An Unsuitable Occupation for a Lady by Jackie Walton
DuBois hauled Chiara into the front seat so he could shuttle back and forth between the carriage windows easier. His muttered French curses intermixed with good old Anglo-Saxon expletives.
She kept her hands ostensibly folded on her lap as she watched him slide laps along the seat. In reality, her right hand kept a firm grip on the knife up her left sleeve. She watched and waited.
Sweat gleamed through his thinning, dirty-blond hair. The bravado of his orders contrasted sharply with his obvious anxiety.
Unless the knife would give her a definitive tactical advantage, she didn’t want to reveal it. So she sat. Shots and shouts and scuffles made her stomach twist. Still, she sat.
DuBois stopped his oscillation and looked at her. “You’re his bloody wife? Why didn’t you say something, you stupid bitch?
Willing calm, she replied, “I tried to. You refused to listen.”
He hunched his head down between his shoulders. “Well,” he grinned evilly at her, “we’ll just have to insure we send FitzHenry to hell. A few hours overlap between your weddings shouldn’t make any difference.” He slid to the right and cautiously looked out the window. Raising the pistol to the sill, he angled himself to see the front of the carriage.
He’s aiming for Rafe, she thought. The knife hissed softly as she pulled it from its temporary sheath. She lunged at DuBois, knowing full well that, even if she made contact at this angle, the damage would be minor.
He must have seen her move because he whirled back, slashing down with his pistol. Twisting her arm to block it, the outer edge of her wrist took the blow. She didn’t drop the knife, but her hand froze. She was defenseless.
DuBois didn’t bother to examine the consequence of his blow. He threw open the carriage door, choosing to challenge FitzHenry in the open.
Chiara was acutely aware of the still-loaded pistol.
Sam, in control of his horse and his pistol now, sat at a bit of a loss. DuBois charged out of the carriage, straight at Rafe, probably assuming a man with a gun equal to a swordsman on horseback. Sam mentally shrugged. Traitor’s loss.
Swinging his attention back to the coach, Sam looked at the unarmed coachman. Only the driver wasn’t unarmed any more. He had a big, black, ugly pistol trained squarely on Lord FitzHenry.
Without a single conscious thought, Sam lifted the gun and fired. He didn’t know who was more surprised, the coachman who looked down to see red blossoming on his chest or Sam himself.
Sam watched the man stand halfway then slowly topple forward, his body bumping the hindquarters of the left horse. Already nervous from the gunfire, the horse bolted, taking its team-mate and the carriage with it through a gap between the horsemen.
For a moment, Sam watched the carriage thunder drunkenly down the road. The reality of the situation struck him, and he shook his head to clear it. Tossing the spent pistol aside he grabbed the reins and turned his horse. Kicking its sides with a viciousness borne of panic, he gave chase.
The coach seemed miles down the road. “Move yer arse, ye bleeding mule.” All too slowly, he gained on the carriage. As he finally drew alongside, the directionless course of the coach sent it careening into him. He caught a glimpse of Lady Chiara’s fear-whitened face as she clung onto anything fixed.
The coach edged closer. Any moment now, he’d have to back off and go around, or get shoved off into the ditch at the side of the road. Sam leaned forward, trying to get as much speed out of his mount as possible. The cudgel he’d stuck in the waist of his pants jabbed his belly. He glanced down in surprise then grinned and pulled it out.
With a measured flick of his wrist, he threw the weapon at the near horse’s hindquarters. It swerved a bit to the right, not much, but enough. He urged his own horse up along side far enough to grab the trace of the beast that started all the problems. He hauled on the leather. Gradually all three horses slowed and finally stopped. He swung over onto the box and set the brake.
Lady Chiara tumbled out of the carriage by herself, faster than her dignity or condition warranted, just as Sam jumped down.
She launched herself at him. “Oh, Sam, oh, Sam!” and buried her face in his shoulder.
With some hesitation, he folded his good arm around her. What did one do to comfort a lady, especially one as self-sufficient as this? “There, there, m’lady. Ah’ve been owin’ ye this an’ much more for t’longest time now. Jus’ payin’ me debts.”
With a watery laugh, she leaned her head on his chest then pulled away. She wiped her tears before he could bring the pain they engendered in him to full sail.
