A Marriage of Equals

by Elizabeth Rolls

  Bloomsbury—that evening

  ‘Blast the wench!’ Josiah Carshalton slammed a fist on his desk as he set down the brief message advising him that the search had failed. The search he’d been utterly convinced would flush Catherine out. ‘Nigh on two weeks and they’ve not found hide or hair of her!’

  The fact that a mere girl, his own daughter, had so far evaded his efforts to hunt her down was an insult he was not prepared to accept.

  Lucius Winthrop, the man he intended to be Catherine’s husband, scowled. ‘May I?’ He held out his hand for the message.

  ‘Doesn’t say much.’ Carshalton passed it across. ‘They’ll send the full report in a couple of days, but they found nothing.’

  Winthrop nodded, his lips pursed. Silence, apart from the crackle of the fire, held as he scanned the single page. He handed it back. ‘Unbelievable that a chit of twenty has evaded Bow Street and all the other men you’ve got out searching for her.’ He frowned. ‘Have you considered that she may not be in London?’

  ‘Of course I have!’ snapped Carshalton. Did the man think him a fool? ‘But I’ve had the posting inns covered since Christmas morning. The stage coaches, the mail—all checked daily. It’s costing me a damn fortune! No, she’s still here.’

  ‘Lord Martin Lacy? He may be—’

  ‘No.’ Carshalton shook his head. ‘He’s left the country. Sailed from Portsmouth for Portugal over a week ago. She wasn’t with him. I had him watched so damn closely he couldn’t have hidden a mouse in his luggage, let alone smuggled a girl aboard.’

  He ground his teeth. ‘That’s not to say he wasn’t involved—I’ll wager he was! But it’s that sly old bastard Selbourne hiding her now.’

  Winthrop took a swallow of brandy. ‘She hasn’t got some friend—a married friend, perhaps, who might be hiding her? I mean, Selbourne didn’t seem to know anything when we—’

  ‘Sly,’ Carshalton repeated between his teeth. ‘He knows something. He must. He was the most obvious person for her to have gone to. But like a fool I tried Lacy first because the little bitch threw me off the scent with that damn handkerchief of his and the note.’

  ‘You’re quite sure she would have gone to Selbourne?’

  ‘Yes. There’s no one else she could have gone to.’ He’d made sure of that over the years, controlling the girl’s acquaintances and cutting off any friendship that looked set to become too close. That was the best way to keep a woman in her place. That and the occasional thrashing. He’d done his best to break her link to Selbourne, but he hadn’t bothered with any beatings in the past two years. Hadn’t thought they were needed any longer.

  His fist clenched. She’d fooled him with that meek and mild façade, and in the last year or so he’d permitted occasional visits to Selbourne, just to have a carrot to dangle that could be taken away if she displeased him. He’d thought her cowed, but he’d underestimated her duplicity. In going after Lacy first he’d given the bitch time to get to cover. She’d earned a good thrashing when he did find her. Then Winthrop could finish taming the little shrew.

  ‘If Selbourne’s shop is watched, he’ll lead us to her,’ Winthrop insisted. ‘He must have her hidden in one of the inns nearby.’

  Carshalton shook his head. ‘No. All the inns were searched top to bottom along with every other building in the street. And right now? I wouldn’t care to wager a groat on him leading us to her. He’s fully alerted. He won’t go anywhere near her. I’ve had at least one man in that blasted bookshop every day and there’s no sign that she’s been there at all. The place is watched day and night, as are all the inns in the area. He’s barely stirred from the shop since Christmas except to stroll down to the Red Lion to eat his dinner, or get a coffee over the road.’

  He let out a vicious curse and took a gulp of his brandy. ‘We’ve got less than two months to find her. Once she’s twenty-one, it will be damn near impossible to take her back.’

  Winthrop drummed his fingers. ‘The threat of a lunatic asylum might bring her to heel.’

  Carshalton shook his head. ‘No. Once you’re married, the last thing you want is gossip she’s been locked up in Bedlam. Besides—’ he shot Winthrop a savage glance ‘—Selbourne has powerful friends. Including your own damned uncle.’

