“Who are you?”
“Don’t signify,” the immovable mass said. “Come wit me.”
The man half-pushed, half-dragged him toward a dark carriage waiting in the curved drive. By now, Teddy was in full panic and jerked away from the large man’s hold.
“Wouldn’t do that iffn I was you” was his only warning before everything went black.
Might have been hours, might have been days for all Teddy knew. He returned to consciousness in the darkened upper room of what he supposed was a nearby inn. Stubby candles in hardened pools of wax flickered on a table in the corner. His head throbbed like the devil, and he wished to God he’d stayed in London. When he tried to stand, all he could do was strain against the bonds attaching his hands and legs to a chair and rock back. His old friend, the mass, must have been right behind him and gave him a helpful slam back down onto all four of the chair legs.
Another tall, substantial man, obviously a gentleman and the mass’s superior, sat severely upright in a wooden chair. The thing that most commanded Teddy’s attention, however, was the cat-o’-nine-tails he swung casually from side to side. And then, of course, there was the long, sharp blade on the table next to him, gleaming in the candlelight.
Just when Teddy was about to venture a question of the two men, the gentleman abruptly spoke. “I’ve heard tales about you.”
Teddy quaked and nearly cast up his accounts. He felt the blood drain from his face but he’d be damned if he’d ask about the “tales.”
“I’ve heard you fancy the Brancelli chit in your aunt’s household.”
This time, Teddy shook so hard he pissed himself. Damn.
The man in the opposite chair laughed, a harsh, mirthless bark. “Don’t worry. I’m not here to defend her honor. I’m here to make you a better offer. Because we both know you really don’t want her. It’s the blunt you’re after.”
“You? You’re the one trying to ruin her?”
“I was, but the little by-blow keeps outwitting the idiots I hired to turn her into a ruined social outcast. And now she has a champion. However, I have a better plan, and you’re going to help me. This time she’ll be gone forever, and that whore-monger of a naval officer will have no idea where to look.”
Sophie pushed one toe up through the soapy bubbles and sank a little further into the steamy water. Heaven. And she didn’t have to do a thing. The Howick servants seemed to have a sixth sense about what one needed and when. She supposed, though, some things didn’t need to be said. Lydia’s grandmother probably had realized all they’d been through that day after the first glimpse of their faces - hers and Lydia’s.
She sneaked a glance at the privacy screen separating her from Lydia’s soaking tub. “Are you over there?”
“Where else would I be? And this is where I plan to stay for at least the next half hour.” At that pronouncement, Lydia’s lady’s maid, Jane, tapped at the door before entering with two more buckets of freshly warmed water.
After Jane replenished the heat in their tubs and closed the door behind her, Sophie ventured, “Aren’t you amazed she knows exactly what you need before you want it?”
“Amazed?” Lydia asked. “More like grateful. I hope someday I can manage a household half as well as my grandmother and be lucky enough to have servants like ours.”
“You’re ready to give up your social whirl and manage a household?” Sophie couldn’t hide the touch of awe in her voice.
“Maybe not this Season, but soon. I’ll make Papa and Grand ecstatic and leave them in peace.”
“Do you have someone in mind for whom you’d like to manage a household?”
“Oh, there have been volunteers, but they’re the type who are too easily led. I need someone who will tell me what I want and not take ’no’ for an answer.”
Sophie shook her head and gave a little squeak of bliss and contentment while sinking lower into the luxury of hot water. She raised her arm and shuddered at the look of the darkening bruises around her wrist.
“What about you?” came from the other tub.
“What about me?” Sophie sat up so suddenly, some of the precious warm liquid sloshed onto the floor.
“You know. Have you met the man you want to spend the rest of your life with?”
“Honestly?” Sophie shivered at the cold air on her exposed breasts and slid back down through the bubbles. “I don’t know what he would look like or what he would say that would convince me.”
“I know one thing.”
“What?”
