Picking up his ditty bag, he staggered slightly as he turned to see his elusive cousin watching him in amusement. Gritting his teeth and doing his best to swallow his ire, Gabriel nodded his head affably. ‘Good to see you Henry,’ he lied for the benefit of those watching.
Captain Atwood stepped forward and gave a small bow. ‘Lord Northwood,’ he acknowledged formally. ‘Welcome aboard. My steward will show you to your cabin where I trust you will find everything in order.’ Gabriel raised his eyebrows and stared back nonplussed for a few seconds, before briefly bending his head in acknowledgement. If his cousin wished to keep their association formal for the duration of the voyage, then he was happy to play along. Indeed, it would make things easier if there were no recriminations or rehashing of past indiscretions. And given that Gabriel was of the mind that the whole debacle had not entirely been Henry’s fault, he was more than willing to keep his distance. Also, a knife in the back should Henry still be harbouring a grudge, would be much less likely if they did not have to go over old ground.
Ten minutes later he was alone in his cabin staring at an envelope with his name written in flowering letters. This was his fourth covert mission at the behest of his uncle, but he’d never felt this level of foreboding at the thought of what the envelope contained and for the first time he wondered if he had already pushed his luck too far.
Mayhap it was finally time to stop trying to save the world and settle down with a biddable wife to sire an heir for Northwood.
Sighing, he shook his head and picking up a letter opener, slit open the envelope. Now was not the time to be getting cold feet.
∞∞∞
Hope groaned at the mess on the carriage floor. This was not the first time in the last couple of years that Percy had taken a nasty knock to the head. Anymore and the poor man was likely to be addled for the rest of his life. But now was not the time to reflect on the curate’s mental state. They had more immediate problems to deal with. The riders were definitely getting closer. She could not imagine that Gabriel had failed to notice them. Indeed, it appeared as if the carriage was travelling faster so she had to assume the increase in speed was deliberate.
Her father was muttering to himself as he did his best to mop both himself and Percy down, showing surprising care as he endeavoured to make the small man as comfortable as possible. The unpleasant stink was making even Freddy bury his nose in his paws.
Casting a quick glance through the window, she let out an involuntary whimper, realising the riders were almost upon them. Desperately she cast around for something to use as a weapon should their pursuers attempt to gain entry.
The Reverend looked up. ‘Well, providing we don’t all end up celebrating the Lord’s birthday in person courtesy of those deuced rogues on our tails, I think the chucklehead will recover.’
‘How can you be so calm father?’ Hope quizzed, her voice almost inaudible with fear. ‘We have nothing at all to defend ourselves with.’
‘I don’t imagine it’s us they’re looking for,’ responded the Reverend staring out of the window, ‘but I don’t believe the Almighty would wish us to throw our guest to the wolves without at least putting up some kind of a fight. What have you got in your reticule?’
‘Well, I’m not carrying a weapon if that’s what you were hoping,’ snapped Hope, nevertheless picking up her fallen purse and tipping it upside down. The contents fell to the floor of the carriage. A comb, a kerchief and a small pot of rouge courtesy of her sister Temperance. ‘Mayhap we can colour them to death,’ she mocked, then suddenly paused, staring first at the small round pot and then at Percy who was drooping in the corner.
Getting to her feet, she stumbled over to the curate. ‘Hold him upright for me father,’ she ordered to the bewildered Reverend. Then getting to her knees, she opened the pot and quickly dotted small red pinpricks all over Percy’s face and neck.
‘What the dickens are you doing?’ Her father demanded, ‘He looks like he’s got deuced smallpox.’
‘Exactly,’ panted Hope, glancing over at the Reverend as understanding dawned. She climbed back to her feet. ‘Quickly, lay him across my lap,’ she hissed as the carriage began to slow. Clearly Gabriel had realised they stood no chance of outrunning their pursuers. While almost scared to death, she was glad he hadn’t yet elected to use his pistol. Perhaps they could yet talk themselves out of their hobble. She looked out of the window as her father manhandled a still largely insensible Percy onto the seat next to her. The carriage was now encircled on both sides as the coach drew to a stop.
‘Wot the bloody ‘ell d’yer think yer doin?’ Gabriel called down from the box, his voice almost unrecognisable.
Hope grabbed hold of Freddy’s lead as the hound began to growl threateningly. ‘We need to help him,’ she quaked in a low voice, gripping the lead whilst trying not to tip the unfortunate curate to the floor. Her father stared back at her wordlessly for a few seconds, then at her nod, he pushed open the door. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ he demanded in his most strident tones.
The horses surrounding them continued to dance around, steam from their nostrils pluming in the cold. The faces of all four men were ominously concealed behind thick headscarves.
‘Get out o’ the carriage ol’ man.’ Reverend Shackleford couldn’t tell which of the men had issued the order, but after stiffening slightly at the highhanded tone, he gave a last glance backwards and climbed out of the carriage.
‘Father who are these people?’ came Hope’s querulous voice from inside, equally unrecognisable in its desperation which the Reverend was sure was only half feigned. ‘We need to get Percy inside. The rash is spreading.’
Frowning, the probable leader pulled down his scarf and demanded to know how many occupants were in the coach.
‘Just myself, my son and my daughter,’ responded the Reverend in what he hoped was a suitably obsequious tone. ‘The two men on the box are our coachman.’
‘You don’t look like bloody aristocracy to me,’ commented another of the men. ‘How is it you’re travelling in such luxury?’
‘They coulda nicked the carriage from the last coaching inn.’
‘A bit bloody old to be a knight of the road I’d have thought.’
The Reverend could see Gabriel shifting on the box, undoubtedly ready to use his pistol should the situation deteriorate further.
‘We are being conveyed to deliver my dying son to his wife and children,’ improvised the Reverend hastily, hoping to head off any bloodshed. ‘The carriage belongs to the Earl of Ravenstone. It is under his charity that we travel. I pray you let us continue lest my son perish before he has had chance to make his peace with his family.’
‘You say this coach belongs to Ravenstone?’ commented the leader. ‘Show me the crest.’ Hurriedly, Reverend Shackleford pushed the door closed and brushed the clinging snow away from Adam’s family crest.
‘That’s the Earl’s alright,’ confirmed the third man, speaking for the first time. ‘Blackmore’s crest looks nothin’ like it. Northwood’s not ‘ere.’
