by Hope Tarr
“But what?” Fatigue sharpened his voice.
“Master Reggie didn’t come alone last night.”
Damn Reggie. As if Anthony didn’t have enough to cope with, it seemed he’d have to discreetly remove one of Reggie’s paramours from his house and preferably before the magistrate arrived.
Anthony blew out a breath. “Where is she?”
“I do not know, milord.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?” The way his luck was running, he’d probably find the trollop tucked into his own bed.
The butler’s voice broke. Tears pooled in his rheumy eyes. “I tried to stop them but the gold-toothed one held a…kn-knife to my th-throat while the big one carried her outside, kicking and screaming.”
Alarm bells sounded in Anthony’s head. “Carried who outside?”
“Lady Phoebe, milord. Your bride has been kidnapped!”
Anthony stared down at the ransom note he held. One line—We got yer woman—scrawled across the greasy page.
Incredulous, he turned to Reggie, who rose from the sofa, a raw beefsteak covering the left side of his face.
“You brought Phoebe here?” Didn’t the young Corinthian have a grain of sense?
Reggie adjusted the steak to a more comfortable position. “There was no help for it. She made me.”
“Made you? And just how did she…”
Anthony stopped himself. The past few weeks of trailing after Chelsea had taught him just how formidable one slight woman could be.
Reggie groaned. “You should know that Phoebe can be almost as stubborn as Mama once she sets her mind. Last night, after you left, she flew into a temper. She said you’d been behaving oddly ever since the robbery and demanded I bring her here so that she could get to the bottom of why.”
Anthony had thought he’d easily pulled the wool over Phoebe’s naive eyes, but it appeared the chit was sharper than he’d credited. And that he wasn’t nearly as smooth as he thought. Yet another lesson in humility.
“Oddly? Did she say anything more?”
Reggie lifted the slab of flesh from his face, revealing a truly magnificent shiner. Anthony curbed his impatience while his fastidious friend set the steak on the plate and wiped his hands on the napkin.
“Only that you’d been canceling rendezvous at the last minute, changing your mind about whether or not to accept invitations. Running out on her at Vauxhall was the last straw. When you weren’t at home, she dug in her heels. Said she’d wait until dawn if that’s what it took to get a straight answer about why you’d left so suddenly. By the way, why did you?”
“I had business to attend.”
Reggie grinned through his bruises. “Indeed, and I’ll wager it had red hair and was wearing a green gown.”
Anthony remained silent. His behavior must have been obvious indeed for Reggie to have seen through him.
Reggie’s grin dissolved. “Now see here, Anthony. You know I’m the last person who’d ever expect you to reform, but…”
“But?” Anthony folded his arms across his chest, knowing where this was leading.
Reggie sucked in his breath. “But when you’re out with your wife or fiancée—as the case may be, my sister—it doesn’t seem very decorous to go chasing after some light skirt.”
Rage blazed through what remained of Anthony’s patience. He pinned Reggie beneath his stare, wondering how the young scoundrel would look with a second black eye to match. “Number one: the lady in question is no light skirt. Number two: unless we locate your sister and rescue her, she isn’t going to be my wife—or anyone else’s.” He advanced a step, and Reggie backed up an equal distance. “Which brings me to number three.”
Reggie gulped. “Number three?”
“Leaving you to explain to your mother how you brought Phoebe here to my wicked bachelor’s abode after midnight, without a proper chaperone, risking her reputation and, it seems, her very life.”
As if on cue, the study door crashed open and Lord Tremont stormed inside. A ferocious scowl replaced his usually placid expression.
“Where’s my little girl?” he roared. His bulbous gaze settled on his son and heir. “I know you have a hand in this, Reginald, so don’t bother denying it. I saw your rig outside.”
“Papa, I can explain.”
“Later.” The tubby lord swung around and aimed his forefinger at Anthony. “And you, Montrose, fiancé or not, how dare you practice your rakehell ways on my innocent child. Good God, man, you’d only a week more to wait. Couldn’t you cool your heels with some whore ’til the wedding night?” He shoved past Anthony. “Phoebe, girl, ’tis Papa. Come out, my angel. I’m going to take you home.”
