Scandal Becomes Her. Shirlee Busbee

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 pounding storm. The abandoned toll house they passed by; with no sign of life to betray its presence, they overlooked it in the rain and darkness.

      Sir Edward and his sons traveled swiftly, anxiety and fury mingling in their collective breasts. Sir Edward’s main thoughts were for the safe return of his daughter; those of his sons were of a more savage nature. Once they finally overtook Tynedale, and there was no doubt that they would, Tynedale would be lucky indeed if he lived to see another sunrise.

      At every inn or tavern, and even the few houses nestled near the road that they came upon, they halted long enough to satisfy themselves that Tynedale had not stopped and taken refuge within. As the hours passed they grew weary and more discouraged and the confidence of the twins began to lag. Having ridden astride they had suffered the most from the vicious strength of the storm and when a shabby little tavern appeared on their right in the early hours of the morning, they were more than willing to stop.

      The tavern was set well back from the road, almost hidden by a copse of shaggy trees, and if not for the winking yellow light coming from one of the windows, they would have ridden on by. A few bony horses were tied to the hitching rail, their backs hunched against the storm.

      Leaving their horses to the care of the Anslowe coachman and the grubby ostler who had stumbled out of the tavern at the sound of their arrival, the four men entered the building. The tavern did not look to be the sort that catered to the gentry, but they were too discouraged and exhausted to care very much that the place was more likely the haunt of local highwaymen and suchlike than of gentlemen like themselves. All they wanted was a place to warm themselves by the fire and to partake of a drink of hot punch and perhaps swallow some sustenance.

      The arrival of four gentlemen caused a stir, and after some furtive observation, a few of the inhabitants disappeared out the back door. The others watched the gentry with curiosity.

      Sir Edward had begun to remove his greatcoat when he caught sight of the man seated at a scarred oak table near the fire.

      “Tynedale!” he roared, striding across the room. His three sons having spotted their quarry almost simultaneously were fast on their father’s heels, their expressions murderous.

      At the sound of his name, Tynedale glanced up from his contemplation of the tankard in front of him. He blanched and leapt to his feet. His gaze darted about for a way of escape, but there was none, the Anslowe men crowding him back into the darkened corner. The other inhabitants watched with interest, but no one moved to intervene.

      Robert’s hand was at Tynedale’s throat, his face dark with fury. “Where is she?” he snarled. He shook Tynedale like a dog with a rat. “Speak! If you wish to live another second, tell us what you have done with her.”

      Tynedale gargled some reply. Despite the icy cast to his eyes, Sir Edward said to his son with deceptive mildness, “My boy, perhaps if you loosen your grip just a trifle…”

      Reluctantly Robert did so, his fingers relaxing fractionally.

      Tynedale, gasping for breath and his eyes everywhere but on the faces of the men in front of him, muttered, “Have you gone mad? Why did you attack me?”

      Robert’s teeth were bared as he growled, “You know very well why we are here. Damn you! Where is she?”

      Recovering somewhat, Tynedale said, “I can see that you are laboring under great duress and for that reason, I shall not hold you accountable for your action.” Tynedale lifted his chin. “I am afraid,” he said, “that I have no idea what you are talking about. And as for a female…I am traveling alone—you may have seen my ditched curricle several miles back.” He nodded in the direction of the tavern keeper, a brawny fellow who stood behind a long counter watching the exchange. “If you do not believe that I am alone, ask him. He will tell you I arrived here an hour or more ago and that no one else—male or female—was with me.”

      Robert’s hand tightened and Tynedale’s fingers clawed at the choking hold. “What have you done with her? Tell me or I will throttle you where you stand.”

      “Er, excuse me, sir,” said the tavern owner in a diffident tone. “We don’t have many gentry stopping here and I do not mean to intrude into the business of my betters, but I can assure you that what the gentleman said is true: he arrived alone.”

      Not content with the tavern keeper’s word, Sir Edward insisted upon a thorough search of the place. It did not take long and revealed no sign of Nell. Even an inspection of the ramshackle building that passed for a stable at the rear of the tavern turned up no clue as to Nell’s whereabouts.

      Tynedale vehemently protested his innocence despite dire threats from Robert and the twins. As the minutes passed, Sir Edward began to have doubts. Perhaps he had been wrong. Nell had been snatched from her room, of that he was certain, and Tynedale seemed the likely culprit. But was it possible that he had been mistaken? Dread filled him. Had his darling daughter been spirited away by some nefarious fellow with something uglier than a runaway marriage on his mind? Was she, perhaps, even still in London, having been whisked away to some den of iniquity, to be forced into whoring? He shuddered. It was not unheard of for comely females to find themselves in such a position, but for it to have happened to someone of Nell’s station seemed impossible and Sir Edward could not believe that she had suffered such a fate. The fact remained, however, that someone