“Allow me to introduce myself, Lord Rafael FitzHenry, Earl of Thornbury. But you may call me Wolverine.” She could see the name had meaning for Radet, meaning and apprehension.
Chiara turned back to her problem. “Luciano, help me throw the bodies on the fire.” He hesitated a fraction of a second. His daughter lay at the bottom of the burning pile. Then he seized a pair of hands. Chiara went for the legs. Her cut arm burned at the exertion. Together they swung the body onto the pyre at the thinly-piled side. They went back for another. Before they got back, the first body blazed. They tossed the second on the other side. Soldiers appeared above the fire, shouting and brandishing weapons.
Snarling, Radet struck again and again at the cane. The second time, he sliced the hollow wood in two. “Oh my, now look what I’ve done.” Rafaelle backed towards the stairs, dodging sword slashes. What was left of the cane would buy him another blow, but no more. From in back of him, Chiara caught his wrist and twisted the stump out of his hand. She slapped her knife into it.
Two crossed knives met Radet’s next slash. The sword wrenched from side to side, but couldn’t get free. The men pushed apart and circled each other.
Something, probably a gunpowder purse on one of the dead soldiers, exploded. One of the living soldiers, pushed close to the fire by his comrades behind him, screamed. Chiara and Luciano tossed the rest of the bodies into the flames.
Again the sword clashed with the knives. Chiara watched the fight, mesmerized, after the last body fed the flames. Too well she knew that Rafaelle’s defensive position could not last forever. Luciano stood at her side, breathing heavily and watching. Suddenly he bent to one of the discarded rifles. Checking its priming, he raised it towards the combatants.
“Be careful!” she warned. Rafaelle was between them.
“But of course.” He waited for them to separate and then fired.
A red flower bloomed on Radet’s chest. His eyes grew round, and he fell.
Rafaelle slapped his hand to his ear then looked around. “Thanks. Let’s go.”
“But the Pope!” Chiara cried.
He shook his head. “It sounds like there’s a garrison up there. We need to get out before they find another way down here.” He shoved her knife back into her hand.
Luciano grunted agreement as he scooped up several rifles.
They sprinted for the garden door. Rafaelle held it closed. “Hush.” Cracking the door open, he checked the grounds. “We go back the same way.”
Reversing their actions of earlier that evening, they traversed the tunnel to the old man’s house. True to his words, horses awaited them.
Thanks and blessing sounded in the courtyard. “Get yourself home and tied up,” Rafaelle advised Luciano. “Have your story clear in your minds.”
He nodded and, shoving a rifle at Rafaelle, pushed them towards the horses. “Go with God and our thanks.”
Chiara and Rafaelle rode westward out into the night.
While in town, they held their mounts to a quick, but unremarkable pace. As the houses thinned, they spurred the horses. Riding astride with her breeches, Chiara easily kept the pace, something difficult on sidesaddle. The drumbeat of the horse’s hooves prevented any conversation.
In about a half hour, they arrived at the Capo di Vado. They listened for other horses on the road but all was quiet. A search of the small beach revealed Luciano’s son Nico on watch. He grinned and sketched a tolerable bow to his elders. Then he signaled the ship, a barely visible lump on the expanse of water, with his lantern and quickly received an answering flash.
“Now we wait,” Chiara said. She retrieved her bundle from the horse’s saddle.
“We need to talk,” Rafaelle’s voice carried no further than her.
“We have nothing to talk about, my lord.”
“I’m sorry.”
She shrugged and said nothing.
“Chiara…”
“I’m Lady Chiara to you.”
“Not any longer. You’re Lady FitzHenry.”
She looked straight at him in the dim light. “I’m not married to you.”
“Like hell, you’re not.”
“I don’t have to prove that I’m not. You would have to prove that we are, if you can.”
His eyes narrowed. “And you have the marriage lines.”
“Exactly.” She turned away to study the ocean. A small lump separated itself from the larger one.
Turning to the young man, she said, “Gather all your things and be ready to go. Don’t return by the coast road.” Rafaelle handed him a few coins. Chiara handed him her horse’s reins as did Rafaelle.
