Jake leaned back against the settee cushion and closed his eyes. He had removed his boot before elevating his leg and now sported an ankle the size of a Goliath-sized yam. Drew shook his head. He’d never met a less graceful chap.
He turned to Mr. Hillary. “Someone has to know something. Bring them in again. Someone is hiding something. How could the kidnappers get her out of the house without anyone noticing?”
“Everyone was engaged in preparing for the wedding feast,” Jake said. “Given the time of day, none of the chambermaids were cleaning the rooms. It’s difficult to believe, but not impossible.”
“Does no one know of Betsy’s past? How did she come to be here, Mr. Hillary?”
Lana’s father rolled his neck and blew out a long breath. “She answered the advertisement in The Times, and she arrived with a first-rate letter of recommendation from—Wait. Can that be accurate?” Mr. Hillary strode around his desk, tugged open a drawer, and rifled through papers until he found what he sought. “Yes, here it is. Lady Dohve vouched for her.”
He passed Drew a piece of parchment marked with the elaborate looping letters often favored by females.
“Bollrud’s aunt,” Drew said. The man was like vermin, impossible to drive away.
“I will summon the gentleman from Talliah House,” Mr. Hillary said. “He might know something of the maid’s past.”
Drew’s fingers curled into a fist. “You won’t find him at Talliah, sir. He left Town yesterday after he learned of our intentions to wed.”
Jake swung his leg off the settee and sat up straight. “Do you believe Bollrud is involved?”
It wouldn’t do to malign another gentleman without proof. “I’m unsure, but as your father said, maybe he knows something of value pertaining to Betsy March.” Drew handed the letter back to Mr. Hillary. “I believe I will pay a call to Lady Dohve and her nephew.”
“Perhaps I should go with you,” Mr. Hillary said.
“It isn’t far to Lady Dohve’s estate. I can be there and back by sundown. You should stay in the event the kidnapper sends another communication.”
Jake winced as he tried to stand. “Just let me get on my boot.”
“You aren’t in any condition to travel. Rest your ankle. I may need your assistance tomorrow.”
Jake hesitated, but then lowered to the settee. “Return with your findings posthaste.”
“Of course.” Drew bid farewell to the gentlemen before retrieving Demetrius from the Talliah mews.
***
Lady Dohve’s estate was an hour out of London by horseback. The manor house stood in the distance, grand and almost desolate. Although the grounds suffered neglect, evidence suggested they had been well-tended at one time. The mature hedges had grown ragged and the topiary appeared more like a grotesque version of a hare, but Drew could discern the gardener’s original intent.
As he rode Demetrius up the lane to the Tudor manor, no servant came to greet him or lead his horse to the stables. The home suffered the same neglect as the gardens. Apparently, the rumors of the baroness’s depleted fortune had not been exaggerated.
Leaving Demetrius to graze on the overgrown lawn, Drew hurried up the steps and knocked. The wait seemed extraordinarily long, but as Drew raised his fist again, the door creaked open.
A hunched-over relic hobbled outside, shaking his fist in the air. “No, no, no. The horse cannot be on the lawn. Lady Dohve strictly forbids it.”
With the overgrown grass, Demetrius was providing a service to the lady, in Drew’s line of thinking, but he didn’t care to debate the issue.
“So sorry.” Drew returned to Demetrius and gathered his reins. “Perhaps you could summon a groom to take him to the stables.”
“There is no groom, sir. It’s only me and me grandson left in the baroness’s employ, and a housemaid for indoor work. What affairs do you wish to discuss with her ladyship?”
Drew sought out a place to secure his horse then returned to stand before the man. “Inform Lady Dohve that Andrew Forest, the Duke of Foxhaven’s son, requests an audience.”
The man’s narrowed gaze swept up and down Drew. He supposed his ruffled appearance engendered suspicion. Fortunately, he carried one of his cards and offered it to the servant. “I shan’t require much of her time.”
He held the calling card close to scrutinize it before lowering it to inspect Drew again. “Very well, you may wait in the drawing room, Lord Andrew.”
