To Claim the Long-Lost Lover

by Jude Knight

  The thin-faced woman spoke for the first time. “Here, what about the man? You can’t leave him here. If he wakes up, he’ll tell them I gave her to you.”

  “Your problem,” the first man said.

  “There’s another one on the stairs.” That was one of the other men.

  “Her problem,” the first man repeated. “We’ve got a delivery to make.” He glared at the silent seamstresses. “Keep your mouths shut or I’ll come back and kill the lot of you.”

  * * *

  The thin-faced woman followed them down to the flat on the floor below, wringing her hands and complaining. John lay unconscious just inside the door. Two of them stuffed Sarah into a large sack, ignoring John and the complaining woman as well. Through the stink of the gag, Sarah could smell wheat.

  “You can’t leave ‘im ‘ere in my flat,” the woman shrieked, but Sarah’s kidnappers didn’t reply. Sarah was hoisted back onto a shoulder, and carried downstairs. Her carrier’s shoulder dug into her belly, and he bumped her head on a wall or doorway a couple of times as he turned corners. She tried to ignore the pain, block out the panic, and listen for any clue about what was happening.

  Now they were outside. Perhaps her driver would see them, but no. All he would see was a man carrying a sack. In any case, as far as she could tell, they had turned the other way in the alley. Fifty paces, more or less, and she was dumped onto wood. A cart. She could hear someone clicking his tongue and telling a horse to gee up, and then she was being jostled around against the moving surface.

  They drove for what seemed a long time. She couldn’t tell if all her kidnappers were still with her, because they didn’t speak; the only voices she heard were the driver’s occasional command to the horses, and people farther away, talking in the streets as they passed.

  They wanted her, or rather Charlotte, alive. She kept reminding herself of that, shying away from the question of what they would do when they found they had the wrong twin. If they found out. She wasn’t going to tell them. Not unless it gave her an advantage.

  At last, the cart stopped and someone hoisted her back onto a shoulder. She felt the change in the air, heard the difference in the footsteps, as they entered a building. “Got her,” someone said. The first man, she thought.

  “Bring her through here.” That was a woman’s voice, and one of some refinement, though with a hint of the slums in some of the vowels.

  Sarah was dropped to the floor with a thud. “Careful! Don’t bruise the merchandise!” the woman growled.

  Merchandise? That couldn’t be good. The sack was opened, shaken, so that she slid out, feet first, and landed in a heap on the carpet in a small parlour. Sarah’s first impression was of gilt, red velvet, and too many mirrors. Her second was of cut-price workmanship.

  She sat up and looked at the woman who had presumably ordered her kidnapping: a plump female in her middle years, heavily painted and in a dress that matched the room—gaudy and cheaply made.

  The woman glared at her as one of the brutes fumbled at the knot of her gag. “You are not Lady Charlotte Winderfield,” the woman said. “Charley, this is not Charlotte Winderfield. This is her sister, Lady Sarah.”

  The man addressed as Charley looked at Sarah as if it were her fault. “Maybe the gent won’t mind,” he suggested. “One skirt is much like another. Still a lady, isn’t she?”

  The woman narrowed her eyes at Sarah in speculation. “Maybe. But it was Lady Charlotte we paid that silly bint Wilton for, and Lady Charlotte the gentleman ordered. What were you doing there, Lady Sarah?”

  Sarah spat out the disgusting lump of sodden cloth. “Lady Bentham,” she said. It sounded ridiculous, insisting on her married name, but perhaps the fact she was a Viscountess and the daughter-in-law of an earl would add weight to her status as a duke’s niece and convince these idiots to let her go. If, as she supposed, a gentleman had hoped to pressure Charlotte into marrying him, the fact that she was here instead, and was married, would put a spoke in his wheel.

  “Oo’s Lady Bentham?” Charley asked.

  “I am. I am married to Viscount Bentham, heir to the Earl of Lechton. Your men kidnapped me while I was running a message for my sister.”

  The woman cursed long and fluently. Sarah understood about half the words and all of the tone. When the woman ran down, she said to Charley, “’E won’t want her now. Get rid of ‘er.” She had lost her imitation of genteel speech in her agitation.

