by Joyce Alec
He could write to her and let her know that he was in a difficult circumstance and that Lord Davenport could not be trusted—but if he did not give her anything specific regarding his location and his struggle, then he might still remain in this room with no hope of freeing himself. Of course, Lord Davenport might then decide to free him from this room if Miss Smythe rejected Lord Davenport altogether, although there was always the worry that Lord Davenport might then vent his anger on Arthur. A shudder ran down Arthur’s spine at the thought. If no one knew where he was, if the beau monde thought him either lost or in the grave already, then Lord Davenport could do as he pleased. He had not shown any concern or even regret over taking the life of the hackney driver, even though it had supposedly been a mistake. Therefore, Arthur had to ensure that he did what was best for Miss Smythe whilst also giving him the chance to be freed from this prison cell.
Hesitating, he looked down at the paper, the pencil poised in his other hand. What was it he wanted to say? What was it he could say, when he wanted to protect her? Closing his eyes, Arthur let out a long breath and thought of Miss Smythe. She always seemed so delicate, so quiet and gentle. Would she really be able to manage receiving such a note from him? Would she know what to do? Would there be anyone she could turn to for help?
“Not her father, at any rate,” he muttered to himself, opening his eyes and staring down at the blank piece of paper. He had been so delighted to receive the paper and pencil from Polly, thinking that it was everything he required in order to free himself from this place, but now that the time had come to write to Miss Smythe, he found himself filled with uncertainty.
Miss Smythe was not like his sister, Charlotte, although they had struck up a very strong friendship. Charlotte had always been outspoken and determined, filled with ideas and thoughts about her own future. Miss Smythe had been a wallflower, quiet and unobtrusive. He did not think that she had ever had the opportunity to speak openly to anyone other than Charlotte. She did as she was expected, aware that her father cared very little for her and that the consequences would be severe should she so much as bring even a question over her reputation. Was there any way he could rely on her now to do what was required?
He only had one piece of paper. He could not write to Lord Matthews, for example, and then also to Miss Smythe. As much as Lord Matthews might be able to help find a way for Arthur to escape, it might take a good deal of time which Arthur knew he did not have when it came to Lord Davenport and Miss Smythe. No, he had no other choice. If he was to save Miss Smythe from Lord Davenport’s clutches, then he would have to write to her and inform her of what had occurred. He could suggest that Lord Matthews be the one to aid her, of course, and all he could do thereafter was pray and hope that not only would she have the strength to do as he asked, but that she would also find the courage to step away from Lord Davenport before it was too late.
“Miss Smythe,” he wrote, his letters small and delicate so that he could fit as many words as he could on the paper. “Davenport is not as he seems. I am trapped in his townhouse so I cannot interrupt his intentions for you. Find Lord Matthews.”
It was all he could write. There was no more space for him to so much as sign his name. He had to hope that this was enough for Miss Smythe to understand what had occurred and what he meant by Lord Davenport not being as he appeared. Both sides of the scrap of paper were written on, his pencil marks barely visible in the light. A small groan escaped from his lips as he looked down at what he had written. He had to hope that this was going to be enough.
It seemed like hours had passed before the key turned again in the lock. Having hidden the pencil in the bedclothes and the piece of paper in his pocket, he was more than prepared if it should be Lord Davenport and not Polly who appeared.
Thankfully, the little maid was the one to walk into the room, another tray in her hands. The meals he received were adequate, at least, for which he was grateful. However, even the smell of the meat pie was not enough for him to become distracted from his task.
“Here, my lord,” Polly murmured as the two footmen came to stand guard by the door again, their eyes fixed on Arthur. “Your dinner tray.”
He nodded and got up from his bed. “I thank you,” he said, coming to sit down by the tray so that his back was to the footmen. Quickly, he pulled out the note from his pocket and set it on the table in front of him, out of sight of the footmen but so that Polly could see it.
