by Jane Ashford
Julia could think only how good it was to have someone with her. At times, alone in the shabby room after Fenton had gone, she’d been afraid she was going mad. Her sheltered life had not prepared her for such a trial, and though she did not break down before her captor, when he was gone she came close. Bess had some plan, she told herself. Someone—Richard, her heart cried out—was coming. She only need hang on a little longer, and with Bess here that would be much easier to do.
* * *
Thomas rode as he never had before in his life, bent low in the saddle, his spurs ever ready. More than one late traveler stared after him in astonishment or outrage as he raced back along the road they had taken from London.
He made the return journey in less than half the time it had taken earlier, for the city streets were now empty of most traffic. As he came into the more fashionable neighborhoods, he passed two acquaintances who stared after him through raised quizzing glasses and stored up the incident as a curiosity to retail at some dull party.
When he finally reached home, Thomas rode straight into the stable yard, nearly taking a spill on the slippery cobbles. The head groom emerged protesting, but Thomas merely threw him his reins and ran for the back door.
He encountered his mother in the front hall, pulling off her long evening gloves. “Thomas!” she exclaimed. “There you are. Where have you been?”
He put the question aside with a gesture. “Richard?”
“In the study, I think. But Thomas…”
He started to go past her, and Lady Beckwith got a firm grip on his coat. “Thomas!” she repeated. “Tell me what has happened. Now!”
He paused, impatient, and looked down at her. “Richard has said…?”
“Nothing! And I am consumed with curiosity.” She smiled, but grew serious when he did not respond. “Thomas, what’s wrong?”
“Mama, I cannot tell you. It is up to Richard. And I must speak to him now.”
She released his coat and stepped back. “I can see that it is urgent. Is it about Julia? I only want to help, Thomas.”
He nodded, then shrugged.
Lady Beckwith struggled with herself. Her younger son had never before refused to share a secret with her, and it was difficult to accept his silence. “I’ll speak to Richard again later,” she said finally.
“Thank you, Mama.” Thomas reached out and squeezed her hand, then turned toward the study.
“Will you be staying home now?” Lady Beckwith couldn’t refrain from asking.
“Not just yet,” was the curt reply.
She watched him enter the study and shut the door with puzzled concern in her eyes.
Thomas found his brother slumped over his desk, forehead in hand. He looked the picture of despair, and Thomas was at once wrenched by the sight and elated that he could end it. “Richard,” he said. “I have found her.”
Beckwith’s head came up. He gazed at Thomas as if his eyes would bore straight through him.
“A house in the country. Not more than an hour of hard riding. We must go at once.”
Sir Richard stood. “How?”
“Bess helped me. She—” But before he could go on, the door burst open and Michael Shea exploded into the room. “She’s gone!” he cried. “Bess is gone, too. Gods, I’ll kill him this time. I’ll kill him!”
Twenty
“You will not be given the opportunity,” replied Sir Richard Beckwith through his teeth. “Now, where is Julia?” His gray eyes bore into Thomas, and Shea automatically turned to look at him as well. The younger man took a step back. He had certainly not imagined telling his story to both of them at once, or under such dramatic circumstances. He felt as if he were facing two half-domesticated beasts who might spring on him without warning.
“In a house about an hour’s ride from London. We should go at once.”
“We shall,” was his brother’s reply. He rang the bell. “You may tell me how you discovered this on the road.” A footman opened the door. “Have my horse saddled and brought around,” he finished.
“And a fresh horse for me,” Thomas added. He glanced at the newcomer. “Mr. Shea as well.”
The footman nodded and went out.
“What about Bess?” protested Michael Shea.
“She’s there too,” answered Thomas, moving further away from the man. “That’s how I found the place.” Shea glared at him, and he hurried on before they could speak. “It was her idea. I was reluctant at first, but I couldn’t think of any other plan. Bess went to Fenton’s house and, er, got herself kidnapped. I followed and found out where Fenton is hiding. We must go back there as fast as we can. I promised Bess that.”
His companions spoke at the same moment.
“You did not actually see Julia?”
“You let her go back to that monster?”
Before Thomas could respond to either question, Shea gave an inarticulate cry and lunged. He did not catch Thomas by the throat; the latter ducked sideways, and his grasping hands caught an arm instead. But this was enough to bring them both crashing to the floor in a tangle of limbs and curses.
Sir Richard moved like a cat. He got a hand into the back of Shea’s collar and pulled. Shea, his wind cut off, fell back, and Thomas scrambled out of his way, keeping a wary eye on his opponent.
“Stop it!” said Sir Richard in a voice like a whiplash. Michael Shea relaxed in his grip, and he let him go.
“I didn’t want to do it,” said Thomas. “But I couldn’t think of anything else, and we had to find Julia.”
Shea straightened his neckcloth, rubbing his neck and breathing heavily.
“But Fenton is not at home,” Sir Richard pointed out. “I looked for him there myself.”
“Bess knew something. She went to the stables.”
“Ah.” He looked annoyed at himself rather than surprised.
“Shall we be on our way?” asked Shea, his voice a bit roughened by the throttling.
