“I don’t like it!” Forrest said vehemently. “It is too dangerous. We may lose both you and your lady. There must be some other way.”
“There is not,” Ives said flatly, and turned to look back at the yacht.
Despite some low-voiced, almost desperate arguments to the contrary, Ives would not be dissuaded. Unhappily, Forrest and the others kept vigilant watch as he crept aboard the yacht. Only when he gave a wave of his arm and disappeared below did Forrest move.
Sinking deeper into the shadows, he said gruffly, “If he thinks that we are going to let him risk his fool neck like this without doing something about it, he has lost his wits.”
“But what are we going to do?” Ashby asked, his brown eyes fixed on Forrest’s face.
Forrest cursed and despairingly looked out over the small waterfront. Spying a small, neatly crafted sloop, moored not far from the Vixen, his eyes narrowed.
“We,” he said slowly, “are going to pirate a boat of our own and follow him—discreetly, of course.”
Ogden grinned, his bad teeth glinting in the shadowy light. “Of course.”
Chapter Twenty-two
When Henry finally pulled his pair to a stop, Sophy breathed a fervent sigh of relief. Gagged and bound, she had been in that musty, cramped space for what seemed like forever, and for the last several miles she had been in the grip of a severe case of claustrophobia. Feeling as if she were smothering, as if the rug was pressing down against her nose and face, she had struggled to keep from screaming, terrified that if she started screaming, she would never be able to stop.
She forced herself to take deep, steadying breaths through her nose, to think of something else, to focus on anything but where she was and what was happening. Every part of her body ached—where it wasn’t numb. She was certain she would never be able to walk again; her legs had to have become frozen in their bent position.
“Well, my dear,” Henry’s voice floated to her, as he leaped down from the curricle, “your current ordeal is almost over. Give me a moment to unharness my horses, and I shall let you out of your, er, rug.”
The interval seemed to take hours, but true to his words, Henry eventually returned and dragged her out from her hiding place. A few minutes later, the rug dispensed with, she was blinking owlishly in the light from a small lantern sitting on a rickety wooden bench.
As her eyes adjusted, she looked around and discovered that she was in a building hardly big enough to hold the curricle and the two horses. The place appeared to be seldom used; cobwebs draped the rough beams, and a thick coating of dust and debris lay over the flat surfaces.
“Not precisely what you are used to,” said Henry politely. He studied her for a second. “I should tell you that this place is quite isolated. If I were to remove your gag and you were foolish enough to start screaming, it would do you little good. No one would hear you, and it would make me very angry. So, would you like your gag undone?” Meekly, Sophy nodded, and he reached down and removed the wad of rags from her mouth.
It was heaven to have her legs stretched out and the rags out of her mouth. For a second, she simply savored the sensations. Glancing up at him, she asked, “Where are we?”
“At Folkestone. I keep a small yacht here and, of course, a rather unpretentious little dwelling. I am sure that you will find its limited accommodations far more appealing than your current place.”
Sophy was a little unnerved by Henry’s polite, almost teasing manner. He was acting as if this were some sort of social call, as if he found the situation vaguely amusing, and not as if he had kidnapped her and kept her bound and gagged for the past several hours. He was a murderer twice over—and possibly a spy, a traitor who was responsible for the deaths of scores of men fighting against Napoleon. She shuddered, wondering how she could have been so misled, how she could ever have considered him a friend. He was a monster.
Something of what she was feeling must have shown on her face, for Henry smiled, and said bracingly, “Oh, come now, my dear, I am not all bad. And if you are a good little girl and do exactly what I say, you shall be set free to fly to the arms of your rather doltish husband.”
Her eyes met his, and what she glimpsed in his was not reassuring. Ignoring the slur against Ives, she said bluntly, “I do not believe you.”
Henry shrugged and bent down to drag her upright. “It doesn’t matter whether you believe me or not. Behave yourself, and you might just get out of this alive.”
