Knight For A Lady (Brides By Chance Regency Adventures Book 3) Read online

  Jocasta looked struck. “I never thought of that. But it could do no harm to hear what the gypsy says, surely?”

  “I dare say Delia does not wish to have expectations raised that might not be fulfilled, and so be disappointed.”

  “Oh.” Jocasta eyed her friend as one observing a stranger. “Oh, dear, Delia, is it so?”

  A little sigh came from the other girl. “Truly, I don’t want to have my fortune read, Jocasta. You may do so, if you wish, but I still can’t think why.”

  “So that I may know if I am carrying Tazewell’s heir, of course.”

  “Well, she’s not going to be able to tell that, silly.”

  Which set them off arguing again. Edith retired from the discussion, feeling unequal to participation. It was too reminiscent of the Academy, and all such memories had been ruined by Lord Kilshaw.

  She could hear Owen and Jocasta’s footman talking in a desultory fashion in the kitchen, consuming the sandwiches the housekeeper had provided. Edith felt sorry for them both, obliged to dawdle here when they might be enjoying the diversions on the green. She made no objection therefore, once the ladies had eaten their fill, washed down with lemonade, and been directed to her bedchamber to freshen up, to returning to the Fair without delay.

  She looked instantly down the lane as they exited through the gate, but the cart had gone. For no observable reason, Edith found this disquieting. Had the man moved it elsewhere? He surely would not leave the Fair while so many people still wandered the booths, ready to squander their hard-earned pennies. She looked about as she crossed the lane with the ladies and the guardian males in tow, but there was no sign of the unpleasant owner.

  She caught herself on the thought, following as Jocasta began threading her way to the gypsy’s gaily striped little tent. Unpleasant? Or merely chafed? The traders were at work, after all. They had come from far and wide, she knew from previous years, a motley collection who took their wares from fair to fair through the summer months, scratching a living that must keep them through the winter.

  The races had begun in the enclosure created with a set of flagpoles and bunting. Since the gypsy’s tent was situated nearby, Edith and Delia were able to watch a gaggle of young women being carried piggyback by stout young lads, along with much shrieking and mirth from the audience as an overfed little fellow came to grief along with his fair jockey.

  Edith caught sight of Niall, flanked by Lord Tazewell, on the other side of the enclosure and waved. His attention was elsewhere and he did not see her, to her disappointment. She found herself wishing he was not too busy to attend her, if only for a moment, knowing his presence served to allay her nervousness.

  Jocasta presently emerged from the gypsy’s tent, airily saying it had not been worth the outlay, but looking a trifle disheartened.

  “What did she say?” asked Delia, over the squealing set up by the piglets now being urged down the field by a set of determined little boys, striving for their entry to win.

  “Nothing to the purpose.” Jocasta pouted a little. “She would keep harping on saying the day will end darkly, as if we didn’t know the sun must go down in the end.”

  A chill sneaked through Edith’s veins. Jocasta had entirely failed to interpret this warning in the way it was clearly meant. But it was Jocasta’s fortune, not her own. She must not be beguiled into taking account of nonsense.

  “I told you it was a waste of time.”

  “True, but I had hoped… Oh, do but look! They are preparing for the tug of war.”

  Edith did not share Jocasta’s eagerness. She knew what this portended. “If that is so, then we need to remove from the area, ladies.”

  “No! It’s what I came for!”

  “Oh, Jocasta, don’t be silly!”

  Edith cut in at once. “You can still watch, but we should be farther back. The tug of war invariably ends in fisticuffs and Lord Tazewell, I am persuaded, would not wish you to remain in a position of danger.”

  “Pooh! How could I be in danger, pray? No one is going to throw a punch at me.”

  A sigh escaped Edith. “You don’t understand, my dear. The fight will not be confined to the warriors on the rope. It’s what the villagers look forward to. See! The traders are packing up. They know enough to get themselves and their goods out of the way as fast as they can.”

  Between her urgings and Delia’s scolding, Jocasta was persuaded to retire some distance from the enclosure. As well, since the area around it was rapidly filling with eager spectators, creating a sad crush.

