The Vanishing of Lord Vale

by Chasity Bowlin

  Stepping away from Lady Vale, Elizabeth meant to tell one of the maids to see to it. But the sound of hoofbeats and the clattering of carriage wheels halted her. A feeling of foreboding washed through her and she glanced over her shoulder in the direction of the noise. A wagon pulled by two horses was barreling down on them, heading straight for the crowd.

  At the same time, the maids and other sundry servants seemed to realize it. With shrieks of alarm they scattered like birds, leaving Elizabeth alone there, an easy and well isolated target.

  The heavy figure of a man was leaning from the back of the wagon, arms outstretched as he neared her. Panic had frozen her, but not so much that she did not recognize him. It was one of the men who had attempted to abduct her outside Madame Zula’s.

  “Elizabeth!”

  Benedict’s shout of alarm pulled her from her trance. She stepped back, trying to get out of reach of the villain, but it was too late. His hands snagged in her hair, pulling her off her feet and onto the small bench at the back of the vehicle with him.

  She struggled, fighting him for all that she was worth. Her nails raked his cheek, leaving bloody tracks in their wake. He cursed under his breath as he tried to subdue her.

  Without warning, another man rose from within the small cart and reached for her. He grasped her roughly, pulling her completely into the foul smelling confines of the small vehicle. She could hear Lady Vale screaming even over the sound of the horses’ hooves clattering over the cobbled street. Landing with a heavy thud on the coarse wooden floor, she felt splinters puncture her palms and the rough jolt of the wheels beneath her.

  The man who had grabbed her was large and beefy, but not the same man as before. That man had frightened her simply because she felt his gaze upon her, because he had watched her until she became aware of his presence. This man frightened her for very different reasons. Even in the dim light, she could see the speculation glittering in his gaze as it raked over her. Even in her night rail and heavy wrapper, she might as well have been naked for all the good it did. She felt exposed and violated by him when he had yet to even touch her.

  The other man, the one who had been in charge the night they tried to take her from outside Madame Zula’s, was climbing over the gate of the wagon, but he hadn’t missed his cohort’s hungry expression. “She’s not for the likes of you. We’ll turn her over unharmed, collect our payment and then you can hire every whore in Bath if you want.”

  “I don’t want no whore, now do I? I likes ’em fresh.”

  The leader opened his mouth to speak, but a loud crack rent the night air. The sound of gunfire echoed through what were normally peaceful streets. The man let out a pained gasp as he clutched at the side of the wagon. The light color of his shirt grew dark with a spreading stain, his left arm hanging limp at his side. She could see the panic in his gaze as he lost his grip and tumbled to the street below.

  Elizabeth struggled to sit up, to reach the edge of the wagon. She’d rather take her chances of being trampled beneath the wheels than with the disgusting man who eyed her so boldly. Within seconds, he’d grabbed her and hauled her back, holding her tight against him. She could smell gin and sweat, the foulness of his breath and the stench of a body too-long unwashed.

  “I can’t take you the way I want… but nothing to say I can’t have a little feel, now is there?” he asked, as his hand cupped her breast roughly.

  She slapped at him, pushing at his arms in a vain attempt to free herself. It was his laughter that made her stop. She realized immediately that he enjoyed her struggles.

  “Every stolen touch will cost you… I will tell whoever it is that has asked for me that you violated their orders and took liberties. These are ruthless men, are they not? Men who are not above killing any who go against their wishes?”

  He grumbled against her ear and shoved her away from him. She landed in the opposite corner of the wagon, her head connecting painfully with the wooden side.

  “Go on then. Tell ’em, what you like. You’ll be spreading your thighs for someone ’fore the night is through. We’ll see how high and might you are then!”

  *

  Benedict raced after the wagon. In spite of his aching chest and the smoke that had left him gasping for breath, he pushed on. But he was only a man. With every passing second, the back of that wagon grew smaller and smaller until it eventually disappeared from his sight entirely.

