Secrets of Lady Lucy

by Rachel Ann Smith

  Muttering to himself, “Bloody hell, Devonton. What were you thinking, the odds were so slight?” Damn. His return to polite society had caused him to curb his tendency to talk to himself in the third person. A habit born out of only having himself for company. Now was not the time for its return.

  While a rope was being synched around his ankles, he rubbed the back of his head against the ground to loosen the knot of his blindfold. Unfortunately, his captors were efficient, and he made little progress before he was lifted like a stuffed pig on a spit.

  Having been in similar predicaments during the war, horrible memories came flooding back. His breathing became erratic at being restrained once more. Blake was no sloth but knew his success in escaping would be the result of him using his wits rather than brute strength.

  The motion of flying through air abruptly ceased as he landed on his side. The wood beneath him creaked as he rolled onto his back. The smell of straw overpowered his senses as it covered him from head to toe. Blake hated the suffocating feeling. Why had they chosen a cart to transport him? Disguise was the most probable answer, or was it also to travel a great distance?

  He tried to remain calm, slowing his breathing and mentally reminding himself he was back in England and not in some foreign country under attack by Napoleon. He needed to focus his thoughts so he could figure out how to escape. He worked relentlessly at the knot binding his wrists, but the motion was rubbing his skin raw.

  After what seemed like hours in the back of the cart, he was able to breathe once more as the straw was removed. Roughly, one man grabbed him by the ankles while the other crudely carried him by his arm, which felt like it was about to come out of its socket. As he dropped to the floor, his blindfold slipped enough for him to see he lay upon a stair landing. Pushed, he was sent rolling down, each riser bruising his body. His descent stopped as he curled up in what felt like a corner, two walls supporting his aching form. He attempted to sit upright, scraping his back up against the cold stone wall.

  His fall had loosened his bindings, and his wrists were now free. Slowly, he ran his hands over his thigh, squeezing to assess any damage. He bent his knee, pulling his legs closer to his chest, and he flinched as pain coursed through his rib cage. Taking a shallow breath, he continued to evaluate his condition and found no broken bones in his lower limbs. His arms and shoulders were badly bruised, but again he found no indication of any breaks.

  Wood creaked as heavy footfalls echoed down the steps. Pulled upright by the back of his shirt, Blake slumped and faked unconsciousness.

  The brute grunted as he hauled Blake’s dead weight across a dirt floor. Metal clanged, and a key rattled as it opened a manacle which was wrapped and snapped shut around Blake’s ankle. He was hauled to his feet, and another manacle was placed around his right wrist. The manacle was secured above his head, forcing him to stand. The slam of the door and fading footsteps up the stairs were the last things he recalled before blackness claimed his consciousness.

  Blake awoke, dry mouthed, lips cracked, and blood oozing from his ear. How was he going to escape? Shifting his weight, metal scrapped against his skin. With persistence, he could work on a knot and gain his freedom, but to try to break the manacle with limited reach and no tools was an incredibly daunting task to his fatigued mind.

  Soft blonde curls. Grey-blue eyes.

  Instead of the girlish image his mind had drug up numerous times over the past decade when he found himself in similar predicaments, a mature woman in a lavender gown now flittered through his thoughts. His instincts told him she needed him. He had to escape. When were they to move him? A few days, he could survive a few more days… for her.

  Lucy peered out of the coach window and sighed with relief as she spotted the London tower. With Matthew and Mr. Smyth present, she had been relegated to the coach for the entire journey. Her attention refocused on the dozing Mr. Smyth, who sat slumped in the rear-facing seat. He had been invaluable on the trip back to London, making sure the changes of horses and drivers were done with efficiency and care.

  At the last posting house, Lucy had overheard Mr. Smyth state, “Lord Harrington, it would be best if you continued the journey in the coach.”

  Matthew’s immediate response was, “We have been traveling at a bruising pace. You need rest, and I need to be outdoors. You are to travel and protect Lucy in the coach.”

