Sir Freddie saw; his smile deepened. “He’s in love with you, not just a passing fancy, I fear, but well and truly caught. What do you think it will do to him to be the one to discover you dead?”
She refused to react, to give him any indication of what she thought; the arrogant fool had just said the one thing above all others guaranteed to make her fight to the last.
“With you gone and nothing left to save, Torrington will retire to deepest Devon. The others won’t be able to sustain the investigation without him.” He paused, then added, “And that, my dear, will finally be the end of the story.”
She drew breath, but didn’t challenge him; there had to be some way to scuttle his plans. She kept her mind focused on that, refusing even to think of defeat. Defeat meant death, and she definitely wasn’t ready to die.
Leaning her head against the squabs, she went over his plan. He was right in predicting she would do nothing to put Matthew at risk, but the risk came from Sir Freddie. He’d said his men would hold Matthew until they heard from him; if they didn’t… there’d be time to find them and free Matthew unharmed.
She needed to escape and simultaneously take Sir Freddie captive, ensuring he could send no message. Once they’d turned the tables, Sir Freddie would tell them where Matthew was held… she needed Tony for that, but…
In her heart, she was sure he’d come for her. Maggs had been watching; he’d probably realized she’d been kidnapped before she had. Maggs would get word to Tony, and Tony would come. However, she couldn’t rely on Tony catching up with her before Sir Freddie tried to kill her.
She looked across the carriage. Sir Freddie’s eyes were closed, but she didn’t think he was asleep. He was some years older than Tony, a few inches shorter, but of heavier build. Indeed, he’d be described as a fine figure of a man, still in his prime; he’d never looked out of place in Adriana’s court.
Physically, she couldn’t hope to win any tussle, yet if Sir Freddie had any weakness, it was his overweening conceit. He believed he’d get away with everything. If she played to that belief, there might be one moment, almost at the end of the game, when he might be vulnerable….
It would likely be her only chance.
She saw a glint from beneath his lashes; he’d been watching her studying him. “You didn’t say where we’re going
.”
He was silent, clearly weighing the risk, then he said, “Exmoor. There’s a tiny village I was once stranded in. The evidence will suggest you stopped there, then wandered out onto the moor, threw yourself down a disused mine shaft, and drowned.”
Exmoor. Closing her eyes, leaning her head back again, she focused on that. An isolated moor. They’d have to walk to any mine… the coachman would have to stay with the horses…
As the day rolled into evening, she behaved precisely as Sir Freddie wished. She considered pretending to fall apart, weeping and despairing, but she wasn’t that good an actress, and if Sir Freddie suspected she wasn’t resigned to her fate… instead, she behaved as she imagined a French duchess would have on her way to the guillotine. Head high, haughtily superior, yet with no hint of any struggle against an overwhelming fate.
He had to believe she’d accepted it, that she’d go haughtily but quietly to her death. Given his background, that was very likely the behavior he’d expect of her, a lady of his class.
The farther they traveled, stopping at inn after inn to change horses, the more evidence she detected of his natural conceit overcoming his caution. He even allowed her to use the convenience at an inn, although she had no chance to speak to anyone, and he remained within sight of the door at all times.
Night fell; four horses pulled the coach steadily on. Closing her eyes, feigning sleep, she felt her nerves tensing and tried to relax. Exmoor, he’d said, and Exeter was still some way ahead; it would be hours yet before she got her chance. Her one chance at the life she now knew beyond doubt she wanted. The life she was prepared to fight for, the life she was determined to have.
Not as Tony’s mistress, but as his wife. As his viscountess, the mother of his heir, and other children, too. She had far too much to live for to die.
And she knew he loved her; not only had he said so, but he’d shown her. If she’d had any doubt over what his feelings truly were, the picture Sir Freddie had painted, the question he’d asked: how would Tony react to finding her dead? had blown all such doubts away.
Devastated was too small a word—she knew precisely how he would feel because it was the same way she’d feel in the converse circumstance.
They loved each other, equally completely, equally deeply; she no longer questioned that. Once they were past this, free of Sir Freddie and his deadly scheme, she would speak with Tony. He might not yet see things as she did, but she was perfectly marriageable, after all. He’d established her as his equal in the eyes of the ton; if his mother was anything like Lady Amery and the Duchess of St. Ives, she doubted she’d have any difficulties there.
She wanted to marry him, and if that meant she had to broach the subject herself, then she would. Brazenly. After last night, she could be brazen about anything, at least with him.
The prospect—her future as she would have it with Tony by her side—filled her mind. Joy welled; fear hovered that it would not come to be, but she shunned it, clung to the joy instead.
Held to the vision of a happy future. Let it strengthen her. Her determination to make it happen—that it would be—soared.
Unexpectedly, she slept.
The noisy rattle of the wheels hitting cobblestones jerked Alicia from her doze. It was deepest night, past midnight; she’d heard the sound of a bell tolling twelve as they’d passed through Exeter, now some way behind.
Sir Freddie had fastened back one of the window flaps. Through the window, she glimpsed a hedgerow; beyond it, the ground rose, desolate and empty. The coach slowed, then halted.
“Well, my dear, we’re here.” Through the gloom, Sir Freddie watched her. Holding to her resolve, she didn’t react.
He hesitated, then leaned past her, opened the door, and climbed down. He turned and gave her his hand; she allowed him to assist her to the cobbles, leaving her cloak on the seat. When the time came to run, she didn’t want its folds flapping about her legs. Her skirts would be bad enough.