Her eyes flared but she did not look up into his face. Instead, she set about clearing up the other tray that she had left earlier that morning, managing to surreptitiously pick up the note as she did so. Quite where she put it, Arthur did not see, although he heaved a long sigh of relief that neither footman made any sort of comment.
“I thank you,” he said again, wondering how he might give her the address to which the note should be taken. “This is meat pie, is it not?”
She looked at him, the tray now in her hands. “Yes, my lord,” she said, a faint look of desperation appearing about her eyes. “It is.”
“Capital,” he said, hearing one of the footmen clear his throat as though he were encouraging Polly to hurry. “When I dined with Viscount Hornsby of Wimple Street lately, we had the very same thing.” He glanced over his shoulder and saw the footmen frown. “It is a reminder of better times,” he said sardonically, as one of the footmen rolled his eyes. “That is all.”
He had to hope that Polly understood what he had done and what he meant. The air seemed to grow thick about him as he watched her leave, hating the familiar thud of the door as it closed tight behind them. The key scraped in the lock and he was alone once more.
His heart was racing furiously, but with an effort, Arthur contained his anxiety and allowed himself to quieten somewhat. He had done what he could. The note was now in Polly’s care and, somehow, she would have to find a way to take it to Miss Smythe. Praying that the maid would remember that it had been Miss Smythe whom he had spoken of before or, if she did not recall, that she would read the note in her pocket instead, Arthur closed his eyes and bowed his head. There was, finally, a small hope that things might come to an end, that he might be freed and that Miss Smythe also might be able to remove herself from Lord Davenport’s intentions. The agony of waiting, however, seemed to take the brightness from his hope. He had not expected such torment. He had thought that writing the note and then giving it to Polly would make his hopes burn brightly—but instead, all he felt was agony. The agony of not knowing whether or not Polly would succeed, and whether or not Miss Smythe would receive his note and know what to do. Polly would not return until the morning, which meant that he would have an evening and a night of torturous thoughts that would only tug at his mind until he fell into a fitful sleep.
The key turned in his door and, starting with surprise, Arthur turned around again. Had Polly been discovered already? Had his note been found? His heart in his throat, he waited until the door swung open slowly, to reveal none other than the broad grin of Lord Davenport.
“Wickton!” he exclaimed, as though he and Arthur were long lost friends that had not seen one another in some time. “You have not heard the joyous news as yet and I thought it best to tell you.”
“Oh?” Arthur replied, giving Lord Davenport a dismissive look. He hated the arrogance of the man, hated the grin on his face and the laughter in his voice that told Arthur he was enjoying the struggle Arthur was enduring. “And what makes you believe, Davenport, that I have any interest in any of your affairs?”
Lord Davenport chuckled darkly and Arthur felt his skin crawl.
“Oh, but I thought you would be most intrigued since it is to do with your lovely Miss Smythe, whom you were so desperate to keep from me,” Lord Davenport said, watching Arthur closely for his reaction. “She is to marry me, you see.”
A lump began to form in Arthur’s throat, aching painfully as he looked steadily back at his enemy. He had been too late, it seemed. Miss Smythe was already betrothed.
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br /> “The news has been all over London,” Lord Davenport continued greedily. “And I am to have a ball here, in this very house, in honor of my new bride.” His smile spread, becoming dark and malevolent. “What say you to that, Wickton?”
Arthur could not speak. The lump in his throat was growing still, his lungs beginning to scream for air as he tried to accept this news, tried to accept that Miss Smythe was, in fact, already engaged to another.
“I thought it would be wonderful for you to listen to the music of the ball floating up towards you,” Lord Davenport said when Arthur did not reply. He took a few steps towards Arthur, his head at a jaunty angle as he grinned. “Can you not imagine it, old boy? Hearing that music, that laughter and fun? You will know for certain then that you have failed entirely. Miss Smythe is to be my wife and the beau monde shall witness it. You have not succeeded, it seems.”