The elderly servant shuffled around and struggled up the stairs leading inside, his muddling gait agonizing. Drew fought against the urge to tote him inside like a sack of grain and be done with it. One couldn’t go any slower if one stood still.
Once they passed into the house and neared the drawing room, he thanked the servant and whisked inside to wait for Lady Dohve. He hoped the grandson was fleeter of foot and would carry his request to her ladyship in place of his grandfather. Otherwise, Drew couldn’t be certain he would return to London before the year’s end.
Lady Dohve joined him in the drawing room after several minutes. She beamed her pleasure. “Lord Andrew, how nice of you to call. What brings you to my little spot of heaven?”
Drew returned her gracious smile, recalling he’d met the baroness in London a couple of years prior. “Lady Dohve, I hope you are well.”
“Yes, as well as can be expected at my age. Thank you for asking. May I offer you some refreshment?”
“I apologize, my lady, but I am unable to stay for long. Please, don’t go to any trouble.”
“It would be no trouble, my lord, but I don’t wish to delay you.”
Lady Dohve selected a Chippendale chair with a worn brocade seat, and Drew slipped into its twin.
“Your graciousness is appreciated. I pray you will please excuse my impatience, but I have an inquiry to make pertaining to a former employee of yours.”
Lady Dohve folded her hands in her lap. “Oh, I do hope I’m able to assist you, Lord Andrew. My staff has dwindled over the last few years. I’m uncertain if I can recall them all.”
“You wrote a letter of recommendation for her, a young woman named Betsy March.”
Lady Dohve’s lips lifted at the corners. “Yes, my darling little Betsy. She moved to London a few years ago to search out employment as a lady’s maid. She was more suited for that line of work than as a chambermaid. How is my dear girl?”
Drew drummed his fingers against the arm of the chair. He hadn’t expected the lady might hold the girl in esteem. “I fear I must be the bearer of unfortunate news, my lady.”
“Oh?” Her smile slid from her face.
“There was an accident involving Betsy.”
“Oh, dear.” Lady Dohve snatched a fan from the side table, flicked it open, and fanned herself. “Is she all right?”
“Betsy didn’t survive her injuries, my lady.”
Lady Dohve’s hand clutched her chest. “Wh-what happened?”
He debated revealing the truth, but she would likely find out at some point and realize he had withheld information. “Apparently she didn’t see the carriage coming toward her.”
Lady Dohve’s wide eyes swam with tears. “Oh, dear,” she repeated, creating a windstorm with the rapid waving of her fan. “Oh, dear me.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.” Drew had no reason to believe Lady Dohve was involved with Lana’s abduction, and he did feel bad for her.
“Maynard will be crushed,” she said.
“Maynard, my lady?”
“My manservant. You met him when you arrived.”
Drew nodded as if he understood the reason the information would trouble Maynard, or Lady Dohve for that matter.
“How he doted on his granddaughter. He had high hopes for her. We both did.”
Drew reached for his handkerchief and offered it to the baroness. She accepted with her thanks.
“Betsy was your manservant’s granddaughter?” he prompted.
“Yes, Maynard raised her and her brother when his
daughter died from the pox.”
Drew’s mouth dropped open in shock. Lady Dohve was much too candid by half. “The pox, you say?”
She nodded as she dabbed at her tears. “Yes, the poor dear contracted smallpox in ’98.”
“Oh.” Well, that was a horse of a different color, wasn’t it?
“Betsy was like my child. I could never have any of my own, though Lord Dohve, bless his soul, gave a jolly good try.” Her smile widened and revealed several missing back teeth.
“I see.” Though he wished he could strike the disturbing image from his mind. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I wish I could have called under better circumstances.”
“I’m glad you came, Lord Andrew. How thoughtful of you to personally carry notice to us.” She wrung her hands. “I don’t look forward to informing Reggie. He’s unlikely to take it well.”
Drew’s brows lifted. “If I may ask, my lady, who is Reggie?”
“Betsy’s brother. He just returned from visiting her in Town. I was surprised by the length of his visit, but they always were close. I’m glad he took the time. Hopefully, he will have fewer regrets this way.”
