by Corwin, Amy
The thought irritated her. If they were going to make such an announcement, then why had not they done so? Why was he still pestering her?
Maybe they were just waiting until midnight. She turned her shoulder to him and took another sip. Her eyes scanned the crowd. Lord Dacy and his plump wife, Oriana, were standing near Lady Victoria and Mr. Archer, laughing. Charlotte had liked the couple immensely. Her gaze rested on Lord Dacy. Where had he gotten the scar bisecting his brow and lean cheek? It did not detract from his appearance and certainly his wife didn’t seem to mind, but it made him look dangerous.
His wife, Oriana, stared up at him as if he were the only man in the room, and Charlotte observed them with a pang of envy.
When Lord Dacy made a brief, shallow bow and strode away, his wife’s brown eyes followed him. Her face suffused with a soft glow and her lips bowed in a barely discernible smile.
Charlotte shivered, suddenly cold. All around her, couples were dancing and flirting. Laugher floated above the sounds of a quartet of musicians playing a boisterous country dance.
“Would you care to dance?” Nathaniel asked.
“No. I am rather tired. I think I might ask the Archers if I could leave early.”
The glow in his eyes flamed. Charlotte glanced away, suddenly nervous, but her eyes were drawn back to his.
His cheeks grew flushed as if he were suddenly drunk or feverous. “Let me call the carriage for you. I will tell my uncle you have a headache and went home.”
“Don’t exaggerate on my behalf!” she said abruptly, feeling even more out of sorts. “Simply inform them I was tired and left.”
He chuckled although the sound was marred by his underlying tension.
What was wrong with him? His body was rigid and his eyes gleamed with a strange brilliance.
“Certainly. Let me escort you,” he said.
Charlotte said goodbye rapidly as Nathaniel rushed her out. He practically shoved her into the Archer’s rather well-worn carriage.
“Rest and don’t worry,” he said as he shut the door.
“Worry?” Charlotte asked through the window set into the door. “Why should I be worried?”
* * * *
“Halt!” Archer demanded, stopping his coach a short time after Charlotte left.
Nathaniel spurred his horse forward, flinging open the door. Leaning over, he peered inside. Nothing. There was no one inside!
But she had left Dacy House in this carriage! He had put her inside, himself. He guided the horse backward with his knees, studying the conveyance. It was the right one. There was no mistaking the Archers’ slightly battered carriage, even in the misty darkness.
“Coachman! Where’s your passenger?”
The man laughed. Laughed! “Gone! You scamps are not the only ones out tonight. You had best let me pass before the Watch catches you, you devils. I am on my way to report a kidnapping.”
“What?” Nathaniel growled.
“You are the second lot. The early bird got the worm. Took off with the heiress ‘bout a mile back.”
“And you did not try to stop them?” Archer asked.
“There was two of ‘em. What could I do?” the coachman replied philosophically, scratching his head under his tall hat. He glanced briefly at his fingernails before chewing at a hangnail.
Nathaniel glanced down the darkened road. “Where did they head?”
“They took off into St. James.” The coachman shrugged and pulled back the reins slightly as the horses moved restlessly, their traces creaking. “Could be miles away by now. Let me pass. I be off to find the Watch!”
Nathaniel kicked the door shut viciously and galloped away.
Where could she be? In whose hands? Was she hurt? Each question pricked his conscience like a thorn.
“Come on, we will catch up to them in the park,” Archer suggested, bringing his black mare up beside Nathaniel.
They cantered in silence for a few beats. Nathaniel didn’t trust himself to speak. Flicking the reins, he urged his bay forward through the darkness.
There were still a few carriages and the occasional horse and rider moving along the dark paths of St. James’s Park. Nathaniel stopped a number of them, calling out abrupt questions. No one had seen two horsemen, one of them carrying a woman. Many guffawed and made lewd suggestions that made Nathaniel’s normally placid disposition long to commit violence upon their insolent persons.
