How to Catch an Errant Earl

by Amy Rose Bennett

  Thunder rumbled again, closer this time, and Arabella shivered.

  Timothy said he was going to “trade” her. Had he demanded a ransom from Gabriel? Did he need money? Or was kidnapping her merely an act of revenge because Gabriel had foiled his plans to usurp the earldom?

  If only Timothy would remove this blasted gag, then she could ask him.

  Arabella’s gaze flitted to the other side of the room where a concertina screen stood, draped with a ragged-looking gown and chemise. Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she’d detected a slight movement behind the screen’s threadbare fabric panels. A shifting of the shadows. And then came a feeble wail. Was that the infant she’d heard earlier?

  Timothy shot a dark scowl at whoever was behind the screen. “I thought I told you to keep that baby quiet,” he growled. “I certainly paid you enough. And where’s your other brat, by the way? I’m going to need him shortly.”

  Arabella’s heart sped up. Dear Lord above. Someone else was in the room. Someone who might help her if she could just attract his or her attention. But when Timothy turned his gaze back to Arabella, his next words dashed her hopes entirely.

  “It’s amazing what a few half crowns will buy you these days. A desperate whore’s silence and a bottle of Kendal’s Black Drop.” He lifted the laudanum and took another slug. “If I had the time, and I didn’t think she had the pox, I’d probably get a fuck out of her too.”

  The Seven Dials Dispensary, Covent Garden, London

  Where, in God’s name, was Arabella?

  Gabriel stood in the treatment room of the Seven Dials Dispensary, staring out of the front window into the busy street, at the local folk rushing by as they sought cover before the storm hit. Even though dusk was still a few hours away, the afternoon had grown as dark as night as ominous black clouds rolled in over London. It wouldn’t be long before the heavens opened.

  The weather matched Gabriel’s mood perfectly, savage and thunderous while his gut roiled with worry. Even though a small team of Bow Street Runners, Dr. Radcliff, Max, and MacQueen had been helping him to scour the streets and back alleys and question the local inhabitants of Seven Dials for hours, it seemed that Timothy and Arabella had vanished without a trace.

  But then, his cousin could just have easily bundled Arabella into a carriage, which meant they weren’t in Seven Dials or the Covent Garden area at all. Indeed, they could be anywhere by now.

  Behind him, he could hear Max and MacQueen talking in low voices to Sergeant Watkins, an officer of the Bow Street Runners, as they studied a map of the area, marking off which streets they’d covered, and planning where they should search next. Runners had already determined that Timothy quit his Russell Square residence about nine o’clock this morning—the butler reported his master had taken a hackney coach rather than calling for his own carriage—and he hadn’t returned. He also appeared to have taken one of his Manton dueling pistols from its box.

  Resting his forearm against the window frame, Gabriel closed his eyes for a moment and tried not to give in to the despair burning through his veins. He still had no idea what his cousin wanted. What he hoped to achieve by taking Arabella.

  Revenge . . . The word held more menace than the thunder rolling toward Seven Dials. It was the only thing that made sense.

  If his dog of a cousin harmed one single hair on his wife’s precious head . . . Gabriel clenched his fist so tightly, his knuckles cracked.

  Strangely, he was so focused on finding Arabella, he’d almost forgotten the glass-fronted cupboard to his left contained bottles of laudanum. For the first time in his adult life, he could honestly say he didn’t want the vile stuff.

  He only wanted Arabella.

  “Langdale?”

  Gabriel turned at the sound of his name. It was MacQueen, and there was a note of excitement in his friend’s voice which immediately sparked his interest. “What is it?”

  The Scotsman crossed the room in half a dozen long strides. “Miss Reid, Radcliff’s nurse, just noticed this on the floor in the waiting room.” He held out a folded sheet of grubby paper. “It looks like someone pushed it under the front door. Your name’s written on it.”

  “I take it that whoever delivered it is long gone?” said Max.

  MacQueen nodded. “Aye. It would seem so.”

