A Figure of Love

by Minerva Spencer

  He’d considered taking his curricle, which was lighter and faster, but he would not want to convey Mrs. Lombard back in that vehicle.

  They’d stopped for new horses in Canterbury even though he’d changed once already in Sittingbourne and the distance between the two towns was not more than fifty miles. But Gareth was determined to make up for lost time and fresh horses were the best way to do that.

  Hours alone in his carriage gave him far to much time to think.

  Getting Declan to Rushton Park had been simple enough—his friend had had enough of Biddenden. But making arrangements for Dover without tipping Declan to what was really going on had taken its toll on Gareth. If Dec had guessed what Gareth was really going to do, he’d have insisted on coming with him.

  The strain of lying to a man who was not only his best friend, but adept at lying himself—and usually quite good about scenting out liars—was offset by the knowledge that Declan would remain at Rushton Park and keep Oliver safe.

  Gareth had been stunned by the joy—yes, there was no other word for it—he’d felt at seeing the boy again. And when Oliver had hurled himself at his legs and hugged him, he’d not minded the personal invasion. In fact, he’d discovered his hand patting the boy on the shoulder before he even knew it.

  Naturally Declan had watched all of this with a broad grin and wildly amused glitter in his eyes. His friend was aware of his lifelong aversion to being touched by others; Dec would know better than anyone what a radical shift was taking place inside him. Perhaps even better than Gareth, who simply pushed the matter aside. He had far too much to do to sit about pondering the uninteresting mysteries of his own mind.

  So, he’d sent letters and received messages at all hours of the day and night, spent time showing Declan the plans Serena had drawn up and the current progress. He’d taken the time to walk to the new lake with Oliver, who’d been beside himself with excitement to be the first to show him. And finally, when he’d done everything he could think of, he made haste for Dover, taking only two grooms—Timkins and Butler—who both rode on the box, armed. Gareth was traveling with a good deal of money in his possession and the road was known to attract the wrong sort with its frequent mail coaches.

  He arrived in Dover in good time even though the road was rutted and rough with dried mud. Gareth hated to think what it must have been like after the last rains.

  The Ship Hotel was a fixture in Dover and doing a brisk business when Gareth arrived. He had to pay double the usual rate to engage two of the best rooms, but he believed it to be money well-spent. He could not imagine Serena’s condition after almost a week in the hands of her captors, but she would wish for a bath and privacy.

  At Ruston Park he’d gone to her room himself and packed her bag. He’d been shocked to see how little she possessed and hoped her wardrobe was so sparse because she’d left the bulk of her clothing in London.

  But when he went up to Oliver’s room later that night to bid him farewell, he’d noticed the boy’s nightclothes were clean and pressed, but patched and washed thin with use. The realization had consumed him ever since; did she really earn so little money?

  Gareth banished the thoughts. He was here, now, and he needed to keep his mind fixed on the problem at hand.

  After a quick visit to his room he went down to the taproom, which was brimming with custom at this time of the evening, its clientele a varied mix of seafarers and travelers just arrived from the latest packet.

  He made his way to the bar, where a surly looking brute with an eyepatch greeted him with a frown and asked him what he was having.

  Gareth ordered a pint of house brew and when the man delivered it, he pushed a gold coin across the bar. “I wish to purchase a horse. A gray one.” The effect on the man was miraculous. His one eye widened and the sneer slid away as he smiled, revealing a mouthful of black teeth that made Gareth shudder.

  “Aye. A gray horse, ye say? I know a man what has a gray horse. Be waiting at the stone bridge on Folkstone Road at midnight.” He turned and walked away without another word, but the coin was gone.

  Gareth lifted the mug to his mouth and then noticed the greasy thumbprint on the cracked rim and put it back down without taking a drink. He looked at his watch: he had a little over two hours to wait. He went to the private parlor he’d taken and ordered a meal, hoping the cleanliness standards in the rest of the hotel were higher than those in the taproom.

