The Landlord's Black-Eyed Daughter (23 page)

“Help yourself.”

Walter glared at her while she drank, and she realized that her stall game was at an end. Completely subdued, she allowed him to guide her to his carriage and heard him tell Grosley that he was dismissed. Once they were seated, Walter said, “I want to get you home. I am indescribably eager to witness your reunion with your mother.”

“Stepmother,” she replied. Then his words pierced the fog inside her head. “Dorothea's here? In London?”

“Of course. Concerned with your safety, where else would she be? Rest your head upon my shoulder, dearest.”

“Thank you, but I'm feeling much better.” Actually, she felt much worse. Walter had said home, most likely his residence on George Street. It might as well be India. Once they left this part of London, she would be totally lost.

What was he doing now?

He had retrieved a bottle of red wine from the carriage floor, uncorked its top, and extended it toward her. He wanted her drunk so that she might inadvertently reveal more information.
Pompous ass!
She had consumed many a bottle with Rand and he had admired her clearheadedness. Defiantly, she took several swigs from the bottle.

She heard Walter urge her to drink more. After she had complied, he said, “Something has bothered me from the beginning, Elizabeth. Perhaps you can help me with my uncertainty.”

In the dimness of the carriage, she couldn't interpret his expression, but the affected tone had disappeared from his voice. She knew what that meant. Walter Stafford, lawman, had emerged. Warily, she waited for him to continue.

“One thing in particular doesn't make sense. Why would Turpin kidnap you? Am I not correct when I say that you barely knew each other?”

“Yes, you are correct.”

“So you knew each other
slightly,
but not intimately.”

“Yes. No. You are deliberately confusing me and I really do feel unwell.”

“You've dribbled wine down your chin.” He whipped out a handkerchief and wiped her face. Dropping the handkerchief, he snaked his arm around her back and rested his hand just below her breast. “Why did Turpin steal you away, Elizabeth?”

Walter put something in the wine.
She felt her head lurch downward until her chin rested upon her chest.
He had this planned all along.

With his free hand, Stafford snatched the bottle and tossed it out the window. “You've had enough, my dear, more than enough. I don't believe I've ever told you how much a drunken woman disgusts me, though it is sometimes necessary.”

“Nes-necessary?”

“In order to insure compliance.”

“Are you threat… threatening me?”

“Why should I threaten you when you're already at my mercy?” Cupping her chin, he forced her head upright and stared into her eyes. “Answer me, Elizabeth. Why did Turpin kidnap you?”

“Revenge,” she slurred. “John often said he would make you pay for his partner's death. What better way than to pirate your fiancée and despoil her?”

“Of course. How simple. Simple and diabolical. Yes, that sounds plausible. And yet I sense something more. Why didn't he let you go once he had raped you?”

“He… enjoyed me.”

“Yes. Who wouldn't? Tell me, Elizabeth, was John Turpin the man who robbed you on your return from London?”

Although her head whirled, she weighed her response carefully. Walter was trying to trap her, had already trapped her, but she couldn't comprehend the reasoning behind his questions. She only knew that she had consistently underestimated him.

“It might have been John,” she replied. Even to her own ears, her voice sounded as if it came from inside a deep, dark hole. “I cannot say for certain who robbed me. The highwayman hid his face with a viz… vizard. Please, my lord, I fear I am truly ill… and so… so tired.”

“A few more questions and you may sleep,
dearest.
Why did you scream when you saw Zak Turnbull? Open your eyes and pay attention, Elizabeth. Midsummer's Eve. Remember? My guess is that you thought Turnbull was the other highwayman.”

“Did not,” she mumbled, her mouth filled with pebbles, her stomach lurching.

“Then why did you scream?”

Despite Walter's fingers clamping her face, Elizabeth slumped forward. She felt him release her chin and tug at her hair, until her throat was so taut she couldn't swallow. Her limbs felt like logs. She didn't have the strength to push him away.
Rand,
she pleaded silently.
Rand, help me.

The coach's interior swam before her eyes, and she felt herself slipping further and further down into the abyss. When the carriage wheels encountered a nasty bump, she merely flopped like a rag doll, even though Walter was forced to loosen his grip so that he might balance himself on the seat.