  Lucy suspected Mr. Smyth’s request was due to finding himself being used as a pillow the last time he was subjected to riding in the coach with her. She had inadvertently snuggled into Mr. Smyth’s shoulder after falling asleep. At the time he had promptly assured her he did not mind at all and he welcomed her warmth—despite the fact that his hands were grasped tightly together in his lap. She was loath to admit it, but she found Mr. Smyth’s presence reassuring and familiar, rather like a brother, which she had openly shared with him. Had her comment offended him? She really did like the man and resolved to apologize as soon as he woke up.

  As the coach approached the front steps of their town house, Mr. Smyth still had not moved. Evidently he felt the coach’s change in pace, for when the door opened, he bounded to the street.

  She hadn’t even managed to alight from the coach before Mr. Smyth hurriedly stated, “I’m off to see about the package for Lady Lucy,” and disappeared down the street.

  Matthew tugged on her elbow as he reached to assist her down from the coach. “Come on, Lucy. We have much to do. But first we must remove all this travel dust. Meet me in the library when you are ready.” He limped up the steps, and she followed close behind. They were greeted by an enthusiastic Edward, only his excitement subsided at Matthew’s slow movements.

  “Matthew, what happened? Were you attacked by highwaymen?”

  Matthew groaned, “No highwaymen…”

  Edward peered around his brother to see Lucy. With brow creased, he asked, “Did Lord Devonton remain at the house party?”

  At the mention of Blake’s absence, Lucy’s eyes watered. It was Matthew who came up with a plausible excuse for Blake not accompanying them. “No, Devonton had to return to his own town house to check up on the repairs.”

  “Will he return tomorrow?”

  “Edward, I’m exhausted. I’m glad to see you too, but can you please let us enter? I need a bath.” His reprimand came out rather harsh.

  “Sorry, Matthew. I’ll be off.” Dejected, Edward turned and left his siblings milling in the foyer.

  “He was just concerned for Blake,” Lucy admonished.

  Brushing past her, Matthew muttered a curse and something about an apology. Tired and weary, she didn’t have the energy to deal with her twin. She needed to see to Edward first and reassure him he had done nothing wrong.

  She found her younger brother in the schoolroom alone. He was standing by the small window that let in a surprising amount of light due to its position.

  “Edward?” The look on the poor boy’s face made Lucy’s eyes water yet again. How could Matthew have forgotten their brother was only eight?

  “I was just asking. I didn’t mean to upset Matthew.”

  “You did nothing wrong, Edward. Do you understand? Matthew is just upset because… well, because he and Lord Devonton are out of sorts at the moment.”

  “It’s probably Matthew’s fault. He is always saying things he doesn’t mean. Well, that’s what he tells me all the time.”

  “He says it to me too. And you are likely right it was Matthew’s fault.”

  Lucy hugged Edward. Behind the door, boots scuffed the floor. Who was listening? A servant or was it Matthew? Had their brother overheard all the conversation or just her last few words? Footfalls faded down the hall. Did Matthew believe he was at fault for Blake’s capture? If he had been the one eavesdropping, her comments must have had him reeling.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Faint footsteps became louder. A man in boots entered the darkened room.

  Blake pled, “Water,” his voice hoarse and his lip cracked
and bleeding. The skin around his wrists was cut and bloody and had also become red and inflamed. His captors had alternated the manacles between wrists to prevent further damage. Even though his boots had provided a layer of protection for his ankles, they were not faring any better than his wrists.

  Blake was stubborn and refused to become a docile prisoner. If there were another breath left in his body, he would continue to fight with his captors every chance he had. He tried to open his eyes to see who had entered, but his lids felt like sandpaper. Having been kept upright, he had not been able to rest. Lack of sleep and his festering skin made it difficult to devise a sound plan for escape. He couldn’t remember the last time he was fed or had water. During the past few hours, Blake felt as if he was becoming feverish and his thoughts were muddled.

