Barbarous

by Minerva Spencer

  Hugh could only grin in the face of such an onslaught. “Thank you, Aunt Letitia. As usual, it has taken only a small dose of your company to put me back in my place.”

  “Ha!” The old lady almost smiled but narrowly avoided the unprecedented action thanks to the entrance of her ancient lady’s maid, who pointedly showed Hugh the way out of her mistress’s chambers.

  After leaving his aunt, Hugh had one more errand: a visit to Rundell and Bridge.

  Hugh already possessed a king’s ransom in jewelry and gems, but he wanted to give Daphne something that was not some corsair’s ill-gotten booty.

  He pondered the selection for longer than he expected and was on the verge of making a special order when he saw the ring Daphne needed: the biggest star sapphire he’d ever laid eyes on, its cabochon shape surrounded by diamonds. It was the only thing he’d ever seen that came close to being the same beautiful blue as her eyes.

  * * *

  Hugh took out his watch for the umpteenth time. Where the devil was she? She should have been back an hour ago. He was just about to ring for a servant when the door burst open and two disheveled and babbling boys burst into the library with Ponsby directly behind them.

  Hugh stood. “What is it, Ponsby?” he asked as the boys launched themselves at him.

  “I . . . I’m not quite sure, my lord,” Ponsby stammered.

  “Where is Lady Davenport?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve had Miss Claxton carried upstairs and summoned the doctor. She is unconscious and I can get nothing from the boys other than . . . well, it sounds as if Lady Davenport has been abducted, my lord.” His face was whiter than parchment. “The footman who was with them, young Charles, was struck on the head and can recall nothing that happened after leaving the house to go to Hyde Park.”

  The boys’ small bodies were racked with sobs.

  “Give me a few minutes alone, Ponsby.”

  The butler left and Hugh carefully disentangled both boys and dropped to his haunches in front of them.

  “Lucien, Richard, I need you to attend me.” He held each of them by a shoulder. “Come now,” he said, giving them a gentle squeeze. “You must tell me what has befallen your mother and Rowena. Richard?” He looked toward the generally more composed of the two boys.

  Richard gulped hard several times, knuckling his eyes to rub away his tears. “There were two men,” he said in a wobbly voice. “They came upon us as we were throwing the boomerang. Lucien threw it into the trees and when we went to find it the smaller man grabbed him. The other man had just taken me by the arm when Mama found us. She yelled at them to let us go—” He made another loud gulping noise but couldn’t hold back a watery sob.

  “Steady on, man,” Hugh murmured. “You’re doing fine.”

  Richard sniffed loudly a few times before resuming his story. “She tried to take me from the man, but he grabbed her instead. We both struggled but could not get free until we heard a terrible scream, and the man lost his grip on me.”

  “I hit the man between the legs with the boomerang, sir,” Lucien said, emerging from his misery, tearstained but proud. “I ran toward Mama and tried to help her but she yelled at us over and over, sir, telling us to run to Rowena. So we did, we ran—and they took her!” His voice broke and he sobbed.

  Hugh hugged both boys to his chest. “You fought bravely, but you could not hold off two grown men, and your mama would not have wanted you to be taken as well. What you can do now is help me find her. You must be calm and think, think hard and fast about anything you can remember. What did the carriage look like? Did the men say anything that you remember? Think, boys, is there anything?”

  “The carriage,” Lucien said, his words muffled by Hugh’s jacket.

  Hugh leaned back. “What about the carriage?”

  “The man holding me almost put me into a carriage before I bit his hand. It was very old and ugly—the carriage, not his hand. There was only half a crest but I think it was a horse on a field of green.” His face scrunched up in thought. “And some red and white checks, maybe.”

  The Hastings crest. Hugh had seen it many times in his youth. That bloody bastard! And Hugh had been a stupid bastard to release him. Now Daphne and her sons were paying for his stupidity.

  “Hugh?” Lucien’s frightened voice pulled him back from the brink of rage.

