by Erica Taylor
Patrick had joined them perusing through the quantity of information Halcourt had amassed on Jonathan Masson. Titled deeds, bank ledgers, details of acquaintances; Andrew shuddered to think how Halcourt had been privy to these details.
“I say, this sounds familiar,” Patrick said, pulling a leaf of parchment out of a file. “This name here, I recognize it. Fredrick Meyers; he was a friend of Jonathan’s I believe.”
Halcourt was looking over his shoulder. “Yes, that is why it is on the list titled ‘Acquaintances.’”
“No, I remember it from somewhere else,” Patrick said, his lips dipping into a deep frown, his brows pinched together. “There was a house deed I saw once, years ago. I was leaving for sea and went looking for something in Jonathan’s office and came across the deed to a house in Grosvenor Square. This man’s name was on the title, I remember because I had a childhood friend named Stewart Meyers so it stuck with me.”
The story stuck out to Andrew, as it had a similar ring to a story Clara had told him, about correspondence she had noticed with the same name.
“Morton has a house titled in this man’s name?” Halcourt asked, pointing at the name on the paper and Patrick nodded.
“It was a deed and a letter detailing the funds to be released for the house,” Patrick explained. “I asked Jonathan about it, and he was furious I’d seen it. Luckily I was leaving the following day.
“He hasn’t any property on Grosvenor square,” Halcourt said, frowning at the stack of papers and folders, reaching for the one containing a list of property deeds.
“I think it was the house he had for his mistress,” Patrick said, and Halcourt nodded.
“It would make sense for him to hole up nearby,” Halcourt replied. “Familiar territory and access to the toll roads out of town.”
“And the docks,” Patrick added.
“Yes, but we cannot just tear down every house on Grosvenor Square,” Andrew said shaking his head, running his hand through his hair in frustration.
“We’ll have to stake out the entire square,” Halcourt said, glancing at Luke and Redley who had come in part way through Patrick’s story.
“Luckily, it is not too large an area,” Luke added.
Redley nodded in agreement.
“Then we start at Grosvenor Square,” Andrew concluded. “House by house if we must.”
“I remember the number from the deed,” Patrick interjected.
Andrew, Bexley, Luke, and Redley all turned to look at him. Patrick swallowed hard and blinked as he looked at their astonished and annoyed expressions.
“Number fifteen,” he supplied with a shrug.
Andrew went straight to the gun safe beside his decanters of brandy and port. He handed a pistol to Bexley who began slipping bullets into the chamber. Redley shook his head “no,” and Luke passed on the pistol as well, claiming he was already armed. This would have been more surprising to Andrew had his mind not been focused on rescuing his fiancée. He loaded his own pistol, snapping the chamber into place.
“Stay here, Patrick,” Andrew said to the younger man, who squared his shoulders to argue, but Andrew raised his hand to cut the young man off. “No, I want you out of this. Clara does not need any more tragedy in her life, and to have you involved only augments the destruction Morton has caused.”
“Take my horse, at the very least,” Patrick insisted.
Andrew nodded to him as they hurried out of the study. Outside, the horses were waiting in the drive, saddled and ready to go. Luke gracefully leapt onto Homer, Redley and Bexley mounting their respective horses. The groom handed Andrew the reins to Patrick’s horse and he launched himself into the saddle. Andrew tried not to think of what Clara could be going through. He just wanted her safe in his arms. If he had to kill Jonathan Masson to accomplish that, then so be it.
“Stick around,” Andrew said to Patrick as he gained control of the horse, turning him around towards the open gates. “Morton might not make it out of this one alive and you may be the earl before the day is out.”
Patrick nodded, a stunned expression racing across his face. Andrew turned the horse and hurried after Bexley, Luke, and Redley.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Clara stood calmly in a ground floor sitting room, watching as her brother paced impatiently across the room, glancing out the curtained windows each time he passed. She carefully surveyed the room, noting the furnishing still covered in white Holland covers. Bright sunlight streamed in through the open window, the bits of dust glinting in the light as Jonathan’s movement about the room disturbed the peace that had once resided here. A large ball of twine sat on the table with a knife.
