The Perfect Rake

by Anne Gracie

  “I’ll be close behind you, Carradice, m’boy.”

  Gideon nodded and said urgently to the injured footman, “James, did you see which way they went?”

  James frowned as he tried to gather his senses. “To-ward…moonrise.”

  Gideon squeezed his shoulder in thanks. “Good man! Right, I’ll be off. I’ll get her back, don’t worry.” He stood and said, almost to himself, “Who the devil would snatch her off the street?”

  James’s hand shot out and grabbed his coat tail. “Thought you’d know, m’lord. ’Twas her granfer. The old lord…I saw him.”

  Gideon stared. “Why would her grandfather abduct her off the street?”

  James fought for consciousness. “Hates her…hates Miss Prue…You got to find ’er, m’lord. In one of his rages, ’e was…” His head fell back, and his eyes closed, but he managed to whisper, “Last time…old devil…nearly killed ’er…”

  Gideon swore again as he raced from the house. A late guest was just dismounting from a fine-looking bay gelding. No other horse was to be seen. Gideon couldn’t wait for the one to be brought from the stables. He strode forward and snatched the reins from the man’s hand. “Need to borrow your horse, sir. Emergency. Lady Gosforth will vouch for me.” And before the man could utter a protest, he’d leaped into the saddle and galloped off.

  His mount thundered toward the rising moon as his gaze scoured the night for a black carriage pulled by four bay horses, one with one white foot.

  Prudence lay huddled on the seat of the coach, numb with shock, fear, and confusion. One moment she’d been strolling along the street on a warm night, deep in thought, and then suddenly she’d been roughly seized and flung into a vehicle. She could see nothing. She was half smothered in some sort of thick cloth, like a cloak or a blanket. It was dusty, she knew that, as she could breathe only though her nose. A rag of some sort had been shoved into her mouth, and a gag tied over it, preventing her from screaming, or even breathing. Her hands were tied tight, with thick, rough twine that cut into her skin.

  The carriage moved fast. It bounced over cobblestones, over drains and ruts, thudding into bone-jarring holes, swinging and swaying around corners at a fearsome pace. Prudence was tossed back and forth by the movement. Blind and bound as she was, it took all her concentration to remain on the seat. She was tossed to the floor several times. Hands grabbed her and hurled her back on the seat, not gently.

  Finally, she managed to wedge herself into the corner of the vehicle and steady herself by bracing her feet against the floor and the side of the carriage. Only then was she able to consider her position.

  For a few wild moments she’d imagined she’d been mistaken for someone else, kidnapped for profit. Or abducted for immoral purposes. There had been shouting when she was taken, but she’d been too occupied to notice, wholly occupied in fighting the rough hands that bound her. Hampered by the cloak over her head, she hadn’t stood a chance. There were three men at least. Two had climbed on top of the carriage. One was the driver. She’d heard them.

  Another man was in the carriage with her. The leader. He’d addressed not a word to her, but she’d heard his cane rap on the roof, and the carriage had lurched off. She could hear him breathing, wheezing stertorously.

  He said not a word, but slowly, imperceptibly she realized who it was. And fear lodged like a knot in her chest, for even through the heavy blanket she could smell him, the fusty, goaty old-man smell of him. Grandpapa.

  She tried to say something through the gag.

  Thwack! The cane smashed across her shoulder and neck. Even through the blanket, it hurt. He had not spared his strength.

  “Silence, bitch!”

  Beneath the blanket, Prudence closed her eyes and braced her body. She knew he would not stop at a single blow. He never had before. Blind as she was, she would not know when the next one came, so she must be ready. She would survive this. She hunched her head into her shoulder. And waited…and waited.

  Thwack! The cane smacked across her arm.

  “Don’t wriggle.”

  It would be a long night. She sent up a quick, silent prayer that she would live to see the dawn. And waited for the next blow. It was a long time coming, but then—

  “Send me off on a wild-goose chase, would you, bitch? Down to London!” Thwack! “Then all the way to Derbyshire!” Thwack! “And then on to Scotland?” Thwack!

