Love Regency Style

by Samantha Holt

  But there was still hope. If all else failed, she would have to see about applying for permits to mount her own expedition. This prospect filled her with dismay considering Mr. Belzoni’s difficulties in obtaining the necessary papers. But if she were left with no other choice, she would do so.

  Her doubts deepened. Mr. Archer had not been optimistic about the health of her estates. Her previous guardians had refused to allow her to involve herself in the management of her inheritance. They had all assured her that the lands were productive and there was nothing to worry about.

  However, Mr. Archer had not agreed with this assessment. Neglect had reduced her fortune, although by how much was uncertain.

  The box of cotton and tobacco her father had given her was the physical representation of her inheritance. Had she ignored it too long because of her painful memories? Had she been as idle and as unconcerned as any member of the British aristocracy, attending routs and gambling away fortunes while their estates ran to ruin?

  No, she had not been entirely idle. Despite her youth and inexperience, she had attempted to determine the condition of her property. Perhaps she would have tried a little harder if her memories of Charleston had not been so painful, so filled with vivid reminders of the grief she had felt when her parents and aunt died.

  Corresponding with the managers in America had been useless. She only received reassurances and the suggestion that she let her guardians handle her affairs.

  Secretly, she’d been relieved to let them manage the estates for her and forget her previous life.

  Nathaniel would never have done so. He obviously took his duties seriously. Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment when she remembered arguing with him about the useless British nobility.

  They were not all idle wastrels.

  When she got home, she would ask Mr. Archer to teach her to manage her estates. He had offered and she would learn. Even if she never returned to that desolate, haunted mansion in Charleston where her aunt had died, she would know how to care for her inheritance.

  The carriage hit a pothole and she nearly fell to the floor. She glanced out the window. They were just passing St. James’s Park. A tangle of black trees rose on her left.

  Long streamers of clouds scudded across the sky, obscuring the moon. The streets around them looked dark and menacing, filled with the flitting, tattered shapes of men and women with no place warm to go. Charlotte pressed back into the corner of the carriage, feeling suddenly very alone.

  “Halt!” a coarse voice yelled.

  She squirmed even further back against the unyielding squabs. In near-panic, she groped at her neck for her necklace.

  Lady Victoria insisted Charlotte wear the pearls tonight. The thieves were not going to get it! She quickly unclasped it and shoved it down into the gap behind the seat cushion. There were no rings on her fingers but she wore pearl earrings. She took those off as well and was just pushing them behind her when the door was wrenched open.

  “Here, now!” the voice exclaimed. A giant black shape filled the doorway.

  Charlotte drew back, hemmed in by the sides of the carriage. She could not escape. He grabbed her wrist and yanked her through the door. When she stumbled, he wrapped a thick arm around her waist. He lifted her out, carrying her a few feet away like a sack of flour. All she could see was the long, rough expanse of his coarsely woven coat and the shadowy ground.

  “Put me down!” she screamed, kicking the air uselessly and hitting his backside with her fists.

  “Keep her quiet!” a more cultured voice said.

  There were two of them!

  Her captor shook her. “Quiet, or you will have to be muffled.” He sounded apologetic.

  “I am not—oof!” She was thrown over a horse’s neck.

  The poor beast wobbled and shifted as her kidnapper climbed awkwardly into the saddle. Before she could protest, they lumbered away.

  Charlotte lifted her head, trying to breathe and relieve the pressure on her stomach. She felt ill. Her mount was definitely not one of the more elegant riding horses she had occasionally been allowed to ride. This animal was a huge, plodding beast that seemed likely to be a draft horse. It plunged through the night with a pounding motion that made her regret the glass of punch and small fruit tart she had eaten at Dacy House.

  With each hoof beat, she had to suck in air and hold on, trying to keep her hair from being torn off by the shrubs they passed. Her nose alternated hitting the horse’s shoulder and the man’s boot.

  Finally, just as she thought she couldn’t stand it any longer, the horse was brought to a halt.

  “Get her inside!” the more educated voice said.

  She was lifted from the horse before she could wriggle off.

  “Put me down! I can walk!” she sputtered.

  “Quiet!” the giant said as he picked her up.

  His rough coat smelled like sweaty horses, dogs and cooked cabbage. Nausea welled up, burning her throat.

  “I am going to be sick,” she replied weakly.

  “Not yet,” came the terse rejoinder.

  A squealing noise rent the air as he swung open a heavy wooden door. They plunged through, and Charlotte was deposited on her feet. She turned around quickly, determined to locate a route to escape. The man who had carried her grabbed her arm, perhaps anticipating her thoughts to run.

  She surveyed the narrow barn. Two stalls opened out on either side of her and several sacks of grain were stacked in one of them. A pile of straw spilled out against the wall near the door, nearly obscuring an old, broken butter churn. The barrel of the churn was splintered as if a horse had kicked it.

  Two men faced her: the giant who had carried her and a midget. Not a midget, truly, but a man whose head came up roughly even with her chin. They both wore flour sacks over their heads with holes cut out for the eyes.

  Charlotte held her cold fingers up to her mouth, stifling a nervous giggle.