The door opened, and the footman reappeared, gazing avidly about the room. Clearly, the sounds of the battle had roused the household. “Your horses are waiting, Sir Richard,” he said.
“Thank you. Come Thomas, Shea.”
He opened a wooden cabinet at the side of the fireplace and took out two flat cases.
“Father’s dueling pistols?” protested Thomas. “Those things go off in your hand at the least jar. We can’t take them.”
“I don’t keep guns in town,” was Sir Richard’s grim reply. “And they will serve to kill a man.”
In a matter of minutes, they were mounted and riding through the now deserted streets of London. “Now,” said Sir Richard, “you will tell us the whole story, Thomas, leaving out nothing.”
His brother proceeded to do so.
“Why did you not come to me?” asked Sir Richard when he had finished.
“Bess thought you’d refuse. Like Shea.”
“She knew I’d never allow such a plan!” put in the latter. “When I see her, I shall…” His voice cracked, and his horse drew ahead in response to the involuntary pressure of his knees.
“I wish you had seen Julia,” said Sir Richard, following his own train of thought. “What if she is not there?”
“I waited a little to try to catch a glimpse,” responded Thomas. “But I didn’t want to stay too long.”
“She must be where Fenton is,” offered Shea, bringing a frown to Sir Richard’s brow. “Can’t we go faster?”
“We have no plan yet,” Beckwith pointed out coldly. “This will not be so easy as the last time. Fenton is there, and he no doubt knows we shall be coming after him.”
“Bess was to tell him some tale,” replied Thomas.
“The man is a blackguard, not a fool.”
“So, how shall we go about it?” asked Shea, still impatient.
“Surpr
ise is our best weapon,” answered Sir Richard slowly. “Can we break into the house, Thomas?”
His brother considered, then nodded slowly. “It’s largeish, and they’re using only part of it, I think. If we went to one of the far rooms…”
“Good. If we can get inside and silence the ruffians Fenton certainly has stationed there, we should be able to stage a quick attack and get the upper hand.” His face showed deep satisfaction at the thought, and Shea’s mirrored it.
For the first time, it occurred to Thomas to be concerned about Fenton. “You don’t really intend to kill him, do you?” he asked. “I mean, I fully understand that you might feel like killing him, but…” He looked from his brother to Shea, then back again, and was not reassured. “I don’t say he doesn’t deserve punishment,” he began again. “But you can’t go about killing people. You’d have to flee the country.”
“I intend to,” Shea pointed out. “And besides, how is anyone to know what’s happened? You said this was an isolated house. I’m sure that’s why he chose it.” The muscles of his jaw tightened.
“Anything may happen in a fight,” was Sir Richard’s only contribution, and Thomas had to leave it thus, though he was far from reassured.
They spoke little after that, and in due course, they reached the grove of trees where Thomas had concealed himself earlier. “The house is just beyond that wall,” he told them. “You can see over it if you ride close.”
“I think we shall leave the horses here,” answered Sir Richard. “I suggest we walk around the wall and find the most deserted corner for our entry.”
In the darkness, they had to move slowly among the bushes and weeds along the base of the wall. More than once, Michael Shea objected to the time this was taking, but Sir Richard silenced him with curt inquiries as to whether he wished their rescue attempt to fail. At last they reached a point at the back of the house where they could see lighted windows on both the upper and lower levels.
“That must be the kitchen,” murmured Sir Richard, indicating the lower one. “I assume his hirelings are there and… the rest above.” He could not say Julia’s name. The thought of her in that house with Fenton would drive him mad, he knew, and he suppressed it. “We must try the front corner opposite,” he finished. “We can slip through the front gate.”
They made their way there, stumbling more than once in the blackness. They slipped through the unlocked gate in single file and moved silently along the overgrown drive.
“Quiet above all else,” whispered Sir Richard as they reached the edge of the unkempt lawn. “Try the windows.”
They fanned out and began to test the windows along the ground floor.
At first, they had no luck. The house seemed securely locked, and they moved from window to window with growing impatience and anger.
“I could break the glass,” hissed Shea finally.
“Too loud,” was the immediate reply.
They moved on down the side of the building. A burst of male laughter reached them from the back of the house, and faces grew even more grim.
“Here’s something,” said Shea then, and beckoned. The Beckwiths joined him before a pair of French doors near the rear corner of the house. “The catches on these are a joke,” he told them. “A child can force them.” He took a slender knife from his pocket and slid it between the two doors. There was a delicate scraping sound, and then a sharp click. All three men froze; it had seemed very loud in the silence. But the only response was another burst of laughter. With a silent flourish, Michael Shea opened the door and ushered them inside.
Twenty-one
Not much more than an hour before, Lord Fenton had returned with a loaded tray to the room where Bess and Julia sat. “I must beg your pardon,” he said. “Things have been rather…confused, and somehow food was forgotten. But matters have been rectified.” He put the tray on a small, unsteady table and, to Julia’s surprise, went out again.
“Don’t touch any of it,” said Bess as soon as he was gone. “He’ll have put in some of that devil’s brew he gave me.”
