“It is not a chit’s place to have a say in such things. The important thing is you are here now. We shall marry without delay. I shall get you with child and life will go on, though not as easily for you as it might have had you not crossed me. My housekeeper will take you to change.” He looked her up and down with distaste. “I am most displeased that my staff should see you in such rags. Indeed, I wouldn’t allow my scullery maids to dress as such on their half day off. I’ll send a modiste to measure you. She’ll outfit you in clothing I find acceptable. I’ll not be embarrassed by my duchess.”
“Then I suggest you choose another wife. For I do not agree to marry you.”
He looked wholly unaffected by her declaration. “All that is required for a Church of England wedding is a special license. Your agreement is neither here nor there. Mine is the only voice that matters, especially with how much the license cost me.” He turned to walk back to the house.
Rosalind played the only other card she had. “I am no longer chaste.”
That did get a reaction out of the duke, and as he turned back and advanced upon her, Rosalind felt genuine fear. He grabbed her by the arm, then moved his lips close to her ear so that she was the only one to hear his words. “If you didn’t have to appear at the wedding, I would beat you for that. As it is, if you mention that one more time within my staff’s hearing – within anyone’s hearing – I’ll beat you so hard you’ll wish you were dead.”
Rosalind had no doubt he meant it. But she’d risk the beating if she could free herself. She raised her chin. “I could be with the Duke of Lynwood’s child even now.”
His eyes narrowed, but he shrugged. “What do I care, as long as it’s a boy? And I intend to come to your bed every night until you truly are with child, so we’ll never really know whose brat it is, will we?”
“Lynwood would never allow a child of his to be raised by you.”
“Lynwood’s sense of honor would not allow him to steal another man’s wife. He may have dallied with my betrothed, but now that he’s had you, he’ll be no more interested in you than I will, save for my duty to my name. Now get inside and wash yourself. My housekeeper will find you something to wear. We’ll be married on the morrow.”
He stalked away from her, on his way to the stables. Rosalind let Mrs. Farrow, the stern-faced housekeeper, take her to her room. And all the while she was planning her escape.
* * *
Joseph Stapleton was tired and sore. He’d forgotten just how much he hated long rides, which was one of the benefits of spending most of his time in London. He might face death, disease and mayhem in the stews, but his bollocks were rarely saddle sore.
He was frustrated with himself for not realizing his error sooner. Loudin was tenacious, especially when doing a well-paying job. But he wasn’t that clever. He favored brute strength over intelligence, which was just as well since he had an abundance of the former and was sorely lacking in the other. He wasn’t a man to disappear without a trace, which in the end led Stapleton to the key to finding him.
Stapleton had paid several visits to Viscount Worthington’s home in the previous weeks. Neither he nor the dowager had been very forthcoming, which hadn’t been that surprising. But Stapleton finally understood just why that was: they didn’t know anything. They might have been the ones to hire Loudin, but given the paucity of reports from him, they were no longer controlling him.
Perhaps they never had. It wouldn’t be the first time an unscrupulous Runner had worked for two different parties at the same time, accepting payment from each.
So Stapleton had paid a visit to Fallmoor’s house, only to find the man from home. His servants had told him nothing. They hadn’t even admitted him to the house. But it hadn’t taken long to find a disgruntled footman who gave him information for coin. Fallmoor had left London a fortnight earlier for his Birmingham estate, and the London staff had been only too happy to see him go. They’d also been pleased to see the last of a burly fellow who matched Loudin’s description perfectly. The fellow had taken to calling on the duke day and night, as well as sending notes. The servants didn’t know what the man wanted with the duke, but they weren’t being paid to ask questions. Their only job was to keep the old man from falling into one of his rages.
Stapleton’s instincts told him it was no coincidence that Fallmoor had left town while Rosalind was still missing. He had a feeling that the closer he came to Birmingham, the greater the chance he’d run into Loudin.
He’d set out for Birmingham, and on the second day of questioning innkeepers and stablemen he came upon his first clue in weeks. A man matching Loudin’s description had been a guest at the inn and had asked about renting a carriage. They’d had none to give him – which was just as well, the stable lad confided, since the man had been mean as a badger – so Loudin had moved on in the morning.
That Loudin would be seeking out a carriage was worrisome, since Runners almost always stayed on horseback given it was quicker. There was a reason Loudin needed the carriage and Stapleton had a feeling it meant he’d tracked Rosalind and needed a way to transport her. When he rode on and found a hostelry that had rented a carriage to the Runner, he happened upon another dead end. The lad who’d spoken to Loudin had left the day before to visit his mother in Surrey. No one knew where the carriage was headed and since they were near a crossroads, it could be one of three directions.
Stapleton didn’t know where Loudin would pick up Rosalind. But he had a feeling he knew where they would eventually end up. So, he set out for Birmingham and prayed he would get there in time.
* * *
Grant Loudin had done a lot of thinking about his future during the weeks he’d been on this case. He took his assignments based on how much he would earn. Being on the right side of the law had never particularly mattered to him. Not growing up in Seven Dials. Not working as a Runner. He learned guilty parties would pay just about any amount to escape the law. So he’d often collected from both sides of a dispute, only deciding at the end whose wishes he would grant.
