By the time he’d lit the last of the lamps, the footman had returned. “Her ladyship and her maid are still out, my lord. But they generally frequent Gunter’s at the end of their walk, so doubtless they are waiting out the storm there.”
“A footman accompanied them?” Kirkland asked.
“Yes, sir, ’twas Martin today.”
Kirkland’s feeling of disquiet intensified. But it couldn’t have anything to do with Laurel. The park in the middle of the square wasn’t large enough to get lost.
“No reason to worry,” Randall said. “Gunter’s would be a rather pleasant place to be caught during a storm.”
Unable to explain his concern, Kirkland said, “I’m sure you’re right. I just hope that Laurel didn’t get drenched. She has reason to . . . take extra care of herself.”
“If that means what I think, congratulations!” Ashton said with a wide smile.
“It’s early yet, so we haven’t wanted to talk about it.” The storm was so noisy that Kirkland had to raise his voice.
The other men chimed in with more congratulations and best wishes while Kirkland stared out the window. He’d sent Rhodes to the docklands to gather information and his valet might be the person who had run into trouble. Kirkland didn’t want anything to happen to Rhodes, but God help him, better Rhodes than Laurel.
The rain was beginning to slacken a little when the door to the study opened and Rhodes appeared, saturated and dripping on the expensive carpet. “Sir, I’m sorry to interrupt you, but I learned that Captain Hardwick’s flagship, the Jamaica Queen, is moored in the Pool of London.”
Kirkland felt an internal twang that confirmed his worry was connected to Hardwick. “I thought he never came to London. All his operations are out of Bristol.”
“That’s been true in the past, sir, but he’s in London now. I heard he’s preparing to set sail on this evening’s tide.” Rhodes grimaced. “Maybe the weather will change his mind. Until he’s gone, I think it best to keep extra guards on your lady and Miss Violet.”
Lightning sent searing light through the study and the accompanying thunderbolt was instantaneous. As the house shook and the lamplight swayed crazily, Kirkland couldn’t help thinking that the thunder sounded exactly like the crack of doom.
Laurel and her servants were just starting back across the park when the skies split with lightning and the rain began pounding down as if they were under a waterfall. Violet exclaimed, “This is like rain in Jamaica!”
Kirkland House was visible on the other side of the park, but the rain was turning the ground into mud and the plane trees were lashing violently. “Back to Gunter’s!” Laurel ordered as water streamed over her bonnet. “It’s much closer.”
As Martin opened the umbrella, a gust of wind caught the canopy and blew it into Laurel and Violet. Panting apologies, Martin struggled to get the umbrella under control.
Unable to see anything, Laurel tried to bat the umbrella out of her way—and in that moment, she was grabbed from behind. An instant of shock was followed by memories of the self-defense class. She tried to slam her elbow back into her attacker, but with no effect.
Violet screamed and Laurel saw that she had also been grabbed, by a burly man with a scarred face just like the one Violet had described seeing in Bristol. Martin shouted for help as he leaped at the nearest attacker, then pitched to the ground when a third man bashed the footman in the head with a club.
Laurel learned that fear made it easier to fight back in a real attack than in a class, but nothing she did helped, and no one heard their cries amidst the howling of the storm. She and Violet were bundled into the large coach—and waiting there was the evilly grinning Captain Hardwick.
Chapter 33
Face grim, Kirkland strode from the study toward the foyer of the house. “I believe that I’ll go across to Gunter’s to make sure that Laurel is all right.”
“I’ll go with you,” Rob said, frowning.
It was still raining hard and Soames, the butler, appeared with Kirkland’s great coat when he realized his master was going out. As Kirkland impatiently pulled the coat on, someone began weakly striking the front door.
This was it, the dire thing Kirkland had been expecting. He jerked open the door and a bloodstained figure staggered inside before crumpling to the floor. Martin, the footman who had been escorting Laurel and Violet.
Snapping into cool emergency mode, Kirkland knelt beside the man as blood and rainwater spread in a scarlet pool across the pale marble floor. “Soames, call a surgeon!”