Julia nodded wistfully. There was soup on the tray, and it smelled wonderful. The bottle of wine had been opened and was obviously out of the question. “Can he have put anything in the bread?” she asked. “How could he?”
“We daren’t find out,” answered Bess, and Julia was forced to agree. But the hollow feeling inside seemed to intensify tenfold with food so close.
She turned away and went to sit down on the bed.
After a time, they heard footsteps returning and the key in the lock. Lord Fenton came in, scanned the tray, and frowned. “You haven’t eaten.”
“Do you think we’re daft?” Bess asked him. “You don’t drug me more than once.”
His face indicated that he had assumed their naivete. An almost demonic expression crossed it now, but he didn’t speak. He merely slammed the door again and locked it.
“Is the man mad?” wondered Bess.
“I have thought he must be close to it,” replied Julia. “He can’t think he will return to London and take up his old life after this.”
Bess shook her head. There was no chance for further speculation, however, for sounds heralded the approach of more than one person this time. For a moment, hope lit Bess’s green eyes, dying when the door opened to reveal not only Fenton, but his two hired ruffians.
“Hold them,” said the former curtly.
Moving so quickly the women had no time to react, the men imprisoned them in a crushing grip. Julia could not break it, no matter how she struggled, and she could see that Bess was in the same predicament. Worse was the fact that the man held one hand over her nose and mouth, making breathing nearly impossible and revolting her with the smell of cheap gin.
Lord Fenton stood as if in the midst of a ton party and poured out two tumblers of wine from the bottle on the table. When both were full, he turned to evaluate his captives.
Julia fought to pull air into her protesting lungs, and failed. She began to feel dizzy and panicked and struggled even harder, but the man’s arms were like steel bands.
“Ready?” said Fenton. And at some signal, he took two strides toward Julia, one tumbler in his hand.
At that instant, the grip on her mouth was released. Julia drew in a huge breath, limp with relief, and the entire glass was poured down her throat.
She choked, the wine burning and gagging. Desperately, she swallowed and swallowed to clear her throat, coughing and sputtering, tears streaming from her eyes. Inevitably, most of the wine went down, and she was too breathless to care.
Bess watched all this with wide eyes above her captor’s hairy fingers. She squirmed wildly as Fenton approached her with the other tumbler, but her struggles were weakened by lack of air. And when she, in turn, was allowed to breathe, she could not stop the reflex. Like Julia, she was forced to swallow the drugged wine.
While she was still recovering, Fenton made a quick gesture, and Julia and Bess were at once flung on the bed on top of one another. All the men then strode from the room, leaving them alone.
Julia sat up and helped Bess to do likewise as she continued to cough. “Are you all right?” she asked, her throat still raw.
Bess nodded, eyes streaming. It was another minute or so before she could speak. “Put your finger down your throat,” she croaked then, and did so.
Julia watched as Bess tried unsuccessfully to get rid of the wine.
“I can’t,” she gasped finally, subsiding onto the bed. “My throat’s too sore, devil take it.”
There was a short silence.
“What will happen to us now?” asked Julia quietly. “I mean, how will it feel, the drug?”
Bess sighed. “You go sort of—far away, at first. As if you were watching everything from a long way off. It’ll be hard to move. And then, after a while, you’ll fall asleep.”
“You must fight it!” insisted Bess fiercely. “Thomas is bringing help.” There seemed no point in keeping the plan a secret now, and she could see that Julia needed some hope to cling to. In a burst, she explained the whole thing. “He should be back very soon,” she concluded, “so you must keep fighting.”
“Richard,” responded Julia in a dreamy voice.
“Yes,” agreed Bess, “he will be here soon, so you must not give up. When that devil comes back”—she paused in reaction to the surprise on Julia’s face—“of course he’ll be back. Why do you think he did this? So we can’t fight him, the coward.” Her scorn was withering.
The drug haze receded a little in the face of Julia’s fear. “Now? Both of us?” she faltered.
“Aye, the filthy pig. But he’ll find more than he’s counting on.” Bess’s voice was sounding very slightly slurred. She rose. “Come and walk about. It’ll help. I did it before.” She took Julia’s arm and pulled her to her feet. Side by side, they began to pace the boundaries of the small room.
“He gave us a lot,” said Bess blearily, as she tripped over nothing. “Afraid of the two of us. Hah.” She laughed harshly.
“Two against one,” responded Julia in a sing-song, and giggled.
Bess shook her head violently, and then Julia’s arm. “Fight it!” she repeated.
Julia bit her lower lip. “I feel so…fuzzy,” she complained.
“I know, but don’t give in.” She turned her head abruptly. “He’s coming.”
The footsteps paused, and they heard the key yet again. In the next moment, Fenton was before them. He had taken off his coat and waistcoat and wore only a shirt and buff riding breeches above stockinged feet. When he saw them leaning on one another, he smiled. “Touching,” he said, then grasped their arms and pushed them before him out into the corridor. “This way.”
Julia tried to run, but her muscles were limp, and his grasp on her upper arm was like a vise. She tripped and would have fallen to the floor had he not jerked her upright again. She cried out at the pain in her arm, and Lord Fenton laughed.