  Gabriel took the proffered sheet—a crumpled playbill—and read aloud the message that had been scrawled on the back in lead pencil.

  Cuz,

  No doubt you want your wife back and I’m prepared to make an exchange. I want your parents’ English wedding lines. That’s it. Simple as that.

  Someone will collect you at six o’clock sharp from the Seven Dials Dispensary and bring you, and you alone, to the place where we’ll make the exchange. If I see a Runner or any one of your cronies follow, you’ll never see your Lady Langdale again.

  On that you have my word.

  T.

  Gabriel ran a shaking hand down his face. Thank God, Arabella was still alive. But even so, terror gripped his heart. It was already half past five.

  He lifted his gaze to his friends, Sergeant Watkins, and Radcliff.

  “I have only half an hour to retrieve the marriage lines from Langdale House. Perhaps not even that. It’s less than a mile between here and St. James’s Square, but the streets will be jammed with traffic at this time of day.”

  Sergeant Watkins grimaced. “And it will take at least ten minutes to summon a mounted officer.”

  Max stepped forward. “I’ll go. You know I’m the fastest runner out of the three of us.” He threw off his jacket and loosened his neckcloth. “I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”

  Gabriel wasn’t about to argue with him, not when Arabella’s life was at stake. And it was true, the Duke of Exmoor could sprint like the devil with all the hounds of hell at his heels. “Ask Jervis to help you retrieve the lines,” Gabriel called after him; Max was already heading for the door. “The certificate is in the top drawer of my desk in the library.”

  “Done.”

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” asked MacQueen as soon as Max had disappeared. “Give in to your cousin’s demand?”

  “What choice do I have? Nothing matters more to me than Arabella. Nothing.” Gabriel shrugged. “Besides, unless the bastard intends to burn down the church in Appletreewick and York Minster Cathedral to destroy any and all evidence of my parents’ union, it won’t do him any good. He’s clearly not thinking straight, and I’m not willing to risk Arabella’s life by trying to reason with a drug-deluded madman.” He cocked a brow. “After my stint on Skye, you of all people should know that won’t work.”

  MacQueen nodded. “Do you want the Runners to be involved?” he said in a low voice so Watkins wouldn’t overhear.

  Gabriel glanced at the officer who was currently talking to Dr. Radcliff. “What would be the point? I don’t trust them not to mess things up. It’s a perfectly simple trade. I give Timothy what he wants, and then I’ll have Arabella back safe and sound.”

  And then I’ll hunt him down and kill him, but no one need know about that right now. However, judging by the knowing look in MacQueen’s eye as the Scot clapped him on the back, Gabriel suspected his friend knew exactly what he intended.

  Chapter 21

  Is this the most sensational on-dit ever to grace the pages of the Beau Monde Mirror?

  According to a reliable source from Bow Street, the Countess of Langdale was kidnapped from the Seven Dials Dispensary!

  The Beau Monde Mirror

  The Seven Dials Dispensary, Covent Garden, London

  The wait was interminable, and Gabriel was certain all his pacing had begun to wear a track in the wooden floor. However, true to his word, Max was back within the allotted time frame. As he burst through the front door of the dispensary, the storm broke.

  “I trust
. . . this is what you need?” said Max, wiping the sweat from his brow with his shirtsleeve as he handed over the certificate.

  Gabriel unfolded the piece of parchment to check it, then nodded. “Yes. Thank you, my friend.” He tucked the lines into the breast pocket of his coat. Glancing out the window at the rain lashing the streets of Seven Dials, he grimaced. “This bloody storm is going to make things interesting.”

  “Aye,” agreed MacQueen. The light within the dispensary had dimmed, and Radcliff’s assistant, Miss Reid, was presently lighting several lamps to ward off the gloom. “I wonder who the ‘someone’ is that your cousin will send.”

  “I have no clue,” said Gabriel. “I only hope that Timothy isn’t playing me for a fool, because if he is . . .” He shook his head as a wave of rage crashed over him.

  “I’m sure you’ve considered this might be a trap to get rid of you,” said Max. “That he might be luring you into some dark rookery before setting a mob of hired footpads onto you.”