  Winthrop snorted. ‘My saintly Uncle Theo. However, I take your point about the gossip. What about Selbourne’s friends? Could one of them be hiding her?’

  ‘To oblige Selbourne?’ Carshalton stared at him. ‘It’s possible. She lived with Selbourne after her mother died, so she’d know his friends. Though how we’re to find her in that—’

  ‘Servants’ gossip.’

  Carshalton couldn’t blame Winthrop for the smug smile. Should have thought of it himself.

  The fellow continued. ‘Servants always gossip. Make a list of likely households. We’ll divide it and set men in the local taverns to pick up if someone has a mysterious young lady in residence. Dangle the reward. Someone will talk if there’s money in it.’ He tossed off the last of his brandy. ‘Once we’ve got the house, they won’t dare refuse to hand her over. Kidnapping an heiress still carries the death penalty.’

  He rose. ‘I must be off. I’ll be out of town for a few days doing the pretty with my uncle at Hampstead. Send me a note if there’s anything interesting in the full reports.’

  Carshalton shrugged. ‘I’ll have one of my scribes make a copy and send it out to you.’

  Lucius inclined his head. ‘Excellent idea.’

  ‘There is one thing,’ Carshalton said slowly. ‘One of my men was in Selbourne’s shop this afternoon. He was still around on the street when the Runners arrived. According to him Selbourne didn’t leave the shop at all, but another fellow did. He went across the road to the coffee house there.’

  Lucius shrugged. ‘What of it? Men go in and out of coffee houses all the time. I do myself.’

  Carshalton scowled. ‘I dare say you’re right. Anyway, the coffee house would have been searched along with the rest. The full report may tell us more. Still, it might be worth keeping an eye on the place.’

  * * *

  With the exception of Caleb, Psyché let her serving staff out of the front door and shut it behind them. Naturally the news that the Runners had found Will Barclay naked in her bed had amused all of them. Sally in particular had been pleased.

  ‘No point livin’ like a nun, an’ that’s a fact. You got everything you need? Don’t want no surprises down the road.’

  Which Psyché understood to be an expression of womanly concern that Sally’s mistress would not be left holding the baby, either figuratively or literally.

  Caleb was the last as usual, waiting to help her with the shutters. He’d got into that habit soon after he came to her. What wasn’t usual was the scowl.

  ‘What’s bothering you, Caleb?’ she asked.

  The scowl deepened. ‘Seems odd is all.’

  ‘Odd? What’s odd?’

  He hesitated. ‘None of my business, is it?’

  Her turn to hesitate. But this was not a case of an overbearing male attempting to rule her life. This was a young man she had encouraged to think of her like a sister. Eighteen months ago Caleb had been a groom in Lord Callington’s household, riding out with the young ladies. But the elder Miss Callington had become too obviously interested in him and he’d been dismissed without a character.

  ‘I didn’t do anything, Miss Psyché. Didn’t even look at the girl, let alone lay a finger on her beyond helping her into the saddle! And they knew it! But I’d tempted her, they said.’

  Caleb had ended up on the streets, begging, stealing, surviving on his wits and speed. She’d found him one evening in the yard at the back, searching the dustbins, and offered him a meal. He’d told her his story and she’d offered him a job. In return he’d offered unspoken and unstinting loyalty.

  ‘You’re worr
ied because he’s white.’

  Caleb had probably not looked sideways at the Callington girl, but it was always the servant who took the blame. And in the case of a Black male servant accused of dallying with or tempting the white daughter of the house? Caleb had been lucky to get away with only being dismissed.

  ‘Yeah.’ He heaved the shutter bar into place. ‘Look at me. Tossed out after six years because a white girl looked sideways at me.’ He bit his lip. ‘You say Mr Barclay’s a friend. But—’ he shoved his hands in his pockets ‘—what if his lordship doesn’t like his secretary having a bit of—?’ He cleared his throat.

  ‘Having an affair?’ she suggested.

  He nodded. ‘That. What if he doesn’t like it? He’s your landlord. He could make trouble.’

  She touched his shoulder lightly. ‘Lord Huntercombe is not like that, believe me.’

