Lady Delia, eyeing her closely, took a step toward her. Tessie could not divine whether it was pity or compassion or plain merriment that compelled her.
Perhaps it was foolish, but without so much as curtsying to the countess or acknowledging the curious glance of Lady Hartleyvale, she turned from the room and fled.
It was sometime later, after refusing to acknowledge the fruitless knocking on her chamber door, that she’d decided to clear her head. Perhaps, she thought, the fair. At the fair she could lose herself among the silk mercers, the ironmongers, the jewelers, the japanners, the fine cutlery dealers. Anyone, that is, who was not associated with the regal House of Cathgar.
She desperately needed to think—it was impossible, here in this house, where every portrait now reminded her of Nick. How could she have been so stupid? Even the countess had his features and his curving smile. She should have known, she should have thought . . . with decision, she threw on her smart new riding habit, grabbed at her reticule—sadly depleted of guineas—and departed quietly through the little-used west wing. She had no wish to be accosted by Delia at the entrance.
The air was fresh and crisp, the clouds rather high in the sky. Tessie took long, great strides out, past the stables, toward the broad moors. She did not go unnoticed, as she hoped. Two pairs of eyes watched. Cal, the groom, ran after her, breathless. He had saddled Bess for her use. Tessie refused his aid up into the saddle. It was no good riding today. Riding would put her further in Lady Cathgar’s debt. She shook her head at Bess, nuzzling her gloved hands beseechingly.
“Not today, dearest. You ask . . . Cal, is it?”
The groom nodded shyly.
“You ask Cal to sneak you a nice lump of sugar. I would myself, only I don’t have any on me right now, just this great unfashionable reticule and my stout walking boots! There, you be a dear and go with Cal now. . . .”
The groom regarded Tessie doubtfully.
“You sure, Mistress Tess, like? The countess will ‘ave my ’ead. . . .”
“Nonsense! The countess is perfectly delightful. Just explain that I wish to be alone. She will understand perfectly.”
Bess hoofed the ground impatiently and snorted.
“Gentle, like, gentle, like!” The groom became absorbed in his duties.
Tessie smiled, though the effort was great, then lifted her skirts and ran across the fields. Watching her, the groom thought he had never seen a female “wot was such a spankin’ great gun.” Then he turned toward the cobbled path and turned his attentions to Bess.
Tessie did not know why she ran, only that she had to, or the enormous weight she felt depressing her spirits would crush her utterly. She had been tricked! She felt like a fool, but she knew she had to think things out clearly. Lady Cathgar was not cruel, but nor had she been open—even if it was a coincidence that caused her to hire her as a seamstress, she had still hidden her identity, and that of her daughters. That must mean some complicity, but why?
If only she could figure out why, she might come closer to an understanding. Could it have anything to do with Nicholas? Had they meant to disgrace her by ensuring she went into service? Perhaps they knew she would never have been hired, and so took the matter into their own hands? Did Nicholas know? Had they been protecting him or following his explicit orders?
Both thoughts made her so miserable that she hardly noticed the cold, and certainly not the trap that had been neatly laid by Tallows.
It had been a simple matter, really, of diverting a signpost when he saw her walking from the stables. A simple matter to keep watch, with enduring patience, and a criminal’s intuition.
Somehow, he had known she would walk out alone sooner or later. He thanked his lucky stars he had noticed the ditch, dug for some reason other than the use he was now attaching to it. Perhaps it was to have been the foundations of an icehouse, or even a man-made pond. Tallows did not know or care. What was to the purpose is that it was deep and grown all over with grass. Doubtless the locals knew of it and kept their distance. Also, there had been the sign keeping wanderers on the footpath. . . . But not this wanderer!
“Oh!” Tessie shouted as she stumbled, not so much in fear as in surprise and pain, for she was positive she must have twisted an ankle in the overlong grass.
To her surprise, she tumbled, sinking deeper than she imagined, losing her grip on her reticule and squashing her bonnet most hideously. She winced from the pain, then removed her hat, determined to repair the damage at once before climbing back up to the footpath.
