by Jayne Davis
Alex shook his head.
“Ladies Jesson and Lydenham have just set out for London,” Bella went on. “To make sure the correct stories are circulating, and organise a few engagements for Phoebe to attend.”
“That’s good,” Alex said, wishing he meant it. “Excuse me, I need to get out of the house. I’m going for a ride.”
An hour’s ride couldn’t clear Alex’s head of images of Phoebe with the marquess. It’s best for her, he told himself as he left his mount in the stables. Bella seemed to think Harlford was a decent man. Phoebe would be better off with Harlford than with him—safer, certainly.
Perhaps if he told himself that often enough, he’d come to believe it.
In search of Bella and something to eat, he paused in the doorway to the drawing room, his jaw tensing as he saw Bella talking to the marquess and Lieutenant Deane.
“Westbrook.” Deane’s smile was friendly as Alex entered.
“Alex,” Bella said. “Harlford, have you met my nephew, Mr Westbrook?”
“We’ve not met,” the marquess said. “I’ve heard much about you recently, Westbrook.” He looked Alex in the eye. “Most of it untrue, I’ve no doubt.”
“Probably, my lord,” Alex said, relaxing a little. The man’s tone was friendlier than mere politeness dictated.
“Would you all care for some refreshment?” Bella asked. “Food is laid out in the dining room.” She caught Alex’s eye. “Madame de Calvac and her daughter will be taking refreshment in their rooms.”
“Will Miss Deane be joining us?” the marquess asked.
Bella’s brows drew together as she glanced at the clock. “I thought she would be here by now,” she said. “She knew what time we were eating.”
“Where did she go?” Alex asked. “I saw her leave earlier with Calvac’s son and his governess.”
“Somewhere in the south woods,” Bella said, and rang the bell.
Andrews appeared in the doorway. “My lady?”
“Has Miss Deane returned? Or Miss Bryant?”
“Miss Bryant has, my lady. I haven’t seen Miss Deane or Master Calvac.”
“Fetch Miss Bryant, please, Andrews.”
Andrews nodded, returning a few minutes later with the governess.
“I left Miss Deane painting in the woods,” she reported. “Georges was with her, and a footman. She said she might be another hour and a half, so she should have been back before now.”
Could she have just lost track of time? Or sprained an ankle or had some other mishap? She should not come to much harm in the woods, but that didn’t temper Alex’s growing worry. A niggling memory of something Hélène had said that morning teased him—something he’d ignored at the time.
“Can you show me where you went, Miss Bryant?” he asked. “I’ll check they are all right.”
“Allow me to accompany you,” the marquess said. “Deane?”
Miss Bryant led the three men across the lawn and into the woods. All Alex could hear, above their own footsteps, were birds and wind in the branches—no sound of Georges playing or anyone talking.
The path was narrow, and they had to walk in single file. He could see an open area ahead, then Miss Bryant ran on with a cry of dismay. An easel lay on the ground in the clearing by the stream, a few loose sheets of paper fluttering around in the gentle breeze. A weight settled in his chest as he quickly looked around—there was no sign of Phoebe or Georges.
“Good God, what has happened?” Harlford said.
“I don’t know, but something is wrong.” Could Brevare have something to do with this? Surely his spite would not extend to physically harming her?
“They’ve probably just gone for a walk and missed their way,” the marquess said.
“Phoebe wouldn’t discard her sketches like this.” Deane swept a hand across the clearing.
Alex looked beneath the paints and drawing materials, but there was nothing more to be found. He wondered if she had a pistol with her—he hoped so, but he had no way of knowing.
“No, indeed,” the governess said, moving over to pick up the easel. A large box lay beneath it, its open lid revealing paints and brushes. She looked at Alex, eyes wide, but with no sign of tears or panic.
“Miss Bryant, did the footman return to the house with you?”
“No.”
“Over here!” Deane called, and Alex saw a recumbent shape half-hidden behind a bush. Deane knelt beside the body of a footman, his fingers feeling the man’s neck then probing through his hair.
“Unconscious—he’s been hit on the head,” he said, showing Alex a hand sticky with blood. “Some time ago, I think. The bleeding has almost stopped.”
If they’re willing to do that, what might they have done to Phoebe?
“Do you have hartshorn?” Alex asked the governess, forcing his mind back to practicalities.
Miss Bryant shook her head.
Damn—he’d hoped the man might be able to tell him something.
“We need to get him to the house, sir,” she said. “Shall I go to summon—?”
“No, you’d best stay and keep an eye on him, if you don’t mind. Harlford, could you fetch help?”
The marquess set off briskly back the way they had come.
Miss Bryant pointed further down the stream. “Georges was building a dam over there.”
Alex and Deane walked beside the stream, studying the banks. Beyond the part-built dam he spotted some footprints far too large to belong to Phoebe or Georges.
“Two sets,” Deane said.
Walking on, Alex could still see the large footprints here and there, but found no sign of smaller ones. The tracks led to a patch of drier ground where all traces vanished.
