Just a Marriage of Convenience with the Duke by Hazel Linwood

Chapter 22

“For the last time, where is she?!” Victor bellowed, slamming his fists along the bar.

Behind him, he heard the sounds of half a dozen or so chairs scraping the floor, their occupants clearly jumping to their feet. He didn’t care. Let them come at him, he would see them all hanged if they dared raise a hand to him.

“For the last time,” the innkeeper said through gritted teeth, placing his palms on the bar top and leaning closer until he was nearly nose to nose with Victor, “I don’t know. More so, I don’t care. Pay yer bill and be off with you a’fore I let these fellows toss you out.”

“You had to be in on it,” Victor continued, ignoring the innkeeper’s threat as he held up the small ring and its iron key. “You said I had the key, so how did she escape?”

“I never said it were the only key, ya fool,” the innkeeper said, glowering. “I said it opened both o’ the doors. But ya standing here tellin’ us that ya locked yer sister in for the night? Now, why don’t ya look around and tell us all why ya might do such a thing, hmm?”

“It was… it was to protect her,” Victor stammered, looking behind him at the small crowd of very large men who were pressing closer. “To protect her from unsavory people who might cause a young lady harm.”

“Like yerself, ya mean,” one of the men called out gruffly.

No one laughed at his jest. Victor, however, smiled in what he hoped was an endearing way.

“Not at all. But a brother must protect his younger sister at all costs, safeguarding her virtue,” he continued, growing aware that these men were having none of his excuses.

“Pay yer bill and be gone from here,” the innkeeper said slowly, his eyes growing dark with threat.

Victor did not hesitate any longer. He retrieved his purse and paid handsomely, more than the actual amount in hopes of securing his departure without any problems. He stormed outside and looked around for his carriage, finding it with the driver asleep perched atop.

“You there! Wake up, you clod. Let’s go,” Victor said, furious at having to open the door for himself.

“Where to, my lord?” the driver called out in that irritating, gruff voice of his.

“Back to London and be certain you take the road we came in on. We have to find Lady Bridget before she makes her way back, and she has a good head start on us,” Victor said, climbing in and closing the door.

Victor fell back against the seat and waited for the driver to hurry up and be off. He looked back at the inn once to ensure none of the angry patrons had decided to see him off, then closed his eyes.

Why must everything be so difficult?he thought miserably. All I wanted was to marry that sow and put Lockhart in his place for once. Why did that have to involve so much trouble?

After all, someone with the money Victor now sat on shouldn’t have a care in the world, at least not in his view. He had inherited quite well, then done modestly well for himself in business. He should be hosting lavish parties that the other members of the ton clamored to attend. Instead, he was—and he feared, would always be—the hanger-on, the second-place child who had only found his way in life thanks to an infertile septuagenarian and a mother who was pleasing to the eye.

The carriage rolled away from the muddy inn yard and moved along the road once more. Victor could hear the throbbing of mud clods as the wheels spun themselves free of the muck for the first few paces. Suddenly, a shout from the driver and a flick of the ribbons launched the entire vehicle forward, the horses seemingly aware that they might be heading home and racing to do so.

Victor was thrown uncomfortably around the interior of the carriage, eventually ending up on the floor with his face on the bench. He managed to slide himself back onto the seat with great effort, pushing himself up to sitting once more and opening the window.

“What is the meaning of this?” he shouted over the wind towards the driver, pulling his face in just in time to narrowly avoid a low hanging branch.

“Ya said to make haste to London, right?” the driver called back.

“Do not get us killed!” Victor bellowed before falling back inside the carriage and fuming.

He relaxed slightly when he heard the driver call out once more to the horses, then felt the carriage slow in increments. Too soon, they were crawling along at a spider’s pace along the road, but he was too tired and irritated to reprimand the driver again.

When I find you, Bridget, you will be very sorry for the trouble you’ve caused, Victor fumed, staring out the window at the dismally plain countryside.

After an untold amount of time had passed, Victor was awakened by a shout from the driver. He sat up, startled, and looked around outside. The peasants in the inn had put him on edge for he instantly sat upright and grew nervous.

“Why are we stopping?” Victor demanded angrily.

“There’s a wagon here has thrown a wheel,” the driver replied. “Won’t take but a moment, never ya mind.”

Victor rolled his eyes but let his head fall back against the seat and closed his eyes again. He heard the muffled conversation outside the carriage as the men worked to repair the vehicle, their conversation grating on his nerves. How was it that penniless laborers could converse and laugh with such carefree ease, while those in Victor’s set were constantly on edge, defending themselves from even the hint of a scornful look?

“Are you quite finished?” Victor demanded after an interminable amount of time—and conversation—had passed.

“Aye, my lord, will be just another minute or two,” the driver shouted back, sending a shiver of outrage up Victor’s already tense neck.

Finally, the driver took his place atop the carriage once more and called out to the horses, the recipients of the help waving gratefully. Victor looked out and sneered at the loathsome sight of a constable and his prisoner setting out once more.

* * *

“Lockhart, there’s water and shade from the heat of the sun. We must rest here for a while,” Lord Repington called out, but Patrick wanted nothing to do with the suggestion. He looked back to where the old man was swaying in his saddle, sleep about to claim him any moment.

“All right,” Patrick reluctantly agreed. “We’ll stop for a time, so sleep while you can.”

The men dismounted and led the horses to the stream to drink, first removing the animal’s tack so they might nibble at the grass as well. The earl was already on the ground, his coat folded up beneath his head when Patrick finished tending to the old horse he rode.

“I do not see how we can find my daughter in time to prevent this,” Lord Repington said, his eyes still closed as he began to drift off to sleep. “But I am most grateful to you for this very valiant effort.”