As the he went off to find his own horse, the young man stopped. He cocked his head. “Horses,” he said softly.
“Bloody hell,” Rafaelle growled. “How far?”
“Maybe a mile or two. I don’t think there are very many.”
The boat moved swiftly over the calm sea, but it was still a few minutes away. “Get out of here. Hide!”
The young man swung onto one of the horses, gathered the others’ reins and took off perpendicular to the beach. Hoof beats sounded clearly now.
Rafaelle looked at the approaching boat and then further out to the horizon. A third large shape approached from the east. “Get down to the waterline. I’ll buy you some time from here.”
“No! The boat crew can help us fight them off.”
“”They haven’t got time! A French ship is bearing down on the Swiftsure.”
She looked up to see the horrible truth of his statement. “But…”
Four horsemen brandishing pistols drew up at the beach.
“Go!”
The boat pulled up through the surf as Rafaelle headed up the shingle. Mr. Topp jumped into the water and headed for Chiara. A sailor scrambled out, grabbed one end of the boat and pushed it around. “Come on,” Topp shouted. “We have to go now.”
“But Rafaelle…”
“I’m sorry, my lady, we can’t wait even a second.” His face was grim.
“But…”
He picked her up, threw her into the boat and clambered in after her. Chiara tried to climb out and he grabbed her arms. “Away!” he ordered.
“Stroke.” The boat darted away from the shore.
“Rafaelle!”
“Stroke.”
A rifle shot took down one of the soldiers.
“Stroke.” Chiara could see him using the spent gun as a club.
“Stroke.” She knew there was no way this could end well.
“Stroke.” A sob boiled up from her innermost being.
“Stroke.” More horses thundered from the roadway.
“Stroke.” She looked up, sure that this was her widowing.
“Stroke.” Nico, holding the two extra horses on either side of his, rammed the French horses.
“Stroke.” Horses went up, men went down.
“Stroke.” The Swiftsure’s bulk loomed over them.
“Stroke.”
“What’s happening?”
“Stroke.”
“I can’t see, either, my lady.”
“Stroke.”
Pearce bound her slashed arm. He remarked that it was getting to be a habit. As expected, Chiara’s sea sickness returned. Even after it eased, she spent most of her time in her cabin. When she did emerge, huddled in the shawl she finally finished, Captain Harley and the crew cosseted her like a bunch of broody hens. If she wasn’t feeling so miserable, she would have enjoyed it.
The passage was slow. They had to wait several days in Portugal for dispatches and passengers. Among them was Sam Goode, invalided home and out of the marines due to his injury.
Just as they rounded the Guernsey Islands, the last leg of the trip, Chiara woke up with nausea again.
Chapter 17
The sun barely crested the rooftops through the perpetual London haze when Rafael strode up the steps of Wentworth’s townhouse. It was definitely not the hour for polite social calls b
ut the mission report he’d written on the homeward-bound ship wasn’t social. It’d taken him five months, but he’d arrived in town yesterday evening. A bath and barbering made him feel almost human again.
Hyde, even more stone-faced than usual, showed him into Wentworth’s study. In addition to the spymaster, he found David Brownlee.
Both men rose when he entered. “Good day, my lords,” Rafael said. As soon as he uttered the words, Brownlee slugged him in the face. The report went flying.
“Thank you for doing that for me,” Geoffrey Wentworth said. “I very much wanted to, but at my age, I’m afraid I might not have packed the requisite punch.” He handed Rafael a handkerchief.
“What the bloody hell was that for?”
“What do you think it’s for, you pissing cock-up?” David growled.
Feeling confused, Rafael held the handkerchief to his bleeding nose. “I’ll deal with you later,” he promised David. He had more important things to attend to just now. “Where’s my wife?” he demanded as he stood before Wentworth’s desk in the library.
“Wife? Who the hell are you talking about? Chiara? Not bloody likely,” David snorted.
“Wife and married by the pope, himself.”
“Prove it.”
“She has the lines.” Rafael snarled as best he could with a hand held to his nose.
David Brownlee shook his hand out and stretched his fingers, but otherwise he looked ready for a stroll in the park. “Oh, yes, I’m sure.”