  Hugh forced a smile onto his face. “Good work, Lucien. Can you recall anything else? Did they perhaps say where they were taking you?”

  “He only said we would be going for a long ride and if I was good I’d get to go on a boat. But that is all, sir. He no longer spoke to me after I bit him,” he added.

  Richard broke in. “The man Lucien bit called out to the other man to take Mama and that it was she who was wanted, and then he said something I couldn’t understand.” His pale, tearstained face crumpled. “Rowena is hurt badly, Cousin Hugh. Do you think she will die?”

  Hugh had no idea but he could hardly say that. “She is a tough lady. Tell me what happened to her. Was she with you?”

  Richard’s breathing was still irregular but he’d stopped crying. “Rowena attacked the man and then he hit her so hard she dropped to the ground. He dragged Mama toward the carriage and they were gone before we reached Rowena. I held her head in my lap while Lucien ran to find the barouche. And then Charles woke up and waited with me.”

  “You’ve done very well, both of you. Now”—Hugh stood and ushered the twins toward the door—“I’d like to see Rowena.”

  When Hugh entered the maid’s room a few minutes later, he found Daphne’s housekeeper tending to the older woman. He gestured her into the woman’s small sitting room.

  “Is she conscious? Can she speak?”

  “Yes, my lord, she woke up only a few minutes ago. I was just going to send for you as she is most agitated about something and wanted to speak to you.”

  Hugh nodded. “The boys are waiting outside—take them to the kitchen and get them something to eat while I speak with Miss Claxton. Tell them I will come fetch them when I’m finished.” That way he could see if the maid was in any shape to see the boys.

  The housekeeper smiled. “Aye, my lord, a spot of tea will do them good.”

  Hugh closed the door before drawing a chair close to the bed.

  “My lord,” Rowena said, not waiting for him to begin, “it was Walter Hastings’s old carriage. I saw the crest.” She winced from the pain of speaking.

  “Shhh, do not make yourself ill; take your time. The boys told me about the carriage. They also said something about taking a ride on a boat. Did you hear any part of that?”

  Rowena very slightly shook her head and winced even at that small movement. “By the time I got there, one of them had her almost to the carriage, where the other was waiting.”

  “Do you know if Hastings owns a place by the water? Or perhaps owns a yacht?”

  “I cannot recall Sir Malcolm ever mentioning any other property. Nor his uncle, Sir Walter.” She shook her head in frustration and then groaned. “I am sorry, but I cannot think of anyplace. I just wished to tell you of the carriage and—” She paused and swallowed hard.

  “And?” Hugh prodded, trying to remain patient when all he wanted was to be in motion and doing something—anything—although he knew not what.

  “My lord,” she said, her voice barely a whisper, “I may not survive and I would not want to go to my grave with this on my soul.”

  Hugh opened his mouth to reassure her she’d be fine, but could see she badly needed to say something.

  “It was I, my lord. It was I who . . . who cut your girth.” Her eyes shied away from his.

  Hugh could not believe he’d heard her correctly. “I beg your pardon?”

  She nodded, her face a mask of misery.

  “You cut Pasha’s girth?” Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. “But why?” Hugh could hardly have been more shocked if Ponsby or Gates had admitted to doing such a thing.

  “I was terr
ified you meant to take everything away from us and change things. Just like what happened to Daphne’s mother when Walter Hastings came and took her.” Her face twisted with self-loathing. “I did nothing then, even though I knew he was a lying, wicked man who didn’t love her.” She swallowed. “I was afraid your coming would wreck everything we’d worked so hard for. I was foolish.” She clutched at his hand. “I know I was wrong, my lord. Wrong to do it and wrong about what you meant to us. You have protected her against him. I will turn myself in.” Tears ran freely down her cheeks.

  Hugh shook his head to clear the bizarre revelation from it. “Don’t talk rubbish, woman,” he said more harshly than he’d intended. “The last thing I want is to cause your mistress any grief. Throwing you in gaol would do just that. Besides, if I’d protected her as I should have, this wouldn’t have happened,” he said, indulging in a little self-loathing of his own.

