Taking the Spinster (The Kidnap Club Book 3)

by Samantha Holt

  But then, if she thought too hard about it, she pictured him with some beautiful courtesan who flittered about the richest men of the ton. Admittedly, he had never been connected with any of the well-known courtesans but that might have been preferable to him coming to a place like this—a place that reeked of desperation and tragedy.

  Oh who was she kidding? It didn’t matter where he found his pleasure—the tightness in her chest was only triggered by one emotion.

  Jealousy.

  She’d laugh if it wasn’t so preposterous—acting as though she had some sort of claim over him.

  The earl could do as he pleased, and one mere kiss meant nothing. It might have been her first kiss in forever and one that she would never forget but it meant nothing. Why was that so difficult to remember?

  And now he had inferred he found her pretty. Freya could count on one hand the amount of people who had called her pretty. Most of them included were family members. She had thought herself rather better than such simple flattery, but it seemed not. She sucked down a deep breath. Somehow, she needed to regain her footing here.

  “I would not have had to come here if you hadn’t, you know,” she pointed out, her voice weak. She clenched her teeth together. Just wonderful. What a fine argument that was.

  “Of all the foolish things you could do, Miss Haversham, this was the worst.” His jaw tensed, covered in thick, dark stubble, highlighted by the lamplight flooding out of the building’s windows.

  She recalled the feel of it against her mouth, leaving her with the most pleasant warm feeling. “What if I had not spotted you? That man would have taken what he wanted, regardless of payment.”

  She straightened her shoulders. “I could have escaped,” she lied. The man had been three times the size of her and her wrist still ached from where he’d grasped it.

  He shook his head. “I thought you a clever woman.”

  “I am,” she protested.

  Or at least she was. When she realized quite where the earl was going, she’d been unable to ignore the painful burning sensation inside her. She’d hoped she was wrong. That maybe he was performing some charitable act but then he’d spoken to several of the women and her heart became weighted like a stone.

  How silly she had been to believe for one moment he was different from other members of the nobility. They took what they wanted and lived a life of pleasure and debauchery with little care for the predicaments of others. The chances were, he was only being kind to her so she would drop the story.

  Well, he wasn’t going to continue to fool her.

  “I’m clever enough to see that you are precisely who I thought you were,” she said more forcefully, taking a step toward him.

  “Oh?”

  “Nothing more than a pleasure-seeking, reckless rake, who likely finds it amusing to play the hero, knowing he is anything but.”

  The furrow in his brow deepened. “Pleasure-seeking?” He moved closer. “There’s no damned pleasure to be found in there.” He gestured to the building.

  His gaze searched hers and her heart pounded in response. She regretted the word now. Pleasure. It swung between them, like the pendulum of a clock, striking her hard in the chest. There had been pleasure in their kiss, and she was certain more could be had. But that could have been fake. One big lie. A deliberate moment rather than the rash mistake she had thought it to be.

  She folded her arms, offering up the only defense she could conjure. “I suppose your favorite woman was not there tonight.”

  “My favorite woman,” he repeated with disgust. “Miss Haversham, I do not frequent whorehouses.”

  She gestured up and down him. “I rather believe this proves you to be a liar.”

  “I am here with good reason and not to seek a woman, I can assure you of that.”

  “I saw you speaking with those women, giving them coin. I saw you and—” Her throat clogged suddenly when she recalled the sharp pain of seeing him with them. She had no claim over him and no desire to have one, she reminded herself.

  Not that it seemed to matter.

  His eyes narrowed, and he pressed a finger to his lips. “Miss Haversham, are you jealous?”

  She gasped. “Certainly not!”

  “Why does my private business upset you then?”

  “It does not—” She cleared her throat. “It does not upset me,” she repeated, lowering her tone. “However, it disappoints me. These places are full of desperate women, doing what they must to get by. As far as I’m concerned, such acts should be done by two people who are both consenting and eager.”