Her calm demeanor hid the fear racing just beneath the surface. She focused on maintaining the evenness of her breathing, keeping the tears from her eyes. She would not let him know how terrified she was.
“I am expected somewhere,” she informed, her chin tilting up. Jonathan turned to glare at her, his eyes dark and cruel. He looked a little haggard, his clothes casual and wrinkled like they had been slept in. He hadn’t shaved, and his dark hair was falling in his face. But his sneer, a look of pure hated, sent shivers through her.
“Yes, I know just where you are expected,” he replied. “Ran off to be Bradstone’s whore after all?”
Clara’s jaw clenched so tightly she feared her teeth might crack.
“I had hoped to find you dead by now,” he said, continuing his pacing. “But I must say this is a much more enjoyable outcome.”
“How did I get here?” she asked.
“In a carriage, my dear,” he replied flippantly, not looking at her. “Has your time with the duke really addled you that much?”
“How did you convince Bradstone’s coachman to drive me here?” she asked, seething.
“Oh I did not,” he replied. “Knocked the man out and drove you here myself. No one really looks at the servants, you know. You were certainly too caught up in your nuptials to look twice at me.”
Clara frowned. Hopefully Andrew would realize she had not run off.
The idea that she was still in London was comforting. Just like Jonathan to have an evil plan, yet be stupid about it. Did he not know that Andrew would not stop until she was found, even if he had to tear through every house and building in all of London?
Clara’s heart sank just a little knowing that was not possible. They hadn’t been able to find Jonathan the entire time he had been back in town, what made her think they would find her now?
Clara fought the tears that threatened to spill over. No matter what, she would not give her brother that satisfaction.
“If you are going to kill me, could you simply get on with it?” Clara asked. “This cat and mouse game you’ve been playing is growing awfully tedious.”
Jonathan frowned at her. “I’ve not been playing any games.”
“Yes you have,” Clara replied. “Having Andrew shot at, the attempted poisoning. Both failed, you know.”
“Those were not attempts to kill you, sister dear,” Jonathan sneered. “Merely reminders, that despite what Bradstone thinks, you are not safe with him. You shall never be safe anywhere. That was all merely a build up to encourage you to cooperate.”
He came towards her then and Clara quickly scrambled away.
“For Christ’s sake, Clara, I’m not going to kill you,” he said, binding her hands behind her back with a long strip of twine.
“Your prior behavior suggests otherwise,” she argued, struggling against him. Even though he had lost a stone in weight, he was still stronger than her. “You want me dead so you can inherit mother’s Patterson money.” The twine was wrapped tightly around her wrists as she fought to get free.
“How do you know about that?” he asked, shoving her roughly into a sheet-covered chair.
“It does not matter how I know about it,�
�� she spat at him. “Because it will not work. You will not inherit the funds.”
“Don’t worry about me killing you,” Jonathan replied. “Believe me, for my plan, I need you very much alive.”
Hauling her to her feet, he practically dragged her from the room and up the flight of stairs, stopping at a bedchamber down a long hallway.
“I am simply going to make sure Bradstone regrets ever looking your direction,” Jonathan replied, leering at her. “I am going to make sure you two are miserable together.”
Before Clara could wonder what he meant, he had the door opened and she was tossed roughly to the floor.
All the air rushed out of Clara as she gasped to regain the breath that had been knocked from her.
“When he comes for you, and he will come, I have no doubt, he will pay handsomely,” Jonathan snapped, bending down to her. He yanked her head back again, leaning in close so she could feel his breath on her neck.
“He will rue the day he thought to cross me,” Jonathan whispered harshly in her ear. “Filthy upstarts, the pair of you. Just wait until he takes his lusts somewhere else when he cannot bear the sight of you.”
