by Rebecca King
“Well, let me see now, Smidgley certainly didn’t waste any time sending you around, did he? What is wrong, did she put up more of a fight than you expected?” Oliver drawled.
He had to stop talking, if only to get some air in his lungs. He was used to riding everywhere he went and had just run far faster and far harder than he had ever run in recent memory.
And it is the last time I am going to do it as well, he promised himself.
“Here,” Harry yelled as he stormed into the house.
“Here,” Oliver called back almost causally.
Emmeline almost wept with relief when she saw Harry appear in the doorway. She had no hesitation charging across the room toward him when he motioned to her.
“Let me take that,” he said gently before promptly relieving her of her knife.
Now that he knew she was safe, Oliver focused his attention on the thug who was doing his level best to try to look as innocent as possible.
“Now, I ain’t come here for no trouble,” the man began warily, his gaze sliding from Oliver to Harry and back again.
“Oh? And why are you here, exactly?” Oliver asked conversationally.
“He was trying to force me to go with him,” Emmeline told him.
“I know,” Oliver replied. “I heard he was going to try.”
Harry stepped behind his colleague, and shoved Emmeline toward Rhys, who hovered in the hallway outside the study. The gun in his hand hung loosely from his fingers. Rhys beckoned to her, but Emmeline refused to leave the kitchen. She wanted to hear what was being said, not shoved to one side while the men shuffled this man off to gaol.
Oliver, needing an outlet for the pent-up anger that surged through him, slammed a fist into the thug that was hard, swift, and left the man gasping for air. The thug stumbled backward, clutching his jaw. With a snarl, he immediately righted himself and surged toward Oliver, who was already waiting to land another punch.
“What are you doing?” Emmeline cried. “Don’t start fighting in my house. Get out – the pair of you.”
She glared at Harry when he made no attempt to stop them. Instead, Harry watched the brawling men with a wary disinterest.
“Well? Aren’t you going to do something?” She demanded.
Harry shrugged. “Don’t get in the way of Oliver when he is fighting. He can be mean.”
To her disbelief, Harry grinned unrepentantly at her. She glared at him in disgust until she was distracted by a particularly loud thump of flesh meeting brushed flesh. Emmeline whirled around in time to watch Oliver slam another punch into the hapless thug’s jaw. She cringed when Oliver began to rain brutal blows down upon his opponent’s head with a ferocity that was staggering, even though the thug was on his knees, cowering in pain and misery.
“Stop. For the love of God, stop.” Emmeline gasped when the thug suddenly growled and surged to his feet. He shoved at Oliver and landed not one, but three punches into Oliver’s midriff, making Oliver curse with pain. Emmeline glared at Harry again, but he was busy beckoning to Rhys and wasn’t even watching what was happening.
Muttering in disgust, Emmeline tugged open the cupboard at the bottom of the dresser beside the back door and removed a new weapon. Eyeing the men in total disbelief, she hefted her weapon and, when the thug stumbled toward her, with all her might slammed her weapon into the side of the thug’s head and waited. She met the thug’s blurred glare warily and watched him blink at her. Once. Twice. He didn’t speak, or even grunt. He blinked once more before he stumbled sideways. He regained his balance and frowned at her, as if considering whether he should lunge for her again. Determined to stop him, Emmeline brought her weapon down on his head once more. She winced when it boinged loudly in the stunned silence of the room. The thug slowly dropped to his knees. He wavered backward and forward for a moment, as if trying to decide which way to fall before, with his arms hanging limply by his sides, he slumped forward and landed face-first on the floor. The dull crunching noise of what she suspected his nose breaking was enough to make her wince, but she didn’t bother to glance at him again. Instead, she looked across the room at a bloodied Oliver, who looked as if he had just fought a war single-handedly.
“I hope your opponent came off worse,” she snapped, thoroughly disgusted when he merely smirked goofily at her.
“You really do swing that thing,” Oliver murmured through his swollen lip. He nodded to the heavy iron skillet in her hand and threw her an admiring look.
