And Thomas was in London.
“Bloody hell!”
Where was the solution? She could not remain at Paget House, standing aside as an agonized observer while Cecile and Thomas moved ever closer to the wedding date. She could not endure to stand at the altar with Cecile as Cecile had requested. It was unthinkable.
“I don’t fit anywhere. I don’t belong.”
In too agitated a state to remain seated, she tugged hard at the overhead cord, signaling Mr. Jamison to halt. Leaning from the coach window, she recognized the teeming heart of Covent Garden. Market stalls ringed the square, fishwives screamed their wares, the public houses and bordellos enjoyed a brisk business though it was still early afternoon. Dodgers and Adam-tilers eyed the gents flowing in and out of the steamy hummums, dogs and children chased in front of spinning coach wheels. Actresses read their lines on the corners, whores plied their trade at the curb. The din of traffic and street brawls poured over all.
Blu threw open the coach door and stepped into the swirl of humanity.
“Miss Morgan! I beg you, please return inside!” Mr. Jamison glared at the street traffic hemming the coach, then called to her again. Distress and anxiety carved a frown in his brow. “Please, miss. A lady dares not stroll here without an escort.”
“A lady.” She stared up at him, perched above her on his coach box. She felt like weeping. “I’m neither fish nor fowl, Mr. Jamison. Not what I was and not what you think I am.”
Knowing he was ensnared by the traffic and could not follow, she stepped backward, melting into the crowd, then she slipped through a reeking noisy chophouse and out the back door, stepping into a crowded alleyway lined with bordellos.
“Can you direct me to Isabelle Sanchez?” she called to one of the painted whores leaning from a second-story window. The woman’s bodice dipped near her nipples though the air was chill and damp.
The whore ran a swift scan over Blu’s exquisitely tailored wool gown and her warm velvet wrap. She inspected Blu’s fresh face and dressed hair, her winter hat with the maroon ostrich plume. Then the whore turned her face away as if she had not heard Blu’s inquiry.
Blu cursed beneath her breath. An arm jostled her and she stumbled forward, moving with the flow of foot traffic. At the middle of the alleyway, she planted her feet and shouted upward. “You, miss. Can you direct me to Isabelle Sanchez? I am a friend of hers.”
“You? Then I’m the bloody Queen of England,” the whore shouted down at her.
“Dammit, I tell you I know her!” Tears of frustration welled in her eyes. Had she changed so bloody much that no one could believe she knew Isabelle? “Listen to me, you buffle fool, I’m looking for—”
A rough hand fell on her shoulder and spun her around. When she caught her breath, she was looking into narrow pig eyes. The man wore a torn cap over matted sandy hair. A laystall smelled better than his greasy coat and stained trousers.
“I thought it was you,” he said, studying her face. A slow unpleasant smile twisted his mouth. “And you be alone, fancy that. No muckety-muck coachman at yer elbow this time. No nasty blackamoor.” His eyes flicked over her shoulder to someone behind her. “Looka ‘ere, Jacko me lad. Look wot washed up on our shore. Fancy finding ‘er ‘ere of all places.”
She recognized him at once although she had seen him only from a distance, never this near. “You’ve been following me!”
“Aye. But no longer. Now ‘Is Lordship wants you. Me and Jacko was puzzling ‘ow we was going to get you. Then you drops in our laps.” A menacing smile widened on his crusty lips and Blu stepped backward. “We’ll be sleeping warm tonight, Jacko. Aye, ‘Is Lordship’s gold is as good as got.”
“Stay away from me, you poxy rat dropping.” She dared a glance over her shoulder and saw a grinning man as ugly as a sewer rat advancing on her. “Touch me and I’ll carve your black heart out of your scurvy chest!”
Instinctively, she bent into a defensive posture and her hand dropped to her waist and the sword that was not there. Bloody hell and dammit. The men stepped toward her. Looking upward, she shouted to the whores who watched with indifferent eyes. “Help me!” she cried. “These men mean to harm me!” One of the whores yawned, the other continued to watch with no real interest.
“Take ‘er, Jacko.”
“Help! Please help me!”