“They must have been carried from here,” Alex said. “We’d best get Carterton to search the estate.”
“We’ve got to find her,” Deane said, the suppressed fear in his voice matching Alex’s own feelings.
* * *
Her head hurt. She was sitting, leaning in the corner of something, being rocked and jolted. Cloth sucked against her mouth when she breathed in; her heart beat uncomfortably fast, her pulse loud in her ears.
“Phoebe!”
Georges?
“Phoebe, réveilles-toi!” His voice was tearful, but persistent.
Her eyes flew open as she went to lift the cloth from her face and both hands moved together. She was tied up, in a carriage. How long had she been here?
Blinds across the windows shut out the view, bright strips of light along their edges showing it was still daylight. In the dim interior, she made out two men sitting opposite, one pointing a pistol at her. Moving her head, she winced at the stabbing pain in her skull.
Georges sat beside her, his face turned in her direction. “Phoebe!”
“Shut up, brat!” one of the men snarled.
“What d’you bring him for anyway?” the other asked, his voice higher than the first. “Should have knocked him on the head and left him like you did that footman.”
“Didn’t want to kill ’im,” the first one said. “Anyways, ’is clothes are good—might be worth a bob or two to someone.”
She tried to say something, but the gag reduced her voice to a muffled sound. She tried again, and rolled her head in frustration and the beginnings of panic.
“’Ere, can she breathe?” Low-voice said. “Better take that gag off. That Frenchie said the boss wanted to talk to ’er. No use if she kicks the bucket first!”
Frenchie? Brevare?
Phoebe gasped, wheezing loudly as if she were suffocating. She recoiled as an unshaven face was thrust into hers.
“You keep your trap shut, right?” It was High-voice, his hands fumbling behind her head. Eventually the cloth came free and she dragged in a lungful of air.
* * *
Harlford was with Bella in the drawing room when Alex and Deane returned. Bella’s hands lay in her lap, knuckles white.
“Kidnapped,” Alex confirmed. He would no
t consider that she might have been killed.
“It must have been young Calvac they were after,” Harlford said. “Ransom the heir, perha—”
“That doesn’t matter now,” Deane cut off the marquess. “We need to find them first.”
“Ransom is a possible motive,” Alex admitted. It could be linked with Marstone’s business, too, but he couldn’t think how.
“Westbrook,” Harlford said, “the… er… revised stories that were spreading around town yesterday had you as some kind of spy. Is there any truth in that?”
“Some.” He was not going to go into details now. “That may have something to do with this, but we cannot know.”
“You involved Miss Deane in spying?” Harlford asked, his face darkening.
“Spying?” Deane said at the same time.
“Now is not the time for recriminations,” Bella interrupted. She glanced towards the doorway as her husband entered.
“I’ve sent men out to ride the estate,” Nick said.
Alex nodded his thanks. “If it was a kidnap for ransom we could risk waiting until a demand for money arrived,” he went on, trying to keep his mind on practicalities. “That might provide some clues about where they have been taken. However, we cannot afford to wait in case that is not the reason. They could be on their way to London or to France, or to anywhere else in the country.”
“You brought Miss Deane into this,” Harlford snapped. “You must have some idea who is responsible.”
“No, although I do know of one person who may be involved—”
“This Brevare?”
“Yes. But that isn’t much help. He doesn’t have a home in England as far as I know.”
“Might Marstone have an idea who has done this?” Bella asked.
“He might,” Alex replied. “Nick, could we send someone to London right away? Calvac should be told, too.”
“I’ll see to it. You’ll write a note?”
Alex nodded, and Nick left the room again.
“Someone should tell Madame her son is missing,” Bella said. She looked at their faces, then stood. “I’ll go, and I’ll make sure she stays in her room.”
“So they could be on their way to London,” Deane said, getting back to details as Bella left the room. “Whoever takes the note to Lord Marstone could look out for them, if he knows what to look for.”
“They could also be on their way to Dover—”
“Or Folkestone,” Nick said from the doorway. “Or Hastings, Newhaven, Rye, Hythe…” He walked over to a table and unrolled a map he’d brought with him.
“We are here,” he said, placing a finger on the map. “There is the post road to London. To get to Dover or Folkestone is less direct, but they would be the best places to get a boat across the channel.”
Alex looked at the map, tracing a finger along the towns Nick had mentioned. “Smugglers’ coast.” He was more familiar with the Devonshire coastline.
“Yes. If they have arranged their own boat, they could be headed anywhere here.” Nick swept his hand along the map from Brighthelmstone to Folkestone.
“We can’t stand here talking,” Harlford said heatedly. “We must look for her… them!”
“Where do you suggest we look?” Alex asked, trying not to snap back at the marquess.
“The post roads?” Deane suggested. “Get to Folkestone or Dover before a coach could get there and make sure they aren’t taken onto a boat?”
He had a point—Alex wasn’t convinced the kidnappers would use the main roads, but they should check all possibilities. “Very well.”
“I’ll see the horses are prepared.” Nick left the room again.
“Riding clothes?” Alex looked at Deane and Harlford, who nodded and left.