“What on earth happened to you?” she demanded.
“I got accosted by the same ba – people – who keeps kidnapping women around these parts,” Oliver replied honestly.
He didn’t even glance at Harry and Rhys when they stepped into the room. He knew from the concerned looks on their faces that they had just heard what was being said.
“Have you ever heard of a fop called Smidgley?” Oliver asked Emmeline.
Emmeline frowned at him. “From Smidgley Hall? Everyone in these parts has heard of them. They are reviled by everyone. They are arrogant, rude, and have a reputation for treating the villagers badly. They are so bad their tenant farmers have all moved out and they cannot get anybody to work for them. I hear their house is only partially staff and that the staff they do have come from other counties.”
“So nobody around these parts likes them,” Rhys murmured.
“When? How? Why?” Harry asked of Oliver.
“Firstly, did you deal with the carriage driver?” Oliver asked.
Harry nodded and adopted an air of supreme satisfaction. “We did. He is trussed up tighter than a goose at Christmas.”
“Good. Get him tied up as well,” Oliver growled with a nod to the thug at their feet. He turned to Emmeline. “You did well but remind me not to leave any skillet’s around.”
Emmeline rolled her eyes but couldn’t remove her gaze from the bruising around Oliver’s face. His eye had already started to swell shut and his lip was twice its normal size. His cuts looked painful.
“They are brutal,” she whispered, unsure if she meant his wounds or the people who had caused his injuries.
“I will heal,” he assured her softly. “What I need you to do, as a matter of urgency, is pack your things. You need to take enough to be away for several weeks, if not more. We have to get you out of here.”
“It is me they want now, isn’t it?” It wasn’t a question Emmeline wanted any of them to answer, not least because she didn’t want them to confirm how much danger she was in. It was necessary, though, to be open and honest about the situation they were in. That way, very few secrets could bring very few nasty surprises.
“A direct threat has been made against you to me this morning, yes. But they don’t want to kidnap you in the same way they kidnapped Caroline and the rest of those women,” Oliver informed them. His gaze turned knowingly to his colleagues.
“How do they want to kidnap me then?” Emmeline asked innocently. “I mean, why?”
“They want to use you as collateral; as a bargaining tool,” Oliver said bluntly.
“We are getting close then,” Rhys muttered thoughtfully.
“They snatched me off the street with such swift silence that even I am stunned by it. I didn’t stand a chance of muttering a squeak, and I am the same size as them,” Oliver growled. He rubbed the back of his neck, and knew he would, at some point, tell his colleagues exactly how the kidnappers had kidnapped him so effectively, and in minute detail as well. But for now, it was imperative they got Emmeline out of sight, and to the safe house before the Smidgley brothers arrived to fetch her themselves.
“We only have a few minutes. If the carriage doesn’t return with her sharp enough, they are likely to come and look for her. Hurry up and fetch your things, please,” Oliver murmured to Emmeline.
It was that small display of manners in Oliver’s use of the word ‘please’ that made Emmeline’s feet move. It was enough of a reminder that she should put her trust in someone. That ‘please’ gave
her choices, even though Oliver’s request was couched in firm tones that left her no room for argument. In that moment, Emmeline knew she had been right to trust him. Oliver was a trustworthy gentleman who would do his best to keep everyone alive. With that knowledge tucked firmly in the back of her mind, Emmeline savoured a moment of relief at knowing the true reason why Oliver had been prevented from returning to her, and then dutifully raced up the stairs.
“What do you want to do with him, boss?” Rhys asked once Emmeline had gone upstairs.
“Do you know something? I should like nothing more than to beat him to a pulp and dump him on their doorstep, as a warning from us to them that we aren’t going to be bullied or thwarted by fops. They do, after all, like to accost people. However, that would make us no better than them. I do, however, think we have to make this pair vanish. If they disappear, Smidgley has no idea where they have gone, or what they are telling us. That puts Smidgley even more on edge and gives us a very credible advantage.” Oliver rolled his sleeves up and began to rummage around in the kitchen drawers in search of something he could use to tie the thug up with.