Just before the relief of total oblivion fell upon her, just before she plummeted toward the carriage floor, she heard him say, “Shit! This time I've overplayed my hand.”

With an effort Elizabeth opened her eyes and tried to focus, or at least clear the cobwebs from her brain. Her hands dangled from the arms of a chair, her legs were at an awkward angle, and her feet rested upon an embroidered foot stool. The tall-case clock read three, or was it fifteen minutes past twelve? No, the noon hour had progressed long ago, so it must be three.

“Poor darling.” Dorothea materialized, seemingly out of nowhere, and wrapped Elizabeth in a perfumed embrace. “You're safe now. You must rest until you get your strength back. No. Don't say one word. Lord Stafford has told me everything.” Dorothea nodded toward Walter, who stood by the window.

Everything?
Elizabeth grimaced.
Not bloody likely!

Dorothea minced over to the fireplace, her short steps prim, affected, and Elizabeth was struck by her stepmother's grandeur. Dorothea was beautifully made up, her coiffure flattering, her gown's décolletage daring. From a distance she looked youthful. In a voice as cold as the diamonds around her throat, she said, “Did you get him, m'lord?”

“My men are searching Covent Garden. If I don't receive a favorable report soon, I'll join the search.” He strode across the room until he reached Elizabeth's chair. “Your daughter has recounted a most harrowing tale, Dorothea, including rape and near-strangulation. Yet she managed to escape, which, in my opinion, was very courageous.”

Elizabeth bit down hard on her bottom lip to prevent an acrimonious reply.
She mustn't defy him. Not yet. Not until she had fully recovered from the drugged wine.

Trying to control her shaking limbs, she glanced around the small but elegant drawing room. While Stafford's furniture was of an excellent quality, only a few pieces graced the interior. She also noted an abundance of windows, as well as French doors opening onto a terrace.

A plush prison. But it hadn't been made for a prison, no matter how closely they guarded her. She felt her spirits lighten. She would escape, just like all her heroines. Well, all save Lady Wilhemina.
Terror in the Abbey
was one of B.B. Wyndham's most popular works, even though it did not have the usual happy ending. After being ravaged by a lust-filled monk, Lady Wilhemina had died in his arms, thus driving him insane and exacting revenge from the grave.

“Once the highwayman is captured, he'll hang,” Dorothea said smugly. “And I will watch from the front row.”

Again, Elizabeth swallowed an angry retort. Instead, she glared at her stepmother. Dorothea made a regal sight, framed by the carved wooden mantel and a large painting of Westminster Bridge.

No prison hulks disturb that vista,
Elizabeth thought, marveling at how the painting's rendering of a brilliant London sky precisely matched the blue of Dorothea's gown. Had she planned it, she couldn't have achieved a more flattering pose. No wonder she enjoyed wealth. It became her.

“I'll make certain your room is readied, dearest,” Stafford said. He sounded so honey-tongued, a swarm of bees might very well have flown directly toward him. No denying that he was a first-rate actor.

Following his retreat, Dorothea's manner changed. “You fool,” she spat. “You almost ruined everything.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“All this.” Her gesture encompassed the room. “You treat Lord Stafford like an idiot. If he chooses to believe your story, 'tis because it makes the game more interesting, not because he thinks it true. Don't push him too far, Elizabeth, lest his mask slip.”

“His mask has already slipped.”

“What does that mean?”

She shrugged.

“Lord Stafford will find your lover if he has to pursue him from here to China. Lord Stafford is relentless. Don't gamble on your highwayman, Elizabeth. He's already a dead man.”

“I don't know what you're talking about. I was kidnapped. I didn't go willingly.”

“Save that prattle for the others, you wagtail. Now that we have the right bait, we shall hook your blackguard soon enough. I had a terrible time convincing Lord Stafford of your innocence.” Dorothea approached Elizabeth's chair. “But men can be such dolts when they're consumed by love.”

“Lust.”

“Whatever.”

“I'm very tired, Dorothea. I'd like to go to my room now.”

“Patience!” she shouted.

“No, now,” Elizabeth said, as a squat, muscular woman with iron-gray hair surfaced from beyond the parlor. She wore a belly cheat over her somber gray gown. One of Walter's housemaids?

