At last he turned from her and left without saying good-night. Vanessa sank her face in her hands and knew she’d never be warm again.
Maggie waved frantically at the blond man beneath their box. “Mr. Henderson!”
Lady Featherstone’s cosmetic-darkened eyebrows climbed to her hairline. “Maggie. A young lady does not wave and shout at a gentleman in the theatre.”
“I’m not a young lady, yet,” Maggie returned. “The governess does not come ‘til tomorrow.”
“Even so.”
Alexandra burst out, her heart hammering hard, “She is right, Maggie. You must sit quietly.”
If Maggie did not shout again, perhaps the blond man would not spot them. Alexandra had no desire to see him face to face, and by Mr. Burchard’s expression, that gentleman did not wish to either. Fervently.
But alas, alas, the bespectacled man turned, glanced about in a bewildered manner, then tilted his head and gazed unerringly through his spectacles at Maggie, who was still waving her arms. The gleam of spectacles also came to rest on Alexandra. After a moment, he raised a gloved hand in acknowledgment.
Mr. Burchard rose hastily. “Forgive me, your lordship, your ladyship, Mrs.—ah. I must be going.”
Lord Featherstone’s brows rose in amazement. “Good heavens, is the building on fire?”
“No, I—ah—”
He was hampered from making a quick and discreet exit by the chairs. Alexandra had given Lady Featherstone the best seat in the box, and Mr. Burchard had been placed between her and Alexandra. So he had to stumble past Alexandra’s chair, Lord Featherstone’s, and Maggie’s.
As he pushed past Alexandra, she looked straight into his eyes. She saw a flicker of anger there, rage so black it had taken a life of its own. It drove the man; the man did not control it.
He did not bother to regulate his gaze, he simply pushed past, and Alexandra stumbled back. Below them, Mr. Henderson’s astonished stare landed on Mr. Burchard.
His jaw dropped, and his face whitened. He gaped for one moment as if gazing upon the dead come back to life, then snapped around. His ringing words could be heard all through the theatre, even over the din. “Bloody hell. O’Malley!”
Lord Featherstone, spluttering “see here,” tried to hold Mr. Burchard back. The man easily threw him aside and sprinted away. The door of the box banged after him and then the bewildered footman outside closed it.
“Well,” Lady Featherstone said, settling herself with a thump. “He is definitely off the list.”
Mr. Henderson waited for them in the lobby below. Or at least Maggie seemed to assume he was. The girl saw him, dropped Alexandra’s hand, and darted through the crowd to greet him. Alexandra, her heart thumping, followed the little girl. The small-statured Irishman she’d observed coming and going from the viscount’s house on occasion had joined them by the time she reached Maggie.
Maggie wrung Mr. Henderson’s hand then turned and threw her arms about the Irishman’s middle. “Mr. O’Malley. Why haven’t you been to the house of late? I long to play dice, and Mr. Jacobs is not as good as you.”
The man returned the hug, a wide grin breaking his leathery face. “Well then, you can always win more money from him, can’t you, lass?”
She shot him a wicked smile, reminiscent of her father’s. “He’s already lost ten guineas to me.”
“There you are, then.”
“Maggie,” Alexandra said sharply. Maggie looked at her, innocently inquiring. Mr. Henderson met Alexandra’s gaze, and his cheeks went scarlet.
Maggie babbled, oblivious. “Mrs. Alastair, these are two of my greatest friends, Mr. O’Malley and Mr. Henderson. We rode on the ship with them from Jamaica. This is my new friend, Mrs. Alastair. Is she not beautiful?”
Mr. O’Malley ran an appreciative gaze over Alexandra. His dark eyes twinkled. “Pleased to meet you, madam, that I am.”
Mr. Henderson stood as one carved in stone. Maggie rattled on, “Did you catch Mr. Burchard? You were running after him, weren’t you? When he saw you, he looked scared enough to piss.”
A few matronly stares swiveled to Maggie. Alexandra’s face went hot.
“No, the bastard got away,” O’Malley said. More matrons gasped. Two raised their lorgnettes. “But we’ll catch him. Maggie, lass, let me take you to your carriage. I’ll ride home with you.”
