Wedding Matilda (Redcakes Book 6)

by Heather Hiestand

  “Tonight?” Sir Bartley frowned. “Good thing we have the money sorted.”

  “I don’t like this,” Ann said. “There’s nothing about where to put the money. Or what to put it in. She’s meant to meet someone.”

  “I’m not sending my daughter into that park in the dark to meet some blackguard,” Sir Bartley said stoutly.

  “Of course not,” Matilda’s mother said. She went to her husband and patted his arm, looking frail and stooped. She’d aged a year for every one of the nine days Jacob had been missing.

  Matilda tried to push the gray fog, the torpor, out of the forefront of her brain and into some dusty back corner. She needed to focus. “We know it is a note from the same person, at least. Some of the same wording. The same amount, the same park where Sir Barks was found.”

  Gawain nodded. “Good points, Matilda.”

  The door opened, and Matilda saw Ewan enter the room. He looked exhausted, too, careworn. His shoes were scuffed and his coat had dark stains. Why hadn’t Mrs. Miller removed his coat? He still wore his hat as well. He needed a woman’s care, and far fewer trips on the train. She wanted to smooth that hair off his brow, force it back into the tidy slickness, and return him to his office at Redcake’s Tea Shop. Turn back time, basically, to the moment they had kissed and none of this had happened yet.

  She rose, trying to ignore her weak limbs. The maid was still standing just inside the door, riveted by the new ransom note. “Daisy, please take Mr. Hales’s things and fetch us some sandwiches and fresh water for the tea.”

  The maid bobbed a curtsy and helped him with his coat. Ewan frowned at the girl as he handed her his hat, then stared at Matilda. She felt the force of his gaze.

  “What took you to London? I didn’t hear the details.”

  “I wanted to speak to the earl. The end result, before you have to ask, is that I am no longer regional director of Douglas Industries.”

  “He’s going to send you to manage one of the farms after all?” Matilda put her hand to her stomach. Why had he returned, instead of fighting for his position? What did he want from her? Couldn’t he understand she had nothing to offer him?

  “No, he’s cut me off.” Ewan shrugged. “No position at all.”

  “You’re his heir,” Gawain said. “That’s outrageous. Whatever for?”

  “It’s all right, my boy,” Sir Bartley said, coming to stand next to Ewan. “We’ve plenty of land for you to practice managing.”

  Matilda winced as she thought of the wheat farms. She’d forgotten entirely about that project. It had been an idea of Greggory’s, to use up some excess capital and interest his younger brother in the family business. She’d agreed with alacrity, knowing how her father liked to own land, but she’d never even taken a look at what she’d bought.

  “Thank you, Sir Bartley. I appreciate that.” His grin was too practiced for her taste. “What else is going on?”

  Gawain held out the note. “No chalk smell this time, just a new demand.”

  Ewan took the paper and read it. “You aren’t going to go through with this.”

  Matilda straightened. “You know I have to.”

  “They might kidnap you, too, or kill you,” he said. “I cannot allow that.”

  Matilda ignored her brother’s look of significance. “I can allow exactly that. I need to take any chance possible to ensure my son’s safety. What if it is Izabela waiting for me in the park? I might be able to reason with her. I thought she genuinely cared for Jacob.”

  “We could say you are indisposed. Send Mrs. Miller,” Ewan suggested. “She knows Izabela.”

  “The two women together?” Gawain said. “Mrs. Miller wouldn’t be seen as a threat.”

  “The kidnapper might not even enter the park if he sees two figures in the dusk,” Ewan said. “It’s gated. They can survey the entire place before coming in.”

  “I’m going alone,” Matilda said. “We’ll have men from the factory come into the area around teatime, walk the entire area, keep an eye on the square. If they are there for hours, the kidnapper might not spot them.”

  “We’ll be there,” Gawain said. “I won’t let them take you, too.”

  His grim cast reminded Matilda of Gawain’s military experience. She wished she’d had the same, instead of years in a finishing school.

  Ewan spoke up. “They might recognize you, but probably not me.”

