by Olivia Drake
“You couldn’t have known,” Jane said. “Please, read the letter and tell us where we can find Marianne.”
They all crowded around him as he broke the seal. Jane looked over his shoulder and glimpsed Portia’s familiar, flowery penmanship, but she wasn’t close enough to discern the words.
Ethan looked up, his mouth thinned as he glanced at all of them. “Portia requests the money be brought at midnight to a house in the Devil’s Acre.”
Lady Rosalind moaned. “She has Marianne in that hellhole?”
“Where is it?” Jane asked in anxious bewilderment.
“The Devil’s Acre is a slum near Westminster,” the duke said grimly. “The area is notorious for harboring all manner of criminals.”
“Good gracious!” Aunt Willy exclaimed. “You must get the child from there, and quickly.”
“That is not the worst of it.” Ethan’s stark gaze focused on Jane, and a quiver of tension ran through her at his intense look.
“Portia,” he said, “insists that Jane bring the money. Alone.”
Chapter 24
Despite her warm cloak, Jane shivered in the open phaeton. The clopping of the horse’s hooves echoed in the narrow lane. On either side, squalid tenements loomed against the moonlit sky, and the stench of poverty permeated the chilly air. Here and there, a pinprick of candlelight shone in a window. She saw someone’s wash strung out, pale against the darkened buildings. Black shapes moved through the shadows, slinking down the byways and alleys. Swindlers and coiners lived here, Ethan had said, along with thieves and whores who roamed the streets at night.
The note had stipulated she arrive in an open carriage with only a driver in attendance. It had taken much persuasion by Jane and Lady Rosalind to convince Ethan to agree, and in the end he had complied only because the alternative meant endangering Marianne.
So they had come up with a plan to protect both Jane and the baby. Since Portia would recognize Ethan, the coachman was none other than His Grace, the Duke of Kellisham.
He sat beside her, broad and sturdy, a welcome presence. Lady Rosalind had insisted on waiting in the barouche farther down the street, guarded by a trio of footmen. Ethan had accompanied his mother. He would slip behind the house and stand watch in case something went awry. Jane shuddered to think of the possibility.
The phaeton slowed as the duke searched for the address, the carriage lamps flickering over the dingy façades of buildings. At last they came to a house with the front window boarded up and a faded sign that read, Peebles Gin Shop.
The duke stopped the vehicle, clambered down from the high perch, and lent a hand to Jane, helping her down to the dirt street. He reached up and fetched the leather satchel. In his other hand he took the lamp. Then he inclined his head in a deferential bow. “After you, my lady.”
“Thank you.”
It felt odd to treat a duke of the realm as her minion, but she walked ahead of him to the door. Portia had instructed Jane to come straight inside and go to the rear chamber. Portia and her accomplice would not object to the presence of a lowly servant. Not when he was holding the money. If all went well, they would be in and out in a matter of minutes.
Rubble lay thick against the front of the building, accumulated dirt, old bricks, several broken bottles. A foul stench came from a nearby alley. Her palm felt damp inside her glove as she gripped the knob. Hope and fear raised goose bumps on her skin. Marianne was inside. In a few moments, she would hold her baby in her arms. Pray God someone had taken care of her.
“Have courage,” the duke whispered.
His fatherly advice bolstered her; she opened the door and stepped into pitch darkness. Her footsteps echoed as the duke held up the lamp to illuminate the squalid room. Other than a broken chair and a few old newsheets lying on the floor, the place was empty. Something small and dark scuttled along the wall and vanished into the shadows.
She shuddered to think of her precious little girl in this rat-infested tenement. Quickening her pace, Jane hurried to another doorway that led into a back room.
At one side of the room, a shuttered lamp sat on a table, illuminating the boarded windows along the back wall. Portia stood behind the table, the eerie light shining on her dainty, cloaked form. Jane glanced swiftly around, but the shadows were dense, and she could see no sign of Marianne.
Dear God. Was she even here?
Portia snatched up the lamp and marched forward. “Stop right there,” she snapped. “I told you to come alone.”