Rafael glared at David and tossed the handkerchief aside as he took the first angry step.
Wentworth snapped, “Don’t even think about it! Sit down! That’s an order! Both of you.”
Feeling a little hunted, Rafael gave in with ill grace.
“What the hell happened there? I’ve read Chiara’s report but something tells me there’s a whole lot left out of it.”
“Where is she?”
“She’s in seclusion. Now, answer the question.”
“How can I when I don’t know what she said?”
“Oh, she gave a complete report on the mission. What I want to know is what happened between the two of you that sent her packing.”
“None of your bloody business.”
“That’s naff. We’re her family.”
“Too bad. Where is she?”
Wentworth just looked at him.
“Bloody arsehole.” With that, Rafael stormed from the room.
“Well, that answers the most pressing question. They are married.” Wentworth picked the forgotten report off the carpet.
“I notice you didn’t tell him,” David said as he helped himself to the coffee pot.
“Where she is? He’ll find out, eventually. Do the boy good to have to work a little for something he wants.” Wentworth flipped idly through the pages.
“That wasn’t what I was referring to.”
His uncle chewed on his lip for a moment, then motioned for a cup of coffee. “No, I didn’t. Some things a man just has to find out for himself.”
Rafael pounded on Chiara’s townhouse door. He had the feeling Blakely delayed as long as possible in opening it.
“Where’s your mistress?”
Blakely looked down his nose as only the most top-lofty of butlers can accomplish. “I don’t believe I know, my lord.”
“Where is she?”
“As I said, I am not in possession of that information.”
“Damn you.” He pushed past Blakely and marched up the stairs. Throwing open doors, he searched all the bed chambers.
“I must ask you to leave, Lord FitzHenry, or I will be forced to call several of the footmen to escort you out.”
After checking the parlors and the dining room, Rafael satisfied himself that she wasn’t there.
“What is Miss Alder’s direction?”
“I’m sure I…”
“Don’t know.” Rafael rubbed his chin, then turned and walked out.
James’s butler, less antagonistic to him than some of the others that Rafael had encountered that morning, escorted him directly to the dining room where his master was just beginning breakfast.
“Ah, Rafe, you’re back. Forgotten what a civilized hour for calls is?”
“Bugger you.”
“Join me for breakfast?” His friend nodded and examined the damage to his friend’s face. “What brings you out at this bloody early time? And what…?”
“I need Lindsey Alder’s direction. You know that sort of thing.”
James Simmons put down his fork and studied his friend closely. “If you’re thinking of looking in Miss Alder’s…”
“I want Lady Chiara’s country house’s direction.”
James picked up his fork again. “Well, that’s all right. I won’t have to call you out for that.”
Rafe frowned at his friend. He poured a cup of coffee and sat at the table. “Wind’s blowing like that, is it?”
James grinned. “It’s like that. I hope she will bring me up to scratch before the end of the month. I have every confidence she’ll put me out of my misery.”
“How did this come about? Last time I saw you, the two of you were getting along about as well as Bonnie Prince Charlie and King George.”
“Well, we started talking when we realized you both disappeared at the same time and under equally unexplained circumstances. We figured you were together and Lindsey, Miss Alder, made inquiries of Lady Chiara’s brother. When he gave her a great piece of nonsense about going to her country house, we knew something havey-cavey was going on. Naturally, we put our heads and our meager information together.”
“And what exactly did this meeting of the minds produce?” FitzHenry picked up a slice of apple, examined it, and popped it in his mouth.
James looked sideways at his somewhat secretive friend. “Lord Wentworth’s position at Whitehall isn’t exactly secret, you know.”
Studying his coffee cup, Rafe said, “Figured that one out, did you. My compliments. I would recommend that both you and Miss Alder keep what you know and what you suspect firmly between your teeth.”
“Think so?” James grinned.
“Absolutely.” There was no answering grin.
“Ah! Very good.”
“In the meantime, while I wish you every felicitation, I still want Miss Alder’s direction.”
“Why?”
“I need to reclaim my wife.”
