Louise M. Gouge (22 page)

“Forgive me, sir. I shall leave you to your rest.” He moved toward the door.

“And you forgive
her,
Hartley. Is there anything you would not do to save your family?”

His words rang in Hartley’s ears as he exited the bedchamber. Yes, he would do anything for Mother and Sophia. And yes, he must forgive Miss du Coeur and pray she would forgive him. He thanked the Lord he had not said every hurtful thing in his thoughts during their argument.

“Did your discussion go well?” Awaiting him in the anteroom, Lady Blakemore gave him a sweet, sly, maternal smile.

Hartley could only laugh. These two were like benevolent puppeteers, and he and Miss du Coeur had been dancing on their strings the whole time. Somehow, he did not mind in the least. “Where is your lovely companion?”

“Why, if you refer to our Miss Hart, I believe she may still be down in the drawing room.”

Hartley started to give the countess a playful bow, then decided to plant a kiss on her cheek.

“Hartley!” The grand old lady blushed, just as he hoped.

He hastened down the stairs to find Mr. Fleming emerging from the drawing room.

“My lord, have you seen Miss Hart?” The young man’s stricken face seemed at odds with his position. Did the secretary have a
tendre
for Miss du Coeur?

“Is she not in the drawing room?”

“No, sir. Her lady’s maid tells me she has not returned to her room, and none of the footmen have seen her.”

“Forgive me, Fleming, but what business have you with the young lady?”

“Surely you know by now, my lord. I have been her secret bodyguard since the phaeton accident.”

His disclosure sent shock and fear knifing through Hartley’s chest. Of course Blakemore would have hired a bodyguard for her, just as he had sent Ajax to protect Hartley. “And you say she is not in the drawing room?” He opened the door and strode into the chamber to see for himself. “How could she have vanished?”

“My lord.” Fleming knelt by the inner wall. “The wallpaper has been damaged.” He stood and ran his hand up the design. “A door.” He pried open the aperture, letting in a blast of stale air.

“So that explains it.” The day Edgar had vanished from this very room, Hartley had questioned his own sanity. Did no one else know of this door but his scheming, murderous cousin?

“I fear, Lord Hartley, that Mr. Radcliff has kidnapped your lady, and I am to blame.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

“W
hat will you do with me?” Catherine surveyed the small, dark enclosure, searching for a way to escape. Moving even an inch was impossible, for her wrists had been tied to her ankles, and she had been shoved to the floor between two of the crates that crowded the room. In the glow of a single candle, she could make out a small window on the opposite wall, but no light filtered in through the dirt. No doubt it was still night. Outside the thin wall behind her, water slapped against wood. Were they near the Thames? If she could undo the ropes and get outside, she could swim to safety.

“No need to attempt escape, my dear.” Mr. Radcliff sat above her on a crate, looking down his nose at her, just as Lord Hartley had at their last meeting. How strange that the same handsomely shaped nose could look so unalike on two men of the same family.

“You have not answered my question.” Catherine summoned every ounce of her waning self-possession to appear calm. “What will you do with me? Throw me in the river?”

“Now, now, Miss du Coeur, I am not a murderer. At least not of women.” He studied his well-manicured fingernails and brushed them across his lapel. “I have decided to sell you to a ship’s captain who travels to China. A pretty creature like you will bring a handsome sum in the Orient. Your exceptional height will make you all the more attractive to some wealthy mandarin.”

Bile rose up in her throat, but again she forbade herself to react. “You are finished in England, of course, so you should go to China yourself. Why not simply demand a ransom for me to fund the trip?”

His eyes had flared maniacally, then took on that snakelike appearance she should have noticed long ago. “But you have utterly missed the point. If I delivered you safely back to your dear parents and that insufferable Hartley, how could I ensure their endless suffering?” He regarded her with a smirk. “In any event, I have plenty of money. I’ve been gathering it from numerous enterprises and saving it for years just in case I did need to flee the country.” He jumped down from the crate and leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “Although I do like your suggestion that I go to China. Perhaps you and I could travel there together.”

For once, she did not let herself be fooled by his light tone. Still, if she went along with the idea, it could provide more opportunities for escape. “I have always adored chinoiserie, especially Mama’s lacquered jewel case and silk folding screen.” She stared off to feign a wistful mood. “Perhaps...” She let her words trail off.

“Do not regard me as a fool, young lady. I know you too well.”

She clamped down on a retort. “If you knew me all that well, then you would know I have a hearty appetite. Do you plan to feed me, or must I wait until I arrive in Shanghai?”

“Oh, do forgive me, my dear. I shall call for a footman to bring your supper.” To her surprise, he opened the door and walked out.

In the silence that ensued, Catherine rested her head back against the wall. Skittering sounds among the crates sent a shiver up her spine. Rats! Too bad Crumpet was not here to keep them away from her. Too bad his master was not here to save her. She had no doubt that gentleman was glad to be rid of her and her lies. If she could do it all again... No, regrets would not save her. All she could do was pray. While she could not reconcile with Lord Hartley, she could reconcile with the Lord of lords.

