by Corwin, Amy
Several small rooms, full of trunks and dusty, broken furniture, opened out onto the corridor. The doors to the storage rooms were either missing or hanging awkwardly off their hinges.
Nathaniel walked a few yards down the hallway, glancing around.
“So, Your Grace,” Dacy drawled. “Where is your heiress?” He leaned against the long wall, arms crossed over his chest, the white scar on his face clear despite the dim lighting. He looked like a bored pirate who found the cargo hold of a captured ship weighted with ballast bricks instead of gold.
At the end of the hall, Nathaniel turned to start back, when he noticed a narrow door. A stout piece of wood barred it. He grinned and motioned to the other two men.
“What are you storing here, Dacy? I had not realized mummified rats required a door barred with a plank of wood to keep them imprisoned.”
Dacy studied the wooden bar for a moment and shrugged. “I have never been up here, so I have no explanation. Would you like to open it or shall I?”
“I will do the honors.” Nathaniel lifted the bar. Heart pounding, he thrust open the door.
He strode into the room and glanced around quickly. A narrow cot stood against one wall, next to a small table.
An old lantern and a tray covered by a piece of linen rested on the table. Tucked nearby was a rickety-looking chair. The bare floor was oddly marked with the letters of the alphabet written in a large, childish hand with chalk.
“Well?” Dacy said. “Is she there?”
The room seemed empty until Nathaniel stepped further inside. In the far corner, a shadowy figure stood, watching him.
“Charlotte?” he called. “Don’t be frightened, ah, Miss Haywood. It’s Nathaniel, er, the Duke of Peckham.”
“Nathaniel?” she asked. “Your Grace?” She turned away from a dusty window and moved hesitantly forward. “Is that really you?”
“Yes, are you safe? Are you hurt?”
She ran toward the door, pausing a yard away as if unsure of her welcome. He held out his hands, his muscles shaking with relief.
She grabbed his hands, her eyes shining. “It really is you! Oh, this is such a relief. I—I feel almost faint.”
His eyes roved over her face hungrily, hardly daring to believe she was alive and well. His glance took in her pale skin and a hint of moisture in her deep blue eyes. She blinked rapidly and her grip on his hands tightened, shaking with emotion. Finally, she shook off his grip and flung her arms around him, burying her face in his lapels.
He cradled her head against him and pressed his cheek against her soft hair, breathing in the warm scent of her.
“Charlotte!” he said, barely able to grind out her name. His heart hammered in his chest.
Until that moment, he had not realized how desperately worried he had been. How frightened that she might already be dead. He couldn’t forget the woman with her throat slashed, dead in his carriage.
What if that had happened to Charlotte?
“Thank God!” he said. “I have been insane with worry—I thought I had lost you….” God, I love you.
He clasped her more tightly against his chest. Before she could reply, he lifted her head and angled his mouth over hers.
Chapter Twenty-Four
In all cases of fraud, however, the constable will do well to protect himself by the warrant of a justice. — Constable’s Pocket Guide
Charlotte opened her lips in surprise, overcome with longing. The warm scent of Nathaniel’s skin, spiced with the scent of bay and lavender, filled her.
Oh, she loved him so.
She breathed deeply and slid her arms up his chest. His body was hard beneath her palms. The thick slabs of chest muscles bunched beneath her hands as his grip on her tightened. She felt so safe in his arms—accepted.
He released her lips as his mouth ran down her neck before caressing the skin at the base of her throat. His hands pulled the lace at her neck, freeing her shoulders. His mouth brushed the sensitive skin as her breath caught in her throat.
He leaned into her, pressing the lean length of him against her body.
“Your Grace,” a man’s voice said from behind them.
Charlotte buried her face in Nathaniel’s jacket, breathing in his warm scent. Why wouldn’t they leave them alone? She just wanted a few precious minutes with Nathaniel.
“Your Grace?” Lord Dacy asked. “Are you…hurt?” His voice shook as if he was struggling for control.
“Get out!” Nathaniel demanded, pressing Charlotte’s face into his chest.