  “I’ll stay closer to the house,” Gawain said, agreeing easily. “You are in residence at that hotel on the other side of the park, so you have every right to be walking by.”

  “Frequently,” Ewan agreed. “I like the idea of the factory men, Matilda, if you are sure they aren’t involved in any way.”

  How could she be certain of anything? But she had to press on, for Jacob’s sake. “If you think the adulterated flour and Jacob’s kidnapping are related, we’ve proven the flour came from Douglas in London. Therefore, my men ought to be innocent.”

  “Oh, they could be involved with Douglas in some fashion,” Gawain said. “I wish we knew who Izabela’s mystery follower was. Has Mrs. Miller had any luck with that?”

  “I am sorry I have not had more time to learn about Douglas’s companies,” Ewan said. “I don’t know if it employs spies or believes in information gathering. Redcake’s is far more moral than many concerns.”

  “It doesn’t matter now, my boy; you are with us,” Sir Bartley said.

  “Until the earl dies,” Gawain added.

  “That will be years from now,” Ewan said. “Meanwhile, we need to get word to the factory men you trust, Matilda, and put them in place in a few hours.”

  She sighed. “I’m going to go over there myself and walk the factory floor.”

  “Wouldn’t it be best to speak to the managers about who can be trusted?” Ewan asked.

  She straightened her shoulders. “I care more about who I can trust, which isn’t many. I want to see faces, expressions. Are they concerned about me? Condescending? Will they mention their own children and shudder? Those are the men I want. Family men.”

  Ewan nodded. “Who do you want to go with you?”

  Matilda glanced around the room, then smiled tentatively at her father. “You, Papa. Will you come?”

  Sir Bartley smiled. “Of course, my dear. I will remember some of the men. Has it really been six years since we left Bristol?”

  Her mother came to her father and rubbed his arm. “I’m glad we didn’t leave Bristol behind entirely. I’ve missed the old house. So many memories here. It brings Arthur back to me.”

  Matilda’s brother had died here, in a bedroom down the hallway from the nursery. No one had slept there since. She sent a prayer up to her brother, hoping he didn’t have Jacob in his trust quite yet, up in heaven, but was keeping an eye on him here.

  A cloud moved away from the face of the sun, and a ray of light burst through the window sharply, illuminating the parlor. Matilda felt the heat on her face and smiled. Perhaps Arthur had sent her a sign. She gathered hope’s strength into herself.

  “It brings Arthur back to me, too, to have you both here in this house with me,” Matilda said, taking her mother’s arm. “He was a brave lad. Papa, we should go now, so the men can move into the area slowly.”

  “I’ll check back into my hotel,” Ewan said. “I wonder if I should return to the Douglas warehouse, before they discover I’ve been sacked.”

  “Does the earl know you were inclined to return to Bristol?” Sir Bartley asked.

  Ewan nodded.

  “Then don’t do it,” her father advised. “You don’t want them to think we’re focusing in on them until we have more information.”

  “We need to learn more about Izabela’s follower,” Gawain said. “Have we talked to the mother again?”

  “Mrs. Miller has added visiting the woman to her daily duties,” Matilda explained. “There’s nothing.”

  “We should put men on that house,” her brother muttered. “This is where Dougal Ale
xander, the private inquiry agent, would come in handy.”

  “Let’s just get through tonight,” Matilda said. “I’ve given up on the Gipsies and Izabela’s family. I don’t think we’ll find Jacob through them.”

  “What’s left?” Gawain asked.

  “This ransom note,” Matilda said. “Following the money.”

  “There is no way to do that,” Sir Bartley said.

  “You must follow whoever meets me,” she said.

  “I will,” Ewan said.

  Gawain swore. “It will be every man for himself at the opportune moment.”

  “We have good men at the factory. Someone will get them,” Matilda said. “We’ll find my son.”

  Ewan gave her a sympathetic smile. She turned away, not wanting to feel soft or enamored.