Archer kept surprisingly quiet. A very astute move since one word from him would have made Nathaniel’s fragile grip on his temper break. He wanted to twist his bare hands around someone’s neck.
After an hour of fruitless searching, Archer brought his horse up in front of Nathaniel baring his way.
“They are not here. We should return. Perhaps she has home again or Lady Vee has word—”
“Word of what? Ransom?” Sensing the fury in its master’s tone, Nathaniel’s horse reared up slightly and bit the flank of Archer’s black mare. Nathaniel gripped the horse with his knees and guided it away. “Why did I listen to you? I should have accompanied her home. Letting her go without a chaperone in the coach was insane!”
“Nonsense. Simply a slight inconvenience. The plan can still be made to work. We will just—”
“We will just nothing!” Nathaniel shouted. He pulled the floppy black hat off his head and pushed back the concealing cloak. The hot folds constricted him. He felt as if he were bound by a tangle of ropes, unable to break free.
This mess is my fault!
His voice dropped to a low, vicious growl, “She could be…what? Damn you! Don’t you see what you have done?”
Archer maneuvered his horse around and grabbed Nathaniel’s reins. However, Nathaniel ripped the leathers away. He turned his horse in the opposite direction.
“Your Grace, this will not win the pot. Come back with me. We will talk to Lady Vee. There may be news….”
“Fine.” He bit his words off coldly. “But if anything happens to her, I will hold you responsible.”
“Nothing will happen. You shall see,” Archer replied, his voice shaking.
Nathaniel searched his face and saw painful worry in the gray eyes. Archer looked older, his face haggard in the dim light.
“There is nothing else I can do,” Nathaniel said at last, wheeling his horse around. “But if she is hurt, someone will pay, dearly. Very dearly.”
Perhaps the newspapers would prove prophetic in branding Nathaniel as a murderer.
He would like nothing better than to kill whoever abducted Charlotte.
Chapter Seventeen
Outrages. — The scenes of all outrages must be visited by the constabulary without delay, and the facts at once reported. — Constable’s Pocket Guide
When Nathaniel waved and the carriage lurched away from the Dacy residence, Charlotte sat back, wondering why she felt so…anxious.
Perhaps it was due to the difficulties she’d encountered recently with her Egyptian plans. She nodded in the darkness. Mr. Belzoni had finally decided he did not want her funds. At least not since she insisted that she, personally, travel to Egypt to make any investments she saw fit. However, there was still Mr. Mainwaring. He had not precisely said no, but he had not agreed, either.
But there was still hope. If all else failed, she would have to see about applying for permits to mount her own expedition. This prospect filled her with dismay considering Mr. Belzoni’s difficulties in obtaining the necessary papers. But if she were left with no other choice, she would do so.
Her doubts deepened. Mr. Archer had not been optimistic about the health of her estates. Her previous guardians had refused to allow her to involve herself in the management of her inheritance. They had all assured her that the lands were productive and there was nothing to worry about.
However, Mr. Archer had not agreed with this assessment. Neglect had reduced her fortune, although by how much was uncertain.
The box of cotton and tobacco her father had given her was the physic
al representation of her inheritance. Had she ignored it too long because of her painful memories? Had she been as idle and as unconcerned as any member of the British aristocracy, attending routs and gambling away fortunes while their estates ran to ruin?
No, she had not been entirely idle. Despite her youth and inexperience, she had attempted to determine the condition of her property. Perhaps she would have tried a little harder if her memories of Charleston had not been so painful, so filled with vivid reminders of the grief she had felt when her parents and aunt died.
Corresponding with the managers in America had been useless. She only received reassurances and the suggestion that she let her guardians handle her affairs.
Secretly, she’d been relieved to let them manage the estates for her and forget her previous life.
Nathaniel would never have done so. He obviously took his duties seriously. Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment when she remembered arguing with him about the useless British nobility.
They were not all idle wastrels.