  “Yes, which is why I’ll get you and MacQueen to shadow me.” Sergeant Watkins had already agreed to stay out of the way. His bright red Runner weskit would make him stick out like a dog’s bollocks.

  “Of course.” The duke squeezed his shoulder. “You know we’ll always have your back.”

  Thunder reverberated overhead and lightning briefly illuminated the room. Indeed, the rolling boom was so loud, Gabriel almost missed the knock on the back door of the dispensary.

  “Well, this is it,” he said grimly, checking the pistol at his back was still securely wedged into his breeches. MacQueen had his second pistol, and Gabriel was pretty certain Max had at least a knife secreted somewhere on his person. “Wish me luck, gents.”

  As soon as he pulled open the back door of the dispensary, he was greeted by a sharp slap of cold rain in the face. Swiping the water out of his eyes, he squinted into the dark alley, confused that he couldn’t see anyone at first. And then he felt a tug on the hem of his coat. A drenched urchin, his hair plastered to his skull, stared up at him with eyes that were too big for his painfully thin face. He couldn’t have been more than five or six years old.

  “This way, guv.”

  The boy darted off down the rapidly flooding alleyway, and Gabriel sprinted after him. He couldn’t afford to lose him in the bowels of Seven Dials.

  They’d barely gone twenty yards when the urchin ducked abruptly to the right; it was as though he’d disappeared into thin air. Gabriel skidded to a halt so quickly, he nearly ended up on his arse in the filthy mud.

  Where the hell had the scamp gone?

  Christ, there was another narrow alley running between two buildings, piled with sodden, stinking rubbish. Gabriel had to turn his shoulders to squeeze into the space. None of them had thought to look down here; they’d assumed the passage was a dead end. He trusted MacQueen and Max were watching and would follow suit.

  Narrowing his eyes against the sting of the rain, Gabriel saw the boy dart off to the right again. When he turned the corner in pursuit, he was faced with a short flight of stairs that led into a small courtyard surrounded by derelict lodging houses.

  The urchin scampered across the yard and paused in a black yawning doorway. He held up a small hand. “Wait ’ere, guv. I’ll be back in a tick.”

  Chest heaving, heart hammering, Gabriel drew to a halt. Was Arabella here somewhere? Had she really been this close to him all this time?

  Pushing his sodden hair out of his eyes, Gabriel scanned the dark windows and the openings to other stairwells. Frustration pounded through his veins. So much rain sluiced off the roofs of the surrounding buildings, it was impossible to make out a goddamned thing.

  At least he didn’t appear to be in any immediate danger of being set upon by a band of thugs in Timothy’s employ.

  Thunder cracked overhead and lightning flashed, blinding him momentarily. When he could see again, he noticed the urchin was back, beckoning him forward toward the doorway.

  When he was only a few yards away, the boy held up his hand again. “Mr. Timothy says you have somefink of ’is. You’re to give it to me.”

  Gabriel shook his head. “Not until I know he’s going to give back something of mine first.” Raising his voice above the din of bucketing rain, Gabriel shouted, “Where is she, Timothy? You shan’t have what you want until I see she’s all right.”

  The boy glanced back up the steep, narrow staircase as if seeking direction from someone just out of sight. Was Timothy up there? With Arabella?

  God, Arabella.

  Anger, fear, and hope seared through Gabriel’s body, tightening every muscle, sharpening his senses. He slid his hand behind his back, beneath his sodden coat, and wrapped his fingers around the smooth, walnut handle of his perfectly balanced Manton pistol.

  Just one shot, straight between the eyes, and it would all be over for his dear cuz.

  He wouldn’t miss. He never did.

  The barefoot urchin descended a few more steps, and then behind him, Gabriel caught a glimpse of bright green skirts and elegant slipper-shod feet beneath the dirt-smeared hem.

  Arabella. Thank God.

