“I’m sorry!” cried Powers. “I didn’t know they would do this, truly I didn’t. You mustn’t tell the duke.”
Trevillion shook the chair, making the woman’s teeth rattle. “Who? Give me a name, damn your eyes.”
“He didn’t have one!” Her eyes were wide, the whites showing all around the irises, and at any other time Trevillion might’ve felt remorse for so thoroughly terrorizing a woman, but not now. “I swear! He… he sounded Irish.”
Ten minutes later Trevillion entered the duke’s study.
Wakefield looked up. He was still on his feet as if the mere thought of relaxing while his sister was in peril was anathema. “What have you learned?”
“She was bribed by an Irishman,” Trevillion said, “a quite considerable sum. Powers told the man that Lady Phoebe sometimes liked to visit the stables early in the morning. She says the man was quite average—dark hair, a laborer’s accent, wearing clean but old clothing. She met with him twice and the only other thing she had to add was that he mentioned having rooms near Covent Garden.”
Wakefield whirled on Craven. “Send out all the men we have to search Covent Garden and the neighborhoods surrounding it.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Craven replied, ducking out of the room.
Trevillion stared at Wakefield, knowing there was no point in telling him how impossible a task he’d just sent his men on. “Near Covent Garden” was simply too big an area to search.
The duke continued to pace like a caged animal until Craven returned and gave a small nod of his head, presumably indicating that the Wakefield House manservants had left.
“Who’s this?” Her Grace asked suddenly, and Trevillion turned to see Reed and Alf in the doorway.
“The best informant in London,” Trevillion replied, not taking his eyes off the girl. “Reed’s told you that Lady Phoebe was kidnapped?”
Alf jerked her head in assent.
“What do you have for me?”
Alf was twisting a floppy hat in her grimy hands, looking both defiant and scared out of her wits. She’d probably never been in so grand a place as Wakefield House. “ ’Eard was a woman taken to Maude’s bawdy house. Black hair, though.”
Trevillion shook his head. “No.”
Alf took a breath. “Body o’ a woman taken out o’ the Thames just an hour ago.”
“Dear God,” the duchess said, and the duke crossed to take her hand.
“That’s not it, either,” Trevillion said, praying he was right. But no. They wouldn’t kidnap Phoebe merely to kill her. She was worth much more alive. He kept that thought in his head, refusing to consider any alternative. “What else?”
Alf knit her brows. “Onliest other were a woman taken from a carriage wi’ a ’ood over ’er ’ead.”
Trevillion straightened, his muscles tensing. “Where?”
“Little lane near th’ south side o’ Covent Garden,” Alf said. “One next to that cobbler.”
“You know the place?” Trevillion asked.
Alf nodded.
“Then take me there.”
“And me.” The duke began to pull away from his wife.
But she held him fast. “Maximus. You must stay here in case there is news.”
He looked at her.
Her face was brave and firm. “In case they ask for ransom. Only you can make the funds available—and decide what to do.”
“Your Grace,” Craven said. “The duchess is correct. Your place is here.”
“He only has Reed!” The duke flung out his arm at the footman. “Two men against how many numbers?”
“I’ll send one of the stableboys after our men,” Craven began. “Try to catch up with the others and—”
“Your Grace,” Trevillion interrupted tightly. There was no time to wait for the others. The duke’s wild eyes turned on him. “I’ll rescue Lady Phoebe. I swear it.”
Wakefield stared at him a second longer as if searching to see the truth. Then he nodded once. “Go!”
Trevillion limped out of the study, followed by Reed and Alf. “Are you armed?” he asked Reed.
“Yes, sir.”
Trevillion nodded at Alf. “Do we have something for him?”
“I’ll fetch another pistol.” Reed jogged ahead.
“You need only show us the place,” Trevillion said to Alf as they continued down the hallway. “Anything else is up to you.”
“Aye,” Alf said with her usual bravado. “Fact is, I’ve never liked men who prey on women.”
