The duke’s butler glared at her ladyship’s body before going over to give the bell pull a sharp tug.
“Osgood is waiting below stairs. The viscountess’ coach is in front of the manor. She asked for the coach to be brought around. I have her cloak in the anteroom.”
“Excellent, once Mrs. Osgood comes, I will take the cloak and you must hand me up into the coach. If I can stay away from her footman, I may be able to fool him. I must ride to the abbey. The best choice is to take the lady’s coach. I may be able to arrive at the abbey without her associates being the wiser.”
“My lady, you could also do as your husband asked and remain here with us.” Perkins chided.
Lady Roberts’ cackling laughter filled the library. “You will never make it. The others left too long ago. Whitney will already be at the abbey. All you will do is arrive in time to hold your husband in your arms as he draws his last breath.” The woman tugged at her bindings. When the cord held, she opened her mouth to scream only to have Perkins stuff his handkerchief in her mouth. Mrs. Osgood entered the library without knocking. Without any sign of surprise, she remained by the door.
Gillian handed her aunt the pistol as she and Perkins passed by. “Aunt Isadora, if she gives you a moment of trouble. Shoot her. Doing so will save the Crown the expense of a trial and the silk cloth for her hanging,”
“Don’t fret about that. Your uncle told me all before he left for the abbey. He may be a pitiful shot, but I aim true every time. I will see to her personally until you return,” a fierce looking Duchess of Whitney assured her.
Gillian wished she could say the same about Moreham and the others. Enough worrying. It was time for action. She patted her pocket to reassure herself of her own pistol ready to fire. She only had one shot and that would have to be enough.
Chapter 18
The night air smelled of rain. Moreham left through the rear garden door for the stables. He hoped Gillian would behave and stay in their rooms. He knew the likelihood of such an occurrence was remote. Trouble followed his wife like a besotted suitor trailing after a diamond of the first water at a ball.
The jingling of tack broke through his musings.
“About time you got here,” Cross muttered from the other side of his horse. His words were punctuated by a grunt as he cinched up the saddle under his horse’s girth.
“What about the stable master?” Moreham looked around for Whitney’s man. “Where is he?”
“The duke, being the ever so generous employer, gave the stable master and grooms the night off.” Cross nodded toward Moreham’s horse. “I saddled him. You may want to tighten the girth.”
Moreham did a once-over before stepping into the stirrup and pulling himself upward into the saddle. The two men walked their mounts out of the stable yard and into the dark night. Not a moment too soon as Whitney’s nasal voice resonated through the night. Not for the first time that night, Moreham wondered if the duke could be trusted. Gillian believed in her uncle.
Moreham nudged Paladin into a canter. He only knew for certain he would be very happy when dawn came, and this night was behind him. The thought of Gillian safely snuggled in his arms spurred him onward into the darkness. He wanted this business done so he and his wife could seriously discuss their marriage and what he hoped would be their future together.
Cross led the way from the manor. Neither man spoke. Moreham watched for any movement from the sides of the lane.
Cross cocked his head to the side. “Sounds like Whitney and his cronies are almost here. We best make haste.”
They dismounted. Cross took possession of both horses and led them into the shadows. There was no need to alert the traitors of their presence—much easier to subdue a man not expecting to be ambushed. Tonight, they needed every advantage they could concoct to bring this bumble broth to its justifiable end.
Moreham joined Cross and kept watch. The quiet clip clop of horses hooves mingled with the mumblings of men’s voices became more distinct until they could hear the conversations of the riders.
“—don’t know why we had to come out in the middle of the night. I’ll catch a chill to be sure.”
“Colchester, stop complaining. When the Frenchman says come, we come, no questions asked. You need to keep your maw shut. If I didn’t need the blunt he promised us, I would be as far from Whitney’s place as I could manage.”
“Roberts old boy, losing some of that charm you’re noted for. You shouldn’t disparage your host’s hospitality, you know.” Whitney’s droll voice rang through the night. Moreham winced at the waver in Whitney’s voice. The duke was terrified no doubt.
Moreham could feel the fear rolling off him as the three men stopped in the road. Fortunately, the other men seemed not to notice their host’s discomfort.
“Why are we stopping here? Shouldn’t we continue to the meeting place?” Colchester asked.
Before Whitney could reply, Moreham and Cross stepped forward and each took charge of the reins of a horse. “Gentlemen, I am afraid this is your destination this evening,” Moreham explained.
“Moreham? What are you and Cross doing out here,” Colchester demanded.
“We are on the King’s business. I think it is of a greater importance to ask what are you doing out here?”
Moreham turned to Whitney. “Your Grace, remain in the saddle. We have need of you. Your friends will dismount, and we will see to their comfort.”
The two men were wrestled from their horses in short order. Not a very difficult feat since both men were in their sixth
