One dance. He would allow himself this one dance.
“You are a natural dancer. You are learning the waltz quickly,” she noted.
He did not think it wise to tell her he had learned the dance months ago and had waltzed at his mother’s last ball.
Content to hold her in his arms, inhale her sweet rose scent and gaze into her eyes, Lucien lost track of time. No waltz had ever lasted this long, that much he knew.
But Henrietta seemed in no haste to finish the dance either. Until at once she stopped humming. Her body stiffened. She stood immobile.
“What is it?” he asked, mildly disgruntled that she had ended their waltz.
“I do not know. Something ... riders ... Do you hear?”
His body tensed as he strained to listen.
“What is happening?” she whispered.
Lucien heard what he had never wanted to hear.
“Run!” he commanded, urgently. “You know what to do.”
Eyes round with fright, she simply stared at him.
“Do not delay, Henrietta!”
With a low cry, she whirled away from him and ran toward Mila’s van.
His fears were confirmed. She had been recognized in Buckingham.
It was up to Lucien now. He strode to the public area.
His hands curled into fists at his sides. A knot the size of Piccadilly formed in the pit of his stomach. He clenched his jaw.
A terrible fury stormed within him as he prepared to meet the men who had come to take Lady Henrietta Hadley away.
Chapter Eight
Lucien strode swiftly from behind the closed circle of the vans and into the open, public area where chaos reigned.
Almost the entire tribe of Gypsies, at least two dozen villagers and five men on horseback were all talking at once. Mayhem reined as they shouted at one another. Heated words of indignation and outrage flew through the air creating an uncommon commotion.
Rigid with tension, Lucien marched into the midst of the pandemonium. A night of celebration ruined. He struggled to subdue his anger even as a storm brewed in his blood.
“Is there a problem?” he roared.
The Gypsies immediately quieted. The villagers continued to grumble. While he waited for total silence, he took stock of the men on horseback.
They ranged from young to middle-aged, a tattered and hardened bunch of men. Grim-faced, they scrutinized the crowd, horse pistols at the ready.
Lucien had no doubt this indeed was a search party, counting on the element of surprise to capture their quarry—Henrietta.
The idea of the courageous young woman being hunted down like a defenseless animal served to further fuel Lucien’s anger. Clenching his teeth, he advanced on the hunters.
“I am Lucien Vaslav, King of the Gypsies.”
“Aye. And I am Penn, the Sheriff of Buckingham.” The sheriff had no neck and weighed more than his horse.
Lucien gave a curt nod of his head in recognition. Buckingham, the town where Henrietta had purchased the liquorice.
Penn then gestured with a dirty thumb to the man on his left. “This is Bill Patchett, a Bow Street Runner.”
But not the Bow Street Runner Henrietta and Lucien had previously encountered. This dandy sported a thick dark mustache that grew down the sides of his lips giving him a constant scowl.
“What is your business here?” Lucien asked.
“We are looking for an English lady.”
Lucien made a great show of looking around him. “There are several English ladies here from Buckingham.”
“This lady is from Bath,” the sober faced sheriff barked.
“Why do you look for her? Is she a thief?”
The Bow Street Runner replied. “She’s a runaway.”
Again, Lucien turned and looked into the crowd clustered behind him. “Is there a runaway among us?”
The sheriff’ narrowed his brown button eyes on Lucien. “You think to mock us, Gypsy?”
“Not at all.”
“This gal is a brazen chit who don’t know what’s good for her,” Patchett added.
Lucien nodded. Intent on delaying the search, he turned once more to the crowd behind him. “Are there any ladies from Bath present?”
Silence. Total silence. Even the crickets seemed to have no song.
He turned back to the group of sour-faced men. “I regret we cannot help you.”
“Was your tribe camped on the outskirts of Bath not long ago?” The mustachioed Bow Street Runner asked.
Lucien dared not deny it. “We stopped in Bath weeks ago.”
“About the same time the girl disappeared we’re told.” The sheriff’s narrowed gaze gleamed with disdain.