“Consider it paid in full with my thanks.” She glanced over the horses. “Merciful heavens, I hate feeling helpless.”
Sam nodded. “Think you can get back in if I’m on the box?” He moved off to grab his own horse who’d found a small patch of grass at the edge of the road.
She looked at the coach and lifted her hand to the door handle, then withdrew it. “I think I’d rather ride up on the box with you, if you don’t mind.”
Rafe pulled his horse sideways as the carriage lumbered by, gathering speed with every turn of the wheels. With a quick prayer for Chiara’s safety, he turned his attention to his immediate threat. DuBois’s gun looked big and black from this distance.
It also made him a target that even an amateur like DuBois could hardly miss. With a yank of the reins, he set the horse rearing up, pawing the air. DuBois backed from the flashing hooves. He shifted to the right to get a clear shot. Rafe countered with the horse. For a few moments, the three of them engaged in a game of bob and weave like a couple of prizefighters. Rafe could see the frustration on DuBois’ face.
With a feint to the right, DuBois pulled left and fired.
Even prepared for it, Rafe couldn’t react fast enough.
Time slowed. The horse screamed in pain. A lance of agony ripped through Rafe’s thigh. The horse reared in pain and panic, determined to rid itself completely of the tormenting humans. Rafe sailed into the mud and rocks of the road. His sword preceded him in his slide through the muck. Rafe rolled one more time and grabbed the hilt. He twisted again to surge to his feet, but his left leg wouldn’t cooperate. It only got him to one knee.
Seeing his advantage, DuBois pulled his own sword and attached with a blood-curdling yell. Rafe blocked the blow over his head until he was able to strike in a horizontal arc at DuBois’s legs. He let the momentum of the sword carry him over onto his back and then, with a strangled yell, onto his feet.
DuBois eyed him warily, and that gave Rafe a chance to catch his breath and assess the situation. “Taking swordsmanship lessons in between your treasons?” Rafe baited.
While both swords circled, looking for an opening, Rafe realized that, while DuBois was only a talented amateur, the hole in his own leg effectively leveled the field. It was a strange feeling, to be on a par with someone obviously inferior in ability. Chiara frequently found herself in this position and learned to use it to her advantage. Maybe something from his wife’s repertoire would work; if only this blasted leg cooperated for a few minutes more.
His wife!
With that thought, he timed DuBois’s next stroke, dove under it and slashed the man’s hamstring. With a scream, DuBois’s sword cut the mud just in front of Rafe’s face as he continued rolling away. He stopped, facing his opponent and another groan brought him to his feet, this time more slowly. DuBois’s leg had collapsed under him as he twisted for that last stroke. The traitor sprawled in the mud in a welter of limbs, blood, and a wail.
Rafe stepped on the muddy sword and kicked its hilt from the owner’s hand. He lifted it on his boot toe and tossed it aside. Looking over at James, he saw his friend had the outrider off his horse with his hands laced on his head. James appeared exceptionally proud with himself. Looking up the road, Rafe spied the carriage approaching at a much more sedate speed than it left. Chiara waved at him from the box. He wanted to do more than just wave back, but circumstances prevented it.
&
“Rafe! Rafe!”
Before he set the brake, Chiara clambered down, none too elegantly but quickly. She ran to him, hands alternately reaching for him and covering her mouth.
Rafe raised a restraining hand. “Softly, my sweet. I can’t handle you and the sword at the same time.” She fluttered around him with—wonder of wonders—tears in her eyes.
He pulled off his cravat. “Here, tie this around my leg. The bleeding’s slowed substantially, but this will help.”
She knelt in the mud to tie the cloth around his thigh.
“Now, my love, take the sword to insure that my lord DuBois keeps his traitorous ass firmly planted in the muck while…” He swayed and found Sam’s shoulder under his arm. “…I sit down for a moment.” Sam helped him the few steps to the carriage. Then, untying his horse from the carriage, Sam said, “Be back in a trice with help, m’lady,” mounted, and rode off.
“You murdering Judas!” Chiara struck DuBois with the flat of the sword, and he curled into a tight little ball. “I ought to kill you right now. However, as satisfying as that might be, I believe I’d like to see you in the dock for treason first.”