“What do you want to do about the carriage?” Harry asked.
Oliver lifted his brows at him. “Lose it. I don’t care if you have to cart it into a field and set fire to the damned thing. No. I will tell you what, we are going to take a long road around the area and leave it at the gaol. If Smidgley wants it back, he is going to have to go and fetch it. If not, the gaoler is welcome to it.”
Rhys sniggered and helped Harry hoist the still unconscious thug onto his knees. They held him upright while Oliver tightened the bindings around the thug’s wrists. When he was suitably trussed up, the men then dragged the thug out to the waiting carriage, to his colleague who was already inside.
“Keep guard, Rhys. Harry, you drive. We are off to the gaol when Emmeline is ready,” Oliver informed them.
As if on cue, Emmeline appeared in the doorway. The carpet bag she held was so full the thing didn’t close properly but Oliver took it off her. Once before her, he placed his hand around hers and paused to look deeply into her eyes.
“Are you really all right?” she whispered softly.
Oliver nodded, more than a little touched that she cared enough to ask. “I will live. I am just glad you put up enough of a fight to thwart that oaf. You did all right.”
Emmeline grinned at him. “Am I to take that as a compliment? I just fought off a man twice my size, and in my own house no less, and all you can say is that I did ‘all right?” She tipped her chin up haughtily at him. “I did more than all right, thank you very much. I certainly came off better than you.”
Oliver threw her a dirty look that was tinged with laughter. “I was tied to a chair, don’t you know?”
“Excuses. Excuses. Always excuses,” Emmeline chided, watching Oliver slam and lock her front door. When he was making his way toward her, she climbed into the carriage, and watched Harry and Rhys share a smirk.
“Seems to me that you have met your match Oliver, my boy,” Harry teased.
Oliver rolled his eyes. “Haven’t I just. Just make sure we lock the skillets away, will you?”
Emmeline was still smiling when she took a seat in the carriage. Her smile slowly died, though, when her gaze fell to the still unconscious men at her feet. The make-shift hoods that Harry and Rhys had placed over the men’s heads were somewhat macabre.
“It is to stop them from seeing firstly who is here, and secondly, where we are taking them,” Oliver whispered directly into her ear. “It is best not to speak until we can off-load them at the gaol.”
Emmeline shivered when the warmth of his breath snuck across her cheek. The urge to lean against him was strong, but she resisted it – just – by focusing her attention on the men at her feet, and the reason why she was in the carriage in the first place.
“Where are they going?”
“Go gaol where they belong. That’s all you need to know for now,” Oliver replied warily. “As far as their bosses are concerned, these two have just disappeared.”
With that, Oliver rapped twice on the roof of the carriage and settled back in the seat, but only once he had drawn the blind down and encased everyone in impenetrable darkness. Emmeline tensed and tried hard not to panic. Silently, reassuringly, out of that gloom she felt Oliver’s warm palm settle over hers. It didn’t stop and hold her hand as she expected. Instead, Oliver slid her bodily across the seat toward him until they were both as far away from the thugs as it was possible to get. He then settled her against his side and held her protectively all the way to the gaol.
CHAPTER NINE
London
Sir Hugo sat at his desk and pretended to read the parchment in his hand. He was listening to the sound of movement outside his office door. It was therefore unsurprising when the door suddenly burst open and a short, rotund gentlemen stalked arrogantly into the room.
“Dunnicliffe, I didn’t realise you were back,” his visitor began, not bothering to bow or adhere to any of the usual standards of social interaction.
“So why have you burst into my office?” Sir Hugo looked at his desk and leaned back in his seat. “I didn’t realise we had an appointment. No. No. In fact, I do recall that I have to meet with someone else in a moment. What do you want, Argent?”
Sir Hugo returned to pretending to read the parchment he still held and purposely barely gave the man a second look. He could feel tension vibrating off the elegantly dressed man, whose heavy breathing was, for a moment at least, the only sound that could be heard within the room.