“There is no need,” Alexandra tried. Lord Featherstone had gone out to call her carriage and Lady Featherstone was chatting to some acquaintance on the other side of the room. What they’d think of this Irishman and his language, not to mention Maggie’s language, she shuddered to think. She would have to have a talk with Grayson—the viscount—on the effect of rough men on his daughter.
Mr. O’Malley looked grave. “There is need. Burchard’s running amok out there, and damned if I’m letting him near Maggie. I’ll get her to your carriage. You stay here and talk to Henderson. He’s dying for a chat.”
Henderson shot him a venomous look. Maggie, unnoticing of the nuances, happily took Mr. O’Malley’s hand. They scooted off into the crowd before Alexandra could even draw a breath.
Which left her alone with Mr. Henderson. She desperately searched the room for Lady Featherstone, but the woman had disappeared into a crowd of fashionable ladies, lost among a sea of headdresses and shawls.
“Mrs. Alastair.”
Mr. Henderson’s voice was so contrite, so worried, that she turned back in spite of herself. The blond man was regarding her with a look of sorrow and embarrassment. Despite the fact that he had torn out of the theatre proper not an hour before to pursue Mr. Burchard, he had every hair in place, his clothes were pristine, and his gloves were unblemished. His suit of impeccable black and white hung on a broad frame and long black pantaloons hugged well-shaped legs. The subdued colors made him look the country vicar, but perhaps one with much family money behind him.
He extended his right hand hesitantly, as if afraid to lift it completely. “Mrs. Alastair, please. Let me beg your pardon most humbly. I had no idea you were—you would be—so great a lady. I had no right to approach you, let alone—” He stopped. “I can only say in my defense that I acted on an order, but it was an order I should have disobeyed. I wish I had. The action was meant to be directed at Finley, but I should have realized that you would be the most hurt of all.” He moistened his lips, his face growing more red. “Forgive me, I do not have much experience apologizing.”
His voice quavered with sincerity. He was completely the country parson now, begging forgiveness for his own sins.
“Mr. Henderson, I am uncertain what to say to you.”
His eyes flickered. “I know I do not deserve what I ask. I will only keep hoping for it.”
She hesitated. He seemed very contrite and dismayed and embarrassed. She could not help feeling a little bit sorry for him. “I must think it through, sir. You frightened me very much.”
Anguish crossed his face. “I know. And for that I most humbly beg your pardon.” He adjusted his spectacles with a shaking finger. “It is all Finley’s fault, you know. If he did not play his cards so close to his chest, we would have known where things stood all along.”
Alexandra frowned. “Why should you need to know where things stand? What things?”
He opened his mouth to answer, then closed it again. “May we adjourn outside? The carriage should arrive soon.” He offered Alexandra his arm, with a sidelong glance reminiscent of a dog who expected to be kicked. Her heart softened a trifle. He did look very penitent, and his words rang with sincerity. He knew he’d been wrong, and knew whoever had told him to do such a bizarre thing had been wrong.
She rested her fingertips carefully on his forearm. With a look of vast relief, he led her toward the doors.
Outside, the June night had turned cool. Carriages bottled up King Street as coachmen tried to force their way in for their mistresses and masters. She craned her head to look for Lord Featherstone, but she did not see him. She could not see her own car
riage either, nor, more disquieting, Maggie and Mr. O’Malley.
Mr. Henderson walked her a little way from the crowd and stopped in a place where Alexandra was less likely to be bumped or crushed. He kept her on his arm, and tugged a white handkerchief from his pocket.
“I would be honored, Mrs. Alastair,” he was saying, “if you would allow me to speak to you again. To see you again. Perhaps for a drive in Hyde Park, or perhaps we could walk in Vauxhall gardens. With your friends, of course,” he added hastily.
This was getting awkward. “Mr. Henderson, you did not begin your acquaintance with me with any measure of trust.”
“I know.” A large black carriage lumbered toward them, and Alexandra took a little step back to protect her skirts from stray splashes of mud. Mr. Henderson went on, “I wish it for friendship’s sake only and to make you know how sorry I am.”
