by Cheryl Bolen
"That's simple," William said. "We dress him like a woman. I've not faced the enemy yet who notices middle-aged or elderly women. Adam would have to decide if he wants a white wig or a . . . red one."
She couldn't imagine anything that would persuade Adam to dress as a woman.
"But you're considerably shorter than Adam," Nick protested. "Have you ever seen a woman over six feet tall?"
"Many times, though I will own, they're rare in our motherland." William thought for a moment. "He needs to be seated. That way his height won't be as pronounced. Sit a horse or drive a cart."
"That's contingent upon my husband approving."
"Hopefully, with your consent, he'll be more willing," Nick said.
Adam came to the reception area and greeted his brothers. "Have you not seen enough of me these past four days?"
"We had a matter of import to discuss with your wife." Nick eyed the door to his brother's office. "Permit us to discuss this in private."
Once they were in the office, Emma spoke. "I think your brothers have a brilliant plan to catch Ashburnham."
Adam glared at William. "If it's the same as you brought up two nights ago, I'll have no part of it."
"But I will," she said. "I have no objection to using myself as bait—knowing my husband (as well as disguised Birmingham soldiers) will have me in his line of sight the whole time."
Still glaring, Adam asked William, "How do you propose to have me watching her without anyone seeing me?"
"You'll do as I've done many a time when I've found myself in a dangerous situation."
"What's that?" Adam asked.
"You'll dress as a woman."
Adam froze. Not a word was said.
They waited for his response.
Emma was certain he would never agree to it. First, he'd be too averse to leaving her alone. Second, his male pride wouldn't allow him to dress as a woman.
Finally, he spoke to William. "You're in charge of procuring wigs and dowdy clothing for a very tall woman."
Chapter 22
The following day William showed up at Curzon Street with a large sack.
"What the devil have you brought?" Adam asked.
"An assortment of women's wigs ranging in colour from white to red. You can't count on the plan succeeding the very first day. You'll want a different look each day so as not to attract notice." He removed them from his sack, one by one.
When he began to unload the used clothing, Adam groaned and looked at his wife. "I wouldn't do this for anyone else."
She moved to him and wrapped her arm about his waist. "I am most appreciative."
Even in broad daylight in front of his brother, her touch still had a profound effect upon him. He wondered if being with her would ever become mundane. He hoped to God she could always make him feel as she did today. He absently kissed the crown of her head.
"Go ahead," William said, "try on the clothing. At the bottom of the sack you'll find your bosom."
Emma began to giggle. "Forgive me, but the notion is just so comical."
He gave her a mock glare. "Do. Not. Laugh. At. Me."
"I'm sorry," she said.
He eyed his brother. "Do I have to have a bosom?"
William and Emma both nodded.
He heaved a sigh. "I will endeavor to don them, but don't expect me to model."
"As you like it," William said. "We just need to be sure they'll fit. You have to own, there aren't many women built like you."
In ten minutes Adam returned, a frown on his face. "I make a hideous woman."
"Just so long as you don't draw attention," William said. "We're striving for ordinary."
Adam rolled his eyes. "Just your average woman who's six feet, two inches tall."
"You'll be seated either on a horse or in a cart," Will said. "No one will know how tall you are."
"How many of our soldiers will also be watching my wife?" Adam asked.
"Half a dozen should do. Is that agreeable to you?"
"Yes. I just hate like the devil for them to see me dressed as a woman. Did you really resort to women's dress when you courted danger for king and crown?"
"Many times. A man will resort to anything to stay alive." William eyed Emma. "Or to protect the life of his wife."
"I think I'll look more natural if I'm riding with a man in a cart."
William nodded. "Then one of our soldiers will drive the cart. That will leave you free to race after Emma in the event of an abduction attempt."
"The cart can also be our arsenal," Adam said.
* * *
That afternoon, all by herself, she walked through Hatchard's book shop on Piccadilly. Since Adam's library lacked a copy of Lyrical Ballads, she decided she would purchase it. Adam would probably want to have it bound in leather later. He went to a special book binder to ensure continuity on the shelves of his library.
Each man hovering in the shop aroused her suspicions. Was one of them the man Ashburnham had hired to grab her? But since she didn't see any men dressed coarsely as the man with the eye patch had been, she thought perhaps none of them had been hired by Ashburnham.
In the two times she'd seen James Ashburnham she'd been struck that he attempted to dress as a well-educated gentleman, but he fell far short. The ill fit of his clothing spoke to the fact he'd likely purchased them second-hand. Then when he spoke, it was obvious his voice was not that of a gentleman. Therefore, it would stand to reason the men Ashburnham hired would be of the same class as he.
She wondered, too, which of these men were Birmingham employees. Adam would have made certain one or two of their so-called soldiers would be with her every minute. She decided these soldiers would all be tall like her husband—which eliminated the slightly built young man of medium height who kept smiling at her. Her gaze discreetly fanned to each lone man. She would be hard pressed to pick one out as a Birmingham soldier. Every man in this book shop looked to be a gentleman.
