finally overcame his common sense and convinced him that it was his duty to stop such an imprudent match.
Grumbling and muttering, he ordered his horse brought round and changed his clothes. Within a matter of minutes, a broad-brimmed hat pulled across his forehead and swathed in a many-caped greatcoat, he was riding hell-bent for leather out of London. As the weather did its best to make his ride a nightmare, and he doggedly pressed forward, his thoughts were not kind toward his stepsister. In fact, he rather thought that he would beat Elizabeth soundly and throttle young Carver when he caught up with them.
The weather continued to worsen and he considered seeking shelter until the bulk of the storm passed, but the need for haste was imperative if he was to overtake Elizabeth and her gallant. The weather and the condition of the road, which was slowly turning into a slick, muddy slop, made for treacherous going and Julian cursed again the fate that had sent him out on a night like this. His only comfort was the knowledge that Carver and Elizabeth were somewhere out there ahead of him in the storm and he bloody-well hoped that they were having as uncomfortable a time of it as he was.
He smiled grimly from beneath the brim of his drenched beaver hat and thought about how this thankless task seemed a fitting end to an evening that had gone sour from the moment he had laid eyes on Tynedale, at Boodle’s. Oh, the time had passed pleasantly enough, but even when he had appeared at his most relaxed and urbane, his mind had been on Tynedale and his nephew’s senseless death. The anniversary of Daniel’s suicide was just over a month away and he suspected that he would be able to face it with far more equanimity if Tynedale had been brought to justice.
But before he could seal Tynedale’s fate, he thought wearily, he had to catch his erring stepsister and rescue her, whether she wished for rescue or not, from the dashing Captain Carver.
Catching sight of a vehicle resting drunkenly half-in, half-out of a ditch, his pulse quickened. Could luck be on his side? Had the lovers been thwarted by the storm?
Pulling his horse to a stop, Julian stared down at the curricle, disgust on his face. Only a damn silly fool, and a lovesick one at that, would have chosen a curricle in which to make a runaway match—and on a night like this. He studied the scene in the flashes of lightning. The pair of horses that had been pulling the curricle were gone and so were the inhabitants of the vehicle.
The sky lit by an incandescent arrow of lightning, he looked down the road and smiled. He would have them now. Knowing Elizabeth, he thought it unlikely that she would relish riding astride through a raging storm. They had probably holed up at the nearest house or tavern—and that, he concluded, was the first reasonable decision they had made tonight.
It was a desolate stretch of road that he was riding along and after he had ridden another few miles, his confidence began to flag. He did not think that he missed any signs of habitation, but in the dark and the rain it was possible.
A blinding flash of lightning sent his horse screaming and rearing up in the air. Dancing on two hind feet the stallion could not find purchase on the slippery road and despite Julian’s effort to control him, horse and rider went over backward.
Instinctively Julian kicked free of the stirrups and dived to the right. The last thing he wanted was for the stallion to come down on him. Both he and the horse landed hard and Julian winced at the pain that bunched in his shoulder as he hit the muddy ground. Horse and man immediately scrambled to their feet and ignoring his painful shoulder, Julian lunged for the dangling reins. The stallion shied and spun on his heels and Julian watched in furious dismay as the horse disappeared into the darkness.
Slapping his ruined hat against his leather breeches, Julian swore. Bloody hell! It had only needed this.
All thoughts of Elizabeth vanished. Finding shelter and seeing how badly he had hurt his shoulder were now his first priorities. Knowing that he had passed the last sign of habitation miles back, there was nothing to be gained from following after the horse. Resigned to a miserable walk, he set off in the opposite direction taken by his fleeing mount.
If he had thought he had been miserable previously, he had not realized how much more miserable he could become, but he soon learned. The mud dragged at his boots, the wind buffeted him unmercifully and the rain was incessant. Never mind the idea of being struck by a falling tree or lightning—by the time he had fought his way two miles away from where he had parted company with his horse he almost welcomed it.
He had just begun to consider seeking shelter in the forest when he realized that he recognized the area—particularly that half-dead, gnarled oak tree at the edge of the road. Unless he was mistaken, there was an abandoned toll keeper’s cottage just a short distance ahead. Bending his head and shoulders into the wind, he plowed forward. Finally making it around a bend in the road, his persistence was rewarded; through the blowing rain, he glimpsed the building he sought.
He sprinted the last few yards and sank against the door. Pushing the door open, he entered the dark, musty-scented cottage. Bliss flooded him. It didn’t matter that the cottage was only one level above a hovel, all that mattered was that he was no longer at the mercy of the elements. He shut the door behind him and with it the storm and its fury.
Picking his way across the littered floor, guided by the angry brilliance of the lightning outside, he reached one of the chairs and sat down in front of the cold hearth. He sat there for several minutes, letting the quiet of the cottage, after the brute force of the storm, wash over him.
Chilled and shivering, he forced himself to move. A fire was his first priority. The old faggots were aged and dry and since he carried his tinderbox in one of the pockets of his greatcoat, as well as a brace of pistols, shortly he had a meager fire flickering on the smoke-stained hearth. The faggots would not last long and he ruthlessly sacrificed one of the chairs to keep the fire going.
His immediate need taken care of, he took an all-encompassing glance around the room, noting for future reference the bed of rushes and the crumpled rags upon it. When necessary, the rushes could be used to keep the fire burning, and the table and the rest of the chairs, for that matter, he thought grimly—they were certainly otherwise useless.
He took off his soaked greatcoat and using one of those chairs arranged the heavy garment off to one side of the fire. His hips resting against the table he pulled off his boots and stockings, aware that they were ruined. He shrugged and checked for the knife hidden in his right boot. Carrying the knife was a practice begun after one of his errands on the continent for the Duke of Roxbury, one from which he had almost not returned. Finding the knife, he carelessly slipped it into the waist of his breeches and placed his boots, the stockings draped over them, near the chair holding his greatcoat.
Seated in one of the remaining chairs, he stretched his long legs out toward the fire, wriggling his bare toes in sybarite pleasure as the heat from the fire toasted them.
Checking his shoulder he was pleased to discover whatever he’d done when he fell was minor and would heal on its own. He sighed in contentment, pulling at his rumpled cravat. The cravat undone, he tossed it on the table and absently loosened his fine linen shirt.
All I need now, he thought drowsily, is a mutton pie, a bottle of port and a willing wench. He smiled; his head drooped and sleep took him.
Nell’s father and brothers did not find sleep so easily. Having left London well ahead of Julian, they had come upon the tipped curricle some time before he had, and after a cursory inspection of the abandoned vehicle, had pressed onward. There was nothing to identify the curricle as having been owned by Tynedale—it could easily have belonged to some other unfortunate soul. On the off chance that it had been the vehicle used to spirit Nell away, they were alert for any sign of wandering pedestrians as they rode through the