Someone pressed a handkerchief into Kirkland’s hand and he blotted around the head wound. It was bleeding freely but didn’t seem deep. If Laurel was here, she would know how to treat this.
Pain lanced through him, making it difficult to breathe. Don’t think about Laurel, not yet. “Martin,” he said in a calm voice, “can you tell me what happened?”
Martin’s eyes opened and he blinked dazedly. “So . . . bloody sorry, my lord,” he rasped. “Right in front of Gunter’s. It was pouring rain. Three men jumped out of a bloody big travel coach. Grabbed her ladyship and Violet. Tried to stop them, but one bashed me . . . with a club.”
It was a miracle Martin’s skull hadn’t been crushed. “Brave of you to make it across the park after that. How long ago was the attack?”
Martin frowned. “Not . . . long. Bloody rain was full force then.”
The storm was easing now, so not long. Ten or fifteen minutes, depending on how long it had taken Martin to stagger across the park. Wise of him to come here, where Kirkland would do something, rather than go into Gunter’s, where there would be no useful aid. “Did you notice what the coach looked like?”
“Dark. Full team of horses. Not matched, but strong beasts. Off wheeler had white socks.” Martin made a raw sound like a sob. “I failed you, my lord. Didn’t . . . keep your lady safe.”
“With three of them and only you, you were lucky to escape with your life.” Soames and Mrs. Stratton and a maid had returned with blankets and towels to make Martin more comfortable. Kirkland got to his feet. “Rest now, Martin. You did well.”
The fault lay with Kirkland, for not anticipating how much of a threat Hardwick was. Laurel. Kidnapped by a murderous brute. She might be dead already.
He almost blacked out from fear and fury at himself for not keeping her safe. How could he live in a world where Laurel was gone and it was his own bloody-bedamned fault?
Ashton put a hand on his shoulder and said quietly, “James. Breathe.”
Sanity returned and Kirkland shoved his fear into a box buried deep inside, where it was only a faint wail of anguish. Don’t think of Laurel, only about the problem of stopping an evil man. “Soames, send someone across the park to Gunter’s to see if there’s any evidence on the ground or if anyone saw anything that might be useful.”
“I’ll go,” Rob said. “It won’t take long to see if there’s anything helpful.”
Kirkland nodded his thanks. Having spent years as a Bow Street Runner, Rob would be thorough and fast.
He drew a deep breath. What next? “My best guess is that Hardwick is taking them to his ship, but I’m not sure how good my judgment is at the moment. Does anyone think Hardwick would take them anywhere other than his ship?”
On the verge of going out the door, Rob paused to say, “He’s a man of the sea. From what Rhodes said, he almost never sails into London. He must have come here to retrieve Violet and maybe get revenge on Lady Kirkland as well. He’ll go to his ship.” He gave a swift, dangerous smile. “Don’t go after them without me.”
“I’m in, too,” Randall said. “Ashton?”
The duke’s brows rose. “Of course.”
Kirkland swallowed hard. One couldn’t ask for better friends. He glanced at Rhodes. “You agree that Hardwick is most likely heading to the Jamaica Queen?”
“Yes, sir. Like Lord Kellington said, the sea is Hardwick’s home. He has a house in Bristol, but he’s not there much. In
London he’s staying on his ship. From what I learned, he’s anxious to get away to Africa, so he’ll sail as soon as possible.” Rhodes’s voice broke. “And the bloody bastard has Violet and your lady!”
“He may have them, but he won’t keep them,” Kirkland said grimly. “He probably timed his kidnapping so that he’d catch the tide quickly. What time would that be?” Because of his shipping company, he always tracked the tides in the back of his mind. “About seven o’clock this evening, I think?”
“A little earlier, but close to that,” Ashton replied.
Kirkland’s gaze returned to Rhodes. “Where is his ship moored?”
“Billingsgate, just east of London Bridge. I’ll draw a map.” Rhodes pulled paper and pencil from an inside pocket. There was writing on one side, but he flipped it over, flattened the paper on a table, and began sketching out the harbor area that stretched east from the bridge.