But then, William would see to it that the disguises—even that of a well-dressed gentleman—were genuine.
It suddenly occurred to her the elderly woman ambling from table to table in the book store was no elderly woman. It was her husband! She would not have recognized him. He had chosen the white wig. "William's right," Adam had said earlier that day. "No one takes notice of elderly women."
She and William both had promised they would not laugh at him. Now that she was watching him fully dressed as an elderly female, she admired him. Laughter was the farthest thing from her mind. Her husband would have made a fine actor. But, then, Adam did everything well. Shakily, he contorted himself to where his back bent as did an elderly woman's. No one would ever think him a handsome young man of six feet two.
As Emma strolled from table to table perusing the books at Hatchard's, she found herself wondering if Ashburnham even knew she had returned to London. His ruthless employee had been permanently silenced. Would Ashburnham even learn of the death of the man he'd obviously hired? No one in Wickley Glen had been able to identify the dead man.
After leaving the book store, she strolled toward Madame De Guerney's. She would inquire about the progress on her presentation dress. Perhaps it would be ready for a fitting.
The pavement seemed to be exceptionally crowded today. While many of the lone men who passed her were gentlemen, just as many were not. A number of them dressed as Ashburnham did in clothing that came from the second-hand shops. Each one who passed caused her to become queasy. Was he the one? she would ask herself.
Any unease that petrified her would quickly be forgotten when she remembered her husband was close by, watching. How clever they had been to have him leave their home more than an hour before her. He'd gone to William's where he dressed, emerged a woman, and was assisted onto a fortified cart to sit next to one of the senior members of the Birmingham army. She'd been shocked to learn her husband's family needed so many highly qualified armed guards. It wasn't as if William was still dealing in gold bullion. Adam
had explained that they still shipped large amounts of money throughout the Continent, as well as in the British Isles.
At Madame De Guerney's she was greeted enthusiastically by the owner. "Oh, Mrs. Birmingham, I am so happy you have come. Your beautiful gown is ready for a fitting. You have saved me a trip to Curzon Street."
How did the modiste know her home was on Curzon Street? Emma's heart sank. Had Maria lived there? Had Madame De Guerney brought Adam's mistress's gowns there? Thinking of Maria made Emma low. That explained why Adam had not told her he was in love with her. Hadn't he once told her that he would always love Maria?
Emma was confident that Adam loved her—first, like a stray pup, or a cherished relation—perhaps even as a lover.
But he was not in love with her as he'd so agonizingly been with his long-time mistress.
She tried on her gown, and when she peered in the looking glass, her eyes grew moist. I am going to meet the queen. A month earlier she would never have believed it. What a grand adventure she was having since she'd come to London.
The waist needed to be taken in a bit more, then Madame would have it delivered to her. That's when Emma remembered that Madam's staff had delivered all her pretty dresses there shortly after her marriage.
Perhaps that odious Maria had not lived there. Emma sighed. Would she ever have the courage to ask Adam if Maria had ever lived at their house?
When she left the shop, she tried to surreptitiously determine if anyone gave the appearance of being interested in her, in following her. She didn't think anyone was. Many men as well as women crowded the pavement on either side of the busy street, and so many conveyances constantly swept past, seeing those on the other side of the street proved impossible.
The only way she could see those behind her was to stop and peer in the shop windows, which she frequently did. But no one seemed to be interested in her. What a pity all these Birmingham soldiers—and Adam, bless him—had gone to such lengths to nab Ashburnham and the evil men he associated with, and it was all for naught.
Ashburnham was most likely still waiting for the man with the eye patch to return from the north—with Emma. How long would it be before he even realized she'd gotten away, that his man had been killed?
She had watched carefully as her coach had pulled away from their house earlier that afternoon. Not a soul appeared to be following them.
How long would they have to keep trying to entrap Ashburnham? How long before he realized she had safely returned to London? How tedious this was going to be.
As she strolled along the pavement, she casually moved her head toward the street and tried to catch a glimpse of the cart Adam was riding upon. She didn't see it. Of course, he would be following at a discreet distance. She could see him if she fully turned around, but she could not do that.
Even if all of this was for nothing.
On this stretch of the street, foot traffic was particularly thick. More than once she was bumped into. Being bumped into and having a strange man breathing down one's neck were two entirely different things. Now a man was practically affixing himself to her back. She walked faster. So did he. She was about to turn around and reprimand his rudeness when he spoke into her ear.
In a deep voice, he said, "Do not turn around, Mrs. Birmingham."
A chill coiled down her spine.
"If you value your husband's life you will do as I say. Turn left into the next lane. If you try to turn around, one of our men has been instructed to drive a stiletto into Mr. Birmingham's gut."
Trembling violently, she almost imperceptivity nodded. She did not want to make any move that would jeopardize Adam's life.
She quietly slid to her left at the next crossing. It was a very narrow alleyway which housed not a single place of business or residence.
A lone, banged-up, enclosed carriage blocked her progress. Its door flew open, and the man behind her picked her up and tossed her inside as if she were a sack of potatoes. He came and sat beside her.