Tremont stalked the study as though he expected Phoebe to slide down the chimney flue or to pop out from behind one of the bookshelves. Watching the agitated lord, Anthony wondered how he would react to the far-worse truth.
Begin with the good news. “Calm yourself, sir. No one has ruined Phoebe.”
God, how he hoped that were true. He recalled the rapacious looks Stenton had lanced Chelsea and shuddered. Hopefully Phoebe’s obviously elevated social station would afford her some protection.
“Then where is she?” Lord Tremont frowned at Reggie, who had drifted over to the liquor cabinet. “Well, I’m waiting.” His lordship’s bushy gray brows lifted. “How the devil did you come by that eye? On second thought, I don’t want to know. Just answer my first question—where the hell is your sister?”
“Papa, I, er…Anthony has something he needs to tell you.” Reggie slunk farther away.
Now, the bad news. Anthony squared his shoulders. “I’m afraid Phoebe was kidnapped last night.”
“Kidnapped!” The color drained from Tremont’s puffy cheeks. “I don’t believe it.”
“I’m afraid it is so, sir.”
“Oh, God.” He slapped a hand to his sweaty forehead and sunk into a seat. “Montrose, you must help me. My wife is still abed and, based on her habit, shall remain so for several more hours. Before I set out, I left the message that I’d taken Phoebe for an early ride in the park. She’ll find that odd—Phoebe rarely rises before noon—but ’twas the only excuse I could think of. If she should discover the truth…” He stuffed a fist in his mouth.
Anthony laid a hand on his future father-in-law’s shoulder. “I’ll do everything in my power to bring Phoebe safely home, sir.” Reasoning that any man who’d remained married to Lady Tremont for five-and-twenty years must possess some mettle, he added, “But I’m going to need your help.”
Tremont looked up at Anthony, his faded blue eyes earnest. “I’ll do anything to bring my daughter home.” His voice cracked. “Anything.”
Moved, Anthony nodded. “Very well. I believe Phoebe’s kidnappers are the same two who abducted the brother of a friend of mine. I’ve set a Bow Street runner to watch them for two weeks now. We have reason to believe they’re hiding the boy inside St. Giles’ Rookery. My guess is that they’ve taken Phoebe there as well.”
“Good Lord!” Lord Tremont’s face puckered. “Do you mean to say that my Phoebe’s been taken to a den of prostitutes and pickpockets?” Tears filled his eyes even as he fisted his hands. “They wouldn’t dare harm her…would they?”
“I don’t believe so,” Anthony replied, “but if word leaked that she’d spent the night in such a place—”
“Her reputation would be in rags,” Lord Tremont finished, shoulders drooping.
Anthony inclined his head. “Which is precisely why I want you and Reggie to stay here and keep the magistrate occupied for as long as possible. As soon as I’ve given my statement, I’ll set out to search.”
Tremont popped from his chair. “She may be your fiancée, but she’s my daughter. I’m coming with you.”
Anthony tried to imagine Lord Tremont trolling the East End, or Reggie, for that matter. He tried and yet he couldn’t.
He shook his head. “Unless you want to put Phoebe in even greater danger, you and Reggie wil
l remain here.” In a milder tone, he added, “All I ask is that you give me a few hours. If I haven’t found her by noon, I’ll send for the magistrate—” he looked from Lord Tremont to Reggie, “—and for you both.”
“Very well.” Tremont grabbed the drink from Reggie’s hand and set it firmly down.
“There’s no time for that. We need to start rehearsing your story. And I strongly suggest you make it good.” He shuddered. “If your mother ever finds out Phoebe went missing—and remained so overnight—we’ll both be taking rooms at the club.”
The scraping of the key turning in the lock brought Robert sharply awake. Stiff and bruised, he sat up just as the door opened. Light, blessed light, sliced through the darkness.
Stenton sauntered inside, candlestick in hand. “I’ve brought ye company, lad.”
