Miss Antiqua's Adventure

by Fran Baker

  “Lord, Antiqua, don’t point so!” Archie reprimanded. “What, the tall man? That’s Hughes Ball, the man known as the Golden Ball, They say he’s worth some forty thousand pounds a year.”

  “Well, he still walks peculiarly,” she returned as she bit into her slice of bread.

  “When you’ve that much blunt, m’dear, it don’t matter a whit how you walk,” the Marquis said with a worldly air. “Though, of course, I’m dashed glad Jack doesn’t affect such airs.”

  “Jack!” She swallowed on an astonished gulp. “Is he as wealthy as all that?”

  “You are a ninney-hammer, ain’t you?” he unwisely inquired. “I’m not saying he’s got as much brass as old Golden Ball there, but he’s got plenty of the ready in hand. M’uncle married a cit’s daughter and when he died childless, left everything to Jack. I think he did it to spite m’father.”

  “I knew he was wealthy, of course, but I didn’t—”

  “Think. Yes, well, that’s evident enough.”

  The impending conflict never exploded into full-fledged warfare for Lord Rosewarren’s argumentations were interrupted by a saucy young woman who gave him a heavily-lashed wink. His gaze followed her lolling progress down the pathway, while Antiqua sniffed her obvious superiority over such male frailties.

  Though Archie had intended that they stay quietly in the box until it was time to wander through a certain spinney, Antiqua would have none of what she called a perfectly shabby notion. Having finished her light supper, she took Archie’s arm to meander down a number of lanes. She inspected numerous statues, delighted over several magnificent fountains and exclaimed with wonderment over the beauty of the triumphal arches. Eventually, Rosewarren stopped and pulled the end of his gold fob from his pocket. Snapping his watch shut, he said with decision, “It’s nearing ten, Antiqua. We’d best remove to the spinney to await Bal—our friend.”

  “I wish I’d not appointed our meeting for the hour of the Grand Cascade,” she said with a wistful sigh. “I’d have so liked to have seen it.”

  “But it’s much better that you did,” he countered as he pulled her onto a more secluded path. “The Cascade is so popular, the crowds will be off the paths and we’ll have more privacy for our meeting.”

  The soundness of this reasoning seemed not to affect Antiqua’s desire to view the spectacle of the simulated waterfall, but she allowed herself to be led away from the crowds and lights toward the isolated spinney. It did indeed appear that she had by chance chosen well, for only the merest lantern light chased at the shadows within the thicket of trees. Darkness closed in upon them; silence replaced babble.

  As they ventured further into the grove, the path narrowed to a trickle of a lane. Archie fell behind Antiqua and they ceased conversing. The wind whispered through the trees to muffle the sounds of their progress. Clouds scurried across the sky to mantle the moon, leaving the path in inky obscurity. Something slick and cool brushed Antiqua’s cheek and she jumped back with a barely stifled shriek. As the branch swung back, she laughed shakily.

  “What a weak-heart you must think me,” she said.

  Her voice echoed into stillness. Not even the wind gave her an answer. With sudden panic, Antiqua realized she was alone. She whirled on the path and peered into wavering emptiness. She struggled to remain calm.

  “Archie?” she called softly. She circled the path, seeing only shadows layered upon shadows. Alarm quavered through her voice as she warned, “If this is your idea of a jest . . .”

  A muted step fell behind her. As she turned toward it, a pair of arms shot out and a large square hand clamped over her mouth, smothering the scream that stuck in her throat. She tried desperately to resist, but her arms were too quickly pinioned by the powerful grasp. Her reticule fell to the ground. Her legs kicked out, but struck only air. She twisted her head, felt meaty flesh scrape against her opened mouth and brought her teeth sharply together.

  “Yeow!” howled the burly stranger. He pressed his injured hand more firmly against her face and complained, “This hell-cat’s gone and bit me.”

  “Never mind that!” growled an unseen companion. “Get her into the guvernor’s hack.”

  “I’m a’tryin’ to,” he panted, “but she’s a regular devil’s daughter, she is!”