Drew sat up straighter, his heartbeat doubling in speed. “Is Reggie here now?”
Lady Dohve shook her head. “I’m sure he has returned to the caretaker’s cottage. I do hope he won’t stay away long. He will want to receive the report as soon as possible, but Maynard and I are in no condition to go to him.”
She blew her nose into his handkerchief, folded the linen square, and tried to pass it back.
Drew waved it off. “I have another. Please, enjoy.”
“Thank you, my lord. I have no inkling where my handkerchiefs have gotten off to.”
Drew scooted to the edge of his seat.
This man, Reggie, lived in a secluded cottage, one where he wouldn’t be disturbed. “Lady Dohve, would you like me to carry word to Betsy’s brother?”
“Would you do me such a kindness? You’ve done so much already. I hate to impose.”
“It’s no trouble, my lady.”
“I would very much appreciate your assistance. Poor Reggie will be beside himself.” She sighed. “The cottage is north a little past the family cemetery.”
Drew extended his sympathies once more and bid her farewell. Outside, the sun hovered lower in the sky. Sunset would be on him in a few hours. He swung into the saddle and directed Demetrius north.
He rode until the house was out of sight. Around the first bend, he spotted iron fencing surrounding a plot of land. The names on the headstones became visible as he rode closer. He urged his horse to pick up the pace, but a name jumped out at him from a fresh marker. He eased back the reins and dismounted then hopped the fence. He blinked, distrusting his eyes.
Philip Bollrud
Beloved Great-Nephew of
Lord and Lady Dohve
August 5, 1786 – June 6, 1816
“Hell’s teeth.” It hadn’t been Bollrud at Irvine Castle at all, which left one other likely scenario. Bollrud was really Reggie March. And he had come for Lana. Unlucky for him, she belonged to Drew.
Forty-two
Lana curled into a ball, shivering as she drew her bound feet toward her middle. Her fine wool morning dress provided little warmth in the frigid cottage air. Perhaps if she’d had advance notice, she would have dressed more appropriately for an abduction.
She had been alone in the cottage for what seemed like hours, but considering Reggie’s ill-mannered company was all that was available, solitude was preferable. Her stomach had finally stopped rumbling sometime around dawn, and the hunger pangs had ceased, but she still wouldn’t turn away a plum pudding if someone happened by with one.
In the slanting rays of sun barely penetrating the grimy windows, she examined the ropes binding her feet. A double butterfly knot. What a novice. She could untie the knot with her eyes closed, if her hands were free.
Lana thought back on the lessons from her brother Daniel to keep her mind occupied. Her brother had spent hours patiently teaching her how to tie sailor’s knots while he waited to sail back to the West Indies. And Lana had practiced for weeks perfecting the skill. Of course, she hadn’t played with her ropes for several years, but the construction remained familiar. She ran through all the knots she could recall to pass the time.
Lana shifted but couldn’t roll from her right side with her hands above her head. Her muscles had burned in the beginning. Now they were heavy with numbness, and she wiggled her fingers to encourage blood flow.
Footsteps sounded outside. Splendid. He was back. Where was Betsy? It was taking a dratted long time for her to return. Lana had stomached more than enough of their nonsense.
She listened to the bumps and bangs outside the cottage, as if her captor stacked wood against the wall, which seemed a much less logical place for logs than ablaze in the hearth.
In the distance, a horse approached, and all banging ceased. She almost cried with relief. Betsy. The girl deserved a thorough dressing down for delaying Lana’s release, but at least she would be going home at last.
A thud sounded as the rider dismounted, followed by footsteps too heavy to belong to her slight maid. Did she dare hope the new arrival was a rotund cook bearing a turkey? Her mouth watered at the thought of food.
“Lana?”
Drew! Her heart raced. She tried to answer his call, but her dry throat croaked an indecipherable sound. The door swung open, and Drew entered with his pistol drawn. Blinding light invaded the dark interior of the cottage.
“Lana, where are you?”
“Here,” she managed to eke out.