  “Now, Miss, you are all right. No need to be sick. Would you like a ladle of water?” The taller man asked.

  “No, I would not,” Charlotte replied, eyeing him.

  He stood hunch-shouldered, trying to face her while keeping a large hand on her wrist. His clothing was rough and tattered, his boot tops flopping and dusty. His heels were so worn down they were almost gone.

  Although she couldn’t see his expression, she had the distinct impression that he was not particularly happy to be there.

  The smaller man studied her with his hands on his hips. “Where are your jewels?” he asked.

  “I wasn’t wearing any tonight.”

  “You were! Where are they?”

  “What do you mean, I was? How do you know what I was wearing? Do I know you?”

  “No, you do not.” He moved closer and pushed the giant aside to grab her wrist. He pulled her cloak off and gripped her tighter when she jerked backward. Cold blue eyes peered through the holes in the sack on his head.

  “Now, where are your jewels?”

  “I don’t have any with me.” She flung her reticule down. “Check for yourself. If you are after money, I am afraid you have made rather a large mistake. I have less than a pound with me.”

  “Maybe so, but you are worth a fortune, are you not? And perhaps I have developed a fancy for a wife.”

  Charlotte’s heart pounded. The air around the short man reeked of some sickeningly sweet pomade containing patchouli. Struggling to breath, she nearly retched at the smell.

  She stamped on his foot. “Well, I have no desire for a husband.”

  Yanking her forward into his grasp, he tried to pull her head down to his level. Her scalp burned as he wrenched her hair. She twisted and pushed him away with all her strength, but despite her height, he was stronger.

  She gagged and stamped her foot again, wishing she had worn something more substantial than dancing slippers.

  “Stop struggling!” he muttered. His hands moved up her arms as if he would force her to her knees.

 
; “Here, now,” the bigger man said. “There is no need—”

  “She has a lesson to learn.”

  Despite her distaste, Charlotte brought her mouth down to his wrist. She bit him. He let go and hit across her mouth. The savagery of the blow flung her across the room. She hit the wall next to the broken churn, tasting blood on her lips.

  “Sir!” the big man said.

  She grabbed the handle of the churn’s paddle and swung around to face the men. The giant had hold of the other’s arm as if to restrain him. The smaller man shook him off.

  Before he could turn, she darted forward with the paddle raised. She smashed it against the back of his head while the giant just stood there watching as if in shock.

  The small man slowly sank. He jolted onto his knees, and then gradually fell forward on his face. Breathing harshly, Charlotte clung to the paddle, feeling sick. She knew she should run while surprise was still on her side, but she couldn’t move. She felt stunned and just stood there staring down at the crumpled form of the small man.

  The giant gently took the paddle out of her hand. He threw it into the darkness of a far stall.

  By the wavering light of the lanterns, she watched a dark stain on the flour sack mask expand.

  “Is he…dead?” Charlotte asked.

  The giant knelt down and loosened the bag. He pulled it up part-ways over the man’s face, exposing his mouth and nose.

  “He is alive enough.” He held his thick fingers under the nose of his partner. Then he shook his head. “You should not have done that, Miss. He will be mad as a wet hen, now.”

  “Then let me go,” Charlotte suggested. She did not want to be here when the slim man woke up.

  “I am sorry,” he replied mournfully, shaking his head. “I cannot do that.”

  “Why? Why—what is your name?”

  “R-rre, uh….” He shook his head again. “I cannot tell you. Would not be a good idea.”

  “Well, what am I to call you?”

  He sighed. Not the most powerful intellect, Charlotte concluded. Still, she felt safer with him than his companion. The smaller man stirred and moaned.

  “Call me Red,” the big man replied at last. “He is going to wake up, soon.” He glanced at her and then down at the unconscious man. “He will be powerful angry.”

  “Undoubtedly.” She reached up and touched the rough coat of Red. “Can you not let me go? I will give you money….”

  “Nay. Cannot do it.” He fumbled around and walked into one of the stalls. He came back with a rope. “What are you going to do with that?”

  “I am sorry.”

  “Will you stop apologizing?” She tried to move away but he caught her easily. He tied her hands together and then slowly and methodically wound the rope around her until she felt like a tightly rolled carpet.

  “You cannot tie me up! You don’t know what your friend will do when he wakes up,” she protested, wriggling futilely.

  “I will be here.”

  “He will kill me,” she said, shivering with icy fear.

  “Not him. You two got off on the wrong foot. He wants to marry you.”

  “Marry me! He is not going to marry me: he is going to kill me. Surely, you must realize this!”

  He paused, but then doggedly continued tying knots until she could not even wriggle a single finger. “He will not be hurting you.”

  When he was done, he picked her up and deposited her on the pile of straw. “Wait here.”

  “I cannot go anywhere,” she said, annoyed when he chuckled. Her temper changed to terror when Red picked up an old grain bucket filled with water and flung the contents over the head of his companion. “Don’t do that!” she called.

  Her plea came too late.

  The smaller man sputtered and rolled over before adjusting the flour sack on his head. When he sat up, he stared over at Charlotte, his eyes flaming with anger through the rough-cut holes.

  Hatred burned in his gaze. She cringed.

