Taking the Spinster (The Kidnap Club Book 3)

by Samantha Holt

  “I see.”

  “I have not been able to see her for two years.” Her voice cracked, and she leaned forward. “The fact is, Baron Pembroke—her husband—is a brute who beats her on a whim. My sister is obedient and was keen to prove herself a fine wife. There is no chance she deserves any kind of cruelty.”

  “I am of the school of thought that it is never acceptable to raise a hand to a woman, regardless of their behavior,” he said firmly.

  “Well, you are a rarity, I am afraid.”

  “How do you know he is treating her this way if you have not seen her?” Guy despised asking these questions, but he had to be certain of the woman’s situation before he put himself and the rest of The Kidnap Club at risk.

  “She managed to get a letter to me about a month ago. The beatings are getting worse. She said she feared she might die at his hands.” She reached into her reticule and tugged out a scrap of paper. She handed over the letter with a shaky hand.

  He took it and turned it into the light from the streets. He couldn’t read it all, but he saw enough to recognize the severity of the situation.

  “I need you to get to my sister, Louisa. Somehow. Any longer trapped in that marriage and I believe her fears will come true.” The duchess reached over and grabbed his hand in a fervent grip. “Please say you will do this for me.”

  Guy didn’t need to think twice. He might not have much of an affiliation with women these days and was intent on keeping it that way after the Amelia fiasco, but he’d seen first-hand what these sorts of men did to their wives. He couldn’t leave Louisa Windham to her fate, and this was precisely why The Kidnap Club had been formed.

  “I’ll help you,” he vowed.

  TUGGING THE PINS from her hair, Freya opted to leave her thick coat on as she clustered the pins in her hand and slipped them in her pocket. She ran her fingers through her hair and rubbed her scalp with a sigh of relief. Silly her for trying to look professional. Lord Huntingdon might have treated her more cordially had she looked sweet and lovely, like one of the ladies of the ton.

  She wrinkled her nose and paused to light the lone candle in the hallway. There was no chance of her looking like any of them, not without money and breeding. Everything about her was pale. Fair hair that looked almost white in some lights and eyes that were only passably blue. Whilst the women of the ton favored a fair complexion, hers tended to look more sickly than delicate.

  Alas, she was not without vanity, even though she really ought to be. Looking pleasing meant little for a woman like her. The only way she would get anything in life was with hard work.

  That did not stop her wondering how it would feel to have a man like the earl admire her, though?

  Freya shook her head at herself and tiptoed down the hallway, pausing at the doorway of the drawing room. The fire offered a weak glow that barely permeated the room let alone the rest of the house. She’d sleep in her threadbare coat tonight seeing as her father hadn’t kept the fire going.

  She eased past the armchair where she had left her father this morning. A noise rather like the growl of an annoyed dog emanated from his open mouth. She glanced at the dog by his feet. “How come Papa sounds more like a dog than you do?” she whispered.

  Brig’s ears perked up and he eased slowly to his feet. The bulldog sat at only calf height and moved slowly toward her. She dropped to a crouch, offering out a hand for the half-blind animal as he moved sluggishly toward the scent of her. He gave her a little sniff then butted against her hand. Freya smiled, dropping fully to the floor and allowing the white dog to crawl upon her lap for a good, thorough fuss.

  “I really should get this fire going,” she told Brig. “We’ll all freeze tonight otherwise.”

  “I only fell asleep for a little while,” her father grumbled. “It’s not even that cold.”

  She glanced up to see him straighten in his chair and pull the blanket over him. “Oh is it not? Then I suppose you do not need that blanket.”

  “I like it,” he protested. “It’s comfortable.”

  She rose and placed the dog down on the rug near the waning fire. Her father peered at her through droopy eyelids, his bushy brows nearly covering his vision. Creases and a large, ruddy nose dominated his face while his white hair remained thick.

  Sometimes she wished her parents were younger—that she had been born sooner—but no parent could love her as much as they did. Their little miracle baby. After twenty years of trying to have a child, she had apparently been a welcome shock to them.