  ***

  Serena was cold, tired, scared, and hungry for something besides dried fish and bitter ale. But mostly she was just bored.

  She’d lost track of the days in her dingy little prison, but thought at least five must have passed, based on the number of times they had fed her. They’d taken her satchel and shoes and cloak, making certain she would not get far even if she could escape.

  There was at least a half dozen of them, although the only faces she ever saw were the two cobblers. The others stayed in the outer room and argued in hushed voices. She knew they were arguing about her.

  The old man had come to her not long after they’d brought her here. She knew that because her head had still pounded and ached from the blow.

  She’d been curled up on an uncomfortable cot, trying to sleep and having no success when the door opened and he shuffled inside.

  Serena pushed herself up, wincing at the pain the movement caused.

  “Sorry ’bout yer head, lass.” He sat in a chair and smoked his infernal pipe.

  “And I’m sorry I took the time, trouble, and money to come down here and warn you. I should have let you fetch the goods and gotten shot. I should have—”

  “There aen’t no shipment.”

  “What?”

  Derby nodded. “And there weren’t no arrest nor dead men.”

  “You are lying.”

  He shook his head, a glint of pity in his eyes.

  Serena stared at him. “But why? Why would he tell me such a thing?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “So, if there was no arrest and no trouble, why have you brought me here?”

  He shrugged.

  Serena wanted to scream.

  “Truth is, yer cousin is a wrong ’un. Rotted to the bone. Ee’d a pair o’ hands waiting to take the ready from us but we sussed the lay and did for ’em. But we miss ’im and ’e took to ’is ’eels.”

  Serena untangled the garbled speech slowly. “You mean he tried to cheat you?”

  He nodded.

  She laughed, an unpleasant sound with no humor. “Well, I assure you, I mean nothing to my cousin. If you are intending to ransom me back to him, you will be waiting a very long time.”

  “You’ve wrongtaken me, lass. It aen’t ’im we’re waitin’ on.”

  Serena could only stare. Who else could he believe would pay for her? She had nothing on her to indicate any relationship to anyone. She only had the little bit of money and—

  “Oh no.”

  He nodded. “Oh yes. Even such as we ’ave ’eard of Gareth Lock’art. One of the richest men in England.” He paused. “An odd ’ un, by what we could find. But a downy one by any man’s measure.”

  “Just because you have found a bank draft from him does not mean he will ransom me. I am his employee.”

  That made the old man laugh. “Oh, aye, and a fine one you are.”

  Her face burnt in the cool, damp room. “I am not his mistress. I am his landscape gardener and sculptor.”

  “Oh, is that what the fancy folk be callin’ it nowadays?” He chuckled in a way that made her wish for her largest mallet and one of her chisels.

  Serena waved a hand. “Go ahead and laugh and wait. You will be waiting a long time.”

  He pushed himself to his feet, tapped out his pipe and ground it under foot, and left the room, still chortling to himself. The fool.

  That was the last time anyone had spoken with her. But not the last time anyone had come into her room. The younger cobbler h
ad come the third day, and he’d not brought food. She would have recognized the light in his eyes even if he hadn’t begun unbuttoning the flap of his breeches as soon as he’d come in the room.

  “What do you want?” she’d demanded, stalling for time even as her blood ran cold.

  He’d laughed. “I want a taste o’ a rich man’s tart.” His eyes had flickered jerkily as they swept her from her stocking-covered toes to her hair that had not been washed or combed for days. She could only imagine she looked—and smelled—appalling, but the bulge in his breeches convinced her he thought otherwise.

  She backed up against the wall, her eyes darting around the room for something to hit, poke, or bash him with. But the only thing was the cot she was lying on and the old barrel chair that was almost too heavy to move.

  “I’ll scream,” she threatened, as he came closer, his greasy, stained breeches falling open to reveal drawers even worse.

  “Not with your mouth full, you won’t.”

