Caversham's Bride (The Caversham Chronicles - Book One)

by Raven, Sandy

  Ren couldn’t help but agree with Michael’s assessment. His wife’s abduction was planned and calculated. Thomas took Lia, and Ren feared for her safety and that of his unborn child. But the more he thought about it, Thomas knew killing Lia would not get him what he sought, the money he needed and the title he wanted. Both of which Thomas could only get if he were to kill him. Holding Lia was intended to bring Ren to him, where Thomas would attempt to kill him again. Ren was terrified for his wife and child, but his fear increasingly turned more to anger as the minutes ticked by.

  Cartland hurried into the room, and came up to them. “A tenant saw a black carriage speeding toward Town yesterday, at about the time Her Grace went missing. He said it almost ran him off the road as he was returning from helping a neighbor, that’s why he remembers the time.”

  “He’s taken her to London,” Michael said.

  “Let’s go,” Ren stressed. “I must find my wife.”

  “God be with you, Your Grace,” his grandmother said after Ren kissed her cheek.

  “Where I am going I don’t want God with me,” Ren replied. “He will be disappointed in me for what I’m about to do.”

  The cold, windowless, damp cellar store room where Lia was being held reeked of innumerable foul odors. She heard slithering insects on the walls and rodents on the damp earthen floors. No air circulated to move the pungent smell of decay in the musty underground room. When she was abducted she’d been wearing only a shawl over her dress, and her body was becoming unable to fend off the temperatures.

  Fumbling around in the dark when she’d awakened on the moldy mound of straw, Lia had found a lone wooden crate, turned it over and sat on it. In the days since she’d arrived, she hadn’t moved from that spot except to relieve herself in a corner of the room.

  Another mild contraction tightened across her lower body. She took a deep breath, and expelled it slowly. The pains had begun a few hours back, and she remembered Dr. Prescott saying they had to be frequent and consistent before she sought her bed. They were neither yet. Lia had to rely on the doctor’s words, and since there were still long stretches passing between the spasms, she hoped she had plenty of time.

  Time for what? How long had she been here? Three days or four? Her stomach growled, and she tried to think of something other than food or drink. She shivered in a feverish stupor. Her body was weakening by the hour and the babe seemed to sense her predicament and conserved it’s energy too. She didn’t want to die, but if she didn’t leave here soon, neither she nor the babe would survive this nightmare. Again, she prayed for her husband to find her soon. He loved her, and he wanted his child. This she was sure of.

  Her head dropped forward and she closed her eyes. In the distance, she heard the heavenly sound of the bells of St. Paul’s again. It was noon, which meant she’d been in this old ice hole for four days.

  Lia startled at the lock turning in the door, then a bright light pierced the darkened cell, as someone came down the steps. She squinted toward the blinding sight, a silhouette of a man descended the stairs, then she lost him in the dark room.

  She heard the sound of a second man coming behind the first and their footsteps drew closer. Lia caressed her taut abdomen, hoping it was food or drink the guards brought. She hadn’t had anything to eat or drink since the day before.

  “Well now, Your Grace, we would like to make you an offer.” The first man said as he stood over her seated form.

  Lia grunted, too tired to even speak.

  “Are you ready to go home to your husband?” the second man asked. “Cause we’re ready to send him that ransom note now that our transport is arranged.” The man paused as he bit from a meaty-smelling pastry. “Now be a good duchess and write the note, then we’ll share some of our pastries and ale with ye.”

  Lia’s mouth watered at the thought of crumbs falling to the ground, wasted. What she’d give for a taste.

  Her gaoler spoke through a mouth full of food. “Imagine how thrilled he will be to receive a note, by your own hand of course, telling him you, and more importantly his heir, are still alive. I think he would be willing to part with a good deal of coin. Don’t you?”

  “He will kill you if he finds out who you are,” she said, feeling more energetic now than she had all day.

