“You won’t,” Rosse said in a hearty voice. “We’ll stop at Rowley and change horses, and see if the Runner left any message about their direction. We’ll find them.”
“You know what he did to Elizabeth,” Noble said hoarsely. “He beat her. He cut her. He abused her in ways no man should abuse a woman. He must be mad — mad with jealousy or hate or — God knows what. What’s to stop him from taking out his rage at me on Gillian? What’s to stop him from doing the same inhuman things to her that he did to Elizabeth?”
His last words were almost a sob. Rosse put out a hand and grasped his friend by the arm. “Noble, stop torturing yourself. It won’t do you any good, or Nick, or Gillian. Now get hold of yourself, man, and let’s consider all the places Tolly might have gone.”
Gillian was not amused. When she had spied a familiar wizened figure beckoning her, she’d followed without hesitation, leaving her apology to Lord Carlisle half-finished. Noble was busy raging at an ill-looking Crouch, and Charlotte still had Nick in her grasp, so she left Lord Carlisle and Sir Hugh and slipped out through the door to a small anteroom.
“Palmerston, I’m surprised to see you here. I wouldn’t have believed that you would be interested in such goings-on.”
The old man slowly lowered himself onto a bench with the aid of his stick. He wheezed a chuckle at her. “Now, gel, you don’t expect me to let my godson do battle for his honor without being present, do you?”
“Your godson?” Gillian exclaimed, seating herself next to him. “I didn’t know he was your godson.”
“Aye, godson and great-grandson-by-law.”
Gillian raised her eyebrows. “You’re Elizabeth’s greatgrandfather?”
“Aye.” A look of distaste crossed his face. Gillian was reminded of an ancient wrinkled and brittle parchment that she had once seen. Like it, Palmerston’s face seemed to have survived more than its fair share of years.
“Elizabeth, now there was an evil gel. Truly evil.”
Gillian stared in surprise. “Your own great-granddaughter? Evil?”
“Aye, that she was. She’d liked to hurt things, ever since she was a little gel. Cruelty was a sport to her. Caught her more’n once tormenting my dogs. Took a switch to her for it once, but she just moaned and squirmed and begged me to thrash her again.”
Palmerston’s brilliant blue eyes peered out from twin bushy white eyebrows. “You know what I’m talking about, gel?”
“I — no, I guess I don’t,” admitted Gillian.
“Some people — sick people, people sick in their minds — find pleasure in inflicting pain on others. Other people gain pleasure from their own pain.”
Gillian wrinkled her nose in disbelief.
Palmerston nodded. “Elizabeth was like that. She took enjoyment from pain, and she took great delight in hurting others.” He leaned back and closed his eyes. “She particularly liked to hurt your husband. And his son.”
“But why?”
Palmerston shook his head. “No reasoning with their kind. They’re not sane. Mind yourself, gel. There’s others like Elizabeth who would hurt you if they could.”
“Me? Who?” Gillian asked.
Palmerston didn’t reply; he just closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall.
“Is it the same person who has tried to harm Noble?” She gave the old man a gentle shake, but he refused to say any more. She sat back next to him, ignoring the sudden crashes and harsh voices from the room beyond. Elizabeth had hated Noble? If that was the case, perhaps he hadn’t been mourning her death; perhaps she had misinterpreted his dislike of his first wife for grief. Perhaps there was hope for her after all.
The noise swelled into the room as the door opened and a figure slipped through.
“There you are, Lady Weston. I thought you might have come here.”
Gillian glanced at Palmerston, but he was still sleeping despite the noise. “Yes, but I should return,” she said, standing. “Noble will be wanting to leave…”
“He asked me to escort you downstairs,” Lord Carlisle said, grasping her arm and pushing her toward a back door.
“Noble asked you?”
“Yes. He’s taking his son to his carriage and asked if I would see you safely down. You don’t want to go out into the main rooms — they aren’t safe for a gentle lady.”
“But my cousin—”
“Has been taken outside already,” Lord Carlisle said with a worried smile. He pushed her gently toward the servants’ stairs. “We’ll go down the back way, then meet up with Weston outside.”
Ha, Gillian thought to herself some time later. What a fool she had been to trust Lord Carlisle. She hoped Palmerston would be sure to tell Noble who had urged her away. She struggled briefly against her bonds and wished she had the common sense God gave to slugs.
He had kidnapped her! Face down on the floor of his carriage, her arms bound at her sides, a foul taste in her mouth from the horribly musty black cloth that encased her, Gillian came to terms with the fact that the man she had thought was a friend was, in fact, a villain. Noble had been right all along.
“Just because I tried to stop the duel,” she muttered, spitting out a mouthful of the cloth and trying to work a foot out of the bottom of the canvas bag, “he decided to pay me back in kind. Well, he’ll soon see what a mistake he made in underestimating me!”
The carriage lurched over a hole in the paving stones, sending her flying into the side wall. She saw stars for a few minutes, then managed to curl herself up so her head didn’t pound against the wall interior of the carriage with each bump and jolt. Once she was satisfied she had enough air, she concentrated on trying to work her arms free of the ropes, but it would be hopeless until she could remove herself from the bag. She struggled for what seemed to be days until she had one foot free.
“Excellent,” she said to herself, and spent the next two years working her second foot free. Just as she emerged from her chrysalis, exhausted and sweaty but triumphant, the carriage swayed and jounced to a halt. She cautiously peeked out the window. They were in the yard of a posting inn, and it looked as if the horses were being changed. “More than excellent,” she said as she tried the handle of the carriage door. It was unlocked. She sent up a little prayer and threw the door open, leaping out of her prison.
And straight into Lord Carlisle’s arms. Or what would have been his arms if he had known she was going to come bursting out of the carriage just as he was opening the door to check on her. Instead she hit him head-on, knocking him backwards. Together they hit the ground with a resounding smack.
Gillian scrambled off the earl and stared at him for a moment. There was a pool of blood growing from beneath his head. She prodded him. He didn’t move. She put a hand to his mouth but felt no breath stirring.
“Bloody hell! I’ve killed him!”
“Aye, that you’ve done,” a raspy voice said from behind her. Gillian turned around to see a coachman backing away from her warily.
“But I didn’t mean to…he kidnapped me, you see…and then this…he was opening the door as I was coming out…it was an accident. You can see that, can’t you?”
The coachman looked at her with wide, nervous eyes, which widened even more when he looked around her again. “Here, I’m fetching the landlord. If you’ve gone and murdered my lord, it’ll be the three-legged mare for you, lady or no!”
“But, wait—” Gillian started toward the coachman, but he turned and fled before she could get near him.
“Well, now what do I do?” she wailed to the still figure of the earl. “I can’t just leave you here — good lord, Sir Hugh! Whatever are you doing here?”
A small yellow curricle raced into the yard and pulled up directly before her. The baronet leaped from the seat, took one look at the scene before him, and ordered his tiger to tend his horse. “I shall assist Lady Weston home in this carriage.”