“You've been given your instructions, Patience,” Dorothea said, nodding sharply toward Elizabeth. “Take my daughter to her room.”

Blunt fingers dug painfully into Elizabeth's upper arms as Patience raised her from the chair and guided her, none too gently, toward the door. Elizabeth stumbled and would have fallen if not for the maid's relentless grip.

Should Rand try to rescue me,
he'll have more to fear from the brutish Patience than the law,
Elizabeth thought, her throat tightening.

“Lord Stafford is not so magnanimous as he pretends.” Dorothea minced across the carpet while Patience halted Elizabeth's advance. “I haven't figured out which matters to him more. His regard for justice or his love for you.”

“Hogwash! Lord Stafford doesn't possess enough character to care about justice. He's interested in criminals for the monetary compensation. And to use love in connection with me is absurd. Lord Stafford is merely a prideful man determined to have his own way. If you think otherwise, you're deluding yourself.”

“You might ponder this, Elizabeth. One word from me to the proper authorities and you shall hang along with your lover. I'll tell them that you were a willing accomplice, that you conspired to rob Lord Stafford and me. I dislike warring with you, but I'll do what I have to do.” She stroked her diamond necklace. “I enjoy the life Lord Stafford has shown me. I love London, and I have no intention of returning to the Dales as an innkeeper's wife.”

“Ponder this, Dorothea. If I hang, you'll have no hold over Walter. Without me, he won't spend a shilling on you.”

“I hope it will not come to that. I trust you'll realize the error of your ways and settle down. Respectable women do not rut with highwaymen, nor do they write books. You've never wanted to be what you should be, and therein lies your folly.”

Dorothea nodded to Patience, who ushered Elizabeth out. Ascending a winding staircase, they were joined by two male servants. Upon reaching Elizabeth's room, the two servants took their places on either side of the entrance.

Once inside, Patience locked the door, dropped the key between her copious breasts, then plopped down onto an upholstered armchair. “We can make this as easy or as toilsome as ye choose,” she said. “I'm gettin' well paid t' make certain ye don't bugger off. I know all the tricks, so ye might as well save us both grief.”

Elizabeth ignored her. Crossing to the window, she gazed out through its polished glass. Unfortunately, there was no roof jutting below. The shade trees, well-trimmed and at a distance, mocked her. The two-story drop was perilous, virtually impossible, even if the window had not been locked. Fog had crept over Westminster. Elizabeth could barely glimpse the other residences with their vertical lines, elegant doorways, fanlights, and porches. Despite the sameness of the exteriors, Great George Street was a coveted address. At Beresford's drum, she had heard it mentioned in reference to a duke and three political figures.

“How far are we from St. James's Park?” she asked Patience.

“Why d'ye want t' know?”

Elizabeth shrugged. Shepherd's was near St. James's Park. Perhaps she could get a message to Rand through his cousin, Tom. It would be best, however, if Rand fled London without her, even though that might mean she'd never see him again.

She felt an intolerable anguish at the thought.

I will see him again. I must. I cannot live without him.

Trying to formulate a plan, trying to keep her fear at bay, Elizabeth stared down upon the yard and the mews between the coach houses and stable areas, until a thick cloud of foggy mist closed over the vista like a black flux.

***

Elizabeth sat up in bed. A rose-colored wrapper with lace cuffs discreetly covered her nightshift. Various pillows were plumped behind her. A velvet overspread warmed her legs. Weak sunlight trailed through the bedroom's white satin curtains with their pink ribbon bindings.

Walter had positioned himself on the left side of the bed. Occasionally, he interrupted his reading of the
Morning Herald
to stroke her hand or rearrange her pillows.

“Oh, look!” Walter's crow of delight included Dorothea, whose head had disappeared inside a cone designed to protect her clothes while a hairdresser powdered her latest coiffure.

“The press has finally mentioned the king's madness,” Walter continued. “It says here that he has an unknown malady. His Majesty was able to hold a levee for a brief time at St. James's Palace on Tuesday, October twenty-third, but the strain caused a bad reaction, and he is currently under the care of his physicians.”