He looked up from the map as Bella came back into the room, one hand clasped firmly around Hélène’s upper arm. Hélène’s eyes were red and slightly puffy, and she was clutching a handkerchief in one hand.
“Where is everyone?” Bella asked.
“Getting ready to ride out,” he said.
“This young woman has something to tell you,” Bella said. “Hélène?”
Hélène sniffed. “I’ve done nothing wrong!” She buried her face in her handkerchief.
Bella rolled her eyes. “She met Brevare in the woods today, after she ran off from the summerhouse.”
Alex’s interest sharpened. “Brevare? You just happened to run into him?”
Hélène flushed. “He asked me to meet him. He talked to me at a rout last week. Then I received a note yesterday, saying he had to see me.”
“Go on,” Alex said, trying not to let his anger show. “We have to find your brother.”
“He said… he said that Phoebe had stolen something from him in France and he needed to get it back.”
“What exactly did you tell him?”
“Only that she was painting in the woods by the stream, but she’d be returning soon so he could call then. I didn’t know Georges was with her, or that anyone would be harmed!”
Alex examined her face. Her bottom lip still stuck out, but she met his eyes without flinching.
“That’s all you told him?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Was he alone?”
She nodded again.
“What time was this?”
Hélène glanced at the clock, lifting her shoulders. Alex’s fists curled against the urge to shake her.
“How long after you ran off, Hélène?” Bella asked, clearly trying to control her own impatience. “Straight away? Or some time later?”
“Er… quite soon.” Her eyes slid sideways, and Alex slammed a fist down on the table, making her jump and gasp.
“You have just helped get your cousin and your brother kidnapped!” He didn’t shout, despite his frustration, but Hélène shrank from him. “Tell us everything, whether or not you think it is relevant.”
“I… I was still cry—still distressed after you left the summerhouse…”
Alex waited.
“I remembered the assignation, and he was there. He… he… gave me a handkerchief—”
“And no doubt told you how beautiful you were, that Alex isn’t worth bothering about, and he would never treat you that way?” Bella asked, her voice tart.
“Oh… Something like that. How did you know?”
Bella sighed, raised her eyes heavenward, and then turned back to Alex.
“Nothing else relevant then. I think it was getting on for half past eleven when Hélène ran off. I do think that’s all she has to say. I’ll take her back to her mother—they can comfort each other,” she finished with a grimace. “I don’t suppose it helps much?”
Alex shook his head. “It confirms my suspicions, but doesn’t help us with when, or where they may be going.”
He rubbed a hand across his face. There was still the footman. He would check, but Miss Bryant would have sent for him if the man had come round.
Chapter 49
Once free of the gag, Phoebe sucked air into her lungs. Ignoring the pain in her head, she tried to think: two armed men, at least one more driving the coach—there was nothing she could do.
“Phoebe, ou est-ce qu’on nous emmène?” Where are they taking us?
Georges had learnt to speak French before he learnt English.
“What’s the brat saying?” High-voice asked.
“Dunno. It ain’t English, that’s for sure.”
“Georges,” Phoebe said, “tu ne parles pas l’anglais, comprends-tu?”
“Mais…”
“Non—ne parle pas l’anglais!” Phoebe insisted. She didn’t know how, yet, but she might be able to make a plan with Georges if their kidnappers thought neither of them spoke English.
“What’re you saying, then?” High-voice put his face into Phoebe’s again, and she gagged at the smell of his breath. These two thugs did not understand the language.
She spoke in French again. “You haven’t found the money in my po
cket then?”
If they had the slightest idea what she had said, they would surely now be looking for the non-existent money.
“Georges,” she said, facing the two men rather than the frightened boy. “Georges, sois courageux.” Be brave. “Someone will come looking for us,” she continued, in French.
She had no idea how long she’d been insensible. Her head hurt, yes, but she could see properly, and the slight nausea in her stomach was as much due to the foetid smell of her captors as to any head injury. It could not have been for long.
If she and Georges had not been missed yet, help could be some time coming. How could she delay their journey?
“Georges, you must remember to only speak in French. You must pretend that you do not understand English, so you must ignore anything they say in English.”
She glanced at him briefly. His eyes were wide, and in the dim light inside the coach he looked pale, but he nodded slightly.
“Did they hurt you?” she asked.
“A bit,” Georges said. “But I’ll be all right.” A slight wobble to his voice gave the lie to this statement, but at least he was holding up well enough to pretend.
“Thought it was some English mort we was supposed to be getting,” High-voice said. “She don’t sound English to me.”
“The Frenchie said it was ’er in the woods,” Low-voice answered, beginning to sound worried.
“There was two of ’em went out of the ’ouse with that brat this morning, when we was watching. Could be we got the wrong one?”
“You’d better check, hadn’t you,” Phoebe said hopefully, but still in French. “How about untying me as well?”
She held out her hands, but the men ignored her.
“Can’t do nothing ’til we’re at the inn,” Low-voice said. “Stupid bugger should ’ave checked ’isself that we got the right one.”