“I understand that, sir.” Alexandra said, struggling to remember all the politenesses Mrs. Fairchild had lectured into her. She supposed Mrs. Fairchild had not anticipated she would have to soothe the feelings of a gentleman who had forced himself upon her in the street. “Rest assured that should I see you by chance at Vauxhall, I shall not refuse to speak to you.”
“I sincerely and truly am sorry. You have no idea.” He lifted his handkerchief and sighed deeply. “And I am also very sorry about this.”
The black carriage stopped next to them. Mr. Henderson brought his hand up and around. Alexandra found her face enveloped in wads of white linen. She tried to take a step back, but suddenly her limbs were weak and would not support her. She had a falling sensation, one that did not stop, and darkness rushed toward her. Dimly she felt an arm around her waist and Mr. Henderson’s voice somewhere above her. “No, do not weep, sister. Everything will be all right. Here is our carriage—”
She woke to a slight rocking motion and warm stuffiness. Her eyes felt sandy, and the pinpoint of light from the single lantern seared straight into her brain.
She wanted nothing more than to drift back into silent, dark sleep, but something nagged at her. She needed to remember something, but she could not for the life of her remember what.
She mumbled, “Maggie.” She tried to stir, tried to search for the girl.
“She is safe,” said a voice. “She is with Ian O’Malley.”
At first she thought the voice was Grayson’s, and her heart melted with relief. But the timbre was wrong, and the face she saw through half-closed eyes wore spectacles.
“Liar,” she said, her tongue feeling thick. “You lied to me.”
“I swear to you. She is with Ian, on her way home. Captain Ardmore wanted her, too, but Ian refused. He will help her.”
The sentences blurred in her head. “You have no honor,” she croaked, her voice failing.
“I know.” Mr. Henderson huddled miserably in the seat. “I am a cad and a coward.”
She opened her eyes all the way, her whirling, foggy thoughts clarifying. Mr. Henderson sat on the opposite seat of the rather sumptuous coach, twining his fingers and regarding her in sorrow.
“I was just convincing myself to trust you,” she said.
He nodded. “I work for a madman. One does not refuse him.”
Alexandra made herself sit upright, ready to tell Mr. Henderson what she thought of him and his madman captain. But a blackness rushed at her and she found herself facedown on the seat. She could only lay in a half-stupor, listening to the coach wheels beneath her and Mr. Henderson’s fretful voice as he continued to apologize.
Chapter Ten
She smelled water. She came awake when the carriage door opened, and black wind poured over her. “Wh’re we?” she mumbled.
“Where we need to go,” Mr. Henderson replied, unhelpfully. He had already descended. He lifted her into his arms and scooped her out of the carriage.
He carried her for quite a long way, his boots ringing first on cobbles, then on hollow planking. His fast-beating heart thumped beneath her cheek, and he smelled of cloying perfume.
After a time, he stopped on the edge of the dock and handed her down to the waiting arms of a man she could not see. She was set on a seat, a blanket tossed over her legs. The boat rocked. A wave slapped wood, and chill, moist air rose around her.
Mr. Henderson clambered down and sat next to her.
“ ‘re we goin’t’ France?”
Mr. Henderson slid his arm about her waist. “Shh.”
The boat silently pushed off. A man in dark clothing took the tiller in the stern, and another manned the oars. They slid through the night. Alexandra sagged against Mr. Henderson, feeling giddy and tired at the same time. The notion that she did not like his suit kept dancing through her head. An odd notion, because the cloth was the softest woven wool, and the cut was perfect. She sighed, wishing it were a midnight-blue coat over a rough linen shirt that Grayson had forgotten to lace up again. She had never known a man’s chest could be so handsome.
Mr. Henderson leaned down, startled. “What did you say?”
“Mmm? Nothing.”
They went on in silence. Waves whispered against the boat. The smell of mud mixed with a sharp, salty tang. The wind blew chill, though not icy. Alexandra shivered in her light shawl, despite the warmth of Mr. Henderson’s arm about her.
Lies. Why did everyone lie? Even Grayson lied, or at least he did not tell all of the truth. Mr. Henderson had certainly lied, and she’d believed him. No, he had not lied about being sorry. She had seen that in his eyes.
