A Wealthy Widow by Anne Herries | eBook

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Charles Hunter stared moodily at the tankard in front of him. He had been drinking heavily the previous night, drinking because of the shock of the news that Daniel had told him concerning his sister. It had thrown him into turmoil again. He had been searching for her for more than a year, torn between doubt and hope. At first he had not known what had happened to his sister. She had seemed to disappear into thin air, and he had suspected that she had been kidnapped. Daniel, Earl of Cavendish, and others of his friends had vowed to help him find Sarah. After exhaustive investigations, acting on information received from a certain Mr Palmer, they had all believed the search was over. Charles had been planning to take a young girl's body from a suicide's grave and bury her at the family vault at his home, but now Daniel had aroused fresh doubts in his mind.

'Talk to Fred yourself,' Daniel had told him just before he left on his wedding trip with Elizabeth, his new and much-loved wife. 'Fred was a footman for Sir Montague Forsythe and he says that he found a girl wandering in distress at about the time we know Sarah ran away from her captors. Palmer told us that she might have drowned herself in the lake that night, but what Fred has told me makes me doubt that. I have taken Fred into my employ as an assistant to my gamekeeper and I believe him honest. I do not think he can tell you more than I have already—but it makes me think that it was not Sarah who drowned herself in Forsythe's lake, but a village girl who had been turned out by her family because she was with child.'

'Then where is Sarah?' Charles had been repeating the question over and over again in his own mind ever since his friend's revelations.

This morning his head felt as if there were a hundred hammers working at his temples. His own fault, he readily admitted, for drinking. Feeling sorry for himself would not help him find his sister—if there was any chance of it! Sarah had been missing for so many months, more than he cared to remember—and all the agents he had employed had failed to find any trace of her. It was as if she had vanished from the face of the earth. His mother believed her dead—had always believed it, even before they had heard of the unknown girl who had drowned herself. Daniel had given him hope, kept on searching when Charles might have given way to despair. Charles had thought her dead, but now he was haunted by the idea that Sarah was alive. His worst fear was that she was trapped in a whorehouse somewhere, living in fear and misery. His sweet, innocent little sister at the mercy of evil men!

'Oh, God, no! Damn it, no!' Charles said the words aloud, anger mixing with the agony of uncertainty. He brought his fist down hard on the table in front of him, making the remnants of his meal fly from the plate. 'I cannot bear it. It shall not be!'

'I beg your pardon, sir. The landlord told me I might share the parlour with a gentleman. I am sorry if you feel it an intrusion.'

Charles blinked and looked up. Until that moment he had not realised he was no longer alone in the inn parlour. For a moment he stared at the young woman, struggling to focus his somewhat bleary eyes. She was dressed in the height of fashion, clearly a person of some wealth and consequence—and he realised, as he raised his eyes to her face, extremely beautiful, though not in the usual way. The hair peeping from beneath her elegant travelling bonnet was a glossy black and her eyes were very dark, though as he continued to stare at her, he saw a silver spark in their depths.

'If I am intruding, I can leave…'

'No, of course not.' Charles belatedly got to his feet. 'Excuse me. I was about to go myself. Please feel free to call the parlour your own, ma'am.' His words were abrupt, harsh, for his mood was bleak, tortured, and he hardly knew what he said or did. 'I have things to do…'

As he walked from the parlour he was aware that he had probably sounded rude. It was not how he would have greeted such a woman in the old days, for she was certainly a beauty, and the type of woman he most admired. He had admired Elizabeth Travers—the young woman Daniel had recently married—and he had been rude to her too at the start. He had apologised to her later for his boorish behaviour, but at the moment he was too tense, too filled with apprehension to be the gentleman he was at heart. How could he be carefree and charming, when his guilt and remorse haunted him? He ought to have found Sarah by now!

It was unlikely that Fred, the footman-turned-gamekeeper, would be able to help him find Sarah, but Daniel had put him in touch with another man who might help him. Jesiah Tobbold was a man of some resources. He had helped Daniel protect his family from Sir Montague Forsythe. There was nothing to fear from Forsythe now that he was dead. Charles had killed him in a desperate struggle when the villain had tried to escape after kidnapping Elizabeth and murdering Lady Roxborough.

Not for the first time, Charles wished that they had managed to keep Forsythe alive. He should have died at the end of a hangman's noose, as Daniel had always intended. Perhaps he could have told them where Sarah was…if he knew. Had she managed to evade her captors that fateful night? Or had Forsythe found her and imprisoned her in one of his houses of ill repute? The question haunted Charles. Until he had discovered the truth he would never rest. His mind was made up. He would speak to the assistant game-keeper and then ask Tobbold for help to continue the search.

