Stephanie Laurens - B 6 Beyond Seduction

by Stephanie Laurens

  Everyone followed, hurrying. Charles and Penny jogged, keeping the dogs from racing ahead. The wolfhounds tracked with confidence and ease, moving fluidly; it seemed Ben’s trail was, to them at least, obvious.

  The small procession tacked onto a side street, then swung around another corner. The turns continued, but it was apparent that their quarry had struck across the town in one definite direction.

  Gervase felt his chest tighten as that direction became plain. He glanced at Madeline, saw from her set expression and the dawning horror in her eyes that she had worked it out, too.

  As he’d feared, the dogs reached the High Road, ran a little way along, then stopped. And sat. And looked at Charles; even unfamiliar as he was with the beasts, Gervase could interpret their confident and satisfied demeanor.

  They’d followed the trail to the end.

  Charles glanced around, then cocked a brow at Gervase.

  “The London road.” Face impassive, he turned to Madeline. “The man brought Ben here, then he got into—or was put into—a carriage.”

  Madeline met his eyes; her face was nearly as expressionless as his. She nodded, then looked around. Then she turned to those who had followed them through the streets. The group had halted a few feet away, not liking the conclusion of their search any more than Gervase and Madeline.

  Somewhat to Gervase’s surprise, Madeline singled out three of the men. “Harris, Cartwright—Miller. You all live in this area, don’t you?”

  All three nodded, pushing through to the front of the small crowd. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Right—come with me. Ben was taken in broad daylight in the middle of the afternoon. This is one of the busiest parts of town at that hour—someone must have seen something.”

  Gervase joined them; he went with Miller down one side of the street, knocking on doors, speaking to the occupants. The shops along the street had closed for the day; all had their shutters up, but most of the shopkeepers lived above their premises; once they understood what had occurred, all were only too happy to answer their questions.

  They soon found three different people who unequivocally confirmed than Ben had been steered by a man, not a local and not a gentleman, to a waiting carriage, then lifted into it. No one had noticed him struggling, but all agreed he’d been lifted quickly, and might not have had time to react. Then the man had climbed into the carriage, shut the door, and the carriage had rolled off—toward London.

  “Four good horses.” Charles repeated the words of one of the witnesses, an ostler from one of the inns who’d been passing.

  Gervase met his eye, then looked at Madeline. “London. No reason to have four unless they’re traveling that far.”

  Madeline looked into his amber eyes and tried to contain her fear. Whoever had abducted Ben, they were taking him to the capital.

  They hurried back to the Scales & Anchor, mounted up, and took to the London road in the wake of the unknown carriage. There was an outside chance that the barriers outside Falmouth had been put in place in time…they rode furiously, the sun sinking at their backs.

  The last red-gold rays were fading, the sky in the west ablaze, when they came into sight of the improvised blockade, a gate set across the highway manned by soldiers from the Pendennis garrison.

  The lieutenant in charge came up as they drew rein. He recognized both Gervase and Charles, and snapped off a salute, with a nod for Madeline and Penny.

  “No sign?” Gervase asked.

  “No, sir. We halted every carriage and cart and searched them. No boy of any sort has gone through.”

  Gervase looked at Madeline, met her eyes. “We’ll continue on to London.”

  We. There hadn’t been any question, of course, yet Madeline had been relieved not to have had to argue. Being left in Cornwall while Gervase chased the carriage to London was unthinkable; she couldn’t not follow Ben, no matter that it was unlikely they could catch the carriage before it reached town, and that she had no notion of how to proceed once they got there.

  Gervase would have; she clung to that and asked no questions—explanations would only slow them down and she could ask all she wished in the carriage once they were away—and let him organize all that needed organizing.

  He was good at it, and thorough to boot. At his suggestion they rode to the main posting inn just outside Falmouth. By then, evening was drawing in, the long twilight taking hold; it deepened as the innkeeper, recognizing both Gervase and Charles, leapt to carry out Gervase’s orders. Ostlers scurried, readying horses, a coach was selected and made ready, and the inn’s best coachman summoned from his cottage.

