Page 23 of Much Ado about a Widow

Standing in the bow of the Justine, sailing into the dark, windy night, Rob vowed to do everything within his power to keep Lady Georgina Kirkpatrick out of Travers’s clutches. “So help me God.”

Quite likely he would need all the help he could get.

Chapter Eight

Perusing the most recent copy of the Times, the Marquess of Blackham sipped his third cup of tea, taken without milk but with plenty of sugar. Breakfast was his least favorite meal, although using the time taken to inform himself about events in the world beyond East Sussex made the waste more palatable. He’d just turned to the back page when Quick, his unflappable butler, rushed into the room.

“My lord.” The elderly butler puffed the words out, his eyes as wide as a skittish horse.

“What the devil’s the matter with you, Quick?” Blackham folded the paper and tossed it on the table. “You’re white as a ghost.”

“It’s Folger, my lord.” Quick still fought to catch his breath. He must have run all the way from the front door.

“Yes, he was supposed to arrive this morning with Lady Georgina.” Consulting his pocket watch, the marquess raised his eyebrows. “He made damn fine time, although I trust my equipage did not suffer for it.”

“That’s just it, my lord. Folger’s arrived, but without the carriage.” The butler swallowed hard. “Or Lady Georgina.”

Blackham’s brows lowered almost to his nose. “Bring Folger here this instant,” he barked.

“He is here, your lordship.” Quick scurried through the doorway and immediately John Folger stepped into the room.

Had the man not been announced, Blackham would have scarcely recognized his coachman. The man looked as though he’d recently slept in the road. His jacket and pants had bits of dirt and dead leaves sticking to them and his boots were caked with mud. A lump the size of a pigeon’s egg puffed the skin above his left eye. “What the devil’s happened to you, Folger? And where are my carriage and my daughter?”

Folger winced, as if steeling himself for a blow. “Begging your pardon, my lord, but I’m afraid I don’t know.”

The hackles on the back of Blackham’s neck bristled. “What do you mean you don’t know, Folger? You were entrusted with the care of both, so I would think it would be in your best interest to know where both of them were every minute of the day.”

“I was, your lordship.” The coachman gripped and twisted the hat in his hands, although the brim had already been broken. “Until yesterday when we pulled into The Running Horse in Leatherhead. I’d gone into the woods to use the necessary when two fellows attacked me. Hit me over the head and I knew nothing until I came to this morning, tied up in the woods behind the inn. The two outriders and the groom were there beside me. Said the same thing happened to them.”

“Pah.” Blackham threw down his napkin and rose. “Worthless, the lot of you.” He strode from the room shaking his head. “You should never have been alone. That way no one could accost you.”

“But my lord.” Folger had followed him at a trot. “A man doesn’t take another man with him when he goes to take a piss.”

“He wouldn’t need to stand there and hold it for you, man. Just guard your back to make sure you didn’t get waylaid.” Blackham hurried into his office, making for the huge black walnut captain’s table he used as a desk. “Are the others in pursuit of the villains?”

Folger stopped, then backed up a step. “No, my lord. We asked at the inn this morning but all they could tell us was that the carriage left after about fifteen minutes with a fresh team. One of the ostlers did say he thought your carriage headed south out of the yard but was busy and didn’t pay much attention.” The coachman cleared his throat. “As we had no idea where the carriage or Lady Georgina might be, we thought it best to come here and raise the alarm.”

“Raise the alarm?” Blackham stared at the man, wishing it were permissible to whip servants. “The time to raise an alarm was at the inn as soon as you came to and realized my property was missing. You have been utterly useless to me, Folger. Consider yourself sacked.”

“Sacked, my lord?” The disbelief in Folger’s voice irritated the marquess to no end. Any other servant in his employ would have expected such an action automatically.

“And without a reference. I’ll expect you to be off the property by noon.” Blackham slid into his chair and reached for his box of pens.

“But my lord—”

“Had you been this persistent at The Running Horse, Folger, I might not be bereft of my carriage and child at this moment.” The marquess drew a sheet of creamy paper to him. “That is all, Folger.”

A sigh followed by a shuffling of boots on the carpet told Blackham the coachman had gone. Good riddance. Now to find out what had really happened to Georgina and his carriage at The Running Horse. Of course, this must be another scheme by his youngest daughter to avoid the match he’d made for her. She’d run off and married out of hand before. No reason not to believe she’d done it again. And if she had, there was likely only one person who knew about it.

Dipping the pen in the inkpot, Blackham narrowed his eyes and glaring at the paper as though he had the intended recipient before him, began to write.

* * *

The splash of waves hitting the side of the ship near her head dragged Georgie out of the fitful doze she’d finally fallen into around dawn. The fierce movements of the ship had caused her to be violently and disgustingly ill throughout the night. Casting up one’s accounts had to be the most wretched feeling. She hated it more than anything—even worse than cats—and now she was to be captive on a bounding ship for an untold number of days, doing the very thing she despised most of all. If she didn’t already hate Lord St. Just for ruining her reconciliation with her father, she would detest him for visiting this plague upon her. She sat up in the bed and was immediately sorry. “Ohhh.” Her stomach roiled yet again. “If I live, I vow on Lucy’s grave I will have his guts for garters. Even if they are not a fashionable color.”

“Beg pardon, my lady?” Clara appeared at her side immediately, wiping her face with a cool cloth. It didn’t really help Georgie feel better, but being fussed over soothed her soul a little. “Who is Lucy? Your mother?”

“No. Ohhh.” Georgie clutched her stomach. “She was Lulu’s great-grandmother. Oh, drat. Do you know any really awful curses, Clara? I want to curse Lord St. Just for doing this to me, but I don’t know anything truly bad to call him.”