“Peach.” The word rushed from him on a relieved breath. “Thank God, I found you.” He placed the firearm on the bed and moved to untie her hands. One quick kiss then he went to work on the ropes.
“Drew,” she whispered. “He’s out there.”
“Reggie? Or should I say Bollrud?” He dropped his hands from her bindings and reached for his firearm. Before he could react to her warning, a sickening clunk reached her ears, and his pistol clattered to the floor. Drew’s body pitched forward to land on Lana, knocking the air from her.
Good heavens above. What were men eating these days? Iron anvils?
Lord Bollrud stood with legs planted wide, lightly smacking a thin log against his palm. A triumphant smirk twisted his lips, revealing his jagged teeth. He reminded her of an animal, and reeked just as bad.
“You are Reggie?”
His gleeful cackle turned her stomach. Either that or it was the spittle he had just shared with all.
“’Ow did ’e figure it out?” Reggie scratched his cheek where a patchy beard had begun to grow. The man was hopelessly without a sense of fashion.
Grabbing Drew by the back of his jacket, he hauled him from the bed to land on the floor with a thump.
“Be gentle with him,” she scolded. Though her darling would look just as dashing sporting bruises, there was no need for carelessness.
Reggie kneeled beside him. “Still alive,” he muttered.
A rush of gratitude swept over her and tears welled in her eyes. Reggie pushed from the floor and tromped outside only to return moments later with more rope and a knife. He tossed both on the ground. Bending, his face flushed as he put all of his strength into lugging Drew to a post. He grunted as he strained to lift Drew to a seated position.
The rope coiled on the floor, and Reggie held up a long length before hacking through the fibers with the knife. He cut an equal length and used the two ropes to tie Drew’s hands behind him, most likely employing a full carrick bend. That would be her choice.
“I suppose it is safe to say Betsy is not returning.” Reggie—or was he Bollrud?—reverted back to the way of speaking to which she’d been accustomed during his stay at Irvine Castle.
“Who are you exactly?”
Reggie jeered. “I’m the one in control, Miss Hillary. You may address me as sir.”
Not blasted likely,
though she knew a few other choice names to bestow on him.
He stretched his arms above his head, arched his back, and groaned. “I have to figure out what to do with the two of you.”
The glint in his eye dampened any hopes she might have had of him hosting a ball in their honor. They wouldn’t survive this ordeal if he had his wishes.
***
Something cold and wet engulfed Drew, jerking him awake. He tried to move, to wipe the water from his eyes, but rope bound his hands behind his back.
Good Lord. What had he gotten himself into this time? He didn’t recall indulging in a single drink, though the ache in his head disputed his recall.
He blinked to clear his sight, the glare from the oil lamp making him squint, and focused on a man standing over him holding a bucket.
“Good, yer awake.”
That was a matter of opinion, decidedly not Drew’s. His vision blurred and his head pounded a rhythm in time with his heartbeat. “What happened?”
“Drew, are you hurt?” Lana’s urgency broke through his haze, and his memory returned in broken pieces.
He gave her a slight smile to ease her worry when he spotted her lying on the bed. “I’ve been worse, love.”
“Quiet. Both of ya,” the man snapped. Reggie was his name. Drew remembered that much.
He held his tongue, assessing his adversary, not wanting to taunt the man while he retained the more prestigious position. Perhaps Drew could beat him with one arm tied behind his back, but not two.
Reggie ambled toward the bed where Lana lay. She met her captor’s gaze without wavering. Only the tremble of her bottom lip revealed her fear. His peach was every bit as good at holding her cards close to her chest as any gambling man.
“Pretty little chit, ya are,” Reggie said and reached for her.
Lana shrank back. Lunging, he grabbed her hair, twisting and pulling until a small cry escaped her lips.
The ropes cut into Drew’s wrists as he strained against the knots. His threats to kill the blackguard stuck in his throat when the man turned to study his reaction. Reggie’s motivation became clear. He sought to defeat Drew. He wanted domination. Kent’s own Little Corporal.
Miss Hillary Schools a Scoundrel Page 28