Marry in Scarlet

by Anne Gracie

  The man shrugged. George’s hands bunched into fists. Hart reached out and took one of her fists in his hand. If anyone was going to punch this swine, it would be him, not George. Though he understood and shared her anger.

  George ignored him. “Danny might be dead. Murdered. Don’t you care?”

  “No business of mine if he is. Not my blood, not my son.” And without even saying good-bye, he walked out.

  George jumped to her feet. “Horrible, horrible, horrible man! I’m going to talk to his wife. She might know something that could help us.”

  But when George found the wife, she just gave them a scared look, glanced out at where her husband had gone and shook her head. Three well-scrubbed small children clustered shyly around her, hiding behind her skirts.

  Hart and George left, disgusted. “Why, why, why do perfectly decent women marry ghastly men like that!” George said in a low, furious voice. “He obviously had no respect for his first wife—he just wanted the farm—and look how he’s treated Danny, who was his means to get the wretched property! And now he’s terrorizing a second woman. Men like that shouldn’t be allowed to marry. I hope he chokes on his stinking farm!”

  Hart was a little taken aback by her vehemence.

  She continued, “Men should never be allowed have children if all they do is palm them off on someone else and ignore them. Poor little unwanted boy.”

  Which boy was she talking about? Danny or Phillip? But she wasn’t just talking about the boys. There was personal history in that rant. Her own father had abandoned her before birth, he recalled.

  They rode for a time in silence.

  “I wonder who Danny’s real father is,” she said after a while. “Does he know how his son has been neglected? Would he care?”

  “That farm was a substantial dowry,” Hart said. “On that alone, we could assume he thought he was making good provision for the girl and his child.”

  She glanced at the duke. “Do you have any—”

  “No. And if I did, they’d be well cared for. But I haven’t.”

  “If we do find Danny alive, we should try to find out who his father is,” she said. “Would that be possible, do you think?”

  “First we have to find Phillip,” he said heavily.

  “I know.” She rode closer and reached out for his hand, and they rode on like that, hand in hand. It was strangely comforting. He hadn’t realized how much he’d pinned his hopes on Danny being a key to finding Phillip. He’d been convinced he’d find the two boys together, up to their ears in mischief and afraid to come home.

  But learning of Danny’s home situation had changed all that. Danny had good reason to run away. Phillip had not.

  The specter of a man preying on small boys loomed larger in his mind.

  They continued searching and questioning neighbors in the area for the rest of the day. There were a few vague sightings, though people were uncertain as to which boy they might have seen. A boy was a boy, apparently and they all looked the same.

  Tired and dejected, they returned to Lakeside Cottage as evening was falling.

  They were met at the front door by the housekeeper, in great distress. With tears running down her face she babbled on about carpets. “Oh, your grace, something terrible, I’m so sorry. It was the carpets you see, we only take them up once a week to beat and today’s the day, only when we took up the mat at the front entrance there it was, underneath. Someone must have shoved it under the door, but instead it went under the mat and nobody knew, nobody knew. It might have been there for days, and goodness knows what those villains thought when they didn’t get any reply—and, oh, what if they hurt him, poor little lad? And all because of the carpet.”

  Hart unraveled the torrent of words. “What went under the mat, Mrs. Harris?”

  “The letter—the ransom note, of course! It was addressed to Mr. Jephcott, so of course he opened it.”

  “What? Where is this ransom note?”

  Jephcott, having heard the commotion in the hall, came hurrying down the stairs brandishing an envelope. “Here it is, your grace, I have it.” He handed it to Hart who scanned the note inside.

  Bring £5,000 to the bridge by the old mill and leave it under the broken stone just before dusk. Or the boy dies.

  There was no date, no way of telling when the note had been written. And nobody knew how long it had been under the mat.

  Hart glanced at the sky. “It’s almost dusk now, but—”

  “Come on.” George was already running for the stables.

  They rode to the old bridge, taking Stanley, the groom, as a guide. They found the broken stone, but of course there was no other sign of anything or anyone. They searched the old mill, but going by the thickness of the dust and cobwebs that covered the place, nobody had been there for years.

  “Any other likely buildings nearby?” Hart asked the groom. Stanley suggested a couple of run-down and abandoned buildings, and even though full dark had fallen, there was enough moonlight to enable them to find those buildings, and ascertain that they too were uninhabited.

  They returned to Lakeside Cottage even more dejected than before. Had the delay in discovering the ransom note caused the death of young Phillip?

  “All we can hope for,” Hart said to George as they prepared for bed that night, “is that the gossip that spread the news of young Danny’s disappearance will also reach the kidnappers and let them know that their ransom note has only just been found.”

  “Are you going to pay it?”

  “At this stage,” Hart said heavily, “with the ransom demand having gone astray for an unknown length of time, I don’t think I can afford not to. Their patience must be almost at an end. I won’t antagonize them any more by delaying. Of course, we still have tomorrow during the day to track them down, but if we haven’t discovered anything by nightfall, I’ll leave the ransom there.”

  “Can you get that much money in time?”