More than one of the people who’d paid him had disappeared through the years. It wouldn’t do to raise suspicions at Bow Street, especially with that bastard Stapleton who fancied himself better than everyone else just because he had toff friends. On more than one occasion, Loudin had tipped off villains on Stapleton’s whereabouts in case they wanted to even a score. He hadn’t paid to have Stapleton killed, but he thought it might come to that eventually.
Loudin had always laughed at Stapleton, but now he was giving him special thought. For one thing, he didn’t appreciate sleeping in the grooms’ quarters in the stables, but that’s where Fallmoor had insisted he stay. He probably didn’t want him mixing with the other servants in case they asked too many questions. The bloody duke probably didn’t trust him – which meant he was smarter than he looked.
The Duke of Lynwood was Stapleton’s particular friend and had been living with this Carson chit in the village. He’d observed them for the day he’d been skulking about in the woods. He’d seen how they’d walked hand in hand to the fest and how they’d all but devoured each other when dancing. He still didn’t understand the chit’s appeal, what with the spectacles and the mousy dress. But it did appear as if the Duke of Lynwood cared for her. Which meant he might pay to get her back.
The only question was who would pay more: Fallmoor or Lynwood.
Loudin knew Fallmoor would fight dirty if he didn’t get his way. He wouldn’t put it past the blighter to try to have him killed if he double-crossed him. Lynwood wouldn’t do that, but he’d begun to worry whether he would end up being more of a threat than Fallmoor. There was nothing more dangerous than an honest man. You couldn’t depend on them to see reason through coin. Of course, if Lynwood posed too great of a threat, he could always hire a cutpurse to kill him. But if word got out, he’d not only have to fear Stapleton, but the whole bloody Kellington family, not to mention the Marquess of Riverton. Hell, he wouldn’t put it past
Rosalind Carson to strike out if any harm came to Lynwood.
So the question became…who was more dangerous: Lynwood or Fallmoor?
He fell asleep pondering the very notion. And he had his knife by his side as he did so.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The morning came all too soon for Rosalind. She’d spent the entire afternoon and evening in her room, even taking her dinner in her bedchamber. She’d been placed in a room in one of the old towers with bars on the windows and a lock that had been secured from the outside.
Escape during the night had been all but an impossibility. It was freezing outside and not knowing the area, she would have had no idea where to flee, had she not died of exposure during the attempt.
After a few hours of sleep to store up her strength, Rosalind had risen at dawn to plan her escape. She’d tried the bars on her windows once again – as if they’d miraculously loosened during the night. All attempts to pick the lock had also failed, which meant she would have to try to convince the vicar to do his Christian duty and protect her.
She washed and dressed in the gown Mrs. Farrow had left for her the day before. It was much more elegant than the ones she’s been wearing the past several weeks, even if a bit more revealing in the bodice than she was used to. She idly wondered why Fallmoor had such clothes in his possession. Perhaps they’d been left by a mistress. She only wished the woman would come back and take Fallmoor to the altar with her.
Mrs. Farrow arrived with breakfast and to help her finish dressing. All attempts to start a conversation with the woman were rebuffed. The housekeeper would be no ally, that was clear.
After fixing Rosalind’s hair, Mrs. Farrow led her through the house and downstairs to the foyer where Fallmoor awaited. He had no expression on his face as he saw his bride-to-be arrive. He simply looked her up and down to ensure she would not embarrass him with her appearance. Rosalind wished she’d thought to spill something on the gown to irritate the duke, but she was so used to economizing that it hadn’t occurred to her to ruin a perfectly good gown – one that could be sold if she was in need of funds. For she’d made a decision during the night. If she couldn’t prevent the wedding, she would still do everything in her power to escape the marriage.
She’d probably have to travel to America to escape, but she’d do it gladly if given the chance. She was no longer afraid of a future on her own. Her time in Kibworth had shown her that there were good people everywhere, even if there was no evidence of such in this particular house.
Fallmoor wordlessly ushered her to the carriage for the short ride to the church. She saw with dismay that it was not, as she’d hoped, in the village where she would have witnesses to her forced marriage and possibly even the chance of rescue, but wholly contained within his grounds. There would be no villagers to which she could appeal. Her last hope resided with the vicar.
The carriage stopped and Fallmoor got out, then reached a hand in to pull her to the ground.
She remained firmly in her seat. “I am asking you once again, your grace. Pray reconsider your decision. I’ll not make you a good wife. Certainly not a dutiful one. You can threaten me with violence, but I will never lose hope of ending this farce of a marriage.”
“Oh, you will lose hope,” he said. “I’ll see to it.” Then he gripped her arm and pulled her toward the church.
It was a stone structure with a tall spire likely seen throughout the country. It was a building large enough to seat all of the villagers, with multiple gabled roofs. And it was a travesty that a house of God would be used to consecrate this unholy marriage.
The inside was as cold and unwelcoming as the day itself. The vicar was an old man, who bowed deeply when he saw his patron. “Good morning, your grace. May I say how splendid you look on such a glorious day.”