  The inn yard was lit by flickering flares by the time all was ready.

  Charles and Penny, who’d declared themselves at Gervase’s and Madeline’s disposal, had agreed to go to Crowhurst Castle, to explain and watch over things there and at the Park. Gervase concisely outlined the mission he’d delegated to Harry—to watch over the beach where the boys had found the brooch.

  “I’ll go to the beach myself, speak with Harry, and ensure the watch is kept up day and night. No telling what this blackguard or his henchmen might do.” Charles met Madeline’s eyes, took her hands in his, pressed reassuringly. “Don’t worry. You two concentrate on getting young Ben back safe and sound—you can leave all here to us.”

  Sober and serious beside him, Penny nodded. She held Madeline’s gaze. “We’ll watch over your other brothers. We’ll be here when you get back.”

  Madeline tried for a smile, but it was a weak effort. Having some other lady step in to watch over Harry and Edmond—she knew without asking that Penny understood; she’d mentioned she’d had a younger brother herself—was a huge relief. With that aspect taken care of, she could indeed focus her entire being on rescuing Ben.

  Gervase turned aside as someone called to him.

  Opening the door of the carriage, a sleek vehicle with four strong horses between the shafts, with the experienced driver who swore he knew every pothole on the London road and just how to manage his leaders to get the best pace now on the box, Charles handed Madeline up.

  Then Gervase was back; with a last word to Penny, then Charles, he climbed into the carriage and sat beside her.

  Charles leaned in through the door. “If you reach London without catching them, call on Dalziel.”

  Grim-faced, Gervase nodded. “I will.”

  Charles saluted, stepped back and shut the door. He called up to the coachman.

  A whip cracked, and they were off.

  Night had fallen, the darkness dense and complete beneath thick clouds before Madeline’s mind cleared enough to appreciate the comfort of the coach, the warmth of the bricks Gervase had placed at her feet, the softness of the traveling rug beside her on the seat.

  They were incidental comforts, but soothed nevertheless. The weather had turned; the night was cool.

  Her blood seemed cold, too—too chilly to warm her.

  Glancing out of the window at the variegated shadows flitting past, she wondered how far they’d come, how far ahead of them the carriage fleeing with Ben was.

  Large and solid beside her, a source of steady warmth—steady reassurance and comfort—Gervase had closed his hand around hers as they’d left the inn yard in Falmouth, and hadn’t once let go. Now he lifted that hand, brushed his lips to her knuckles. As if he could read her mind, he murmured, “We’ll check at the major posting houses. It’ll take a few minutes, but if they halt on the road, we don’t want to overshoot them.”

  She looked at his face, his profile. “Do you think they will stop?” She hadn’t allowed herself to imagine that.

  He sighed. His lips twisted. “No. Whoever he is, he’s not stupid. He knows a hue and cry will be raised and that we’ll search for Ben. What he couldn’t know is that we’d realize so soon that he’s heading for London. He won’t expect us to be so close on his heels.”

  She nodded and looked forward, letting her fingers lightly grip his, letting his hold on her han
d, letting him, anchor her. One part of her mind was simply frantic; she’d never in her life felt this way—so at the mercy of a situation that was far beyond her control.

  So helpless.

  So vulnerable, not over her own well-being, but over the well-being and the life of one who, she knew, had been a surrogate child. Ben was the baby she’d reared; she held him closest of all to her heart.

  If it had been herself at risk, she wouldn’t have felt this clawing panic, this fragility. An attack on her she would have met and weathered without emotional strain; an attack on Ben—on any of her brothers—was different. Such an attack held the power to devastate.

  Gervase settled her hand on his thigh, his long fingers locked around hers. The steel beneath her hand, the sense of protectiveness the simple act conveyed…she noticed, appreciated, gave mute thanks, but could not, at that moment, find words to phrase her gratitude.