  Leaving a fleeting kiss on her father’s cheek, she strode over to the fireplace and loaded it with dry twigs then blew on it. Flames sparked to life and she tentatively added a little wood.

  “What’s the time?” Papa asked, glancing at the clock on the mantel.

  “Time for bed.”

  She smothered a yawn with the back of her hand. Between researching her story and staying up late to finish the gossip column and caring for her parents, she had scarcely had four hours’ sleep last night. Add that to goodness how many late evenings of assisting Lucy and she reckoned she hadn’t enjoyed a full night’s sleep in at least a month.

  “How’s the story going?” Her father inched up from the chair and winced when a bone cracked. “Good God, never age, Freya. It’s extremely tiresome.”

  “I’ll do my best,” she said brightly.

  He stopped in front of her and cupped her cheek, turning her toward the lamplight. “You look tired, my girl. You need some rest. Trust me, I know more about hard work than anyone, and you will regret it when your bones are as tired as mine.” He pressed his lips together. “Though, Lord knows, I would give anything to be able to go back to work so you could enjoy your life a little more.”

  “I do enjoy my life,” she insisted, clasping his hand and removing it from her face. “I love writing and I just know I have a good story here.”

  “I know you don’t like writing those columns.”

  “They are a start, Papa. I would wager you did not enjoy being a clerk either but look where it got you. You became a solicitor with an excellent reputation.”

  “If my eyes weren’t as bad as Brig’s, I’d still be a solicitor,” he grumbled.

  “You would miss your daytime naps too much,” she teased.

  “Well, I’m sure I could fit them in around my work,” he said with a grin. He glanced at the ceiling. “Have you checked on your mother yet? Lucy came and helped me with supper for her and she was in quite the talkative mood. Your mother that is, though that Lucy could talk the ears off the biggest gossips in Town.”

  Freya chuckled. She had known Lucy for many years—since Lucy’s father had brought her over from the Caribbean as a girl—and they helped each other out where they could. Lucy assisted with her parents while Freya worked, and she aided Lucy with her thriving business as a seamstress to some quite important people. Her friend’s reputation had grown of late and she suspected it wouldn’t be long before she’d be moving out of Prince’s Street. She didn’t resent her success one jot but, gosh, she was going to miss being so close by her.

  “I’ll go and check on Mama in a moment. She’s probably sleeping by now.”

  “I heard her coughing for most of the day.”

  Freya kept her expression neutral. The last thing her father needed was to be worrying about Mama’s health. Unfortunately, after a bout of illness, she had yet to fully recover. “I’m sure some soup or tea will help. I’ll go prepare some.”

  Her father put his hands to her shoulders. “You will go to bed,” he ordered. “I’m quite capable of warming some soup.”

  “But—”

  “Go,” he commanded, twisting her toward the door by her shoulders. “Knowing you, you shall be rising early in pursuit of this story tomorrow, and I would far rather you chase down villains with a full night’s rest.”

  “Yes, Papa,” she intoned, knowing he wasn’t wrong. The only question was, was Lord Huntingdon really a villain?

&nbs
p; Chapter Three

  Russell lifted his lithe shoulders. “Well, Rosie could try to make contact with Lady Pembroke,” he suggested.

  Guy eyed his half-brother who stood by the window, keeping watch. The man was no fool and had about the smartest mind of the three members of The Kidnap Club but they were struggling to fathom how to reach the baron’s wife. At this point, no one could even say if the woman still lived, such was the rarity of her being seen out in society.

  He frowned. Make that five members. Both Russell and Nash had married within the past year and both of their wives assisted with the kidnaps.

  “I think it best I try,” Guy said. “It sounds as though Lady Pembroke’s husband is a brute, and I wouldn’t want to put her in danger.”

  “The damned madwoman practically craves danger,” Russell said, easing up from his chair in the dilapidated cottage. “But I trust your judgement, Guy.”