  “You will find her, my lord.” Her scared brown eyes bored into his.

  “Yes, I will find her.”

  The door opened and a man entered. “I am Doctor Compton,” a young blond man said, looking toward the small figure in the bed. “And what have we here?” he asked in a calm, friendly tone.

  Hugh stood. “Please take good care of her, Doctor. She is very dear to Lady Davenport.” He reached down and took Rowena’s hand, giving it a firm squeeze. “I will send news as soon as I have some,” he assured her.

  Hugh encountered Kemal on his way to the stairs.

  “Martín is here, Captain. He has ridden through the night to see you and is dirty and fatigued but insists he speak to you before anything else. I put him in your sitting room.”

  “I’ll join him directly. Will you go to the kitchen and tell the boys they may visit Miss Claxton as soon as the doctor is finished?”

  Hugh wasted no time going to his chambers. “Martín,” he said, extending his hand and gripping the shorter man’s brawny forearm in greeting.

  “Captain.” For once the younger man did not wear his insolent smile.

  “Please, sit.” Hugh gestured to the chair the exhausted man had been occupying before his entrance.

  “I ride ’ere like the devil, my lord, but ’ope I am not already too late,” he confessed as he seated himself beside a small table where Kemal had already set up a pot of coffee and bread and butter for the famished man.

  “I ’ave been at Whitton ever since dat pig ’ave leff.” He paused in this unkind epithet to stuff a chunk of heavily buttered bread into his mouth and wash it down with a generous mouthful of black coffee.

  Hugh almost rolled his eyes—he should have waited to feed the man. Martín’s speech was almost impossible to understand even without a mouthful of food. He could not make the sound th, and instead pronounced it as a d; treated words beginning with an o as if they had an h in front of them, and vice-versa; and referred to inanimate objects as he or she.

  “I ’ave bedded dat, dat”—here he appeared to search without success for an English word before resorting to the French equivalent—“salope until my cock, he is raw, and still she give me nutting. Nutting! And ’oo do I see come in de night? You cannot believe it, Captain. You will never believe ’oo show up.”

  “Good Lord! Who, Martín?”

  “Calitain!”

  Hugh blinked. “Calitain? Here? You must be mistaken.”

  Martín gave him a withering look of contempt. “I tink I know if I see Calitain.”

  “What in the name of God would he be doing at Whitton?” Hugh demanded, his mind reeling.

  “Not in God’s name—the Devil’s. And dat is what I find out.” Martín’s voice was triumphant even through a mouthful of bread. “I make sure ee not see me, but I sneak out and go to the stable, where Blake is waiting, dat . . . dat tête de chou!” He shook his head in disgust. “You know Blake?” Martín demanded.

  Hugh smothered a smile at Martín’s use of the English slang term, cabbage head. Clearly he’d been working on his English, although not the level of discourse Hugh had hoped for.

  “I’ve met Blake—he is Hastings’s footman or groom or some such.” Hugh could no longer stand to wait while the younger man struggled to find the correct English words.

  “Tell me the rest in French, Martín.”

  Martín’s shoulders sagged with relief. “Thank you, Captain,” he said in his native tongue. “Calitain told Blake that if his master didn’t bring him the remainder of the money he owed, he would take the offer to some other Englishman. He also said he would make ‘Aystink very sorry.’” Martín stuffed another chunk of bread in his mouth and Hugh waited impatiently while he chewed and swallowed.

  “Blake tried to calm Calitain and told him ‘Aystink had the money and would meet him at his ship. When Calitain left, I followed him to a shack outside of town—eh, maybe for smuggling. I saw only one other man with him.” Martín gulped down a mouthful of coffee before continuing. “After I left there I went to talk to Delacroix. He said he would do what he could to find Calitain’s ship. And after I left him I rode directly here. En fin!” He made a chopping motion with his hand to indicate he’d finished his tale.