  It rained. And rained, the sky a puddle of dark clouds and moisture. Dusk came early, about three P.M., thanks to the weather. Wind gusted lustily through the trees. Everyone scrambled, grateful that they couldn’t be seen any better than the kidnappers. Six men from the factory were in the streets. Gawain and Sir Bartley walked on a wide circuit along with their wives. Even Mrs. Miller went to the main road to see if anyone she recognized climbed down from the bus.

  Hours went by, and everyone became weighed down by the water. They needed a change of clothes and hot tea. Ewan couldn’t even say for certain if the six men had stayed. Who could tell under hats and umbrellas? He wondered if the money had stayed dry in the valise Matilda held. She was nothing more than a dark shape under a tree when he passed by the gate of the park once more, about six P.M.

  He kept walking as he heard a harness rattle, fiddling with the whistle in his pocket. It was Jacob’s, and Gawain had given it to him, to blow for help from the others if he saw anything. Gawain had one as well, as did one of the factory men, but no one had blown them all evening. A carriage click-clacked down the street behind him. Turning to look at it, he saw a black old-fashioned park coach with four sturdy horses, possibly a decommissioned mail coach from fifty or more years before. He had looked at the cost of such things for Sir Bartley, who had wanted them for his new country life. The coach might cost five hundred pounds, the horses another thousand. What was a member of a driving club doing in Bristol? For the owner of such a coach could be nothing more than a member of such a group as that, and most likely based in London.

  He peered closely, increasingly confused and concerned. The coachman wore the clothing of an eighteenth-century man, right down to the wig underneath his tricorn hat. A long coat covered him to his boots. Ewan stared hard, thought he saw a handkerchief over the man’s lower face, in the manner of a highwayman. As Ewan goggled, he heard a gasp.

  He whipped around, grabbing the closest iron fence posts, and peered into the park. Someone was standing next to Matilda. He cursed the dark and the rain. Surely that was a tricorn as well, a wig and a long coat? Expecting her to hand over the valise, he was shocked to see her bend at a strange angle, then start to move alongside the figure. He forced himself to remain quiet, though his instinct was to call out. What was going on? Another shadow detached from a tree: a second person. Not eight feet away from him, the park gate opened.

  Matilda coughed, and he could see she was being held by her scarf, wrapped tightly around the figure’s gloved hand. She was being choked. Did the figure have a knife in the other hand, right up against her temple?

  He stepped closer, gaining a foot. Yes, it was a knife. A streetlight caught it weakly, but he could see the metal’s shine. What could he do? He gained another foot as the other figure passed out of the gates. To his shock he saw that person had a small sword strapped to his side. An honest-to-goodness sword. What on earth?

  “Matilda!” he called, unable to help himself, as she passed under the faint illumination of the streetlight with the first figure.

  Her head turned slightly, then was stopped by the grip on her scarf, the knife against her face. While her lips moved, he could hear nothing, though he saw her anguished expression.

  Oh, God, he had to do something. He put his hands in his pockets, hoping for a sharp pencil, something. All he found was the whistle. Matilda cried out. Could he persuade these men he had a gun in his overcoat?

  But then, the second figure pulled the sword from his scabbard and swung it playfully in Ewan’s direction, just four feet away, a mad grin stretching his larger-than-usual mouth. White paint covered the lower half of his face, and black was painted around his eyes. No handkerchief here, yet the disguise was just as effective. Ewan could not say if he had ever seen the person before.

  He stared at the sword, then at the man, his hand fisting in his overcoat pocket. Matilda’s face tilted toward him, her face contorted with fear, her eyes huge in her face. He could not let her go. He lunged forward, putting the whistle to his lips.

  The painted man laughed, a high-pitched, banshee wail. He lifted his sword as Ewan kicked out, aiming for his knees. The sword came at him, ripping down the fabric of his left coat sleeve. He felt nothing, kept moving, blowing the whistle, trying to get around the man, take him down. The rain-soaked cobbles slicked his shoes and he slid, careening into the man. The whistle fell from his mouth. Ewan caught the swordsman’s free arm and they capered in a crazy dance, a half-circle of twisting, bending movement, the man trying to get his sword up as he lost his own footing.

