Patricia Frances Rowell - A Treacherous Proposition

Diana pressed a closed hand against her mouth. “Why, Vincent? Why are they doing this? Why would anyone take my children?”

“I am not perfectly sure, but, as Litton said, it must be that they desire a way of controlling you.” He studied her expression intently. “What do you know, Diana? And whom would it harm?”

“I don’t know!” Her voice rose on a hint of impending panic. “It must be something someone thinks Wyn told me, but we did not spend much time together. He was always very…busy.”

Vincent nodded. Certainly her husband had neglected her. But that did not mean the garrulous rascal never talked to her. “He is bound to have said something. Some reference to some group of people perhaps?”

She stared thoughtfully out the window for several heartbeats. “I cannot think… Well, yes. He once or twice said something about ‘St. Edmunds’s people,’ as though I would know who he meant, but I don’t. Except for his lordship, of course.”

“Did he ever mention Lord or Lady Holland?”

“Well, yes. We used to be invited to their home, and Wyn would go. I—I had stopped going into society. I could not afford…” He could not see the embarrassed flush in the dark, but he could hear it in her voice. “Why are you asking about them?”

“They are admirers of Bonaparte. There are some English folk who would like to see him replace the Bourbon king.”

Diana shook her head. “Who replaced him only months ago? Can no one ever be satisfied? How many English lives were lost fighting him?”

“Far too many, and if any attempt to restore him is made, there will be many, many more.”

Diana glanced down at her daughter and smoothed the pale hair spread across her lap. “I would that my children might grow up in a peaceful world. I cannot bear the thought that one day Bytham might have to go as a soldier.”

“If I have anything to say in the matter, at least he will not have to fight Bonaparte.” Vincent leaned forward and peered out the window into the dark. “I need to be able to see. Excuse me.”

Before she could ask him questions he wished to avoid, he pounded on the roof of the carriage. It came to a jolting halt and he donned his wig and coat and got out and climbed onto the box with Throckmorton. At least here he would not be so painfully aware of her presence as in the close confines of the carriage. Would not have to inhale her subtle fragrance. Not have to fight the impulse to touch her, to take her in his arms and devour her soft mouth.

They rumbled along at the best speed they could in the darkness for several hours. Vincent was obliged to look sharp to make out landmarks in the gloom. At last he signaled Throckmorton to pull up.

“How far are we from the Ashwell fork, do you think?” he asked of his new bodyguard.

“I dunno, me lord. It’s been dunnamany years since I come this way.” The big man shoved his white wig aside to scratch his brown-haired pate. “But we ain’t come to the Ivel bridge yet. We can turn just past that, but I’m thinking Ashwell’s out of our way if you purpose going to Yorkshire.”

“We’ll get to Yorkshire.” Vincent nodded. “Continue.”

Throckmorton gave the horses the office to start, and a mile or two later the wheels clattered across the bridge. Another quarter hour brought the fork into view.

“Pull up.” Vincent waited until the horses slowed and took the reins from Throckmorton. “Go take a look at that grove to our left. See if there is room to get the carriage out of sight.”

“Aye, sir.” The big man climbed down and ambled cautiously into the trees. After several minutes he returned. “It’ll be tight, me lord, but I think we can make her fit. Ain’t no one going to see us in this light.” They pulled the coach into the trees, turned it so that it could be driven straight out, and doused the lamps.

And then they sat.

And they waited.

The night wind murmured in the trees and somewhere an abbreviated screech and a triumphant “Who-hoo!” announced that a tiny life had ended as an owl’s dinner. Only the faintest starlight illuminated the road. Vincent sat patiently. They would come. He need only await them. And then, between one breath and the next, in the distance hoofbeats sounded. Quickly he went to the horses’ heads to keep them quiet.

Minutes later a coach and four barreled past them. It did not even slow at the fork, but continued up the main pike, away from Ashwell. When the sounds of its passage died, Vincent climbed back up and nodded at Throckmorton.

“There’s an inn at Ashwell. We’ll put up there.”

Throckmorton snapped his whip and they headed down the smaller lane.

They pulled into the inn yard shortly before dawn sent her delicate fingers of color across the sky. Stiff from inactivity and sore from yesterday’s tussle with the kidnappers, Diana all but fell out of the coach into Vincent’s arms. He caught her and righted her, still holding her close and gazing into her face with disconcerting intensity.

“Can you stand?” He kept a cautious hand on her elbow as she backed away from him, flustered by his scrutiny.

Diana took a brace of steps, first one way and then the other. “Yes, I believe so. I was just made a bit awkward by the inactivity.”

“And fatigue, I don’t doubt. But you can rest soon.”

From inside the coach, the children grumbled irritably at being disturbed. Diana smiled. “Alas, my lord, your inexperience with small children is evident. They tend to be early risers, and these two have been asleep all night.”

“That is why inns keep maids. We will make use of them.” Vincent lifted a groggy Selena out and set her on her feet, then reached back for Bytham.

“But—”

He cut off Diana’s protest at the outset. “Either Throckmorton or I will keep watch. We intend to take turns sleeping.” He gave her another appraising stare. “You cannot watch them day in, day out, Diana.”

“I know.” Suddenly the black well of exhaustion and fear threatened to swallow her. “I… I…” She gave it up. “Thank you, my lord.”

They entered the inn to find its inhabitants already astir. The short, portly landlord and his tall, sturdy wife came bustling to meet them, only to stop short when they saw Vincent. The wife turned in her tracks and, signaling to a wide-eyed maid who had emerged from the kitchen, disappeared with the girl into the rear of the inn. The landlord held his ground, but eyed Vincent and Throckmorton warily.

“Good morning, Biggleswade. I trust I find you well?” Vincent nodded politely.

“Ah…” The landlord made his bow, one eye on Vincent and one on Diana. “Yes, m’lord. I enjoy tolerable health. And your lordship?”

“Very well, thank you. I believe it has been several years since I stayed here.”

Biggleswade’s expression indicated that it might suit him better for it to be a bit longer yet, but he answered courteously enough. “How may I serve your lordship today?”

“As you can see, we have been traveling all night. We require a parlor and adjoining rooms for the lady and the children and another room for me close by. Can you oblige me?”

“I… Yes, m’lord. We have the rooms.” He cast a suspicious stare at Throckmorton’s battered face. “And your…uh…?”

“He and I will make use of the same room.” Vincent turned to Diana. “Would you like a tray brought to your room?” Without waiting for her nod he went on, “And we will need a maid to care for the children while the lady sleeps.”

“Aye, m’lord.” The landlord glanced around for his wife. Finding that she had decamped, he bowed and started to follow.

“And, Biggleswade…” Vincent spoke softly, but the man spun around with a start. “I would prefer that no questions be answered about our sojourn here, should anyone ask.”