  “That was a mistake, Miss,” he said. His deep, slow voice made the words all the more ominous. He slowly got to his feet, wiping the back of his head through the wet sack. He winced when he touched the bleeding area where Charlotte had hit him.

  He pulled a knife out of his pocket and strode forward.

  “Red!” Charlotte called. “Please!”

  Red wavered, but then clamped a hand on his companion’s shoulder. “Sir….”

  The smaller man shook him off. He swung his knife around in a vicious circle that just barely missed Red’s belly. “I am not going to hurt her—very much.”

  When he got to Charlotte, he threaded his fingers through her hair and jerked her head forward. She felt the cold edge of his knife against the back of her neck.

  There was a sharp tug and he released her head. “What?” she gasped. She didn’t feel any new pain….

  He held up a lock of her hair. “Do you think anyone will miss you?” he asked, pushing the knife back into the top of his boot. “You had better hope they will.”

  Charlotte stared back. He kicked her in the hip. She bit her lips against a yelp of pain. Fire shot up her side and down her leg.

  “Sir,” Red said, moving between Charlotte and her tormentor. “There is no need to hurt her.”

  “After what she did to me? Look at her! Damn, she makes my stomach turn: ugly, freckled, bean-pole of a woman. Bedding her would be like taking a ship’s spar to your chest. I don’t know why I thought I could stomach marrying her.” He jerked her head backward, staring down into her face. “But you are valuable, aren’t you?”

  “Come away, sir, she is trussed up as neat as a hen for market.”

  “Let us hope your guardian is more sensible than you, Miss Haywood. Or you may have a very short honeymoon.”

  “I am not going to marry you!”

  He laughed. “Don’t worry. One way or the other, the Haywood fortune will find its way into my pocket.”

  The two men left together, taking the only lantern with them.

  Darkness filled the barn. Charlotte heard the soft patter of rain tapping against the roof. She squirmed and rolled across the floor, her clothing and hair collecting dust and straw. The roof leaked. A cold splatter of rain hit her forehead.

  She rolled over, but she could not wriggle free. The ropes bit into her arms, and her wrists stung with sticky blood. Her hip throbbed when she rolled over the broken churn paddle.

  Despite the pain, she grinned. It was hard to be sorry for hitting him. In fact, she was glad she had hurt him. She wished he had died from it.

  Instead, he was probably going to kill her unless she found a way to escape.

  There was nothing sharp in the barn. Straw, a broken butter churn, an empty bucket, and a lot of dirt.

  She stared about, straining her eyes in the dark. No blades, nothing sharp she could use to cut through her bonds. Lying in the middle of the floor, she puffed and rested her head against the cold ground, exhausted and muscles burning. Every bruise and scrape throbbed.

  There was not even a friendly candle to keep her company.

  A snuffling sound arose from the straw to her left. Rats. Probably mice, too. If she was a heroine in one of the silly fairy stories she read as a child, the animals would come over and bite through the ropes. Given her luck since she arrived in England, she expected them to come over and gnaw off her nose.

  Her only ray of hope was that Mr. Archer would quickly sign away the rest of her fortune.

  She would be penniless but free, and the duke would forget her. That hurt—it hurt a great deal. Too much to think about.

  But without money, she would never get to Egypt, either. No one would accept a poor American woman on an expedition, unless…. She would find a way—she had to.

  She didn’t care two pins about her inheritance. Its only importance was the value it had in allowing her to travel to Egypt.

  If she had to work as a lady’s maid for Belzoni’s wife, assuming he got permits, she would do
it. She would do anything to leave England.

  She was tired of the damp cold. She was sick of being despised, sick of being alone and discounted and tired of being the hazy figure in the background of the family portrait.

  After a while, her thoughts grew muddled as exhaustion overwhelmed her pain. She shook her head to stay awake, listening to the rustling around her.

  Why didn’t the owners of this despicable barn own cats?

  She had to stay awake. She had to so she could scream when the rats scrambled over her in the dark.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Prisoners are to be treated by the constabulary with the humane consideration which their situation and safety will admit of, and no harshness or unnecessary restraint is to be used towards them. — Constable’s Pocket Guide

  A rough hand shook her. Charlotte woke up and immediately regretted it. Her entire body ached.

  “Miss, here, drink this.” A tin cup of water was thrust against her teeth. When she opened her mouth to protest, he tipped a large quantity into her mouth, nearly drowning her.

  “Stop!” she gurgled, spitting out a mouthful and gasping for air. “Please, just untie me.”

  “Cannot.” He held a huge chunk of bread with a wedge of deep orange cheddar cheese against her lips. “Here. Eat. It is good. Had some meself. Thought you might fancy a bite.”

  “Can you not just untie me?”

  “No, sorry.” He pushed the bread and cheese into her mouth.

  She glanced around her while she chewed. The sunshine was streaming through gaps in the walls. The shafts of light sparkled with dust. The barn was even more derelict than she imagined last night. The stall partitions leaned drunkenly, and old bits of rotten wood lay scattered about. The straw in the corner was the freshest item there, including her.

  “I cannot stay here—there are rats! They could have bitten me last night. Do you want that?”