Lucien shrugged. “A coincidence.”
Undaunted, Bob Patchett continued, “The girl’s guardian believes your tribe has kidnapped her.”
“He is mistaken.”
The sheriff threw back his head and laughed, a humorless, taunting laugh. “You expect us to take the word of a Gypsy?”
“No,” Lucien growled. “Search the camp. But mind our belongings.”
The men dismounted, leading their horses as they followed Lucien to the circle of vans where the fires burned low in front of the tents. After lighting lanterns and torches, the men first tore through the empty tents.
When they’d laid waste the tents and found nothing they next attacked the vans. With fourteen vehicles for the men to search, Lucien could not watch all of the vans, nor all of the men.
He speculated they would search the woods next, near to the camp. If they did not find her tonight, they would return tomorrow to search again when it was light.
Lucien saw the Gypsy performers slip hesitantly into the shadows to watch the search party. The village patrons had been lost for the night, frightened away by the law. There would be no fireworks tonight. The members of the tribe stood silently by as their possessions were searched without regard. Lucien viewed the expressions of contempt and anger in the faces of his people with a heavy heart. The Gypsies’ dark eyes mirrored their misery.
Mila and Jassy stood together. The old woman did not bother disguising her fury. It was clear to Lucien that if she owned a weapon, the law party would be dead.
The tribe would be held accountable if the men found the English girl. Any number of punishments might be doled out. They might be beaten or lose their vans and all they treasured.
What kind of leader was he to subject his people to this? Justice did not apply to the Gypsies and never had. He owed his tribe an explanation.
He should send Henrietta on her way. But banishing her was abhorrent to him, going on without her, unthinkable.
Lucien’s insides tightened like his fists. His heart had become an iron weight hammering against his chest. His teeth scraped together as he stoically watched and waited.
During this long, tense time, he could only rely on Henrietta’s strength and good sense. He could only hope she would control her hiccups.
The Englishmen were not gentle with the Gypsies’ possessions. They ripped, tossed and recklessly threw items aside. They shouted to one another and ridiculed what they found.
The noise of the search was enough to give Henrietta the vapors.
She lay curled in a fetal position in a square box smaller than a coffin. The false bottom box had been built into Mila’s van long ago. Although the old woman had declined to name the reason she had done this, she had made it known to Lucien after Henrietta’s foray into town to buy liquorice had been discovered. Air holes no bigger than pinpricks had been hammered into the top and bottom of the box. Not that Henrietta dared breathe.
She’d found she could prevent the hiccups if she did not breathe. On the other hand, if she did not breathe, she would die.
Listening to the ominous tumult of the search, she thought fleetingly of showing herself, giving up. Perhaps if she explained to the Bow Street Runner that she had forced the Gypsies to take her along, no harm would come to them. If
she returned willingly to the Earl of Oster what reason would they have to punish Lucien or his people? But from the dreadful sounds of the search, she feared the worst.
Her palms were wet with perspiration. Her stomach constricted into a tight, burning ball and her body trembled.
The search moved closer to Mila’s van. Henrietta’s nose itched. Her heart knocked against her chest in a frenzied beat. The wild race of a hare from its determined hunter spun through her mind.
All too clearly, Henrietta heard pots and pans clatter to the ground. They must have been thrown from the tinker’s van, just behind Mila’s.
They were coming closer to her hiding place.
Pressed against the walls of the box, she could not move, could only grimace and bite down on her lip as her toes cramped.
The back doors of Mila’s van squeaked as they were yanked opened. Henrietta took a deep breath.
The worn van rocked with the weight of what could only be a man of substantial proportions as he climbed up into the rear of the conveyance. Henrietta’s heart lodged in her throat. She heard the intruder pushing baskets, throwing blankets, cursing to himself in a low growling tone.
She hiccupped.
Mercury meowed and hissed.
“What the devil! Damn cat!”
Mila’s flat-faced cat had obviously attacked the intruder.