  “Send ‘er back, you mean?” Charley asked.

  The woman sneered. “Kill her, fat wit. She has seen me and you. We’ll hang if she gets free and she’s no use to ‘im married.”

  “Seems a waste of a choice bit of skirt. We could put ‘er to work in the ‘ouse,” Charley suggested.

  “And risk ‘er escaping? I wouldn’t ‘ave touched ‘er, even when the Beast set it all up, if the gentleman ‘adn’t been prepared to pay two thousand gold, and take ‘er out of the country. If he don’t want ‘er, we ‘ave to get rid of ‘er before ‘er family comes looking.”

  Charley nodded, slowly, but one of the other men cleared his throat. “Shouldn’t we ask the gennelman? ‘E could make ‘er a widow easy enough. And there’s ‘arf the fee still to come.”

  Sarah saw the woman consider this suggestion and was relieved at the thoughtful nod. “Very well. Lock her upstairs, and I’ll get a message to him.”

  17

  Nate held on as Aldridge raced his phaeton towards the address Lady Charlotte had given them, weaving close to buildings, feathering past carriages, missing pedestrians by inches, turning corners on a single wheel.

  Nate, Drew, and the duke had been about to go upstairs to the nursery when Aldridge arrived, asking anxiously for Charlotte. He had word of a trap set in Clerkenwell—someone who planned to compromise and marry Sarah’s sister. What would the kidnappers do when they found out they had the wrong sister, and a married woman, at that?

  It might all be a lie. The informant was Lord Ashbury’s sister-in-law, the former Lady Ashbury. Her betrayals were multiple. Whether she was now betraying the slum king who was her brother or still working for him remained to be seen. If she was telling the truth, they had no time to lose.

  If they arrived in time, it would be thanks to Aldridge’s driving skill. On any other day, Nate would be demanding that he slow down, take care. But with Sarah in trouble, he just gripped the side rail of the seat and gritted his teeth, and prayed as he had never prayed before.

  How would he tell Elias if anything had happened to her? How would he survive losing her again?

  Aldridge hauled the horses to a halt beside a carriage with the Winshire coat of arms. “You’re Lady Sarah’s driver?” he asked the man who sat nervously atop the carriage, a musket across his knees.

  “Aye, sir.” The coachman looked towards a narrow gap between the buildings. “I’m waiting for Lady Bentham.”

  Nate leapt to the ground, the pistol Uncle James had given him in one hand and his dagger in the other. “How long since my wife went in there, driver?”

  “Perhaps fifteen minutes, sir?” the driver answered. “Is there something wrong?”

  Aldridge shouted at a man who was lounging against a wall. “You there?!” The man spat a stream of yellow coloured bile into the street and sneered. A coin appeared between Aldridge’s fingers and disappeared as quickly.

  “I am the Marquis of Aldridge and I am giving you two options. You make sure no one touches my carriage or my horses or those of Lady Bentham, and you get a crown. Anything happens to either team or rig, and I find you and extract your brains through your nostrils, burn them, and sell them as pie filling. Your choice.” He held up the coin. “A shilling now, the rest when I come back.”

  The man straightened. “Done.” He held out a hand and caught the coin that Aldridge tossed even as Nate ran past him into the alley.

  “Stay here and tell the duke where we’ve gone,” he heard Aldridge tell the driver before following after him, catching up as
Nate reached the narrow stairs that led to the attic that they’d been told had been used to lay a trap for Charlotte.

  They heard the arguing from above before they began the steep climb. A shrill female voice was demanding that a problem be removed, while at least two males were arguing that killing the servants of a duke was only going to make things worse.

  It was enough to warn them to make their approach quiet. The combatants were so intent on their dispute that Nate and Aldridge were able to get all the way to the fourth floor, where a scrawny female and two men—one tall and skinny, and the other short and bulky, stood over the tied-up body of a man in Winshire livery, arguing about whether to kill him, let him go, or dump him still living into the Thames.

