Her chin lifted, and she sat a little straighter on the seat beside Henry. Well, if she was on her own, so be it. She would find a way out of this dangerous predicament all by herself if she had to. Her faith in Ives never wavered. He would come after her; he would destroy England to find her. A little shudder of fear went through her. But it would take him time, and time was something she didn’t think she had.
Having concluded that she was probably on her own, she considered leaping from the phaeton, but Henry was right. He had given the horses their heads, and they were now flying down the road, and the ground was dangerously far away. Besides, there had been a note in Henry’s voice that warned her that he had no intention of letting her escape—he would run her down before he’d let her get away. A shiver went through her.
Her only hope, she realized, was to attract the attention of a passerby, but at the moment they were driving through a particularly sparse area, and there was no one in sight. This was a busy road, however, and she was confident that any second several more vehicles or pedestrians would come into view.
A farmer’s cart suddenly came around a curve a quarter mile down the road, followed by a lumbering freight wagon, and her heart leaped.
To her dismay, almost instantly, Henry slowed the horses and expertly swung down a small lane. It was as he began to guide the horses into an old barn hidden from the main road by a grove of trees that Sophy gathered the courage to leap from the vehicle.
But Henry anticipated her move. Holding the reins in one hand, he pointed a very small, very deadly pistol directly at her.
“Oh, no you don’t,” he said grimly. “You stay right where you are. I have no intention of letting you go until it pleases me.”
“You don’t expect me to believe that you are going to let me go, do you?” she asked scornfully.
Ignoring her, he finished urging the horses into the building. After halting the animals inside the barn and seeing that they were standing quietly, with one hand he tied the reins to the whip socket and then brought forth a length of rope from its resting place beneath the seat. Despite the slight awkwardness of his movements, she noted unhappily that the pistol was always fixed unwaveringly on her.
A large noose had been formed at one of the rope and, mindful of the pistol, Sophy remained unmoving when he flung the noose over her head and shoulders and pulled it tight, securing her arms at her sides. After that, any chance of escape was doomed. Obeying his command to stand, Sophy soon was trussed up like a fowl for market, several coils of the rope wrapped tightly around her body from her shoulders to her ankles.
“You won’t get away with this,” she said, when he was finished. “My husband will find you and kill you.”
“I’m sure that he will try,” Henry replied easily as he lifted her down from the phaeton and set her on the ground. “And he might even have succeeded except for one thing. I have something that he wants more than my life—you. And as long as I have you, he will not lift a finger against me. In fact, he shall dance to the tune of my piping.”
From her position propped against the wheel of the phaeton, Sophy watched him with great misgiving as he swiftly reharnessed his horses to the lightweight curricle opposite her. Desperately she sought a way of distracting him, some way of slowing him down, turning him from his purpose, anything that would give her time—time in which Ives, by some miracle, might discover her plight and find her before it was too late. They were, at present, not far from London, but once he loaded her into that curricle, and they set off for whatever destination Henry had in mind, any faint hope of Ives finding her vanished.
Finished harnessing the horses, he turned to survey her. “Well, my dear,” he said jovially, his blue eyes twinkling, “it is almost time for the next stage of our journey. Once I have put on my disguise, we shall be on our way.”
He grinned, and she wondered how she had ever thought him kind. “Unfortunately, you will not find this part of our journey quite so comfortable. I am afraid that the only place for you is under the seat. Any trail your husband may pick up will end here, even if he manages to find this place.”
“I don’t have the ruby pin with me,” she said quietly.
Henry laughed. “That damned pin,” he said with no apparent rancor, only rueful amusement. “I knew it was going to cause me trouble someday. I just never realized how much, or that it would take the form of your uncle’s bumbling blackmail attempt. And I never thought that he would be such a fool as to reveal his plans to that detestable Agnes Weatherby. What difficulties they caused me.”
Since there seemed little reason to hold back, Sophy asked bluntly, “You killed him, didn’t you? And Miss Weatherby?”