  He began to mumble in a mix of English and French. “Should have told her… je l’aime… I love her… shouldn’t have waited to tell her… je desire l'épouser… I want to marry her… the most beautiful gray-blue…”

  Hearing his ramblings, his captors threw cold water into his face. Blake continued to mumble incoherent thoughts. “…need to take her to see… nez le plus mignon… cutest nose…”

  Blake was released from the manacles, and his knees buckled. Instead of falling to the ground arms wrapped about his waist. Although not entirely conscious, Blake still continued to fight, but with limited strength, he was easily blindfolded, and his wrists and ankles bound with rope.

  The fever caused him to drift in and out of consciousness.

  “Bloody hell! I told you lot we needed him healthy for the voyage. We will not be paid if he is in this condition. Get a doctor or a healer, now!”

  The light click-clack of a heeled boots approaching filtered through his foggy brain just before a cool, gentle hand pressed against his forehead. How much time had passed? Attempting to open his eyes, an image of a woman of middling years materialized. She must be the village healer. She lifted his arms and bent to sniff his wrists. Methodically she removed his boots and then shook her head as she muttered, “Tsk, tsk.”

  “What is…” His throat burned, but he tried again. “Who are you?”

  “Me name is Miss Willow. You’re in rough shape, milord. I’ll have to fetch some supplies. But I will be back.”

  Did he know Miss Willow? How did she know he was a lord? He didn’t recall ever meeting a Miss Willow, nor were her features familiar. The darkness claimed him once more.

  A burning sensation at his wrist had his muscles jumping. He pulled back to swing at the villain who was torturing him. With one eye open, Miss Willow glared at the offensive hand, and Blake relaxed and let his hand fall to his side. Relief washed over him, glad that he had not hit the woman tending to his wounds. Palm facing upward, he reached for her, hoping she would come closer for him to speak. But Miss Willow pulled back and shook her head.

  She held a foul-smelling tonic to his lips. “Drink, or there will be no tomorrow for ya.”

  He opened his mouth and gulped the thick liquid.

  “Out of me way. Do ya want me to keep ’im alive or not?” Miss Willow pushed past one of the hefty men and went to work on his ankles, applying salve and bandaging them up tight.

  What would intimidate the stout Miss Willow? Not the two brutes standing over her.

  “He will need broth, and his bandages tended to.”

  His guards stood and stared at her. Without hesitation, Miss Willow poked one of the men in the chest and said, “Me services are not free for ya.”

  The scene was comical and nearly brought a smile to Blake’s lips, but he was so bruised and swollen he couldn’t feel the muscles in his face.

  Tapping her foot, the woman didn’t budge until the guard nodded his consent. Then with a broad smile she said, “Aye, y’ll pay me handsomely to make sure he lives, or that other gent is gonna have ya…” The woman slid her finger across her neck. She had a flair for dramatics.

  Bending down, she whispered in Blake’s ear, “And you, milord, had better not die on me.”

  Another salve was applied to his lips, then the cool touch of her fingers was replaced with a mug filled with warm beef broth. The taste was familiar, and it brought hope he would survive this ordeal.

  Needing to take a break from pouring over the papers scattered across her desk, Lucy raised her arms above her head. Her gaze locked with red bloodshot eyes. How long had Matthew been staring at her? He had refused to sleep or leave her side for days out of stubborn pride.

  The afternoon of their arrival back in Town, Mr. Smyth had returned with the package of missives. Matthew had confronted the man. “What orders did you receive? Did you inform them of Lord Devonton’s abduction?”

  Calmly, Mr. Smyth responded, “Lord Harrington, I updated Home Office that Lord Devonton had been captured. I was given orders to remain here until Lady Lucy has completed her assignment—with your permission, of course.”

  Matthew didn’t hesitate. “We will have a guest room made up for you. If you need anything, please do not hesitate to inform the staff.”

  Mr. Smyth clarified the extent of his orders. “My lord, I’m to watch over Lady Lucy and provide her with any and all resources necessary.”

  “What! Do they not think I can protect my own sister?” Matthew yelled.

  Since that awkward conversation, the two men had constantly been hovering over her. How was she to work under these conditions?

