Ghost of the Thames

by May McGoldrick

“I have a list of names, as well, gentlemen, that I am willing to share to assist you in the halting of this heinous practice in which I have been forced to play a small role.”

  CHAPTER 34

  “Miss Sophy recognized the passenger they had in the carriage and went with them willingly,” the driver explained remorsefully. “There was nothing we could do but follow them and see where they were taking her.”

  “And where did they go?” Angela Burdett-Coutts asked sharply, unsuccessful in keeping the note of fury out of her voice.

  The man went on to relate every street and every turn they’d taken to the destination. Once there, they’d seen Sophy walk inside the residence, helping the same old woman they’d heard Hodgson refer to as ‘Priya’. An inquiry in the neighborhood revealed that the house belonged to Mr. John Warren.

  Angela paced back and forth in the foyer as Hannah stood by, wringing her hands anxiously. Angela knew that she herself was responsible for this. Earlier this week, she had sent a letter to Lord Beauchamp as planned, telling him that she was bringing a dear friend with her who was certain to create a sensation at the ball. She’d made no reference to a name but had asked if John Warren was to be expected. Any fool would have deduced who her guest would be. And any one of Beauchamp’s staff could have passed the information on to Sophia’s uncle.

  The one thing they’d feared the most had come to pass. Sophy was in John Warren’s clutches, and there had been no public announcement that she was alive. What would happen if he decided to deny the abduction—if one could even call it that—and contend that she was still missing or that she was dead? Angela couldn’t allow it.

  “You need to let Captain Seymour know,” Hannah asserted. “He’ll come up with a solution.”

  “He’s not due back until tomorrow. By then, it might be too late.”

  Angela didn’t want to be the one to give this news to Edward. She turned to the driver. “Take me there this instant.”

  “Is that wise?” Hannah interrupted. “You don’t even know if Warren will receive you, never mind allow you to see Sophy.”

  “That is of no consequence. I am going,” Angela announced stubbornly. “The least I can do is let the man know that we are aware of his niece’s whereabouts.”

  *

  If this was an abduction and if she was a prisoner, no one gave any indication of it right away. It didn’t matter, though; Sophy had other priorities.

  Priya was delirious and, other than the initial moment of recognition, the old woman hadn’t uttered a single coherent word. During the carriage ride, Sophy questioned Hodgson continuously about Priya’s poor health. The man was useless. The only thing he knew was that her uncle had graciously arranged for the servant to be situated in his personal residence on Oxford Street, where a doctor would be attending her.

  Sophy wasn’t a child. She knew this was all part of a grander plan, and based on what she could see, Sophy knew her lifelong caregiver and friend was under the influence of drugs.

  At John Warren’s house, there was no sign of her uncle, and several servants helped carry Priya to an upstairs bedroom.

  “The set of rooms next door was arranged months ago to serve as your apartment,” Hodgson said. He had followed them upstairs and was now gesturing to a door that apparently led to her room. “All of your luggage and belongings you brought on the crossing have been delivered there.”

  “I won’t be staying here,” she reminded him.

  “But your uncle believes you are.”

  “Where is my uncle?” she asked sharply.

  “He is expected back this evening.”

  She had avoided him all this time. Now she was anxious to deal with him directly, rather than with this obsequious weasel.

  “And the doctor? When will he be getting here?”

  “Arrangements have been made, Miss Warren.”

  There was something infuriating about Hodgson. She noticed that while he was speaking to her in his false, agreeable tone, he was constantly motioning or whispering directions to servants who came in and out of the room. She also noticed that two male servants were standing guard outside the open door.

  “Miss Burdett-Coutts has a doctor at her disposal all the time. I would like to take Priya to her house.” Even as she uttered it, she already knew the demand should have been made when she still had Angela’s grooms around her.

  “My apologies, but your uncle cannot, in good conscience, surrender the care of this servant to another.”

  “Then I would like to be taken to Miss Burdett-Coutts’s house and return with her doctor.”

  Again, Hodgson shook his head apologetically. “Mr. Warren has been heartsick because of your absence. His instructions are for you to stay here until he can meet with you.”

  Sophy took a threatening step toward him. “Am I to be kept here against my will?”

  “My instructions were that you are encouraged to stay here until your uncle arrives.”

  She took another step. “And to what, exactly, does ‘encouragement’ extend?”

  “We were asked to keep you here.”

  “By what means?”

  He took a half step back. “By whatever means necessary.”

  “Are you telling me, all of this was planned? That you used a sick woman as bait to trap me?”

  “Miss Warren, you can see for yourself how ill Priya is. As I recall, you climbed in the carriage willingly.”

  “How did you know I was traveling inside that carriage?" she asked in a sharper tone, not giving up her assault. "Or that we would be traveling at that precise time of the day? Or which route we would be taking?”

  “I have other matters to attend to. Now if you will excuse me, miss.” He retreated as if she were a rabid dog and about to attack.

  Sophy was angry enough to have caused him bodily harm. She watched Hodgson hurry from the room and heard the turn of a key in the lock. Glancing back at Priya, she could see the older woman had dropped into a restless sleep.