Hundreds of people crowded the alleyway. They moved around Blu and the two men and continued on their way. No one responded to her cries, no one glanced in her direction. What was happening occurred a hundred times each day in Covent Garden. Young women vanished to resurface later in the bordellos.
Bruising hands grabbed her from behind. An arm passed in front of her eyes, holding a dirty cloth. The rag pressed hard against her nose and mouth and she inhaled a heavy sweet scent that sent her senses reeling. The alleyway blurred and darkened, sliding out of her consciousness.
Her last thought as she struggled and failed to free herself was fury that this could be happening in daylight in a crowded alleyway with hundreds of observers looking on. If only she had her sword, she would...
She sagged toward the gutter, and the man named Jacko caught her and slung her over his shoulder.
~ ~ ~
When Blu woke, musty-minded and unable to think, she was sprawled on a vermin-infested pallet in a cellar room. Thin wintry light leaked through the boards nailed over a solitary window.
Suppressing a groan, she struggled to sit up, then pressed a hand to her throat. Her mouth was as dry as hot sand. Gradually her head cleared enough that she marked the murmur of voices outside the door. Quietly, she crept forward and pressed her ear to the boards.
“‘Is Lordship says to bring ‘er to the docks. They’s a place made ready for ‘er. ‘Is Lordship says if this blowsy ain’t ‘er, we’ll swing for it on our own.”
“It’s ‘er, all right.”
“But wot if it ain’t? Wot if it’s someone who looks like ‘er? Them ladies of quality all look alike. Wot if we gots the wrong one? Think on it, bucko. Wot be a real lady doing in the Garden? If this ‘ere blowsy was ‘er, really ‘er, we wouldn’t have found ‘er in the Garden, no sir.”
“I tell you it’s ‘er! Ain’t I bin following ‘er for nigh on ten weeks now? I know ‘er when I sees ‘er, and that’s the God’s truth. I don’t know why she fetched up in the Garden. Who can say wot makes a toff do this or that? But it’s ‘er and that’s an end to it.”
Blu jumped back from the door as it yanked open, the movement sending a bolt of pain through her aching head. Frantically, she spun about seeking something to serve as a weapon. All she had was one flimsy hatpin. Jerking it from her brim, she held it in front of her as the two men entered the cellar room.
“Wait,” she commanded swiftly. “You have the wrong person. I am not the woman you seek.” They hesitated, exchanged a quick glance. “I’m Blusette Morgan, Lady Katherine Paget’s niece. If you leave at once, I shall forget this outrage ever occurred.”
To her dismay her words produced an effect opposite to that which she intended. The men smiled and their confidence mounted before her astonished eyes.
“Dint I say so, Jacko? Dint I say it was ‘er?”
“Me?” she whispered, struggling to understand. “I’m the woman you seek? But why?”
“Yer worth a sack o’ guineas, my lady. Dead or alive. Makes no nevermind to us.”
Still disoriented from being drugged, she nevertheless managed to stab the one named Jacko in the arm with her hatpin before the other one threw her down on the cot and overpowered her. Cursing and favoring his wounded arm, Jacko bent over her with the evil-smelling sweet cloth. Raging at her impotence, Blu fought them until the fumes overwhelmed her. “Bloody hell!” she swore. Then the blackness descended and she drifted away.
19
“Cecile, please instruct Mr. Apple to speak to Cook. Supper will be delayed.” Lady Katherine stood beside the draperies, gazing into the dark wintry square. An hour ago, she had dispatc
hed Mouton and Monsieur to search nearby pubs for her coachman, Mr. Jamison. The coach had returned in late afternoon, after which Mr. Jamison, it seemed, had promptly vanished. Katherine had also dispatched a footman to inquire of the Duchess of Blightshire if Blusette intended to sup with Her Grace. The eventuality she hoped would explain Blusette’s absence.
“This isn’t like Blusette, Mama. I can’t think she would remain with Her Grace without sending a message to calm our anxieties.” Cecile rolled her chair to the window beside Lady Katherine and peered into the deserted square.
“Something terrible has happened,” Aunt Tremble predicted. She fanned her face, hovering on the verge of a swoon. “Mark me, I feel it in my liver.”