  Prudence swallowed. She’d hoped the lie had bought them enough time, but…

  Thwack! “Waste my blunt on expensive frippery!” The cane cut sharply across her legs, and her instant reflexive gasp of pain almost choked her because of the gag. The blanket did not reach to her legs, and the deep blue silk and the silver tissue overlay provided no protection at all. Her beautiful party dress.

  Thwack! On her ankle bone. She heard the silver tissue rip, and he grunted with satisfaction. “Fine feathers do not make fine birds, missy.”

  Prudence could do nothing but endure. She braced herself for the next blow, but he seemed to have calmed a little. The silence stretched, the only sound the horses’ hooves on the road and the creaking and groaning of the moving carriage.

  “Wondering how I found you, eh?”

  Surreptitiously, she flexed her toes. They moved. Her ankle throbbed but it wasn’t broken. She sighed in relief. She might still be able to run, if she had the chance.

  “Young Otterbury wrote. Letter waiting for me when I got back from Scotland. He let me know where you’d run off to. Hah! Currying favor. Used to work for me, did you know? Left the company some time ago. Been trying to get reinstated ever since. The fool! Do him no good, no good at all now…”

  The last piece of the puzzle, Prudence thought wearily. Phillip had betrayed her at every turn, in every way.

  The silence in the carriage stretched and stretched.

  Thwack! “Damned if I’ll be locked up for your interference, you doxy.”

  Locked up? What did he mean? This was not the frenzied attack of her youth, her grandfather in a spitting rage. There was something more…more leisured about it. Brooding. As if he had all the time in the world. And slowly building up to something…. She dared not think of what.

  She did not know what was preferable: a burst of anger that was over in one violent outburst, or this waiting…not seeing…not knowing. Imagining all sorts of things. It was more horrifying, somehow. Long periods of silence and then, suddenly—

  Thwack! “I am Dereham of Dereham Court…I’d see us both dead before I’d let myself be imprisoned.”

  Imprisoned for what? she wondered. See us both dead?

  She huddled on the seat, choking for breath under the blanket, swallowing convulsively on the gag. She had never felt so alone. This time, there was no one to help her; no sisters, no servants to interfere. She was alone with him, helpless, in the dark in a carriage. On the road to hell.

  For the moment, the blows were intermittent. It was not so bad. It was frightening, cowering in the corner, never knowing when or where to expect them, but it was better than a frenzied attack. Less physically damaging, she hoped. It might be more endurable in the end. Whenever “the end” would be.

  But she would not give up. She would not be defeated. She had seen the light of happiness, and it was within her grasp.

  He muttered to himself from time to time. Sometimes she could hear the words; sometimes she could not. Sometimes they made sense to her, sometimes they did not. Sometimes whatever it was would enrage him, and he would lash out at her, the only warning the whistling of his cane through the air.

  “Run off to your lover, would you?” Thwack! “Harlot! Faithless whore!”

  Her ear rang with the blow, drowning out the ugly names he was calling her. Names did not hurt, anyway. He’d called her those before. Her lover? How had he discovered that? It did not matter. She did love Gideon. She did not care who knew it. She didn’t have to hide it now, not even from herself.

  She loved Gideon. She conjured up his face in
the dark, clinging to the thought of him. Her beacon in the storm. Gideon. His dark eyes that teased her to laughter, and at the same time promised untold, wicked pleasures. And we will all the pleasures prove. Pleasures, not pain.

  She kept that thought at the forefront of her mind.

  The horses would need to be changed at some point. It was a long way from Bath to Norfolk. They’d have to get fresh horses soon, even though the early fast pace had steadied. There might be an opportunity for her to escape. She tried to flex her cramped limbs unobtrusively.

  Thwack! Across her shin.

  To block out the waves of hatred coming at her, she clung to thoughts of Gideon. Gideon, who made her feel beautiful. Gideon, whose kisses warmed her even now when she was trapped in Grandpapa’s cold and bitter hell. Gideon, who’d grown up as a sad and lonely little boy, in a house without love. He needed so much to be loved, even if he didn’t know it. And he’d said he wanted her, needed her, plain Prudence Merridew. He’d told her so with dark and potent heat in his eyes and poetry on his lips.