  “I think not, Duchess,” the paunch-bellied man said before taking another bite. “Once I have my coin, I’m gone from this country. I’ll be rich enough to start over someplace else.”

  Lia considered her words as her babe kicked fiercely within. The child wanted to live, and it was hard for her to fight this battle when the loser was not just herself, but also the son or daughter she carried.

  “We’ll be rich like ye nobs out in Australia,” said the second man, “and no one will know who we are.”

  She wanted to ask the man why he needed her to pen the ransom note, but got her answer a minute later when the second man muttered to the first, “It’s better this way. He’ll know she still lives.”

  The second man replied, “We coulda been gone ’fore now if his lordship had wrote the note when we first got her.”

  Lia snapped to attention in the dark room and hoped her jailers couldn’t see her face. She knew now, Lord Whitby was involved. She had to think quickly. She needed a way to let her husband know. Then it hit her. Write the note in Italian. These men were likely unable to write in their own language, much less hers. It made what she was about to do an enormous risk, though one she had to take if she was going to survive this nightmare.

  “Sí,” she nodded, “I will do it,” she responded, her throat dry and her voice weak.

  “Very wise of you. Now follow me.”

  The bigger man of the two led the way to the stairwell, with the other following behind her. Lia took the stairs up very slowly, the small amount of energy it took to climb them drained her completely. She stopped once, midway up, and the man behind shoved her, prodding her to keep moving.

  It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the bright sunshine streaming in through the grime-covered windows. Upon entering the cavernous warehouse, empty but for a few boxes and a desk, Lia gazed at the freedom of outdoors. It had been days since she breathed fresh air. Even the rank, river-smelling air up here seemed crisp and clean compared to the stench in that hole in the ground she’d been forced into days ago. Looking behind her she noted the building was partially burned and the roof on that side had collapsed.

  The guard led her to a crate near the desk, and motioned for her to sit. The first man shoved a sheet of paper, an ink jar, and a blunt, broken quill at her. “Write down every thing I say,” he said.

  “I do not know English well enough to write in your language.” She hoped God would forgive the lie. “I must write in my language.”

  “Can His Grace read your jibberish?” the shorter man asked.

  “I hope so,” Lia replied.

  “As long as you’re sure he can read it, I don’t care,” the taller one said.

  She offered up a quick prayer of thanks, and began to compose her letter to her husband as her captor dictated his.

  Ren stared out at the early morning light on Upper Brook Street, below his office window, and seethed inside. His wife was here in London. Another day was about to dawn and still he knew not where she was. And, the longer she wasn’t in his care, the angrier he got.

  She was likely in the underbelly of London somewhere, as this had been Thomas’ home for the past year. His cousin had become one with the rats of the underground and sewers. There was nothing in the country for him to hide in or behind, especially near Haldenwood. The rank, nefarious slums of this town had been his home for so long now, Ren doubted that Thomas remembered he was born a gentleman.

  As the investigator took his seat, Ren motioned for the footman to refill his cup with more coffee. He and Michael listened to the evening report from Cartland, when a disturbance in the halls at the rear of the Caversham House began to grow louder. Ren went to the door of his off
ice just as the baize door slammed open and one of the investigator’s men came running through the house and up the stairs.

  “A note addressed to Your Grace arrived by messenger just now. The boy didn’t know who sent him, only that he was to collect coin upon delivery. Your footmen are keeping the boy in the kitchens, and the cook is feeding him. We kept him here in case you want to question him.” The young man looked at his employer, then at Michael, then back to Ren. “Shall I bring him up, Your Grace?”

  “No,” Michael said stepping forward while Ren took the note. “Keep him in the kitchen. We will send for him when we’re ready.”

  Lia’s handwriting on the letter caused Ren’s stomach to lurch. Fighting down the urge to rip it open, he took a deep breath, broke the wax and unfolded the page. The words brought joy to his weary and frightened soul as he scanned the note, oddly written in Italian. He struggled to remember the translations from his school days, but he figured out enough to know where she was.