  “Before I left I arranged a large sum of money to be transferred from my London bank to a local branch. I’ll ride over and withdraw the ransom sum tomorrow morning.”

  He didn’t say so, but George realized he must be going to pay the ransom out of his own pocket. Phillip’s father had left nothing but debts. He was a good man, her husband.

  She knew he wouldn’t be interested in making love that night—they were both too tense from all the revelations of the day. Leaving aside the flimsy seductive nightdress that Lily and Rose had given her, she donned a plain cotton one, her mind whirling with depressingly unanswerable questions.

  “Does the fact that we received a ransom note for Phillip augur well for the fate of young Danny?” she wondered aloud. “I mean, they wouldn’t murder one boy and ransom another, would they? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “We don’t even know if Phillip is alive,” Hart said heavily. “For all we know, that ransom note has lain under that blasted mat for nearly a week. I can’t imagine kidnappers waiting indefinitely with no response to their demand. They’d most likely cut their losses and move on.”

  He sounded so weary and dispirited, so full of self-blame and despondency, she hurried across and wrapped her arms around him. She knew what he meant by “cut their losses”—it meant they’d kill Phillip. There was nothing she could say to comfort or reassure him; there was no comfort to be had from words.

  He held her hard against him, saying nothing. She could feel his heartbeat under her ear, and ached for him. She could not comfort him with words, but there were other forms of comfort. She slipped her hand beneath his drawers, and caressed him lightly. “Come, let us go to bed.” He hardened immediately against her palm.

  “Yes.” He kissed her, and she tasted despair and brandy and need.

  They made love then with quiet desperation, seeking solace and oblivion. But Hart did not neglect her. For the first time
ever, as he came to his climax, she shattered around him in hers.

  And they slept.

  * * *

  * * *

  Hart collected the money the next morning and left the ransom in place late that afternoon, well before dusk. “I can’t risk not paying,” he told George. “The money doesn’t matter. There’s no chance to investigate or negotiate. I don’t want to antagonize them any more with any further delay.”

  The following morning George and Finn rode with him to the drop-off point. Hart dismounted and lifted away the broken stone—and swore. He turned to George with agonized eyes.

  “What is it?” George called.

  “The money is still here.” There was no sign that anyone had been by—and no sign of Phillip.

  Tears sprang to George’s eyes. “Oh, Hart, I’m so sorry.” George slipped off her horse and ran to embrace him. “You did all you could.”

  But Hart wasn’t to be comforted. They had found the ransom note too late and Phillip had paid the price. All they could hope for was that the kidnappers had released him, but as Hart said, that was unlikely. The boy would be able to identify them.

  They rode back in gloomy silence. As they passed the lake, Finn veered off investigating something. George ignored him at first, but when she whistled and he made no move to return to them, she became curious. “I’ll just see what he’s up to,” she told her husband apologetically. “It’s probably something disgusting and he’ll want to roll in it. I need to stop him. I won’t be a moment.”

  Hart made an indifferent gesture, waving her to go.

  George rode to the edge of the lake, and when she dismounted she found Finn snuffing interestedly at a small shoe. Something caught in her throat. A few feet away lay another shoe. They were small, well-made leather shoes, about the size a seven-year-old would wear.

  “Hart, I think you should see this,” she called.

  Hart rode over. He examined the shoes and swore under his breath. “No village cobbler made these,” he said heavily. “They can only be Phillip’s.”

  They turned to look out over the lake. “What’s that?” George said. Before Hart could react, she’d waded into the shallows and pulled up a sopping pair of nankeen breeches. Again they were boy-sized, and quality made by a professional tailor. Silently she passed them to Hart.

  The shoes and breeches told a terrible tale.

  Poor little boy. They must have thrown him in the lake; he was probably tied up. Or already dead. Though why they’d divested him of his shoes and breeches, she shuddered to imagine.

  Gazing over the deceptively placid surface of the lake, she noticed a stream of bubbles rising to the surface near a clump of reeds. “Look, Hart, bubbles!” Without hesitation she dived in.

  “No, don’t—” Hart yelled, but she was already underwater.

  He waited, anxiety rising. More bubbles rose, but there was no sign of George. He dived in after her, and found her caught underwater, fighting a snag that had caught her divided skirt and trapped her.

  In a surge of fear and rage he ripped it free and they bobbed to the surface, George coughing and spluttering.

  “Nobody there,” she managed between coughs. She was filthy and dripping with lake weed.

  He wanted to shake her. He pounded her on the back, scolding her fiercely. “You damned little fool, what the hell did you think you were doing, risking yourself like that? It’s madness!”

  “M’all right,” she gasped and vomited up a gush of brown lake water.

  “You are damned well not all right!” He stood over her furiously, helplessly, and when she’d finally stopped vomiting water, he lifted her into his arms and marched toward his horse.

  “I can walk.” She struggled weakly to get down.

  “Shut up,” he said savagely. “One more word or argument and I—I’ll throttle you.” She laughed weakly. He placed her carefully on the horse, and swung up behind her.

  “I thought . . . the shoes, the breeches—”

  “I know what you thought.” He wanted to shake her and at the same time cradle her next to his heart and never let her go. Bad enough that he’d lost Phillip, but the thought of losing her . . .

