‘Some of them were guilty of murder, too.’
‘But not all. What they did was wrong, but they were also driven to desperation by circumstances over which they had no control.’
Weatherby regarded him in frank astonishment. ‘Are you suggesting they deserve mercy?’
‘Who am I to say what they deserve? What I do know for certain is that they can’t feed their families on eight shillings a week.’
‘Many others are in a similar plight and yet did not resort to crime.’
‘True, but then everyone has a different breaking point.’ Marcus made a vague gesture with his hand. ‘Can anything be done to prevent more deaths?’
‘I don’t know,’ Weatherby replied. ‘If some of these men are prepared to give evidence against Wraxall, then the death sentence might be commuted to transportation instead. But it’s a long shot, I warn you.’
‘Will you try?’
‘I’ll try, but I promise nothing.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Since when did you become so tender-hearted?
Marcus returned him a wry smile. ‘Let’s just say I must be mellowing with age.’
‘I think there is more to this than meets the eye and I’m curious. Will you come back with me and dine?’
‘I thank you, no. I must return to Netherclough. There is someone there I must see.’
His godfather grinned. ‘Would that someone happen to have dark curls and beautiful hazel eyes?’
‘She would.’
‘Well, don’t let me delay you, my boy.’
They walked together back to Weatherby’s carriage and his godson waved him off. Then Marcus remounted his horse and headed for home.
*
He rode steadily, wanting time to reflect. Besides, weariness was setting in now and the bruises he had acquired earlier were making their presence felt. Yet in spite of that he felt a sense of release as though months of pent-up tension had lifted and gone. His promise to Greville was fulfilled. It was time to move on.
He knew now where his future lay and what he wanted from it. He had seen enough of fighting and bloodshed and death to last a lifetime. What he craved now was peace, the chance to build something worthwhile. He must look to the estate entrusted to him and the people in his care. One day he would pass Netherclough to his own son. That thought led to others and Claire’s face drifted into his mind. After all that had passed between them, did he still have a chance? He sighed. Just then, out of nowhere, Greville’s voice came to mind again, this time speaking in tones of mild reproof.
‘Faint heart never won fair maid. Get to it, Bro.’
Marcus shook his head and smiled. Then, touching his horse’s sides with his spurs, he urged it to a canter.
*
He arrived home half an hour later to find the butler in the hallway waiting for him. From the man’s expression it was clear that something was amiss. The Viscount frowned.
‘What is it, Mather?’
‘It’s Miss Davenport, my lord.’
‘What about her? Speak, man!’
‘She’s gone, my lord.’
‘Gone where?’
‘We don’t know, my lord. She’s been kidnapped.’
‘Kidnapped?’ Marcus stared at him. ‘Who kidnapped her?’
‘I think you should speak to young Dobson, my lord. He saw it.’
‘Where is he?’
‘I took the liberty of asking him to wait in the small salon. His mother is with him, my lord.’
The Viscount strode into the salon. At his entrance the pair sprang from their seats, regarding him in trepidation.
‘I’m sorry, my lord,’ Luke burst out. ‘I would have stopped ’em if I could, but there were two on ’em.’
Marcus regarded the small tearstained face and then said, ‘I’m sure you would have.’
‘Are we going to lose us places now?’
‘No, of course not.’ He took the child gently by the shoulders. ‘Just tell me what happened, lad.’
Luke took a deep breath and then began to explain. Marcus heard him first with incredulity and then with mounting anger. With an effort he controlled it. What had happened wasn’t the boy’s fault and he was already frightened.
‘Did you recognise the men who took her?’
‘One of ’em were Jed Stone, my lord.’
Recalling the man’s laughter earlier that evening, the Viscount was suddenly filled with a sense of foreboding.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Begging your pardon, my lord,’ said Mrs Dobson, ‘but Stone once worked in t’same mill as my late husband. We know ’im all right.’
‘He’s a bad ’un,’ said Luke. ‘Pa said so.’