  Sophy checked the other door and found it did indeed lead to two spacious rooms. She went in and immediately tested the entrance to the hallway. Also locked from the outside. She had no doubts now. She was a prisoner.

  She pulled back the heavy velvet draperies. The windows overlooked a small, enclosed garden. The trees were bare of foliage, and the flower gardens were dead and unkempt. The drop was substantial, but Sophy figured she would risk it if she needed to.

  Sophy moved back to Priya’s bedside. The old woman’s breathing was labored. She trembled in her sleep. Sitting on the edge, Sophy touched her face. The skin was clammy and cold. She adjusted the coverlet.

  The lines of age in her face, the shape of the eyes, the full lips, the straight and narrow nose, the graying hair. Sophy knew every feature by heart. She remembered this face so well that it felt they’d never been apart. She recalled the sacrifices Priya made over the years to stay with her. Forgoing time with her own grandchildren to become her caregiver when Sophy’s mother had died. And then, some ten years later, deciding to come with her to England.

  And she was ailing now because of what her uncle had done to her, simply to trap Sophy. She had no doubt. He was despicable.

  An image flooded her mind’s eye. Sophy was in a different place and time. She was dressed in black and moving aimlessly through a room crowded with open trunks and clothing and servants busily working to bring order to the pace as they packed her belongings. She passed a mirror. She was not a child, but wore the clothing of a young woman.

  “This is my home. I don’t want to leave.”

  “There is nothing left for you here. No family . . . no husband. You have no protector. Money is not enough. You need to go back to the country of your father and do the right thing. You must choose a man you can trust.”

  “What is the right thing? Must I find a husband? Marry? How will I know?”

  Priya’s dark eyes shone with confidence when they met hers. “You will know. You will learn. And you
will have the choice in your own hand. Marriage will come after.”

  Sophy became aware of the room. She looked at the sleeping woman and her gaze drifted to the open door to her own rooms. More bits and pieces of memory came back to her. A tapestry she had managed to pack in a certain trunk. The frames and the miniatures she insisted on bringing with her. Her favorite books and how too many of them were packed in a certain crate, making it far too heavy.

  There was trepidation in her steps when she moved into the other rooms. Her luggage was stacked up in a corner, but none of it had been opened. Sophy thought back to what she could recall. Opening the trunks, she was amazed that she was often correct about what was in each one. And other recollections came to her as she continued to sift through the contents. How she came to own a certain shawl. A bonnet that she knew belonged to her mother. An ivory handled parasol, another favorite passed on to her. A rush of information came to her when she found miniatures of her parents. She knew them. The faces were not strangers to her.

  Somewhere along the search, curiosity turned into giddiness. She knew who she was. She recalled her name, her parents, and the land she’d been so sad to leave behind. The people.

  Her name was Catherine Sophia Warren, age twenty. Many of the English girls her age snubbed her in Calcutta because of her relationship with the local people. She didn’t mind it, at all. But that was why, after her father’s death, she had to leave. She was not comfortable in the tightly closed society of the British in Bengal. She didn’t socialize with the women, and she did not accept their superior attitudes. She remembered Priya’s words. No protector.

  She thought of Edward and how upset he’d be when he returned tomorrow and found her gone. He would discover where she was, and Sophy had no doubt that he would come after her. He was her protector, her champion. Sophy let out a breath, knowing that regardless of what had happened today, she was that much closer to having her life settled with her uncle. She was that much closer to having Edward.

  There were voices in the other room. Sophy jumped to her feet. She’d lost track of time. It was getting dark. She crossed into Priya’s room and found a bearded man carrying what looked to be a doctor’s case and getting ready to leave. A servant was checking the fire and lighting lamps. A table with a tray of food had been set in a corner, obviously for Sophy.

  “Wait, if you please,” she called after the man. “How is she?”

  “The woman is unwell, I’m afraid.”

  “What’s wrong with her?”

  “She is old.”

  “Age is not a disease,” she corrected him.

  The man shrugged and continued toward the door. Sophy went after him.

  “What is being done for her?”

  “She has been given the medication she needs. Someone will give her more tomorrow.” He opened the door and went out.

  She tried to follow him, but two large bodies blocked her path.

  “Excuse me, miss.” One of the gorillas reached in and pulled the door shut. Sophy turned to the servant still working in the room. She was glancing at her nervously.

  “Is Mr. Warren back?” she asked.

  “I don’t know, miss.”

  “Then find out and bring the answer to me,” she said sharply. “And if he is not here, then I should like to speak with the housekeeper.”

  The girl curtsied and hurried to the door, speaking through it before being allowed out.

  Fuming, Sophy strode to Priya’s bed and picked up a cup from a table beside the bed. It hadn’t been there before. There were still a few drops of a heavy black liquid left at the bottom. There was a cloying sweetness to the smell.

  “More of whatever they gave you before, no doubt,” she said, caressing the gray hair of the sleeping woman.

  Her memory was coming back. She could remember who she was, but she still couldn’t recall anything of the night she’d jumped in the river. And she couldn’t recall the crossing. She gazed down at her dear companion's face.