She moved restlessly in his arms and flicked a glance at Lord Dacy. A tall man dressed entirely in black moved into view. He examined her dispassionately.
She was safe…and irritated by the unnecessary audience staring at her from the doorway.
“Your Grace,” the man in black said. “I believe your sister is waiting for us.”
Nathaniel’s fingers smoothed a curl at Charlotte’s nape, and he spoke gently into her hair, “I am sorry….”
She lifted her head and caught his gaze. His eyes blazed. She held her breath, sure he was about to say the words she longed to hear, but he merely sighed and let her go.
Perhaps it was only relief she saw in his eyes, not love.
Charlotte flushed with embarrassment. She had let her feelings overwhelm her common sense and had responded wantonly to the duke’s kiss.
Perhaps it was fortunate she had remained silent.
She might have blurted out something that would embarrass them both, such as the humiliating fact that she just realized how much she loved him. The next few years were going to be very strained if she had to hide that unfortunate emotion and couldn’t convince Mr. Archer to let her leave for Egypt immediately.
Her spirits sank. Nathaniel had embraced her because he was relieved to see her and misunderstanding his motives entirely, she had kissed him.
He must be mortified.
Why had not Red simply killed her when he had the opportunity? It would have been the kind thing to do.
And now the duke would most likely feel obliged to ask her to marry him. She had compromised both of them when she kissed him in front of two witnesses. If she were not mistaken, Lord Dacy was the brother-in-law of His Grace, so he would undoubtedly convince him to “do the right and proper thing.”
How utterly idiotic.
With her back rigid, she walked out, only to hesitate in a narrow hallway. The stairs were not right outside the door as she imagined. The hall looked dusty and unused.
She felt completely lost.
“This way,” the dark, slender stranger said.
She eyed him, examining his plain, black attire. The only spots of color were his white neckcloth and the soft glint of a gold watch chain crossing his waistcoat. His black eyes gleamed in his long, lean face, as if he enjoyed some mysterious joke. Perhaps he found the notion of her kissing a duke amusing.
She glanced past him to see Nathaniel watching her, rubbing the back of his neck. He looked unhappy, as if he had just realized what she already knew: that if they allowed Society to dictate their actions, they were stuck with one another.
She took a deep breath to avoid bursting into tears.
Although she wouldn’t mind being coerced into marrying him, she could not face a lifetime of indifference and resentment if he were forced to marry her.
“This way, Miss Haywood. It is Miss Haywood, is it not?” the man in black asked.
She nodded.
“I am afraid we haven’t been introduced. I am Mr. Knighton Gaunt.”
“Lovely to meet you,” she said, struggling to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. Mr. Gaunt almost appeared to be Spanish with such somber clothing and dark skin, however he sounded quite English and well educated.
“If you would follow me, please?” He led the way down the corridor to a narrow staircase.
She followed him without looking back at Nathaniel. Her neck grew rigid with the effort not to glance over her shoulder by t
he time they descended three flights of stairs. The last, wide staircase brought them into a carpeted hallway lined with beautiful pastoral paintings.
Charlotte glanced around. She had the oddest sensation that she had been here before. When she halted, Mr. Gaunt gently cupped her elbow and ushered her into a sitting room. Lady Dacy was sitting on a narrow, upholstered bench near a blazing fire.
“Lady Dacy!” Charlotte exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”
The plump lady rose, her brows arched in surprise. “Why, I live here. Are you the one who has been living in our attic?” She laughed. “We thought we had ghosts!”
“Your attic? Ghosts?” Charlotte repeated, confused. “This is your house?”
“Yes, indeed.” She smiled and held out her hand to her husband, who followed Charlotte into the sitting room.
Charlotte caught Nathaniel’s eyes. He rubbed the back of his neck again and glanced away, clearly embarrassed.
She had been held prisoner in Lord Dacy’s house. Her temper flared and squeezed her throat shut. Her mind raced through schemes and plots until it found the only reasonable explanation for the situation.
The duke needs money.