  “He’s dead, isn’t he?” she said.

  Hart nodded. After a while he said, “The lake will have to be dragged.”

  She leaned into him then, her face pressed to his throat, and he realized she was weeping silently.

  He carried her into the house, and called for hot water and a bath. “And then it’s bed for you,” he told her severely.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Seldom, very seldom, does complete truth belong to any human disclosure; seldom can it happen that something is not a little disguised or a little mistaken.

  —JANE AUSTEN, EMMA

  Hart decided to return the money to the bank and leave George to take a nap. He didn’t want such a large sum of money lying around. On the way he passed the Glover farm, and wondered whether there was any news of Danny. Would there be two small bodies found when they dragged the lake? He decided not to stop. If he had to speak to Glover once more, and listen to the man deny any interest in his stepson, he’d probably kill him.

  Then he saw a small figure, lurking in the bushes near the house. It was a boy, but not the boy, Peter, he’d seen there before. This boy was taller. Hart rode closer. Good God! It was Phillip!

  “Phillip!” he cried. “Phillip!”

  To his amazement, the boy backed warily away.

  Did the boy not recognize him? He had, after all only met him once. “Phillip, it’s Everingham, your guardian.”

  Phillip started to run. Hart followed him. The boy darted in and out of the bushes. Hart followed. It was uncomfortably like chasing a fox.

  “Phillip, it’s all right,” Hart called. “You’re not in trouble, I promise.” But the boy took no notice. “Look at me when I’m talking to you, boy!” Hart roared in his best scary-duke voice. The boy hesitated and glanced back, giving Hart just enough opportunity to bend from the saddle and scoop the child up.

  He yelled and kicked and struggled—what the hell was the matter with him? “I’m your guardian, you little idiot. Stop fighting. I’m not going to hurt you.” But Phillip kept struggling.

  Hart clamped the boy facedown across his saddle, like a hunting prize, and headed for Lakeside Cottage. All the way back he tried to get Phillip to talk to him, but all he got was stubborn resistance.

  His relief at finding Phillip alive was tempered by frustration. The poor little chap was obviously badly traumatized. Lord knew what dreadful things his captors had put him through. Still, it was irritating to be welcomed like a kidnapper instead of a rescuer. But Hart had him safe now; he would be all right eventually. Children, they said, were resilient.

  * * *

  * * *

  George’s bath had refreshed her. She had no interest in a nap, and since her husband had not come to bed with her, she was feeling restless. She watched him ride off, visibly despondent, to return the money. His failure to protect Phillip had shaken him to the core. She’d offered to go with him, but he’d scowled and ordered her again to take a nap, reminding her that she’d nearly drowned and needed to recover.

  George wasn’t so feeble. And it seemed to her that he was more shaken by her near drowning than she was.

  She decided to go for a ride, shake the misery out and take Finn for a run. And perhaps see if she could find any sign of the other missing boy, Danny. Phillip’s death was devastating, but Danny’s fate would have nothing to do with kidnappers. His appalling home situation had moved her deeply. If there were any chance he might be alive . . .

  Children were so precious. They needed to be nurtured and protected and loved, and at the same time encouraged to explore and develop their confidence. She would make sure her own children were not left to servants to rais
e, and, for the convenience of those servants, turned into obedient, responsible little adults before their time.

  She avoided the depressing sight of the lake. It would be dragged tomorrow—Hart had gathered some willing locals.

  Finn bounded ahead, sniffing and exploring, the plume of his tail waving like a happy banner. She smiled, watching him. She ought to get Hart a dog; dogs weren’t only good company, they never failed to cheer her up.

  As she was watching, he dived into a clump of bushes. A rabbit? A hare? She waited, hoping it wasn’t a fox. But nothing, no animal came bursting out. Finn wasn’t the watch-and-wait kind of dog—if it didn’t run, he wasn’t interested. So what was he doing?

  She called him, but he didn’t emerge. She called him again, and she heard a yip and a rustle, so he was in there. She dismounted and went to investigate. There was a kind of tunnel leading into the thicket where he and possibly other creatures had forced their way in. Bending double she entered.

  And found Finn sitting with a small boy, a boy whose arms were wrapped around her dog. A boy about seven years old.

  “Danny?” she said cautiously.

  The child turned a dirty, suspicious face toward her. He peered out at her from behind Finn. “Who are you?”

  “I’m George.”

  “No, you’re not, you’re a girl.”

  She laughed. “Yes, I’m a girl called Geor—” She broke off, suddenly realizing he’d spoken with quite a cultured accent. “But you’re not Danny, are you?” Her voice broke as she said, “You’re Phillip.”

  He glowered at her, neither confirming or denying it. But she was certain now. This was Phillip. She said gently, “It’s all right, Phillip, I’m a friend. I’m married to the Duke of Everingham.”

  He frowned. “My guardian?” he said doubtfully.

  Relief and gladness rushed through her. Phillip was alive, but still frightened and suspicious—and no wonder. She spoke in a calm, friendly voice. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you, Phillip. Are you all right?”