  Dear Husband,

  I am certain they cannot read this. Your cousin is involved, he is not here. There are two men guarding me, both have pistols.

  They are keeping me in London, near the river. I hear the bells of St. Paul’s. Look for an abandoned warehouse. The building is partly burned and the roof fallen in on one side. They keep me locked below ground in an old cold storage room.

  Please hurry. My labor has begun and our child is coming soon.

  I love you,

  Your Lia

  In the excitement of the moment, he choked with relief. “She’s alive! We must hurry and find her,” he said as he began to bark orders to the footman to have their horses and a closed carriage brought around. “Then find Prescott and have him here when we return. Tell the women to prepare for Her Grace’s arrival.”

  Michael took the note from his hand and read it.

  Ren gave the details to Cartland, who gathered all his men at the rear of Caversham House and ordered them to scour the miles of docks on both sides of the river, within sounding distance of St. Paul’s, looking for abandoned, partially burned and collapsing warehouses. Once the building was discovered, the men were to find Cartland and Ren before entering.

  He and Michael then gathered pistols from Ren’s armoire. Taking his coat, he went out front, mounted his horse, and rode hard toward the warehouse district. With the force of his private army close behind him.

  Lia fought back the tears from pain. She wiped her brow with her shawl, and silently cried out again for her husband. She hoped the note reached him soon. Lia didn’t know how much longer she had before her child would have to make his entrance and she didn’t want her babe born here. These conditions, and her fever, were sure to kill them both.

  Yesterday, she took an enormous risk writing her own note to her husband. From the moment she thought she could get away with it, she grew bold and told Ren everything she remembered as the guard dictated his ransom note. Now, as she heard the start of the noon bells at St. Paul’s begin again on this, her fifth day, she prayed her husband might find her in time for her unborn babe to have a chance at survival. She didn’t want to give birth in this vermin-infested hole in the ground. Their son or daughter deserved better.

  Another contraction ripped through her, and she bit her fingers suppressing her screams. A flood of liquid gushed from her and ran down her legs. “Ren, hurry! Please hurry,” she cried softly.

  Some ninety men scoured the docks along the river, searching both sides simultaneously. Ren, Cartland and Michael watched the sun rise as they stayed together while each team reported their findings, then would fan back out covering new ground.

  Just before noon they came upon the site one of his men reported, just off Blackfriar’s road. Ren thought of Lia’s description, abandoned warehouse, building is partly burned, roof fallen in on one side. Ren got an inexplicable feeling as he neared it. Then he heard bells and he knew.

  “This is it,” he said confidently.

  Cartland nodded. “It’s exactly what she described.”

  “She’s here. I feel it.” Ren moved toward the building. “Let’s go.”

  The detective stayed him with an arm on his sleeve. “Wait a few minutes to see if anyone arrives. It will also give more of my men time to get here, and a chance to move in closer to evaluate the building.”

  “My wife is in there, possibly having my child while we sit here doing nothing!” Ren snapped. “I haven’t time to wait!”

  Before Ren had finished speaking, a rented hack pulled up in front of the building, and a cloaked figure disembarked. He watched as the man handed the hack his fare and went inside. Unable to discern if it was Thomas at this distance, Ren decided it didn’t matter. Any affection he had for the cousin he once loved as a brother, was long gone. He turned to Michael and said, “If my wife or my child is dead, he dies a horrible, painful, and slow death.”

  The bells finished their song marking the noon hour. He looked at Cartland. “How long before we go in?”

  The detective looked to his men, disguised as longshoremen, drunks and merchants, then gave the signal. “Give them two minutes to get into place.”

  Ren watched in awed silence as, without drawing any undue attention to themselves, a score of men slipped toward the building. Minutes later, with pistols primed and raised, Ren, detective Cartland, and several other men moved toward the back door, while Michael and the others went to the other side of the building. Every possible exit to the warehouse was covered to prevent the kidnappers’ escape.