  Come live with me and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove.

  And she’d let herself fall prey to doubts! Allowing the words of men like her grandfather and Phillip to influence her. Blind, foolish Prudence. Doubting the man who needed her so much, the man she loved with all her heart, only because he was a rake. So what if he had not used the right words? He had wanted to love her, and even if—

  Thwack! What if she died tonight? What if she died without ever having the chance to tell him how much she loved him? Without ever knowing what it felt like to make love with him?

  She would not die. She would survive this. She had to. She had to tell Gideon she loved him. She didn’t care about the consequences. And she was going to make love with him at the very first opportunity.

  Gideon arrowed his steed into the night. He’d gambled on his instincts, his instincts that said the old man would make for his lair, for Dereham Court. On the outskirts of Bath, he’d spotted an old chap on a bench by the main road, nursing a mug of ale in the warm evening. He wrenched his mount to a halt.

  “Have you seen a black carriage pass by in the last half hour, drawn by four bay horses, one with a white foot?”

  The old man considered a moment. “Dunno about a white foot, sorry, but there were a black carriage right enough, passed by here like the devil hisself were atop it. Sporting no lights they were, neither. Foolishness this late and when the moon’s naught but a sliver.”

  “If you stay here another hour and tell a gentleman with white hair what you told me, he will give you another of these.” Gideon flipped him a guinea and raced on. He could make better speed than a carriage, but even so, he feared for Prudence.

  James’s words rang in his head. Hates Miss Prue…Last time…old devil…nearly killed ’er.

  Nearly killed her? His mind was heavy with dread even as his body urged his mount to greater speed. Gideon recalled Hope’s careless referral to the way he beat them all, but thrashed Prudence.

  If he’d hurt Prudence, her grandfather was a dead man.

  He raced headlong into the night, praying for Prudence’s safety and wishing he’d worn spurs and boots to the party.

  Rope burned into Prudence’s wrists. She’d struggled surreptitiously for the last hour to loosen the knots and free herself, but her efforts were in vain. Almost. She had not managed to free herself, but she’d gripped the edge of the blanket covering her head. Inch by inch she gathered it, and it was now one big tug away from coming off her. She could run, and she could see. There would be a chance for her to try to escape. There must be.

  She waited for her moment. Her arms cramped painfully. She flexed her fingers to get her circulation moving again.

  Mercifully, Grandpapa seemed to have subsided. He had said nothing for many minutes now. Nor had the cane come whistling out of the darkness. She wondered if he had fallen asleep. She hoped so, but she dared not risk pulling the blanket off her in case he wasn’t. She couldn’t make a move yet, not until the carriage stopped. It would be madness to jump from a moving carriage in the dark, and she wasn’t that desperate. Yet.

  It seemed an age before the carriage finally slowed. The sound of the horses’ hooves changed—the road surface was different. A town? A toll road? Would they be stopping for a change of horses, or to pay the toll? Inconspicuously she flexed what muscles she could, preparing for possible action.

  It was a coaching inn. She heard the ostlers come hurrying out, heard the order for fresh horses. There was some slight argument about it, and she heard her grandfather slide across to the other side of the carriage to deal with the innkeeper’s impertinence in delaying him.

  With her bound hands she felt for the handle of the carriage door and twisted. It opened. In a flash she tugged the blanket from over her eyes and jumped out into the courtyard of the inn. Her knees buckled beneath her from the last hours of inactivity, and she staggered.

  There was a shout behind her. Prudence stumbled doggedly forward, the blood rushing painfully back to her limbs with each step. A golden slab of light spilled across the cobblestones; the door of the inn stood ajar. Inside were people who might help her. Without hesitation she made for the light.

  She burst through the door and looked wildly around her. The taproom was almost deserted. Two old men seated by the fire stared at her with mouths agape. A motherly looking woman was wiping down a table with a cloth. There was no one else. Prudence ran toward the woman, uttering noises of distress through her gag.

  “Heavens to Betsy!” the woman exclaimed. “Whatever is going on? Look, Arthur, some villain’s tied this poor lady’s hands and stuffed a horrid rag in her mouth.”

