Which was why Orley followed Yarborough through the mews, trailed by Savoy and Galeon. After speaking to a number of different servants, they had finally come upon information that Mister Jeremy Hagan had rented lodgings at the edge of town, near the docks, and was planning to sail away for Tamerica the next morning. With Chester and Samson.
Orley shoved away those negative thoughts and returned his focus to stepping as quietly as possible with his cane through the dank and smelly alleyway. He pressed himself against the wall when he heard what sounded like Tfrenchmen whispering furiously to one another in a room nearby. When his name was mentioned, he raised his eyebrows and shock coursed through him. Orley trembled, feeling as if ice-cold fingertips worked their way down his spine. Especially when he realized he knew to whom the voice belonged. When Savoy spoke next to him, Orley discerned he was not the only one.
“Father?” Savoy gasped in horror. He stepped out and rushed to the door of the room.
“Savoy!” Yarborough whispered furiously.
“Stephen!” Orley called out, giving chase. He was not fast enough, however. The sound of splintering wood reached his ears, and yelling, as well as gunshots. Steel upon steel, cries of pain, and as Orley stepped into the room, his mouth fell open as he saw Stephen engaged in hand-to-hand combat with two men, while three men lay dead or dying upon the floor, one of them Birtie, Orley’s former footman. Stephen’s father, Lord Woodhead, lay on the floor, a wound to his head.
Orley went over to the man he’d once thought of as a trusted friend, a father figure, and pulled his sword from his scabbard. Holding it straight out, he pointed it at Lord Woodhead’s throat and glared at him.
“Kindly give me one good reason, my dear Lord Woodhead, as to why I should not plunge the tip of my sword straight through your throat and watch you breathe your last,” he stated calmly, rage and feelings of betrayal settling on his shoulders like a warm duvet.
“All is not as it appears, Whitcomb,” Lord Woodhead said.
“Cease from speaking to me so familiarly, Lord Woodhead,” Orley growled. “Your presence in this room is evidence that our relationship is not at all what I believed it to be. You will address me as Your Grace.” Orley pressed the tip of his sword harder, watching emotionlessly as a trickle of blood appeared and began to run down Lord Woodhead’s throat. “Tell me why you are here.”
Lord Woodhead swallowed and flicked his eyes toward Galeon before returning his gaze to Orley. “Your Grace, I was under orders by His Majesty, the King, to act as a spy. I fought alongside them in the Nafoleonic Wars, and I was there when they….”
Orley’s skin prickled as memories cascaded through his mind. Fire and pain, his limbs stretched wide as he was restrained by rope. Anglish voices speaking Tfrench.
“When they kidnapped me?” he asked hoarsely. “I thought it only Lord Kipling?”
“Nay, Your Grace, I was there as well, unfortunately.” Lord Woodhead’s eyes filled with tears.
“Father,” Savoy gasped. Orley glanced over and saw that his friends had dispatched all but one of the other men, who was now being restrained, bleeding from many wounds on his face and torso.
“You stood and watched as they injured me? As they made marks upon my person?” Orley questioned him.
“I had to, Your Grace. It was my duty,” Lord Woodhead said.
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“A pox upon your duty! They would have killed me!” Orley shouted.
“I would not have allowed it, Your Grace!” Lord Woodhead denied. “My orders were to allow them to harm you, but not to kill you.”
Orley growled, his hand shaking, the desire to kill Lord Woodhead strong. He yanked the sword away from the man’s throat and turned away. Panting furiously, he ran his fingers through his hair. Spinning back around, he pointed at the older man.
“Is there aught else you need to confess, my lord,” he sneered.
“Yes, if my life is forfeit, I do. But I will not do so in front of my son and in the presence of those present.”
Orley lifted his sword again, ready to plunge it into the bastard’s heart.
“Whitcomb, no!” Yarborough called out. “I shall hear his lord’s confession.”
Orley glared at his friend, his chest rising and falling with the effort to hold back the animalistic need for vengeance. For blood. He nodded instead and turned for the shattered door.