  He looked unconvinced. ‘They never are until they are.’ He shuffled his feet. ‘You sure?’

  ‘I’m sure, Caleb.’ She gave his shoulder a friendly shake.

  ‘There’s other stuff you’re not telling us. You haven’t had Mrs Archer in to clean and tidy recently.’

  She returned his direct gaze. Apart from renting Caleb a room, Jenny Archer also cleaned for her and Ignatius, and Jenny was the only other person he’d told about Kit, but her little boy usually came with her and could not be relied upon for silence. ‘No, I’ve been doing it myself. But for the rest, nonsense. Unless you mean the details of my...friendship with Mr Barclay.’

  He shook his head. ‘Not that. Look, I won’t say anything to anyone. You know that. Just...you’ll be careful, won’t you? Whatever it is. It’s different for us.’

  She wanted so much to trust him. Another ally would be invaluable, but—‘I’m always careful, Caleb. You’d best be off or Mrs Archer will lock you out for the night and you’ll be back here cadging a bed.’ She couldn’t afford that tonight of all nights. The less he knew the safer he was.

  ‘Right. Night, then.’

  ‘Goodnight.’

  * * *

  She’d already locked the back door and bolted it, but she did a final check that no one had slipped in while they cleaned up. At last she considered it safe to retrieve Kit.

  The crates in the storage room scraped loudly as she hauled them aside and her arms protested the weight. She would have to shove them back, too. But in a few moments she had the cupboard exposed again as it had been when the Runners searched earlier. After checking the cupboard and finding it full of extra crockery, they had concluded that it was no more than a cupboard. Then they’d moved all the crates about, searching for a trapdoor. Which they’d duly found. Great excitement all around. Followed by disappointment when they found only an empty cellar.

  Psyché lifted out the contents of both the floor and the bottom shelf of the cupboard, and the bottom shelf itself. The leather tab at the back blended in with the wood, barely visible. She pulled on it and the floor of the cupboard lifted out to reveal utter blackness.

  ‘It’s Psyché. You can come out now.’

  There was a shuddering gasp and Kit’s face, bone-white, appeared. Her hands shook as she clambered out of the hole. She blinked in the soft glow of the lantern and flinched as Psyché reached for her.

  ‘Kit. What is it?’

  She seemed to struggle for words, for breath. ‘The...the dark. I... I kept seeing things. I started to wonder if I was still there, or...or if I’d disintegrated.’

  Five hours. She’d been down there five hours.

  ‘Let’s get you upstairs.’

  * * *

  Will, dressed again, sprang up, dropping his book, as Psyché, half carrying Miss Carshalton, came through the door.

  ‘Here, let me help.’ He got an arm around the other side of the trembling girl, taking most of the weight. ‘What happened?’

  ‘The cellar,’ Psyché said. ‘I should have thought. Should have warned her what it would be like. By the fire. Come along, Kit.’

  Together they got Kit to the fire, settling her in the chair he had vacated.

  ‘Stay with her.’ Psyché reached for the shawl draped over the back of the chair and wrapped it around the girl. ‘She’ll be all right in a moment. I’ll make tea.’

  She rose and moved about, all quick, efficient competence as she swung a kettle over the fire, set a teapot to warm on the hearth and spooned tea into it.

  She talked quietly the whole time to Kit, her voice low and gentle, as if she spoke to a wounded creature. Will listened, himself insensibly soothed by that soft voice. Nothing important was said, but the sound of the words, the promise of a cup of tea, that she was safe now, breathed comfort and kindness. And he could see it working. Slowly Kit responded, her pallor easing, her breathing less jerky and her eyes seeming to see again.

  When Psyché poured the tea her hands reached for it, closing about it.

  ‘Th...thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’ Psyché’s hands remained there a moment, then she stepped back as Kit raised the cup to her lips.

  ‘I... I’m better now.’ She looked at Will. ‘I didn’t realise before. You’re Lord Huntercombe’s secretary.’

  He nodded. ‘Yes. Your uncle sent for him.’

  ‘And he sent you?’

  Will smiled. ‘Not exactly. I sent myself.’