  “Eager,” he murmured, his gaze darkening. “Indeed.”

  “And as a gentleman, you have to set a standard, and if you cannot be the better man, then who will be?”

  He moved closer and her chest tightened. “I’m trying to be the better man.”

  “Well, good but then why...” She lifted a hand and it connected with his chest. She wasn’t certain whether she wished to push him away or curl her fingers into the lapel of his jacket and pull him in. Regardless, he glanced down, the intensity in his expression fading to nothing, and stepped back.

  “Go home, Miss Haversham. It’s not safe for you here.” A crash resounded inside, followed by shouts. She flinched when the door slammed open and several men spilled out onto the ground, a wild tangle of flailing limbs and flying fists.

  “Go home,” he ordered as one of the men rounded upon him. “I’ll explain why I was here tomorrow.” He ducked a punch. Barely.

  Freya glanced between him and the brawling men. If she remained much longer, she’d end up tangled in the fight too. She had no doubt the earl could defend himself but maybe not with her here. She turned on her heel and scurried toward the main road, the sounds of the fight vanishing into the smoky evening air.

  Silly Freya. She should not even want an explanation. He didn’t owe her one. But her aching heart wanted it, nonetheless.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Miss Haversham’s house could only be described as modest. Though hardly a pauper’s dwelling, the paint around the windows of the tall, skinny brick building was flecked, and when Guy glanced up, he spied a tile about to slide its way from the roof onto some poor unsuspecting pedestrian. The windows and front step were clean, though, so they either kept a maid or Miss Haversham furiously scrubbed them in between work and dog walks. He frowned to himself. He’d wager on the latter. The blasted woman didn’t know how to take a rest.

  He straightened his cravat and climbed the three steps to the dark blue front door. He didn’t really owe her an explanation. Not really. The fact she’d thought he visited the whorehouse for company was laughable considering almost the opposite was true. Nevertheless, he’d seen the truth behind her eyes.

  Jealousy had revealed itself.

  And he liked it—the fool that he was—he damned well liked it.

  Why did he always forget he didn’t want a woman? Or more specifically Miss Haversham. He couldn’t tell her the truth—not about The Kidnap Club and certainly not about his size predicament that sent every woman screaming from him. Just one of those things was enough to dissuade him from courting usually. Given there were two secrets at stake now, it gave him a very real reason to avoid her.

  Yet here he was.

  He rapped the knocker against the door and waited, aware of his pulse pressing furiously against his collar. Guy tugged on it and drew in a breath. Here he was—an earl, a kidnapper, a man of power and means, and his palms were sweating against his gloves.

  Pure, utter insanity.

  The door eased open and an elderly gentleman peered out at him. His clothes were worn and hanging off his shoulders, as though he had lost weight recently. His eyes blazed with intelligence and curiosity, though, and Guy concluded this had to be Miss Haversham’s father.

  “Yes?”

  “Forgive me, we have not been introduced. Lord Huntingdon, Earl of Henleigh at your service.”

  Mr. Haversham’s eyes wide
ned. “The chap Freya has been investigating.” He put a hand to his mouth. “I do not suppose I was meant to say that.” He bowed his head. “Mr. Haversham, my lord, what can I do for you?”

  Guy let his lips tilt. “I’m well aware of Miss Haversham’s interest in me. I was hoping to speak with her.”

  “Ah. I do hope she’s not in any trouble.”

  “Not at all.”

  At least not anymore. She nearly had herself taken for a damned whore last night and it still made him grind his teeth to picture that man trying to touch her. Her recklessness was going to be the death of her. Or him. Or both of them at this rate. Which was precisely why he needed to speak with her and put an end to this whole big mess.

  “I’m afraid—” Mr. Haversham turned with a frown.

  It took Guy a moment to figure out what the noise was. Someone upstairs suffered a coughing fit that could be heard even from Guy’s position on the steps. Miss Haversham had told him of her mother’s illness, so he assumed it was her.