Luke followed, a granary sack slung over one shoulder. Robert cleared the crust of sleep from the corners of his eyes and squinted to adjust his vision to the light. A kick in the ribs had not been his only punishment for taunting Stenton with the truth that he and Chelsea were poor as church mice. He’d been without a candle for more than a week, left to grope in the dark like the animal he was becoming. The day before he’d accidentally overturned the chamber pot. That had earned him another beating as well as a day without food, not even the miserable gruel they’d taken to feeding him.
Lack of food probably explained why the sack Luke was lugging appeared to end in two tiny, slippered feet. Female feet with delectably slim ankles.
“Set ’er down.”
Luke obeyed. The sack weaved. Laughing, Stenton caught it in his arms. Imitating the sound of a drum roll, he stepped behind.
“Ta da.” He pulled the cover up, then off.
Robert held his breath. An angel stood in the center of the chamber. A slightly disheveled one, with a dirt streak across one pale cheek, but an angel nonetheless. Silver-blond hair framed her fine-boned face, and her sylph’s figure was clad in celestial blue.
I must be hallucinating. They must have started administering the sleeping drought again. Or maybe I’ve finally starved to death and this is heaven?
The angel stared back at him, pale eyes wide. He got to his feet, chains rattling. Her eyes darkened and her lips parted. A piercing peal rang out.
Robert winced. He’d been wrong. The lovely newcomer was no angel but a demon sent to bleed his eardrums and freeze his blood.
Laughing, Stenton covered his ears. “Don’t appear she fancies ’im, do it, Luke?”
The giant’s thick features twisted. “She’s ’urtin’ me ears. I’m gonna make ’er stop.”
Large palm outstretched, he walked toward the woman. She shrank away, still screaming.
At the last minute, Stenton intervened. “Leave ’er be. Let’s you and me get some supper while ’er and lover boy ’ere get acquainted. She’ll pipe down soon enough.”
The kidnappers left. The new arrival fortified herself with a fresh gulp of air, then opened her mouth.
Head clearing, Robert realized she was neither angel nor demon but a very frightened girl. He held up a hand. “They’re gone. You can stop now.”
Miraculously she did. Looking about, her lower lip quivered. Then her face crumpled.
Splendid. She’s stopped screaming only to start bawling.
He pulled a chair, the only chair, from the table and held it for her. “Please, won’t you sit?”
She hesitated, brushed the seat, and then gingerly sat. And then the floodgates opened. She dropped her head in her open hands and sobbed.
“Look, it’s not that bad,” he consoled. Dragging his chains behind him, he stood across from her, feeling helpless. “At least they’ve left us the candle.”
She lifted her tear-tracked face and stared up at him. “Not so bad?”
The disdain in her watery eyes made him painfully aware that he hadn’t bathed, shaved, or changed clothes in weeks. What a sight he must be with his greasy hair brushing the back of his collar and a matted beard blanketing the lower half of his face. He didn’t even have a clean handkerchief to offer her.
“Not so bad!” she repeated, wiping her eyes. “I’ve been abducted, stuffed into a smelly sack, and brought here. And…and I don’t even know where I am or who you are.”
Her waspish words stung but at least she was neither screaming nor crying. Progress.
“I can’t answer for the where, but allow me to introduce myself.” He took a step back and bowed as best he could. “Robert Bellamy, at your service.” He straightened. “And you are?”
She hesitated as though weighing whether or not she should reveal her name. “Phoebe Tremont.”
A final tear spilled from the corner of her eye. Fascinated, Robert watched it flow down her alabaster cheek, through the dark streak of dried mud, until it brushed the corner of her delicate mouth.
“Phoebe. What a beautiful name.” What a beautiful girl.
She frowned. “You are impertinent, sir. If we must speak at all, you will address me as Lady Phoebe.”
Robert’s patience began to slip. He braced a palm against the table edge and regarded her. “Rather formal given our circumstances, don’t you think, especially as there is no one to overhear save these four walls?”
“Mama says there is no excuse for bad manners, Mr…. Bellamy.” Expression decidedly unangelic, she added, “Your family must not be very important, for I’ve never heard of them.”