“Father in heaven,” she whispered, “please forgive me for not listening to your still, small voice urging me not to be a Delilah. Please watch over my dear family.” Her voice broke, and she swallowed hard, only to discover how thirsty she was. “If I am taken away, please grant peace to them all, including Lord Hartley. Please help him to forgive me. Please—”

The door swung inward and a slatternly older woman entered, carrying a tray. “’Ere’s yer supper, girl. I brung the best I could.” She knelt down and frowned. “’Ow’s she supposed to eat all bound up? ’At’s what I’d like to know.”

The woman’s kind tone ignited a flicker of hope in Catherine. “If I promise to be good, will you untie my hands? My wrists are terribly sore.”

“Well...” The woman glanced over her shoulder. “’E’s gone off fer a bit, so maybe ’e’ll never know.” She set the tray down and with some difficulty untied the tightly knotted cords.

“Thank you, mum.” Catherine mimicked her lady’s maid’s accent, which fell somewhat short of Society’s elocution. “I’m Catherine. What’s your name?”

“Bess.” She sat back on her heels to watch Catherine eat.

Or rather, choke down the slimy fish soup. But she forced a smile. “It’s good.” Not entirely a lie. The warm liquid did feel good in her empty stomach. “Did you fix it?”

Bess nodded, then leaned toward Catherine, sending a strong smell of whiskey into her nostrils. “The last time I kept prisoners fer my old man, two little boys, it was, Lord Greystone hisself came along and set ’em free. ’Course, he gave me a gold florin and a fancy hankie with his initial on it. That made up considerable for the beating I took from my man after.” She eyed Catherine. “You got any blunt?”

“Blunt?”

“Money. Gold is best, but I’ll take wha’ever ya got.”

Catherine shook her head. “I fear that Mr. Radcliff did not give me time to fetch my reticule.” Her own silly remark made her giggle, though she hardly felt merry.

Bess laughed with her. “’At’s the spirit, girl. Be brave. Don’t do no good to cry.” She collected the bowl and spoon and set them aside, then tied the rope back around Catherine’s wrists. “I ain’t the best at knots, miss.” She winked. “If ya know what I mean.” She stood and walked to the door. “Just remember ol’ Bess if yer ever down this way again.”

After she left, Catherine counted to ten, then tore at her bonds until a sound outside warned her. She clutched the ropes, trying to make them appear tied. She pulled her knees up to her chin and lolled her head to the side against the crate. Keeping her eyes open only a little, she watched Mr. Radcliff enter, study the scene, then leave. Before she could anticipate an escape, she heard the unmistakable metallic click of a key turning in a padlock on the door.

* * *

“If you will not give me the names of your accomplices, you will hang alone right outside these walls.” Hartley hovered over the small man who had taken part in the attack on the coach. The clamor of inmates in Newgate Prison was nothing to the clamor in Hartley’s chest. When the man refused to answer, he nodded to Ajax.

From behind, the giant gripped the prisoner’s shirt and lifted him off the cell floor, a foreshadowing of his execution.

“If you tell me where I can find them,” Hartley said, “I shall see that you are transported rather than hanged.”

The man, little more than a youth, blustered a bit, but his bravado was beginning to fail him. “I don’t know where they are, gov’nor.”

“’Ere now.” Ajax gave him a shake. “That’s
milord
to you, weasel.”

“Awright, awright. Make the ape put me down...milord.”

“Put him down, Ajax.” Hartley wanted to strangle the man himself, but that would not save Miss du Coeur. “Where does Edgar Radcliff meet with his henchmen?”

“A tavern down in the Sanctuary. Sharp’s the name.” The man had the audacity to smirk. “Fer a few shillings, I’ll take ya there myself.”

Hartley had hoped never to return to the Sanctuary, an ironically named area of poverty and crime. He beckoned to the keeper. “Put him back in the ward. Come, Ajax.” As he walked toward the maze of hallways leading out of the prison, the man cried out.

“You promised to let me go.”

“Only if your information is correct.”

They rode back to his town house, where Mother and Sophia confronted him in his office and demanded to know of his progress. With no little difficulty, he calmed them with half-truths.

“Have no fear. I shall find our Miss Hart.”
His
Miss du Coeur. His heart. “Now, run along and go shopping or something while Ajax and I make our plans.”

Sophia protested, but Mother seemed to understand that female hysterics would not help the situation, for she led Sophia away with promises of new bonnets and slippers.

“Send a footman for Fleming,” Hartley said to Ajax as he strapped on a sword. “Tell him to make all haste.”

“Aye, milord.” The giant left for a few minutes. When he came back, another man followed him into the room.

“Greystone.” The viscount’s arrival dampened Hartley’s spirits considerably. He had no time for socializing. “What are you doing here?”

“Good to see you, too, Hartley.” The viscount snickered.