  “Forgive me, my wife is unwell.” He pressed a hand to his head. “What was it you wanted again, my lord?”

  “I was hoping to speak with Miss Haversham,” he repeated.

  Another round of coughing echoed down the stairs. Mr. Haversham glanced at the stairs then to Guy. “I’m so sorry, my lord, I think I should go and see to her. My daughter went to purchase some lozenges for the cough. I’m certain she shall be back soon.” He backed inside and made his way up the stairs, pausing. “Do feel free to make yourself at home in the parlor room.”

  Mr. Haversham eased his way upstairs, his boney legs letting loose a crack that made Guy wince. No wonder Miss Haversham had her hands full. Neither of her parents were in the best of health. He motioned for his driver to wait then stepped inside and shut the door behind him and tucked his hat under an arm.

  Enclosed in the darkness of the entrance hall, he took tentative steps toward an open door, feeling a little as though he was stepping on hallowed territory. This was where Miss Haversham had grown up. He glanced around for signs of her occupation, spotting a summer bonnet hanging on a hat stand and a simple, childlike embroidery of a thistle on the wall that he imagined had to have been done by her.

  The parlor room offered up few hints of her occupation, though. A blanket hung over the back of a worn armchair and various country scenes hung on tired, grey wallpaper. The fire had died to almost nothing, so he strode over and retrieved the poker, stoking it back to life and adding a log. Even once he had the fire going, the chill in the room ate through his winter garments. No wonder her mother remained sick. How could she recover when the whole house had to be close to freezing? Much longer in this cold and Mrs. Haversham would die, especially when winter hit.

  It really wasn’t any of his business.

  In fact, he should leave right now and speak with Miss Haversham another time.

  He strode to the window and eyed his waiting carriage then peered down the road for sign of Miss Haversham.

  Blowing out a breath, he ran a hand through his hair. Damn it all. How could he leave her mother to die? Miss Haversham would likely hate this idea—hell, she might even fight against it—but if he acted now, before she returned home, he could have her mother safe and warm and hopefully recovering.

  He allowed himself a grim smile. Oh, yes, Miss Haversham was going to hate him for this, he was certain of it. But he had no choice.

  “PAPA, I HAVE…” Freya paused on the third step, her hand to the bannister. In her other hand, she clasped the medicine for her mother. “Papa?”

  He opened his mouth then closed it and the oddest little smile appeared on his lips. She turned, retreated down the stairs and came to stop in front of him. Her heart beat so hard against her chest she feared it might crack through her ribcage.

  “What’s wrong, Papa?” This was it, was it not? The moment she had been fearing would come. Her mother was dead, gone without her daughter at her bedside. Though, why her father had such an odd expression she could not say. “Shall I give Mama the medicine?”

  He shook his head. “Don’t bother, dear. She’s not here.”

  “Oh.” A lump formed in her throat. She tried to shove it down and ignore the prickling behind her eyes. This day had been coming for some time now. She should be prepared. And no matter what, she had to be strong for her father. She couldn’t lose him too.

  “That Lord Hunting chap just whisked her away.” He chuckled. “It was all rather amusing really.”

  “Lord Huntingdon?” She lifted a finger then lowered it, frowning. “Lord Huntingdon was here?”

  “Oh yes.” Her father nodded vigorously. “Looking for you, though he did not say why. It seems you were not all that secretive about your investigations, Freya. He seemed to know all about it.”

  “Well, yes...” She shook her head. “That’s beside the point. Where on earth did he take Mother and why did you let him?”

  “He’s a rather commanding chap.”

  “So Mama has been kidnapped and you just stepped aside and said that was fine?”

  He lifted his shoulders. “It hardly seemed worth arguing with him and your mother was quite content to go along after he had a little word with her. He said he couldn’t conceivably leave her in such a state and then had his man come in and gather up her belongings and took her off in his coach.” Her father’s smile expanded. “She seemed to enjoy the whole experience rather.”