“Good lad,” Trevillion said.
They made the front entryway and found Reed already waiting, a pistol in his hand. He thrust it at Alf. “Mind that, lad.”
“Mind yourself,” she shot back cheekily. “I knows well enough ’ow to shoot a gun.”
“And to ride a horse?” Reed asked as they walked outside to see the two horses that they’d ridden earlier.
Alf paled a bit.
“He can ride with me,” Trevillion said.
He swung himself up on the horse and reached down a hand to Alf. She gave another nervous look at the horse and then set her jaw stubbornly. She took his hand, clambering behind him.
“Hang on,” Trevillion said, and kicked his gelding into a canter.
The wind whipped his face as they clattered down the cobblestone street, turning in front of a brewer’s wagon. The wagon driver shouted obscenities in their wake, but Trevillion never looked back.
He had a destination. A purpose and a target.
Pedestrians scattered before his gelding’s hooves. A dog cart sat in the middle of the street, though.
“Hold fast,” he shouted at Alf, and then the gelding was leaping the cart.
Her thin arms were a tight band around his waist and he thought he heard a hastily smothered shriek in his ear.
They were nearing Covent Garden now. “Which way?”
“To the right!” Alf pointed straight-armed to a narrow lane that turned south—toward St Giles. “Down there.”
He leaned with the horse as they slowed to a trot. “Where?”
“There’s another lane comes off this un. She’s in a ’ouse there.”
Trevillion nodded, pulling the horse to a halt where the lanes met. This area was very close to St Giles, the houses built one on top of another, the upper stories and eaves hanging over the narrow lanes, nearly blocking out the light. A channel of refuse ran down the middle of the narrow lane, making everything stink.
Trevillion slid from the saddle, helping Alf down.
He looked at Alf and knew despite her bravery that she was but a young girl. “Stay here and guard the horses. We may need to make a hurried escape.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but he shoved the reins into her hands.
He turned to Reed, who had dismounted and drawn his pistol. “Keep close. If you can’t see what you’re aiming at, don’t fire. We don’t want to hit Lady Phoebe.”
“Yes, Cap’n.”
Trevillion drew both his pistols and started down the lane with Reed behind. The other end was shadowed, but Trevillion could see two figures coming toward them. One of the figures was cloaked.
He and Reed came abreast of the house Alf had pointed out. It was a decrepit thing, half-leaning into the lane, with empty spaces where bricks had fallen or been pried from the outer wall. The door was set below street level, down several steps. Trevillion glanced at it and then back at Reed. The figures at the end of the lane had disappeared. It was empty now, despite the daylight. But then the type of people who lived in environs like these knew when to lie low.
Trevillion gestured to Reed.
Reed ran down the stairs and kicked the door in.
The footman fired immediately and the guard inside the door fell inward on a cloud of smoke and the smell of gunpowder.
Trevillion stepped inside, squinting. Three men were gathered around a table, apparently playing cards. They began to rise and Trevillion shot the biggest.
The remaining two
men stared.
“I’ve one more bullet for the next man who moves,” he said.
“James!” came Phoebe’s voice from the inner room.
Trevillion handed his second pistol to Reed. “Don’t bother to give warning before you shoot.”
He went to the inner door and examined the latch. It was a simple bolt and he unlocked it.
Phoebe nearly fell into his arms. “Oh! Is it you?” She wore an old blue dress—the one she liked to put on to visit the stables. She tucked her nose into his neck and inhaled before beaming. “Yes, it is!”
Something came loose in his chest and he had a nearly overpowering urge to kiss Lady Phoebe’s smiling mouth. Instead he cleared his throat and said, “Let me untie you, my lady.”
“Oh, thank you,” she said as he drew a knife from his boot and began carefully cutting through the rope that bound her wrists together.
“You,” he called over his shoulder to one of the kidnappers. “Do you have more rope?”