  Stopping, dropping his hands onto his knees and gasping for breath, he coughed as he tried to inhale great quantities of air. His lungs had seized entirely, whether from panic or exertion he could not say.

  Turning back, the crushing weight of disappointment, of fear and failure, pressed in on him as he moved toward the servants that were once more gathered around Lady Vale. By the time he reached them, they were no longer shocked into silence, but were whispering so loudly it was like a swarm of bees about him.

  A carriage had stopped down the street. It had been traveling in the opposite direction from the wagon that had taken Elizabeth, coming into town instead of leaving it. With no room to turn the vehicle, pursuit was not an option. The door opened and a man emerged. Tall, well dressed, his dark brown hair sprinkled with enough gray that even in the dim light of the moon it was visible, he strode purposefully toward them.

  “What the devil is happening here?”

  “A fire,” Lady Vale said. “I very much fear that it was set as a lure in order to get us outside and put poor Miss Masters once more in harm’s way! Oh, Branson! We must save her!”

  Branson, a name Benedict didn’t know but that still felt strangely familiar to him, appeared to be well known to Lady Vale. He reached out as if to touch her, then abruptly drew back, hands at his side, bearing as erect as any military man could hope for.

  “You wanted rid of her, didn’t you?”

  Lady Vale looked up at him, her shock and utter appall written clearly upon her face. “Not this way! I resented having a keeper, Branson, but I would never wish for that kind of evil and misery to be visited upon anyone! She’s only a girl… she’s barely older than I was when I was forced to marry your worthless brother!”

  It all clicked into place for him then. Branson Middlethorp, Esquire. He was Lady Vale’s brother-in-law and Elizabeth’s employer. She’d been naught but a bone between two fighting dogs, he thought. Both Lady Vale and Middlethorp saw her as only a servant, something expendable.

  “Sir, if I may have the use of your carriage, I will travel in pursuit of them. It shouldn’t take long with such a fine team to overtake a simple wagon,” he said.

  “You’re the hero,” Middlethorp surmised. “The dashing young buck who rushed in to save her before… well, you can’t. The team is worn out from the journey from London. We will go after her, but we’ll need fresh horses to do it. In the meantime, we’re going to interrogate that fellow I just shot and see what we can get out of him.”

  Middlethorp gestured to two footmen who were standing on the steps, dazed and clearly frightened by what had unfolded. “You there, get him up, get him in the house… and send someone for a doctor. I won’t have him dying on us before he tells us what we need to know!”

  Lady Vale moved closer to Benedict. “Oh, my dear, I know this must be very difficult for you. You’ve grown very close to Miss Masters during your stay with us.”

  “I have. And when I leave here, I intend to ask her to accompany me… I will not lose her. Whatever the cost, I will get both Elizabeth and my sister back,” he vowed.

  Lady Vale blinked at that. “But you are most likely Lord Vale, Benedict. You cannot think to marry so low when you are the presumed heir to a viscountcy!”

  “I’m not an heir to anything yet. Nothing has been proven. And if it means I can’t live my life of my own choosing instead of being bound by archaic class rules, then I’ve no wish to be Viscount anything,” he answered hotly as the two footmen moved past him with the unconscious man carried between them. He turned on his heel to follow them.r />
  He was done with Lady Vale’s games, with her bargains and ultimatums. While he was appreciative of her help, it had only allowed him to determine that Mary had lied to him and that she’d been just as obsessed with this foolish theory surrounding his origins as Lady Vale herself was. He was done with the lot of it. Miss Masters and Mary would be rescued and they would both return to London with him, one more willingly than the other, perhaps, but he was not taking no for an answer.

  Branson watched the young man walk away, disappearing into the house. The resemblance, even in the dim light, had been uncanny. For once, he found himself questioning whether or not his own accepted version of events, that Benedict, Viscount Vale, was dead, was, in fact, accurate.

  To Lady Vale, he said, “Well, Sarah, whether that boy is your blood or not, he certainly matches you in temperament!”