  The bonnet on the woman’s head ratcheted Nate’s wrath several more notches. He had last seen it on Sarah.

  He had time to wonder whether the ducal scion would be any good in a fight—no polite gentlemanly rules here—before the short man looked up and saw them reach the landing, Nate still a little in the lead.

  At his gasp, the other two turned, but by then Nate and Aldridge were upon them. Nate had learned his combat skills in a dirty school, fighting the French, pirates and privateers for His Majesty’s Royal Navy, and any number of scoundrels in ports around the world who thought an English sailor might be good for a coin or two.

  He took the short man, hurling all his weight at him to take him down, and keeping him there with a knife to the throat. He didn’t know where Aldridge learned to fight, but the marquis had the tall man subdued in seconds, with a punch to his gut followed by a knee to his crotch and an elbow to his chin as he curled over his injured jewels.

  The woman abandoned her colleagues to run away down the stairs, straight into the arms of the duke and his men. In moments, the three miscreants were bound. Drew knelt by the footman, removing his gag and cutting through his ropes.

  “I’m sorry, Your Grace. Someone jumped me from behind. Her ladyship? And Mr Yahzak?”

  The duke put a hand on his man’s shoulder. “We’ll find them, John. We’ll check upstairs.” As he spoke, a yell came from upstairs. “Kagan!”

  Nate, with his wife’s bonnet in one hand, led the way again, up into the space under the sloping roof, where a row of high windows gave light to the group of girls who sat with fabric on their laps, their hands still, their eyes wide and fearful.

  One of them had crept from her seat and was trying to use her scissors to saw through the ropes that tied the duke’s guardsman, who let out a burst of foreign words as the duke and then Drew entered behind Nate.

  Drew turned to translate for Nate and Aldridge. “Yahzak was knocked out as well, and the girls know nothing; only that their mistress had four men waiting for Sarah, and that they took her, not ten minutes ago.”

  “We shall question their mistress,” the duke said. “Young women, I appreciate your help to my liege man, here. Your mistress will not be returning. If you need work or shelter, you may depend upon me. But right now, I need to rescue my niece.”

  One of the girls curtseyed and held out a pretty reticule. “She dropped this, sir.” Nate took several steps into the room to take it. He felt the gun inside. Damn.

  * * *

  They cut the bindings on Sarah’s ankles and then two of them hustled her upstairs. She stumbled across the room they pushed her into, and stood by the bed, glaring at them.

  One of them grinned, showing his gums and a few crooked teeth. He started towards her with his hands out, but the other grabbed him by his collar and jerked him back. “Leave ‘er alone.”

  “I just want to squeeze ‘er titties and maybe ‘ave a feel,” the would-be assailant whined.

  “And ‘ave ‘Is Grace slice out yer gizzard if’n ‘e decides to keep ‘er? ‘E’ll fillet ye like a fish if’n ye touch what’s ‘is.”

  The lascivious light went out of Three Tooth. “Maybe ‘e won’t want ‘er. Not the right one, ‘er downstairs says.”

  “If’n ‘e doesn’t, we can all take turns afore we kill ‘er, but for now, leave ‘er alone.” The other dragged Three Tooth towards the door.

  “We should tie ‘er to the bed,” Three Tooth suggested.

  The other looked past him to where Sarah still stood, as straight as she could manage, trying to make sure her face did not show fear, disgust, and her dawning hope. Let them go away and leave me loose, she prayed.

  “Let her alone, you idiot. What’s she goin’ to do, a fine lady like that? Climb out through the bars with ‘er ‘ands tied?”

  The door shut behind them, and Sarah let out a sigh of relief. He was right about the bars. They only rose halfway up the tall sash windows, but high enough to keep a bound person contained. Apart from that, the small room contained a bedframe with a bare mattress that stank of sweat and sex, a washstand with no bowl, jug, or chamber pot, and nothing else.

  No sheets. No drapes. Nothing to hang from the bars to assist her escape.

  First things first. Sarah sat on the floor and pulled up her hems so that she could reach the knife that she had begun carrying in a boot sheath ever since Ruth was abducted last year.