  “On my cue we move,” Cartland whispered.

  Ren nodded.

  The detective signaled, one man silently turned the handle on the door. It was locked. On the count, two burly men stormed the door, breaking it from its hinges. Six men rushed forward with pistols raised, holding the prisoners inside at bay, while Cartland, Ren, and the others quickly followed, all armed and ready.

  Ren took in the sparse surroundings, and the three occupants of the room. Behind a crude table, sat someone he’d once thought dead. Even with the black hair grease covering his blond waves, mustache and full sideburns, Ren recognized his cousin, Thomas Whitby.

  All three men in the warehouse were in obvious shock. The big fellow raised a pistol and a shot rang out from behind Ren, echoing throughout the empty warehouse. The henchman fell backward onto the floor, one tiny hole between his eyes oozing blood as the room filled with the acrid scent of burned powder. The act stopped the other two occupants’ movements.

  “Anyone else?” Cartland warned.

  Thomas lowered his weapon, a sardonic grin turning up the corners of his mouth. “So, cousin, we meet again.”

  “Where is my wife?” Ren demanded.

  “She’s at another location,” his cousin said. “Her gaoler awaits my return before she’s to be freed. Let me go and she will be returned unharmed.” He made a slight move toward the door and was halted by an armed guard.

  “You’re goin’ nowhere, m’lord,” Cartland interjected, “You and yer friend’ll both be swinging from the gallows shortly.”

  “Where is my wife?” Ren bellowed as he lurched for his cousin.

  Thomas raised his weapon but before he got it level, Ren shot him in the chest, collapsing his cousin into a heap on the floor. The third henchman lurched for the door and Cartland’s men caught him and led him out to the street.

  Ren checked on his cousin’s condition, though he knew from the close distance he’d taken the shot, Thomas was soon to die. He tried to speak, but could not. He coughed when he tried to take a breath, and soon made a sick gurgling sound. Ren knelt down and seeing his cousin’s struggle, he demanded, “Where is my wife?”

  “Be...,” he paused and began to choke on his blood, “low,” he finished.

  Ren gave a curt nod in appreciation for that bit of information, then stood, telling his cousin, “Make your peace with God. You haven’t long.”

  Just then Thomas closed his eyes and began to cough and spit ou
t blood. His head fell to the side and blood began to pour from his mouth.

  Ren began to scan the room, just as an agent shouted from the far side of the building, “There’s a door here. It’s locked tight. I can’t budge it.”

  Just then everyone heard the frightening screams coming from the other side. Knowing it was his wife behind the door Ren ran forward and pounded at it, but it wouldn’t budge.

  Moments after she heard the gunshots, Lia heard the sounds of muted men’s voices, and banging on the door at the top of the steps. Afraid for her life if she made more noise, she bit her lip, tasting her own blood as another contraction gripped her. She held on to the edges of the crate, and breathed deeply for the duration, relaxing as much as possible before another came. In the din upstairs, one deep, true sound was familiar.

  Her husband’s voice.

  He’s here! Holding her belly, she walked to the base of the steps and grasped the rail. She pulled herself up two steps and stopped. The familiar tightening sensation began again, indicating another contraction about to crescendo. This time Lia let her screams ring through the warehouse, knowing Ren would soon free her from this hell.

  Ren fumbled with the set of keys Michael handed to him, having fished them off the dead henchman. After unlocking the door, he threw the bolt and yanked it open. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, but in the cold and stench-ridden hole, Ren saw his wife hunched over on the steps, gripping the rail, trying to pull herself up. He ran to her, lifting her into his arms, where she collapsed. He took the steps up cautiously, careful not to jostle her. Once in the light of the warehouse, he got a look at her. Her cracked lips had dried blood in the corners and her once-beautiful green eyes had sunk into her now ashen face. When Lia shivered he pulled her closer, disregarding her damp, reeking clothing.