The Notorious Bridegroom. Kit Donner
patience was growing as short as brother James’s sermons were long.
Just then, Lem burst through the kitchen door, glanced around, and ran over to her side. “Miss, I ’ear something. It’s a whinin’ sound. I think it’s comin’ from behind the stables. Come with me and see what it is.”
“Did you ask Lucky about it, Lem?”
“Oh, Lucky can’t ’elp, ’e’s asleep in ’is cups. Ye got to help me. It may be bad.”
As always, Patience found his little round, lively face hard to ignore. “Show me where you heard the noise.”
The back door slammed behind them as they ran outside swinging a lantern, the half moon hidden in the shadow of the clouds. They swiftly ventured across the lawn, colored black in the night, to the stables.
Crickets hummed softly in the unseasonably warm night as the sound of the waves rushing to shore haunted the darkness, even at this distance. A perfect night for a stroll, but a more pressing concern made them quicken their steps.
As Patience and Lem rounded the stables they paused to listen for a noise out of place in the country air. By and by, Patience began to believe what Lem had heard was an owl or perhaps a lost sheep.
“There it is!” he shouted exuberantly.
Indeed, a howl that sounded like an animal in pain split the calm night. A second cry pinpointed the noise. It came from the copse of woods sitting back on a slight slope from the stables.
They raced toward the noise, and at the edge of the woods, they found him. Gulliver, the earl’s greyhound. Patience placed the lantern nearby and saw immediately that the quaking animal’s front paw was caught in a rabbit trap. Using pressure, with Lem’s help she gently pulled open the trap and released the dog’s paw, her hands inked with blood. Patience bristled over the injustice and pain to the animal. Poaching had long been a crime proven mostly unstoppable.
Lem crouched by Patience as she tended to the weak animal, petting Gulliver’s sleek coat with devotedness. “’s such a nice dog. Why did ’e ’ave to get ’urt?” Patience heard the tears in Lem’s voice.
“I don’t know, Lem. But he’ll be fine, we’ll take care of him,” she rushed to assure him.
“The master will be quite angry at the poacher what set this trap,” he said solemnly.
Patience nodded. “Lem, go quick and ask Lucky to bring a cart to carry Gulliver back to the stables.”
Eager to do his part, Lem flew across the expanse of meadow to the stables while she remained behind to comfort Gulliver. She pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket and wrapped the wound several times to staunch the bleeding. All the while she murmured soothing words to the shaking dog as she stroked his soft fur over and over.
Not long after, Lem and Lucky returned with a cart. The three of them carefully lifted the squirming animal onto the cart and turned toward the stables, with Lucky pulling the cart behind him in a zigzag pattern, given his slightly foxed state. Patience and Lem followed close behind; Gulliver’s eyes never left Patience.
Once safely in the stables, Lucky and Patience worked to create a poultice for the dog. The night air must have helped wake Lucky because as Patience held the greyhound’s head in her lap, the groomsman was lucid enough to apply the thick mixture of water and bruised linseed, and rewrapped the dog’s paw with a clean bandage. Eager to help, Lem provided water, which Gulliver lapped up.
The three of them sat on the floor of the stables and watched over their patient for a time.
Needing to stretch her tired muscles, and confident that Lucky and Lem would see to Gulliver, Patience rose and wandered out of the stables, wanting more than anything to pull off her uncomfortable disguise.
She stopped abruptly when she heard the sound of horses’ hooves pounding down the lane. Puzzled, she looked back to the trees which lined the road and caught a glimmer of a light from a lantern.
Could the earl have an appointment this evening? This might be important. Perhaps if she stayed in the shelter of the trees, she could avoid detection. Surely his lordship was about to betray his hand.
Chapter 6
Stars dotted the night sky, forming a quiltlike pattern over slumbering angels whilst mortal men fought their battle below. Where had that poetic nonsense originated from? Bryce wiped the slight moisture from his brow. He wanted to take off his coat but couldn’t. Not when he expected a visitor.
Here in the woods near his home, he planned for any unforeseen events, fingering the steel of his pistol warming in his hand. He had no idea why the French spy had chosen this location, but did not question it. He thought of Keegan back at the house, who was annoyed that he was not invited to this party of two.
But Bryce could take no chances. If the spy thought a trap lay in store for him, all his plans would be for naught.
Shadowy trees shook their leaves in conversation. Strange popping and crackling noises filled the air from a frenzy of animals embarking on their nightly activities. Bryce had relied on Red to arrange this rendezvous, and his valet had not disappointed before.
Finally, after these months of cat-and-mouse games, his mission seemed to be nearing completion. Resting lightly against a large waist-high boulder, he prepared himself to meet perhaps Carstairs’s murderer or Sansouche. He did not know whom to expect, but vowed to unmask a villain this night.
Periodically he flashed his oil lantern toward the road in signal to his prey. A glance at the darkened house assured him all occupants were abed.
Suddenly, a whisper of wind rustled his senses, warning him of someone’s approach. Soft, muffled horse’s hooves rhythmically padded across the forest bed. His horse, Defiance, moved restlessly nearby.
He quickly reviewed his “turncoat” plan. Bryce hoped to convince the spy that he would be willing to trade his country’s secrets for a handsome purse. And in the process Bryce hoped to learn who led the nest of spies here on the coast, and, more importantly, the date of the planned French invasion. He had to convince the spy he was one of them in order to accomplish his plan.
A gruff, raspy voice disturbed the dead of night. “My lord, this is indeed a victory for France. I would have you show your face and proof of your loyalty to our cause.” The spy slowly approached the clearing on horseback; a black mask and black greatcoat cloaked the rider’s identity.
Bryce leaned an elbow on the rock. “You ask for trust but you remain atop your horse and with a mask? Can we not meet face to face, eye to eye?”
“If we were civil men, I would have been asked to your study and not to the woods.” The black stallion remained steady beneath tightly controlled reins.
“Ah, then we must not be civil men. Let us not waste our time. Our meeting here was for your safety, not mine.” Bryce’s words were cool and dispassionate.
A snicker behind the mask. “My safety? Your concern is touching. My contact tells me you are anxious to take Carstairs’s place. Why the hurry? After all, he is dead.” The throaty voice breathed smugness.
Bryce’s jaw tightened, but he offered no riposte.
The masked spy continued, “Although many might wish to join our forces, all do not serve. Why should I consider you?”
“You already have, your presence implies that. Before I tell you what I have to offer, I would like to know if I deal with a second or Napoleon’s own man.” Brow furrowed, Bryce stared at the figure, trying to discover any clues to his identity. The lantern at his feet helped little to discern any distinguishable features. But he was certain the rider was not Sansouche.
“Due to your worthy status”—the masked rider dipped his head in mock honor—“I thought to meet you myself. I know much of you and believe not that you wish to change sides. What can you offer me that might change my mind?”
Bryce