“Well met, mistress . . . Tess, is it?”
Miss Hampstead looked up with a start. Her heart began hammering idiotically, and she had the oddest sensation that despite the civil words, she needed her pistol. She had never actually seen the man Tallows, but his countenance was threatening, and the odd sibilance in his tone alerted her to danger.
“I . . . I am not sure I know you, sir!”
Tessie stalled for time as she calculated how far she had been thrown from her reticule. Too far, if the man meant mischief. The tips of his boots were pressing on one of its ribbons.
“You don’t, but I know you! Lord Cathgar’s fine piece you are, and me with a reckonin’ to settle! Bloodied me eye, ’e did, aside from spoilin’ a rare good plot. The Prince of Wales rests easy tonight, when the Luddites would as lief as ’ave ’im dead. Blame yer good Lord Nick for that!”
“You speak treason.”
“Aye, but it is only your pretty little ears wot hears it. Now, get movin’. I ’ave a cozy little cabin for us, and a rare pot of green goose stew.”
“I shall scream.”
“Scream and Lor’ Nick is as good as dead. We ’ave ’im, too, yer see.”
Tessie’s eyes grew wild with real fear now. She was not to know the man was lying through his teeth, shrewdly divining the best methods to control her. She knew only that if she screamed, Nick would die. She believed the man, for the Luddites had proven themselves again and again to be ruthless. Spiteful, even, for why they would they detain her, if it was Nick that they were after, Nick that they had?
She must stall him, go meekly, see how many of the original gang they were up against. Grange, at least, was gone. There were more, though, too many more. She must not lose hope. They would lead her to Nick. She must keep thinking that. They would lead her to Nick. If she could live to save his life once more, she ought to be satisfied.
So, meekly she allowed herself to be bound, to be perched upon a horse, to ignore Tallows’s rank smell, to say nothing, though her fury knew no bounds, and above all to watch Tallows tip her pistol from her reticule and grind it into the grass-stained ditch. A cruel man, she thought, and shivered.
But not clever. If he were clever, he would have left no trace, spoken no word, instead of boasting ad nauseam of his triumphs. Tessie listened as she inwardly fumed, for every word might, she knew, be crucial. As they rode, she allowed her bonnet to be taken by the breeze. With her lips she prized off her gloves. These followed her bonnet across the plains. Not much of a trail, she thought grimly, but she would be damned if she did nothing!
Tallows, oblivious, chuckled in relief. It was true about the green goose stew. He had had rare pickings that day. And the huntsman’s cottage at the edge of the estate was perfect, just perfect.
Nineteen
Tessie was still bound, but her mouth remained ungagged, thanks to Tallows’s meaningful threat. Nevertheless, she said nothing, merely watched with observant eyes as Tallows stirred up his pot and muttered to himself about ransoms.
All the while, Tessie kept a close watch for any sign of Nick. She would have done anything to see him one last time, but not here, not like this! She hoped above all that Tallows had been lying, that Nick was safe and as happy as a grig somewhere, probably London.
Pride did not permit her to question Tallows, or to taste his wretched, ill-gotten stew that nevertheless smelled delightful in this cold, barren place. Yes, undoubtedly Tallows’s observance had
paid off. He had discovered this little thatched place and overnight made it home.
Or home in the broadest possible sense, that is, for save for the cooking pot and the fire, there was no redeeming feature to this dark, spider-infested place. The thatch leaked great drips of rainwater, and the couple of old sketches upon the floor were long past redemption, the charcoals having smudged mercilessly across the pages. Tessie thought she spied the imprints of boots upon them—one more indication that her captor lacked all sensibility. She tried not to watch him as he slurped back his meal and fetched out of his pockets a chunk of sourdough to soak up the remains.
“Fetch a pretty penny, yer will.”
The first bit of satisfied comment Tallows had vouchsafed in over two hours.
Tessie, who had been working silently on her bonds, imperceptibly flexing her muscles to loosen them, looked up. Her hair, bonnetless, was all tangled again. She wanted to wipe the locks from her forehead, for they were sticking, but she could not.