“What do you need us to do?” Randall asked. “If we’re right about his destination, we should be able to catch him at the river if not before.”
“I’ve five good horses in my stables, so we ride after them. There are several routes, but two are most likely,” Kirkland said. “If we split into two groups, one might catch up with the coach, but we can’t count on that.”
“I’m going, too,” Rhodes said, his expression stark.
Kirkland remembered what Laurel had said about Violet and Rhodes. Luckily, the man was a decent rider. “Of course. Did anyone come by horseback?”
“I did,” Randall replied. “My horse is fresh and up for a chase.”
“I came by carriage,” Ashton said. “I assume you want to enlist some of the veterans of your household to follow those of us on horseback?”
Kirkland nodded. “Exactly. Most of them aren’t skilled riders so we’d need the carriages even if we had more mounts, but Jones in my stables was a cavalryman. He can ride with Rob and me. Randall, Ashton, Rhodes, you’ll go together. I figure two coaches of men to follow. Soames, organize that while I unlock my gun closet.”
Soames’s elegant butler’s bearing vanished and he straightened like the army master sergeant he’d once been. “Yes, sir!”
Rob returned a quarter hour later with no useful new data. By then, Kirkland had armed and organized his troops. Every man in the household had volunteered to help rescue their lady. Martin wanted to come, but he could barely stand.
They gathered by the mews. Kirkland swung up onto his horse, his face grim. Laurel hadn’t wanted to see her husband kill another man in front of her, but when he caught up with Hardwick, the bastard was a dead man.
His slow gaze moved over the nearly two dozen men assembled. There hadn’t been time to change, so they were a motley crew. Ashton, calmly lethal on horseback, wearing a pair of boots borrowed from Kirkland. Alex Randall, a steely-eyed veteran of any number of battles and skirmishes. Rob Carmichael, who had fought in dark and dangerous places. His servants, all of them veterans and used to discipline. They would do for a task like the one before them. They would have to.
“We all know what needs to be done,” Kirkland said tersely. “First and foremost, we must get the women back safely, and I damn well expect you to do it without getting killed yourself. Good luck to you all. We’ll rendezvous on the riverbank in Billingsgate if neither group catches Hardwick first.”
He gathered his reins. “Now, my friends, keep your powder dry and ride.”
Hardwick’s coach was jammed with four large men and the two women. It had taken off as soon as the doors were closed, throwing the occupants off balance. Violet managed to land a kick on one man’s knee that made him yelp, but it took only a few moments for the abductors to truss up their captives. Their wrists were bound together in front of them, then their ankles tied so they couldn’t run even if they could escape the coach.
Violet had tried to scream for help and Hardwick slapped a heavy hand over her mouth. “Save your screams for later,” he growled. “You can scream as much as you want after we set sail. Moody, give me one of the gags.”
The scar-faced man handed over a worn handkerchief, but it took both him and Hardwick to gag Violet. Laurel had given up struggling since she was hopeless at fighting, and her efforts were futile when she was surrounded by burly men.
The coach rocked perilously as it thundered through the London streets, splashing through massive puddles. The motion, plus the fact that their captors stank, made Laurel sick to her stomach. When Moody tried to gag her, she bit his fingers. He swore and jerked his hand away.
The coach lurched around another corner, tilting so far to the right that Laurel thought they’d pitch over. The vehicle managed to avoid crashing, but nausea overcame her and she vomited in Moody’s lap.
“Filthy slut!” he roared as he pulled his fist back to strike her.
“Don’t damage her, Moody,” Hardwick snapped. “Just gag her, and be more careful about it.”
Laurel jerked her head away from Moody when he tried to gag her again. “My husband will come after us,” she snapped. “Then you will all be very, very sorry.”
Hardwick laughed at her. “Maybe he will, if he ever figures out what happened. But that’s not bloody likely. Your footman’s dead in the rain and no one saw what happened. We’ll be at sea before your fancy fribble husband even knows you’re gone. He’ll probably think you ran off with a lover.”