  Nonetheless, the large man bundled her with apparent ease down the end of the path toward an awaiting carriage. Antiqua fought wildly with each step. A sharp rending of cloth pierced the air and she was dimly aware that her mantalet had been ripped. Her hat was knocked askew and her curls loosened from their pinnings, but for all her real effort, Antiqua might as well have been a snowflake fighting the heat of the sun. His unyielding grip tightened and she was swept away.

  The second man joined them at the door of the carriage. Antiqua briefly glimpsed a battered face beneath a torn hat before a grimy cloth was bound over her eyes and another stuffed into her mouth. Her hands were roped together before she was lifted and dumped onto the lumpy seat of the vehicle. A weight dropped onto her lap as one of the men threw her reticule in after her. She twisted and flailed unreasoningly. The bag tumbled into the unknown. A low-pitched moan halted her thrashings.

  She forced herself to lie still, to calm herself. Her bag must have hit Archie on the floor beneath her, and while this thought relieved her worst fear, she longed to call out, to know if he were badly hurt. Knowing she could not left her wanting very much to cry. She collapsed against the corner as the hack plunged into motion. Jolted and jarred within the poorly-sprung coach. Antiqua tried desperately to maintain some self-control over the terrors of being unable to see, to talk, and to know where she was going or why.

  Her greatest alarm was for Archie. No sound of stirring followed that single groan, and she cursed herself for having involved him in this dangerous intrigue. The only thing she did know gave her no peace, for though she did not doubt Balstone was their kidnapper, she could only guess at what he intended for them.

  Through all her fears, one great, shining relief would not be dimmed. Vincent was innocent! He was not a traitor nor a murderer, but a very eligible and desirable man. A man with whom she would very gladly spend the rest of her life.

  If, that was, she had much life left to her beyond this night.

  Chapter 16

  They lurched to a halt. Antiqua’s benumbed mind gradually comprehended this. The sodden gag, the cutting ropes, the cramp in her arms and the aches in her bruised shoulder ceased to matter. She forced herself to be alert.

  The coach-door was yanked open and cool air rushed to greet her. She heard a grunt as she was yanked from the cramped seat. The sweet, fresh air and the clear noises of night-creatures told her they were well away from any city. The quiet progress of her captor led her to suppose they were crossing a field or lawn.

  Knowing herself to be helpless, she lay unresisting in his arms, awaiting the next development. She was carried up some steps, turned sideways to pass through a door, transported some distance farther, and finally plunked ungently onto a hard, wooden chair. The smell of cheap wax assailed her nose, but she was given no other clue as to her whereabouts. Retreating footsteps advertised her isolation.

  Left alone, Antiqua was tempted to rise and run blindly, but common sense prevailed and she remained seated. In time she again heard the heavy stamp of booted feet, the low grumblings of her abductors.

  “You tooks your sweet time with the young skirt,” sneered one voice.

  “I couldn’t just drop her anywheres, now could I?” returned the other. “I had to find her a chair, then, didn’t I?”

  A snort from the first indicated his lack of belief, but if Antiqua hoped to gain any advantage from the fractious atmosphere, she was disappointed. With some scuffling and much panting, the two deposited their burden, rolling the Marquis onto the floor at her feet. A series of muted moans satisfied her that Archie had not been, as she had begun to fear, murdered.

  Before she had time to savor her relief, however, her head was abru
ptly twisted back, the filthy rag roughly jerked from her mouth. She devoured the first exquisite taste of air by greedy gulps. The second cloth was stripped from her eyes. Even in the dim light, she had to blink several times before her eyes gradually became accustomed to restored vision.

  Holland covers draped the few pieces of furniture dotted about the room. Tattered, drab curtains stretched meagerly over two long windows on either side of a cold, yawning fireplace. Her eyes slid quickly past all this, drawn to the form lying still as stone on the bare wooden floor, and she slipped from her chair to kneel beside it.

  “What have you done to Lord Rosewarren?” she demanded on a choke.

  “Him?” laughed the owner of the sneer. “A right handy cove with his fives, he was, so’s I leveled him with a rum one to see he don’t cause us no grief.”