“Beg pardon?”
Obligingly, Tallows’s voice came louder this time.
“Fetch a pretty penny ye will, reckon Lord High-and-Mighty will pay something to ’ave yer back!”
Tessie’s heart gave that sudden lurch she was becoming accustomed to. She decided to engage her captor in conversation. The more she could learn, the better. The more unguarded his tongue, the better.
“Which lord?”
“Lord bloomin’ Nelson! I dunno, you tell me which lord will be payin’ a pretty packet for your . . . wares.”
Tessie, revolted at the implication, said nothing. But her mind worked swiftly, for in danger she was all up to the rig.
If this Luddite—and he was obviously that—every—thing he said screamed of it—if this Luddite was talking of lords . . . Tessie swallowed hard. There was only one lord whom the Luddites had a personal grudge against. One lord, who . . . but no! Tessie would not think that the debonair Lord Nicholas Cathgar might harbor some feelings for her! Some stray, misguided sense of responsibility perhaps . . . Tallows could be talking only of Nick.
She breathed hard. If there was talk of ransom, then Tallows had lied. Nick was nowhere in these rooms, in these small chambers, hidden in the loft, prisoner in the woods . . . he was not!
He was alive, safe, striding through his residence, riding his stallions . . . about to receive a ransom note. There was none of the gang in evidence, and Tessie was inclined to think Tallows had lied there too.
So what had she gained? Nothing but the miserable knowledge that she should have screamed when she could have. She had been duped like the green goose in the pot. The thought made her furious rather than cowed.
By God! If she were not to be saving Nick’s life, then she was blessed well about to save her own! What was more, if this whey-faced mushroom thought he could cadge a ransom out of Nick, he was mistaken, very much mistaken!
Eyes flashing, she wondered what sort of ruse she could use to catch Tallows off his guard. Her wrists felt raw, but she believed that, if she needed to, she could free herself. But she had one chance, and she must not waste it.
Tallows peered at her.
“A right piece yer are, with all them pretty ringlets, like. Reckon if I were to cut off them curls, ’is lordship will send the ransom quick as a trivet.”
Tessie’s eyes blazed, then grew thoughtful. What, after all, were a few ringlets? They might prove useful. If she pleaded, doubtless the Luddite would be confirmed in his intentions.
“Oh, please, no! Not my hair! It has taken simply an age to grow and curl so!”
Tallows smiled grimly. “Well, it will take an age again! Let that be a lesson to the great Cathgar! Bless me if I don’t slap on the handsome price of a coachwheel a curl. And seven hundred sovereigns for your person—‘e should pay that easy, ’e should. Never say Tallows is greedy, like! But them curls . . . yes . . . them curls be a splendid idea!”
“Wicked, you mean!” Tessie tugged at her wrists again. Almost free, she was sure of it. And she would scream if she needed to. There was no longer the threat of Nick’s life gagging her. But it would be pointless here, in the woods, with no one but the odd poacher to hear her struggles. Here she must be silent, and pray that she could induce the witless Tallows to take her bait.
“Oh, please! I implore you! You simply cannot cut off these curls!”
Tallows smiled grimly. “I can, me dear, and I surely will. Just as soon as I have me a knife!”
And that, Tessie thought in satisfaction, was precisely what she wanted.
Nicholas was nearly home. He kicked in his heels and sent his horse flying over the hedgerow, ever alert for any signs of Tessie. He would not put it past her, he thought, to be wandering alone across his estate. It was just the foolish sort of thing she would do.
The next thing, it was not the horse, but he, who was flying over the hedgerow. The horse had stumbled in a ditch! He could have sworn it was the one dug by the first Lord Cathgar, a trench for dueling it had been, and such an eyesore that it had been abandoned for years, with nothing but periwinkle and long grass to mark the site.
Of course, all the signposts pointed away from the spot, though the locals knew to be wary. So how the dickens had the signpost been turned? Surely not on purpose? Who would do such a thing? And what in tarnation was that . . . that . . . thing lying filthy in the soil? Nicholas whistled gently to his horse as he brushed himself off and kicked at the piece of material. He stubbed his toe. He cursed in a most ungentlemanlike fashion, but then, he hardly looked a gentleman with his knees stained in dirt and his neckerchief more brown than pristine white.