‘Your father was right,’ replied Marcus. ‘Did you recognise the man with him?’
‘Aye, my lord. It were Jake Harcourt. He lived in t’same street as us before we came here.’
‘What about the third man, the one in the carriage?’
‘I were too far away to see ’im properly, my lord. An’ it were goin’ dark.’
‘No matter, you’ve done well, Luke. Now I need you to do one more thing for me.’
‘Anything, my lord.’
Marcus looked down at the earnest little face. ‘Go to the stables and tell Trubshaw to harness Lightning and Wildfire to my racing curricle. Tell him I want it at the door in ten minutes.’
‘At once, my lord.’
When Luke had gone the Viscount strode into the hall, calling for Mather, and then rattled off a series of instructions before heading to the study where he reloaded the pistols. As he worked his mind turned over all he had been told. He knew that the real perpetrator of the kidnap had to be Claire’s uncle. Just how he had come to meet Stone was less clear. However, it was a devilish partnership.
He finished what he was doing just as his valet appeared bearing a clean coat and another cloak. Marcus divested himself of his torn and soiled garments and donned the others swiftly. Then he thrust the pistols back into his belt. Pausing only to retrieve a purse from the top drawer of the desk, he strode back into the hallway. The sound of wheels on gravel announced the arrival of the curricle.
Five minutes after that he was heading the horses out of the main gate and onto the highway. He knew full well it would have been faster to ride, but there were Claire’s needs to be considered, for he had no intention of returning without her. Davenport would be heading south, but would no doubt put up for the night at an inn along the way. There were not so many places of good repute that it would be hard to find him.
The thought of Claire’s terror fuelled his rage. Now he understood why she had been so afraid of her uncle discovering her whereabouts. The man was a ruthless blackguard. While he could understand Davenport wanting to find his niece and secure her return, why would he go to such extreme lengths? Her majority was not far off now. Surely he might more easily have washed his hands of her. What was the point of compelling her to return? Unless, of course, he had another end in view. An unwelcome possibility occurred. Surely the old reprobate wasn’t still planning to try and force Claire into the marriage she had shunned before?
The more he thought about it the more likely it seemed. She had said her uncle was of a vengeful nature and not one to tolerate disobedience. Marcus heard her words in his mind: He is nothing if not tenacious. The realisation turned him cold. The idea of Claire married to anyone but himself was unthinkable. It came to him then that he loved her beyond all reason, too well to try to compel her to remain at Netherclough if she did not want to. Only let him rescue her from her uncle’s clutches, and then he would do whatever she asked.
They had a good hour’s start, but the curricle was light and swift and drawn by two of the best horses in his stable. Besides, Davenport would not be expecting pursuit. Marcus smiled grimly. He was confident of his ability to catch them. Focusing all his attention on the team, he settled down to drive.
*
Claire had no idea how long the
y travelled for time had lost all meaning. All she had been able to glimpse in the darkness was the verge speeding away beyond the window and each minute carrying her further from Netherclough and from Marcus. What would he think when he returned to find her gone? What if he did not return at all? What if he had been injured or killed? She shut her eyes, trying not to succumb to the terror that lurked on the edges of thought.
Having delivered that dire account of his intentions, her uncle had not spoken since. Nor did she wish for conversation, preferring to be alone with her thoughts. Her cheeks still smarted from the blows he had struck. They were merely an earnest of what was to come. At the thought her stomach churned, for she knew him well enough to know he meant every word. Could she withstand such a beating? Recalling how he had dealt with even the slightest transgressions before, her throat tightened. This would be far worse. Dear God, let her have the courage to endure it. The knowledge of what submission meant made her feel physically sick. Better to die than be bound for life to a man like Sir Charles Mortimer, to be compelled to yield her body to him whenever he chose. For a moment Marcus’s face flashed into her mind. In despair she closed her eyes and leaned back against the padded upholstery.