James urged his captive over to sit next to DuBois. He saluted Chiara with his sword. “If you would be so kind as to watch this one, too, I’ll check the others.” He moved away to inspect the other outrider. “Dead.”
As he reached the guard, the surviving outrider shifted to rise.
“Sit,” Chiara commanded. The man grinned evilly at her and started a lunge. Chiara slashed his shoulder open, and he fell back with a scream.
“Fool,” Rafe commented as he hobbled over to her side. “She’s taken down better men than you. I should know.” He looked over at the wound. “It’s just a scratch. You’ll have no problem hanging.”
James pronounced the driver dead and the guard barely alive before he relieved Chiara of guard duty.
The innkeeper’s wife glared at the lot of them: the English, the French, and the yardmen Sam recruited. “Now see here! Ye traipse in ‘ere, spreading yer muck all over an’ after ye foulin’ me parlor and me front door. Ah runs a clean and proper house now, Ah do, an’ Ah don’t want the likes of ye givin’ it a bad name.”
Rafe limped to a bench and sat heavily as the prisoners were brought in and secured. Chiara bent to check his leg.
“What’s the meaning of this?” the woman demanded. The guard, stretched out on a door serving as a stretcher, was deposited on a table by the local men. More crowded in behind them, craning to see the excitement.
“What ho? Ye can’t…”
“Peace, madam,” Sam ordered. He bent to check the guard. Straightening, he looked at Rafe and shook his head. “This one won’t hang.”
“Here now, what’s this talk of hangin’?”
Chiara stood. “Mistress, I require hot water, tweezers, towels, and bandages.”
“Ah’ll not be takin’ orders in me own house!”
Chiara bent to retrieve the sword she’d dropped at Rafe’s feet. The blood on it looked black in the dim light. “You will have your explanation after I have the items I require. However, if I have to wait…” She tapped the sword on her hand. “I’ll also need a sheet to cover him.” She nodded at the guard’s body. Their hostess flounced off.
Materials in hand and the body decently covered, Chiara set to work on Rafe’s leg. As she gently sponged the wound, she said to no one in particular, “Without going into all the details, let me just say that Lord DuBois over there is a kidnapper, murder, traitor, and saboteur. The others are probably French soldiers.”
“Bloody hell! Crikey! String ‘im up now and save t’Crown t’trouble,” came from the growing crowd.
“Traitor?” Rafe asked on an indrawn breath as she removed a piece of his trousers from the wound tract.
“Saboteur, murder?” James added.
“While Radet was in England, he and DuBois were lovers.”
“A bloody nance boy!” Sam exclaimed.
“Um. Radet seduced him and got the name of Vole, the agent who was murdered, from him. My kidnapping and your murder were to be revenge for Radet.” She looked at Rafe. “He’s also supplied tainted food to the fleet.” She tied the bandage around his leg. He caressed her cheek as she rose to attend to the Frenchman.
“Well,” Rafe shifted his leg to a more comfortable angle, “Meriwether can start the legal process since he’s a magistrate, but it will go onto Whitehall soon enough. James, you’re still mostly whole. As soon as we get back, I want you to ride to London.”
“Do I have time to change my clothes and kiss Lindsey first?”
Chapter 24
The music began. Chiara gave her silver-trimmed royal blue gown one last twitch. Luckily the fashionable high waist hid the bulge in her tummy. She looked at her brother on her right and her uncle on her left as they started up the main aisle of St. Paul’s Cathedral. The organs glorious cadences filled the inside of Sir Christopher Wren’s masterpiece.
Aunt Ada, capable of working miracles it seemed, gilded the altar with Christmas greenery and bunting. She also filled the church pews, a considerable feat in the middle of winter.
Chiara knew family and friends packed the seats. The only face she focused on was at the foot of the altar, watching, waiting. In formal black, she didn’t think he’d ever been handsomer, except that day when he stood, in workman’s clothes, with her in front of Padre Barnabà.
Chiara’s kinsmen escorted her to him. They each kissed her then took their seats. Rafe took her hand, and they turned to the altar. The bishop who’d granted DuBois’s special license stood on the steps. He’d fallen head over heels in trying to make amends. He agreed to make the arrangements and perform the Renewal of Vows ceremony. Dressed in gold-embroidered white vestments and miter, and smiling broadly, he bade Rafe and Chiara come forward. Mr. Day, one of his assistants in black cassock and white alb, winked broadly.
