“Not you, chit,” he said. “That worthless worm you had the misfortune to marry. I’ll kill him. Not you. Understand? I’ll cut his prick off and feed him his ballocks before I slit his throat. That sounds nice, doesn’t it?”
He was rocking her gently and her head lolled against his arm. Where was Simon with those clothes, dammit? She needed to be properly cared for. She was in far worse shape than he’d at first assumed. Holding her like this he could feel each rib and bone, the pulse in her neck fluttering like that of a captured bird.
“I’m going to take you away from him,” Barnabas told her, smoothing her hair off her face as he’d seen Wetherald do. “I can keep you safe. I am probably the only man in England who can.” He chuckled drily. “You see, I don’t mind killing men who deserve it. I am the frightening beast under the bed. But I shall be your beast.” He was rambling. She seemed to like the sound of his voice. She had calmed and closed her eyes again, though her breathing was still fast and weak. He hummed softly, some little gypsy song from his youth, the words of which he’d forgotten long ago, but the tune had stayed with him.
Simon came silently through the door and closed it behind him. He eyed Barnabas with amusement. “Daniel is right. You are getting soft in your old age.”
“I can still kill you with little more than a cruel word,” Barnabas drawled. “Now get over here and help me dress her. She’s weak as a babe and limp as a ragdoll.”
She protested again when they attempted to take her shift off, but she was too weak to prevent it. Barnabas would have left it on but was afraid it would be noticeable under the male attire. Her back was striped with red welts and it was clear she’d been starved.
“Shall we kill him tonight?” Simon asked, as if inquiring about tea. Barnabas noted that Simon’s jaw was as tight as his own, and his eyes burned with furious intent despite his calm demeanor.
“No,” Barnabas said, as calmly as Simon. “Later. Our priority tonight must be getting Mrs. de Vere to the hospital in Hampstead. And frankly I’d like to toy with him a bit before I kill him.”
“You’re going to do it yourself?” Simon asked, surprise in his voice. They’d gotten Wetherald’s shirt and jacket on her, dressing her as if she were a child.
“Some pleasures I can’t deny myself,” Barnabas said. “But first I’m going to ruin him.”
“Oh, that does sound fun,” Simon said. “Can I play?”
“Of course,” Barnabas said, feeling magnanimous. “If you’d like. The more the merrier.” He held her in his arms as Simon carefully pulled Wetherald’s trousers up her thin legs. The pants were enormous on her. “Here,” Barnabas said, undoing his cravat with one hand and thrusting it at Simon. “Use it as a belt.”
“The boots are too big,” Simon said a moment later. “They’ll fall off while I’m carrying her.”
“Tear the sheets,” Barnabas said. “Wrap her feet.” When Simon obeyed the girl roused enough to protest again, crying out at the touch of the cloth. It took him a moment to realize she though they were binding her again. He touched his mouth to her temple and whispered, “We’re getting you dressed to smuggle you out. We need to wrap your feet to get the boots to stay on. Now hush and let us get to work. We only have a few minutes before de Vere shows up and we have to fight our way out.”
She went still and then nodded clumsily, her head falling to the side as she tried to move it.
Within minutes Simon had hoisted her over his shoulder. She didn’t make a sound. Barnabas leaned over to see if she was conscious or not. He thought she was. “Stay quiet,” he told her firmly. “Not a sound. Let Simon do all the talking if any is required. You just lay there as if you’ve passed out from drink. Do you understand?”
She raised her hand with clumsy movements and tried to grab his lapel. “You,” she mumbled.
“No, Simon,” he said, catching her hand. It was ice cold and her nails were bitten to the quick. “It must be Simon. No one knows I’m here, and it must stay that way. Now be a good girl and let Simon smuggle you out. I shall see you soon,” he said at her weak protest. “I will. We are going to meet up within the hour. Do you trust me?” She shook her head and Barnabas laughed quietly. “Smart girl. But in this you must. Now stay quiet and once Simon has you out of here do what he says. I will see you at my house.”