That’s why he proposed to her—it wasn’t for those ludicrous reasons he mumbled in the garden. Oh, how it must have frustrated and angered him when she refused. Then, thwarted by her decision, he had subsequently hired the two men to kidnap her. He may have even hoped to get her money without marrying her by getting a ransom instead. It was a brilliant scheme, in its way.
Unfortunately, the “gentleman kidnapper” the duke hired had gotten his own ideas. He thought he could compromise the heiress himself and either marry her or get his hands on the bulk of the ransom. However Red, still trying to obey Nathaniel’s orders, had saved her by moving her to the Dacy household, and then he had obviously informed his employer of this change in plans.
Sadly for Nathaniel, the newspapers had discovered and reported her kidnapping. Her absence, along with the murders, must have increased the pressure on the duke to the point where he had to change his plans. He couldn’t wait for a ransom. If he wanted her money, he had to find a way to overcome her objections to marriage.
So, Nathaniel had “miraculously” arrived to save her, knowing that she would be thankful to see him. And in accordance with his plans, she had fallen right into his arms. In her gratitude, she had kissed him in front of two witnesses, witnesses he had ensured would be present in case she later thought no one knew she had been compromised.
The Duke of Peckham had meant all along to marry her for her fortune.
It all made perfect sense.
“Thank goodness you are safe, after all,” Lady Dacy said, sitting down again and pouring out several cups of tea.
Charlotte waved her cup away. She had not lacked for tea during her confinement, no indeed, that was not what she lacked at all.
“I know what you must be thinking,” Nathaniel said, trying to catch her gaze.
“I sincerely doubt that.” She eyed him with loathing, wishing she didn’t remember the love she had felt in his arms. Her chin rose fractionally. “Although I must confess, I never expected to be kidnapped and held prisoner in Lord Dacy’s attic.”
“I can assure you, we were just as surprised to find you there,” Lord Dacy replied dryly.
“And you have found the kidnappers, I presume? Particularly the savage little gentleman?” She sat down on the edge of a dainty chair covered with gold silk and twined her cold fingers together in her lap.
“There was a second man?” Mr. Gaunt asked. “Who? Can you describe him?”
She shook her head, “I am afraid he kept a sack over his head. Other than that, he was of medium height and build. A bit shorter than I.” She stared hard at Nathaniel. “I am sure you will find him.”
When he caught her gaze, Nathaniel flushed. “I had no idea where you were. I have been frantic—”
“Yes, I am sure it was a frightful surprise to you when you came up to the attic to find me,” she said, cutting him off. “Whatever did you expect to discover there?”
“Mummified rats, if you want the truth,” Nathaniel said. “Or ghosts. It was Cheery who said you might be there.”
“Cheery?” She arched a brow.
“Mr. Gaunt,” Nathaniel replied. When she didn’t comment, he continued, “I knew him at Eton.”
As if that explains anything.
“I see.” She thought the name, Cheery, was odd for a man with such striking resemblance to a member of the Spanish Inquisition, but she wasn’t his mother. Perhaps he had been a cheerful, sunny child, although frankly, she rather doubted it.
Mr. Gaunt exchanged a few words with Lord Dacy and then excused himself.
“Don’t you want to know what happened?” Charlotte asked at last. Of course they didn’t, since they already knew, but she couldn’t resist the opportunity to make them feel even the tiniest particles of discomfort and guilt.
Lord Dacy and Nathaniel exchanged glances. Lord Dacy finally answered, “Yes, however, if you don’t mind—could we wait for Mr. Gaunt to return? He assisted us by investigating, and I would like him to be present to hear your story.”
Charlotte picked up her cup of tea and took a sip before nodding. Without glancing at the men, she leaned over and selected an almond biscuit to nibble on. It tasted like dry, gritty sand. She washed it down with tea.
Mr. Gaunt soon returned, accompanied by two others and a dog.
Red, the maid, Rose, and a white, three-legged dog limped into the room, chivvied forward by Mr. Gaunt.