Delicate mouth or not, Robert’s ire rose. “I’ll have you know that my father was the best magistrate Upper Uckfield ever had.”
“Was?”
A lump blocked the back of his throat. “He died in a carriage accident last year, along with my mother.”
Her cross expression softened. “Oh, I am sorry. It must be terrible to be an orphan. Have you any brothers or sisters?”
He nodded, feeling the lump expand. “I have an older sister. Her name is Chelsea.”
“And she lives with you, in Upper Uckfield?” She wrinkled her nose. “Such a funny name. Where is that?”
“In East Sussex, six leagues or so from Maresfield. Why?”
“What a coincidence. My fiancé, Lord Montrose, has an estate not far from there.”
“You’re engaged?” He felt an odd twinge in his upper chest. Disappointment, perhaps? No, that was ridiculous. She was a stranger and a hoity-toity one at that.
“Of course, otherwise, I couldn’t have a fiancé, could I?” She lanced him a superior smile, and Robert had the sudden urge to crush her mouth beneath his. “When I marry I shall be a viscountess and someday a countess.”
“You don’t look old enough to be either.”
She frowned. “I shall be nineteen next month. Mama wed when she was only seventeen.”
“I see.” He smiled. “By comparison, you are a woman of the world.”
“You are making fun of me, aren’t you?” Her pale eyes darkened. “When Lord Montrose comes to rescue me, I shall tell him of your insulting manner.” Her expression turned smug.
“Perhaps he will call you out.”
Robert tossed back his head and guffawed. It was the first time he’d laughed since his capture.
Wiping his eyes, he said, “If he does, he must be an excessively proud and pea-witted gentleman.” And a very fortunate one.
Her face fell. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“That he would be more likely to direct his energies toward bringing our kidnappers to justice than redressing imagined slights.”
Her shoulders slumped. “In truth, I do not know him well enough to say.”
Her sad admission piqued his curiosity. “And yet you are marrying him?”
Her chin snapped up. “I know everything that I need to know. He is handsome and amusing and very rich, although a good deal older than I. Thirty, I believe.”
Thirty. It was none of his business whom she married and yet Robert couldn’t help feeling indignant on her behalf. She was too proud, to be sure, but she was also
young and comely. Too young and comely to be married off to some middle-aged lord, no matter how rich he might be.
“Do you love him?” he asked suddenly.
She opened her mouth, and then closed it. She twisted her hands in her lap, and he began to suspect she’d never considered the question before.
“He is always courteous,” she replied after a lengthy pause. “Our parents believe we shall suit. I…esteem him.”
“You esteem him?” He started to laugh, and then realized she was serious.
She nodded. “What more is there?”
“A great deal more, I should hope. When I marry, it shall be for love and no other reason.”
She shot up from her chair and rounded the table toward him. “Had I desired your opinion, I should have asked for it.” She planted both palms on his chest and pushed.
Weak as he was, he held his ground and pinned her wrists in his one hand. “So, Miss Prim and Proper has a temper, does she?”
“Let me go.” She pulled back, but he held her easily.
“If you said please, as well as my Christian name, I might consider it,” he suggested gamely. Missish girls usually bored him, but something about this one intrigued him.
“You’re hateful.” Her pink nostrils flared. “And you smell horrid.”
It was the truth and it hurt. He released her abruptly. “As would you had you not stirred from this chamber or been allowed to bathe for…”
He turned away and propped one shoulder against the wall.
A light touch landed on his back. “How long have you been here?”
He ground his forehead against the rough stone. “I can’t be certain. They drugged my food at first, and I slept most of the time. Weeks. Almost a month, I think.”
Looking over his shoulder, he saw her stamp her tiny, slipper-shod foot on the packed earth floor. “My papa and Lord Montrose will not stand for this. They will rescue me and, when they do, I shall insist they rescue you as well.”
“You shall, shall you?” He folded his arms across his chest and regarded her, thinking how much she reminded him of a feisty kitten, both helpless and utterly adorable. Unable to resist teasing her, he added, “But perhaps they will not want to sully themselves by rescuing someone from such an unimportant family.”