The runner and Cheery both laughed at this.
“There is not a woman alive who wouldn’t be aware of her competition,” Cheery murmured.
Nathaniel glared at him. If this was his notion of assistance, Nathaniel would do better without him. His temper rose. “She did not have anything to do with these events, I can assure you.”
“I am certain that is true enough,” the runner said, still smiling. “Well, I will conclude my questioning for tonight. You indicated you are sending the poor lady to her family?”
“Yes. As soon as the coroner permits it.”
Clark nodded. “I will visit her family on the morrow then, which it already is.” He glanced at his pocket watch and grimaced. “Thank you for your time, Your Grace. You will be here if I need to speak with you again?”
“Certainly. That is, I will be at my town home.” Nathaniel eyed the portmanteau with his clothing, but the runner picked it up, obviously intending to keep it.
“If you gentleman don’t mind?” he asked, fist firmly around the bag’s handle. “I will return the bag to you, once we conclude the case.”
Nathaniel nodded. What else could he do?
Chapter Twenty
(Abduction.) The taking away or detaining against her will—with intent to marry or carnally know—of any woman who has any interest in any property, or the taking away—with intent, &c.—against will of parents or guardians of any such woman… — Constable’s Pocket Guide
When Red returned to the attic an hour later, he was not alone. A small, energetic brunette led the way, carrying with a wooden tray. A linen cloth covered the contents. The girl wore the dark costume and apron of an upstairs maid, with a lacy, beribboned cap set at a saucy angle on her glossy curls.
“Here, Miss, I hope this’ll suit you,” she said, laying the tray on a rickety table and removing the cloth with a flourish.
A small, chipped pot of tea, along with a china cup, and a plate overflowing with food rested on a cotton-lace doily. The lacework was gray with age and needed mending. The platter contained an entire loaf of crusty bread, an eighth of a wheel of deep orange cheddar cheese, and a bowl of spiced, preserved apples.
Charlotte’s mouth watered, however she resolutely ignored the tray to study Red. He stood uneasily by the door, his eyes locked on the maid as if he were afraid she would simply disappear in a puff of smoke. The love and desperation were so plain on his face that Charlotte nearly winced.
She glanced at the maid, taking in the large, dark eyes and wreath of thick, deep brown ringlets. The chit seemed entirely unaware of the giant’s interest in her.
Charlotte felt her heart go out to him. She knew only too well what it felt like to want something you couldn’t have. She wanted a lot of things that were out of her grasp. She wanted her aunt to be alive. She wanted to go back to America or forward to Egypt. She wanted to be anywhere but here in England where she didn’t belong, and most of all, she wanted people to accept her. She was tired of seeing contempt in their eyes simply because she longed to discover more about the world around her than just how many ribbons she could attach to the crown of a bonnet.
She thought about Nathaniel’s laughing blue eyes, sparkling with wit and intelligence, and her heart ached.
If only he would have understood her and looked at her with admiration. Then she lowered her expectations a notch. Or accepted her. Even acceptance would do. Why dream for more than she could reasonably expect?
Still, as she watched Red looking at the maid, her heart ached for him. His feelings seemed to mirror her own so exactly.
“That looks lovely,” she assured the maid.
The girl curtsied and smiled broadly. “I am Rose, miss. I will be taking care of ye during your visit.”
Charlotte nodded. There was a clatter on the stairs behind Red. It sounded like the scrabble of a dog’s toenails on the bare wooden treads of the stairs.
Red glanced over his shoulder, but seemed unconcerned. His eyes followed Rose. When she turned to leave, he stayed in the doorway so she had to pass close to him on her way out. He stared down at her, his hunger blatant on his square, battered face.
“Red, stay a moment, please?” Charlotte asked, after Rose left.
He dragged his eyes away from the shadows outside the door and shuffled a little further into the room. His movements were sluggish and his jacket seemed to be straining more than usual across his heavy shoulders. As he moved further into the attic, Charlotte noticed a furry white object hanging from the back of his jacket.