  He hadn’t bothered to waste so much as a minute trying to leave her behind; he’d understood, and accepted, and bowed to her right to go with him after Ben. Most men, especially gentlemen, would have argued, and been grumpy when they lost. Instead, he’d done everything possible to ease her way, to support her in her quest…no, their mutual quest. That felt odd in one way, but strangely right. He’d earned the right by his behavior, his understanding, to stand by her side.

  Closing her eyes, she swallowed. Took a moment to savor that truth, one moment to acknowledge it. And what it meant, what it portended.

  Loving him was one thing, accepting him into her life quite another. Had she already let him in, unconsciously, without, until now, being aware of it?

  Regardless, now was not the time for thinking of such things. She breathed in, let the subject sink deeper into her mind, refocusing instead on Ben, and their chase.

  Normally a fast, well-sprung carriage would take two full days of traveling to reach London; even with good horses, the journey meant well over twenty-four hours on the road, even in summer. But most carriages didn’t drive through the night; they, however, were. It was risky, more because of the state of the roads than due to any corporeal threat, but that was why Gervase had insisted on Falmouth’s best coachman, and he’d hired his mate as well, so they could spell each other through the night, and then on through the following day.

  The rhythmic rocking of the carriage, the swift, regular thud of the horses’ hooves, reassured her; they were doing all they could. Gervase’s hand remained locked about hers, his shoulder beside hers, there for her to lean on—something she’d never imagined she would ever do—his hard thigh solid and warm alongside hers. Every touch, every nuance of his presence calmed and steadied her.

  They were on the villain’s heels and traveling as hard and as fast as it was possible to go. All that remained was to wait, to exist in a sort of limbo of heightened but restrained expectation, until the other carriage slowed and they caught it—or, better yet, it stopped.

  The carriage they were chasing didn’t halt for the night. They didn’t, either.

  They got confirmation of its passing at numerous post-houses. They would stop and Gervase would get out to make inquiries; usually within minutes he would be back and they’d be on the road once more.

  The night waned; dawn came and the sun rose, and they continued on at their near breakneck pace. The day wore on; Madeline felt cramped, limbs and muscles protesting the unaccustomed inactivity, but she wasn’t about to quibble, let alone complain.

  Despite their unrelenting pace, Gervase was assiduous in insisting she, and the coachmen, too, got down to stretch their legs at regular intervals, usually while they were changing horses. While the coachmen oversaw the ostlers, he’d escort her into whichever inn they’d stopped at, order something light and quick for them both, sending ale and sandwiches out to the coachmen.

  Breakfast and lunch were taken in that fashion.

  Although the breaks were kept to a minimum, they were another example of Gervase’s protectiveness, an all-but-instinctive habit of ensuring the welfare of those in his care. Even if those people tried to argue, as, on the first occasion, Madeline had. She’d been overruled in a tone one degree away from dictatorial…she’d noted it, but, subsequently, when she’d realized the wisdom behind his actions, she’d inwardly shrugged and the next time complied without caviling. There was, it seemed, a time and place for authoritative men.

  They rattled into Amesbury in midafternoon. The coachman’s mate blew on the yard of tin; when they swung under the arch of the Blue Gun & Pistols, the ostlers were already leading out fresh horses, others waiting ready to unbuckle the harness and lead their current four animals away.

  Madeline got down, but remained in the yard watching the activity while Gervase circulated, questioning the head ostler, then, at his direction, climbing onto the inn’s front porch to speak with an old man in a rocking chair.

  He returned as the final buckles on the harness were being tightened; the coachmen were already on the box, reins in hand.

  His face grim and set, Gervase nodded curtly to them. “On to London.” Gripping Madeline’s arm, he helped her up the steps into the carriage, then followed.

  She waited until they were bowling along again before asking, “What is it? What did you learn?”

  He looked at her for a moment, then said, “Nothing new. It’s just that…” Frowning, he paused, staring, she suspected unseeing, across the carriage.