Simon didn’t wait any longer and took long strides toward the door. Mrs. de Vere’s hand slipped from Barnabas’s. “Don’t be late,” Simon tossed over his shoulder. He closed the door and a few seconds later Barnabas heard him singing a lewd song loudly, as if drunk.
It took all his willpower to slip through the servants’ door instead of following Simon. He trusted the former agent to carry off the ruse, as long as the girl obeyed Barnabas. Trusting her was more difficult.
* * *
“Where is she?” Ambrose demanded as soon as he could open the window in the carriage and shout up at Sir Barnabas. The other man lightly whipped the air over the tired horses to encourage them to a faster trot.
“Simon is bringing her to my house,” Sir Barnabas answered. “We are heading there now to meet them.”
“Good,” Wetherald said. “As soon as I am assured of her safety, I will confront de Vere.”
The carriage suddenly pulled over to the side of the street. Ambrose was taken by surprise and fell back against the hard bench in the rather dilapidated carriage. The sheet he had wrapped around his waist for modesty nearly came undone. Sir Barnabas’s stern face appeared at the window.
“You will do nothing of the kind,” Sir Barnabas commanded.
“He cannot get away with this,” Ambrose said from between clenched teeth.
“What should we do?” Sir Barnabas said after a long pause.
“Kill him,” Ambrose said, surprising himself with the vitriol of his response. “We must kill him.”
Sir Barnabas’s look was calculating. “Fine. But you must let me deal with him Wetherald. I know what I am doing.”
“Killing him in the dark of night will only help to conceal his crimes,” Ambrose argued.
“Oh, I will kill him in good time,” Sir Barnabas said. “But first, I will make him suffer. I will ruin him, and I will make an example of him. Then I will kill him, and rest assured that it will be a very public, cruel death and there will be no doubt in anyone’s mind who is responsible.” He smiled grimly. “This is favor number two, Wetherald. Remember that.”
Chapter 4
Four months later
* * *
“Melinda?”
Mel winced at the sound of her full name. That’s not who she was anymore. She wasn’t the Melly of her youth, the Miss Dorset of her prime, or the Mrs. de Vere of her imprisonment. She had decided that from now on, she was Mel, this new incarnation of the person that was before. She hadn’t told anyone, though. They’d think her mad. She’d had enough of their worried stares and whispers.
Mrs. O’Shaughnessy had paused at the door to her room, her expression wary. Mel didn’t blame her. She’d had another fit of temper the day before and thrown a jug at her. She hated that she couldn’t control her emotions better yet. Sitting on the cushioned window seat, the sun streaming in around her, she was cold to the bone. She wasn’t sure who she was anymore. They’d all been so kind to her and all she wanted to do was scream and hit and destroy everything around her. That wasn’t who she was…before.
There was a time when she would have given someone like Kitty O’Shaughnessy the cut direct. She was ashamed of how she’d behaved. Now she owed the woman and her husband everything. Their generosity knew no bounds. They’d gladly given her a room in their own home while she was recovering. Their estate, right next to the hospital, was fit for royalty. Dr. Peters, their unconventional lover who also lived with them, had saved her sanity more than once the past few months as she recovered. Yet there was no place for her here, no place for her anywhere. No one who cared if she disappeared, as she had twice already, actually.
“The
re’s someone here to see you,” Mrs. O’Shaughnessy said, taking a tentative step into the room.
“Don’t worry,” Mel said with a sigh. “I’m not going to throw anything today.”
“Thank God,” Mrs. O’Shaughnessy said with evident relief. “I must warn you, this particular visitor won’t put up with that sort of behavior.”
“You shouldn’t either,” Mel told her, rising from the window seat. She felt a hundred years old, tired and careworn. “None of you should. It’s inexcusable. I’m a trial. I know I am.” She regretted all the times she’d wronged Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, not just in the past few months but for years, joining the hateful gossip of the ton about her and her friends. Now Mel knew that none of it mattered, did it? Mrs. O’Shaughnessy had two men who loved her and would never treat her the way de Vere and his friends had treated Mel. Mel would never find that sort of love and acceptance. Not now. Not after the things she’d done.