  While Grace, Nash’s wife, helped with looking after the ladies and staying out of danger, Rosamunde took part in the kidnappings. The bold woman did rather a fine job of it too. They had saved another two women from dire situations since the wives had joined. He rubbed a hand over his face. Sometimes, it exhausted him that they even needed to do such a thing, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop. If women came to him, he found himself unable to decline his assistance.

  Nash, his long-time friend and fellow peer of the realm, dropped several sugars in the cup in front of him. “We are certain this woman is in trouble?”

  “I saw a letter,” Guy said, “but this is why we need to talk with her. We know nothing of her situation as yet but from what Lady Clearbury stated, her husband has a heavy hand. I see no reason for her to lie.”

  Guy’s brother nodded. “Why would a duchess engage your services and risk gossip without reason?”

  He peered up at Russell. He trusted Russell’s judgement to a fault even though their kinship had only become common knowledge during the summer, and though they had grown closer, neither of them quite knew how to be proper brothers yet. Russell had spent his whole life alone so having a wife and a brother was taking some getting used to. Despite Guy knowing of their relationship for longer, it still caught him off guard sometimes, having a relation on whom he could truly rely.

  “I’m happy to do whatever needs to be done,” said Nash. “Just send me word.” He took a sip of tea, curled his lip and shoved it back across the table. “I think I preferred it when we met at the inn.” He gestured around the draughty room with a cracked window, walls that used to be white but were peeling and grimy with dirt, and an old range cooker tinged with red rust. “Surely we have the funds for somewhere nice to meet?”

  Guy shook his head and rose from the rickety chair on which he sat. He snatched his coat from the back of it and retrieved his hat and gloves from the hat stand. “This blasted reporter woman keeps following me. It was too risky to meet anywhere public, and this was the only house I could let on short notice and with all the required secretiveness.”

  “Ah yes, Miss Haversham.” A grin spread across Nash’s face. “I rather like her columns. She does seem to get the best titbits.”

  Guy arched a brow. “You enjoy the gossip column?”

  Russell shook his head. “He only likes them because she described him as dark and dashing.”

  “Did she?” asked Nash. “I forget.”

  Guy narrowed his gaze at Nash. “You remember well enough, and for God’s sake, keep clear of the woman.”

  “She isn’t interested in me,” said Nash. “Only you it seems.” He rose from the table and paused. “Though how did she describe you? I cannot quite remember.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Guy said stiffly.

  The last time he had been featured in her column had been after the broken engagement, and he had done his best to not even read it, even though he had been unable to avoid a quick glance over it. He had to know if Amelia revealed anything about precisely why their engagement ended. Thankfully, she had said nothing.

  “Nash,” Russell warned.

  “Oh yes. I do believe it was dark, brooding but rather lacking in personality.” Nash put a hand to Russell’s shoulder. “Soon it will be your turn. I wonder how she’ll describe you.”

  Russell scowled. “Why would she write about me?”

  Nash gave him a look. “You are the lost half-brother of the Earl of Henleigh. Of course she will wish to write about you.”

  “Not if I can help it,” Guy muttered. “Though the damned woman has a mind of her own.”

  “What woman doesn’t?” said Nash with a shrug. “I’ve learned just to go along with it. It’s much easier that way.”

  Russell nodded, a slight knowing smile upon his lips, and unfolded his arms then pushed away from the windowsill. “I concur.”

  “Well, I won’t be going along with Miss Haversham,” Guy declared. “It could put all we’ve worked for at risk, and worse, endanger the women we’ve aided.”

  “I’m sure you can manage one little woman,” Nash said. “After all, you’re the damned Earl of Henleigh.”

  “I can handle her,” Guy murmured. Of course he could. Most definitely. One little pale woman wasn’t going to get the better of him. No, sir. “Just keep clear if she does approach you.”

  “Understood.” Russell came to join him at the door. “So I’ll see if I can find out anything more about Lady Pembroke and her routine.”

  “From a distance,” Guy reminded him.

  “Naturally.”