A dark knot had formed in Katherine’s stomach during her earlier discourse with Monsieur. It was then she learned Blusette had been followed for several weeks. Once she recovered from the shock of not being informed at once, she and Monsieur had discoursed at length, attempting to guess what it might mean. Each grasped immediately that the shadow and Blusette’s unusual tardiness might prove to be connected. This possibility was in fact why Monsieur had finally felt it expedient to mention the shadow to Lady Katherine. As the hours dragged forward and Blusette did not return, Katherine began to believe Monsieur might be correct. Possibly, a plot was afoot.
Indeed, Monsieur had gone so far as to suggest the nature of the plot, but Katherine refused to speculate until it was definitely proved Blusette was missing. She discovered herself praying Blusette’s protracted absence was merely a prank, or an example of the girl’s occasional thoughtlessness. Still, long ago her annoyance had escalated into anxiety. Chewing her lips, she stood at the window wishing a hackney would rattle up to the door and tip Blusette onto the step. If her wish had been fulfilled, Katherine would have been so relieved she would not have uttered a single chastisement regarding young ladies hiring hackneys.
“Mama, Mr. Howard has returned!”
Swinging from the window, Katherine impatiently regarded the footman standing in the drawing room archway. “Well? Is Miss Morgan supping with the Duchess of Blightshire? For God’s sake, speak, man!”
“Miss Morgan is not expected until Tuesday, my lady.”
“Oh dear.” Her worst fear was realized. Katherine touched her fingers to her temples. “Then Miss Morgan never arrived at Her Grace’s?”
“No, my lady.”
Of course Katherine understood what had occurred. Blusette had invented an appointment with the Duchess as an excuse to escape taking tea with Edward. Katherine covertly inspected Cecile’s distress before she instructed Mr. Apple to serve a light repast in the drawing room. It would be a long night.
Pacing, she attempted to work it through in her mind. Feeling tormented, compelled to flee, Blusette had dashed from the house. But where would she have gone? The Charlton Mews? Shopping? Or was Monsieur correct? A shudder traced down Katherine’s spine.
When Monsieur rushed into the drawing room and bowed, followed by Mouton, Katherine anxiously tried to read their expressions. Agitation, anxiety, deep concern. She feared disaster before either of them spoke.
“We located Mr. Jamison at the Sign of the Owl. He’s foxed as a rat,” Monsieur announced with disgust. Too distressed to recall his manners, he poured a generous splash of French brandy into a cup without requesting Lady Katherine’s permission. After draining the mug, he shook his head and blinked. “Mr. Jamison blames himself.”
“Blames himself for what? Monsieur, for pity’s sake, tell the tale from the beginning!”
“Mouton was able to elicit this much... Blusette insisted on being driven to Covent Garden—”
“What?” The ladies gasped in unison.
“Mr. Jamison protested, but she commanded. Once in the heart of the Garden, she jumped from the coach and vanished into the crowd.”
“Covent Garden?” Aunt Tremble repeated in disbelief, fanning herself violently. “But why in the name of heaven would she go to a disreputable site like Covent Garden? I fail to understand a word of this!”
“To find Isabelle!” Cecile cried. “That can be the only explanation. She sought Isabelle.”
Monsieur’s pinched expression was deeply troubled. “I fear we must consider the possibility that Blusette has been abducted.”
Katherine sat hard on the settee before the fire. “It appears we have eliminated any innocent explanation,” she agreed.
Mouton’s anguish was painful to observe. Speaking with rapid hand movements, he repeated the news of the shadow and related how he had instructed Blusette never to leave the house without him.
“Naturally she disobeyed,” Katherine sighed, not surprised. “And now she has vanished.”
“Mouton and I are of the opinion the Duke of Dewbury should be informed at once. If, as we believe, Blusette’s abduction is tied to Beau Billy, His Grace must know of it.”
Cecile agreed. “I shall dispatch a message immediately. Mouton, do instruct Mr. Apple to summon a footman, Mama, I’ll be in the library writing Edward a note.”
When Cecile had departed the drawing room, Katherine met Monsieur’s gaze. Fortunately Aunt Tremble had swooned at the sight of Mouton’s fury and they could speak freely. “I know everything,” she informed Monsieur in a low voice. “Blusette confided her love for Edward.”