“Nonsense,” Mrs. O’Shaughnessy said. “We just want you to be happy, Melinda.” Mel could tell she meant every word.
She laughed, but it held no amusement. “You ask the impossible of me.” She walked toward the door, but veered around Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, hoping she wouldn’t try to touch her. She didn’t like to be touched. She still felt dirty and used. But Mrs. O’Shaughnessy knew better and let her pass unmolested.
“Who is it? Lady Vanessa?” Lady Vanessa Wilkes had come to visit regularly. She and her husband and their lover had let a house in London and Melinda suspected it was to be near her, because it was obvious they did not enjoy the city. She couldn’t fathom that sort of kindness and selflessness. Mel had wronged Lady Vanessa too, in words if not deeds, years ago, and cut her acquaintance after her marriage to a man of no social consequence. And yet she knew it was Lady Vanessa who had orchestrated her rescue. “Or is it Lord Wetherald?”
Mel didn’t remember much about her escape from the brothel where de Vere had imprisoned her. She knew from Lord Wetherald that he had been involved, as had several other people. They had never met before her rescue. Yet another generous soul to whom Mel owed so much. She couldn’t fathom what he gained from helping her, or visiting her, either. He was a handsome man in his prime, an emerging politician of renown. Association with her could only hurt him now. Years ago they would have made a brilliant match. But she had ruined her chances for that with her silly schoolgirl pranks and ridiculous love affairs. More shameful behavior. What did she know of love back then? She was still learning what it truly meant, and she rather thought those lessons had only begun when she arrived at the hospital in Hampstead.
“No,” Mrs. O’Shaughnessy said, surprising Mel. Her heart tripped in her chest.
“My family?” she whispered, dreading seeing them. They’d been notified where she was, of course, but no one had contacted her or come around to see her. She wasn’t sure why she was surprised. They’d walked away from her once they’d sold her in marriage to de Vere. Many times she had sent notes to them pleading for their intercession in her marriage, and she’d received nothing but cold silence in return.
“No, my dear,” Mrs. O’Shaughnessy said, reaching for her, but curling her hand into a fist before she touched Mel. “Still no word from your family.”
Mel was grateful for her honesty. The knot in her stomach unraveled. She should be more concerned about her lack of family or connections of any kind, but she was glad to be on her own, making her own decisions. That had been difficult to comprehend at first, that everyone here expected her to run her own life.
“Sir Barnabas James is here to see you,” Mrs. O’Shaughnessy told her. “I’ve put him in the library. You mustn’t keep him waiting. He’s a very important man. At least, he thinks he is,” she said with a wry smile. “But the truth is he’s been instrumental in helping to fund the hospital and I won’t have you irritating him. We need a new wing.”
Mel laughed. “You always have your eye on the future, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy,” she said appreciatively. “I shall try to emulate you. And loosen his pockets.”
“It’s Kitty. If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times. Do you wish to change your dress?” she asked hopefully.
“No,” Mel said firmly. “This dress will do just fine, thank you.” She had no intention of dressing to draw attention ever again. Serviceable navy blue muslin, high-necked and long-sleeved was perfectly fine for sitting alone in one’s bedroom, or for counting linens at the hospital and serving the patients’ luncheon, which she had been doing earlier. As a matter of fact it was preferable for such activities. If this Sir Barnabas James wished to call unannounced then he would have to be satisfied with practical dark blue muslin, and that was that.
“Perhaps we could rearrange your hair,” Kitty mused.
“No,” Mel said, and left it at that.
Kitty sighed. “Very well. Come on then. Let’s not keep him waiting or he’ll come looking for us.”
“Too late, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy,” a man said from the doorway. “I am impatient and foolishly believe myself too important to be kept waiting.”
Mel gasped and backed away from the door. The man standing there wasn’t tall or frightening, but he was imposing, to say the least. She imagined he dominated any room he was in, no matter the other occupants. His swarthy complexion and dark, almost black, eyes were exotic. He had a long, prominent nose and sharp cheekbones that made him look foreign. Yet he had the unmistakable air of an upper-class Englishman. He was dressed impeccably in an expensively tailored blue superfine jacket that had the look of a well-known Bond Street tailor, and fashionable trousers with highly polished hessians. It wasn’t his looks that commanded attention, however, so much as his bearing.
