by Cheryl Bolen
"And you told him?"
The lad nodded.
"Describe for me, if you will, what the gentleman looked like."
"First off, he weren't no gentleman. He was a little older than meself, 'bout the same height as you. But more heavy built."
Jack's pulse raced. "What was his hair color? Clothing?"
"His 'air was dark brown." The fellow paused. "Can't say as I remember what 'e wore."
"But I take it he was not dressed as a gentleman."
"His clothes wasn't no finer than mine."
Jack's gaze swept over the lad's tattered clothes that looked as if they had passed through several owners before reaching him."Did he perchance," Jack asked, his gut clinching, "get on the post chaise with the lady?"
He shook his head emphatically. "I 'ave to confess, 'is queries got up me curiosity. I watched 'im leave. A magnificent bay 'e was a ridin'--even though 'e only went as far as the tavern."
"And that was the last you saw of him?"
The stable hand stroked his chin. "Actually, I saw him take off right after the mail coach pulled out."
"As if he were following it?"
"Yes, I suppose so."
Then the man did not accost Daphne until she returned to London. Bloody hell! Finding Daphne or the hooligan who must have captured her in a city as big as London would be like searching for a needle in a haystack. "Then it appears I must hire a horse from you," Jack said. He was devilishly disappointed he would have to leave his fine beast in Windsor, but he had already ridden it hard tonight. And all that really mattered was saving Daphne from the despicable creature who must have captured her. The sooner he reached her, the better his chances that she would still be alive.
No greater rage had ever consumed him--even toward Edwards's murderer. He'd never had a greater need to find his prey than he did now.
And he had never felt so powerless.
* * *
She wondered if her wrists were bleeding. The rough hemp of the rope painfully cut into them, but in the totally black room she would not have been able to see her hand in front of her face. If she'd had a free hand to wave in front of her face.
Even though her captor was not French, she had intrinsically known he was mixed up with the comtesse and her henchman. It was most clever of the Frenchman to leave this man behind in Windsor to determine if someone was on his trail. She expected that before the night was over she would face either the Frenchman or the comtesse. They would, of course, want to know who she was working with, but she would never reveal Jack as her accomplice. Even if they tortured her.
She swallowed. At least she hoped she could be that strong.
She hated being helpless. It wasn't that she had not tried to break free from the vile man who had abducted her. She had. But he was much stronger than she, and his arm that cinched around her waist held firm through her most vigorous efforts to leap from the speeding horse that afternoon. Passersby on the pavement whirled around to watch them whizzing past at a great rate of speed on her abductor's fine beast, but no one lifted a finger to help her--even as she called out to them. It would have been different, she knew, if she had appeared to be a fine lady and not a woman in tattered rags. She had no doubt been taken for a doxy.
When they came to the East End, no one even bothered to look concerned.
"Now would ye look at that bit o' muslin," one man had said, his gaze traveling to Daphne.
A toothless woman with a wicked laugh had screamed out, "What's the matter, luv? He ain't payin' fer yer services as he ought?"
Their journey had ended at an abandoned looking brick warehouse near the docks. She was caught completely off guard when the odious man pulled his horse to a stop and shoved her off. That her hands blocked her fall prevented serious injuries, but her palms were bruised and stinging, and her throbbing knee was beginning to swell. The fellow who had abducted her quickly dismounted and hauled her over his brawny shoulders, then climbed three flights of stairs and hurled her into a cold, dark, and terribly isolated chamber. She saw at once that the room's only window had been boarded, and there was not even a chair to sit upon. She fought when he went to bind her hands with a sturdy length of rope, but he easily overpowered her. Before she could manage to get to her feet on her throbbing leg, he left, slamming the door shut behind him and locking it. The closing of the door sent the room into total darkness.
Smells of wharves and fish combined with the musty aroma of disuse for a most unwelcome experience that rapidly deteriorated when the pittery thump of a rat fled past her. An iciness permeated the chamber. She longed for Pru's shawl which now lay on the pavement three floors below, but there were other things she longed for more. Things like something to drink or a bite to eat.
But most of all, she prayed for someone to rescue her.
She rued that she had lied to Jack--and to Pru. No one knew where she was. No one knew how to find her.
Never had she been more helpless. She had been here for what seemed like hours, though it was difficult to tell how much time had actually passed. With nothing else to absorb her thoughts, the passage of a single moment could seem like ten.
Escape was impossible as long as her hands were tied behind her, and there seemed no way to free them. She had hoped there would be something sharp or rough that she could use to gnaw away at the rope, but her search proved fruitless. There was nothing in the room.
For ages now she had huddled in a corner, shivering with cold and fear. She lamented that she had not partaken of breakfast that morning. It had now been more than twenty-four hours since she had last eaten, and she was famished. When she was not imagining how good a sip of water would be, she was craving one of cook's hot biscuits.
The first thing she would do when she got out of there was to get one of those biscuits.
Then it suddenly became clear to her that she would never get out of there.
Chapter 25
Daphne was right. Later that night she thought she heard someone climbing the stairs. Sucking in her breath, she listened intently and could tell the footsteps belonged to more than one person. This could be an opportunity for her to escape! But how? How could she possibly overpower two people--one of them certainly a man? And how could she devise a successful plan in the next twenty seconds?