“I’ll teach you to scratch Roy!” he bellowed.
Henrietta quivered. Apparently Roy had underestimated Mercury’s tolerance for an invasion of his territory.
The howling that followed could only mean the ugly black cat had been flung from the wagon. Tears streamed down Henrietta’s cheeks. She had brought trouble to everyone—even the cat.
When she had begged Lucien to join the caravan on its journey north, she had promised to be no trouble. No trouble! Oh, she wanted to sob!
Her ears were ringing. She closed her eyes, listening intently as boxes were opened and pots tossed. At last, she felt the van shake as Roy jumped down.
“Nothing here,” he called.
She waited.
Moments later his heavy footsteps moved away.
Although the sounds became more and more distant, Henrietta dared not relax until the search party had left the camp. Her joints ached, but she lay still, risking only shallow breaths. She waited, waited for someone to come and free her from the claustrophobic casket. Entering the hiding place was effortless, leaving was impossible without help.
It might have been minutes, but it felt like hours passed before the hatch opened and Mila peered in. “ ’Tis all clear, girlie. Ye can come out.”
Henrietta’s bones cracked and her muscles screamed as she crawled out of the box and up into the back of the van. Mila gave her a cup of cool liquid, which she drank in hurried gulps, for once not questioning the contents of the brew.
“I must see Lucien,” Henrietta declared, when she paused for a breath.
“No. He sees no one now,” Mila warned. “We leave in three hours for Birmingham.”
“He proposes to travel in the middle of the night? Is that not dangerous?”
“It would be more dangerous to stay.”
“I regret the trouble I have brought upon you and the tribe, Mila.”
“You cannot change fate, girlie.”
“What do you mean?”
But the old woman did not answer. She turned away and with jangling bracelets began straightening the van. Henrietta could only wonder, and help.
* * * *
During the journey to Birmingham, Henrietta was confined to the rear of Mila’s van and once more found herself dressed as a boy wearing Phillip’s cast-off clothes.
Mercury, who had valiantly stood guard over her during the search, had injured his right paw when tossed from the wagon. Other than insisting he rest in her lap, the blot on the feline world did not seem the worse for his adventure.
Left to her thoughts during much of the trip, Henrietta devised another scheme to reach Liverpool. A plan that would not endanger Lucien or Mila, or any of the members of the Gypsy tribe.
The caravan reached Birmingham in good time. As the wagons rolled through the central part of the city, she peered out over Mila’s shoulder at the brick buildings and took in the hustle and bustle, the combination of stench and the savory smells of fresh baked bread and scones.
The vans passed several inns on the way to a camp site north of the city. They had used the same site with success many times before, according to Mila.
Henrietta took it as a positive sign that Lucien was stopping. She had also been ordered to resume her Gypsy disguise. He must believe them out of danger. She meant to make certain they were.
At dusk the next day, when the Gypsies were busy preparing for the evening’s entertainment, Henrietta tied Mercury inside Mila’s tent with a length of red velvet ribbon.
“I shall miss you, my ill-favored Mercury.” With astonishing sadness, she kissed his furry face. He stared after her as if he knew something was not quite right.
Henrietta drifted away on the pretext of fetching water. Wearing her white muslin gown once again, she layered shawls over her dress. Carrying a bucket, she headed for the small river, the river she knew flowed through town. Numbed with pain, her heart beat more slowly than the steps she took.
Instead of fetching water, she washed the kohl from her eyes, the rouge from her cheeks and buried the scarf she had worn round her hair. She discarded all but one shawl. No longer a Gypsy woman, she left the bucket on the bank and followed the river until it came to the inn she had marked to memory when the caravan passed earlier.
She burst through the doors of the Plum Tree Inn. “Help me! Please, help me!”
The gaunt, white-haired woman who swept the wood floor, looked up in alarm. “What is it, Mum?”
“I have been robbed! I was driving my gig to visit my grandmother and was set upon!”
“Set upon?” the middle-aged woman repeated, her brown eyes as round as a wagon wheel.