  “Ay,” agreed the other, a bulky man with a rumbling voice. “He’s knotted up all neat and tidy. He’ll not slip the governor a dub o’ the lick this night.”

  She understood this to mean they had taken precautions against Archie’s use of his fists, but not fatally so. As if in confirmation of her thought, Archie roused slightly, twitching just enough to reassure her before sliding back into unconsciousness.

  The first man laughed again. His laugh was a jeer. The pale eyes in the thin face darted from this object to that, never staying above a moment on any one thing. Antiqua suppressed a shudder as they skimmed over her.

  There had been an unreality about this situation as she had traveled, bound and blind, over the undefined distance. Unseeing and unknowing, she had been for the most part as much angry as afraid. But now, looking into the scurrilous faces before her, a very real fear stabbed her and she had to fight to keep from screaming.

  A click of the door behind her claimed her attention. Pressing her bound hands firmly together, Antiqua slowly rose to face the tall figure of the Viscount Balstone as he ambled casually into the room.

  The corners of his lips curled up, but in a manner so menacing Antiqua took an involuntary step backward. The threatening smile widened. With darting swiftness, he seized her hands. Try as she would, she could not tear her gaze from the lock of his and she felt rather than saw him methodically untie the rope from about her wrists. The instant her hands were freed, however, she ripped herself from his grasp.

  She stood erect, glaring at him and rubbing her wrists to urge circulation back into them. Nowhere in his face could she detect any trace of the pleasant gentleman she had met in Calais. Even through her alarm, Antiqua wondered how she could have been so gullible, so trusting of him. Her apprehension intensified as his pitiless eyes continued to rake her. She knew a strong desire to swoon, to black out the evil of his cats’ eyes. Greybill pride came to her rescue, bringing cold fury to sustain her.

  “Upon reflection,” Balstone drawled finally, “I’m rather glad that my shot must have gone wide.”

  It all clicked horribly into place. She heard the echo of Thomas Allen’s hoarse whisper . . . “My brother . . . William,” he had said, but not as she had supposed in reply to her query where to take the packet. Allen had answered her frightened plea to know who had done this to him. She heard, too, Lucy’s fearful voice exclaiming over hobgoblins in Dover and knew her maid had thought, just as she herself had first done, that she had seen the ghost of Thomas Allen. If only she’d known! If only she’d realized Balstone had followed her to England! If only . . .

  With a courage she did not know she possessed, she raised her chin to coldly inquire, “How did you come to know I had the packet?”

  “But you yourself told me, last night at Countess Townsend’s,” he replied.

  Her brows drew together. “You must have known beforehand. Why else did you pursue me to England? Why shoot at me if not for the packet?”

  “It was an unfortunate mistake, my dear. I believed, you see, that Vincent had the information. It was all too apparent that he was enamored of you so I decided to get to him through you. When you led me on that chase through Kent, I attempted to bring you to ground and ended up, or so I thought, by killing you . . .”

  His voice trailed off, he shrugged.

  Antiqua shivered.

  “My apologies, my dear,” he said with a mocking bow.

  “Did you apologize to your brother before murdering him?” she asked quietly.

  His teeth were bared in a venomous grin. One jerk of his head dismissed the pair of highly interested spectators from the scene. As the twosome passed reluctantly out the door, the Viscount leaned against the peeling plaster of the fireplace, hitching one shoulder imperceptibly.

  “Ah, yes, my dear, departed brother. Thomas was unfortunately over-endowed with scruples. His interference in my life left me with little choice—”

  “You are a monster!”

  “I did so hope, my dear, that you would understand.”

  Antiqua shuddered anew at the soft, plaintive tone. How had she failed to recognize the evil in this man?

  He left his stance beside the empty hearth to press himself next to her. He rubbed one thumb down her cheek with unhurried strokes. “If you wish, I could show you quite another side.” The thumb traveled leisurely downward, his hand gently encircled her neck. “I remember the pleasure it gave me as a youth to snap the neck of a new kitten. I became quite practiced, you know. And you, my dearheart, quite remind me of a kitten, so soft, so defenseless.”