Arabella stood for a moment staring after the man who had just left the inn parlour so abruptly. His behaviour had shocked her, not so much because he was rude, but because of the expression of near desperation on his face—and because he so obviously did not recognise her. It was several years since they had met, but she had known him despite the ravages of grief in his face. She was sure it was grief that had given him those dark shadows beneath his eyes, and wondered what had caused him such pain.

Of course they had met only once, at her wedding to Sir Benjamin Marshall. She was sure in her own mind that his name was Charles Hunter and that he had been one of several young men introduced to her that day by Ben. Charles Hunter had been very different then. She remembered that he had teased her, telling her that if she grew tired of her husband she might turn to him. She had laughed at him, for nothing could have made her grow tired of her beloved Ben. Handsome and carefree then, what could have changed Charles Hunter from the devil-may-care young man he had been to this gaunt-eyed stranger? She sensed that he had suffered—was still suffering deeply.

'Oh, Arabella, they say it will take several hours to mend the wheel of your carriage,' her companion said, coming in at that moment. 'The landlord says he can offer us a room for the night, if you wish for it.'

'We shall stay here if we are forced,' Arabella said. She glanced round the small room, which was not quite what she was used to when travelling, though clean and adequate. 'But I would prefer to go on to the White Hart outside Richmond if we are able. My aunt expects us tomorrow and we may send her a message from there to tell her that we have suffered a delay.'

'What shall I tell the landlord?'

'Leave it to me, Tilda,' Arabella said and smiled at her companion. Tilda Redmond was a distant cousin of her mother's, a spinster lady of middle years, and had come to bear her company after Ben was killed. She had been meant to stay just for a few weeks, but she had shown no sign of wanting to leave and Arabella did not have the heart to send her away. Besides, she had made up her mind not to marry again, and Tilda was always so obliging. 'I have bespoken nuncheon from our host, and we shall see how they fare with mending that wheel before we decide.'

'As you wish,' Tilda said. She went to warm her hands by the fire—although it was the middle of August she felt cold, as she invariably did. 'I thought we were to share the parlour with a gentleman?'

'Oh, he left,'Arabella said with a shrug. 'I dare say he had finished his ale and was anxious to continue his journey.'

'It must have been the gentleman I saw calling for his horse.'Tilda nodded her head. 'He was quite handsome, with dark hair and blue eyes…'

'Yes, I dare say that was him,' Arabella agreed and wrinkled her smooth brow in a frown. This was getting her nowhere! She decided to forget her brief encounter with Mr Hunter. Whatever his problem might be, it was none of her business. She turned as the landlord's wife came bustling into the parlour with her tray.

'There's some nice tomato soup, my lady, and the bread is fresh made this morning—and there's some fine ham and pickles for after if you should wish for it.'

'Thank you,'Arabella, said. 'We shall have the ham and a glass of your best wine, ma'am, if you please.' She nodded her approval of the soup, which smelled delicious. 'And you will let us know as soon as the carriage is repaired?'

'Yes, of course,'the woman promised and went off, leaving them to enjoy their soup, which tasted as good as it smelled.

It was late afternoon when Arabella came out of the inn to find her carriage repaired and waiting. She paused for a moment and then gestured to her maid, who had been attending to something in the baggage coach.

'We are almost ready to leave, Iris. Please make sure that we have my small trunk with us. If we should suffer another accident, I may need it tonight.'

'Yes, my lady, of course. I'll attend to it immediately.'

Arabella stopped to speak to her coachman and one of the grooms who was attending to the horses, discussing a change in plans for that night. Because of the delay, it was possible that they might not reach their planned destination. As she did so, a curricle drove into the inn yard and a man got down. He was dressed in the manner of a dandy—his travelling cloak had six capes, and his cravat was ridiculously high and fussy, especially for a journey into the country.

Arabella tensed as the man threw the reins to his tiger and walked towards the inn. For a moment she wished that she might avoid meeting him, for he was a gentleman she knew and did not much like, but pride came to her rescue. She had no reason to feel embarrassed. Sir Courtney Welch had asked her to marry him a year after Ben's death. Still raw with grief, she had refused him as politely as she could, but he had taken offence and had later accosted her in a drunken fit. His disgusting behaviour had been one of the reasons she had decided never to marry again. She would rather remain unwed than make the mistake of marrying someone she discovered later that she could not like.

'Madam,'he said, bowing to her in an exaggerated manner that was almost an insult. 'Alas, it seems that you are always leaving when I arrive.'

He could not have failed to notice that Arabella avoided his company whenever possible, but she had always preferred to avoid confrontation with him. She was relieved when Tilda spoke to her, unwittingly saving her from having to reply to his false gallantry.

'They were much quicker mending the wheel than the landlord thought,' Tilda observed as she touched Arabella's arm. 'But we should go, my dear, it will be dark before we reach Richmond.'