“It’s only my coachman,” Jane said, glancing back at the duke, who stood impassively in the doorway. “The money weighs a lot.”
Portia glared suspiciously, holding up the lamp so she could see his ruddy face. Jane prayed she wouldn’t recognize Kellisham. He’d attested that they had never been introduced, though they’d attended some of the same parties. Garbed in the blue and silver Chasebourne livery, a coachman’s tall hat on his graying hair, he looked nothing like the esteemed duke.
“He isn’t one of the regular coachmen,” Portia said.
“He’s been there longer than I have,” Jane said, pretending bafflement. “I’m sure that servants come and go—”
“Ethan wouldn’t have sent a man too new to trust.” Cautiously, Portia advanced on the duke, letting the lamp shine brighter on him. “What is your name?”
Before he could reply, a voice drawled from the shadows. “Never mind him. He’s just an old geezer.”
Jane spun around to see a tall, handsome man saunter into the light. Fair-headed, he wore the dark suit of a gentleman, and a diamond pin glinted in his snowy cravat. But his sudden appearance was not what made her skin clammy. Her gaze riveted to the pistol in his hand.
“You there,” he said, negligently waving the gun at the duke. “Put the money on the table. I’d advise you move slowly lest I mistake your intentions.”
Smiling as if he’d delight in doing just that, he stepped back to allow Kellisham to pass. The duke walked to the table and set down the satchel. Keeping his manner deferential, he stepped quietly back and resumed his square-shouldered stance by the doorway.
Portia ran to the case and opened it. With a chortle of glee, she snatched up a packet of bank notes and clutched it to her bosom. “Look, George. We’re rich! We can play for high stakes now.”
George? Jane’s gaze riveted to him. George Smollett?
It must be. This was Ethan’s former valet, the man who had slept with his master’s wife.
Shaken, she watched as he took the lamp from Portia and let it shine on the money inside. Smollett had not fled to the Continent to escape his gaming debts. That had been another of Portia’s lies.
Portia glowered at Jane. “The money had better all be here.”
“There’s fifty thousand, just as you asked,” Jane said, trying to keep her voice steady. “I would like my child back now.”
“All in good time,” Smollett said.
Holding the lantern, he walked around her, his pale blue eyes raking her, increasing her uneasiness. His footsteps echoed like gunshots. “Well, well. So you’re the new Lady Chasebourne.” He spoke over his shoulder to Portia. “You told me she was plain, a right ugly female. But I’d say she’s a rather tasty-looking morsel.”
“Never mind her,” Portia said, closing the case. “Let’s take the money and go.”
Smollett laughed, waving the gun at Portia, his gaze on Jane. “You’d think she was the one in charge here, wouldn’t you? The arrogant bitch still thinks she’s a lady.”
“I’m more a lady than you are a gentleman,” Portia retorted.
Her throat dry, Jane repeated, “Where is Marianne? We’ve fulfilled our part of the bargain.”
Smollett ignored her and strolled to Portia. “Not a gentleman, am I? But that is what you like best about me.”
“And what you like best about me is my blue blood. You would never have obtained this money without my connections.”
“So you’ve reminded me more than on
ce.”
While they quarreled, Jane peered into the dense shadows. She could discern a closed door near the back corner. Was that where they were hiding Marianne?
Keeping an eye on Portia and Smollett, she inched toward the door.
Portia seized the heavy satchel and dragged it off the table. “I don’t care to stand here discussing your lack of breeding.”
He narrowed his eyes. “The trouble with us vulgar men,” he said, “is that sometimes you get more than you bargained for.”
Her attention was focused on hefting the satchel. “Oh, do shut up, and come here. This money is damned heavy.”
“Then let me help you as I did with that brat in your belly.”
He had caused Portia’s miscarriage?
Before Jane could absorb the horrifying realization, he lunged forward. Metal flashed as he lifted the pistol and struck Portia across her face.
The blow resounded through the room. She cried out, staggering sideways, dropping the satchel. Falling against the boarded window, she slid to the floor and lay there unmoving, her eyes closed. In that same moment, a baby whimpered in the next room, then quieted.