“Red, what have you got on your back?”
“My back?” he echoed.
Charlotte made him turn around. A scruffy white dog hung by its teeth from Red’s hem.
“You have a dog!” she said. She tickled the dog around the ears and neck until it let loose. The dog landed with a clatter on the bare wooden floor. The animal pranced for a few minutes, sniffling excitedly at Charlotte’s hands and skirts.
“Jo—” Red said before he clamped his mouth shut. “What are you doing up here?” He awkwardly petted the dog’s head as if afraid he would hurt it.
“What is its name?” Red shrugged, looking cagey and embarrassed. “You called it Jo, earlier. Is that its name?”
He started to shake his head and then mumbled something unintelligible.
“Well, never mind,” she said bending down to pet it.
The dog licked her hands and rolled over on its back, waving its feet in the air. Three feet. One of the front legs was missing. Now that she studied the animal, she realized that it also had lost the use of one eye and part of an ear.
“You poor thing,” she murmured before standing up and dusting off her skirts. She turned back toward Red. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” he replied mournfully, staring down at his feet.
“Are things not going well? Have they refused my ransom?”
“No—t’ain’t that. Or, leastways, I don’t know if it is.”
“Well, then, is it…Rose?”
His blue eyes flew to her face. A dark, winered flush washed over his cheeks. “Why do you be asking that?” Suspicion lowered his voice.
Charlotte shrugged as if unconcerned and poured herself a cup of tea. “She is very pretty, is she not?”
“Yes,” he replied with a sigh.
“But she is not interested in you?”
“And why would she be? What would a stable boy have to offer the likes of her?”
So he was a stable boy. Interesting. “I am sure that does not matter a whit to her.”
He snorted derisively. “She has got ambitions, that one does. She don’t want no bloke as cannot even read.” He stopped in embarrassment.
“A lot of people cannot read,” Charlotte assured him.
“Mayhap. But Rose will not fix her interest on a lout with no prospects.” He shook his head. “She says I lack ambition, and that is why I cannot read. If I just had enough money, I would prove I have got plenty o’ ambition.”
No wonder he was desperate enough to resort to kidnapping an heiress. He was trying to collect the resources to marry his Rose.
“Would it help if you could read?”
He shrugged and bent down to pet the dog. “It’ud help if I was a lord, too, but that is just as likely.”
“Why don’t I teach you?”
His blue eyes stared up at her, perfectly round with surprise. “You would teach me?”
“Well,” Charlotte replied. “I have nothing else to do, and it is very boring here with nothing to occupy my time. At least it would give me something to do.”
“There mayn’t be enough time—”
“Nonsense. Who knows how long it will take the Archers to meet the ransom? You did say you are asking for ransom, did you not? You have not let him convince you he should marry me, have you?”
“No. He don’t want to marry you no more.”
Charlotte stared back at him. Even a penniless kidnapper couldn’t stomach bedding
her. “That is excellent,” she replied, raising her chin. “Excellent.”
Red gnawed a knuckle. “He would, you know. But he cannot stand yer carroty hair.”
“Thank you,” she replied, sarcasm creeping into her voice. Carroty hair. What a lovely description. And Nathaniel probably thought of her in precisely the same terms.
Red looked horrified. “Not that I mind yer color, Miss. You are like m’younger sister!”
“How kind of you,” Charlotte said dryly. “And you prefer brunettes, don’t you? Well, never mind. It is good, really, is it not? I don’t want to marry him, so this is all for the best. Now,” she said briskly, smoothing her skirts. “There are some items I must insist on having.”
Red shook his shaggy head, “Lor’, Miss. I be too long here already.”
“That is too bad, is it not? Would you like it if I started screaming?”
“You would not do that,” he stated firmly. “Would you?”
“I most certainly would.”
“No one would hear you.”
“Then there is no harm in me trying, is there?” She opened her mouth as if to yell, only to have Red look so ill she snapped it shut again.
“Miss, really,” he expostulated. “There is no call for that.” He cast his eyes down to his worn boots. “What do you be needing?”