She scurried to stand where she would be hidden by the door when it swung open. As soon as she slipped into position there, the footsteps thudded on the landing, and a second later a key twisted in the door's lock. Her heart nearly stopped when the door creaked open, a yellow strip of light slanting into her dark chamber.
"Where in the devil is she?" barked the Englishman who had abducted her.
Then, with brutal force, the door slammed into her, knocking her against the wall. Bracing herself, she managed to stay on her feet and lunge toward her captor, who was now aware of her location. Her knee came up to connect with his groin. He groaned, doubled over, and dropped the candle he was holding.
While he was momentarily powerless, she raced through the doorway.
But a second man who cursed in French dove toward her and pinned her to the wall of the corridor outside. Like the other man had done earlier, this man picked her up and slung her over his shoulders, re-entered the room, then hurled her onto the floor.
This time she wasn't at all certain she had escaped serious injury. Intense pain shot through her knee. Tears stung her eyes, and she could not have lifted her leg from the ground had her captors left her in the chamber with the door wide open.
As excruciating as the pain was, she was not about to acknowledge it or to in any way let these men know of her vulnerability.
Saying the most vile things about her, the man she had abused picked up the fallen candle and stomped out the sputtering fire it had ignited on the wooden floor. The chamber she so intensely disliked now glowed with candlelight, which she found oddly comforting after so many hours in the inky darkness.
She peered up at the Frenchman. He was not at
all what she had expected. She had thought the Comtesse de Mornet would have pressed a faithful servant into service in her vile scheme. But this man clearly was not a servant. There was about him an aristocratic bearing, not just in the finely tailored clothing he wore. Though he was much smaller than the man who had abducted her, he emanated much more power, and the Englishman was unmistakably reverent toward him.
It suddenly occurred to her that this man was not doing the comtesse's bidding. The comtesse was doing his bidding! Daphne fleetingly wondered if he could be the comtesse's father for Daphne judged him to be some twenty years older than she and the comtesse.
"Well, well, Miss Chalmers," he began, eying her with contempt, "or, I suppose, you're known as Lady Daphne." Though he had a strong French accent, his English was definitely upper class.
Her stomach lurched, her heart raced. How had he learned her identity? "I don't know what yer talkin' 'bout," she said with feigned outrage. "Me name's 'azel Whitney."
The Frenchman gave a wicked laugh. "Miss Hazel Whitney who lives on Cavendish Square?"
Oh, dear, she had told her wicked accoster that Cavendish Square was her destination. Definitely not something a good spy would have done. Jack would be most disappointed. "Plenty o' servants lives at Cavendish Square." She was not about to implicate Sidworth House.
The Frenchman's leathery face crinkled into a sadistic smile. "Be that as it may, Lady Daphne, I find it much too much of a coincidence that Lord and Lady Sidworth have been frantically searching for their eldest daughter these several hours past."
She felt wretched for causing her parents anxiety. Of course, she felt much more wretched about her own precarious position at the moment. "I don't know what yer talkin' 'bout, though there is a Sidworth 'ouse right across the square from me employers' 'ouse."
"Come, come, my lady," the Frenchman said. "You must give us some credit. It's not as if we did not already have our suspicions about your Captain Jack Dryden."
Had a cannon ball launched into her stomach she could not have felt more shock or more terror. This odious man--and the Comtesse de Mornet, she'd vow--knew Jack's true identity.
Good lord! They would kill him. And her, too. "I ain't never 'eard of no Cap'n Jack Drygoods."
He chuckled. "Very good, my lady. The comtesse said you were very clever. But not as clever as the Duc d'Arblier."
She had heard that name somewhere. She was certain he was one of Napoleon's ministers. Good God in heaven, had he come to England to murder Jack?
A thousand thoughts bombarded her. She must warn Jack! The duc would murder him as surely as he was standing here in a disused building near the River Thames. How had he learned Jack was in London? How had this enemy of England managed to get into the country? And why? To murder the regent and innocent Princess Charlotte? And dear Jack, too?
If only there was some way she could tell Jack all the things she had learned. After all these weeks they had finally found the culprit--or she had--and she was powerless to be able to share that news with Jack.
Worse than that, she was powerless to save him.
"It's clear as the nose on yer face," she told the duc, "that ye've got me mixed up with some fine lady named Daffy." She burst out laughing. "If I was such a fine lady I'd surely want to dress like one. Might even want one of them crown things to put upon me 'ead. And, of course, I'd want a ladies' maid to arrange me 'air all pretty like. I think I would like to be a lady. Ye may calls me Lady Daffy, if ye please."
"I please," he said with a sneer.
"But yer grace," the younger man addressed him, "she can't be no lady. Look at 'er! Likely as not, she's 'elpin' out 'er mistress."
"You fool," the duc said with disgust.
"Sorry, yer grace," the other man half whispered. "I was only tryin' to be of 'elp."
"So," Daphne said to the duc, "now that I've agreed to be this Lady Daffy, what would you like me to do?"
