by Cheryl Bolen
* * *
As exhausted as she had been the previous night/morning, Sophia awakened as the first light of dawn streamed through the window. How odd it seemed to be lying next to her maid. Though she had seen Dottie nearly every day of her life, treating her as an equal was a novel experience. Sophia shifted her weight to the elbow closest to Dottie, looked down at the still-sleeping woman, and nudged her.
Dottie bolted up. “Dear me! ’Tis daylight. We must be getting dressed for the day.” Not accustomed to lying about in the mornings, the maid tossed off the covers, strode straight to the chimney, and began to stoke the fire. After it was going she carefully dislodged their clothing from the drying racks. “A pity ye can’t wear this black silk no more. ’Twas that wretched yew tree that ruined yer gown.” She gathered up Sophia’s shift, stays, and stockings and brought them to her mistress.
“Don’t fuss over me,” Sophia said. “You need to get yourself dressed. I’m perfectly capable of dressing myself.”
Dottie snorted. “I hope the ’andsome man don’t think I’m too high in the instep.”
“I doubt Mr. Birmingham has given you a thought,” Sophia said, instantly ashamed of herself for her wicked snobbishness.
“Not that one! Mr. Thompson.”
Mr. Thompson? Oh, yes, Sophia realized. The valet. This unplanned journey of hers was giving a fresh skew to her lifetime of disinterest in servants. She not only treated her maid like a family member, but she had also shared a room with a gentleman’s valet. Were she pressed to do so, though, Sophia did not believe she could actually recognize Thompson were she to see him on a street.
How could anyone notice the elder man when his master was so exceedingly handsome?
She wiggled from beneath the covers, dangled her feet over the side of the bed, and began to don her woolen stockings. Visions of Mr. Birmingham clouded her thinking. Thank goodness she had finally learned his name. She had begun to despair that his valet would never address his master by his given name. If she--or that blasted Isadore--had some connection to the man, she really ought to know his name. And it would help to know the man’s connection to Isadore.
Who in the devil was Isadore? Were she a doxy, he would have shared the bedchamber. The very thought of lying naked beside Mr. Birmingham’s ruggedly muscled body made her throb in places that were prudently ignored during waking hours.
Finkie had certainly never been able to tap into them.
Why was it she had never met Mr. Birmingham before? He was a gentleman, and judging from the obviously hefty bribe he’d offered the innkeeper, Mr. Birmingham not only was possessed of very deep pockets, but was also used to getting whatever he wanted.
She tried to remember if she had ever known of an exceedingly wealthy Mr. Birmingham and suddenly realized she had. Nicholas Birmingham, who had won Lady Fiona Hollingsworth’s hand in marriage. It was said the Birmingham Cits were the wealthiest family in England. But this man could not belong to that family. Nicholas Birmingham, who was sinfully handsome himself, looked nothing like this Mr. Birmingham. Nicholas was quite tall, quite lean, and quite dark. This Mr. Birmingham’s height was only average. He was NOT lean. And he was not dark. Except for the tan.
“Ye can’t believe how ’ard it is not to be able to talk,” Dottie said. She had retired to a corner of the room to change into one of Sophia’s old dresses. It was really rather fortuitous that they were the same size, given the fact they shared no other resemblance besides their height, which was perfectly average. Where Sophia was generously curved, Dottie was as straight as a poker.
Sophia tossed a glance her way. “I’m very proud of you. I know it cannot be easy.”
“Can mute people laugh?”
“I don’t believe so. Why?”
“I almost burst out laughing when ye said we was the Doors.”
Sophia shook her head remorsefully. “It was the best I could come up with. I’m not especially good at thinking on my feet, so to speak.”
“Dorothea Door, indeed! The gent’s apt to think yer parents are dicked in the nobs.”
“I’m afraid I’ve gotten us into a pickle -- or several pickles, actually,” Sophia said with a sigh, leaving the bed and coming to stand before the fire as she dressed.
“Better pickled than shackled to Finkel. Never did like the fellow.”
“A pity I didn’t listen to you.”