When she got home, she would ask Mr. Archer to teach her to manage her estates. He had offered and she would learn. Even if she never returned to that desolate, haunted mansion in Charleston where her aunt had died, she would know how to care for her inheritance.
The carriage hit a pothole and she nearly fell to the floor. She glanced out the window. They were just passing St. James’s Park. A tangle of black trees rose on her left.
Long streamers of clouds scudded across the sky, obscuring the moon. The streets around them looked dark and menacing, filled with the flitting, tattered shapes of men and women with no place warm to go. Charlotte pressed back into the corner of the carriage, feeling suddenly very alone.
“Halt!” a coarse voice yelled.
She squirmed even further back against the unyielding squabs. In near-panic, she groped at her neck for her necklace.
Lady Victoria insisted Charlotte wear the pearls tonight. The thieves were not going to get it! She quickly unclasped it and shoved it down into the gap behind the seat cushion. There were no rings on her fingers but she wore pearl earrings. She took those off as well and was just pushing them behind her when the door was wrenched open.
“Here, now!” the voice exclaimed. A giant black shape filled the doorway.
Charlotte drew back, hemmed in by the sides of the carriage. She could not escape. He grabbed her wrist and yanked her through the door. When she stumbled, he wrapped a thick arm around her waist. He lifted her out, carrying her a few feet away like a sack of flour. All she could see was the long, rough expanse of his coarsely woven coat and the shadowy ground.
“Put me down!” she screamed, kicking the air uselessly and hitting his backside with her fists.
“Keep her quiet!” a more cultured voice said.
There were two of them!
Her captor shook her. “Quiet, or you will have to be muffled.” He sounded apologetic.
“I am not—oof!” She was thrown over a horse’s neck.
The poor beast wobbled and shifted as her kidnapper climbed awkwardly into the saddle. Before she could protest, they lumbered away.
Charlotte lifted her head, trying to breathe and relieve the pressure on her stomach. She felt ill. Her mount was definitely not one of the more elegant riding horses she had occasionally been allowed to ride. This animal was a huge, plodding beast that seemed likely to be a draft horse. It plunged through the night with a pounding motion that made her regret the glass of punch and small fruit tart she had eaten at Dacy House.
With each hoof beat, she had to suck in air and hold on, trying to keep her hair from being torn off by the shrubs they passed. Her nose alternated hitting the horse’s shoulder and the man’s boot.
Finally, just as she thought she couldn’t stand it any longer, the horse was brought to a halt.
“Get her inside!” the more educated voice said.
She was lifted from the horse before she could wriggle off.
“Put me down! I can walk!” she sputtered.
“Quiet!” the giant said as he picked her up.
His rough coat smelled like sweaty horses, dogs and cooked cabbage. Nausea welled up, burning her throat.
“I am going to be sick,” she replied weakly.
“Not yet,” came the terse rejoinder.
A squealing noise rent the air as he swung open a heavy wooden door. They plunged through, and Charlotte was deposited on her feet. She turned around quickly, determined to locate a route to escape. The man who had carried her grabbed her arm, perhaps anticipating her thoughts to run.
She surveyed the narrow barn. Two stalls opened out on either side of her and several sacks of grain were stacked in one of them. A pile of straw spilled out against the wall near the door, nearly obscuring an old, broken butter churn. The barrel of the churn was splintered as if a horse had kicked it.
Two men faced her: the giant who had carried her and a midget. Not a midget, truly, but a man whose head came up roughly even with her chin. They both wore flour sacks over their heads with holes cut out for the eyes.
Charlotte held her cold fingers up to her mouth, stifling a nervous giggle.
“Now, Miss, you are all right. No need to be sick. Would you like a ladle of water?” The taller man asked.
“No, I would not,” Charlotte replied, eyeing him.
He stood hunch-shouldered, trying to face her while keeping a large hand on her wrist. His clothing was rough and tattered, his boot tops flopping and dusty. His heels were so worn down they were almost gone.
