Branstoke laid a hand on St. Ryne’s arm. “I’ve sent for two fast horses. Your man can give the details on the way.” He clapped Thomas on the back. “Will you be all right, lad? You’ve been through a lot already.”
“I’m fine, sir. ’Sides, I’d do anything for her ladyship.”
“Enough! We haven’t any time to lose,” snapped St. Ryne, heading for the stairs, Thomas and Branstoke following.
“But, I say, St. Ryne, you’re in your evening dress!” protested a town tulip, eyeing him through his quizzing glass.
“I’d go buck naked if it would get me to her faster!” he called back over his shoulder.
“Wait, you’ll need weapons,” said Branstoke.
St. Ryne stopped short. “Blast! There’s no time, and in the temper I’m in, I could rip Tunning to pieces with my bare hands.”
“What about Mannion’s poppers?” suggested a gentleman from the top of the stairs.
“He’s right,” Branstoke admitted. “Mannion’s carried dueling pistols with him anytime these past twenty years.”
“I’ll rouse Mannion,” another offered.
“No time, he’s passed out in the library. Porter! Fetch Lord Mannion’s greatcoat, they’re probably in the pockets. Get St. Ryne’s as well!” Branstoke called after him.
The front door burst open. “Sir, I brought the horses,” huffed the footman.
“Here they are, my lord!” exclaimed the porter, trotting back into the hall. “They’re in the pockets like you said.” He pulled out an old flintlock from a deep pocket.
In two strides St. Ryne was at his side, relieving him of the pistols and slinging his own coat over his shoulders.
“Thomas, can you handle one of these?” he asked, handing him a pistol. Thomas nodded. He turned to Branstoke. “Thank you for the horses. I don’t know when?—”
“Say no more. Just save her and don’t ever let her go again.”
St. Ryne nodded once curtly, then reached out to squeeze his shoulder, silently thanking him for all his efforts on their behalf. “Give my compliments to Mannion,” was all he said, then he followed Thomas out the door.
After Thomas related the events of the evening, the ride to Larchside was hard and grimly silent, each man alone with his thoughts. For St. Ryne it was the longest ride of his life. If what Thomas said was true, then Bess must have forgiven him. Why else would she plan to return to London?
Oh, Bess, he silently called, don’t give up.
What a consummate fool he had been. He remembered the Amblethorp rout when he first saw her and thought she looked fragile. She didn’t appear the shrew until he goaded her. He had been blind to the clues as to her real nature, so intrigued was he to play Petruchio. Now he could only hope that her shrewish mask would again give her strength.
They were surprised, when they turned into the drive leading to Larchside, to see the manor ablaze with lights. Without a word they laid their heels into their mounts and galloped up the drive. St. Ryne was off his horse and running for the door even before the horse stopped. The door flew open before he reached it.
“Oh, my lord, thank heavens you’re here!” Ivy exclaimed. “We got the Atheridges locked in the kitchen pantry.
“And Bess?” St. Ryne asked anxiously.
“Tunning still has her.”
“Who’s we?” asked Thomas, tethering the horses.
“Peter and me. We forgot he were here, too, Thomas. After you left, I got to worryin’ and thinkin’. Then I remembered Peter, so I roused him and told him all. Together we captured ol’ hatchet face, and when Atheridge came creeping back, we bagged him, too.”
St. Ryne grabbed her. “Can Atheridge tell us where Tunning’s taken her?”
“Already done that—leastways where they’re headin’. You were right, Thomas,” she said looking past St. Ryne. “That harness did break, not three miles from here. Caused a devil of a fight atween ’em, says Atheridge.”
“Damn it, woman,” roared St. Ryne, “where’s Elizabeth!?”
“Hav—Havelock Manor.”