  Freya resisted the desire to slap a hand to her forehead. She left her parents alone for half an hour and look what had happened. Her mother had essentially been kidnapped and her father seemed utterly content about the whole thing.

  “He said to be sure to visit whenever I want. He even offered for me to come with him, but it seemed rather an impertinence and I’m quite comfortable here. Besides, I could not very well leave you alone.”

  “Dear Lord...”

  “Freya,” he scolded. “Watch your words.”

  “Sorry, Papa.” She exhaled slowly. “You can imagine it is a bit of a shock.”

  “He seems a fine gentleman and I know your investigations have not turned up anything of note yet. In fact, was he not the one who gave you that blanket?”

  “Yes,” she admitted quietly.

  “Hardly the scoundrel, is he? And what sort of an earl would snatch an old woman up? What nefarious reason could he have?”

  “Well, he could...he could be using Mama against me. To dissuade me from my investigations.”

  Her father eyed her for several moments, his lips twisting. “It sounds to me as though you are rather hoping for continued reasons to investigate him. Were it any other man, you would have likely moved on to other things by now.”

  She gasped. “Papa, that’s simply not true.” She tucked the medicine back in her satchel, snatched up her hat and shoved her hands into her gloves. “I’m going to see Mama now. If you do not care what is happening to her, then I must go and fight her corner.”

  “There is no corner to fight, Freya, your mother is quite well, and the earl will be taking excellent care of her, I have no doubt.”

  She released a sound of frustration and stomped out of the door, slamming it shut behind her. Damn the earl. Thinking he could just march in and...and take her mother! That was not how things were done. At least not in her circles. She supposed noblemen were quite used to swanning in, snatching up mothers and imagining they knew what was best for everyone. Her mother should be home, in her own bed, under the care of her daughter, not in some strange house with maids she didn’t know.

  By the time she reached the earl’s townhouse—a good hour’s walk—her indignation hadn’t receded. Indeed, if anything it had pooled into a fiery mass of fury. First he made her watch while he spoke to various ladies of the night and then, when he was likely coming to give her an explanation, he snatched up her mother instead.

  Of course, she didn’t really have to watch him speaking with those women, but she had hardly been able to avoid it. Nor
had she been able to resist the pull at her stomach, the way it still twisted and turned when she imagined him propositioning them. It should not have shocked her, nor had any impact on her whatsoever. She’d seen and heard enough scandal in her journalistic career.

  She’d never heard of someone kidnapping someone’s mother, though. What on earth had motivated him to do such a thing? Could it be true what she said to her father? Would he try to use it against her? And to think her father considered she was only investigating him because of some interest in him. Ridiculous.

  Fine, so she had kissed him and maybe been a teensy-weensy bit jealous of the women, but she was a journalist. A professional. She would not pursue a story she did not think had merit out of some mere fleeting interest in a man.

  Lifting her chin, she straightened her back and pulled the doorbell. Professional. Calm. Dignified. She could do this.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Miss Haversham’s cheeks were mottled red. Guy tried to keep the smile from his face. He’d been waiting for the doorbell to ring.

  Well, waiting for her really. He knew she’d hate what he had done. The woman was too darn proud. He pulled open the door fully and gestured for her to enter. “I wondered when I might see you.”

  “I do not know how you can be smiling when you have essentially kidnapped my mother!” She stepped in and furiously tugged the pins out her hat then thrust it toward Mr. Brown. The man scrabbled to catch it when she released it into his hands. Her gloves followed then her coat, her movements jerky and erratic.

  “I did not kidnap her,” he said slowly.

  “You might as well have done.” She put her hands to her hips and stared up at him. “Why did you do it? To persuade me to drop my story? If you think—”

  “Funnily enough, I had no motive other than to see your mother well, but I am glad to see you do not think better of me,” he drawled.