  “And I shall go back to my lovely wife in the country and wait for word from you both.” Nash paused to glance between them. “You know, I really don’t know how Grace and I didn’t see the similarities between you two. Especially Grace. She’s the smartest woman I know.”

  Russell made a noise. “We look nothing alike.”

  “Not obviously no, but there’s definitely something there. Around the eyes I think.” He gestured with a finger at Russell’s face and Russell batted his finger away. “Not to mention you both have the same hair color.”

  “Nash, one day I’m going to send you back to the country to your dilapidated estate and leave you there,” Guy grumbled.

  “You wouldn’t dare. You need my charm and good looks. Neither of you have any, that’s to be certain. You both scare the women we help half to death. Besides, the estate isn’t so dilapidated now. It’s coming along quite nicely.”

  “I’ll look for my dinner invitation,” Guy drawled.

  “Well, it’s not quite ready for dinner parties,” Nash admitted. “But we’ve made damned good progress.”

  “Who do you have doing your painting?” Russell asked. “It’s just that...”

  Guy left before the men could continue their conversation and mounted his horse. He could do without conversations of matrimonial happiness and painting the houses they shared with their wives. Though he certainly didn’t resent either of them their happiness, it was a sore reminder that he’d never have the same. No woman would go near him if Amelia’s reaction to him was anything to go by.

  THIS STORY HAD to be worth it. It just had to.

  Worth the water slowly seeping into the hole in her left boot and the raindrops dripping down the back of her coat from the brim of her hat. Worth at least two hours standing in the rain now. But the newspaper boy said he’d seen the earl’s carriage leave earlier in the day and Freya had no intention of letting him escape her again.

  Huddled under a tree, she eyed every passing carriage in anticipation of spotting the earl’s crest. She glanced down at her muddied hems. Wearing her smartest muslin dress had been a mistake. The pale fabric soaked up half the puddles, leaving her with skirts that went from white to light brown to a nice dark mud color. She grimaced. How was she ever going to get the earl to take her seriously when she looked as though she had traipsed across a muddy field?

  Well, it didn’t matter now. She caught sight of the crest that she didn’t think she would ever forget. She’d studied t
his man intimately and there was something odd about him. He behaved like a bachelor yet there were no scores of heartbroken women behind him. Even the circumstances behind his broken engagement were odd. Miss Amelia Jenkins had, as far as she could tell, been thrilled with the match and quite in love with the man. So why she should have a change of heart at the last minute, Freya could not fathom.

  She had to conclude a mildly attractive man like the earl had lovers somewhere. A gentleman like him did not just live life without female company. Goodness knows, she had written about enough affairs and titillations to last a lifetime. But where these lovers were, she did not know. Not even a hint of something more scandalous and illegal could be found.

  There was a story here, though, of that she was certain. He knew something about these missing women, and she wouldn’t let him brush her off again.

  Stepping straight into the street, she held up her hands. The carriage bore down upon her, raindrops sliding off the sleek black exterior. The ground vibrated underfoot as the two horses neared. She had anticipated the driver stopping much sooner but the vehicle barreled on. Breath held, she winced, bracing herself for a collision.

  What a stupid, foolish hill this would be to die on.

  Her heart dropped practically down to her toes when the carriage came to an abrupt halt of whinnying horses and a cursing driver.

  “What the bloody hell do you think you’re playing at?” he demanded.

  She waved a hand at him and skirted around the carriage, tugged open the door and hauled herself up into it. She plopped down onto the cushioned seat opposite the earl.

  He eased his newspaper down, a dark brow lifting. She supposed some women might find the look a little titillating. How he fixed her with his grey-blue eyes made her chest a little tight. But, no, that was more likely from nearly being trampled to death. She pressed a hand to her chest and offered a quick smile.

  “My lord,” she said breathlessly.

  He folded the paper and set it on the seat then tapped the roof. “Continue on.”

  She put her palm to the plush seat as the vehicle rocked into motion once more. “I rather thought you might sling me out.”