Curious, Nick’s eyes narrowed. There was something familiar . . . he tugged at the reticule. Of a sudden, he knew why he had stubbed his toe. He was just thankful he had not shot it to pieces. He smiled rather ruefully. Tessie’s pistol, snug in its dirty haven, was primed. He should have guessed.
Miss Hampstead waited, as her captor cursed, to undo her bonds. If she did so, she could flee, but she was uncertain whether she could be any match for Tallows. He was long and lanky and very likely could outrun her, especially in her skirts.
From somewhere—probably the sentry’s box—Tallows had procured some writing equipment and old, crested paper. He wrote laboriously, tongue hanging out, occasionally asking for assistance, such as in the spelling of “ransom.” Tessie’s eyes would have danced with amusement had she not been concentrating so hard on her chances of escape.
When the task was done, Tallows sealed the missive with candle wax and looked very pleased with himself, obviously not doubting for a moment that Nicholas would be forthcoming with the blunt. He had brought with him a pail. His appeared to be filled with a variety of objects, not least of which was a plum pie. Tallows was obviously more adept at thieving than at kidnapping. For the first time, Tessie’s lips curved upward in amusement. Tallows was no Grange, she was certain of it.
“What the devil do you mean, you can’t find her?”
Lord Nicholas Cathgar, grimy, grim, and decidedly un-fetching in town garb that reeked of the stable—and which moreover splattered mud across his Axminster carpets—glared fiercely.
Lady Cathgar, his mother, dabbed back a tear with an enormous handkerchief sewn from spangled floss and shook her head.
“I tell you, Nick, she simply disappeared!”
“Ran away?”
“Not precisely, though I fear she was a trifle distrait.. . .”
“You shall be a trifle distrait if you don’t speak more plainly!”
Nicholas glared at his mother and four of his beloved sisters. Two of them giggled, but the other two looked distinctly uncomfortable, not to mention genuinely concerned.
“Nick, number one, she loves you though you are clearly undeserving, since you have been a total blockhead throughout and not once thought to tell her you love her. . . .”
“Mama . . .”
“Don’t mama me! I love Tessie dearly and I won’t have her hurt.
”
“I! Hurt her! That is the outside of enough. . . .”
“Nonsense! You have hurt the poor child dreadfully with your high-handed ways! Did you woo her? Did you whisper soft nothings in her ear? Did you, while you were kissing her”—here Lady Cathgar stared at him balefully—“ did you ever once mention that you loved her?”
“I asked her to marry me, for God’s sake!”
“Yes, after you had ruined her! Not very romantic, Nick, you can do better if all the reports I hear are true.”
“Mama, you listen to too much scandal broth!”
“Not enough, by all accounts! No one told me, my dear, dear Nicholas, that you are still acting government agent!”
“Tessie obviously did.”
“I had to positively prize it out of her! Now, do be a good boy and find the chit, kiss her decisively, and don’t forget to tell her you love her!”
“Where is she that I may carry out this admirable advice?”
“I don’t know, I tell you! She sustained a severe shock today. It would have been fine, of course, had that idiotish Miss Hartleyvale not blathered out our names and titles before we could deny her entrance! If poor Tessie . . .”
“Where is she?” Nicholas’s firm control was slipping. Finding her reticule had worried him more than he liked to say. She was a dear little scapegrace, but she treasured that damned pistol of hers. It should not have been lying in the mud like that.
“We think she went to the fair. Cal—that is, one of the young grooms—I think you know him—said she dismissed him, wanting the air. More like she did not want to ride Bess for fear she would be more beholden. A proud puss, your Tess.”
“Then she was—is—unaccompanied?”
Lady Halgrove responded. “Yes, but it is only a mile or so to the fair, Nick! Surely she shan’t come to any harm? We used to sneak out often enough ourselves, remember?”
A Rag-mannered Rogue Page 21