  “This is not a time for jests, Branson! That boy, as you called him, is most likely my missing son, and the woman you hired to keep me from finding him may very well succeed in taking him away from me after all!”

  “Not if you stop impeding what is very clearly a love match,” Brandon said. “If he is your son, would you really be so blinded by the rules of society that you would force him to marry without love as you once did?”

  She gasped, almost as if he’d struck her and stepped back. “It is not at all the same! James was cruel and vicious. I would never ask him to marry someone who would be so wicked!”

  “No, but you would ask him to give up any chance at happiness and break his heart along with hers in the process. Do not repeat past mistakes, my dear,” he warned softly. “Now, let us go upstairs and see what information we can glean from this worthless individual who is bleeding all over the good linens, shall we?”

  He didn’t wait to see if she followed, but swept into the house ahead of her. Sarah had been the love of his life. He’d watched her with envy and longing as she’d wed his elder brother. He’d watched her with pity and righteous indignation as she’d endured James’ cruelty. He’d watched her nearly drive herself mad with the need to find her son when all evidence pointed to his no longer being amongst the living. But he would not watch her turn into the thing he most despised… a society matron like her own mother had been—a woman who would rob even her own child of happiness in order to meet the expectations of others.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Benedict was standing at the foot of a bed in one of the guest rooms, looking down at an unconscious man and wanting nothing more than to plant his fist in the man’s face. But that would not hasten his wakefulness and would not allow him to find Elizabeth. Instead, he clenched his fists at his sides and waited.

  Someone fell in to place beside him and a glass of brandy appeared before him. It was Middlethorp, of course.

  “Thank you, sir,” Benedict managed. It was gruff, but nonetheless sincere. The spirits would hopefully calm the rage that bubbled inside him.

  “We have not been introduced,” the man said softly as if they were meeting at a social gathering rather than over the sickbed of a villain. “I am Branson Middlethorp… brother to the late Lord Vale and trustee of his estate.”

  Damn. It was another complication in an already convoluted mess. “I am Benedict Mason, Mr. Middlethorp.”

  “I know,” Middlethorp answered. “The question remains, are you Lord Vale returned to us?”

  “That is not a question for me,” Benedict replied, stepping away from him and around the bed. He cocked his head, examining the man who lay there and appeared strangely familiar to him. He’d had the same thought when he’d seen him outside Madame Zula’s on that first night. To Middlethorp, he continued, “I cannot tell you where I was born or who I was born to, but I strongly doubt it was Lord and Lady Vale.”

  Middlethorp eyed him speculatively. “You do not think you are Sarah’s long lost son?”

  There was something in the way that Middlethorp said her name that alerted Benedict. The man had feelings for her, deep feelings. “I do not believe so, no. I find it quite unlikely that a sort such as me could ever have been descended from noble blood.”

  Middlethorp made a noncommittal sound. “What sort is that?”

  Benedict shrugged. “Low. Cagey. Lacking in honor… according to those that claim such a trait as their right. Little more than a thief some might say, but only if they lost heavily in my establishment.”

  Middlethorp snorted. “My brother would hardly have been considered noble. He was a bounder through and through. If you were his son, I’d say you did better for lack of his influence… not to mention a man who chases a carriage beyond the length of the Circus in an attempt to rescue a woman who can best be described as plain—”

  “She is not plain,” he protested. “It is perfectly reasonable for any attractive woman to take any necessary steps to make her appear less so while in service. Sometimes, it is their only defense against unscrupulous men!”

  Middlethorp smiled. “I stand corrected. Miss Masters is not plain then, but a master of disguise. But about your upbringing, Mr. Mason, how old were you when you were adopted?”

  “I can’t say… old enough to know my name was Benedict and insist on being called that. I never liked Benny or any other nickname. Beyond that, I can’t say.”

  Middlethorp’s face paled a bit. As he raised his glass to his lips, it trembled slightly. “And with every word from your naysaying lips, you damn yourself more… I begin to think you are Lord Vale, regardless of what your desires may be.”