“If your naval officer protector looked at me like he looked at you today when we almost lost you, I’d be ready to set down roots so deep, he’d always sail home to me.”
Arnaud paused in his perusal of the plan of Howick House to welcome Dr. MacCloud who had just arrived and was handing his coat, gloves, and hat off to his valet, Artemis. “Are the others with you?”
“Haven’t seen them since the fracas at the museum this afternoon. I know we’re all supposed to live to serve at your pleasure, even when on leave, so I’ll see about having them flogged, sir, when they show up.”
Arnaud frowned at his ship’s surgeon over the edge of a drawing of the Howick first floor. “You are joking. Right?”
“Not unless you are. I know you’re concerned about the lass, but there’s only so much we can do, and as far as I can see, we’re doing as much as we can, considering we have no idea who we’re up against, or how many men he can muster.”
“And since you mentioned the question of who we’re up against, did you find out anything more from the kidnapper about who hired him?”
“Since you ask, we turned him over to a runner, and lo and behold he’s wanted for a number of nefarious doings.”
Arnaud’s gut lurched. “What nefarious doings?”
“Picking pockets, robbery, and murder, plus a dozen other offenses since he was boy.”
“Jupiter’s braces! What kind of animal would hire a man like that to snatch Miss Brancelli?”
“That’s what I’d like to know. The stakes have to be verra high for someone to go to these lengths to make sure she doesn’t collect her inheritance.” Cullen absently scratched his stubbled cheek. “Who would inherit that money if she disappears?”
Arnaud hadn’t thought of that eventuality, because he refused to allow such a calamity to happen. “As far as Miss Brancelli knows, the sum is not that large. Something else must be at work. There has to be another reason.
“There. That must be them,” Arnaud said, in the wake of loud pounding at his door. He gave a wry grin and motioned for Artemis to have George and Richard join them.
When they arrived at the table, Arnaud added, “Have four suppers brought out, if you please, Artie, and a couple bottles of wine.” He flattened the floor plans of Howick House and turned to his three comrades in arms.
“Where have you swabs been?” Arnaud demanded.
First Lieutenant Richard Bourne gave him a dark look and lashed out with “D’ye wish our help or no?”
Arnaud leaned across the table and clapped Bourne on the back. “Nothing ever changes, thank God. You’re always ready for a conker.”
His lieutenant broke out in a companionable smile and agreed. “Slights righted, fights initiated, misunderstandings punched into submission. I’m your man.”
The third comrade, Marine Captain George Neville, had already pulled several of the drawings to his side of the table and was going over them with a magnifying glass.
“Good God, Neville. What are you looking for already? I haven’t even explained the situation.” Arnaud shook his head and reached across the table to take Neville’s hand in a strong handshake.
“The main areas we need to worry about are the entrances and exits to and from the ballroom. Of course, we’ll also need a guest list and accounting of servants to determine the threats from within.” Neville pointed to the first-floor diagram. “We’ll also need to know about any deliveries from tradesmen in the days leading u
p to the ball.”
“And then the hardest part of this whole battle plan,” Arnaud said.
“Which would be?” Bourne interrupted.
“The dowager marchioness. Lady Howick wants to meet all of you, to decide for herself if you’re the ‘right men’ for the task.” Dr. MacCloud filled in.
“What kind of men is she looking for?” Bourne asked, a challenge in his voice.
“The ‘right men,’ and please don’t ask her for an explanation.” Arnaud shook his head. “I need all the help I can get to protect Miss Brancelli. Don’t make a mull of these battle plans by asking too many questions and getting yourselves heaved out of the house before the night of the ball arrives.”
The usually serious Neville gave Cullen a slow wink before asking Arnaud, “And just why are we so worried about this particular young woman?”
“First of all, she’s an innocent who has to find a husband during the Season so she can come into her inheritance. Secondly, some bastards are trying to destroy her for unknown reasons. And thirdly, if you swabs ever want to see the shores of England again after our next tour of duty, you will not question me on this venture. You have to trust me.” Arnaud sat down heavily onto his chair and took a long drink of the wine Artemis had poured.