*
At some point she must have dozed off, for she came to later to find that the coach was slowing. As the vehicle stopped she could see a building set back off the road. It didn’t look much like an inn, but more like a private house. Her heart thumped. Was this where they would be staying? It seemed so, for the door of the carriage opened and her uncle got out, commanding her to follow. There was nothing for it but to obey. Trembling she stepped down, shivering as the chill air insinuated itself through her clothes, looking fearfully around. The house was in darkness save for a light burning in an upper window. She could see no other vehicles or any sign of life. Further reflection was denied for her arm was seized in a firm grip and she was led toward the house.
‘Where is this place?’ she asked.
‘It belongs to an acquaintance,’ he replied. ‘However, he has had to go away on business so we shall be quite alone.’
Claire swallowed hard, her steps lagging. The hold on her arm tightened and she was drawn inexorably toward the door. It was opened by a hard-faced woman in a mob cap and shawl. It was clear that she recognised Hector Davenport and the thin lips formed a smile.
‘Good evening, sir.’
He returned the greeting brusquely and strode inside, drawing his niece with him. The woman glanced at Claire, taking in her slightly dishevelled appearance and the lack of bonnet and cloak, but if she was surprised she made no comment.
‘Is my niece’s room prepared?’ Davenport demanded.
‘Quite ready, sir.’
‘And the meal too?’
‘Everything is ready, sir, just as you ordered.’
‘Good. Then you may go. I shall not require you again tonight.’ He paused. ‘Nor do I wish to be disturbed under any circumstances. Do you understand?’
‘Very well, sir.’
The woman bobbed a curtsy and withdrew. Hector Davenport strode to the stairs, dragging Claire with him. With thumping heart she stumbled up the flight to the next floor and along a passageway with several rooms leading off. Her uncle stopped by one of these, opened the door and thrust her inside. Claire stumbled again, only just retaining her balance. He followed her over the threshold. Trembling, she looked around. The room was quite large, but cold and spartan in appearance. The walls and floor were bare of covering or ornament, the only furnishings a narrow bed, a single chair and a washstand with basin and ewer. Her eyes flicked to the window. Her uncle noted the direction of her gaze.
‘Do not imagine that you will escape this time, Niece. The window is barred and the door will be securely locked. I shall go and sup now and leave you at leisure to repent of your folly.’ He paused. ‘When I return, we shall discuss that subject further.’
With that he left her, locking the door behind him. Claire listened to his retreating footsteps and heard him descend the stairs. With pounding heart she flew to the door and tried the handle. It yielded not a whit. She turned next to the window but, as he had told her, it was barred with stout iron rods. She had no hope of moving them. Disconsolately she turned back to the room, wrapping her arms about her to ward off the chill, and then sank down onto the bed in despair. She was lost. Even if Marcus were to follow he would never find her. Unbidden, the tears welled in her eyes. It was hopeless. Her uncle had outwitted every chance of rescue by using a private dwelling. Furthermore, the place was remote and set back off the road. Even if she screamed for help, no one would come.
*
As time passed the room seemed to grow colder and Claire began to walk up and down in an attempt to keep warm. The hearth was empty save for a few blackened embers and a heap of ash. From the look of it, it hadn’t been used for some time. She knew the lack of fire and food was no oversight. Her uncle had never intended to provide any. He intended to make her pay for every bit of the inconvenience and embarrassment she had caused him. This waiting was no mere chance either. It was designed to give her time to speculate on the punishment to come, a deliberate and sadistic ploy to increase her fear and soften her will. It was a calculated piece of cruelty, and that knowledge reignited her anger and resentment. Instead of weakening her resolve, it strengthened it. She would not let him win, could not let him win when the whole of her future hung in the balance.