It was awkward trying to walk, bound as she was. After a few difficult moments, Henry simply lifted her over his shoulder and traversed the short distance between the shed and the house. Inside, he dropped her into a chair and quickly lit some candles.
The house was no more impressive than the shed, but at least it appeared clean, and there was some degree of comfort. She was in a small room, furnished with a few comfortable leather chairs and some tables; a faded Turkey carpet in crimson and gold covered the floor. A tiny fireplace was against one wall, a pile of neatly stacked kindling lay on the hearth.
As she looked around, considering her chances of escaping, Henry pulled out his pocket watch and, seeing the time, made a clucking noise.
“Our journey took a trifle longer than I expected,” he said conversationally. “But never fear, we shall not remain here for very long.”
Crossing to her, he stood her up and explained, “Now listen to me, my dear, I must rearrange your ropes. Do not try to do anything stupid. Continue to be your sweet, docile self, and this ordeal will be far less painful than it could be. Do you understand me?”
Sophy was not deceived by his polite words or manner—it was clear that if she tried to escape, he would not hesitate to hurt her, and that he would enjoy doing it.
She remained stiffly upright as he worked, and she wondered why he had even bothered to warn her. He took no chances, and while she was soon no longer trussed up like a fowl at market, she was still just as securely bound. Dispensing with most of the rope, he fashioned a pair of efficient shackles for her ankles out of some of the lengths he had cut, leaving her just enough room to take small, mincing steps, but not enough to allow her any degree of freedom. The rope shackles were hidden beneath her skirts and her hands were resting in her lap, securely tied in front of her. At first sight, the bindings were not visible.
“You will, of course, be wearing a cloak when we leave for the yacht, and I shall have my pistol aimed directly at you,” Henry said, as he surveyed his work a few minutes later. “I do not expect that we shall meet anyone, but all you have to do is simply smile and look pretty.” His blue eyes hardened, and she wondered how she had ever thought them merry. “I will not hesitate to kill you if the need arises. Remember that, will you?”
Seating himself across from her, he took out his watch again and frowned.
“Are we waiting for someone?” Sophy asked politely.
“Yes, a, er, colleague. He seems to be running a trifle late.” Henry smiled. “I suppose he is rather flustered by my unexpected change in plans; he had several arrangements to make. We were not to meet until tomorrow night. But I have complete faith in him—he has never failed me yet. Once he has arrived, we shall board the Vixen and be off to France.”
“Is he a Frenchman by any chance? The gentleman to whom you have been selling military secrets?” Sophy inquired sweetly.
Henry’s face darkened. “So, you know that, do you?” He eyed her narrowly. “I am surprised that your doting husband let you in on the game. I would have thought that Roxbury would want to play everything close to his vest.”
Sophy shrugged. It suddenly occurred to her that perhaps it was not wise to reveal what she might or might not know.
Her mouth tightened. What did it matter? Henry was going to kill her. She was convinced of that, despite his assurances to the contrary. Her breath caught on an anguished sob. She would never see Ives again, never again know the sweet magic of his embrace ... never grow old with him.
A rap on the do
or broke into her gloomy thoughts, and she glanced curiously at the fat gentleman who entered the room a few seconds later. He was a stranger to her, and from his clothes, though costly, it was immediately apparent that he was no member of the ton; a decidedly slovenly air entered the room with him.
It was also apparent from the ghastly expression on his face that he was horrified to see her.
“Mon Dieu!” he cried, greatly agitated. “What is she doing here? Have you gone mad? First you upset all our plans with this wild scheme, and now this!”
His speech clearly betrayed his origin, and Sophy’s spirits sank lower—the Frenchman. She was running out of time. Once they left England’s shore, she knew that there was no escape.