Marianne.
Spurred by desperation, Jane sprang for the closed door.
* * *
Darkness shrouded the narrow alleyway. Gripping a dueling pistol, Ethan felt his way through the rubbish that strewed the ground. Intent on his purpose, he barely noticed the stench. He couldn’t shake off the claws of fear. Jane. Marianne. If anything happened to either of them …
His boot heel slid in something wet and slimy, and he thrust out his hand to catch his balance. The bricks scraped his sweating palm.
Without pause, he hastened onward, making his way to the back of the building. The hardest moment of his life had been letting Jane set off in the phaeton without him. Just seconds ago, he had seen her enter the building, followed by the duke.
He had to trust in Kellisham to guard his family. The exchange would go smoothly, he told himself. Portia wouldn’t jeopardize her chance to take the money. But Ethan intended to be nearby to ensure that nothing went wrong. And he had another purpose in mind, a burning resolve he had kept from Jane.
He did not intend for Portia and her accomplice to get away with their crime. Because this could happen again. When they gambled away their funds, they might kidnap someone else’s child.
At the rear of the tenement, he found a door with a cracked stoop. The windows were boarded, though a small glow of light seeped out. He put his eye to one of the cracks and bit back a curse. He could see nothing but a slice of blank wall.
But he could hear muffled voices. Quarreling voices. Portia. Then Jane’s level tone. And a man’s deeper timbre. There was something naggingly familiar about the man’s voice, something that fed the suspicion inside him. ’Twas a gent.… ’E were tall.
Ethan’s fingers tightened around the pearl grip of the pistol. He had a damned good guess as to the man’s identity.
He inched along the back of the shop, seeking a chink in the boards. Whoever had barred the windows had been overly diligent about keeping out prowlers. Then the man’s voice took on a sharp edge.
A blow sounded, then a woman’s scream. Something thumped against the boards directly in front of Ethan.
He reacted on gut instinct, leaping to the door. Locked. He kicked it open and surged inside. Pistol brandished, he took in the scene in one sweep.
The satchel lay on the floor. Portia was sprawled by the window, a nasty cut marring her cheek. In the middle of the room, Kellisham stood frozen, his hands held high.
But that was not what made Ethan’s blood run cold.
In the far corner, in a shadowed doorway, two figures struggled. One was George Smollett. He had a grip on Jane, her face pale against the gloom.
And he lifted his pistol to her neck.
* * *
The cold metal circle of the gun pressed into her skin.
Jane went still, gazing in terror at Ethan. Garbed in black, a comma of hair dipping onto his brow, he looked as fierce as a pirate. In his hand he held a long-barreled pistol.
“Take care,” she said urgently. “Marianne is in the next room.”
Smollett’s grip tightened, painfully twisting her arm behind her back. His breath hissed against her ear. “Well, if it ain’t Lord Chasebourne,” he said, his voice taking on a cockney inflection. “What a pity you should find me ‘olding your second wife. Brings back old times, don’t it?”
“Release her,” Ethan said in a steely tone.
“I’m in charge ’ere. Put your gun down on the floor.”
A muscle tightened in Ethan’s jaw. But he complied, slowly lowering the weapon to the rough boards.
“Now kick it into the corner,” Smollett instructed.
Ethan did so, and the gun went clattering into the shadows.
“Can’t say I’m sorry you showed up, m’lord. ‘Ow’s it feel, taking orders from me for a change?”
“Let Jane go. If you want a hostage, take me instead.”
Smollett loosed a nasty chuckle. “I’ll make you a trade all right,” he said. “The new wife for the old one.”
Jane clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering. She must think. Think of a way to escape.
“Be reasonable, man,” the duke said in a level tone. “If you take her, you’ll have every magistrate in the land after you.”
“Shut up, you old codger. You talk mighty fine for a servant.”
“All you really want is the money,” Ethan said. “I’ll put it on the table for you.”
He reached slowly for the satchel, but Smollett cocked the gun with a loud click. “One more step and I’ll kill ’er.”
Ethan went still.