“Sorry. It’s just that I am in the middle of a mess that requires sorting out straightaway.”

“And you do not call upon your friends to help?” Greystone settled his fists at his waist, brushing back his jacket. Only then did Hartley see a brace of pistols across his chest and a sword sheathed at his side.

“Ahh,” Hartley breathed out. Help from an unexpected corner. “How did you know?”

From inside his brown jacket, Greystone whipped a dingy monogrammed handkerchief no self-respecting gentleman would carry. “I owe you for helping me rescue my two little climbing boys.”

Hartley grew more encouraged. “What does that handkerchief have to do with it?”

“I left it as a gift for the woman who was guarding the boys. She just sent it back with a note that I might be interested in purchasing another bit of cargo left in her care.” Greystone waggled his dark eyebrows and smirked. “She urged me to bring along the pretty boy with the curly blond hair who backed down a dozen wharf rats. I could only assume she meant you.”

Hartley would have rolled his eyes at the woman’s description of him, but there was little time for such antics.

“Shall we go, then?”

Saddled horses were brought around from the mews, and they mounted just as Mr. Fleming arrived.

“Best let me lead, my lord,” the former secretary said. “I know the Sanctuary all too well.”

Hartley glanced at Greystone for approval. The viscount nodded.

“Lead on, then.”

The quartet rode through central London toward the parish of Westminster as quickly as traffic permitted. Passing the Houses of Parliament and Westminster Abbey, they reached Old Pye Street, then headed into the labyrinth of dark lanes and courts that comprised the Sanctuary. The last time he had come this way, Hartley had followed Jeremy Slate, the excellent Bow Street Runner who had led them through a dense night fog. Today the morning sun tried in vain to illuminate the garbage-strewn alleys, but at least they could see where they were going.

The closer they traveled toward the Thames, the stronger the stink from garbage, waste and animal carcasses floating in its currents. Hartley had a sudden longing for his country estate, where the river ran free of refuse and smelled of spring. Once this was all over, he would take Miss du Coeur there—if she would marry him. But why should she when he had played into Edgar’s hands so easily? And how could he have thought he would make a competent diplomat, someone who could discern the motives of foreign powers, when he had not even discerned the evil in his own cousin?

“That must be the stable where we left our horses.” Greystone pointed his riding crop at an unpainted shed that looked as if it might topple at any moment.

“Can we trust the ostler?” Hartley directed his question to Fleming.

“Aye, milord,” Fleming said. “He’s an honest man despite his location.”

“Very well, then, proceed.” Hartley once again fell in behind the erstwhile secretary.

Once the horses had been secured, they made their way to Sharp’s Tavern, another building that appeared unlikely to survive the next winter’s winds.

“Ah, memories,” Greystone quipped.

Hartley snorted. “Does your new bride know you are risking your life on this undertaking?”

“Of course not.” The viscount snorted. “I have learned the hard way that one never tells the ladies anything until the danger is over.”

Now Hartley snorted. His friend’s bride was a lovely, refined lady, but she had not been challenged quite like Miss du Coeur, who had been in the thick of the fight on the road to Dover. While he would not like to see her in such danger again, she was well equipped to face it without hysterics.

The memory of her handing him the bloody sword blasted into his mind. How on earth could he have accused her of trying to murder him? She had gone against every feminine instinct and saved his life by striking down one of the would-be assassins. He stopped suddenly, unable to comprehend his own absurdity.

Ajax bumped into him from behind, almost knocking him to the ground, and knocking some sense into him in the process. “Sorry, milord. Is everything awright?”

“Yes.” The urgent need to save her displaced his self-reproach and spurred him once again to action. “Let’s go.”

Last time, because it had been dark, they had worn black capes and tried to blend in with the sordid types who inhabited the area. In daylight this time, they marched into the tavern, making no attempt to disguise themselves or their intentions.

The weasel-like tavern keeper, who previously had been the first one to flee Hartley’s sword, now cowered behind the counter that held abandoned drinks and bottles.

“Where is everyone?” Fleming said in a conversational tone. “We thought there would be a party.”

Hartley liked this man. He would have to hire him when all this was over.

“M-milord, it’s just that...they was... We heard—”

Fleming vaulted over the counter and snatched the stout man up by the collar. “Where is the lady? Do not dare to lie, or they will be the last words you ever speak.”

The man pointed a trembling hand toward the back wall. “A shed. Second one over.”

“Let us make haste.” Hartley dashed from the tavern with the others on his heels.

They found several sheds and approached the second one. An open padlock hung from the door. Inside they found a small pile of ropes.

“Look here.” Greystone pointed to the side of a crate, where delicate pink threads clung to the rough wood as if fine fabric had brushed against it and snagged.

“She was here.” Hartley could smell her rose perfume even above the stink of the river. While the others searched for clues, he looked up at the small window. More torn pink material festooned the rough wood like signal flags. “She escaped.” He could not keep the laughter from his voice. “My lady is a wonder.”