“What chance did I have to succeed when you have captured me?” Arthur asked, his voice hoarse as he attempted to keep a hold of his rage and disappointment. “You have not allowed Miss Smythe the chance to see your true nature.”
Lord Davenport shrugged, as though it did not matter at all what Miss Smythe thought. “She will discover it soon enough,” he replied, the lightness in his grey eyes betraying his smugness and arrogance. “But by then, of course, it will be much too late.”
Arthur drew in a sharp breath as a vision of Miss Smythe played out before his eyes. She would be lost, trapped as he was now, with no way to escape from her husband. There was nothing he could do now, for even with the note he had given to Polly, Miss Smythe would be tied to Lord Davenport in her betrothal. To cry off now would be to risk scandal and ruin. Her father would not stand for it and, as far as Arthur knew, she did not have the strength to stand up against him.
“The first banns will be called this Sunday,” Lord Davenport said smoothly, looking at Arthur with an arched brow. “So you will not have to remain in here too long, Wickton, old boy. I am sorry for the trouble, but I cannot risk you ruining what I have achieved thus far.”
Before he could stop himself, Arthur lashed out towards Lord Davenport. His fist planted into Lord Davenport’s face, connecting with his cheekbone and then his eye. Lord Davenport let out a howl of pain and staggered back—and Arthur did the only thing he could think of and ran for the door.
The footmen were there in a moment. They strong-armed him back into the room, their combined strength no match for his. Despite the adrenaline rushing through him, despite the fierceness of his anger and his utter determination, Arthur realized he could not win.
“I should strike you down for that,” Lord Davenport hissed, one hand covering his injured eye. He came closer to Arthur, his face contorted with rage. “How dare you lay a hand on me?”
Arthur sneered at him, his anger burning hot. “This from the man who has captured me and held me here without consideration,” he retorted, jabbing one finger into Lord Davenport’s chest, although the two footmen moved to prevent him from doing so again. “You have your staff here to protect you, to ensure that I am not allowed to escape. You have captured Miss Smythe’s attentions by your deceit and your pretense of character. You wear a mask, Lord Davenport, and yet your cowardice shines through.” He could not stop himself from speaking, even though he knew there might be consequences for doing so. “Your threats, your manipulation, and your guile show that you have no bravery within you. You will not allow Miss Smythe to see your true character because you have decided that she is the one you will be able to bend to your will. This is all for your own sake, is it not? You care for no one but yourself and you utterly disgust me.”
For a long moment, Lord Davenport simply looked at Arthur without saying a single word. The footmen stood poised, ready to bring Arthur down to the floor in agony should Lord Davenport wish it, but, much to Arthur’s surprise, the only thing Lord Davenport did was to turn around on his heel and march to the door, gesturing for the two footmen to go with him. Arthur was left standing alone, breathing hard, as the door was pulled tightly closed behind Lord Davenport. And with the key scraping in the lock, he was sealed inside once more.
11
“Lord Matthews!”
Emily could not help but breathe a loud sigh of relief as the familiar face of Lord Matthews came into view.
“I have been most eagerly waiting for your arrival,” she said as he came into the drawing room and bowed. “I have heard some dreadful news that I simply must speak to you about.”
Lord Matthews folded himself carefully into a chair as they sat, with Emily’s maid sitting nearby for propriety’s sake. “I am glad to inform you that I have had some success as regards the hackney that Lord Wickton took,” he said as Emily sat forward in her chair, her heart suddenly beating furiously with nervous anticipation. “Although I cannot say that it is entirely good news.” Something dark flickered in his eyes, making Emily’s stomach tighten.
“I see,” she whispered, just as the maid entered with the prepared tray for them both. “I suppose I should ask you first what you have discovered, before I tell you of what I have learned.” She gestured for Lord Matthews to begin as she reached forward to pour the tea.
Lord Matthews cleared his throat. “I believe I am also to congratulate you, Miss Smythe,” he said softly. “You have become engaged, I hear.”