  Suddenly, it was 1806 all over again. It was winter, and she’d been hiding in Favel’s house with two other women. They’d been eating what they could scavenge, avoiding any fires so they would not draw the notice of the men dressed as soldiers who’d been robbing and raping their own people.

  She was coming back from the woods, where she had found a fat duck in some poacher’s snare. It would be worth risking a fire to have some meat. She’d been rushing, so excited about her treasure that she had not been paying attention when she’d rounded the corner of Favel’s abandoned stables and walked right into a hard chest. Etienne Bardot’s chest, it had turned out. The leader of his small band of rapists and looters.

  That had been the beginning of a nightmare that lasted five long months.

  The young cobbler, she did not even know his name, came to the edge of the cot and dropped his filthy drawers.

  “Be a good girl, now,” he said, thrusting his hips toward her. Just like Etienne had done so many times.

  She smiled and then opened her mouth as wide as necessary.

  He was crying, his hands over his naked hips, blood leaking through his fingers when the men flung open the door. Serena had found strength from places she’d never even know it existed. Enough to lift the unwieldy chair and trap his body beneath the legs.

  The men had lifted her bodily from the chair and put her on the bed. They’d leaned over the weeping, writhing cobbler and pulled away his hands, cursing at what they found.

  “You’ll have to take him to old Fletcher,” one of the men said, both wearing the dark woolen face masks they must wear at night out on the water.

  “Aye,” said the other, turning to her, his eyes wide in the round openings. “You done him good, lass. But I reckon he earned it.”

  Serena was in the corner, her knees pulled up to her chest, shivering even as sweat stung her eyes. In her mouth she could taste blood and the room around her was same one she’d thought she’d escaped ten years ago.

  Chapter Twenty

  Gareth wasn’t surprised when he felt the business end of a pistol touch the back of his neck. He’d heard the man coming through the trees, after all. He’d made more noise than a herd of horses.

  “Don’t try anything funny-like.”

  “I have nothing funny planned,” Gareth said, telling the truth.

  His captor grunted and searched his person, finding the packet of money quickly. Chalmers would be most displeased to learn Gareth had stored such a bulky object in his coat—one of Gareth’s favorites, a dark green superfine.

  He heard hushed voices behind him; so, more than one had come. The soft whicker of a horse told him they’d sounded like a herd of horses because they’d actually brought a herd horses. Not smart if they’d been sneaking up on a man who hadn’t wanted to be captured.

  After a somewhat heated debate, during which the pistol disappeared from the back of his neck, a second voice spoke up.

  “I’m gonna tie a cloth over yer eyes and then ye’ll get up on this pony. I’ve got ’is lead, mind, so you’d better not try escaping.”

  Gareth almost smiled. Escape? After he’d gone to so much trouble to be captured in the first place?

  But the smell and texture of the cloth wiped any smile he might have had off his face. He swallowed at the sensation and had to force himself not to jerk away. The irony of him being more discomposed by a dirty cloth than a loaded pistol was not lost on him.

  When the rag was secure hands touched his shoulders and pushed him toward the strong smell of horse. It was indeed a pony they had brought for him, one of the rugged mountain-going breed. His feet almost dragged on the ground the horse was so small. If given a choice, he would have walked and spared the poor beast, but they did not offer him one and he did not wish to argue. Or speak to them at all, really.

  The pony turned and headed back the way it had come, or near enough. The sound of other animals came from in front and behind, so there were others and they’d not put him on a miniature horse merely to humiliate him.

  He counted while they went, measuring the minutes. At approximately fifteen minutes he smelled the sharp tang of salt air just before they began a steep descent. He’d guessed they would have their lair somewhere near the water.

  It took nine more minutes before the terrain leveled out. The sound now was of hooves on stone and he could feel the damp salt air. So, they were headed down the beach. But three minutes later they headed back up again and leaves and branches brushed his body. They stopped less than a minute after that.