Although she couldn’t see his expression, she had the distinct impression that he was not particularly happy to be there.
The smaller man studied her with his hands on his hips. “Where are your jewels?” he asked.
“I wasn’t wearing any tonight.”
“You were! Where are they?”
“What do you mean, I was? How do you know what I was wearing? Do I know you?”
“No, you do not.” He moved closer and pushed the giant aside to grab her wrist. He pulled her cloak off and gripped her tighter when she jerked backward. Cold blue eyes peered through the holes in the sack on his head.
“Now, where are your jewels?”
“I don’t have any with me.” She flung her reticule down. “Check for yourself. If you are after money, I am afraid you have made rather a large mistake. I have less than a pound with me.”
“Maybe so, but you are worth a fortune, are you not? And perhaps I have developed a fancy for a wife.”
Charlotte’s heart pounded. The air around the short man reeked of some sickeningly sweet pomade containing patchouli. Struggling to breath, she nearly retched at the smell.
She stamped on his foot. “Well, I have no desire for a husband.”
Yanking her forward into his grasp, he tried to pull her head down to his level. Her scalp burned as he wrenched her hair. She twisted and pushed him away with all her strength, but despite her height, he was stronger.
She gagged and stamped her foot again, wishing she had worn something more substantial than dancing slippers.
“Stop struggling!” he muttered. His hands moved up her arms as if he would force her to her knees.
“Here, now,” the bigger man said. “There is no need—”
“She has a lesson to learn.”
Despite her distaste, Charlotte brought her mouth down to his wrist. She bit him. He let go and hit across her mouth. The savagery of the blow flung her across the room. She hit the wall next to the broken churn, tasting blood on her lips.
“Sir!” the big man said.
She grabbed the handle of the churn’s paddle and swung around to face the men. The giant had hold of the other’s arm as if to restrain him. The smaller man shook him off.
Before he could turn, she darted forward with the paddle raised. She smashed it against the back of his head while the giant just stood there watching as if in shock.
The small man slowly sank. He jol
ted onto his knees, and then gradually fell forward on his face. Breathing harshly, Charlotte clung to the paddle, feeling sick. She knew she should run while surprise was still on her side, but she couldn’t move. She felt stunned and just stood there staring down at the crumpled form of the small man.
The giant gently took the paddle out of her hand. He threw it into the darkness of a far stall.
By the wavering light of the lanterns, she watched a dark stain on the flour sack mask expand.
“Is he…dead?” Charlotte asked.
The giant knelt down and loosened the bag. He pulled it up part-ways over the man’s face, exposing his mouth and nose.
“He is alive enough.” He held his thick fingers under the nose of his partner. Then he shook his head. “You should not have done that, Miss. He will be mad as a wet hen, now.”
“Then let me go,” Charlotte suggested. She did not want to be here when the slim man woke up.
“I am sorry,” he replied mournfully, shaking his head. “I cannot do that.”
“Why? Why—what is your name?”
“R-rre, uh….” He shook his head again. “I cannot tell you. Would not be a good idea.”
“Well, what am I to call you?”
He sighed. Not the most powerful intellect, Charlotte concluded. Still, she felt safer with him than his companion. The smaller man stirred and moaned.
“Call me Red,” the big man replied at last. “He is going to wake up, soon.” He glanced at her and then down at the unconscious man. “He will be powerful angry.”
“Undoubtedly.” She reached up and touched the rough coat of Red. “Can you not let me go? I will give you money….”
“Nay. Cannot do it.” He fumbled around and walked into one of the stalls. He came back with a rope. “What are you going to do with that?”
“I am sorry.”
“Will you stop apologizing?” She tried to move away but he caught her easily. He tied her hands together and then slowly and methodically wound the rope around her until she felt like a tightly rolled carpet.
“You cannot tie me up! You don’t know what your friend will do when he wakes up,” she protested, wriggling futilely.