“’Ow do I know you don’t ’ave rozzers swarmin’ outside, waitin’ to cart me off to Newgate?” Smollet shook his head. “Nay, you broke the bargain. And now you’ll pay for it.”
He jammed the gun against Jane’s neck. “Walk, m’lady. You pick up the case.”
Jane willed strength into her wobbly knees. She must stay calm. Ethan stood unmoving, but she could tell by the murderous gleam in his eyes that he would snatch at any opportunity to save her.
It was up to her to give him that opportunity.
She went forward carefully, aware of the gun pressing into her flesh. Her heart thundered against her rib cage. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Portia, lying as still as death, blood trickling from a swollen gash on her cheek. Dear God. Oh, dear God.
Jane forced herself to take even breaths. When she reached the valise, she lowered herself into a crouch. Smollett was forced to release her arm so that she could grasp the leather handle. He bent down with her, enough to keep the pistol at her neck.
A sudden cry came from the doorway. Lady Rosalind rushed into the room. “George Smollett! How dare you take Marianne’s mother. Release her at once!”
“Rosalind, stay back!” Kellisham barked.
Feeling Smollett’s hold loosen slightly, Jane twisted around and heaved the heavy satchel upward. She caught him under the chin and his teeth snapped together. The force of the blow sent her tumbling sideways, crashing into the table.
Ethan lunged forward and thrust Smollett’s arm upward. The pistol fired harmlessly into the ceiling, dust and debris raining downward. Ethan wrestled him down onto the floor and yanked both arms behind his back. Smollett let out a string of curses.
It was over in a matter of seconds. Jane sat up, aching from the fall, trembling from the release of tension.
Lady Rosalind marched forward, ignoring Kellisham’s attempt to keep her back. Her lip curled, she stood over Smollett. “Riffraff,” she said scathingly. “Now where is Marianne?”
“I’ll show you,” Jane said, struggling to rise.
Three footmen surged into the room. “Her ladyship slipped away from the carriage,” one of them said.
“Fie,” said the dowager, lending a pristine gloved hand to Jane. “As you can see
, I am perfectly safe.”
“See to the lady lying there,” Ethan growled. “Tucker, fetch me a length of rope.”
A footman rushed off as the other two stayed to guard the prisoners, one of them bending to check Portia. “She’s alive, m’lord. Just knocked out.”
Kellisham held the lamp as Lady Rosalind hurried into the next room, Jane at her heels. By the wavering light, they found an ill-clad woman lying on a pallet, her hands tied behind her back, her dark frightened eyes peering over the gag in her mouth. Marianne was nestled against the wet nurse’s ample bosom.
While the duke bent down to untie the woman, Lady Rosalind sank to her knees, seemingly oblivious to the filthy floor. She reached for Marianne, then drew her arms back and smiled rather wistfully at Jane. “Grandmothers come second, I suppose.”
Jane scooped up the baby and cuddled her close, reveling in her precious form. Checking her over quickly, Jane assured herself that the infant was well and unharmed. Marianne blinked her blue eyes and yawned as if being the center of a momentous event was nothing unusual. Then she gazed up at Jane and her little mouth curved into a toothless smile.
Awash with love, Jane felt tears sting her eyes. She smoothed the baby’s downy dark hair, running her fingertips over plump cheeks, the tiny shell of an ear, marveling in her softness and warmth. “Marianne,” she whispered. “You’re safe now with Mama.”
“Is she unharmed?” Lady Rosalind asked, hovering anxiously.
“She seems perfectly well.” Jane laughed with boundless joy. “Though her bottom feels rather damp.”
“Oh, Grandmama doesn’t mind. May I?” Lady Rosalind efficiently gathered the baby to her cloak. She crooned to the baby, her face alight with the glow of tenderness.
Jane noticed Ethan standing in the doorway. A curious look on his face, he intently watched his mother and the baby for a moment. Then he strode forward to gently rest his hand on Marianne’s head. “Praise God,” he murmured. “Praise God.”
His voice shook, and Jane saw him clench his jaw as if to control his emotions. She slipped her arm through his and together they gazed at their daughter.