With that he threw her back onto the floor, her head hitting the hardwood, and stomped out of the room.
Black spots appeared in her vision and she struggled to stay conscious. Andrew was coming for her. It was the only comforting thought she had.
Clara did not know how long she lay there, crying onto the hardwood floor. A pounding lower in the house startled her and she snapped her eyes open. She heard it again and sat up, wondering if there was someone else locked in this house with her.
“Morton!” she heard Andrew’s muffled voice from below and her heart leapt into her throat. He had found her. Somehow, some miracle had occurred and Andrew had found her.
Clara pulled herself to her feet and glanced wildly about the room, looking for something to help her escape. It was a fairly sparse room with very little furniture—a wash basin with a framed mirror and a nightstand with a chipped vase standing beside a four poster bed. She did not know if there was anyone guarding her door. She pressed her ear against the door listening for some sound but heard none. Her hands were still bound behind her back so she needed to rectify that in order to leave the room.
She closed her eyes and thought, forcing herself to calm down. Andrew was here, he was going to have Jonathan arrested and she would be free. Assuming, that is, if her brother did not kill him first. Even though Jonathan had said he did not want either of them dead, she did not dare believe him.
She sat on the floor, thankful that her wedding dress was more loose fitting. Her hands were bound, but not too horribly tight, and she was able to lie on her back and pull her arms down under her bottom, pulling her arms and hands over her legs. At least with her hands in front of her she could use them, even if there was no way for her to unbind them in the room.
She tried the knob cautiously and slowly, careful not to make a sound, but it was locked, from the outside it would seem, as she saw no sign of a key. She looked back over the room, searching for some sort of weapon, something she could break the door with.
Taking in the contents of the room, she figured only the chamber pot tucked under the bed and the vase were heavy enough to do any damage, and even then, there was no guarantee. She lifted the thankfully clean chamber pot to the door and set the vase beside it.
Maybe, if she could free her hands, she could find a way out of the room. Break down the door with the chamber pot or damage the knob with the vase. If she made enough noise, perhaps Jonathan would come and investigate, and she could knock him out. Perhaps someone would find her.
She took a deep breath, ignoring the pains her head was causing her. Full of determination, she heaved the chamber pot into the air and threw it at the vanity mirror, the glass panes shattering loudly in the still silence.
Andrew lifted the heavy knocker on 15 Grosvenor Square and slammed it down. It had taken him much longer to arrive than he had wanted, having met up with the Bow Street Runners as they left Bradstone House.
“Best to be prepared,” Halcourt had iterated and Andrew had grudgingly realized the wisdom in his friend’s words.
He pounded again on the massive wooden door, though he was not exactly expecting a butler to appear to whom he would present a calling card. He fought the urge to glance to his left and right where he knew Luke and Redley were waiting to go in after him. Once Jonathan was distracted, his brother and cousin would go in to find Clara. Bexley and Halcourt stood across the street, two Bow Street Runners in the back of the house and Connolly was on horseback, ready to pursue if Morton attempted to escape on horse.
Andrew huffed and impatiently tried the door knob and was surprised when it turned and the door opened with a soft click. Not wasting time, he pushed open the door and went inside.
“Morton!” Andrew bellowed, his voice echoing off the sparse front foyer.
“Ah, your grace!” Morton said, stepping into the hall, grinning at him in a slightly mad way. “I’ve been expecting you! Please will you not join me for a drink?”
Andrew’s eyes narrowed at the earl’s wild tone, charging at him, gathering the front of Morton’s shirt into his fist.
“Where is Clara?” Andrew demanded.
“If you will release me, I would be happy to tell you,” Morton replied, his brows rising. “If we can remain like this. I am quite content either way.” Morton’s gaze dropped to Andrew’s mouth.
With a snarl, Andrew released him, tossing him away.