Neville turned to Cullen and said in a tone of wonder, “He’s smitten. Never seen the like out of our captain.”
Cullen, who’d been caught mid-swallow, nodded and returned the wink.
“If you sods have all had enough fun at my expense, could we move on to assignments?” Arnaud tried to take their teasing in stride, but he couldn’t stop the flush creeping up his neck to his face. “This is my plan. I’ll be in the ballroom at all times near Miss Brancelli, one of you should be in the garden, one between the kitchen and the ballroom posing as a servant, and Cullen has been drafted by Lady Howick as an extra bachelor for the dances.
“Lady Howick’s nephew, Teddy, will surely attend. I do not for one minute trust that man. He’s made no secret he’s interested in Sophie’s inheritance, and he’s as trustworthy as a fox after the best layers in a henhouse.”
When Arnaud finished explaining his ideas, he realized his men were giving each other odd looks.
“Sophie?” Cullen asked. “Since when have you become that familiar with Miss Brancelli, the ‘innocent?’”
“Looks like the captain has a woman,” Bourne said, and gave Arnaud a look daring him to deny his feelings.
Arnaud glared at his lieutenant and leaned forward, hands on his knees to hide the heat of embarrassment creeping onto his face.
Chapter Eleven
Sophie gathered up her green sprigged muslin morning dress and propped her stocking-clad feet on the cushioned window seat in the Howicks’ family drawing room.
The weather had finally warmed, and the sun had managed to appear more days than not. A finch warbled his heart out in the top branches of the tree outside the sitting room window. She silently wished him well in his search for a mate and frowned at the prospect of her own rituals due to begin in two weeks with a ball at Howick House. At least she’d be in a friendly setting for her first foray into the ton.
She stared at the last poem in her latest collection, an unfinished ode to clouds in her composition book. In spite of her best efforts of concentration, the squiggles of her handwriting faded in and out of focus. She sat up suddenly, causing the room to spin and tossed her writing materials to the floor.
“What now?” Lydia marked her place with a slip of ribbon in her latest novel from Minerva Press and leaned forward on the settee.
“I should give up trying to write poetry. No one will ever read what I write, much less publish my verses.”
“Maybe you’re trying too hard.” Lydia shrugged. “Perhaps you should write one of these.” She stood and tossed her latest daring read to Sophie.
“What? A wicked romance? That would be the final arrow in my back. No one would consider marrying me after a pudding-headed antic like that.”
“Listen to me,” Lydia interrupted. “Your father was a successful poet, but your grandmother was a much more successful writer of novels. Why not you?”
“Because…” Sophie searched for the right words, but couldn’t come up with a reason Lydia wouldn’t attack.
“Grand told me your grandmother wrote a lot of books under an assumed name. And…” Lydia waggled her eyebrows. “She made pots of money.”
“But I’m not my grandmother.” Sophie stood and handed the novel back to Lydia.
Lydia stuck out her lower lip and put her hands on her hips. “Apparently, you’re not your father either, if you feel the need to throw your poetry on the floor.”
“All right then,” Sophie said. “How in the name of all that’s holy am I going to devise a romantic novel?”
“That’s easy. We’ll just go to Hookham’s, I’ll ask for four of the latest romances against my subscription, and we’ll figure out how other authors do it. Simple.”
“But it’s not simple. If it were so simple, more women would be published.” Sophie stood and paced the carpet in her stocking feet. “Why does everyone assume writing is easy? I work and worry over each poem as if the verses were my children. Sometimes I stay up until the wee hours searching for just the right word to complete a child. I’m sure whoever writes the gothics of which you seem so fond grapples with the same demons.”