“You’re more than welcome, my lord,” Patrick replied, his heart heavy. “But I will do everything I can to find her, nor will I stop until I have proof in my hand that she has married Haskins. I made her that promise, and I intend to keep it.”

“You’re a good man… Patrick,” the old man mumbled before he finally gave in to sleep.

For his part, Patrick lay staring up at the tree limbs overhead, the golden light of day perforated by the many bright green leaves. In the shade of the limbs, the sun was a comfort rather than an oppressor, and soon enough, he fell asleep as well.

He dreamed for a while, the lack of sleep and the weight of exhaustion forcing him into a deep slumber. In his mind’s eye, he was riding swiftly after Bridget, though he now rode alone. The path was narrow and wound through a frightening wood, and animals nipped at his heels as he urged the horse on.

“Bridget!” he called out in his dream, desperately trying to listen for her reply. It never came.

“Bridget!” Patrick cried out once more over the noise of a storm that had suddenly arisen, shaking the limbs overhead and pelting him with wet leaves as he rode on.

Suddenly, Patrick woke up, choking and spitting at a leaf that had fallen over his face while he slept. He looked around as though he expected to be in the throes of the storm from his dream, calling after Bridget. The sunshine all around him was somewhat confusing, so real his dream had been.

He sprang up from the ground to check on the horses, relieved to find that they had not attempted to slip away.

“You’re far too tired for that, aren’t you, girl,” Patrick asked softly, petting each animal’s neck in turn.

The sound of thundering hooves made Patrick look up, and he shielded his hand from the glare of the sun to look at the approaching rider. Though he was traveling with considerable speed, the rider did not look well-practiced in the saddle, which made sense when Patrick could finally recognize one of the men he’d sent on ahead.

“Do you have some news?” Patrick asked when the man stopped short, panting before he could reply.

“Yes, Your Grace. It’s Haskins, I’m sure of it,” the man said, gulping great breaths of air now that he was no longer trying to stay in the saddle of a galloping horse.

The man climbed down, and Patrick took the reins from him. He led the horse to the water’s edge and permitted it to drink, even as the man sat down upon the ground.

“I made it a good bit to the north and stopped in the first town of any size I came to,” the man began. “The whole place was in an uproar over a visitor who’d come during the night. That certainly caught my attention, so I inquired about it.”

The man paused, then inclined his head towards the stream as though seeking Patrick’s permission to stop.

“Certainly, I’m sorry I did not think of it sooner,” Patrick said, gesturing for the man to drink. Inwardly, though, his patience was stretched near to breaking.

The man drank his fill and came back to sit. “As I were saying, I inquired about this visitor. No one seemed to know his name, only that he was rather fancy-looking—which makes sense, as Lord Haskins left directly from the ball—and acted very much like a prig. He took two rooms at an inn, one for himself and one for his sister.”

“His sister?” Patrick repeated, looking up with interest.

“Precisely,” the constable said, continuing. “And though I did not learn the man’s true name, those whom I questioned were very certain he’d claimed to be an earl.”

Patrick’s legs felt weak for a moment as a surge of relief flooded through his veins. Could he even begin to hope they’d found Haskins?

“But what was this uproar you spoke of?” he asked the weary man.

“It seems that sometime during the night, the earl’s sister managed to leave the inn, either under her own volition or under duress,” the constable added, hesitating slightly at sharing such unfortunate news. “The earl seemed to think the innkeeper had some hand in it, and with his accusations, he was lucky to leave the inn unscathed.”

“How did you manage to learn all of that?” Patrick asked, impressed.

“In a village of that size, I’d imagine there’s little to do but mind one another’s affairs,” he replied, shrugging.

Patrick scoffed. That was certainly true enough in a city the size of London, so a smaller one should make the news travel even farther.

“But tell me, where is this man’s sister now?” Patrick demanded, hoping it could truly be Bridget.

“I’m sorry, Your Grace, but no one knows.” The constable looked down for a moment, the worry clear on his face.

“You mean, she’s simply gone? Someone may have taken her away?” Patrick asked, an icy sensation snaking all over his body.

“It could be, but it could also be that she escaped, remember,” the constable suggested helpfully.

“That does sound like the sort of resourceful person Lady Bridget is known to be,” Patrick conceded, though he didn’t feel the full weight of his conviction.

“If she did escape, no one in the village seemed to have seen her,” the constable continued, “and I did inquire of at least thirty of the residents.”

“I know you did, a most thorough number,” Patrick assured him. “But what of the earl?”

“He was a much different character, Your Grace. Plenty of people had watched him go, hoping as it were that he would be pounced upon by some of those men he’d insulted. As such, quite a number watched his carriage head south once more.”

“Back to London, you mean?” Patrick felt the first hopeful feeling he’d had since the ordeal began.

“I can only presume so, Your Grace.”

“Oh, thank heavens,” Patrick said. “Once you are rested enough to ride, are you able to return to London in order to apprehend him?”

“I am, Your Grace, but on what charge?” the constable asked, suddenly skeptical.

“He engaged in the kidnapping of Lady Bridget,” Patrick reminded him, his patience wearing thin. “That charge alone is sufficient to bring him before the magistrate and keep him under lock and key until Lady Bridget appears to swear her complaint.”

“But you must first find her in order that she may do so, Your Grace.”

“Never fear, I shall find her. If Haskins has taken to the road back to London, then he must have reason to believe she went that way as well,” Patrick stated, the words forming a sort of mantra for him to hold onto. “And Lord Haskins had better hope he is apprehended under the law before I am able to find him myself.”