  “Gabriel?” Almost drowned out by the steady drumming of the rain, Arabella’s soft Scots burr was little more than a faint, hollow echo as it drifted down the stairs. “I’m here . . . with your cousin. I’m all right, but he . . . he has a pistol.”

  Fear and unspeakable tenderness gathering in his throat, Gabriel had to swallow before he could summon a voice that was passably steady. “I know, Bella. Everything will be fine. You’ll be with me soon.”

  “Good God, cuz, I don’t have time for this.” There was no mistaking Timothy’s sneering tone. “Did you bring the marriage lines or what?”

  “Wait! Gabriel, no. Don’t you dare give them up for me.” The alarm was clear in Arabella’s voice. “You need them.”

  “Not as much as I need you, Bella.”

  “Oh, please,” jeered Timothy. “Enough of this sentimental claptrap. I think I’d rather put a bullet in my own brain than listen to you two carry on a minute longer.”

  “If you’d be so obliged, it would save me the trouble.” Gabriel tightened his grip on his pistol. Damn Timothy to the hottest pit of Hades. He was using Arabella and the crumbling brickwork above the doorway as a shield.

  “So how is this going to work, Timothy?” he called up the stairs. “I’ve got the certificate right here in my breast pocket.”

  “Give the lines to the boy. When I’ve seen they’re real and you haven’t tried to dupe me, you can have your wife back.”

  “Let Arabella come farther down the stairs first.”

  “You think I’m stupid? Not on your life, cuz.”

  Fucking hell. Gabriel swiped a hand across his eyes to clear his vision. It seemed he had little choice. “All right then. Let’s do this.”

  As Gabriel beckoned the boy forward, he risked edging a few steps closer to the door. He could now see Arabella’s legs from the midthigh down. But Timothy, sniveling coward that he was, was wedged firmly behind her on the narrow landing.

  He couldn’t get a clear shot. The risk of hitting Arabella was too great.

  The urchin approached, small hand out, and Gabriel passed him the folded document.

  Dear God, let Arabella come through this unscathed. Nothing else matters.

  As the boy dashed back into the stairwell and scurried up to Timothy, Gabriel withdrew his pistol and crept forward. Now was his chance.

  Anger hardening his resolve and steadying his hand, he took up a position on one side of the doorway. If Timothy was distracted, even for a moment . . .

  He was about to peer around the doorjamb when Timothy called out, “Thank you very much, cuz. You can have your baggage back.”

  And then Arabella screamed.

  * * *

  * * *

&
nbsp; Oh, God. Timothy had pushed her and now she was falling, tumbling headlong down the steep wooden staircase.

  With her hands still tied behind her back, Arabella had no way to break her fall. Her shoulder and then her side slammed painfully into one step, then another as she tried to roll sideways . . . and then all of a sudden Gabriel was there, catching her. Saving her from certain death.

  “Arabella.” Sprawled across the stairs, Gabriel lashed her hard against his strong body, her chest to his, cushioning her, slowing her forward momentum. “Oh, sweet Jesus Christ.”

  Panting, he buried his face in her hair. “I thought I was going to lose you.”

  “You . . . you haven’t.” Arabella closed her eyes and breathed in Gabriel’s comforting, wholly masculine scent. She couldn’t quite catch her breath, and her head, ribs, and shoulder hurt, but she would be all right. Gabriel had come for her, and given the way he was cradling her and raining kisses over the side of her forehead and cheek, she knew that he cared. That’s all she needed for now.

  “Langdale. I heard your wife scream. Can I help?” The Duke of Exmoor’s deep, cultured voice drifted up the staircase.

  Gabriel lifted his head. “Do you have that knife of yours handy, Max?”

  “Of course.”

  The duke sliced through the bonds at her wrists, and then Arabella moaned as she rolled her stiff shoulders forward and the circulation began to return.

  “My poor darling,” murmured Gabriel. “Can you sit?”

  Arabella nodded. “I . . . I think so.”

  “Good.” Gabriel carefully eased her into a sitting position. His strong arm stayed around her shoulders, steadying her. And then his hand came up to cradle her face. “Let me look at you, my love.”

  My love?