Henry nodded. “Yes, I am afraid that I did.” He gave a theatrical shudder. “It was a nasty moment or two, I can tell you, especially Agnes. In retrospect, I can see that perhaps I should have allowed him to blackmail me for a little while until I could get my hands on the pin. But you see, I had worked out such a tidy little plan—you were supposed to be accused of his murder.” He frowned. “That wretched husband of yours ruined everything.”
Sophy’s lips tightened. “And the robbery? That was you, too?”
Turning away, Henry disappeared from her sight, but she could hear him moving about the barn. “Oh, yes,” he replied in muffled tones. “Until Grimshaw told me last night, I did not know for certain that you had the pin; but after Edward’s blackmail attempt, I was fairly confident that you did. For years I wondered if it had been well and truly lost, but I always suspected that if anyone had found it, it was you. And I am afraid I made the mistake of thinking that sleeping dogs were going to remain sleeping. Careless of me. And of course, Edward ... Well, while Edward spouted a great deal of nonsense, he admitted that he did not presently have the pin, but that he could lay his hands on it anytime he chose. He also rather foolishly mentioned that he’d had an interesting conversation with you recently—he thought he was being very clever—and it took no great intellect on my part to connect his conversation with you and the pin.”
Coming around the end of the curricle, he startled her by his transformation. Gone was the dapper, foppish Henry Dewhurst and in his place was a stolid, soberly dressed country gentleman of indeterminate age. It was not only his clothes which had been changed: He had added a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles and a neatly trimmed beard. She would not have recognized him if she passed him on the street.
“I see that I have done my work well,” he said with satisfaction at the expression on her face. “Over the years I have perfected several different disguises. So useful.”
“Why?” Sophy was compelled to ask. “Why are you doing this?”
He eyed her speculatively. “I wonder,” he said musingly, “how much you really know.” Then he shrugged. “Oh, well, it doesn’t matter. You’ll serve your purpose, and if you behave yourself, I might satisfy your curiosity. In the meantime, I am afraid that you are going to have to prepare yourself for an uncomfortable ride.”
It was an uncomfortable ride. Having disposed of her hat and parasol, he wrapped her in a rug and squashed her under the seat of the curricle. Not only was she unable to move, but the ropes bit unmercifully into her arms and legs. It was also dark and stuffy in the small, cramped space where she had been stuffed.
Lying on the floorboards of the curricle, Sophy was subjected to every bump and dip in the road, and she prayed that the miserable journey would end. But where, she wondered bleakly, was Henry taking her? And what, precisely, did he plan?
Ives had a very good idea what Henry planned, and that knowledge did not lessen the icy fist of terror which clamped his heart. It was obvious that the Fox was on the run and bolting for France, and Sophy was his ticket to freedom. Henry would keep her alive until he reached French soil, of that Ives was convinced—he had to be or he would have gone mad. It was once Henry arrived in France that he refused to think about. Once the scoundrel landed in Napoléon’s domain, there would be no real reason t
o keep Sophy alive.
Having sent Forrest to check on Dewhurst’s whereabouts, Ives wrenched his mind away from that terrible thought, and bounded up the steps to the Berkeley Square house, hoping frantically that he could intercept Sophy. It was a faint hope, and he was not at all surprised when Emerson, his blue eyes slightly worried at the expression in Ives’s face, informed him that Dewhurst had picked up Lady Harrington almost an hour ago. He had, also, Emerson added, left a note for the master.
Ives fairly ripped the note out of Emerson’s hand and headed for his rooms, taking the stairs two at a time. He snapped over his shoulder, “Have my horse, the black, saddled and brought ’round immediately—and send Ogden, Ashby, and Sanderson to my rooms!”
“Er, m’lord, Ashby is not in. He said that he had an errand for you.”
For a minute, Ives felt a rush of hope. Thank God, he had assigned one of his men to watch Sophy! Perhaps any second now, Ashby would be returning with news of Henry’s destination!
Reaching his rooms, he wasted precious time reading Henry’s note. The contents told him nothing new. They only confirmed his suspicions: Henry had indeed kidnapped Sophy and would hold her prisoner until he had reached the safety of France. If Ives behaved, Henry’s word, Sophy would be returned to England unharmed. If, however, Ives proved to be foolish, again Henry’s word, well then, Sophy would die.