  ‘You might like to explain how that came about, Mr Barclay.’ Psyché poured another cup and handed it to him. ‘There was no time earlier for explanations and I wouldn’t mind knowing how I came to have a man I’ve only just met occupying my bed.’

  ‘Your bed?’ Kit stared from one to the other.

  Will found himself blushing. ‘You wanted a distraction, didn’t you?’

  Psyché snorted. ‘I had in mind that you might loosen your cravat, maybe remove your coat and sit about in your waistcoat and shirtsleeves. I didn’t expect to find you naked—’

  ‘Naked?’

  ‘In my bed.’

  ‘I wasn’t naked!’ Will’s ears were close to combustion. ‘I had my breeches on!’ Mostly. He’d unbuttoned the falls and shoved them down a little so they wouldn’t show above the bedding, but he suspected this was one of those times that explaining would be far more dangerous than not. And he was trying very hard not to remember the expression on Psyché’s face when she’d seen him, seemingly naked, in her bed. It had confirmed his suspicion that he would very much like to be fully naked in her bed. With her.

  ‘Oh, well.’ Psyché grinned at Kit who was now spluttering into her tea. ‘Breeches make all the difference, don’t you think, Kit?’ She poured her own cup.

  Will took a restorative gulp of tea. ‘So. As to why I decided to find out what was going on—’

  Chapter Six

  It didn’t take him long to explain and at the end of it Kit set her teacup down with a steady hand. ‘Thank you, Mr Barclay. I’m... I’m very grateful. But this makes something very clear.’

  ‘What would that be?’ he asked.

  Kit looked straight at Psyché. ‘We were extraordinarily lucky this afternoon. From now on I should be in that cellar during the day.’

  ‘No.’ Psyché’s response was swift and uncompromising.

  Will looked up, surprised at the vehemence. ‘She has a point. If—’

  ‘No.’ Psyché looked sick. ‘You didn’t see her straight after she came out. It’s something they do to slaves in Jamaica—locking them alone in the dark not just for hours, but days sometimes to break them. It breaks their minds.’ She reached out and touched Kit’s wrist. ‘I’m sorry. It never occurred to me to warn you.’

  He tried again. ‘But surely now she knows—’

  She rounded on him, suddenly furious. ‘You know nothing about it! Warning her might have helped. But it’s not something you get used to. It gets worse every time. If she had snapped and sta
rted screaming, that would have finished it.’

  He opened his mouth and shut it again. He knew more than she thought. But this was not the moment to admit it. The point was—she was right.

  Kit flushed. ‘I don’t think I would have screamed, but—’

  ‘You can’t know, Kit.’ Psyché spoke gently to the girl. ‘I’ve seen grown men come out of a cellar like that close to insane, weeping in terror. It’s not your fault.’

  Will’s stomach clenched. He knew nothing of her life before she came to England. Had she ever been locked up like that? Isolated in the dark?

  ‘But it’s too dangerous for you having me up here!’ Kit gripped Psyché’s wrist. ‘He’d have you arrested for abduction.’

  ‘She’s right,’ Will said quietly. ‘You were lucky today. What if you don’t get a warning next time?’

  Psyché grimaced. ‘Ignatius—’

  ‘Was being watched,’ he said bluntly. ‘If he’d come across himself, they would have torn this building to pieces and found her.’

  Psyché let out a frustrated breath. ‘I know you’re right. But that means we can’t wait for a next time.’

  Will looked up sharply and she met his gaze. ‘We have to get her out quickly. Before Carshalton is sent the report from today’s search.’

  Will frowned. ‘Won’t he have that already?’

  She shook her head. ‘Unlikely. My Uncle Theo used to sit as a magistrate. Full reports from Bow Street take a little longer than that. Carshalton has hired the Runners privately, so he will have been told the search failed. But the officer in charge will have to write up a full report. Then his commander will read and approve it. After that copies will be made and one sent to Carshalton. That’s when we’re in real trouble.’

  ‘Because I had to give my name? I don’t think Carshalton will realise—’

  ‘It’s my name that’s the problem,’ she said. ‘They’ll put my name in the report as well as yours.’

  Kit shook her head. ‘Why should Carshalton recognise your name?’