Emily looked up at him, seeing a slightly confused look on his face which was quickly hidden by his smile.
“Indeed,” she said tremulously, her heart aching at the thought of having to marry Lord Davenport. “It came as something of a surprise to hear of my engagement, Lord Matthews, for I will confess to you that I do not recall ever accepting.” Her brow furrowed all the more as she added a dash of milk to each cup. “Lord Davenport is not the gentleman I once thought him to be,” she added slowly. “He has not told me the truth about what occurred the last time he and Lord Wickton were at White’s, I am sure of it.”
Lord Matthews nodded, his expression grave. “I am a trifle relieved, I will admit, to hear that you do not particularly trust Lord Davenport,” he confessed. “I have discovered that not only did Lord Davenport follow Lord Wickton from White’s, albeit it some minutes later, he then hailed a hackney and both he and another gentleman went after Lord Wickton.” He leaned forward and accepted the cup and saucer from her. “The hackney driver was then asked to stop and Lord Davenport and his companion hurried after Lord Wickton on foot—apparently, the hackney was going rather slowly so he did not have a great deal of trouble doing so.”
Emily swallowed a sip of her tea, feeling her throat suddenly dry. “I see,” she replied, looking across at Lord Matthews and feeling as though he were about to tell her something of great significance. “And then?”
“The hackney driver does not know,” Lord Matthews said slowly. “Prepare yourself for a shock, Miss Smythe, for I must tell you something grievous.”
She nodded and took another sip of her tea, as though it might fortify her. “Please,” she said, gesturing to him. “I may look pale and shy, but I confess that I have found a strength within me of late. Please speak freely.”
There was a moment of hesitation and then Lord Matthews nodded, as though he had decided to do as she had asked. “The hackney driver informed me that a hackney was found empty later that evening, not long after he had allowed Lord Davenport and his companion down from the hackney.”
“Empty?” Emily repeated, frowning. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that the horse and hackney were there on the road but that the driver was nowhere to be found,” Lord Matthews explained. “There was, however, some blood found and only a few days ago, a man’s body was pulled from the Thames. He had been shot.”
Emily sucked in a breath, her hand shaking with a sudden trembling as she set her cup down on the small table in front of her.
“I have shocked you,” Lord Matthews uttered. “I am sorry. It is only that—”
“No, no, please,” Emily protested, h
olding up one hand and lowering her head so that she might take in a few calming breaths. “This is not the first time I have heard such news, Lord Matthews. Why, Lord Davenport told me the very same thing.” She saw the surprise climb into Lord Matthews eyes. “Are you trying to tell me that the man they pulled from the Thames was not Lord Wickton?”
Lord Matthews appeared even more astonished. “Indeed not, Miss Smythe!” he exclaimed, leaning forward in earnestness. “It is the missing hackney driver, not Lord Wickton.”
Weakness coursed through Emily and she slumped forward, her arms resting on her lap, her hands reaching up to press against her cheeks so that she might contain her relief and her shock. The dead man was not Lord Wickton. The fear that had been dogging her ever since Lord Davenport had first told her of the incident at the Thames was finally brushed from her like a fine dust, allowing her to breathe freely for what felt like the first time in days.
“He is not drowned,” Lord Matthews said gently, seeing the depth of her fright. “He is not the man that was discovered, Miss Smythe. You need not allow your mind to turn over that idea any longer.”
Emily took in a long, shaking breath, feeling herself tremble still. Lord Wickton was not the drowned man, then. He was not, as far as she knew, gone from this earth. There was still hope that he lived, that he was lost somewhere, unwell or some such thing.
“Charlotte will need to be informed,” Emily murmured, not able to lift her head as tears began to burn in her eyes. “She has written to me to state that she has not found her brother at his estate and therefore, she is to come to London. I expect her here in the next few days and I should not like her to hear of the drowned man and think as I did.”