“Your Royal Highness,” the bishop intoned. Chiara looked at Rafe in confusion. She didn’t realize the Prince Regent was in attendance. Rafe gave a miniscule shrug. “My lords and my ladies, ladies and gentlemen. We are gathered here today to allow you to join in the happiness Chiara and Rafael have in their marriage that was solemnized far from the support of friends and family. Although everything is in order, they want to reaffirm their vows so that you may have some share in this joyous event. Therefore, let us begin.”
“Yes, let’s,” Rafe whispered. “Pompous old git.” Chiara squeezed his hand, partly in agreement, partly in remonstrance then gave him a tug in the direction of the bishop.
“The bishop hauled him over the coals, officially and unofficially.” Rafe came along side Mr. Day as the young man spoke to Lord and Lady Meriwether at the wedding reception. Day nodded a greeting. “Congratulations and felicitations, if somewhat belated.” He lifted his glass in toast, the Meriwethers joined in by lifting their glasses.
“Underwood, I presume?” Rafe inquired.
“Um, yes. There was some talk of defrocking him, but I argued against it.” Rafe’s eyebrow went up. “I, I hope you don’t object too strenuously. I argued that perhaps his punishment should be tempered with mercy. I suggested, and the bishop agreed, that he be made an assistant pastor…” he finished in a rush, “…at a mission in India.”
Rafe’s laughter sent heads turning as he thumped Day’s shoulder and strolled away.
Passing through the crowd, he briefly wondered just how many people Lady Wentworth managed to shoe-horn into the ballroom. And where did she find them? Sweet Christ, it was winter. Of course, the hints of scandal almost guaranteed a sad crush, even more than the presence of the Prince Regent. After all, His Royal Largeness presented himself at many events. Treason, with a hint of romance, now that caught Society’s interest.
As he passed through the c
Against the wall, trying their best, he knew, to be inconspicuous were the god-fathers-to-be, his valet Jones and Sam Goode. They were both thoroughly mortified to be included in the festivities, not to mention the christening, but Chiara prevailed on them. Sam was already warm butter in her hands, and Jones quickly followed suit.
Rafe only wished Tom Harley could have come. The Swiftsure’s assignment took it to the United States with the Royal Navy’s blockade of that upstart excuse for a nation.
One interesting, if unexpected, guest was his sister, Georgina. Her greeting was civil, not quite cordial, and the slightest bit hesitant. Chiara took one look at her, extended both hands and announced that as soon as all the “foolishness her aunt had organized” was over, the two of them would have to sit down to a comfortable coze
Wonder of wonders, Georgina actually smiled.
During his perambulation, he looked for his wife, but even his superior height helped little. There were just too many people. Lord Blackstone, noting his glances, said, “Saw the gel near the window with Prinny. She may need rescuing by now.”
“I am in your debt, Blackstone, and so, I suspect, is she.”
A direction made the hunt much easier. Soon he saw her, sitting in a secluded cove of the ballroom while the Regent bent to say something in her ear. Stopping behind the future king, he said, “Good day, Your Highness. Thank you for gracing our celebration.”
The Prince jerked upright, his corset stays protesting mightily. Rafe exerted iron control over the bark of laughter that threatened. The expression on Prinny’s face could only be described as “guilty.”
“Ah, FitzHenry, our congratulations. However, we are most downcast that you have purloined perhaps the loveliest lady in the kingdom. We were forced to carry her off to this quiet corner for a few moments of private conversation.” His fingers flipped at his jacket lapels like a cock preening his feathers.
Rafe knew that Prinny felt it should be a great honor to have one’s wife seduced by the Prince Regent. With a bow, Rafe replied, “I absolutely understand your dilemma perfectly and sympathize, Your Highness. The only problem is that, with my wife so recently kidnapped, I take a very dim view of anyone trying to carry her off anywhere. I would find it most distressing if a…misunderstanding forced me to again defend my wife’s honor. I demonstrated my ability to do so quite recently, if you remember.”