of course it was locked. Saint Brides didn’t have a trusting bone in his body. Even rushing out of the room in a temper, he had remembered to lock the blasted door.

  She went to the window, which opened out into a side courtyard, and pushed it open to look out. She could almost understand why Saint Brides had not thought to lock the window, since they were on the second floor. It was quite a drop, and he had no way of knowing she was an even better climber than she was a runner.

  The sun had already sunk below the horizon, leaving just enough light to see the courtyard below. She anxiously waited for the few people lingering about to move on. When all was clear, she lifted first one leg, then the other out of the window until she was sitting on the sill. A moment later she scooted off, hanging from her hands until she could find a foothold. From there, one careful move at a time brought her to the ground, favoring her bad ankle.

  Finding the blacksmith was easy enough, since he was located directly behind the inn. The difficult part was convincing him she was simply going for a brisk late-night ride and would return the animal post haste.

  “Look, Mr. Corbin,” she said as patiently as she could. “I only need to borrow one of your horses for an hour at most. You may bill my husband for its use. Mr. Ramsey is staying at the Drowsy Doxy.” The lie tripped off her tongue fluidly enough, but her insides twisted. He would be furious with her for running away, sure, but to receive a bill for her escape would be a proverbial slap in the face.

  “You best send him to talk to me,” the burly man returned. “I won’t be responsible for lettin’ a little thing like you with a bad leg out on one of my animals in the dead of night.”

  “I am a proficient rider, Mr. Corbin,” she argued through gritted teeth.

  Does every man in this blasted country think a woman is dimwitted and incapable of taking care of herself?

  “I’m sure you are, miss, but my answer is no. In your condition, it would be far too difficult for you to control the beast.”

  His condescending smile grated, and Sarah was quickly running out of patience. Not to mention, every minute she wasted arguing with this giant blockhead brought her closer to being caught.

  She nodded and turned to limp toward one of the stalls, swinging open the door and flinging a saddle blanket on the back of a brown gelding. She took the bridle off a hook in the back of the stall and pulled it over the horse’s head, fastening it.

  “Ma’am, do not be testin’ my patience,” the blacksmith growled, his every step falling heavily until he stood directly in front of the stall. “I ain’t lettin’ you take this horse.”

  After swinging the saddle over the blanket and cinching it, she turned around to face the large man standing in her way. “Step aside, please.”

  He scowled down at her and shook his head. “You had best be gettin’ on back to the Drowsy Doxy, ma’am.”

  Sarah let out a controlled breath, and turned, carefully pulling herself into the saddle.

  Mr. Corbin grabbed the reins. “Ma’am, I ain’t lettin’ you—”

  “Hiyah!” Sarah called out as she kicked the gelding into motion, forcing the blacksmith out of the way. Pain shot through her leg, but it was a small price to pay for the quick escape. If she was careful not to jostle it any further, she might be able to get far enough away to hide until she recovered.

  If only her luck had improved a smidgen. Unfortunately, it was as rotten as it had always been.

  She had just cleared the stall when meaty hands wrapped around her waist and pulled her down. She hit the ground hard, knocking the breath from her lungs and sending pain like hot stakes through her ankle. Then she was being hauled up and dragged toward the door.

  “Let me go!” she grunted through the pain, tears filling her eyes.

  “I have had about as much as I can sta
nd of you,” he growled, pulling her along with him. “I’m takin’ you straight back to the Doxy. I got a word or two to say to that Mr. Ramsey about lettin’ his woman run loose about town.”

  She grabbed his arm and pulled herself up, finally managing to get a footing. Pulling back her fist, she drove it with all her strength into Mr. Corbin’s ear.

  The blacksmith cursed violently as his hand flew to his head, his grip on her loosening. She easily yanked herself free and made for the door.

  “Y-you hit me!” he raged as he followed her, his eyes bugged out in shock. “A tart like you hit me. I ought to beat you senseless!”

  She was limping, and she knew she was going too slowly, but she couldn’t force her feet to move any faster. The pain was too monstrous.

  When she reached the door, Mr. Corbin was right behind her, grabbing a fistful of her sleeve as she pulled open the door and ran into a solid brick wall.

  “Oomph!” Her grunt was muffled by what seemed to be a very expensive waistcoat.

  Large hands came up to steady her, but they didn’t let go once she had found her balance. Instead, they pulled her closer into the hard warmth.

  “What the devil have you done to my wife?”

  Saint Brides’ angry rumble reverberated throughout her entire body. Strangely, and quite idiotically, relief followed.

  “Ah! So, you’re Mr. Ramsey, then, are you?” Mr. Corbin barked. “You had best keep a tighter leash on your misses before she’s strung up for horse thievery. A taste of a leather strap might help straighten her out.”

  Sarah felt his muscles bunch under the smooth silk of his waistcoat as his hands flexed over her arms.

  “Did he hurt you?” Saint Brides asked in a steely murmur.

  “My ankle,” she muttered. “He pulled me down from the saddle, and I hurt my ankle. Again, damn it all.”

  He stiffened, his chest rising and falling steadily, but with more force than before.

  “Aye,” Mr. Corbin spoke up. “She tried to trample me to death with my own steed. Luckily, I caught her before she was let loose on the streets.”