James’s fork stopped halfway to his mouth. “Wife? Lady Chiara?” His friend nodded. “Well, I’m coming with you, for sure.” At Rafe’s scowl, James corrected, “At least to Miss Alder’s.”
When Rafael and James called at the Alder home in Belgravia, polite society deemed the hour just barely acceptable for social calls. Shortly after the butler escorted them to the drawing room, Mrs. Alder swept into the room. A tall, horse-faced woman, she preferred to be addressed as Lady Violet, being the daughter of a viscount and married to a mere Mr.
“Ah, Mr. Simmons,” she gushed, “And Lord FitzHenry.”
Rafael bowed alongside James, but the action felt a little rusty. He saw the gleam in his hostess’s eye. Here was James calling on her daughter. While also a mere Mr., he was the heir to a baronetcy and worth £ 40,000 a year. In addition, there was an earl in her drawing room worth substantially more. He could almost see the wedding plans in her head. Only the groom needed to be resolved in her mind.
He let James do the pretty to his unknowing future mother-in-law. “Lady Violet, how delightful to find you at home. ‘S faith, if you weren’t already spoken for…” Rafe thought him wise to leave the declaration hanging, even if it was prudent to get on the good side of your wife-to-be’s family. He forced himself to resist rubbing his aching nose.
Lady Violet twittered, “You naughty boy! But I’m sure it’s not me you called on.” James’s expression of rueful agreement almost had Rafe snickering.
At that moment, the drawing room door opened, and Lindsey entered. “Mama, Twindle just said…oh,
Jam…I mean Mr. Simmons.” She dropped a curtsey. “And Lord FitzHenry. What a surprise.” Her tone didn’t imply it was necessarily a good surprise.
Both men bowed. Lady Violet, with the complacent look of a mother who sees her duty to her children almost finished, left the “young” people to themselves.
James watched the door close then stepped up to catch Lindsey’s hand. Bringing it to his lips, he placed a fervent kiss on her fingers.
“James! There is someone here!”
“He’s not just ‘someone’ my love, he’s my friend, and he knows how things stand between us.”
Lindsey looked at FitzHenry and put up her chin. “My lord. At the moment I’m none too much in charity with James’s ‘friend.’”
“May we be seated?” Rafe asked, gesturing to the chairs. James seated himself next to Lindsey. “Since James has honored me with his confidence, I would return the favor.” He thought for a moment. “Chiara and I were sent on a…an errand by the government. You have surmised that much. In the course of that business, we were married.”
Lindsey gasped. “Married! She said nothing of marriage!”
“Even so, we were. Right now, however, she is rather justifiably angry at me and not of a mind to acknowledge the vows. She’s not in town, is she?”
Lindsey slowly shook her head.
“Where is she?”
“I really don’t think I should tell you.”
“I really need to find her.”
“I don’t think she wants to be found by you, my lord.” Her hand crept over to find James’s.
“That’s very likely. However, my life won’t be worth living if I don’t convince her otherwise.”
In the carriage, James stared at his friend. “If you weren’t so serious about this, I’d be laughing myself sick.”
“Good, you’d be laughing yourself into the family crypt, and Miss Alder would be forced to find another suitor.”
James gave him a level look. “Well, since I’m a victim of that same grave disease you suffer from, I’ll maintain a salutary silence.”
“Absolutely.”
The small village in Kent almost looked familiar. A very similar one lay near his family seat in Yorkshire. Still another of the same ilk sat on the road to his Lancaster estate. Neat stone houses with thatched roofs lined the highway. A stone bridge crossed the Medway River, not much more than a large creek here. Near the bridge, the village inn boasted the grand name of “King Henry’s Mare.” Rafe spared a brief thought that it might have been named for his grandmother many generations back, although it could just as well have been named for his step-mother many times over, Anne Boleyn, who lived nearby at Hever Castle. He reserved a room with a parlor at the inn. It was clean and neat—about as good as could be expected. If he sent for his valet later, he would have to change lodgings or risk the ire of that high-stickler. Rafe, himself, had slept in far worse places, some of them rather recently. The sheets smelled freshly laundered here, and that counted for a lot.