The man looked between Trevillion and the gun that Reed held on him before answering. “Yes.”
“Good. Tie up that other fellow,” Trevillion ordered. “And make the knots tight. I’ll be checking them.”
The rope fell away from Lady Phoebe’s wrists and he gently examined the abrasions there.
“But if’n I move—”
Trevillion sighed. “You can move enough to tie up your friend.”
He drew out his handkerchief from a pocket and tore it in half. He gently wrapped Lady Phoebe’s wrists.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “I knew you’d come for me.”
“Did you?” he asked. He’d deserted her. Left her to be kidnapped.
“Yes.” She smiled winsomely. “Didn’t you?”
He looked at her oddly as he finished bandaging her wrists. Didn’t she know all of this was his fault? He should never have left. He should’ve stayed by her side day and night until the kidnappers were found and arrested.
Well. He wouldn’t make the same mistake again.
When he turned, Reed had the last kidnapper bound and lying on the floor. The footman looked up and nodded.
“Come on,” Trevillion said, urging Lady Phoebe out the door.
“Are you just gonna leave us ’ere?” one of the kidnappers called.
Trevillion turned, frowning. “Better gag them. They’ll keep well enough until His Grace arrives to question them.”
Reed did and they left, closing the door behind them.
“We have horses down here,” he said to Lady Phoebe as he led her down the lane.
“Oh, lovely,” she said.
Alf was still standing exactly as they’d left her, the horses’ reins gripped in her white-knuckled hand. Trevillion had a fleeting thought that maybe she’d not moved the entire time they’d been gone.
“Good lad,” he said to her. “I’ve one more job for you today. Can you deliver a message for me?”
Alf looked insulted. “O’ course.”
“Then tell the Duke of Wakefield this.” And he bent to whisper in her ear. When he straightened, her eyes were as round as he’d ever seen them. “No one else, mind. And I expect you to continue with the task I set you last night.”
“Yes, sir!” Alf grinned and started off at a lope.
“Reed.” Trevillion turned to the footman. “I have a job for you, but in order for you to do it, you’ll need to leave the duke’s employ and enter mine temporarily. I can’t guarantee that he’ll take you back afterwards.”
“I’m your man,” Reed said stoutly. “Always ’ave been, always will be.”
Trevillion smiled at him. “Thank you.” He didn’t quite whisper his instructions to the footman, but he made sure no one could overhear them.
When he was done, Reed saluted. “You can count on me, Cap’n.”
“I know I can.”
Reed swung onto his horse and trotted away.
“You’ve become quite mysterious since last I saw you, Captain,” Lady Phoebe said.
“Have I, my lady?” He touched her hand to guide it to the stirrup.
“Yes, indeed,” she said. “Are we riding together again?”
“If you don’t mind, my lady,” he replied.
“I find myself quite amenable to whatever you suggest now that I’ve been rescued from kidnappers,” Lady Phoebe replied. “The prospect of forced marriage is rather off-putting.”
“Is that what they intended?” Trevillion asked calmly as he mounted the gelding behind her. Inside, rage was boiling in his chest.
“I think so, from what I overheard.”
“Then be assured, my lady, that I shan’t allow any such thing to happen to you. Not while you’re with me.”
He’d already made the decision, but this latest information only served to solidify it.
Trevillion was taking no more chances. He trusted no one but himself to make sure Lady Phoebe was entirely safe until the kidnapper was found.
Chapter Nine
Corineus determined that he would slay the giants and become king of this new land. So he rode the sea horse to the desolate moors where Gog, the smallest of the giants, dwelt.
Gog stood as tall as two men, one atop another, and had a hideous face, nearly covered in boils and bits of black hair. Corineus set spur to the sea horse and she charged, fangs flashing.
In a trice the giant lay dead upon the moor.…
—From The Kelpie
Phoebe leaned back against Trevillion’s broad chest as they rode through London. She cared not at all about the impropriety of such an action. He’d come back to her, saved her when she’d been at her most desperate. His scent—the one she’d given him—surrounded her and she was touched and grateful that he still wore it.