  Yet young Lady Tazewell became reconciled only when her footman engaged with one of the locals who had, like Mrs Tuffin, set up his own trestle table for a stall, to allow her ladyship to step up and stand upon its now empty surface.

  “Will it hold her in safety?”

  “Of course it will. Pray don’t spoil sport, Edith. It is the very thing.”

  The villager thumped the table a time or two with his closed fist to demonstrate its solidity. “It’ll do her leddyship fine, miss, and welcome.”

  Upon her command, Monkton lifted Jocasta onto the table, standing in a suitable position to catch her if she fell. Gleeful, she declared her view to be the best on the green and invited her friend to join her.

  “No, I thank you. I prefer to remain on terra firma. Besides, there is no charm for me in fisticuffs.”

  Edith could not help laughing. “You might enjoy the tug of war, however. We are expected to root for our village, you must know.”

  “Well, as I don’t live here, I have no such duty.”

  But even Delia became excited once the two teams were in place — which appeared to take a deal of argumentative organisation — and Niall was seen to be standing in the centre ready to give the signal with pocket handkerchief held high in one hand.

  “He’s dropped it!”

  Jocasta’s exclamation made her friend crane her neck to see as a terrific grunting and roaring issued from the competitors, accompanied by encouraging shouts and catcalls from the crowd. Edith caught glimpses through slight gaps in the press of people as the line dragged one way and then the other, the heaving men with muscles straining at full stretch leaning back as they tried to hold purchase with their feet in the worn turf, by this time churned half into mud by the various races. She could in no way tell which side was which, with supporters from both villages mixed together.

  At last one side succeeded in tugging their opponents across the line. The roar from the crowd was deafening. Within seconds, a few feet away, a fellow in homespuns turned to his neighbour and threw a punch that knocked him into another behind.

  Edith heard Jocasta’s shriek as the innocent bystander retaliated. In a moment, the air was full of curses and wildly swinging fists. The crowd turned rapidly into a struggling mêlée.

  “Quickly, ladies! Let us get back to the vicarage.”

  She turned to her designated escort, but he was not there. Instead, a strange man loomed up. Before she could react, a strong arm came about her and a handkerchief was thrust against her nose and mouth.

  She had no chance to struggle more than to strive against the iron hold, for a pungent aroma stung in her nostrils, rendering her dizzy. On instinct she opened her mouth to breathe, but was overcome by a heady sensation.

  In the instant before she lost consciousness, she recalled the face she’d seen as that of the surly trader who had been obliged to move his cart.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  On Tazewell’s strongly worded advice, Niall had retired circumspectly once he’d dropped the handkerchief. He’d viewed the tug of war from just within the enclosure with a good deal of amusement and some interest, since several of the stout fellows on the rope were his tenants. As they were divided among both sides, he would have remained impartial even had it not been his duty as the designated judge.

  He was obliged to keep his eye on the line that had been drawn across the turf by means of a thinner rope than the one in use, hammered into the groun
d at either end. The moment the feet of the leader of the visiting team crossed the line, he ran forward to declare the home team the winners.

  Congratulations and handshaking took some time, and he felt constrained to have consolatory words with the disgruntled losing team from the neighbouring village. The home supporters were jubilant, much to the fury of the visitors, and by the time Niall was ready to leave the arena, battle had been fairly joined.

  He contemplated the scene with misgiving, having little hope that the neighbouring competitors would not feel compelled to seek vengeance in a similar fashion. He doubted there was one of them who had not refreshed himself at some point in the Bear, doing a roaring trade today, and was inevitably reminded of the soldiers under his command released on furlough who had conducted themselves in just such a fashion.

  Tazewell, who had remained close by in case he might be needed, had gone off before the fight was well underway to make sure his wife had gone to ground at the vicarage, though how he proposed to get through as the crowd closed in, Niall could not imagine. Though he’d had little leisure, a part of his mind had remained on Edith and he trusted she had been escorted home, according to his orders, in time to avoid being caught up in the mayhem.