Morton laughed and straightened his cravat. “Now, let us have that drink, and I will detail how you can buy back your fiancée.”
Glaring at Morton’s retreating back, Andrew followed him into the study. He would play Morton’s game, for a few more moments, if only to allow Luke and Redley to find Clara. Then he would beat Morton to a pulp.
Morton had stepped to a sideboard, one of the few things not draped with white sheets. Pouring a drink, he offered one to Andrew.
Andrew shook his head in refusal and surveyed the earl’s ragged look, like he had been on the run for quite some time. He was in need of a bath and a shave and possibly a meal.
“Where is she?” Andrew asked.
“Oh, she is quite safe,” Morton replied.
“That did not answer my question,” Andrew said, his irritation starting to boil again. “Where is my fiancée?”
“Funny that,” Morton said jovially. “I don’t seem to remember giving you permission to marry her.”
“I don’t need your permission,” Andrew replied.
“I am her guardian,” Morton said, taking a sip of his drink. “I only interfered today out of friendly concern. I’d hate for you to regret marrying the chit. She’s rather damaged goods, you know. Been away in Italy. Or was it Prussia? I cannot keep the details straight.”
“What is it you want?” Andrew asked impatiently.
“Growing desperate now?” Morton asked, setting his glass down and standing up. “Like maybe your ability to keep her safe isn’t as reliable as you had thought? I was able to get to her when she was sequestered in your household. One threat to a maid was all it took. And she proved quite easy to abduct this morning. Apparently your competency should be reexamined.”
“What do you want?” Andrew asked again, trying his best to keep him distracted, giving his kin time to search the house. She was here somewhere, he knew it.
“Do you feel helpless? Powerless? Responsible, even? Like you might have felt twelve years ago when your poor brother and father met such a similar fate? It would be such a shame if dear Clara were to wind up on the side of some road left for dead. I cannot imagine you want that kind of scandal attached to your name, again. It would be such a tragedy for you to lose another family member.”
There was a crash from somewhere inside the
house and Andrew turned in the direction, hopeful.
“Ah, don’t mind that,” Morton said, shrugging. “You never know what the servants will be up to.”
“I have not seen any servants yet,” Andrew replied, anticipation racing through him. Had that been Clara? Was she hurt? Was she fighting? He desperately needed to see her, to know she was safe, even if meant he had to tear Morton and this house apart.
“Yes, that is the beauty of servants,” Morton said, striding lazily across the carpet. “You don’t see them until you need them. Like when I needed that footman to run off with your former fiancée. That was a convenience.”
“What do you want from me?” Andrew asked.
“Funny you should word your query that way,” the earl drawled. “As a matter of fact, there is something I want from you.”
“Five thousand pounds,” Andrew answered. “I’ve a bank note here, if you’d like your money.”
“Price has gone up,” Jonathan said. “Twenty thousand pounds.”
Andrew did not flinch. “Done.”
Morton did. “Really? You’d hand over twenty thousand pounds sterling for the return of your little bride-to-be. Interesting.”
“Now where is she?”
“She is right here,” Clara’s voice said, and he spun around to see her standing in the doorway with Luke behind her. Her hair was messed and her wrists were red, but she looked well enough. She smiled at him, and he closed the distance between them, pulling her into his arms.
“Lovely, now we can have a proper negotiation,” Morton said, a mad grin spreading across his face. “I am a very patient man, but now that I know your weakness, you will not be able to sleep well until you pay up. Once I’ve bled you dry, then I think I will have Clara killed. The Patterson funds, don’t forget.”
“No,” Clara said looking at her brother. “Andrew is not paying you a shilling.”
“Then you will never be truly safe,” he countered.
“I don’t care,” she spat at him. “He is not paying you a pound. And you will never get your hands on the Patterson gold. You are missing one key point in this grand scheme of yours. You have failed to locate and eliminate all the remaining heirs.”