  Benedict had no response to that. “We need to question the kidnapper and find out precisely what he knows. They have Mary and now Elizabeth. There’s no more time for chatter.”

  Middlethorp nodded and then unceremoniously tossed the remaining contents of his glass into the face of the unconscious man. He came up sputtering. To Benedict, Middlethorp said, “I shall assist you, if you don’t mind? I’m less than pleased with a man attempting to burn down a house occupied by those I—who are under my protection.”

  “How did you know that would wake him up?” Benedict asked.

  Middlethorp shrugged. “He’s been awake for the last two minutes… playing possum as I’ve heard it called by some of the Americans I met during my time in the colonies. I could tell by his breathing.”

  Benedict had questions. He also had things that required saying that made him infinitely uncomfortable, but it was best to get them over with. “Thank you… for taking that shot. She’s got a better chance against two than three, though the odds still aren’t in her favor.”

  Middlethorp nodded, but his eyes never left the man who lay on the bed, clutching his wounded arm and watching them in return. “Calvert wrote to me that my dear sister-in-law had brought another imposter into the home… that is why Miss Masters was here after all, to keep her from giving away the entire estate to whatever young man looks enough like her lost boy to sway her too-soft heart.”

  “So Miss Masters will be sacked for failing in her duties, then,” he surmised, “assuming that she can be found? At least that will help me sway her into joining me in London.”

  “No. You are not claiming to be Lord Vale. I cannot fault you for what Sarah believes. And given that you saved Miss Masters, I could hardly expect her to leave you bleeding in the street,” Middlethorp replied reasonably. “At this juncture, I’m here to simply oversee this situation and ensure that everyone comes out of it as they should. However, if your intent is to marry the girl and not simply set her up as your mistress until you’ve grown tired of her, I’m not opposed to a few lies to ease the path of true love. If your intentions are not honorable, then I vow it will not go well for you.”

  The threat in his words was pointed and menacing, more in his tone than in what he said. Whoever Branson Middlethorp was, Benedict acknowledged, in that moment, that he was a dangerous man. “My intentions are as honorable as Miss Masters will allow them to be,” he answered cryptically.

  Middlethorp digested that response slowly
before grinning. “You are cagey, after all. On to this fellow… there’s a doctor on his way here now. He will dig that pistol ball out of your shoulder, but only on my orders. Also on my orders is the administration of laudanum before that task is undertaken. It can be as painful as you make it or as painless as you allow it to be.”

  “I’ve got nothing to say to you. Best to let this pistol ball kill me than to give up the one I work for,” the man said.

  “Your name, sir,” Middlethorp continued, unfazed by the man’s resistance. “I can do worse things to you than withhold medication for your pain. And whatever you fear from your employer, he is not here now. But I am.”

  Before Benedict could question what it was that Middlethorp meant to do, he rounded the bed, grasped the man’s wounded arm and dug his thumb into the rent flesh where the ball had entered. The man howled in pain, flailing about and trying to dislodge the man who, only on the surface, appeared to be a gentleman. To say that he was surprised at the casual brutality of one he had deemed upon first meeting to be above such things was to put it mildly.

  “Fenton! Fenton Hardwick!” The injured man finally squalled out the answer. In response, Mr. Middlethorp let him go abruptly and Hardwick fell back onto the bed, gasping and pale.

  “Why were you looking for Miss Masters?” Benedict countered quickly, thinking it best to pounce on the man while he was still reeling from pain and likely to be more cooperative.

  They were interrupted by the arrival of Lady Vale. She stepped into the room, her eyes lit upon the bed and a soft cry escaped her. Had Benedict not been watching the man on the bed he would have missed his response. Hardwick’s eyes widened momentarily and then a look, fleeting as it was, that could only be described as regret crossed his features.

  Middlethorp was assisting Lady Vale to her feet, but once she recovered them, she shrugged his hands away and dove toward the bed. She grasped the man by the grungy lapels of his coat. “Where did you take him that night? Where did you take my son? Tell me!”