Damnably, he was half right. Kirkland was not the fashionable fribble Hardwick believed him to be, but it would take time for Laurel and Violet’s absence to be noted, longer still before the kidnapping could be puzzled out. Hardwick had been known to be a threat in Bristol, but how long would it take for Kirkland to realize the man had followed Violet to London?
She shuddered at the thought of what had happened to Martin. He hadn’t had a chance against Hardwick and his thugs, but he’d tried, and that had cost him his life.
Moody ordered one of the other men to hold Laurel’s head and this time he managed to gag her despite her attempts to jerk away. The sour taste of vomit was trapped in her mouth and it was hard to breathe.
She fought rising panic by closing her eyes and consciously slowing her breathing. Inhale slowly. Exhale slowly. Breathe! Kirkland was the most resourceful man she’d ever met, and he had abilities and connections beyond anything Hardwick could imagine.
There was nothing she could do but pray. She was experienced with prayers of gratitude and thanks, prayers for help and for healing. She’d prayed less than usual in the last week because she’d been so busy and happy, though she’d offered a heartfelt prayer of thanks when she and Kirkland had attended the parish church together on Sunday.
Now she prayed for strength, endurance, and calm. Succumbing to her terror would help nothing.
With Laurel jammed between Moody and another of Hardwick’s men in the rear facing seat, Hardwick was free to pull Violet onto his lap. She struggled and made frantic sounds behind her gag, but she was helpless.
Hardwick laughed at her resistance. “If this coach wasn’t so bloody crowded, I’d shag you here, but you won’t have to wait long. Make yourself comfortable.” He wrapped his arms around her, squeezing her breasts as he did.
Violet was rigid, her dark eyes a whirlpool of anguish, fury, and despair above the gag. Laurel caught her gaze and tried to send what support she could. Be strong. Have faith. While we are alive, there is hope.
Violet couldn’t have known Laurel’s exact thoughts, but her expression calmed. As long as they were alive, there was hope.
Laurel closed her eyes and prayed for a miracle.
Chapter 34
Laurel hadn’t been in London long enough to travel beyond the West End, but she knew the port and docks were well to the east. It was a long ride across London. She felt increasingly ill. Lucky there wasn’t anything left in her stomach.
Violet was limp as a cloth doll. Eventually Hardwick tired of holding her, so he squeezed her into the narrow gap between himself and one of his ruffians.
Laurel guessed that the girl had mentally withdrawn as far as possible from her present circumstances.
The storm had blown over, leaving heavy gray skies and spatterings of rain. The coach slowed as traffic increased, and at one point they were stopped for long minutes by an accident. The captain swore and drummed his fingers on his thigh as he stared out the window. Since he didn’t fear pursuit, there must be another reason for his impatience. Catching the tide, perhaps?
Finally the coach lurched to a halt. Laurel heard the shrieks of gulls and smelled the various scents created where land met water. Once more fear threatened to engulf her, because if she and Violet were taken out to sea, they were doomed.
Hardwick opened the coach door and jumped down. Outside Laurel could see the river, and it was crowded with ships. Some were moored at piers, others away from the shore, and everywhere smaller boats scurried in all directions.
“Wrap ’em up and bring ’em to the dinghy,” Hardwick ordered. His men produced two coarse, crumpled sacks and a pair of ragged blankets. One of the dusty sacks was pulled over Laurel’s head and an old blanket wrapped around her and tied. The blanket wasn’t tied very tightly, but it trapped her bound hands close to her throat. Hardwick didn’t want it to be obvious that he was carrying captives out to his ship.
Laurel was tossed over someone’s shoulder and carried out into the open air. It was acutely uncomfortable, and dear God, she prayed that the cramps in her stomach didn’t mean what she feared they did!
She was dumped unceremoniously on a curved wooden surface with water sloshing around her. A dinghy. Violet was dropped beside her. Laurel wished she could give a comforting hug, but she could barely breathe, much less hug a friend.
Then she realized that her hands were high enough that she was able to tug the gag down and no one would notice since she had the sack over her head. She dragged it from her mouth and sucked down great gulps of air. There was so much noise around the docks that there wasn’t much point in shouting for help, but at least she could breathe.
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