  A middle-aged man, presumably Arthur, popped up from behind the bar and stared at her.

  “’Ow d’ye know she’s a lady?” one of the old men asked.

  Prudence cast a frightened glance toward the door. She uttered urgent-sounding noises. Oh, why were these people so slow?

  “Look at her clothes, gapeseed!” said the other. “Fine as fivepence she be—or was, until somebody ripped that silvery thing she’s wearing. Cost a few quid, that would.”

  “Take no notice of these lummoxes, dearie,” said the woman, “We’ll look after you.” She laid a comforting arm around Prudence. “Arthur, she’s shaking like a leaf, poor little thing. I don’t know what trouble you’re in, miss, but you’re safe now. My Arthur will protect you.” She reached to unfasten the gag. “Who’s done this terrible thing to you, dearie?”

  Crack! It sounded like a gunshot in the small taproom. “I forbid you to untie that woman!” Her grandfather’s voice rang out, echoing with the authority and arrogance of generations. Leaning heavily on a silver-tipped ebony cane, he limped into the center of the small, low-ceilinged taproom as if he owned it. His cane was in his left hand, a horsewhip was in his right.

  Despair flooded Prudence as she saw the effect of his bullying, aristocratic entrance on the villagers in the inn. They were frozen.

  Crack! The occupants of the room jumped as one person when the whip cracked again. Her grandfather’s two burly henchman stepped into the room after him, a silent message to any who might consider disobeying the man with the whip.

  “She is a dangerous madwoman! Move away from her, alewife, for your own safety!” The lash of the horsewhip stirred and caressed his boot like a living thing as he flicked it back and forth.

  Prudence shook her head vigorously in denial of her grandfather’s charge. Her eyes beseeched the woman to give her the benefit of the doubt, to defy her grandfather and un-fasten the gag. At least if her mouth were free, she could speak in her own defense.

  The woman did not move. Nor did she move away from Prudence. A tiny spark of hope flared in Prudence’s heart.

  “I said move away from her!” He regarded the woman as if she were an insect. The lash stirred again.

  “I don’t take orders in my own inn,” she responded boldly, giving him back
look for look. “What have you to do with this young lady? How do I know you mean well by her?”

  Prudence nodded frantically at the woman, to confirm her words. Grandpapa did not mean well by her at all.

  “Insolent trollop! I am Lord Dereham of Dereham Court, Norfolk.” He paused to let the words sink in. “And this is my runaway wife, who I am conducting to Bedlam. Now step aside and my men shall conduct her back to the carriage from which she escaped.”

  Runaway wife? Bedlam! The Bethlehem Royal Hospital, where lunatics were locked away. She felt sick, terrified. Could he really mean to lock her up in Bedlam? Once she was shut away there, no one would ever believe her story, no one would ever release her. And in that hellish place, she would indeed go mad. She shook her head desperately at the woman.

  “She doesn’t look like a madwoman to me,” the woman said slowly. “And she’s awful young to be your wife. Let’s see what she’s got to say for herself.” Again she reached for the gag.

  “Don’t touch her, you fat trollop!” The lash bit into the soft flesh of the woman’s bare arm and as she cried out in anger and pain; he grabbed her and flung her roughly aside. She hit the bar hard.

  “Oi! Leave my wife alone, you!” Arthur came forward, his fists bunched menacingly. “I don’t ’old with toffs mishandling women, ’specially not my woman!”

  Casually, Lord Dereham slashed him across the eyes with his whip. With a shriek of pain, Arthur fell back, clutching his eyes. His wife crawled forward to help him.

  The whip writhed and flickered like a snake. “Anyone else?” The silky threat cowed the silent spectators. He didn’t wait for a response. He grabbed Prudence by the hair and began to drag her toward the door. She kicked and struggled as hard as she could.

  “Come quietly, you little bitch!” he roared and lifted the whip handle to clout her into insensibility.

  “Touch her, and I’ll kill you, Dereham!”

  The whip handle stopped in midair. Prudence sagged in sudden thankfulness. She knew that voice. Gideon. Thank God, thank God.