'Yes, I imagine it will,' Arabella agreed and allowed herself to be directed towards the carriage. She did not look back at the man she disliked. Had she done so, she would have seen that he was staring after her, his face stark with anger. 'I had hoped to arrive earlier, but it cannot be helped. I am not sure we shall manage to complete our journey tonight.' Because the day was overcast it was already darker than she had thought possible for the hour. 'But we are well protected, Tilda. You need not fear highwaymen. My grooms are all armed and we have several of them. I believe those that make their living from waylaying unwary travellers are more likely to attack unaccompanied carriages.'

'Yes, I am sure you are right,' Tilda said, but cast an anxious look from the window of their carriage as if she feared that they might be attacked at any moment. 'But I shall be glad when we reach London and your aunt's house. Inns are never so comfortable as one's own bed.'

Arabella smiled, for she knew that Tilda was of a nervous disposition. She believed herself more than a match for any highwayman and carried a small pistol inside her velvet muff. She did not mention this to her companion—it would only distress her more—but she was glad of it as the light began to fade and the sky grew darker.

They had been travelling for more than an hour and a half when she heard a shout from the driving box and the carriage drew to a sudden halt, shuddering as Arabella and Tilda were both thrown forward. Tilda gave a little cry of fright and looked at her in alarm.

'Oh, what is it? Do you think a highwayman…?'

Arabella shook her head, but her fingers sought and found the pistol. She would use it if need be! She turned her head as one of the grooms came to open the door of the carriage.

'What is the matter, Williams?'

'There is a man lying on the ground just ahead of us, my lady,' the groom said. 'I think he has had an accident. It looks as if his horse stumbled and he must have fallen. The horse is nearby and seems to be lame.'

'Is the man badly hurt?' Arabella asked, preparing to get down from the carriage.

'Do be careful,' Tilda warned. 'It might be a trap…'

'No, I do not think so.'

Arabella had seen the figure lying on the ground now. He was not moving at all and she thought it must have been a serious accident. The cause was obvious. A rope had been tied to a tree and then pulled tight across the road so that his horse stumbled. In the fading light the rider would not have seen the sinister device until it was too late.

'What foul deed has taken place here?' she asked of her coachman. 'This must have been deliberate.'

'The intention was to rob him, my lady. We saw a ruffian make off through the woods as we approached. Had we not arrived so opportunely, it might have ended in murder.'

'How wicked!'Arabella shivered and looked about her. It was a lonely spot with thick woods on either side of the road. Just the kind of place that a rogue might lie in wait for the opportunity to attack a lone traveller. She moved closer to the man lying on the ground, catching her breath as she saw his face clearly for the first time. It was Charles Hunter! 'Is he dead?' she asked the groom, suddenly anxious.

Williams dropped to his knees, making a swift assessment. He looked up at her, shaking his head. 'He has been knocked senseless, my lady. There is a nasty blow to the side of his head, but he still has a pulse.'

'We must take him up with us,'Arabella said, making her decision at once. 'If we leave him here, he will almost certainly die, of his injury if not further attack. Be very careful as you lift him, Williams. We shall go immediately to the nearest inn and summon a doctor. He must be examined and treated as soon as possible.'

She watched anxiously as three of her servants combined to lift the unconscious man into the carriage. Climbing in herself unaided, she instructed them to lay his head on her lap so that she might support him.

'Should you be taking up a stranger like this?'Tilda asked, giving her a doubtful look. 'You do not know who he may be. He could be anyone—a thief or a murderer.'

Arabella bit back the sharp retort that leapt to mind. For some reason she was reluctant to tell her cousin that she believed she knew the gentleman's identity.

'I do not imagine we are in any danger from him at the moment. It is surely our Christian duty to help him, Tilda. If we left him lying there, we should be heartless creatures indeed.'

'Yes, that is very true,' Tilda said, looking slightly ashamed. 'You are always such a charitable person, Arabella. You put me to the blush.'

'I know you were only thinking of me,' Arabella replied. 'But he is obviously a gentleman and we must help him. Instead of trying for Richmond this evening, we shall go to the nearest inn and take rooms there. A doctor must examine this poor man as quickly as possible.'

'Yes, of course you are right,'Tilda agreed, but still looked doubtful. She had not yet become reconciled to her cousin's habit of taking life in her stride. To her way of thinking, Arabella seemed reckless, a very confident young woman who had no one to guide her. She was still young and, being both beautiful and wealthy, might fall prey to fortune hunters, for she had no male relative to guard or protect her—other than her cousin Ralph, whom she disliked.

'Do not look so anxious,'Arabella said, guessing at a part of what Tilda was thinking. Her cousin was of a timid, nervous disposition, but she had tried hard to be a comfort to Arabella during her period of mourning, and it would be unkind to find her constant anxiety a little tedious. 'I assure you there is no need. This poor man cannot harm us. He is far too ill.'

A Wealthy Widow

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