“I shall know where the duchess and my son are, Yarborough,” he stated.
“You will have their location, Whitcomb. I swear it.”
Orley barely spared another glance in Lord Woodhead’s direction before heading outside. He heard the man call out to Savoy, pleading for forgiveness, for a chance to explain, but when Orley looked to his right, he saw his friend standing beside him, his face an implacable mask.
“Fotmy and the girls arrived in Titaly alone,” Savoy said quietly. He stared out into the darkness, his voice devoid of emotion. “When I inquired after father, Fotmy told me that he was taking care of business. Selling off property and ensuring our staff in Angland were taken care of. Fotmy told me it would take time, but the way he said it, I could tell that he did not fully believe his own words.” Savoy shook his head. He turned to look at Orley. “I do not know if he was also aware of my father’s treachery, Orley, but I do not believe it is so.”
Orley placed a hand upon Savoy’s shoulder and squeezed it gently. “I trust your fotmy is blameless in this, Stephen. I place all guilt upon your father’s shoulders.”
A loud scream of pain ripped through the air, followed by another, and Yarborough stepped out of the room, his shirtfront splattered with blood. Savoy turned away and let out a choked sob. Yarborough nodded at them, his eyes cold and filled with fury.
“He told you, then?” Orley asked.
“Yes. And the other man told me where we can find Her Grace.”
“Right,” Orley nodded. “Let us find my husband and son, and we shall sort out the rest later.” He turned away and stopped. Speaking softly to Savoy, Orley swallowed the grief that rose in his throat. “My condolences,
Stephen.”
“He betrayed you, Orley. For all that he was faithful to the Crown, he was a traitor to you.”
Orley nodded, and they headed to their awaiting carriage, none of them speaking further. Orley could only hope that, when the night was over, he and his friends would still be able to look each other in the eyes without bitterness, exposed secrets, and blood between them.
Chester lay on the bed, trying to cover his body with the remains of his torn and tattered gown, then lifted a now sleeping Samson up into his arms. He wiped his lips and winced at the blood left on his fingers. He was not surprised to see the crimson liquid on his digits, since he’d bitten his lip throughout his assault. Mr. Hagan’s hot breath on his neck and the man’s fingers digging into his skin had made Chester long for death, but his eyes had fallen on Samson, lying on a pile of blankets in front of the fire. He had known then that he could not die. He had to live. He had to survive, to escape, for his son.
Mr. Hagan turned away from the window he stood in front of and smirked at Chester. He rubbed at his crotch, his eyes moving over Samson, and he sneered.
“I will give you but a moment to say good-bye to him, Your Grace, then I will take him out into the woods and leave him there for the beasts to feed upon his flesh.”
Chester gasped. “He is a child!”
“He is an abomination!” Mr. Hagan shouted. “Do you not know the Scriptures say to not be unequally yoked? And you and His Grace have
joined yourselves together to create this… this mulatto creature.”
Chester pointed to himself. “Am I not the same, Mr. Hagan? An abomination? For my mother is Tafrican and my maldy Anglish.”
Mr. Hagan scoffed. “Ah, but you are valuable. You are a woman and will fetch much coin in Tamerica, whereas your son will not. He is small, weak, and sickly. The Almighty has cursed him. Surely you can
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see he is cursed.” He shook his head. “I do you a favor, Your Grace, by turning him over to the wild beasts. If he survives, then God has spared him. But I do not think it will be so.” He turned back to the door and cursed. “Birtie tarries. Something has gone wrong, and I will not dawdle. Come, let us away to the ship.”
Chester held Samson close to him, rising shakily to his feet and trying to find a way to escape. He looked around the room, but saw nothing with which to bludgeon Mr. Hagan over the head.
“I see you seek a means to harm me, Your Grace. You search for naught, for all weapons have been removed. Would you really put your child in danger just to rescue yourself?” the man asked, an evil grin stretching across his thin lips. He shook his head and held out his hand. “Now, do not cause me to wait much longer for I shall grow cross with you.”