“Do tell!” Dorothea's voice echoed inside the cone.

“That is not the half of it. I know for a fact that after he returned to Windsor, George had a fit. He supposedly said to an equerry, ‘I return to you a poor old man, weak in body and mind.' Then he developed a raging fever, just like yours, Elizabeth. Only, unlike yours, His Majesty's fever manifested itself through incessant talking. The prince's allies say that George is totally insane. Does that tale distress you, dearest?”

“No. Why should it?” Elizabeth shot a scathing glance toward her warder, Patience, who sat at her right, wrestling with a piece of embroidery.
If I lose my mind,
Patience will be the cause.

Following her “rescue” ten days ago, Elizabeth had managed one outing to the theatre, during which she had been politely but insistently flanked by Dorothea, Walter, and Grosley. Unable to endure further charades, she had pleaded illness. But confinement had proven a double-edged sword. While it spared her any harsh treatment from Walter, it isolated her from the outside world.

She knew Walter's men, including members of the Bow Street Runners, were combing London. Walter himself often came and went at a moment's notice, conferring with strangers, or leaving the house only to return hours later. Each time, she feared he would disclose the news of Rand's capture. But Walter kept his own counsel, which meant Rand remained free.

I must decide upon a proper plan,
Elizabeth thought. She had devised several and discarded them all. Sometimes her heroines languished for months in their dungeons or locked tower rooms, but that was designed to lengthen her novels. In real life she'd never endure weeks, let alone months.

Walter pushed aside the
Morning Herald.
“You've been in such a delicate state, my dear, we haven't had an opportunity to discuss, in detail, what happened after your abduction. Every time I mention it, you have the vapors. But today roses bloom in your cheeks.”

“I believe I am now strong enough to discuss my ordeal,” she said, even though she knew her cheeks were bleached rather than rosy. “Ask your questions, my lord.”

“What exact route did you and Turpin take?”

“John took a circuitous route, sometimes backtracking, until he had me thoroughly confused.”

“Did you sleep at any inns?”

“We usually hid within a dense forest. John said we must sleep during the day and ride at night.”

“But you robbed the Duke of Newcastle in broad daylight.”

“I didn't rob the duke. John did. How could I, a mere woman, stop him? In any case, the day was stormy, the afternoon dark and dismal. John said we'd be safe.”

Walter fondled the froth of lace at his throat. “My men never found your residence near Covent Garden, nor any place resembling it. Do you have an explanation for that, Elizabeth?”

“I told you. I was confused and couldn't recall details, except for the abandoned baby near the gate. I swear on my life there was a baby.”

A knock on the door mercifully interrupted. Walter's butler entered.

“A message just arrived, m'lord.” The butler handed Walter a piece of paper. “Most important, I was told.”

Walter unfolded the paper. After scanning its contents, he laughed mirthlessly.

Dorothea had just finished inspecting her coiffure in the looking glass. “What is it?” She flicked her wrist at the hairdresser, dismissing him. “Good news, I trust.”

Walter addressed the butler. “Who left this?”

“A street urchin, sir. He scampered away before I could question him.”

Walter handed Dorothea the missive. She perused its contents, shot Elizabeth a triumphant look, then read it out loud.

“‘I demand a duel to the death, on sunrise of the morrow. I will meet you at the end of the Mall, near the entrance to St. James's Park. Mistress Wyndham is to be on the opposite end of the park, near the Horse Guards, where I can easily see her. If you do not comply precisely with my instructions, I will not appear.'”

“It's signed with the initial ‘J,'” Walter stated.

Elizabeth kept her expression serene as she tried to figure out what Rand had in mind. Under the circumstances, a duel was worse than reckless. It was stupid.

“You're not going to fight him, are you?” she asked Walter.

“Of course not. He's no gentleman. A duel would be impossible, even if I were so inclined. The whole idea of an officer of the law dueling with a criminal is completely absurd. Who the hell does he think he is?”

Dorothea bent her head and tapped her teeth with her finger. “There must be some way to turn this to our advantage.” Raising her chin, she glared at Elizabeth. “How could the highwayman know where Lord Stafford lives? How could he know that Lord Stafford… redeemed you?”