Page 57

The wind had grown stronger, the clouds heavier, and the air noticeably colder. Lady Ravenhurst shivered at Lynley’s side. The missing papers were no doubt on their way to Dover, but Lynley did not think Walhouse would get far. His shriek revealed that either the bullet or a wood fragment had winged him, and the worsening weather would compel him to stop before he reached Dover. Once Lynley had seen to the lady’s comfort and security, he would continue the pursuit. Sultan was a match for any pair of horses in England.

“Come,” he urged again.

“You have no sensibility, do you?” she asked.

“None,” he agreed, pulling her after him into the night. She was right. Her inability to see her lover for what he was had worn out Lynley’s sympathy.

Beneath the rush of the wind in the trees, he heard the unmistakable clatter of a heavier vehicle turning onto the gravel sweep of the parsonage.

“Someone’s here,” Lady Ravenhurst cried.

Lynley pulled her along the rough path in the dark, the wind tugging at their garments.

Two men erupted from the rear of the house. One of them held a lantern aloft. Its beam caught Lynley and Lady Ravenhurst as they neared the garden wall.

“Found ʼer, Lord Barksted,” a voice shouted.

Lady Ravenhurst gave a cry and turned to look back at the house.

“Hey there, you. Stop,” the rough voice called.

Lynley kept going, but his companion stumbled. He halted, turning to lift her up. As he rose, a shot cracked, and a bullet plowed into his right arm just below the shoulder. He lost his hold on the lady, and she sank into the grass with a sob.

“Not another step, mind,” said the rough voice. “I’ve got another popper loaded.”

Barksted appeared in the doorway at the rear of the house. “Lady Ravenhurst,” he said, stepping into the garden, accompanied by the man holding the lantern. “And who have we here? Some dastardly rogue who’s abducted you, my dear?”

Barksted signaled the man with the lantern to hold it higher, and the beam caught Lynley.

Barksted’s face contorted in an ugly grin of satisfaction. “Lynley. The man who always interferes with my plans.”

Lynley held himself as straight as he could. He had a spent pistol and a right arm that was rapidly becoming useless. “Merely assisting the lady in returning to her husband.”

Barksted appeared to think. “What a trying ordeal you’ve had, my lady,” he said. “Shall we put it about that you were abducted by this rogue? I think that story will serve admirably.”

He came forward and extended a hand to lift Lady Ravenhurst up. She cast one helpless look at Lynley and took Barksted’s hand.

“I’ve a coach waiting. Let’s return you to your husband.”

It was a moment Lynley knew well, and he tasted the full bitterness of the lesson he’d failed to learn as a boy, that a man could not separate a woman from her folly.

Barksted and Lady Ravenhurst reached the back of the house, when he turned to his henchmen. “He’s yours, boys,” he said. To Lynley, he added, “You were warned.”

In an instant they were on him. He was no match for them without the use of his right arm. He did his best to protect his head and ribs from the blows.

In two minutes it was over. Barksted whistled, and with one last kick at Lynley’s side, his henchmen withdrew.

Lynley lay in the grass at the back of the garden until he heard the carriage pull out of the gravel sweep, onto the road. He rolled to his knees and pushed himself up with his left hand. Dizziness troubled him briefly. The wind had died. Low clouds covered the sky. He staggered through the garden gate and whistled for Sultan. His usually piercing whistle sounded feeble in his ears.

But the horse came. Lynley draped his good arm over Sultan’s withers and let the horse support him. Sultan gave an anxious snort at the smell of blood, but settled down to walk with Lynley toward the outbuilding where Walhouse had kept his carriage and pair. The first wet flakes of spring snow fell as they neared the doors.

Inside there would be hay, old hay, but hay and a roof over their heads. Lynley told Sultan to stand in a makeshift stall that smelled of dry hay. He leaned against the stall partition and stripped off his neckcloth. He wadded it up and stuffed it against the wound in his arm. Then he slid down into the old hay, pulling his cloak around him. Sultan leaned down and nuzzled Lynley’s head. Just a little rest and they’d be on their way.

“Wait for me, boy,” Lynley whispered.

Chapter Twenty-One

Fatal to the husband hunter’s future happiness is any inclination to romanticize men. The husband hunter must refrain from expecting her fellow creatures to act as if they stepped from the pages of chivalric tales or stirring romances. She must do so not out of the selfish motive of protecting herself from disillusionment, but rather from the generous motive of freeing herself to see the gentlemen in her life as the mortal beings they truly are.