  Hugh sat back in his chair, speechless at the turn of events. Calitain had been running slaves for years. Hugh could think of only one reason the notorious slaver would risk coming onto English soil—where he was a wanted man: to collect money from a delinquent investor.

  “If Hastings owes him money it can only be for one thing,” Hugh finally said.

  “Oui, slaves.” Martín’s voice was flat. An escaped slave himself, Martín was not well-disposed toward those who dealt in human cargo.

  The first time Hugh met Martín, it had been with the blood of his last master still fresh on his hands. Apparently the man had attempted to make use of Martín’s body one time too often for the young man’s patience. Like many who worked the bordellos of New Orleans, Martín was of mixed blood. The fact that he was what the Americans called high creole, owing only a fraction of his heritage to the blood of captured Africans, made no difference to his situation under American law. He’d been born a slave and would have died one if he’d not taken matters into his own hands.

  Hugh looked at Martín as he worked on the last pieces of what had been a formidable pile of bread. While he seemed much like any other man his age—obsessed equally with women, money, and fine clothes—there was a strange kind of deadness in his exotic golden eyes.

  Hugh had seen the look more than once when he looked in the mirror. It was a deadness that came from having once been another man’s possession. Not always as well tended as his master’s other livestock—horses or dogs—and constantly awaiting the day when one’s value decreased and one would face a humiliating sale, to be passed along to some other master.

  “Now that Hastings’s plan to marry Lady Davenport has fallen apart, I can only assume he has decided to ransom her.” Hugh took a deep breath and forced himself to put into words the sickening thoughts in his head. “It is also possible Hastings has learned of the bad blood between me and Calitain and will offer Daphne to him as payment.”

  Martín nodded grimly.

  “The boys mentioned that the men who tried to abduct them talked about a boat ride. I believe Hastings must be taking her to Calitain, who is obviously somewhere close to Eastbourne.”

  Martín finished the last of his coffee and exhaled with satisfaction. “You are ready to ride, milor’ ?” His lips twisted into an impudent grin, making sure Hugh knew that it would take more than one grueling ride to slow down a man of his abilities.

  “I am only delayed by the pleasure of watching you gorge yourself,” Hugh replied, already on his feet. The door opened and Kemal entered.

  “Ah, Kemal, perfect timing. Will you lay out my regular kit, not the town foppery, pack my new pair of pistols, and take another pair for you and Martín. I’ll have my sword as well,” he said with a grim smile. “Perhaps I’ll even find somebody to use it on.”

  Chapter Twenty-Oner />
  Daphne woke in utter darkness, her hands bound together and secured to something over her head. Her arms had gone numb; she must have been in the carriage for some time.

  Her eyes were accustomed to the gloom so at least she could confirm she was alone. She almost wept with relief; the men had not gone back for her sons.

  If the boys and Rowena had made it to safety, then Hugh would already know what had happened. Malcolm must be desperate indeed to use so recognizable a conveyance to commit the crime of kidnapping a peer.

  The coach windows had been blackened over with some substance but she could see light where there were scratches. So, it was still day—she hadn’t been gone that long after all. She lifted her arms to relieve some of the pressure on them, breathing deeply and ignoring the terror that clawed at her. Where was Malcolm taking her? He wouldn’t go to Whitton, where it would be difficult to keep her presence a secret. And Walter Hastings had sold the only other estate the Hastings family owned years ago. Where else could he take her? And what in God’s name did he think to do with her once he got her to his destination? Did he think to force her into marriage? Or perhaps he meant to extort more money from her?

  Daphne closed her eyes against the deluge of unanswerable questions.

  Why speculate? Instead, she concentrated on calming her pounding heart and husbanding her strength—for when she would really need it.

  * * *

  Hugh was ready to leave Davenport House within the hour. He met Martín coming from the kitchens, where he’d gone to fortify himself with something more filling than bread. Hugh watched as one of the housemaids came running up behind Martín. He stopped and turned to the pretty young woman, who leaned toward him as if her body were magnetically attracted to his. They exchanged a few quiet words before Martín laughed and ran his finger down her cheek.