  The vicar, to whose kind offices, along with those of Tazewell, he owed the smoothness of his participation in the events of the day, had ambled away some time ago. He had declared his intention of securing the church in case some wanderer, the worse for wear, took it into his head to nestle there for the duration, which had not been unknown in the past.

  Niall was therefore, thank the Lord, only concerned with avoiding personal involvement in the surrounding battle and finding his best way out of it without taking a stray hit. By dint of dodging two young lads throwing wild punches, another pair shoving up against each other, three stout men engaged in a whirling altercation and sundry fallen bodies groaning on the grass as well as carts creeping through to leave, Niall managed to weave across the green and came out at length into the lane alongside the vicarage.

  His intention was to head for the gate to the back way in, but he was brought up short by the sight of Tazewell, supporting one of the lads detailed to guard Edith, who had a hand to his head and looked decidedly under the weather.

  To one side stood Miss Burloyne, trying in vain to comfort a tearful Lady Tazewell. Adding to the cacophony, the vicar himself, accompanied by his clucking housekeeper, was engaged in firing questions at the lad in an unaccustomed peremptory tone.

  Taking in the scene in one comprehensive glance, Niall felt his guts clench. No need to ask what had happened. Edith’s absence told its own tale.

  He strode forward at the same moment that the Reverend Westacott turned and saw him. The little man threw up his hands, crying out as he came towards Niall in a rush.

  “She’s been taken, my lord! For pity’s sake, what are we to do?”

  The clutch on his arm forced Niall to concentrate, despite a blinding rage that rose up, threatening to deprive him of all ability to think.

  “Steady, Reverend! Let us get at the facts first.”

  The vicar released him only to throw agitated hands in the air. “Facts, my lord? Try if you can get any sense out of this fellow, for he’s either drunk or mad.”

  Niall threw a keen glance at Jonny’s sickly countenance. He looked as if he might cast up his innards at any moment. “Not drunk, sir. Knocked silly, belike.”

  “You’re in the right of it, Hetherington. He’s taken a blow to the back of the head.” Tazewell was in the process of assisting the fellow to perch on the vicarage wall, where he sat, groaning with a hand to his head.

  “He was found lying near the table where my wife was standing.”

  Niall’s soldiering instincts came alert and his gaze turned to the ladies. “Is that where you lost Miss Westacott?”

  A fresh wail issued from Lady Tazewell and she flung herself into her husband’s arms. “Oh, Tom, Tom, it’s my fault! I should never have insisted upon remaining for the tug of war. Edith said it was dangerous, but I never thought — never suspected — and we were supposed to be keeping her safe!”

  “This does not help us, sir,” hissed the Reverend Westacott in an urgent under-voice. “We must begin a search at once!”

  “My dear Reverend, we can do nothing without knowing the probable direction in which she has been taken. Let us glean as much information as we can first.”

  Miss Burloyne’s head turned from watching her friend sobbing into Tazewell’s chest. She was white of face, but she looked resolute. “You will wish to know just what occurred, my lord.”

  A fleeting surprise struck Niall at finding her as calm as this. He’d written her off as just such another featherhead as Lady Tazewell.

  “I would, ma’am. Pray tell me as precisely as you can.”

  She nodded, moving a little away to be heard above her friend’s lamentations.

  “All was well, I thought, until the fighting started. Jocasta was watching from her vantage point on the table.”

  “What, she was standing on it?”

  “Yes, and Monkton was by to be at hand in case of accident.”

  “Which put him off guard as far as Edith was concerned.”

  Miss Burloyne’s eyes showed guilt. “I’m afraid we were all off guard, my lord. I blush to confess it, but I became riveted by the tug of war despite having professed disinterest. But then a fight broke out almost in front of us, and I saw at once that retreat was in order.”

  Niall curbed his impatience. “Did you see Edith?”

  “I remember hearing her saying we should go, and I turned immediately to persuade Jocasta. I’m afraid I fell into argument with her because she was making a fuss about getting down from the table. By the time she had been successfully set upon her feet, we could not see Edith anywhere.”