  “All right, down ye come.” It was the first man and he took hold of Gareth’s bicep, causing him to stiffen. “Easy there, now. I’ve got me pistol.” He gave a rough yank and Gareth stumbled off the horse.

  “Ye got a bit o’ beef to ye—must be all that brass, eh?”

  Coarse chuckles greeted this dull witticism, and Gareth judged there to be perhaps five men total. A barrel poked him between the shoulders.

  “Walk.”

  They entered a dwelling of some kind, something with a wooden floor, which magnified the racket of booted feet all around him. Another low-voiced consultation and then fingers moving roughly at the back of his head.

  He blinked his eyes in the dimness, vaguely making out at least four shadows hovering at the edges of what was a small, mostly empty room.

  The smallest man, the only one without a hood, took a step toward him, the packet of money in his hands. “This aen’t £2000.”

  “You are correct.”

  “The deal was for £2000.”

  Gareth quite respected the man’s singleness of purpose.

  “You will get the other £1500 when I see her.”

  His words caused grumbling in the ranks and one of the figures, limping badly, shoved past the smaller man, reaching for Gareth’s neck.

  “Stand down!” the leader shouted. For a small man he had an impressive set of lungs and a commanding tone. Even so, the much bigger man hesitated, and for a moment Gareth thought he might disobey. But his shoulders sagged and he dropped his hands, backing away with his odd, hunched over limp.

  Another conversation ensued, this one louder, less careful—as if he were deaf as well as trusting, rich, and beefy of build.

  As if he were a fool.

  Gareth knew what he was destined for—the smuggler never would have let him see his face if he had any intention of letting him out of this shack alive. To these men, £2000 would be a fortune, even split among five. Not only did they discuss Gareth and their options, they also discussed their missing companion in crime, the fifth member, whose tardiness was causing some concern.

  Gareth examined the mud on the toe of his otherwise glossy boot and frowned while his captors finally agreed there was no harm in letting him see Serena, since they’d be together soon, in any case. Gareth thought that had a menacing finality to it.

  The short man approached and then gestured to the only door other than the one they’d
used to come inside, and Gareth preceded him. There was a smokehouse lock on the door and the man fumbled with the key for a long moment until it gave a dull click. He removed it and pushed the door open.

  ***

  There had been far more activity than normal outside Serena’s prison over the past few hours. In her windowless room she could not tell if it was day or night, but they had last brought her what she was almost certain was her midday meal hours ago. Not that the substance of the meals changed—it was dried fish and ale, three times a day. She had asked one of her jailors for water some time ago, but they had ignored her request. They had ignored her request that they empty her chamber pot, until she had threatened to hurl it at the next person through the door. The biting incident had done one thing, at least, it had convinced them she could be dangerous.

  She believed they were here to dispose of her. Serena was not stupid. She could identify the cobbler and his son. They would never let her go, even if Gareth sent somebody with ransom money. That thought had been hovering at the back of her mind for days, but this was the first time she had taken it out and looked it straight in the face: she was going to die. Either in this wretched little cell or with rocks tied to her ankles at the bottom of the ocean. The only thing she could take any comfort from was the knowledge Oliver would be well-cared for. Without her to blackmail any more Etienne would have no reason to tell the duke and duchess of his true heritage. Oliver would go live with his grandparents, just as they’d always wanted.

  And even if the truth somehow leaked out, Gareth would take care of Oliver. She’d seen signs of his kindness all over his estate. He might not have cared for Serena, but she’d seen him with her son—had seen the way he’d lost some of his reserve in Oliver’s company. Gareth would take of her son.

  Accepting her fate had made her feel stronger, less alone, rather than more afraid. So, when she heard the lock rattle, she sprang to her feet, refusing to meet her captors crouching in the corner or cowering in bed.

  The door swung open, but instead of a black hooded jailer, it was Gareth.

  Serena thought he was a figment of her imagination. Tall, broad, stern-faced, dressed to perfection, and without a hair out of place. And so very still.