“Here we are,” he said, smiling. “I see you have been made comfortable, Miss Haywood.”
“Indeed,” she replied frostily.
She was hardly comfortable sitting in Lord Dacy’s golden drawing room while dressed in what amounted to little more than a rough brown linen sack with matching jacket. Not to mention her hair hanging down her back in uncontrollable tangles and curls. She’d had no way to maintain her previously well-groomed Grecian knot, so she’d simply left it to cascade over her shoulders.
She looked like a hoyden, and she knew it.
“I would like to congratulate you on your ingenious note,” Mr. Gaunt continued. “The clues you sent to Mr. Archer were critical to my—our—discovery of your location.”
Charlotte glanced at Red and blushed. She felt horrible about tricking him. Then, a sudden fear assailed her. Were they going to let Red and Rose take the blame when the entire plot had clearly been engineered by the duke? It was just the sort of rotten action she expected from an aristocrat, even if she would never have expected it of him.
Almost against her better judgment, she liked Red. The man had kept her safe from the second kidnapper, who seemed to have no compunction in scaring her.
Suddenly, Charlotte wanted Rose and Red to find a way to save the money they needed to marry. She wanted them to buy the silly little tavern from Red’s cousin and lived happily ever after. She wanted them to experience the love she would never find.
After all, the only thing Nathaniel adored was Charlotte’s fortune, and she remembered Lady Beatrice’s words, hurled down at her along with the jug of water at school.
No one wanted her. All they wanted was her money.
Those words had hurt at the time, but not like they did now. Not since Charlotte had realized that it didn’t matter what Nathaniel did, or what she thought he did, she still loved him. She would always love him.
And the ache in her heart would never go away. That hollow feeling would remain if she went to Egypt or the moon.
She sipped her tea and waited in silence.
Mr. Gaunt pulled out a wrinkled bit of paper—her note—and read her words about Red, Rose and the dog. He glanced at her when he was done. “I was at a loss until I remembered a pugilist who fought under the name of ‘The Red Death’. I knew he often lent his skills to odd enterprises, so I set out to find him. I finally chanced to question some people in this
neighborhood. They mentioned the Dacy residence and indicated there was a very large, red-haired fellow who used to be a prize fighter and now worked in the stables here.” He nodded to Lord Dacy. “Then Archer remembered your dog, Lord Dacy. And when I spoke to the staff, they relayed a most amazing tale. Seems the house had recently developed a reputation for being haunted. A ghost was heard at all hours, ceaselessly pacing in the attic. And of course, once I encountered this tale in combination with a household employing an upstairs maid named Rose and an ex- fighter groom named Red, I felt we were making progress.” He patted the dog’s head. “Not to mention Josephine.” The dog allowed his attentions for a few minutes before loping over to Lord Dacy and sitting down with a firm, proprietary air on his foot.
“Really? I fail to see the relevancy,” Charlotte said. Her heart thudded in her chest, but she gave him her best look of complete incomprehension.
Mr. Gaunt stared at her, apparently nonplussed. He shook the note in his hand. “You mentioned you were being kept in an attic by a large, red-haired man by the name of Red and a woman named Rose. Did you not?”
“Yes.” She studied Red briefly. He stared down at his feet, crushing his cap in his hands and rocking from foot to foot. Her heart went out to him.
The poor were always punished for the actions of the rich.
“And is this not the man you described?” He pointed to Red.
“No, it is not,” she said, her chin rising.
“But you described him perfectly! You indicated he was a large, red-haired man with scars on his face.”
“I am well aware of what I wrote. However, this is not that man. I am sure there are many, if not hundreds, of tall, scarred, red-haired men in London. In fact, wasn’t Henry the Eighth just such a large red-haired man, albeit without the scars?”
Mr. Gaunt choked, but he recovered swiftly. He eyed Charlotte with a sardonic grin that made her take another hasty sip of her tea. She sputtered and coughed when the warm liquid went down the wrong passage. When she glanced up, everyone was staring at her.
She aimed a cold frown at Nathaniel who flushed uneasily.