Still, here she was in the middle of the Thames near the sea. But no, they could not be near the Channel—they had not traveled far enough, had they? Other boats filled the spaces, lights flickering from lanterns like fireflies on a summer night. She longed for the sweet summer days of her childhood in Kent. Her thoughts surged in that direction, filling her senses with the remembered smells of roses and grass, rain and thunder. White sheep had dotted the emerald fields where she ran, skirts tucked into her sash—don’t tell my mother.
How she came to be here in the dead of night, kidnapped, her aching head stuffed with straw, in a smelly little boat who-knew-where on the Thames, she had no idea. It occurred to her fuzzy thinking that if only she’d remained in Kent, she’d never have been married to Theo and her father and mother would still be alive. For one hungry moment, she wanted to go home with all her heart.
Mr. Henderson leaned to her again. “It will not be long. I promise.”
“Liar,” she murmured.
She noted his frown of discomfort and secretly smiled. She was much too tired and weak to flee, but at least she could rattle him.
She was uncertain how much time had passed when the boat gently bumped the end of a wooden dock. The man at the tiller tied the boat; then up she went again as Mr. Henderson lifted her out. “Can you walk?” he asked.
“No.” Her legs shook, and she could barely feel her feet. She sensed that when her head cleared again, she would be very ill indeed.
He cradled her close to keep her upright. The dock was lonely. No lighted ships hovered near, and she could hear little beyond but the hiss of wind in grass.
A ship did moor there, a massive, square-masted ship that rose large in the darkness. A few running lights hung from bow and stern, but otherwise, all was dark. A gangplank extended like a tongue to them from the deck high above.
Mr. Henderson marched with her up into the ship. No one came forward to greet them or demand their business. The men from the boat had not accompanied them. Other than her and her kidnapper, Alexandra saw no one. If Mr. Henderson wanted to go to France in this ship, she certainly hoped he would not expect her to hoist sails or man the tiller.
She started to giggle. She could not seem to stop. The silly thought of her frantically pulling ropes to raise the huge sails while Mr. Henderson shouted orders struck her very funny. Her laughter rang high into the air to be lost in the wind sighing through the rigging.
Mr. Henderson suddenly set her on her feet. She clung to his a
rm, her other hand pressed across her mouth, trying to stifle her hysteria.
They stood before a door set into the side of the quarterdeck above them. At least, she thought it was called the quarterdeck. She only knew ships from the books in her father’s library. She had never actually been on one.
Mr. Henderson rapped on the door. After a long moment, it scraped open. Beyond it stood a very ugly sailor, short and bulky. Alexandra stared at him in shock; then her strange laughter bubbled up and came bursting out.
Mr. Henderson dragged her past the sailor and into the cabin. She found herself inside a square room, built the width of the quarterdeck above. From the low ceiling’s painted beams hung two iron lanterns. The entire back wall was lined with windows that looked out into darkness. A lantern hanging outside glittered crookedly through the facets of the glass.
The other two walls of the room were lined with cabinets that fitted around twin doors, one in each wall. The wall behind her held more precisely built cabinets. In the middle of the room stood a long table, and behind it, under the windows, a varnished wooden bench ran from wall to wall. At the table, in a low, square chair, like a prince on his throne, sat the gentleman she’d seen depart Grayson’s house the night she’d run to the rescue.
James Ardmore. She had only glimpsed him in the dark that night, the length of pavement from her front door to Grayson’s. Now here he was.
He wore a dark blue coat stretched over shoulders as broad as Grayson’s. He had no shirt; the coat was buttoned over his bare, bronzed torso. His breeches and boots were black and his hair was dark as night. His face was swarthy, his tan rendering his lips and cheeks the same color. From this monotone face blazed his eyes, which were chill green like layers and layers of ancient ice.
Here was the man who had put a rope around Grayson’s neck and left him to die. The man Grayson had told her was one of the most dangerous in the world.
She clapped her hand to her mouth, trying to stifle her giggles. His green gaze scrutinized her, a gaze that probed her, wanting to know everything about her. She should be so very afraid. She leaned on Mr. Henderson and shook with laughter.
The Pirate Next Door Page 8