She did not have time to consider that terrible prospect; Henry jerked her to her feet and settled a cloak around her shoulders. Showing her the pistol he kept concealed underneath his jacket, he said, “You worry too much, my friend. Lady Harrington is my voucher for a safe crossing. With her on board the Vixen, even if Roxbury or her husband were lucky enough to have found me out, they would be helpless to strike at me.” His voice hardened. “If they ever want to see her alive again, they have no choice but to let me go.”
Some of the Frenchman’s first alarm faded, and a crafty expression entered his eyes. “Perhaps you are right, but I tell you, mon ami, I do not like this. And what Paris will have to say, I dare not think.”
“Paris,” Henry said easily, as he guided Sophy toward the door, making sure she felt the barrel of his pistol in her ribs, “will be too busy crowing over the copy of the memorandum I carry with me to be overly concerned with my defection from England.”
“You are probably right,” the Frenchman answered resignedly, following close behind as they left the room.
“I usually am,” Henry replied. “But of more interest to me is your part of our bargain—did you bring the gold?”
The Frenchman nodded. “Oui, it is outside in my carriage.”
“Good! Once it is transferred to the Vixen, I shall be off for France.”
Although it was a goodly distance from Henry’s small cottage at the edge of the village to the harbor, to Sophy it seemed like an all-too-brief ride in the Frenchman’s carriage. Her plight was hopeless; she knew that. Even if help were to miraculously appear, Henry’s pistol jammed against her ribs precluded her from taking any action. But she was not ready to concede defeat. Not yet.
While the Frenchman and his driver unloaded a heavy trunk and placed it on the yacht, Sophy peered intently into the night, urgently looking for something she could use to her advantage. Nothing met her gaze. The streets appeared abandoned and lifeless. Despite the cold knot of fear in her chest, she told herself that she was not going to give up. Not even when Henry bid the Frenchman good-bye and the coach rumbled away did her determination to escape abate.
Looking Henry in the eye, she said levelly, “You will not get away with this. Ives will not let you. He will find me and when he does ...”
Henry smiled at her. “Such loyalty does you credit, my dear, but I am afraid that your belief in your husband is overrated.” He ran a caressing finger down her cheek, and she flinched. “If your husband were foolish enough to follow you to France, it would be too late, my sweet. By then you would be, ah, tarnished goods, and I do not believe that his pride would allow him to take you back. If he were to find you. No, I am afraid that you must resign yourself to pleasing me. Allow me to assure you that you shall not find me an ungenerous protector. Now shall we go below?”
“You bastard!” Sophy said forcefully, her eyes glittering like burnished gold.
Henry chuckled, and murmured, “Such passion! Do you know it was all that suppressed vitality I often glimpsed in your eyes when you defied Simon that first aroused my interest in you? I knew then that you were not as cool as you appeared. I suggest, however, that you save some of your righteous passion for when we are alone, my dear—I shall enjoy taming it.” And then he forced her below into the galley.
To Sophy’s great relief, after seating her on one of the bunks and checking her bonds, he went aloft. She swiftly scanned the small space for something, anything, to use as a weapon, but nothing met her gaze.
Hope that she might escape finally died when the Vixen weighed anchor and she felt the rocking motion of the Channel’s waters against the hull. Blinking back tears, she stared dismally at the wall opposite her.
She would never, ever see Ives again! That thought disturbed her more than the knowledge of her own impending dishonor and probable death. Oh, Henry might keep her alive for a while longer, as long as she was useful to him, but she had no illusions about her fate: He intended to dispose of her at the first convenient opportunity. She had read it in his cold blue eyes.
Angry at herself, she berated herself for giving up so easily. If she believed she was defeated, then she well and truly was.
When Henry had gone up on deck, a small lantern had been left hanging from one of the beams of the yacht, its fitful light dancing and swaying with the motion of the yacht as it sailed deeper into the choppy waters of the Channel. Taking her time, she again looked carefully around the room. At first glance, nothing seemed to have changed. It was a small, simple galley, lined with a pair of bunks attached to each side of the hull: A heavy scrubbed oak table sat between them. A series of narrow cupboards and counters ran the length of one wall and, except for a few odds and ends of a nautical nature, the room was bare.