“Set upon by highway robbers!” Henrietta cried, warming to her role. “They stole my portmanteau, my cloak and worst of all, my gig!”
“Oh, no.” The crease in the woman’s brow appeared as if it might split her face in two.
“But they did not get this.” Henrietta pulled her red velvet pouch from her bodice and gave the woman a wide, satisfied smile.
“You were fortunate indeed,” the thin-lipped worker said, putting her broom aside. “But are you sure you were set upon by highwaymen? They might have been Gypsies. There are Gypsies in the area you know.”
“No, no. I know Gypsies when I see them. These were cold-blooded thieves—who smelled very badly,” she added for the sake of authenticity.
“Me name is Betty. How can I help you?”
“Oh, Betty, I cannot arrive at my grandmother’s home like this. I must have a bath, rest for the night, acquire a strengthening meal and a new gown and cloak. I shall make such help well worth your while, kind lady.”
The innkeeper smiled, revealing a gap with two teeth missing from the bottom. “My daughter Clarice is about your size. And as the devil would have it, we have rooms to spare,” she muttered. “Come with me.”
Henrietta followed. “My grandmother will take care of the thieves, my grandfather is a constable you know. But if I arrive in disarray the poor old soul will take fright. Her heart is not good.”
“Aye. I have a bad heart me-self. Beats fast instead of slow.”
Within the hour, Henrietta soaked in a tub scented with dried rose petals. The warm water soothed her mind, and cleansed her body. It had been weeks since she’d had anything but a sponge bath and the hot water felt so good, she thought she might steep like tea in a kettle, only for hours instead of mere minutes.
A fresh blue dress and yellow dressing gown hung on wall hooks. The room was small but comfortable, furnished with a poster bed, a wash stand, a ladder-back chair and a window that looked out over the back to the stables and chicken coops
. Owing to the fact the Plum Tree Inn catered to the gentry rather than the aristocracy, Betty did not offer a host of amenities. There was not a lantern in sight. Thick tallow candles provided light.
A gentle rap on the door signaled the arrival other meal.
“Come in,” she called, sinking deeper into the water and closing her eyes.
She heard Betty enter in a rustle of skirts and smelled the savory aroma of mutton pie. And then she heard other steps, booted, purposeful steps.
“Ah, yes this is my wife. She leads me a merry chase, but I have won the game this time.”
It could not be. Henrietta’s eyes shot open. It was indeed.
“Lucien!”
“My darling.” He flashed a slight, sardonic smile before turning to Betty and pressing what appeared to be a pound note into her palm. “Thank you for your trouble. If we should require anything further this evening, I shall ring.”
The innkeeper smiled and curtsied before leaving.
“Your wife!” Henrietta exclaimed.
“It seemed an expedient explanation.”
Henrietta’s heart beat a rapid tattoo, loudly enough for the entire Gypsy camp to hear some three miles away.
How had he found her? And how angry was he? Her stomach did a sickening little somersault.
The Gypsy King was not dressed as a Gypsy. If possible, Lucien was even more handsome in the fashionable attire of the ton. He cut a fine figure, from the tight fawn breeches molded to his muscled body like a second skin, to the striped silk waistcoat and dark burgundy morning coat.
His golden earring had been removed, but Henrietta thought she recognized the glossy black Wellington boots.
He was simply magnificent. No matter what he wore, the lusty essence of Lucien’s masculinity overpowered fabric and style. Gypsy King or English aristocrat, he was a sight to take a woman’s breath away.
Shadows cast by the candlelight flickered against the wall in an ominous fashion. Silence enveloped the room, more menacing than a cacophony of voices raised in argument.
The floor creaked beneath his feet as Lucien ambled to the foot of the tub. The anger he had felt when first he learned of Henrietta’s disappearance had dissolved hours ago into gut-wrenching apprehension. He feared for her. Now, at last, the fear swirling deep within him drained away as he regarded her, at peace in her bath.
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