“A change of clothing, for one thing, and some water to wash these in. And some books. I must have something to read. I have got to have something to do. A pack of cards, perhaps? And bring a slate with you, if you wish me to teach you to read. How often can you come?”
“Not that often.” He rubbed his chin. “Mayhap in the evening. I will send Rose with what you need come morning, ‘though I’ve no doubt you will not like the clothes—”
“They will be fine, I am sure.” She scratched her reddened shoulder. The pale green ball gown she wore was fine for a few hours, however after two days the tight shoulders were starting to annoy her. Even a set of Red’s old ragged breeches would be better. At least she might be able to breathe when she tried to sleep. “Oh, and one more thing, could you let me have a newspaper?”
He scratched his head and frowned in concentration. “That be a mite difficult—”
“Oh, please? I will go utterly mad without it. Please?”
“I will try.”
Left alone, Charlotte paced from one end of the attic room to the other. The room was long and narrow. She couldn’t tell if it was the entire attic floor of a long and narrow house, or just part of an attic of a quite large house. There were a few small, grimy windows along one side. They were only about a foot square and much too tiny to climb out of even if she wanted to.
Looking out of one only showed a small, enclosed kitchen garden surrounded by what appeared to be stables on one side and a dove cote near the rear with tall brick walls enclosing it all. A small well stood in the center surrounded by a ring of lavender.
The roof projected outward and the rest of the view was blocked by other brick buildings. She had no idea where she was. She could see nothing to assist her in determining her location, although she suspected she was still in London. Their ride here had not been that long, after all, despite how it felt.
The door was solid oak and she had seen Red holding a stout wooden bar when he closed it. She could not get out that way.
She just had to keep her wits about her and not give up hope. Escape might still be possible. With luck, perhaps she could get away before her kidnappers managed to drain all the capital out of her father’s estate. Being penniless didn’t bear consideration. She would never get to Egypt without money.
The next morning, Rose reappeared with another laden tray and an old flour sack slung over a shoulder.
“Oh, Miss, if you could just take this tray,” she gasped, out of breath.
Charlotte stepped forward as if to grasp the tray, thinking to run out while the maid was still juggling the food and the bag. Unfortunately, Red appeared in the doorway behind her. Escape cut off, she smiled at Rose and took the tray, setting it on the wobbly table.
“I have brung you some pear preserves—we opened them fresh this morning, Miss. And cook had some lovely buns, along with the sausage and cheese.”
More cheese. Charlotte liked cheddar, but if she was going to have it every day, her imprisonment was going to get very tedious. She longed for an egg or two and some lovely, rare roast beef with roasted potatoes and carrots: anything other than orange cheese.
“This is lovely,” Charlotte said, picking up the tea towel covering the tray. There was a small, thick white bowl of butter next to several still-warm buns. A diminutive jar contained the pear preserves and the pot of tea still felt warm to the touch. “I don’t suppose you could bring me some eggs?” she asked.
“I will see what I can do,” Rose replied. She gestured toward Red, still standing in the doorway, shifting from foot to foot as if horribly uncomfortable. “Now, this rogue said you wanted a change, so I have brung up a few things. I hope they are all right. The big lummox here will be back later with a bucket of water.”
The big lummox, Red, blushed and gazed at his feet unhappily while Rose chattered. His large ears turned a deep purple as she ignored him. She pulled several garments out of the bag, including a stout linen gown and Spencer in drab tan.
“Here is a cake of soap,” she said as she continued pulling items out of the sack. She scattered them over the narrow cot. “I have brung yesterday’s news—there is an article about you, too—ever so nice!”
“Lovely,” Charlotte murmured, picking up the wrinkled pages of The Morning Post. There was a bold title exclaiming “American Heiress Missing under Peculiar Circumstances!” At least it didn’t say, “Peculiar American Heiress Missing” which would have been infinitely worse.
“Here is a bible, as well as a novel you will like.” She pulled a few more articles out of the bag. “That is it, then! Have you everything you need, Miss?”