“Now that Mr. Birmingham . . . I could see ye shackled to someone like him.”
Sophia gave a nervous little laugh. “Mr. Birmingham could be a highwayman for all we know.”
Dottie shook her head emphatically. “He’s a fine gentleman -- and wealthy, too. Mark me words.” She settled a green shawl over her shoulders and eyed Sophia. “I thought when ye first approached ’im last night that ye knew ’im. Ye spoke as if ye did.”
“I was desperate, and he was the only well bred man in the vicinity. I daresay after I saw Finkie’s servants out the window, I’d have said or done anything to endear myself to the gentleman.”
Dottie snorted. “Ye’d go from the fryin’ pan into the fire.” She contemplated Sophia from beneath lowered brows. “Who do ye suppose Isadore is?”
“Would that I knew. The only thing I know about her is that Mr. Birmingham has never met her before.”
“One thing’s for sure,” Dottie said as she began to gather up their clothes, neatly fold them, and pack them into their valises. “Ye must look like her.”
A knock sounded at the door. Her eyes wide, Sophia placed her index finger to her mouth. “It must be Mr. Birmingham.”
She crossed the room and opened the door.
He looked devastatingly handsome. Smiling. Freshly shaven with a starchy white cravat knotted beneath his tanned face. And he held a tray with a steaming teapot and a rack of toast. “I’ve brought you ladies something to break the fast.”
She widened the door opening. “You, Mr. Birmingham, are a most welcome sight. Do come in.”
He set the tray on a table near the window and went to stand in front of the fire. “You, Miss Door, are an even more agreeable sight this morning.”
She only then glanced out the window and realized the rain had finally swept by, leaving a lingering mist and roads that looked like swamps. “You are much too kind, sir.”
“Will you ladies be ready to leave once you’ve eaten?”
She spun around to face him. “But the roads . . .”
“I’ll own, the going will be slow, but I have great confidence in my coachman. Besides, I’m anxious to be back in London.”
How fortunate that London was his destination. “Not nearly as anxious as I, Mr. Birmingham.”
Moments later Thompson came and fetched the ladies’ bags, and a moment after that, skirts gathered in her hands, she was teetering along a dry plank to Mr. Birmingham’s expensive carriage. As he assisted her into the coach, she caught a glimpse of a man in Finkel livery standing beside the mews, eying them. Her stomach dropped as she climbed into the coach.
She and Dottie sat on the front-facing seat, Mr. Birmingham and his servant opposite them. As the carriage slugged through the muddy inn yard, she lifted the maroon velvet curtain and watched in sickening dread as the Finkel servant mounted his horse and began to follow them.
He and three others.
A heavy moroseness settled over her as they reached the road and began to head south. Despite her plea, Lord Finkel meant to get her back. The disgusting thing was, in the eyes of the laws of England, she belonged to him. Like chattel. Or cattle. Or an old rug one meant to trod upon.
Once they cleared the village and were on open, lonely roads she heard an explosion followed immediately by a vile string of curses from Mr. Birmingham’s coachman as he drove faster, and the pounding of horse hooves drew alongside them. “Highwaymen!” the coachman yelled.
Not highwaymen, she thought. Lord Finkel’s men, who no doubt had been promised lucrative rewards for restoring Lady Finkel to her bridegroom.
&nbs
p; 1
Chapter 3
At the sound of a heavy thump upon the coachman’s box, Sophia -- and Dottie -- screamed at once. One of Finkie’s men had leaped upon the coach to do battle with Mr. Birmingham’s driver!
The vehicle lurched to a stop.
In a swift and fluid move, both Mr. Birmingham and his valet lunged toward the ladies, then quickly twisted back around to throw up the seat cushions and the hinged seat top. Sophia’s thundering heart lifted when she saw the arsenal of weapons stashed beneath the men’s seat.
Before her companions could put their hands on the pistols or sabers, the coach door flew open. Then the other door. On either side, menacing looking men in Finkel livery faced them, their muskets aimed at the passengers.
A sturdily built blonde directed his attention at Mr. Birmingham. “We won’t ’arm you. All we want is the women.”