Sandalwood and bergamot meant safety to her now… and maybe something more.
She felt him tighten his thighs around the horse, urging the animal into a canter for several minutes, his arm around her waist holding her securely.
When Trevillion let the horse slow again, he asked her, “What happened? How were you kidnapped?”
She blew out a breath and straightened a bit. “I went out to the stables this morning to visit with the horses. But when I opened the gate into the mews someone grabbed me and put a hood over my head.”
She shuddered just at the memory. It’d been close under the hood and even though she’d been able to breathe perfectly well, the awful feeling that the air might be taken away from her lungs had been almost overwhelming.
The arm he had about her waist tightened, his palm flat on her stomach. “Damn them,” Trevillion whispered, so close he might’ve had his lips against her ear.
“They treated me quite well, considering,” Phoebe hastened to assure him. “They hardly spoke at all, of course, but there was no hint of, er… impolite touching.”
She tilted her head and listened. Something seemed to be vibrating in Captain Trevillion’s throat. Good Lord! Was he growling?
“Could you tell how many there were?” he asked gruffly.
“Four. Just the four you found there where they were holding me, though there must’ve been a carriage driver as well, for that’s how they brought me there.” She reached for the horse’s mane and threaded her fingers through the stiff hairs. “But I overheard a bit of what they were saying just before you and Reed arrived. They were waiting for someone—and he was bringing a vicar.”
“To force you into marriage,” Trevillion rasped.
She moved one hand to the arm he had around her waist. The muscle beneath her fingers was as hard as steel. “James, do you or Maximus know who the man is? The one who wants to marry me?”
His forearm flexed beneath her fingers. “I’m afraid we have no idea as of yet. I’m sorry. I did recognize one of the attackers at Harte’s Folly—he was at Bond Street as well.”
She turned her face toward him. “What? Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
“I didn’t want to alarm you,” he said tightly
.
“So instead you left me quite literally in the dark?” she asked sweetly.
“I see now that decision was most likely a mistake,” he replied. “In any case, both your brother and I have been investigating the matter. The problem is, we haven’t found a clear suspect.”
“That’s rather disappointing,” she said evenly. Would she be living in fear of kidnap at any moment until the villain was found?
“Indeed,” Trevillion bit out. “Did the kidnappers say anything else about the man they were waiting for?”
She shook her head. “I’m afraid not.”
He swore under his breath. “He could be anyone, then.”
“Anyone willing to force a lady into an unwanted marriage,” she agreed. “I had no idea I had so many suitors.”
“What do you mean?”
“Mr. MacLeish proposed to me only yesterday,” she said lightly.
The arm around her waist tightened almost to the point of forcing the air from her body, and then abruptly relaxed.
“Congratulations,” Captain Trevillion said in a flat, emotionless voice.
Really, sometimes it would be much easier if one were allowed to simply hit gentlemen over the head.
“I refused,” she said rather tartly.
“Why?” he asked, his voice softer.
She twisted to bring her face closer to his even though she couldn’t see him. “What do you mean, why?”
He cleared his throat. “Malcolm MacLeish is young and handsome—”
“A fat lot of good that does me, since I can’t see him.”
“—a gentleman of high spirits and quick wit and seemingly smitten with you as well.”
There was a silence.
“Smitten,” Phoebe said at last. “Smit-ten. The word sounds like a skin disease if you think about it too much.”
“He smiles every time he sees you,” he murmured quietly. Was he jealous?
“I smile every time I smell cherry pie.”
“You’re being ridiculous,” Trevillion said disapprovingly. “I don’t see why you’ve rejected him out of hand.”
“You sound like a querulous old aunt, scolding children for running through the house.”
“I am older than you,” he replied stiffly, “as I’ve pointed out on numerous occasions.”
Dearest Rogue Page 13