He bowed formally. “Sir Barnabas James,” he said.
“Sir Barnabas, this is—” Kitty began, but he cut her off.
“Mrs. Melinda de Vere, yes, I know,” he said. “As great a pleasure as it is to see you again, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, I’m sure you have business elsewhere.” Mel was taken aback at his casual dismissal of Kitty in her own home. He acted as if he expected everyone to dance to his tune.
“Now see here, Sir Barnabas,” Kitty said, hands on her hips. “I don’t care if you’re the King of England, it isn’t proper to leave you two alone in her bedroom like this.”
“She is a married woman,” he said, “and I have business to discuss with her. Not to mention the fact that other than the three of us and a few servants, no one knows I’m here. So your argument is invalid. Good afternoon.”
“See here,” a little boy’s voice piped up from the doorway. “Don’t talk to my mama that way.” Little Stephen O’Shaughnessy, who was the spitting image of Dr. Peters, stood in the doorway frowning ferociously, hands on hips just like his mother. “Nor Melly, neither,” he said, crossing his arms belligerently. “Be a gentleman or I’ll tell my papas.”
“Your papas owe me too much to kick up a fuss,” Sir Barnabas said without batting an eyelash. “Now give your mother your arm and go have some biscuits before I put you on a navy ship bound for Calcutta.”
“Sir Barnabas!” Kitty exclaimed. “If you shanghai Stephen, Dev will kill you. Come on now, love,” she said to her little boy, bending over to link their arms. “Cook does have fresh biscuits, and drat him for knowing it, too. We shan’t give Sir Barnabas any.”
“We shall give him the two-day-old biscuits,” Stephen said in a loud whisper. “But I shall make sure to sneak Melly a fresh one.”
Mel hid her smile while Sir Barnabas raised a supercilious brow at Stephen’s back. He started to say something, thought better of it and closed his mouth with a shake of his head. When they were gone he closed the door. “The boy hasn’t an ounce of common sense, just like his parents.”
“Which ones?” Mel asked, curious if he knew the situation in the O’Shaughnessy household.
“All three of them,” he said, rolling his eyes. So he did know.
“I shall scream if I feel the need,” she inf
ormed him flatly.
“You’ve cut your hair,” he said.
Her mouth dropped open in shock. “How do you know that?” she asked. “Have we met?”
She’d cut her hair off as soon as she was strong enough to get out of bed. It had once been a source of pride. But it had been used to hold her in place, to force her to obey, like the reins of a horse. She’d been determined to leave nothing that could be used against her. It had grown back in the last few months and nearly reached her shoulders now.
She retreated another step. Was he one of the men de Vere had brought around? She couldn’t really remember them. Just one or two who’d come before Mrs. Tilley had forced the opium on her. She felt her face heat with embarrassment and shame.
“I orchestrated your release from Mrs. Tilley’s establishment,” he said, surprising her again.
“Why?” she blurted out.
“Because I was asked to,” he said. He smiled, and she was reminded of a cat toying with a mouse.
“By whom?” she asked sharply, wanting the information more than she wanted to put him in his place.
“Lord Wetherald, who was asked by Lady Vanessa, who was informed of your situation by Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, who found out from Mr. O’Shaughnessy, who got the initial report of your incarceration from one of the girls at Mrs. Tilley’s, a former employee of his.”
Mel sat down abruptly on the window seat, unsteady as she tried to process so much information. Everyone had been very vague about the whole thing with her, but Sir Barnabas James appeared to have no reservations about answering her questions.
“Why?” she asked again. “None of them had anything to gain by helping me. You least of all. We’ve never met. I have no idea who you are.”
“Most of England has no idea who I am,” he said. He looked around and then walked over to a chair in the far corner of the room. He lifted a sewing box off the seat and sat down. “I like it that way. It is far easier to manipulate people and events from the shadows.”
For Love and Country (Brothers in Arms Book 13) Page 3