To Sophia’s complete astonishment, Mr. Birmingham leaped onto the armed man, kneeing him in the groin. As all eyes turned on them, Thompson dove into the box for a sword.
Her heart hammering profusely, Sophia watched in horror as Mr. Birmingham and the blonde, whose weapon had dropped to the muddy ground, began to pummel each other viciously.
Then her gaze pivoted to the opposite side of the carriage as Thompson brought up a sword and plunged it into the intruder’s side. Her horrified gaze swept to the injured man, who groaned and cursed as crimson began to stain his coat. As he fell backward, his musket exploded, ripping into the top of the coach and sending great clouds of hot powder into the air.
All the while another commotion was taking place outside the carriage as the coachman was fighting off another man.
She was too terrified to move, too terrified to even scream. Her head bobbed from one side to the other as she watched her courageous companions try to wear down their enemies. As soon as Thompson’s profusely bleeding opponent collapsed, another man leaped toward the valet, a dagger in his hand and a sadistic smile on his face.
Sophia could not watch. She turned away and saw that her gallant Mr. Birmingham was rolling in the mud with the blonde, grunting and hissing, and causing her heart to pound prodigiously. She would feel ever so wretched if he sustained serious injury. Because she had foolishly married the wrong man.
Then she got an idea. Her brother had taught her to use a musket! She lunged forward and found a musket which she quickly began to load. But which man would she save? Mr. Birmingham or his valet?
Since Mr. Birmingham’s opponent was no longer armed, she decided to aid the brave valet. Aiming her weapon at the man with the dagger, she shouted, “Put down your knife, or I’ll fire!”
He turned black eyes on her, lowered his shocked gaze to the musket, then dropped his dagger.
Thompson swiftly picked it up and thanked her.
“Quick, Dottie!” she said. “Your sash! We must tie up this man.”
A trembling Dottie obliged by removing her sash and lowering herself from the carriage to aid the valet.
Then Sophia trained her musket on the blonde who was doing his best to harm the noble Mr. Birmingham, but the latter had the audacity to look up at her and laugh! “I’ll need no rescuing from a woman.”
With that comment, Mr. Birmingham shoved his opponent’s face into the mud, came to his feet, and planted a muddy boot on the blonde’s back. Though the blond man was huge, he brought to mind an infant as he lay there kicking and screaming while his limbs flailed about in the mud.
Indeed, she had no cause to come to Mr. Birmingham’s assistance. Her mouth gaping open, she eyed the man to whom she owed so much. His sturdy hand wiped over his face to reveal two emerald eyes flashing in cakes of mud. His disheveled golden hair was streaked with mud, and she would vow that the impeccably clothed man had never been more filthy in his privileged life.
And in her very privileged life, she had never seen a more magnificent creature!
Removing her own sash, she came to him and held it out. “Should you like to tie up the man?”
“A very good idea.” He took the blue satin. “You stand on his back while I do the honors.”
Without a care to the mud that ringed the hem of her dress, she complied. As she watched Mr. Birmingham outmaneuver the squeaming man, her admiration for him grew.
When he finished, he hurried to assist the coachman, though it looked to Sophia as if the burly driver had matters well in hand.
A few minutes later, she surveyed the damage. Three men in Finkel livery were tied with women’s sashes, and a fourth lay in the mud clutching his bleeding side while speaking in a most incoherent (though occasionally vile) manner. The top of Mr. Birmingham’s costly carriage had been all but blown off, and his wonderfully brave servants were hobbling about in a wretched mire of silt.
She felt dreadfully guilty. She was the cause of all this. Innocent people had been put in jeopardy because she had made a horrible mistake. Had her valiant Mr. Birmingham been wounded or -- heaven help her -- killed, she would have perished on the spot. Or entered a convent to spend the rest of her life trying to atone for her wickedness.
Thank goodness she would be spared that.
His eyes sparkling with mischief, Mr. Birmingham met her gaze. “Since I’ll have to get a new carriage anyway, I don’t think a bit of mud will hurt.” He assisted her in one door while Thompson gave his hand to Dottie, who climbed in the other side.