His mouth in a grim, thin line, Ives crumpled the note and hurled it onto his bureau. That contemptible little bastard! Tossing aside his fashionable town clothing, he swiftly scrambled into breeches and boots. He was just shrugging into a bottle green jacket when Ogden and Sanderson arrived.
Curtly, Ives explained the situation. Once the shocked exclamations had abated, he said, “I must not linger. I am going to pay a call on Grimshaw. If anybody knows from which port Dewhurst plans to sail for France, it will be Grimshaw. As soon as Ashby returns, and I am sure that he will at any moment, send word to me.”
The sound of thudding footsteps outside his room had Ives striding across the room and flinging open the door. It was Ashby, his face white, his breathing labored.
Gasping for breath, he managed, “It is Henry Dewhurst! He was supposed to take the mistress for a drive in Hyde Park, but he headed straightaway for the Dover Road. I followed for as long as I could on foot, but once he cleared the city, it was impossible.” His face stricken, he said, “I’m sorry, m’lord. I lost them.”
Ives clapped him on the shoulder. “It doesn’t matter. You did your best. We will get her back, never fear.”
Turning to the others, he said, “Get yourselves mounted and start riding for Dover. I will catch up with you.” An inimical gleam lit the devil green eyes. “Grimshaw now has only to tell us precisely where in Dover we may find our quarry.”
Ives was halfway to Grimshaw’s town house when he met Forrest returning from Dewhurst’s residence. Turning his horse and joining him, Forrest merely gave a shake of his head to Ives’s cocked brow. Swiftly Ives imparted Ashby’s report.
It was only when they pulled their horses to a stop in front of the elegant building that comprised Grimshaw’s London house, that something occurred to Ives. He looked at Forrest. “Dewhurst lives just around the block, doesn’t he?”
Forrest nodded, and Ives muttered, “Well, that explains Ogden’s odd feeling. While we were wasting our time watching Grimshaw, Dewhurst was, no doubt, watching us! How that must have amused him.”
Fortunately, Grimshaw was at home, although it was obvious he was just on his way out. He did not look pleased to see them, but he also did not seem surprised.
Ushering them into his library, he said mockingly, “This is a pleasure, gentlemen. What can I do for you?”
“You can tell me,” Ives ground out, “where Dewhurst has taken my wife!”
A malicious smile curved Grimshaw’s mouth. “Oh, dear. Has she run off with Henry? Pity. I always hoped that I would be the one.”
Ives was across the room, his fingers locked around Grimshaw’s throat before the words had hardly left his mouth. His green eyes nearly black with fury, Ives said softly, “No games. Tell me where Dewhurst has gone.”
Grimshaw fought to tear loose Ives’s iron grip, but to no avail. Ives let him struggle for a second, then increased his stranglehold. Grimshaw’s eyes bulged, and he made a series of cawing noises.
The savage expression on Ives’s face did not abate. “Tell me,” he said in the same dangerously soft tone.
“Tell me, and I will let you live. Otherwise ...” His fingers tightened.
Grimshaw fought desperately for breath. Reading doom in the dark, savage face in front of him, he finally gasped out, “Folkestone. He keeps a small yacht at Folkestone—the Vixen.”
“Just the yacht? No house?” Ives questioned swiftly, his fingers not lessening their unrelenting pressure.
“I only know about the yacht,” Grimshaw choked out. “He may have a house there, but I do not know of it. I swear it!”
“And do you know what your dear little cousin has been doing these past few years, hmm?”
Grimshaw hesitated, and Ives’s lethal grip tightened. Grimshaw’s fingers clawed helplessly at his hand. Desperately, he cried, “Have mercy, m’lord! You’re killing me.”
“And I shall, if you do not tell me what I want to know.” Patiently, he repeated, “Tell me about Henry.”
“I don’t know anything—” he began, only to add hurriedly at subtle increased pressure of Ives’s fingers around his throat, “at least not for certain. But I suspect that he has been in the pay of the French.”
“And did you help him?”