Beverley Argent was, if nothing more, a pompous oaf who had purloined his position through his connections, and only because of his connections. He had never fought in any war or overseen any criminal investigations. However, through careful social climbing, back-hand favours, and undoubtedly a spot of blackmail or two, he had managed to reach the lofty heights of being friends with the Attorney General. The Attorney General, while having no direct authority over Sir Hugo, was still a highly influential position and was supported by his close contacts in Royal circles. That made Sir Hugo’s position difficult, and Beverley Argent knew it.
“What are you working on right now, Dunnicliffe?” Argent demanded.
“You know I am not at liberty to divulge the details of our investigations,” Sir Hugo drawled.
“The Secretary of War wants to know,” Argent added.
“Then the Secretary of War is to come and ask me directly. I am not going to divulge Government secrets to anybody.” To cast doubt on the man’s stature, both physically and socially, Sir Hugo raked the squat little man with an aloof look that made Argent start to sweat. Unfortunately, it did little to lessen his arrogance. The little man scowled deeply at him.
“I warn you now that I have the ear of some very influential people,” Argent blustered. “Raymondson is the Attorney General.”
There was such a pompous sneer on the man’s face that Sir Hugo almost relished being able to be the next one to speak. “I am afraid that a mere Attorney General, no matter who he claims to have connections with, has no authority to overrule the Secretary of War. You may be accountable to the Attorney General, but I am accountable only to the Secretary of War who does, I believe, hold considerably more authority. Of course, if you do want me to break the strict rules of the Secretary’s office then I shall of require due authorisation signed by the Secretary of War himself, the King Regent, and the Lord Chief Justice, before I tell you or anyone else anything.” Sir Hugo slapped his papers down onto his desk and rested his folded hands on his washboard stomach as he studied the squat little man, Sir Hugo knew now was up to his flaccid neck in Smidgley’s crimes. “Might I remind you, sir, that we are a crime fighting organisation who work undercover? What kind of government operative would I be if I divulged information to you that would put lives of many hardworking gentlemen at risk, eh? Why would you wish me to do it?”
“We have had good reason to belie
ve that you have overstepped the boundaries of your office, Dunnicliffe. You are sticking your nose into things that don’t concern you, and it has upset a lot of people.”
“Ah, so investigating the kidnap of several innocent young women in the counties is sticking my nose in, is it? How could the disappearance of those young ladies make any difference to you or your friend, Raymondson? Do you have something to tell me, Argent? What are you working on at present, eh?” Sir Hugo lifted one brow and levelled a cold look on the man opposite. “It is highly unusual of anybody who holds an office such as yours to approach me in this way. I have been doing this job for nigh on ten years or so now and have never had such an unusual incident occur before. Why would you have your feathers all ruffled about a perfectly normal investigation into the criminals behind the disappearance of innocent young women?”
Sir Hugo was aware of the Secretary of War quietly entering his office as he spoke but didn’t take his eyes off Argent.
“You are stepping on toes,” Argent snapped. “I demand you stop this investigation at once.”
“I cannot do that. It is my job to step on toes,” Sir Hugo warned.
“You are stepping out of the realms of your position, Dunnicliffe. I demand you stop this foolish investigation at once, do you hear? At once!” Argent demanded shrilly.
“I warn you now that I shall do nothing to put any of my men in danger, and I shall most definitely not stop this investigation. There is no good reason for you to make enquiries into my investigations, especially the Smidgley brothers, and that is why you are here, isn’t it? Unless your – connection – to their criminal activities risks your claim to innocence then you have no reason to have any concerns about what we in the Star Elite investigate, how, when, or why, now is there?” While he spoke, Sir Hugo half expected the Secretary of War to interrupt him and support the bilious little Argent. It was telling that the Secretary of War didn’t speak, but merely stood just inside the room listening to what was being said. Thankfully, Argent hadn’t noticed him enter, and therefore spoke with just the same usual arrogance Sir Hugo had come to expect from the man.