She stopped pacing and looked round the room again, this time with a sharp, analytical eye. Clearly the window and door afforded no chance of escape. Which left just one possibility. She crossed to the hearth and, bending under the mantel, looked up the chimney. At the bottom anyway the flue was wide enough to take a person. Stepping into the hearth, she straightened and then began to explore the brickwork. After perhaps half a minute her questing hands found what she was looking for, the jutting bricks inside the flue that provided footholds for the sweeps and their boys. She had no idea how long ago this particular chimney might have been swept, but a bit of dirt was a cheap price to pay for freedom. Taking a deep breath, she began to climb.
Chapter Fifteen
The flue was dark and cold and smelled strongly of damp and soot. The footholds were small and she tried them gingerly, feeling her way for the next one. Her fingers sank into soft powder and little falls of it rustled past her shoulders. She prayed it wouldn’t be enough to be noticeable among the ashes below. As she moved upwards the chimney soon began to narrow. There was no chance of being able to climb to the top, but she didn’t need to. All that was required was to get clear of the hearth so as to be invisible from the room below. When she was sure that she had gone high enough she braced herself against the sides of the flue and waited.
The clock on the landing struck nine. As the last note died away, a door opened downstairs. A moment later footsteps sounded on the stairs. Claire’s heart pounded. Straining to catch every sound, she waited dry-mouthed. The footsteps stopped outside the door and she heard the key turn in the lock. Someone took two paces into the room and checked. Then she heard an exclamation. Her uncle! She heard him move further into the room, probably to look under the bed. It was the only place someone could be concealed. Apart, of course, from her present hiding place. She bit her lip, her muscles trembling with reaction and the effort of maintaining her precarious position. A few seconds later she heard a soft oath and then he strode out of the room and back along the passage. His footsteps clattered on the stairs and she heard his angry tones calling for the housekeeper.
Heart pounding now Claire climbed down from her hiding place, regaining the hearth. A glance across the room revealed the open doorway. Her heart leapt in silent exultation. In moments she had crossed the intervening space and was peering cautiously into the passageway. It was empty. She made her way to the far end, praying that her guess was right and there would be a back staircase, one the servants would use. Her luck held. Furthermore, it was in darkness. She made her way d
own, guiding herself with the banister rail. A few moments later she was on the ground floor. A high window afforded enough light to make out a nearby doorway. From the far end of the house she heard voices, her uncle’s and that of a woman: the housekeeper. Claire’s heart thumped painfully. Turning the handle of the door, she slipped through it into the room beyond.
Stale cooking smells announced a kitchen. A swift glance around revealed the dark bulk of the outer door opposite. She moved towards it and lifted the latch, but the door didn’t move. Locked! For a moment she fought panic. Her fumbling fingers felt for the key and discovered it, still in the lock. She turned it and tried the latch again. Still the door refused to open. There must be a bolt somewhere. Reaching upwards, she felt for it. Sure enough it was there. Stealthily she slid it back. This time when she tried the latch the door opened. A swift look around revealed there was no one in sight, so she slipped out and pulled the door to behind her. She was free.
With slow care she made her way to the corner of the building and peered round. A second later she caught her breath and flattened herself back against the wall, for her uncle was standing on the driveway, lantern in hand, speaking to his coachman. The housekeeper stood just a few feet behind him. Claire swallowed hard, scarcely daring to breathe. A few moments later the crunch of gravel announced movement and someone heading her way. Heart in mouth she waited, motionless. The footsteps came closer. She could make out the man’s dark shape only feet away. Praying he wouldn’t look round, she watched with bated breath as he strode on past, heading for the buildings opposite. Claire let out the breath she had been holding and then peered round the corner again. The coast was clear. She began to move cautiously away from the house.
Moments later a woman’s voice called out a ringing challenge. Claire threw a horrified glance over her shoulder and saw the housekeeper standing in the doorway. Knowing the shout would bring her uncle in seconds, she picked up her skirts and ran, tearing along the drive and out onto the road. Behind her she could hear running feet. The sound spurred her to renewed effort; if her uncle caught up with her now it was all over.
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