“Good gad, no! I am no traitor.” Grimshaw was clearly appalled at the idea. It seemed the bastard had his limits.
Ives smiled grimly. “No traitor yourself, but yet you suspected Henry and said nothing to the authorities?”
With as much haughtiness as he could muster under the circumstances, Grimshaw muttered, “Henry is my cousin. I would not betray a member of my family.”
“And you are sure, quite sure that you do not know the direction of any dwelling place he may have in Folkestone?”
“I swear to you—on my life! I only know of the Vixen. He may have quarters in the village, but I do not know of any.”
Ives regarded him for a long minute, and finally deciding that Grimshaw had told him the truth, he flung him aside as contemptuously as a dog would toss a dead rat.
“I think it would be wise,” he said with terrifying politeness, “if you retired to the country for a while. And I should warn you that in the future, should you cross my path—or any of my family’s”—he smiled a smile that had Grimshaw, from his position on the floor, edging warily away from him—“I am afraid that I shall have to kill you. Do we understand each other?”
Gasping and holding his injured throat, Grimshaw nodded.
“Good!” Ives said cheerfully. “This has been a most informative chat. We shan’t keep you any longer.”
It was not very many minutes afterward that Ives and Forrest met Ogden and the others. “Folkestone,” Ives tossed at them, as his horse swept by. “And don’t spare the horses—he has over an hour’s head start on us.”
There was no hope of catching Dewhurst if they stayed on the roads, and so, following the flight of the crow, Ives led his men in a direct line to the small fishing village of Folkestone, just south of Dover. They rode like madmen, taking fences and creeks and ditches at a breakneck clip, trampling over cropland and tearing through orchards, narrowly avoiding the wide, spreading branches of the trees. Only in order to conserve their mounts did they stop, allowing them to drink and rest briefly, before again taking up the chase. The tired horses sailed valiantly over stone walls and careened down hilly slopes as they neared their destination.
Darkness had fallen by the time they pulled their sweating, heaving horses to a standstill near the sleepy fishing village nestled at the foot of the chalk hills on the shore of the English Channel. Leaving the
ir exhausted horses in an abandoned shed at the edge of the village, they dispersed on foot, drifting like ghosts toward the shabby waterfront.
Ives found the Vixen easily amongst the smattering of fishing boats anchored in the harbor, her gleaming white sides and sleek lines trumpeting her aristocratic heritage. A fishing boat, she was not.
They watched for several minutes, and it soon became plain that they had reached Folkestone in time. There was no sign of activity on board the Vixen. But that situation was not likely to remain so for very long. They had, Ives estimated, minutes at most before Dewhurst arrived—with, pray God, Sophy.
There was a hurried exchange between Ives and Forrest as they continued to scan the yacht and surrounding area. “Are you insane?” Forrest hissed, when he heard of Ives’s plan to board the yacht. “We outnumber him. We can take him here, before he ever reaches the damned boat.”
“And while we are falling upon him,” Ives asked levelly, “what do you think he will be doing to Sophy? Don’t you think that he is going to have a pistol pointed right at her heart? If we make a move, any move, he will kill her.”
Forrest hesitated. “We might be able to surprise him and overpower him before he can fire,” he offered lamely.
“And we might not,” Ives retorted. “I am not taking any chances with her life.”
“And you think you’ll stand a better chance alone at sea with him? Are you daft, man?” William Williams blurted out, anxiety etched on his long face. Appalled, he blushed and muttered, “Beggin’ your pardon, m’lord.”
In the faint light which came from a nearby ramshackle tavern, Ives grinned at him.
“No, you were right to question my wisdom. But, hear me, we dare not try to attack him as long as he has Sophy. He is going to be prepared for us to try to stop him from reaching his yacht. We will have no element of surprise, no opportunity to prevent him from hurting my wife.”
His grin faded, and his eyes moved from face to face as he added fiercely, “And you can be bloody well assured that he will if he is cornered. Our only chance is to let him think he has escaped. Once on board the yacht and having put out into the Channel, he will drop his guard, confident that he has slipped past us. He will not be expecting me.” Something ugly and deadly moved behind his eyes. “And then I will be upon him.”
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