Lydia’s mouth dropped open as if she were thinking of a retort, but she was interrupted by the Howicks’s butler. He glided into the sitting room with a sealed letter addressed to Miss Brancelli on a silver tray. Sophie recognized the handwriting immediately and grasped the message. The letters were slanted and smudged a bit as if sender had been in a hurry. Arnaud. She ripped off the seal and read the contents.
“We’re going riding in the park with Captain Bellingham and Dr. MacCloud this afternoon.” Sophie twirled around before forcing herself to cross the room at a sedate walk to the writing table to pen an answer.
Arnaud concentrated on keeping a firm hand on the ribbons so his mother’s temperamental bays wouldn’t take a notion to do what they pleased in the crush on Rotten Row at this time of day. He didn’t really need to worry since his mother’s usual coachman sat next to him on the high box of Maman’s elegant, open barouche.
Concentration was hard-won, between the nearness of Sophie on the seat behind him and his need to keep a constant eye on the surrounding crowd. He had no idea what he was looking for, but by damn, he’d be ready this time if some lout tried to snatch her away. George and Richard were a few carriages behind them, just in case.
When his mother had suggested the outing, he’d balked at first, with the memory of the attack at the British Museum so recent. However, he knew she was right. Sophie needed to get out to see and be seen. Her first ball and debut into society was but days away, and he hoped to God he and his crew would be able to keep her safe.
Arnaud nodded and tipped his hat to his uncle, the current heir to the title of Earl of Whittingdon, who was riding with Arnaud’s cousin, John Bellingham. When they passed with a set of fine grays pulling their curricle, the younger man nodded acknowledgement to Arnaud and then gave Sophie a broad smile and tipped his hat.
Arnaud’s anger flared at what he read in his cousin’s impudent stare at Sophie and he nearly missed the open carriage following close behind. He recognized Admiral Longthorpe from his official conveyance and horses. But his mouth dropped at the sight of the woman sitting beside him. Frannie. What the devil? Her servants had been telling him all week she was away, in the country.
Arnaud could not worry for long about what his sometime mistress was up to because a stray dog chose that moment to rush between the hooves of his mother’s high-spirited team of four and it required all of his and the coachman’s strength to calm them. The coachman took the second set of reins, and between them, they managed to maneuver the conveyance to the side of the path.
“Goodness.” Sophie rose half out of h
er seat below. “Look at that poor little dog. He’s limping. He must have been trod on.” She looked up at Arnaud with pleading eyes.
Dash it all. “He’s going to be fine. Look. He’s making his way through the trees there.” Arnaud thought he was using his most reassuring tone.
“But he’s still favoring one paw. I’m sorry, but I can’t let him suffer. I’ll go after him. You needn’t bother.”
With that she was gone, running and weaving through the jam of traffic, Lydia close behind in pursuit. Gad, but those women were quick. Arnaud had never seen anyone, man or woman, jump from a carriage and disappear as fast as those two. By the time he and Cullen were on the ground, the young women had blended in with the trees at the side of the path, like wood sprites.
His mother’s coachman held and soothed the bays while he and Cullen raced into the woods in search of the most annoying poet and her partner it had been his great misfortune to encounter.
When he finally caught up, Sophie cradled the filthy small creature and was prodding his paw. Lydia hovered anxiously nearby.
“Have you taken leave of your senses?” Arnaud regretted his tone. His voice somehow had ratcheted up to shipboard command level.
Sophie treated him to an angry stare, punctuated by hurt in those deep brown eyes he seemed to keep falling into. How did she manage to make him feel like a lovesick swab and a scoundrel all at the same time? She kissed the top of the head of the grubby little dog, making Arnaud wish he were a stray mongrel.
At the sounds of large men crashing through the underbrush, he and Cullen pulled out pistols and stood in front of Sophie and Lydia. He let out the huge breath he’d been holding and tucked the pistol back into the backside of his belt when the newcomers turned out to be George and Richard.
Pride Of Honor: Men of the Squadron Series, Book 1 Page 10