Chester inhaled sharply and took a step, his head lowered, and shuffled his feet as he allowed Mr. Hagan to take his arm in a harsh grip. He winced as he was jerked forward and let out a soft cry.
“I think I shall have you again when we are aboard,” Mr. Hagan said and chuckled darkly.
Samson began to cry, and Mr. Hagan growled. “Shut up that sniveling brat!”
Chester crooned to his son, promising him that it would all be over soon, and as he lifted the babe to his face, he heard it. It was faint but still there.
Footsteps. And the distinct thud—step of someone walking with a cane.
Orley.
Chester felt hope fill him. Hope and strength, which had been slowly leaking from his broken spirit and bleeding from his wounded soul, returned to him with a vengeance. He pressed a kiss to Samson’s forehead, and as if he too were aware that his father was near, that his fotmy was no longer afraid, Samson quieted at once.
“Good,” Mr. Hagan said. “Now, let us go.”
“Wait,” Chester said. Thinking quickly. “I know you want to leave Samson to the wild, but allow me the chance to change him but once more.” Mr. Hagan sighed and groaned. He glanced around anxiously. “Quickly, woman.” He waved his hand, shoving Chester toward the bed.
Chester stumbled and placed Samson gently upon the mattress. He placed his lips gently upon Samson’s head and closed his eyes.
Come quickly, my love.
With that thought, Chester trailed his fingers down along Samson’s torso, rose, and with a yell, ran toward Hagan with all his might, screaming Orley’s name.
“Orley!”
Orley paused, his hand raised. The hair rose on the back of his neck. He turned to his right and peered through the dark as he heard a crash. A baby cried in the blackness, and he dropped his cane.
“Chester!” he gasped. Gritting his teeth, he ran and ignored the pain that burned through his right thigh. He would regret his actions later, but for now, his husband and his son needed him.
He heard Galeon, Savoy, and Yarborough running behind him, and pulling his revolver from its holster, Orley threw his shoulder against the door to the building and ran into the room. What he saw made his blood run cold, and he raised his hand and fired off a shot without thought at the man who had his hands wrapped around Chester’s throat.
Blood exploded outward from the hole in the Tamerican’s head and rained down upon Chester, who lay beneath. Chester released a gasp as Hagan collapsed forward atop him, and Orley rushed forward to shove off the evil vermin who would dare to bring harm to his husband. He pulled Chester into his arms as Chester, trembling and sobbing, clawed at Orley’s suit jacket.
“Samson!” Chester cried. Chester shoved Orley away, crawled over to the bed, and lifted the crying babe into his arms to rock him. Orley wrapped his arms around them both, his stomach turning at the blood and brain matter that covered Chester, but relief pouring through him as he realized he now had the two people he loved more than anything back in his arms.
He pressed his lips against Chester’s temple as tears rolled down his cheeks. His thigh twinged with pain, and though he hissed, he ignored it. It was a small price to pay in the grand scheme of things.
“I heard you call my name,” he told Chester.
Chester looked up at him, his hazel eyes filled with pain, sorrow, relief, and happiness. “I knew you would come,” he said. “But I also knew I had to fight this battle for myself.”
Orley nodded and held his family tighter, determined that for just a little while, the war for them was over.
Chester stood still as Missy helped him remove the ruined gown from his body, the servant’s soft cries of dismay nothing but white noise to him. He was aware that the constable had been called, indeed, more than one had been put on the case, but he had gone quite numb minutes before. The events of his kidnapping played over and over in his mind, and Chester was helpless to stop them.
“Your Grace? Would you like to take a bath?” Missy asked him.
“Hmm?” Chester looked down at her. Missy glanced up at him, her eyes filled with concern. Chester wanted to assure her he would be fine in a moment, but how could he do such a thing when was unsure such a thing was true?
“Bath, Your Grace?” Missy suggested again, gesturing toward the claw-foot tub that sat in the middle of the room, steam rising from the water. Chester shivered as he imagined sinking into the fragrant liquid, and he nodded.