“We assumed as much,” Monsieur admitted. But Katherine saw in his troubled eyes there was a piece of the puzzle she did not have. A sigh dropped her shoulders. It was not difficult to guess the meaning of the missing piece.
Returning to the window, she contemplated the cold fog rising in the square. So Blusette and Edward were lovers. That was the missing piece, of course. She should have guessed earlier.
“Is she with child?” she inquired quietly. “Is that why she has vanished? Has she run away?” As horrifying as the notion was, it was more palatable than thinking Blusette had been abducted.
“No, Madame. Blusette has had her terms since... ah... since the incident with His Grace.” Monsieur coughed into his hand and his cheeks flushed beneath his rouge. Katherine released another sigh. Was there nothing the servants did not know? But he had said “the incident.” So, they had been together only once. A moment’s reflection suggested the incident must have occurred the night of the ball, after Blu flew from the argument in Katherine’s closet. Yes, it could only have been then.
“Do you believe her disappearance is related in any way to... ah... to the incident?” she asked, still hoping it could not be an abduction.
“We cannot think how it could be so, Madame,” monsieur answered, speaking for himself and Mouton. He removed his goggles and pinched the bridge of his nose. “We believe Blusette has been abducted and is being held as ransom for Beau Billy.”
Katherine closed her eyes and nodded, hating the admission. “Your arguments become more compelling with each passing hour.”
“It seems the most persuasive explanation.”
“You are suggesting Beau Billy Morgan is even now sailing to London?”
“Surely you have noticed the articles in the London newspapers, my lady. The public has been incited to a state of near riot. Last week Black Rafe the Pirate was hanged. The tabloids claim ten thousand people attended the event. And the public shouts for more. They have been manipulated, inflamed.” He looked at her. “Beau Billy’s name has been mentioned.”
“Dear God.” Her knees collapsed and she sat abruptly in the chair nearest the window. She felt the blood drain rapidly from her cheeks, leaving her face the color of bleached linen. “If William appears in London, they will hang him.”
“Yes, my lady. But he would sail straight into the King’s closet before he would allow a pinprick of harm to come to Blusette. If he believes someone holds Blusette and may do her harm unless he presents himself at Newgate’s door, then he shall appear at Newgate’s door.”
“If the abductor has been clever—William is on his way to London even now.”
Monsieur covered his
face. “So we believe, my lady.”
~ ~ ~
“Someone has been following her?” Thomas thundered. “And I was not informed?” His hand slammed the library tabletop with a sharp crack.
“She instructed—”
“Would you walk naked into the Thames if she asked it? Good God, man. What were you thinking? I should have been informed at once!”
Biting back further recrimination, he stalked to the window and threw back the draperies to glare at the fog melting against the windowpanes. She was out there somewhere. Alone and at some bastard’s mercy.
He passed a hand over his eyes, then deliberately forced the anger from his mind. Mouton and Monsieur loved her as he did. They would not knowingly have placed her in jeopardy. For all they knew it was true that admirers hired shadows to uncover rivals. For that matter, he had heard of such foolish cases himself. In any event, Mouton and Monsieur would have done as Blue commanded.
“Very well,” he said finally, returning to the library table, He drained a tumbler of port and lit a cigar. “We are agreed she has most likely been abducted. Further, we agree if she were able to free herself, she would have. So who has her?” They had concluded Mr. Jamison was blameless.
“Someone from your ship?” Mouton signaled, his face twisted with frustration and fury. His huge hands continually curled and opened on the tabletop as if a throat lay between them.
“Possibly,” Thomas conceded, but he doubted it. Frankly, he did not credit his crew with the wit for this plot. If anyone from his ship was involved, it was most likely a disgruntled tar who had spoken loosely over a pint and had been overheard by an opportunist.
Candlelight glinted on Mouton’s head as he raised his black eyes. His hands moved. “Your crew knew she was Beau Billy’s daughter.”
“No one aboard the William Porter knew her destination was Paget House,” Thomas reminded them, pacing, thinking aloud. “I did not know myself.”
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