  Before Ewan knew it, occupied as he was with his macabre dance, Matilda had been pulled into the coach. He heard people running. Help, at last. If there was just one more person, he could attack. As it was, he’d be cut down by the swordsman before he ever reached Matilda. The coach door slammed closed and the swordsman tugged away from his grip and dashed across the cobbles. Ewan’s shoes slipped as he attempted to follow, and he went down on one knee, screaming invectives at the man. The whistle crunched under his foot.

  As he struggled to his feet, he saw the running people were not the men from the factory, or Redcakes, but two men dressed like the footmen of a bygone era. They jumped onto the back of the park coach, hauling the painted swordsman with them. Another figure, dressed similarly, came out of the park, carrying the valise with the money, and threw it through the coach’s open door before flinging himself inside. Ewan reached the door as the moneyman pulled it shut, almost trapping his fingers between the door and the coach.

  The coachman yelled something and took the reins as Ewan attempted to pry the door open again. The four horses began to move down the street, splattering rain and mud all over him as he fell back.

  And no one, absolutely no one, was present to watch the coach move away, but Ewan. When the coach had vanished down the street, he felt the first pangs of pain from his arm and saw the thick red blood dripping down his glove.

  Chapter Twelve

  Matilda tried to stop crying, holding out faint hope that her child, or the nanny, Izabela, or someone she recognized, would be inside the coach. Instead, the musty-smelling, black-as-pitch interior appeared to be empty. Her kidnapper pushed her face-first into the squabs, then sat on her, his heavy coat covering her head. She fought for breath, aware his knife must be painfully near. His coat smelled chokingly of stale body odor, which was even worse than the old coach’s mildewed atmosphere.

  No one had protected her from these men. She had seen the berserker light in Ewan’s eye when they had left the park enclosure on the way to the coach. Her lover had not deserted her. Where had everyone else been? Had all her factory men been bribed? Her father and brother subdued somehow? She knew Gawain would fight to the death for her, a warrior trained and tested in battle, even though he had a wife and child to protect at home. He wouldn’t even think of them, though, when he fought.

  For that reason, she was glad he was safe, hadn’t seen her go. She liked the idea of little Noel, a cherub a year younger than Jacob, safe in his nursery in Battersea, with two living, doting parents. Perhaps she and Jacob, her tiny family, were both to be annihilated. If her baby were truly dead, then she wanted to be
as well. Just let her die.

  Her parents would mourn, but they had survived the loss of Arthur. They would survive her, too. Ewan would fall in love with someone else, marry her.

  The thought struck her, that of Ewan’s love. She almost smiled, and wondered if the coach fumes were affecting her brain. Maybe it was still the side effects from the poppy syrup. Why did she think he loved her? Yes, he watched her continually with a careful, silent regard, but that wasn’t love, was it? No man had ever loved her before, so how would she know?

  Faintly, through the heavy wool of the overcoat, she heard the sounds of unsnapping and paper rustling.

  “It’s all here,” a man growled.

  Another man, with a posh voice, snickered. “Didn’t doubt it. The Redcakes have a reputation for being honest folk.”

  She felt a hand, most likely attached to the man sitting across her middle, move down her flank, find her bottom, and pat it familiarly.

  When she wriggled, he chuckled. “Three of us and one of you, missy, and I hear you’re no better than you should be. What do you say you give us a good time?”

  “Stop it,” said a third voice. “That isn’t our orders.”

  “Oh, who is going to stop us? You weren’t supposed to take her.”

  “Had to, or that fellow on the street might have fought harder. He was trying to call for help with that whistle, too. Not risking my neck for what we’re being paid.”

  The carriage whipped around a turn. The side of Matilda’s head smashed into a wooden handrail, and she saw cracks of shiny red light across the backs of her eyelids. She lay in a stupor for the remainder of the journey, focused on the motion of the coach, not sure what the men were saying.

  Eventually, the journey ended with a sickening, swaying stop. Wind and rain swept in as the coach door was opened. More men began to talk. Matilda was dragged from the carriage, then pulled roughly over someone’s shoulder, her upper body hanging down his back. The overcoat was tossed over her before she could see anything but the tail of the man’s coat.