After the coach started moving, Mr. Birmingham lowered his brows and spoke. “Did I or did I not hear Miss Dorothea Door scream? Earlier?”
Sophia and Dottie exchanged worried glances. “I can explain,” Sophia said, her heart racing as tried to come up with a plausible explanation. But just as it had done the night before when he inquired about their surname, her mind was not cooperating.
“And?” he asked.
She heaved a big sigh. Then she thought of something. “My dear sister could once speak, you see. Before the terrible accident that happened before I was born. Ever since poor Dorothea has been mute. She does possess the ability to cry and to scream, but she positively cannot seem to make herself say words.” Sophia slid back against the velvet squabs and prayed he would pry no more.
Her prayers went unheeded. “What,” he asked, “was the nature of the unfortunate accident?”
She shook her head, biding for time. “It was perfectly dreadful.” But how, you idiot? she asked herself. Then a most agreeable explanation came to mind. “You see, Dorothea was once a twin. She and her twin sister spoke to each other with ease in a language that was peculiar unto them. Then one day, the sister was struck by lightning. She died on the spot.” Sophia turned to Dottie and took her hand. “Poor Dottie was right there. And since that day has been unable to utter another word.”
“How dreadful,” Thompson said, shooting a most sympathetic look at the poor mute. Or the woman he thought was a mute.
Mr. Birmingham looked exceedingly contrite. “Forgive me for bringing up such a sad recollection,” he said.
They rode on in silence for a considerable length of time when he asked, “What was the twin’s name?”
What a peculiar request! Then Sophia remembered her parents’ alleged propensity for alliteration. “Dorcus.”
A smile curved his lip.
Once her nerves had settled, she turned her thoughts to the bruisingly handsome man who sat across from her. He definitely was NOT what he seemed. A fine gentleman did not travel about with an arsenal beneath his carriage seat or with a valet who was as adept with a saber as he was with a hot iron. Just who was this Mr. Birmingham, and what was the source of his wealth? Not many men would display such a lack of concern when an expensive carriage had to be replaced.
Whatever he did, she was sure it was something unlawful.
Isadore would know. Her insides lurched. Isadore was up to no good.
* * *
Given that he often traveled with large amounts of money, William’s unwritten credo was to always be prepared to thwart attacks, even on a harm
less trip to Yorkshire to visit his sister. But this latest attack was altogether different. He was not transporting money or gold. He was not protected by loyal Birmingham guards. And he was not the target.
The single-minded abductors were willing to dismiss one of the wealthiest men in England in order to get their hands on Miss Isadore Door and her eighty thousand pounds worth of bullion.
Though he and Thompson had faced down far more ferocious assaults than today’s, William had never before fought with such intensity. He had never before wished to protect anything as fiercely as he wished to protect Miss Door.
If that was her name. He was almost certain it could not be.
Even though she had brought such peril upon herself, he was seized with a need to protect her. He would never forget the terror that spiked through him when the men said they wanted only the women. It would have been easier to hand over a hundred thousand pounds worth of bullion than to allow those men to accost the lovely Isadore.
His gaze whisked over her as she sat across from him, staring intently out the carriage window. How could such an elegant creature be involved with gold smugglers?
The woman was hiding something from him. Was she also shielding her sister from knowledge of her dangerous connections?
Though last night he had determined not to bring up the bullion until he was alone with Isadore, he wavered now. Could he not discuss it in general terms that her mute sister might not understand?
He cleared his throat.
Isadore turned those large, near black, eyes on him.
“I don’t like that a lady is taking such grave risks with her safety,” he said.
Their gazes locked, and she did not answer for a moment. “Perhaps the lady has a propensity to act impetuously.”
His eyes narrowed. “And regret her impetuous actions afterward?”
She nodded, and he noticed the auburn glints that highlighted her dark hair in daylight.
In that instant his conviction that she was well borne was confirmed. For reasons unknown to him, she had decided to embroil herself in this unsavory business in order to lay her hands on a great deal of money.