Silken Secrets by Joan Smith Page B

Uncle’s Bingo, and he rode alone. No one in the neighborhood had such bloods as this except Vulch. The sneak had ridden over in the dark of night to have another look for the silk. Poltroon that he was, he’d been afraid to come alone. He had one of his grooms or footmen with him. Vulch instilled no terror in Miss Judson’s breast. The only emotion there was hot anger.
    She strode out from the concealment of the tree and headed for the stable, certain that was where he was searching. As she drew nearer, she even saw the erratic movement of a rush light through the gaping boards of the building. With no effort at silence, she threw open the door and called in the direction of the light, “Well, Mr. Vulch, can I do something for you?”
    It seemed, in the moment the light remained lit, that a dozen men suddenly jumped out at her, though she actually remembered only three distinctly. Two of them came from the unused loose boxes, and they were horrid, rough-looking men she didn’t recognize. In the hand of one she glimpsed a hoe; the other held a pistol.
    The only gentleman in the group was not Mr. Vulch but Mr. Robertson. He looked as startled to see her as the others did. He was the one holding the rush light. Its reflection burned in his eyes, giving him the aspect of a demon.
    His mouth opened in silent astonishment. That was the last thing she saw before the rush light was whipped out of his hand and extinguished. In the pitch black of the barn she was suddenly shoved aside. There was a flurry of activity and a mumble of muted words as the intruders pelted out of the barn to disappear into the night. She stood gasping in fright as the horses under the beech tree were untied and the men clattered away.
    Mary Anne’s heart pounded like a drum at the back of her throat. She stood trembling, too frightened to move. Who were those men? As rationality returned, she moved to the door, gathering fortitude to bolt for the house. She listened a moment to be sure they were gone, then tiptoed to the door. She was about to leave when a moan came from the bowels of the stable. Oh, God! One of them was still there, and he was hurt—or playacting to lure her in. She flew out the door and ran pell-mell into a wall of human flesh.
    “What’s afoot?” Fitch demanded. “I heard the clatter of horses from the barn. Are you all right, Miss Judson?”
    “Fitch!” she gasped. “There’s someone in the stable. He’s wounded, I think.”
    There was a sound of a body stirring in the shadows. With Fitch there to protect her, Mary Anne had lost her fear. “Who is it?” she called bravely.
    A man stumbled into the dim visibility of the doorway, clutching his hand to his head.
    “It’s Robertson!” Fitch exclaimed, and gave Mary Anne a warning glance.
    She saw the look and knew she should heed it, but to see Mr. Robertson with what looked like blood trickling down his forehead caused reason to flee. “James, are you all right?” she demanded, and hurried forward to help him. The “James” popped out unnoticed by her.
    He steadied himself with an arm on her shoulder and shook his head. “I may live,” he muttered. “Lucky it was only my hard head they smashed.”
    “Help me get him into the house, Fitch!” she ordered, and with Fitch propping him up on one side, Mary Anne on the other, they hobbled to the kitchen door. Mrs. Plummer had retired for the night. She overheard the fracas from behind her bedroom door, which was adjacent to her kitchen. She got out of bed and put her ear to the door.
    “Light the lamp,” Mary Anne said. When it was lit, she said, “Here, seat him at the table. Shall I send for a doctor, Mr. Robertson?” she asked, examining his head. What had looked like blood in the darkness proved to be only a lock of wet hair that had fallen forward. The bruise, a sizable one, was on the back of his head.
    “That won’t be necessary,” Mr. Robertson decided, after tenderly feeling his bump.
    Mary Anne