  She waited. Eventually he went on, “They passed this way a few hours ago. The old man on the porch used to be the head ostler here—his eyesight’s excellent, and he knows carriages and horses. He saw the carriage we’re after go past.”

  Black, relatively new, with a green blaze on the door; they’d got the description from the first posting inn beyond Falmouth.

  “He recognized the carriage’s marking—he said it’s from one of the major London posting inns. But it was the horses that caught his eye. Prime ’uns, he said, hired nags but the best to be had, which explains why we haven’t caught up with them. They’re using the same quality of post-horses we are, which means there’s money behind this. The plan and its execution are the work of someone other than a London flash cove.”

  Madeline studied his face. “You thought some gentleman, some man of our class, was involved—someone who could have seen the brooch at Lady Felgate’s ball, or known someone who had.”

  He sighed and sat back. “Indeed. That’s what’s worrying me. If he—the man behind this—was in Cornwall, where his wrecked cargo also presumably is, and I do think we’re on sound ground assuming only he would have recognized the brooch, then why is he taking Ben to London? Why not question him in Cornwall, and then go straight after the lost cargo?”

  She didn’t even try to think it through. “Why do you think?”

  He drew a long breath, let it out with, “I think he’s leading us away.” He paused, then went on, “I think all this is part of his plan—not just the flight to London but us following as well. That’s the reason he’s spending money so freely to keep his carriage ahead of ours—he intended all along for us to follow. He can’t know we are, but he’s assumed we are.”

  She grimaced. “He’s right.”

  “Indeed. He chose to kidnap Ben—or at least one of your brothers—not solely to learn where they found the brooch, but also because any of them would be the perfect pawn to draw us—you and me—away from the peninsula. He doesn’t know Charles is there in our stead. With us gone, he’ll assume the peninsula itself will be largely rudderless, at least in terms of dealing with the likes of him.”

  Cold fear had welled; it clutched her heart. “What will he do with Ben when he reaches London?”

  Gervase glanced at her, met her eyes. “We’ve been assuming he’s with Ben in the carriage, but on reflection I don’t think he is. He’s too canny, too clever. He’ll have had his henchmen seize Ben. He’s probably already in London, waiting for them to deliver him there.” He paused, imagining it—imagining what he would do
were he in the villain’s shoes.

  “He’ll speak with Ben and ask about the brooch—he may try to disguise his purpose but he will, eventually, ask. The circumstances of that meeting will make it impossible for Ben to identify him later—he’s too clever to take that risk.”

  He drew in a long breath. “And for the same reason, I think, once Ben gives him an answer, that he’ll order his henchmen to release Ben somewhere in London. He knows we’ll be searching, and he has no reason to be party to murder—as long as Ben can’t identify him, he has nothing to fear.”

  Madeline had been following his reasoning; she nodded. “And leaving us quartering London, of all places, trying to locate one ten-year-old boy…that will keep us fixed there for the foreseeable future.”

  “Leaving the peninsula, as far as he knows, open territory, undefended.” Gervase studied her face; the afternoon sunshine lit the hollows and planes, showed the strain of the past twenty-four hours, but he could see nothing in her features or her eyes, when they met his, to suggest she’d followed where his mind had ultimately led.

  Summoning a smile, he raised her hand to his lips, kissed, then lowered his arm and faced forward. “We’re doing all we can to catch that carriage—at the moment, that’s all we can do.”

  He felt reasonably certain the villain would order Ben’s release somewhere in London—most likely in the stews. What he wasn’t anywhere near as confident over was whether the man’s unsavory henchmen would follow his orders to the letter, or instead decide to make what they could off a gentry-bred ten-year-old boy.

  That was the stuff of nightmares, but every bit as bad was the thought of what might transpire should the henchmen obey—and leave Ben wandering the slums of London. With no protector, alone—helpless.

  Evening was closing in when they reached the outskirts of Basingstoke. The nearer they’d drawn to the capital, the more other carriages, carts, mail coaches and drays had thronged the road; their pace had fallen significantly.