Fallmoor gave him the slightest nod. “My dear,” he said turning to Rosalind, but not relinquishing his hold on her arm. “This is the Reverend Persimmons, a man who owes his living to me. Isn’t that right, Persimmons?”
“And very appreciative of it, as always, your grace. May I say your choice of a bride is excellent, your grace.”
“I do not wish to marry this man, Reverend Persimmons,” said Rosalind, who flinched as Fallmoor pinched her arm painfully. “I call on you as a man of God to grant me sanctuary.”
The Reverend looked puzzled. “I assure you, miss, that your maidenly nerves do you credit. But if you submit unto your husband all will be well.”
“I shall never submit to this man and if you preside over this farce of a ceremony, you are sinning against our Creator.”
The vicar looked more than a little offended. “Well, your grace, I see that your bride is quite spirited, though I am sure you can cure her of that.”
And with that, the wretched man started making his way to the nave.
Rosalind looked around. There was no one else in the church. No one who would come to save her. No one to ride to her rescue. Just like at so many other times in her life, she had to depend on herself alone.
She looked at her fastidious bridegroom and an idea took hold. She began to convulse like she was about to be sick.
He took a step back. “What are you doing?”
“I feel ill, your grace.”
“Get a hold of yourself. You’ll not disgrace me.”
“Yet, my body seems incapable of bowing to your command.” She bent over, arm clutching her mid-section. “I feel very ill.”
“Persimmons,” yelled Fallmoor. “Where is a chamber pot?”
“Your grace?”
“A chamber pot! Miss Carson does not feel well.”
“Oh,” said the vicar with an almost comical look of revulsion. “This way.”
Fallmoor started as if to accompany her.
“Your grace, I would like some privacy. It is likely to be….messy.”
Fallmoor seemed torn between his distrust and his disgust. Finally, he motioned for her to go with the vicar, who deposited her in a room toward the back of the church, then left her alone.
Unfortunately, it was a room without windows and they’d passed the only exit on the way there. If she tried to escape that way, Fallmoor would see her. She looked around to see what could be of use to her. There was a curtain. She parted it to find the stairs to the belfry. She was none too fond of heights. But she disliked her betrothed even more, so she ran up the stairs.
They were narrow and it was hard to run in her gown, but she continued on her quest. She wasn’t sure what she would do when she got there. But perhaps this act of defiance would draw attention to her plight and there might be a sympathetic soul somewhere in the village who would inquire about her welfare. Fallmoor was so damned worried about his reputation that perhaps he wouldn’t want it known that his prospective bride would rather freeze on a roof top than go back in and marry him.
She was winded by the time she reached the top, but only a wooden door stood between her and the roof. It was slightly warped, but she simply put her shoulder into it until it opened. She stepped out onto the ledge by the bell, then carefully skirted around it until she came to the gabled roof.
She had a view of the estate and the nearby village. She noted with dismay that even if she could get to the ground, the house and stables were too far away for her to reach without being caught, even if she ran. And that was supposing she could get to the ground from the roof, which looked to be a truly daunting prospect.
But if she couldn’t get to the village, perhaps she could bring the village to her. She needed to signal them. She looked toward the bell.
* * *
Because of a fresh blanket of snow, Liam and Gabriel had lost the trail when they’d left the farmer’s house first thing in the morning. They’d spent much of the day fruitlessly trying to find their way again. London seemed the logical destination, so they’d set off on one of the two roads which would take them there.
By midday, they’d learned the shortest route had not been the one taken by Rosalind
and her abductor. No one at any of the three posting inns they’d visited had recalled seeing the carriage. And while Liam thought one or two ostlers might have been paid to lie, too many people told them the same to make him think it had all been a set up.
So he and Gabriel had retraced their steps toward the second road to London. They followed that one until dusk, further than the carriage could possibly have gone without them catching up, even with their detour earlier in the day. There was a moon that night, so they once again retreated, reaching an inn where they could get a few hours of sleep.
Liam had never felt more desolate than he did when he reluctantly fell asleep at midnight. He would never forgive himself if harm came to Rosalind.
The next morning, he and Gabriel set off before dawn. They had no clear destination in mind and discussed whether they should split up since time was surely running out.
“If they did not go to London,” mused Gabriel, “where do you think they might have gone?”
Liam had been mulling the question over in his mind through the long night. “I do not know. Rosalind’s mother and brother know better than to cross me. Their estate is on the other side of London and it is so rundown, they never go there.”
“What about that toff they tried to marry her off to? Could they be taking her to him?”
Ever since seeing Fallmoor at Madame Thurmond’s, Liam had stopped thinking of the duke as Rosalind’s betrothed. But there was certainly no way of knowing if Fallmoor felt the same way. Could the blackguard who stole Rosalind away be working for Fallmoor and not her family?
“Fallmoor’s primary estate is east of here and they would have had to take the London road to get there. But…” Liam stopped to think. He had always made it a habit to know the lineage of his peers. It often helped to appeal to their vanity when he needed their vote in the House of Lords. Fallmoor’s primary estate was in Sussex, but that wasn’t his only holding.
Never Deny Your Heart (Kellington Book Five) Page 19