Everything except freedom.
“Yes, I expect so. Thank you, Rose.”
She curtseyed and turned, pushing Red out of the way as she skimmed through the doorway. Feeling sorry for him, Charlotte watched him gaze hopelessly after the maid.
After he shut the door, Charlotte picked up the novel and grimaced. The book was entitled Idiot Heiress, published in 1805 by some author who elected to remain anonymous.
She couldn’t help but feel a little chagrined that Rose had picked this particular volume, although the smiling girl probably had not even bothered to look at the title when she snatched it to add to the flour sack for Charlotte. Goodness knows where she got it from anyway. The midden heap, most likely.
Charlotte’s wayward mind continued to speculate about where she was imprisoned. Unfortunately, the only place that came to mind was the attic of the nasty little man who had engineered this plot. She really didn’t want to dwell on the implications.
He could just waltz up the stairs at any time and accost her. She shivered and pushed the thought away, leafing through the newspaper.
Under the glaring title “American Heiress Missing under Peculiar Circumstances!” there was a smaller sub-title that read, “Third victim of the Deadly Duke.”
The Deadly Duke? She frowned and read the article with increasing trepidation.
It appears that a certain Duke, desperate to escape the clutches of three of our bolder debutantes has chosen to eliminate them rather than rebuff them in a more gentlemanly fashion. The body of Lady Anne Franklin was found in the garden of the Earl of Sheffield’s town home in London not three weeks since. She had been foully murdered by a blow from a marble cherub, and her poor remains were discovered near an ornamental pergola during a ball given in honor of the Earl’s daughter, Lady Beatrice (see Society Happenings, page 6).
Heinous though this crime was, it appears that the blood of one beauteous damsel wasn’t sufficient to sate this evil monster’s desire to be wholly rid of the members of the fairer sex pursuing him. Two
nights ago, Miss Suzanne
Mooreland, a fair lady of barely twenty years of age, was found brutally shorn of life in the coach of said duke, after a soirée hosted by the duke’s brother-in-law. It is reported that this young lady had her throat cut by a hoof knife, left on the floor of the carriage.
“Miss Mooreland—dead?” The newspaper crumpled as her hands tightened convulsively. She liked Miss Mooreland. It couldn’t be true that she was dead: Charlotte had just spoken to her. Miss Mooreland had generously helped the duke by writing that note….
Had Miss Mooreland’s death been the result of the note? Horrified, Charlotte struggled to breathe in the suddenly airless atmosphere of the hot, dry attic. She prayed Miss Mooreland had not suffered—had not known what was happening to her—and Charlotte tried unsuccessfully to convince herself that she had not caused Miss Mooreland’s death by influencing her to write the note.
Desperate for details, she read the rest of the article.
Tragically, a third young lady, a rich American Heiress under the guardianship of the duke’s uncle, is now missing and presumed dead. She will be the third young lady to meet her demise at the hands of this diabolical madman when her mortal remains are uncovered. No trace has yet been found of this unfortunate young lady, but it is presumed she will be soon discovered, and the manner of her tragic end will be revealed in these very pages.
“What slanderous nonsense!” Charlotte exclaimed, throwing the paper down on the floor next to her chair. She stood up and strode restlessly across the floor. “I have not been murdered! Oh, this is terrible—this is a nightmare!”
However, she knew Lady Anne had been found with her head quite concave in Lady Beatrice’s garden. Charlotte had discounted the sly innuendos about Nathaniel as errant nonsense. Anyone could see he was a kind man. Thoughtful. She got up and paced the room. Surely, Nathaniel….
No, he couldn’t.
Could he? He had such smiling eyes, and he was so charming. But he was desperate, too. He was a man who had been pushed too far: a misogynist.
She also remembered the ball only too well and how they had first met on the flagstone terrace. Nathaniel had been coming back from the garden, not out from the ballroom. However, he did not have blood on him as surely he must if he were guilty.
Love Regency Style Page 162