A sadistic smile easing across his face, the duc said, "Nothing. You're staying right here. I think when your gallant Captain Dryden learns that we have you he will be only too happy to exchange his life for yours."
Her heart skidded. So she was to be used as the means to Jack's death.
* * *
Because the comtesse and her accomplices had left a man behind in Windsor, they had earned Jack's respect. It had been such a clever thing to do, he no longer could give the comtesse credit for directing the assassination plot. Someone much smarter than she had masterminded this.
He could not be sure her house was not being watched--from the outside as well as from within. Hadn't a man been observing him from a third-floor window this very afternoon? With that in mind, he decided to enter her house through the rear entrance. After hours of cursing the moonless night during his journey to and from Windsor, now he was grateful there was no moon to shine upon him as he stole through the dark to the servants' entrance.
The door squeaked when he opened it. He stood there frozen for several seconds, then when there was no response, he eased into the dark house. A smile touching his lips, he went directly to the stairs, pleased that he knew exactly which bedchamber belonged to the comtesse.
Since it was past midnight, there were no footmen in the hallway--for which he was profoundly grateful. He began to creep up the stairs--not, unfortunately, in total silence. No matter how light his step, he could not avoid making some small noise because the wooden steps creaked. Were he to climb the stairs in a normal fashion, he would be subject to detection. But by setting a foot gently upon a step and waiting several seconds before repeating the action, he was relatively assured he would not attract notice.
He was also assured this cumbersome climb was no speedy task.
Moments later he reached the comtesse's bedchamber and drew his pistol before easing open its door. The room was illuminated by a fire and one oil lamp beside her bed. He quietly shut the door and moved into the chamber, his gaze leaping to the bed. Its coverings were as smooth as glass. She was not home yet. Bloody hell.
He would wait. Captain Jack Dryden had years of practice at lying in wait.
His eyes scanned the room for a suitable place to sit. He chose a chair that could not be seen when one first entered the room.
As he sat there, his pistol ready, his thoughts turned to Daphne. He prayed that she was still alive. He hoped like hell she had not been hurt. And, damn, but he needed to find her. Fast.
He tried to imagine what kind of prisoner she would be. Would she be scared? Cooperative? Would she taunt her captors? Or tell them she knew of their plot to kill the regent? Would she reveal Jack's connection? He shook his head as he sat there in the dark. No, Daphne would do none of those things. She was too smart, and too noble. Damn her!
The ticking of the clock upon the comtesse's mantle and the hiss of the fire were the room's only sounds during the next two hours. At three o'clock he heard the clopping of horses on the street below and softly padded to the window to peer down in time to see the comtesse disembark from the Duke of York's carriage. Jack moved back away from the window to await her.
A few minutes later she came to her room. Seated, he watched her until she went to toss her cape on the chair he occupied. Her mouth opened and she let out a shriek.
"If you don't want me to use this pistol on you," he said in a low voice, "you will not make another sound."
Her eyes wide with fear, she nodded.
He got to his feet and directed her to remove the sash from her dress.
She trembled as she did what he asked. Then he instructed her to lie upon the floor.
"Why?" she asked in a quivering voice.
He waved his pistol impatiently. "Just do it."
She went to her knees first, then lethargically stretched out on the carpet.
He set down the pistol and straddled her so he could bind her hands with the sash--which proved to be no easy task since she was kicking and thrashing and whimpering. Good lord, if she made any more noise a servant was
sure to investigate. He managed to tighten the sash around her wrists, knotting it twice. He would like to have bound her mouth, too, but not until he got the information he sought.
After getting to his feet and claiming his pistol, he said, "You may get up now, if you like."
Eying him with hatred, she rose.
"If you don't tell me the whereabouts of a certain lady who resides on Cavendish Square," he said in an inscrutable voice, "I will kill you. Right here. Tonight."
"I . . . don't know what you're talking about."
"You're a liar."
Contempt blazing in her eyes, she stared at him but did not defend his charge. Was she so stupid she thought she could bluff him?
Obviously not, for her shoulders slumped and she said, "I honestly don't know where they've taken her. Somewhere in the East End. An abandoned warehouse, I believe, but I can't tell you where it is."
He was inclined to believe her. "Then we don't leave this room until your . . . until the man who directs you shows." As soon as his words were spoken, he came to a profound realization. Not only was the comtesse merely an instrument for a much more intelligent countryman of hers, everything about this plot pointed to impeccable planning by a cunning man.
And Jack knew of only one such man. His chest tightened. His insides churned with hatred. "When do we expect the duc d'Arblier?"
The door burst open. "Right now," the Frenchman said.
Chapter 26
She had been sorry to see her captors leave for that meant they were going to Jack. Her chest constricted. Jack would be killed. Because of her. Though she could not be blamed for revealing Jack's true identity, she was responsible for stupidly allowing herself to be captured. She should not have gone to Windsor. She should not have lied about going to Windsor. And she should not have so foolishly trusted the man who abducted her.
Because she had wanted to prove herself a good spy, she had proven only that she was inept. Her ineptness would now cost not only her own life, but Jack's too.