  Niall gritted his teeth against the furious words that rose to his tongue. Among God knows how many well-wishers, Kilshaw had still managed to snatch her. He could say nothing, for his bitterest anger was directed at himself. He had presumed too much. He ought to have done the business himself, instead of succumbing to the lure of a duty he could well have insisted upon leaving to Tazewell.

  “When did you find my lad Jonny there?”

  Miss Burloyne glanced across at the boy, who still looked to Niall to be as sick as a horse.

  “Not quite immediately. We cast about and called Edith’s name, but to no avail. We thought at first her guardian might have taken her away quickly, and several moments must have passed before we found him. There were already men sitting or lying on the ground, nursing injuries, for the fight was going on all about us.”

  An exasperated exclamation came from Tazewell, who had managed to quiet his wife. “My man should have had you out of there in a trice.”

  “He would have done, Tom,” cried his wife in a still tearful tone, “but I would not let him take us, for we had to find Edith.”

  “And then Monkton discovered this poor fellow lying at a slight distance from the table,” said Miss Burloyne, taking up the tale again. “He was coming to his senses by then, though he could hardly speak.”

  Damnation! Useless then to question the boy. “We’ll let his fellows take care of him, when I can find them.”

  Mrs Tuffin spoke for the first time. “Mr Eddows has gone in search of them, my lord. He was here with the Reverend, taking a drop of wine. And that young good-for-nothing son of his ought to be here at any moment for his night duty. Though I’ve no doubt he snores his head off up in the spare bedchamber.”

  Ignoring this aside, which was spoken in the cantankerous tone of one too troubled to be thinking of what she said, Niall thanked her. “You’ve removed one worry, at least. I need not concern myself with locating my men in this motley assembly.”

  The housekeeper looked gratified, but gazed up at him with anxious eyes. “Can you find her, my lord?”

  “I’ll find her, you may be sure, if it takes every ounce of eff
ort of which I am capable.” He did not pause to see the effect of his promise, but turned at once to the vicar. “You were questioning the lad when I got here, sir. Did you manage to ascertain whether or not he saw anything before he was struck down?”

  “I could get no sense out of him at all, I told you, my lord. It is useless to ask him.”

  Miss Burloyne intervened, with a pitying glance cast at the victim. “The poor fellow does not know what happened to him, for you may be sure we asked as soon as we found him. At one moment he was behind Edith, and the next he woke up in this state.”

  “Taken unawares, no doubt, leaving my poor Ede exposed and prey to that villain.” The Reverend Westacott again seized Niall’s arm. “My lord, I cannot think Kilshaw can have done the thing himself. Unless he chose to assume a disguise of some sort?”

  “No, I imagine he employed a tool in the business, one who might pass unnoticed.” Niall turned again to Miss Burloyne, as the person most likely to give him a useful answer. “Was there any sign of anyone behaving in an odd fashion? Any stranger perhaps regarding you all with more than casual interest?”

  She seemed to ponder, slowly shaking her head. “I cannot say I noticed. To say truth, we were all so much occupied with the diversions, I dare say we paid no attention if there was some such person.”

  Lady Tazewell suddenly struck her hands together, uttering a shriek. “The cart! Delia, don’t you recall? That horrid man who had his cart too close to the gate there, and was perfectly objectionable when he was asked to move it.”

  Niall’s senses pricked. A cart? This was more like.

  “His manner was not pleasant, it is true,” said Miss Burloyne, “but we have no reason to suppose he was here for any other purpose than to sell his wares.”

  “But why should he set his cart by our wall?” demanded the vicar on a frantic note, snatching off his spectacles and waving them for emphasis. “There was plenty of room on the edges of the green, and any one of our people would have told him where to go if he was a stranger.”

  “He must have been, for Edith’s guardian at that time did not know him.” Miss Burloyne looked at Niall. “Jocasta’s footman will know. They were speaking together while we partook of our repast.”