  After several attempts, she gave up on trying to turn it against the bindings at her wrists. She couldn’t both hold the knife and use it. She pulled her hems higher and squeezed the handle between her knees, but the first brush of the blade to her bindings pushed the knife flat.

  Tears rose, but she forced them back. Crying wouldn’t help her get home to Elias and Nate. How long would it be before he and Uncle James missed her? Before they came looking and found her trail? She did not doubt that they would, but every minute they were delayed made it more likely that Yahzak’s and John’s lives would be forfeit; that this mysterious gentleman would either order her killed or spirit her away.

  His grace, one of the brutes had said. What duke was in need of a bride, and was immoral enough to steal one? Only one man qualified, and he had applied to Uncle James for Charlotte’s hand some months ago. Charlotte had, of course, refused him. Even in a society that forgave wealthy titled men almost everything, the Duke of Richport was beyond the pale. But time enough to think about that later.

  Inspiration struck. She held the knife above her head with her bound hands and slammed it down into the wooden floor. More by luck than good management, she’d thrust it in between two floor boards, and she leaned on it now, forcing all her weight onto the top of the handle to wedge it securely.

  Almost four inches of blade still protruded from the floor. Carefully, doing her best to keep her flesh away from the knife, she began to rub the rope against the sharpened edge.

  Several times in the drawn-out minutes that followed, she heard footsteps approaching, and swung away, sitting almost on the knife to hide it from the door. Twice, whoever it was continued on down the passage. The third time, she almost didn’t stop sawing at the rope, but it was as well she changed her mind, for she heard a rattle in the lock, the door opened, and the man they called Charley brought in a small loaf of bread and a jug of water.

  He laughed to see her sitting there. “Too fine for the bed, are ye, princess?”

  “It smells,” she told him.

  He laughed even harder as he put the jug down on the washstand, and dropped the bread on the floor. “Missus said to give ye some food and drink. Didn’t say ye ‘ad to ‘ave it on a plate.”

  Still laughing, he left, and she heard the key turn again.

  She knelt once more, and inspected the rope. It had been knotted several times, but if she could just get through the last few strands still holding before the main knot, she could pull the rest loose enough to wriggle her hands out.

  A few more minutes of sawing, and a sting that had her biting back a whimper when her hands slipped and got sliced. There! She pulled and twisted, and the blood from her cut spread across the rope and dripped onto her skirt, but one hand, and then the other, was free.

  She inspected the cut, wiping it with a strip torn from her pettic
oat and then binding the strip as best she could one-handed. The wound was shallow and of no moment, but the blood might get in her way.

  Now for the window. If she could drop the upper sash, she could easily climb out, but then where would she go? Her sister’s protégé Tony had escaped from Wharton by climbing to the roof. From down here on the floor, impeded by the bars from getting a closer look, she could not tell whether that route was open to her.

  Another moment’s thought, and she removed her petticoat and tore it into more strips. Three of them tied together made a broad band long enough to wrap around her thighs to cross over and tie around her waist, trapping her skirt into a semblance of pantaloons that was neither elegant nor seemly.

  But it was practical. She and Charlotte hadn’t clambered over every suitable tree within the home woods in every one of the ducal estates across England without learning a little about proper wear for climbing.

  The ankle boots had to go. She took them and her stockings off, and used the stockings to tie the boots to the back of her improvised waistband. She’d need them when she reached the street.

  With a good grip on the bars, she climbed onto the windowsill, wrinkling her nose at the sticky grimy feel of the dirty wood under her toes. Carefully, she undid the catches that held the upper sash, and pressed her palms against the frame on either side to ease it down, holding her breath and letting it out when the sash slid down quietly.

  Climbing up the bars to the open part of the window presented a challenge. She would get partway and then stick until her strength failed and she would slip down again. Fear of never seeing Elias and Nate again kept her trying. She could never afterwards remember how she finally pulled herself up.

  Down to the street or up to the roof? Below, several hefty men loitered by the door to the building. Down would get her caught again. Up was her only choice.