“You are like sons to me, the both of you. Especially given that your aunt and I were not blessed with any of our own. Now, you had better hurry.”
He patted Henry and Christopher on the back and made his way inside the house. Henry climbed into the waiting carriage, leaving Christopher alone with Rowena.
“My dear,” he walked up to her, placing one hand on her face. She pushed her cheek into his hand and closed her eyes. “All will be well. I promise I will return Betsy back to you safe and sound, and then we will wed.”
“It is all I can hope for, Christopher. And you are right, with Betsy telling my parents about the poor behavior of the Duke of Thornmouth, they will have no choice but allow us to wed.”
“Indeed, you will see. You will be my wife and the Duchess of Westmond before weeks end,” he leaned forward and kissed her gently on the mouth. She returned his kiss, stroking his hair.
Then, they parted, and he climbed into the carriage, leaving her behind in the care of his aunt and uncle.
* * *
They had traveled for almost five hours, stopping only to change the horses who were driven fast and hard by the coachman.
Despite the violent bumping, Christopher had been able to get some rest when Henry shook him awake.
“Topher, we are almost here.” He blinked his eyes as he woke. Outside, darkness had swallowed the world. Up ahead, several brightly lit windows from a manor illuminated the night.
Christopher leaned out the window.
“Mr. Thorpe, stop the carriage here,” he called and it slowed to a halt.
“It is best to keep some distance from the house. In case Lord Portsmouth decides to put up a fight. I’d rather not have him attempt to hinder our exit.”
Henry sighed. “These are not the best waking shoes, I will have you know,” he said and pointed at his elegant shoes.
“You should have listed to Uncle Nestor,” with that Christopher jumped out of the carriage and made his way toward grand mansion, with Henry close behind.
They were almost at the front door, preparing themselves to knock, when Henry grabbed Christopher’s arm.
“Look!” There was alarm in his voice and Christopher frantically followed his gaze.
There, just above their heads, was a window on the first floor which stood open. A long rope, strung together out of what looked like bedsheets hung from it. On it, dangling precariously, was a woman.
“Betsy?” Christopher said, although not loud enough for the woman to hear.
The woman slid down the makeshift rope rather too speedily, a yelp escaping from her mouth.
“Topher, quickly, give me a boost. I’ll climb up on your shoulders. I should be able to reach her and assist her down that way.”
At once, Christopher bent down, interlacing his hands to make a makeshift stirrup.
“Miss!” Henry called out, sitting on Christopher’s shoulders as they had often done as children. “Do not be frightened, we are here to help.”
The young woman turned her face toward them. It was indeed Betsy Carmichael.
She, however, did not appear to recognize them for she attempted to climb back up the rope in a panic.
“No, no, no,” she exclaimed.
“Betsy! Rowena sent us. It is I, the Duke of Westmond,” Christopher called, louder than he had intended.
“You Grace?” the woman said, the shock apparent in her voice.
“It is, climb down toward my brother, he will assist you down. And then we will take you home.”
A cry of relief escaped her mouth. “Bless you, Your Grace,” the strain was evident in her voice as she climbed down. “We must hurry, he–”