Chester stepped over to the tub, climbed into the bath, and sank down into the bathwater, the rose petals moving and swaying with the heated water. Chester hissed as the liquid soothed his injured flesh, and he laid his head back on the towel, his eyes sliding closed. He wanted to simply lie there for a moment, luxuriating in the rosewater as he forgot about what had occurred hours before.
He heard Missy moving about the room, but he ignored her, lying still, his chest rising and falling slowly as he thought about happier times. He remembered meeting Orley in Southerby Manor, their talks in the garden, their elopement, their bridal tour…. How did they wind up here, in so little time? To a time when Chester’s and Samson’s lives were put in danger? His hands began to shake, the water vibrating from the motion as Chester’s mind betrayed him, returning to his moments of captivity. He shoved his fingers beneath his body to hide them from Missy, reminding himself that what he’d done had been for his son. To protect Samson. That was what was important, and he would do it again. And now he was safe. He was home.
A knock on the connecting door between his and Orley’s bedrooms had Chester opening his eyes, and he turned his head slightly to watch as Orley strode into the room, his limp more pronounced than ever. Chester frowned and moved to sit up in the tub, but stopped when Orley lifted a hand.
“Please, do not rise, my dear. I am fine. There is no cause to fret. I have already taken a draught of laudanum, and the pain will soon ease. I merely pushed myself too hard, too fast,” Orley stated with a smile. He looked at Missy and nodded. “You may leave, Missy. I have need of Her Grace.”
Missy curtsied. “At once, Your Grace.” She nodded to Chester and left through to the sitting room, and Chester returned his gaze to Orley.
“Has the constable left then, Orley?” he asked.
“Aye.” Orley nodded.
“Did he have no need to speak to me, then?” Chester asked.
“He does. But I merely told him to return on the morn’, and he promised he would,” Orley said.
Chester sighed in relief. “Right, then.” He frowned and looked at Orley speculatively. “What have you need of me for then, Orley?”
Orley smiled sadly and walked over to Chester. “You are in the bath again.”
Chester looked down. “I am aware.”
Orley shook his head. “Do you not remember our bridal tour, my dear?”
Chester blushed furiously. He did remember. “Have you plans to seduce me as you did then, Your Grace?”
Orley chuckled as he stepped close, pulled a stool next to the tub, and settled down upon it. “The errant thought had crossed my mind, my lady, I must confess; you are enchanting, but perha
ps you are not quite ready, and I would do naught to cause you further harm. Besides, I find myself thinking other things.”
“Oh? And what things are those?” Chester asked.
Orley stroked his fingers through Chester’s hair. “How close I came to losing you tonight. You and Samson.” Chester trembled as Orley leaned down to press his lips against his temple. “I think of you on the battlefield in Badajoz, surrounded by gunfire and swords, blood and dead soldiers, calling out my name and me unable to save you.” “Orley, no,” Chester choked out.
Orley shook his head. “Through all of this, I think of how I never, ever once, told you how I felt about you.”
Chester gasped and looked up at his husband. “And how do you feel about me?”
Orley glanced down for a moment and did not speak. Chester’s heart pounded. This was it. What he had been longing for. But could he trust it? Would Orley tell him that he loved him, or would he once again retreat?
“The very instant that I opened my eyes and saw you standing in my room at Southerby Manor, I thought you an angel come to rescue me from my nightmares. Come to fill my life with light. I was unaware of how true that statement was. You have done so much more than that, my love. You have filled my life with joy and laughter. You have filled my heart with hope again. You have made me want to live again.
“What’s more, where I thought I was incapable of love, you have shown me that I can love. Because I love you. I love you and I love Samson, our son. I live for you. I would die for you. There is naught I wouldn’t do for you. I was not aware of how perfect you were for me when I kissed you that first time, but I felt it deep in my soul. I knew I
had to make you mine. I cared not that you were a servant. To me you were a lady, to me, you were my future duchess, and now… now you are my love.”
The Servant Duchess of Whitcomb Page 29