  The pressure on her neck increased and the eyes beneath his half-closed lids glittered at her strangely. She wanted to close her eyes, to shut out the horror of that merciless gaze, but she found she could not. She had heard somewhere that a snake’s stare could paralyze you and that was what Balstone had, a snake’s stare.

  After what seemed to her to be forever, the shine in his eyes faded and he stepped back. She felt faint with thankfulness. She had never in her life felt so vulnerable.

  “One’s eligibility in society today is, you understand, precisely equal to one’s income and rank,” he remarked as if merely making social chatter. “And despite the very obvious attractions of my—shall we say, charm?—and rank, without fortune, my dear, my status would have been scarcely more than some damned cit’s.” The drowsy manner of this explanation suddenly evaporated. “Where is it?”

  “Where is what?” she countered.

  “Come, let’s not fence with each other. I want the information you so kindly offered to sell me.”

  “But you could have had that back at the spinney. Why this elaborate abduction, my lord?”

  “You seem to forget—forgive me for pointing this out so bluntly to you—that you are not in the position to ask any questions of me. I am growing impatient, Miss Greybill.”

  She met this veiled threat with a defiant shrug. “The packet I got from your brother was in my reticule. You must ask your confederates what has become of it.”

  Balstone reached the door in two long strides. He yanked it open to reveal the pair of henchmen contorted together, ears pressed to the air. After a stunned second, they bolted upright and scurried away.

  A muffled groan brought Antiqua down to her knees beside the Marquis. As Balstone watched with deadly amusement, she removed both the gag and blindfold. Archie moaned again, more loudly, then painfully blinked his eyes open.

  “Antiqua! Are you all right?” he croaked.

  “Yes, I’m fine, Archie. But we are in somewhat of a fix.”

  Glancing past her shoulder to see the Viscount’s leering face, Archie said slowly, “I’m sorry I let myself be culled so easily, Antiqua.”

  “It’s I who must apologize to you, for getting me into this,” she said.

  A scornful laugh cut short this exchange. Both twisted round to regard with loathing the man who was so evidently enjoying their discomfort. They saw the return of his underlings, the larger of the two incongruously carrying the fringed pink reticule. The other held aloft a leather bundle, his beady eyes racing over it to glide lubriciously across Antiqua’s face.

 
; “As touching as this scene is,” remarked Balstone, “I really cannot linger to appreciate it.” He took the packet from the thin, weasel-faced man and tore the bindings in one motion. Triumph gleamed wickedly in his cat-like eyes. A fraction of an instant later, triumph vanished. The sudden erasure of his exultation would have been funny had not the look replacing it been so frightening.

  “What jest is this?” he demanded.

  Antiqua paled as he threw down the worthless sheets. “It’s no jest—”

  His arm lashed furiously out, the back of his hand cracked against her cheek, leaving a red and stinging imprint. She staggered, and within that second, she thought of Vincent, of her love for him, her misjudgment and distrust, and felt a strength flow into her. She would not let his enemy get the better of her. As she righted herself, she resolved not to let Balstone have the satisfaction of seeing her pain and fright.

  “My God! You cur!” Archie exclaimed as he stumbled awkwardly to his feet.

  Antiqua saw murder in the narrow yellow eyes shifting to the Marquis. Not pausing to consider the consequences, she pressed herself between the two men. “My lord, wait! It wasn’t what you think! We didn’t mean to play a jest upon you!”

  The fervor of her entreaty penetrated the fog of Balstone’s violent rage. His hands fell to his sides as he worked to control himself.

  Antiqua quickly pressed her advantage. “The pages are as we found them yesterday. This was all we had—”

  “Where are the documents Thomas had with him?” Balstone cut in brusquely.

  “I do not know,” she whispered.

  “Miss Greybill had nothing to do with your damned documents,” Rosewarren put in to devastating effect.

  With one rapid movement, the Viscount knocked Archie to the floor, then pulled back his foot to kick his prey. Antiqua brought her own foot smashing into Balstone’s shin. Instantly, painfully, she was ensnared. She was tossed onto her chair, her head lolling like a rag doll’s from the ferocity.

  “Bind her! And make certain the two of them are here when I return,” Balstone snapped as he flung from the room.