"You're taking me to James Ashburnham," she said.
"I'm takin' ye to a place—a very private and remote place—where Mr. Ashburnham will be meeting with you."
Once he gets the information he wants, he's going to kill me.
Chapter 23
Why in the devil were there so many people moving about on the pavement today? Adam was having a bloody difficult time seeing his wife. It was rather like the crowds at Newmarket cheering on their horses—without the horses and without the cheering. Just a packed mass of humanity.
Emma's height—or lack of it—also contributed to his difficulty in seeing her. Several tall men walking behind her obscured her from his view. He regretted that he'd chosen to ride in the cart at a discreet distance behind her. "Can we not move up a bit more?" he asked the soldier driving the cart.
"If you'd like." The driver flicked the ribbons, and they gained several feet on the pedestrians to their right.
When her ermine bonnet came into view, he sighed with relief, but he didn't like the way the man behind her was pressing so closely against her. "Stay at this pace. I want to keep her in our view."
She began to move to her right. She likely wanted to get away from the rude man behind her.
Adam tensed. The damned man was also moving to the right!
She slipped into an alley.
That man followed her.
Fear knotted inside him. What the hell was she doing? "Stop!"
Adam leapt from the cart. He was knocked to the ground by a horse coming up on their right. "Watch where yer going! You could be killed," the horseman shouted.
Adam got up and tried to race toward the pavement, toward that alley. His blasted knee hurt like the devil. Limping, he pushed through the pedestrians and rounded the corner onto the alley.
His heart stopped.
A dilapidated coach sped down the alley and rounded the corner to the next street.
He started after it, running as fast as he could on the injured knee. He didn't care about the pain. All that mattered was getting her.
One of his own soldiers flew past him. When he reached the point where the carriage had turned, he stopped. Adam caught up with him.
There was no sign of the coach.
He wife had been abducted. Ashburnham would kill her this time.
Adam had to save her.
* * *
Just when Emma’s wrists were starting to heal, the rough rope which bound her hands in front of her cut into the sore flesh. And once again, a thick cloth covered her mouth. She couldn't even ask where she was being taken.
An abduction in broad daylight meant Ashburnham was desperate. He was going to kill her.
I've brought this upon myself. She had offered to be bait. How could a simple clerk have outwitted all those Birmingham soldiers as well as her husband? She'd put too much faith in Adam's abilities. Now she suffered the consequence of her naiveté.
She had imbued her husband with every admirable trait a man could possess. Not only that, she was convinced he was the best in the world at each. Nothing could possibly happen to her when one as perfect as Adam was watching her.
Wherever they were taking her, it wasn't close to Piccadilly. They rode along for nearly an hour. Through a frayed hole in the curtains at the carriage window she could glimpse the narrow streets they sped along, glimpse the even narrower buildings in various stages of decay. This was a section of London she'd not yet seen.
They must be drawing nearer to the Thames because the foghorns sounded closer. The rickety houses gave way to huge warehouses. It was to one of these they took her.
The coach came to a stop. The brute next to her threw open the door, disembarked, and yanked her out. She surveyed her surroundings. Not a soul could be seen. Across the lane was an abandoned building, its windows either missing or broken, part of its roof caved in. The building in front of them also appeared to be abandoned.
Even if her mouth had not been bound, she couldn't have called for help. The
re was no one to hear her in so isolated a place.
It was just her, her captor, and the man who'd driven the carriage. Both men were fairly youthful, and both looked vaguely familiar. It took her a moment to realize the two bore a strong resemblance to James Ashburnham. They must be his brothers. Kinship produced loyalty. She had no hope of buying them off. Even if she could speak.
A brother got on each side of her, grabbing her upper arms, as they forced her into the building to their front. On the ground floor, crates from the Ceylon Tea Company were stacked—confirmation that James Ashburnham was responsible for her abduction. Would he also be her murderer?
They went up a flight of stairs, careful to avoid boards where the old wood had rotted away.
"Is my husband being kept here?"
Her captor laughed. "We don't have yer husband. 'Twas a ploy to kidnap you."
Did that mean there was hope that Adam could still find her?
At the top of the stairs. she was shoved into a small room. A mouse scurried across the sagging floor and squeezed beneath the floorboards. The men slammed the door behind her. A lock bolted.
When she heard their steps descending the stairs, she was relieved that she was to be left alone.
For a while.
She went to the musty chamber's only window. Though it was streaked with decades of dust and dirt, she could peer at the barges and ships that floated down the river below. At one time, this warehouse must have been used for shipping.
Was there a way to escape? She turned back and surveyed the ten-foot-square room. Its dusty wooden floors showed signs of neglect and age. Nothing else was in the chamber except a handful of nails. She went to the door and tried the lock. Her hands might be tied, but they weren't useless. No matter how much she attempted to jiggle the door, the lock held. Why was it the only thing in the building that was solid was that blasted lock? There was no way anyone would ever find her here, no way she could ever extricate herself.
* * *
Adam had never felt so helpless. Or hopeless. He had failed Emma.