Moreham’s head spun around at Gillian’s innocent words. She spoke as a lady at a tea party discussing the latest fashions.
“Who the dickens is Mr. Martin?”
“Stephen Whitney Martin…he claims to be Uncle’s bastard. Intended to become Duke of Whitney when Napoleon invaded England. Had plans to take your own title and lands as well, he said,” Gillian explained.
With Sturm resting on the forward-facing seat, Cross joined Moreham outside the coach. Both men fell into step on either side of Gillian. Gillian directed Cross to stop in the village and summon the doctor to see to the injured Sturmbridge. She didn’t care if the doctor laid eyes on the two traitors.
“Should you arrive at Whitings ahead of us, you would be well served to give Aunt Isadora and Perkins fair warning of our arrival. They have Lady Roberts under guard in the library with pistols drawn,” she warned.
Within minutes, only she and Moreham remained. Gillian looked up at him. “Is this business truly over?”
Moreham knew he should answer her questions but couldn’t find the words to do so. They had much to talk about, and they had years to do so. He had a feeling there would never be enough years to learn all his wife’s secrets.
Gillian knew James was not of a mind to share the details of what had transpired. Her opinion was accurate as her husband ignored her questions and escorted her back to the abbey. “Come, dearest, we must brave the monk cells once more to retrieve your uncle and the horses.”
Neither spoke as they negotiated their way through the darkness to the rear door. Gillian hoped they’d never have cause to make that journey ever again. She had had enough of the old ruins and traitors. Retiring to a lesser property to enjoy the summer sounded most enjoyable.
James opened the small door, and she stepped outside to find her uncle pacing back and forth.
“What happened? Gillian, what are you doing here? Where is Isadora? Is she safe? Is it over? Did you capture the scoundrels?” Uncle Whitney demanded.
Moreham took charge of the conversation and answered each question. “Yes, we captured the ringleader. Brace yourself Whitney. The mastermind of this plot against King and Country was Rodney Littleton.”
“Isadora’s cousin? Why ever would the fool align himself with the French?”
“The most powerful reason in the world…money.”
Moreham nodded in the direction of the path to the horses. “Shall we return to the manor? Gillian is running around the countryside in a shirt and breeches. ’Tis too cold this night for her to be out one second longer than necessary.”
“I want to hear all. I’m most certain I will not like what you have to say about the goings on of this night.”
Uncle Whitney shrunk in size. Maybe she would take him with her when she left Whitings. He was in need of a peaceful time. When he learned of his by blow son’s involvement, he would be destroyed. He had always wanted a child. So had Aunt Isadora.
The ride back to Whitings was done in silence. Gillian dreaded arriving home. They still had to tell Uncle about Stephen Martin. The magistrate had to be summoned to start the arrest process for Littleton and Martin. There would be no sleep for any of them until well after dawn.
The only sign of the unusual events of the evening was the now empty traveling coach sitting in front of the manor. Moreham dismounted then reached up to assist her to the ground while her uncle left them to enter his home alone. Uncle had had a horrible evening. No doubt he’d seek Aunt Isadora to explain what had happened.
Left alone again, Gillian smiled up at her handsome fake husband and waited for him to break his silence. He remained mute. Dratted man! Gillian pulled herself from his embrace and made for the front entry. It was time to see what had transpired while they’d been at the abbey.
Perkins stood by the front entry with not a wrinkle in his black livery. She hugged the old man tightly. “Perkins, you look far better than I expected you to. Would you share what has transpired since I left?
“My lady, the duchess and I guarded the viscountess as you instructed us to do. Once Lord Cross arrived with the injured gentlemen, he and I removed the viscountess to her bedchamber where his lordship tied her to her bed. The duchess, distraught at what had happened, understandably so, retired to the ducal suite. The duke has gone above stairs to see how she is faring. He said to relay that he would return as soon as she had no need of him.”
“I’m certain the duchess will benefit from having him by her side. Where’s Sturmbridge? Cross? I hope the doctor has arrived,” Moreham questioned.
“Yes, my lord, the earl and viscount are in the library. The good doctor is with them tending to the viscount’s injuries. After he deals with the viscount, I’ll escort him to the wine cellar where the two prisoners are sequestered.”
“Excellent, we’ll join our friends. Please tell the duke where we are when he comes downstairs.
Gillian and Moreham entered the library to find Cross sitting in her uncle’s favorite chair with a glass of brandy in his hand watching the doctor tend to Sturm’s wounds. He motioned toward the decanter and glasses then raised the brandy decanter in her direction. She nodded. If she ever needed a sip of the fiery brew it was this night.
“Sylvia, I was right to push on through the night. I knew something had happened. I could sense the drama.” Lady Philly’s high-pitched voice filled the library. The gentlemen, even Sturm and the doctor, popped to their feet and bowed at the two ladies in the doorway. Gillian hurried over and hugged first her mother-in-law and then Philly.
“Come in, we have much to share. You are most correct, Lady Philly, we have had a very busy