She would not accept defeat, she told herself stubbornly. There had to be something. The yacht gave a sharp lurch as it was buffeted by a particularly large swell and the lantern swung wildly, shining its light into one of the shadowy corners of the room. Sophy’s heart leaped as she caught sight of a stout, long-handled hook. A gaff. Standing in the corner. A large, wickedly curved gaff....
She flew off the bunk, grateful for the whim that had led Henry to tie her hands in front of her. Determinedly, her fingers closed around the handle of the gaff, and a feral smile curved her mouth. When Henry returned, he was going to be very surprised.
But Henry was already surprised, and not pleasantly. He had been busy with setting sail for the coast of France and had not been overly attentive to other events. The unexpected sight of a small sloop, her running lights fully lit as she tacked to the starboard side of the Vixen, sent a disagreeable chill through him.
He told himself that it was coincidence that the sloop left Folkestone right behind him. Despite his note to Harrington, he could not believe that Ives had found his trail that quickly. Few people knew about the Vixen, and the few who did would be unlikely to simply volunteer the information. No, no, it would take Sophy’s wretched husband hours to pick up his direction, and by then, it would be too late. He was quite safe. The sloop was, no doubt, on a perfectly innocent journey.
He frowned. It was, however, an odd time of night to be crossing the Channel, and the vessel seemed to be keeping pace with the Vixen. The other boat would bear watching, but he was certain its presence had nothing to do with him. Almost certain.
He’d known, once Grimshaw told him about the ruby cravat pin, that he could not afford to linger in London.
Fleeing to France was the only course open to him. It was time. Remaining in England would have left him too vulnerable—once Roxbury and Harrington homed in on him there was no telling what they might discover. Henry sighed. He had enjoyed his run as the Fox, but it was over.
His gaze traveled to the trunk of gold sitting on the deck of the yacht. At least money would not be a problem, and naturally he would offer his services to Napoleon. Perhaps he could be of use ferreting out English spies in France. He smiled. He would like that. It would be a perfect revenge against Roxbury to find the old bastard’s men and identify them for the French.
And as for Sophy. A distinctly carnal gleam lit his eyes. Of course, he would have to dispose of her, but not before some, er, time had passed.
All in all, he was not displeased with the circ
umstances. Grimshaw would help him transfer his assets from England to France, and even if he did not offer his services to Napoleon, he would be quite comfortable. Perhaps he would simply retire to his château in the Loire Valley, purchased some years ago during the Peace of Amiens.
Contemplating his future, Henry’s gaze traveled fondly over his yacht. The Vixen had always been ready for an exigency such as this one. It was why he had bought and outfitted her in the first place. It was also why he had purchased a French château and maintained a generous sum in French banks. A spy always had to have his escape route planned.
Yes, the Vixen was a good little boat, and he was as familiar with her as he would have been with a mistress, which was why when his gaze fell upon the hatch cover of the small cargo hold near the stern of the boat, he stiffened. The cover was slightly askew ... as if someone had lifted it and put it back carelessly....
He glanced at the sloop, still relentlessly tacking along his starboard side. Henry cursed under his breath. Not only was the boat staying abreast of the Vixen, but the distance between the two boats had narrowed.
His gaze went back to the hatch cover. Had it moved? Pulling forth his pistol, he said sharply, “I know you are there! Come out immediately! Show yourself, or I shall shoot!”
Beneath the deck, crouched in the cramped space of the small hold, Ives swore viciously to himself. He’d known he was moving too quickly, known he should have waited until he was certain that Henry had gone below before attempting to leave his hiding place. But knowing Sophy was on board, having heard her voice, knowing she was alone and frightened and thinking herself beyond hope had made him reckless—and careless, he admitted savagely. Now what was he to do? Surrender to the bastard? Join Sophy in confinement?
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