  Matthew interrupted her reverie. “Lucy, perhaps you should seek your bed and begin in the morn.”

  Lucy focused on the sheets before her, but her vision was blurred. “I cannot sleep. Blake is missing, and the sooner I can gather information, the better. I’m praying there will be clues in the missives that will lead us to his captors. I will not rest, and I need to…”

  Her words faltered, and tears welled in Lucy’s eyes. Before she realized it, Matthew had his arms around her, and she began to sob, resting her forehead on his chest.

  After a while, she stopped crying and lifted her head, “Matthew, thank you for comforting me. You know I’m not normally a watering pot.”

  Lucy hiccupped, and after taking a deep breath she continued, “Blake is… he is so different from all your other friends.” She continued to babble, “When I’m at an engagement, I find myself seeking him out. When I’m near him, the rest of the world disappears, and all that is left is the warmth of his gazes. At the Redburn house party, we would venture to the lake and just talk. Blake was always inquiring into my interests, into my thoughts and ideas. He takes note and remembers what I like and dislike. He often commented that he liked the fact we could discuss any matter, and he always encouraged me to voice my true opinions, even if he disagreed.”

  Lucy paused to see if Matthew was following her jumbled ramblings. She began to blush as she shared, “When Blake kisses me, he makes my skin tingle, and I…”

  Matthew raised a hand to stop her from telling him more. With his other hand he rubbed her back in a circular motion, as their mama had when they were little. “I know exactly what you are saying. Despite Blake’s aloof exterior, he is a most exceptional man. I am thrilled you see him as I do. But right now, he is counting on us. You need rest. Without it, you will not be able to think clearly and decipher the missives posthaste.”

  Matthew bent to kiss the top of Lucy’s head, and then he raised her chin to face him. “I want you to know I’ve always been proud of you. I don’t doubt your brilliance. I know you will succeed in decoding the missives.”

  His confidence in her resulted in a smile that crept across her features and revitalized her energy. Who had dared to capture Blake? Was he safe or being tortured?

  Matthew addressed Lucy again. “If you do not want to retire to your bedroom, then I’ll call for a light meal. We can share it here while we organize the documents. I want to help, Lucy. He is my very best friend, and I failed to protect him.”

  “It would be best if you sought out your bed. Once I have the information we see
k, I assume you will need your energy and wits for the journey ahead.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Waves crashing against wood and the rolling motion of the channel brought Blake out of slumber. “Damn, I’m on a boat.”

  Tingling sensations crept up his arms as he began to move. He tested his restraints, only to realize he was bound by ropes across his thighs and chest, allowing no movement. His wrists and ankles were bandaged and he no longer felt feverish. How much time had passed? Hours? Days?

  A hand on the back of his head prevented Blake from looking up. He could only see the tips of the man’s boots, but they were hessian’s and well polished.

  “Yes, we are at long last on our way. I would have preferred to leave days ago, but the winds were not favorable. If the current conditions prevail, we should arrive in Calais soon.” The voice belonged to the gentleman in charge. The man’s stomach made an awful sound as he declared, “God, I hate sailing. Six hours on this ship is enough for me to last a lifetime.”

  Who was the traitor that dared to kidnap a lord? For what purpose was he being sailed to the Continent? Blake had not wanted to set foot on foreign soil again unless it was for pleasure. The idea of venturing to Evora with Lucy made his mouth curl into a grin.

  The large hand at the back of his head forced him to stare into his lap, and his captor moved to stand behind him. The man shoved his head down farther before releasing it. “Do not attempt to turn around.”

  Blake rasped, “Calais is a bustling port.”

  “We shall arrive under the cover of night. Not to worry, Devonton, I’ll ensure your accommodations will be comfortable enough once we reach land. It’s a shame you were not willing to cooperate earlier. My man wouldn’t have had an excuse to use you as a punching bag. I had hoped you would visibly be in better condition. Now I will have to wait until your body heals before I am able to turn you over.” Why had his captor shared his plans? Would the blackguard confide for what purpose he had been taken?