  Of course they would keep Priya sedated. She possessed the answers Sophy was looking for.

  CHAPTER 35

  No pointless civility of afternoon tea. No informal chitchat at supper. At some point they had to meet again, but not in such artificial circumstances.

  “Better to do it now,” John Warren murmured to himself.

  It was late enough that he could use fatigue as an excuse to retire anytime the reunion became unendurable.

  “Bring Miss Warren here,” he growled at his butler. As the man went out, Warren shouted after him, “Escorted!”

  He saw Peter Hodgson edge toward the door.

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “Only next door. I assume you would like privacy for this reunion with your niece before . . . before she is told of your plans.”

  “Not my plans, imbecile. Her father’s plans,” he snapped. “Never forget that. She must be told these were Arthur’s expressed wishes.”

  Hodgson nodded politely and sat down on the edge of the chair in the corner.

  “You are not afraid of her, are you?”

  “No, sir. Of course not. But she was quite displeased with me this afternoon about the manner in which we brought her here.”

  “Well, she asked for it, going into hiding for months the way she did.” Warren thought back over the unpleasant meeting she had this afternoon with the banking heiress, Miss Burdett-Coutts. The woman was livid at having Catherine taken from her personal carriage. He had nearly had to shout her down, reminding her that if there was anyone who should be angry, it was he for not being told that his niece was alive and well for all this time. He’d also told her of Arthur’s plans for his daughter’s marriage, and that had shut her up and sent her packing.

  “You should know that there are also rumors,” Hodgson started but hesitated.

  “Rumors of what?” Warren snapped.

  “Your niece was seen in the company of Captain Seymour on more than a few occasions while she was supposedly staying with Miss Burdett-Coutts.”

  Everywhere he turned, he kept hearing the name. The man was not even out of the Navy before everyone started talking about him being destined for Parliament. Warren never met the son, but he had met the Admiral, his father, some time back. Arrogant bastard. They all had too much family money. They could not be persuaded, flattered, or bought.

  “Captain Seymour caused the trouble at the warehouse on the Isle of Dogs. Also, the word is that he is the one who has been pushing the investigation after the incident in Hyde Park,” Hodgson continued. “There are rumors that he intends to propose marriage and that your niece is inclined to accept.”

  “I don’t give a straw what his or her intentions are. Her father had other plans for her, and that’s the end of the discussion.”

  The door of the sitting room opened, and Warren looked up as his niece glided in. He had to give her credit. Whatever distress she’d gone through this afternoon, she showed no sign of it. In fact, she looked as regal as the queen herself. Her beauty so much resembled her mother’s. Of course, all of that was totally wasted on Hodgson. Not that it mattered.

  “Catherine,” he said, infusing his words with as much warmth as possible. He leaned on the cane and pushed himself to his feet. He opened his arms.

  She regarded the gesture for a moment before approaching and allowing him to kiss her cheek. She could have been a statue made of stone.

  “You cannot fathom the fright and the heartache you’ve caused me these past months. How could you not communicate with me? Let me know you were well and where you were situated? Why all the secrecy?”

  He sat down and motioned to her do the same. She glanced disdainfully at Hodgson and took a chair where her back was to him.

  “I was injured when I entered the river, uncle.”

  “That’s the way that friend of yours, the banker's daughter, explained it.”

  “When did you meet Miss Burdett-Coutts?” she asked, obviously caught off guard by that
.

  “The woman came to me this afternoon.”

  “And no one let me know of it?” she asked, barely able to hide her fury.

  “Why should we? She has no connection with our family. We don’t know what her intentions have been, keeping you from us all this time.”

  “I mentioned before that I was injured. It took sometime to recover. She has only been a help to me. And I had every intention of letting you know of my whereabouts at—”

  “Yes, I know. You intended to make a grand entrance at Lord Beauchamp’s ball. It’s a blessing that no one can keep secrets these days,” he interrupted. “Well, that is not the way our family behaves. I am not much of a society hound, and I prefer this more private reunion. And I suggest you become more accustomed to this behavior, for you won’t be staying in London for long. What’s the purpose of making friends among that lot?”

  “I won’t be staying in London?”

  “No, you are sailing for Calcutta before Christmas.”

  “Back to Calcutta? Why?”

  “Those were your father’s instructions, niece. A three months stay in London, a small wedding ceremony, and a prompt return so that your husband can take over his responsibilities in India. There is a great deal that has been neglected this year.”

  “He expected me to find a husband in three months?”

  “Oh, no. He had already chosen one for you. As I said, a person qualified to take over the operation of the company.”

  “My father died suddenly,” she reminded him. “But this is the first time I am hearing any of this.”

  “Yes, but don’t you think that I, as the executor of his estate, would be familiar with his arrangement?” Warren matched her sharp tone.

  “I would like to see all of this in writing. In my father’s handwriting.”

  Warren glared at the hotheaded young woman. Forging documents with Arthur’s name was, of course, no challenge. He’d been doing it for years. Oddly, though, he was taking great pleasure of bursting her little fantasy of marrying Captain Seymour. “You shall. I shall have my lawyers show it to you before the wedding.”